Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

“Have a seat, Greg.” Bill motioned to one of the steel chairs. Greg took his seat, and Bill continued. “I need to ask you a few more things about your friend James.” Bill’s chair squeaked loudly as he leaned back and Bill propped his boots up on the corner of his desk. “How well do you know the boy?”

“I’ve known him since he moved here back in eighty-six. We’ve been friends since grade school.”

“Well, Greg, I’m gonna get right down to the point. James was the only person at the scene when you arrived at his house the other day, and he promptly shot you. That certainly makes him a suspect in the case.”

Greg started to say something, but Bill raised his hand dismissively. “I know, I know, we’ve been over all that. I know Chad was the one who screwed up there, but it doesn’t change the fact that he fired at one of my boys. And one who happened to be a close friend of his to boot.”

“Bill, we’ve gone over this. I mean, can you imagine the shock of…”

Bill raised his hand again and interrupted, “I know we’re coverin’ old territory here, but something else has come up. Someone saw his truck out at Sharon Perrett’s place the day after she was killed.”

Greg was stuck. He knew James was right not to tell Bill about the visions; the old sheriff was too hard-headed to believe something like that. But how could he explain James’ presence out at Sharon’s?

“Maybe he was curious, Greg ventured. “I know of a lot of people who drove by to have a look. You know how it is, everybody’s talking, everybody’s curious.”

“Oh, I know. Hell, the busybody who reported seeing him had no business down that road either, but then again everybody that lived in her house didn’t show up butchered five days later. I just thought I needed to tell you; James is our only suspect right now.”

“James didn’t kill them,” Greg said bluntly.

Bill shrugged, but didn’t reply. Despite the fact that his boots were casually resting on the desk, Bill didn’t look comfortable in the least. Something was weighing heavily on his mind. “I also want to make a suggestion. Mind you, I’m suggestin’ this as a friend, not as your boss.” Bill took his hat off and set it on his desk, then ran his fingers through his thinning hair while he tried to think of what to say. Greg couldn’t help but notice that without his hat on, Bill looked considerably older. “I don’t think you ought to have James in your house.”

“Bill, he doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.”

“Greg, you may not want to admit it, but there is a very good chance that he could be our killer. Think of your wife and kid, for Christ’s sake.”

“James is not a killer.”

Bill’s cheeks turned red, his boots came off the desk, and he leaned forward, “Goddamn it Greg. Then at least send Sandy and Carissa somewhere else while he’s there. Hell, they can come stay with me and Faye. But, I don’t think… ”

This time it was Greg’s turn to interrupt, “Bill, I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of my own family,” he said in a sharp tone that startled himself every bit as much as it surprised Bill.

Without a word, Bill eased his stance, leaning slowly back into his chair. However, he didn’t break eye contact and his eyes remained as hard as ever. They sat there staring at each other for about ten seconds. It seemed like forever to Greg.

“If it makes you feel better, James is only supposed to stay for a week or two,” Greg said, finally breaking the silence.

Bill nodded then put his hat back on. After another brief pause he said. “Well, I guess that’s all then.”

As Greg walked out the door from Bill’s office, he felt strangely guilty about snapping at the old sheriff. He thought about thanking the old sheriff for his concern for his family, but thought better of it. It would only make Bill feel uncomfortable.

On the same morning Greg was called into Bill’s office, James was sitting on Greg’s couch watching TV. James sighed heavily, picked up the remote, and turned the television off. He looked at the clock: 4:23 a.m. James then glanced at the small suitcase in the corner that he had been living out since the funeral six days ago. With another sigh, James got up and walked into the kitchen. He found a post-it note and a pen and wrote a simple message:

Greg,

I’ve gone home.

Thanks for everything.

James

James then got his bag and started out the door, sticking the note on the front door where he was sure Greg would see it.

He didn’t bother telling Sandy “bye.”

When James got in his pickup, he was actually surprised to find his keys in the ignition. It was common enough to leave your keys in your car when you lived out in the country — there aren’t exactly hoards of car-thieving gangs in small towns like Newton, Texas — but Greg had been so adamant about him staying James had about half expected his keys to have been hidden.

James fired up the pickup, backed out of the driveway, and headed home. Oddly enough, James was happy to be going home. His spirits picked up a little as he drove and even lifted a little more as he pulled into the familiar driveway.

Lady came out to greet him, wagging her tail furiously. She had obviously been out prowling when the incident occurred. James got out of the truck and perched down on the ground. She ran to him practically bouncing with joy. James scratched her behind her ears and said, “Some watchdog you are.” He managed a little laugh in spite of the morbidity of the joke.

James unlocked the door. He reached to open it, then stopped, Oh God, I hope they’ve cleaned up the blood. I don’t know if I could take that. Then he remembered Greg saying that he and Darren had cleaned his house the morning of the funeral.

James opened the door and hesitantly looked down. No blood.

James stepped through the doorway. The house was surprisingly clean. Well, they’re not maids, but they did a pretty good job, James thought, looks like they even vacuumed the carpet.

Passing though the kitchen, James saw that the dishes had even been cleaned and put away.

James looked at the empty kitchen table. He remembered Jimmy’s sixth birthday party. It had only been five weeks ago. About half a dozen children from Jimmy’s first grade class, and Angie’s cousin Heather’s two little girls were all packed on one side of the table for James to take their picture. They looked like Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, done using smiling six-year-olds, with Jimmy playing the part of Jesus. Angie had been the one adult in the picture. She was kneeling down behind Jimmy, so that her smiling face was just above his shoulder. She had a beautiful smile that always seemed to light up a room. Jimmy was in the middle blowing out his candles. His mouth was puckered in an “O,” but his eyes were smiling brightly. James remembered Jimmy opening his presents, grinning and laughing each time he would tear into a package. He remembered Jimmy running around for the rest of the afternoon wearing the football helmet Greg had bought him. He remembered sitting on the back porch with Angie while they watched the kids run and play in the yard. He had been holding her hand. Her left hand. The one with the ring. The one he still saw lying in the doorway covered with blood every time he closed his eyes.

James tore himself away from the painful memories and started down the hall to his room. He kept expecting Jimmy to burst out of his room and start barraging him with the endless supply of questions six-year-olds seem to have at their disposal. He expected Angie to meet him at his door and ask how his day had been, or for her to greet him at the door without saying a word, wearing only a towel. Walking down the hall James noticed the sound of his boots on the old hardwood floor. They had lived there for years, and he had never noticed how loud it was. The sound even seemed to echo as he walked toward his bedroom.