Philipp Meyer - American Rust

Before getting into his truck he shucked off his hat, coat, and gloves because of the blood and powder residue, threw them in the bed of the pickup, and pulled out as quietly as he could, driving without headlights until he reached the main road. As he drove he tried to inspect himself but his hands were shaking badly, under his vest he could feel blood trickling down his side but he didn't want to stop to see how bad it was. He was still breathing easily so it couldn't be all that bad, the Kevlar had done its job. Two miles away and counting. He watched the odometer. Three miles.

Shortly after that he killed the lights and stopped at a turnaround next to the river to throw the.45 far out into the water. He pulled out and was driving down the road again when he realized he'd forgotten to get rid of the coat and hat in the back of the truck. Everything else, too, he thought. He stopped at the next pullout and changed into his spare clothes and running shoes and threw everything he'd been wearing, including the Kevlar, into the river.

He got to the office as the sun was coming up. He wondered who would take care of his dog.

The rushing came back to his head, so loud he couldn't stand it but he couldn't make it stop and there was a feeling of motion, I am in the river, he thought, I am going over the falls. Ninety over sixty, he heard. The feeling didn't so much stop as slowly fade and he could see again and it was bright. I fell. I am in the dirt by the house under the tree. The light was very bright. They were trying to cram something in his mouth, they were choking him, he was going to throw up. He's back, someone said. Get the tube out. Mr. Poe stay with us. There were ceiling tiles and bright lights. The rushing was back in his ears and he was seeing things, he was moving again, the falling feeling in his stomach, he was going over, he wanted to get away from the sounds. Stay with us Mr. Poe. They are touching me, he thought. He reached a hand down to cover his nakedness, they had taken his clothes. Squeeze my hand William. William can you hear me?

He tried to sit up, there wasn't enough air.

“No no no,” they all said. There were strong hands holding him.

“Mr. Poe do you know where you are?”

He did remember but it seemed like if he didn't answer them he might make it untrue. There were other things he worried he might say, about Isaac. I won't say anything, he thought, they are trying to make me talk.

“You may have hurt your neck. You can't move until we get the pictures back.”

Crippled, he thought. He felt tears coming into his eyes. He was having trouble breathing, he couldn't get enough air in.

“Do you know where you are,” they said. “William. William can you hear me?”

“You've got holes in your lungs. We're going to get the fluid out so you can breathe. It's going to hurt a little bit.”

He tried to speak but nothing came out. He wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hold him,” they said.

They stabbed him in the side with something and then it went deeper and then they were putting something so deep in him that the pain was coming right from the center of him, he was rushing again, moving, and then he was awake, he could hear himself screaming.

“Hold him,” he heard someone shouting and he knew they were talking about him, don't he told them don't don't don't don't and then he felt himself go down and under.

He came up in a different room. Very bright lights. Someone was right over him. They were doing something to his head. Stop, he said, but no sound came out. Stop, he said, but his lips wouldn't move and there was something over his face. He tried to move it but he couldn't. His arm wouldn't move. They were doing something to him. He could smell something, it was burning hair, they were doing something to him. He's awake, said someone. I see it, someone else said, and then he felt the tingling rush up his arm. I have felt this before, he thought, and then he was under the water again.

— —

When he came up the third time it was dark. He remembered not to sit up. He looked down at himself and tried not to move too much. In a bed. Blankets on me. There was an IV bag hanging on one side of him and a window on the other with yellow light coming through it, he thought there might be houses outside. There was another bed in the room and someone was snoring. Quiet, he said, and then he felt guilty. There were machines beeping and chirping. Quiet, he whispered. He couldn't see the machines. I will sit up. They can't stop me. He moved and the pain came back everywhere and then he slipped under it.

Stay down. Stay down, he thought. Move your toes. He couldn't see his feet. He tried to move his arm but it wouldn't go anywhere, he looked and saw it was handcuffed to the bedrail. There was a deep pain in his chest and sides but he could breathe now. They got my head all wrapped up. He touched it. Something sticking out of my head. There was a tube, a plastic tube coming out of the back of his skull. Stay down. After a minute it occurred to him: I am alive.

When he walked into the door there was a cop behind the desk, the short Asian one from the night he and Poe had been caught at the machine shop. He was drinking coffee and looked like he'd been up for days.

“I need to talk to Chief Harris,” said Isaac.

Ho looked at him. “He isn't available.”

There's your excuse, thought Isaac. But then he said, “I see his truck out there. Tell him it's Isaac English.”

Ho got up reluctantly and disappeared down a hallway. Isaac watched: your last chance. But he knew he was not going to leave. There was not another way to do it.

Then Ho came back. “Door at the end.”

Isaac went down the hall alone and knocked on the metal door and then, he didn't know why, opened it before he heard an answer. It was a big room and something was strange about it, the same cinderblock walls and fluorescent lights as the rest of the building, but the furniture was all wood and leather and there were paintings hanging on the walls. Harris was sitting up on a couch, a blanket around his shoulders. He was pale and disheveled and one of his hands was taped with a splint.

“You're back in town.”

“I'm turning myself in.”

“Whoa,” said Harris. He put his hand up to stop Isaac's speech, stood up slowly, clearly in some pain, and walked to the door. He checked outside and then closed and locked it. “Come sit.” He motioned to the couch. Isaac sat down on one side, Harris on the other.

“Billy Poe didn't kill that homeless guy,” Isaac said.

Harris looked stricken. He sagged back against the cushion and closed his eyes. “Please don't say anything else,” he asked quietly.

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“No, you're not.”

“Billy and I were—”

But Harris leaned over suddenly and took him by the shirt, as an older brother might, and put his hand so as to nearly cover Isaac's mouth. His skin was pale and damp- looking and Isaac could smell his sour breath.

“The district attorney just called to tell me that those two men you were in that factory with were found dead.” He let go of Isaac and sat back toward his side of the couch. “All three of those men are gone now, Isaac. The only people from that night who are still here are you and Billy Poe. You understand?”

“What happened to them?”

“It could have been anything,” said Harris.

They sat in silence for a long time, it might have been minutes, until Harris got up slowly and went to his desk and opened a wooden box, taking a long time to peer into it before removing a cigar. “You don't smoke these, do you?”

“No.”