Page 15

I didn’t remember walking. Somehow, I got to the station’s front doors, and they were locked, so I rattled one and shouted until the old guy with the mop-water hair let me out. He was looking at me like I was crazy. That was okay. I was crazy.

The buzz of the security lights got inside my head as I started toward Jefferson Street. Moths swooped and spun inside the dirty orange light. The air smelled like the river and like old cigarette butts and garbage that had cooked in the sun. It all registered, but it was secondary. The top level of my brain was replaying everything in that fucking room.

Halfway across the parking lot, I dug out my phone and called Darnell again.

Voicemail.

“Pick up your fucking phone!”

But he didn’t. And he didn’t call me back either.

I had a vague plan to walk home, but then I stopped—they would still be processing the house, and until they were done, they weren’t going to let me anywhere near it. That meant a motel. Or I could stay with a friend. That almost made me laugh; Saint Somerset would happily take me in.

I was still standing there, trying to decide where to go, when a dark sedan rolled to a stop in front of me. The window buzzed down, and Peterson said, “Let me give you a ride.”

“Shouldn’t you be searching my house for proof I killed Tip? Or are you in favor of the Darnell theory?”

“The sheriff is conducting the search.”

“Wow. What a vote of confidence.”

“Get in the car, Gray.”

It was clean on the inside, and it smelled like the Yankee Candle air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Classical music played softly until Peterson reached over and snapped the radio off. He buzzed the window up, and the air conditioning took over, the cold air drying the sheen of perspiration on my face and arms.

As we drove out of the lot, he said, “I want you to think about taking some personal leave.”

The words lit up like red neon letters in my head. Days of sitting on my ass in that house. Weeks. Months. No matter how I tried to find things to do, no matter the errands or habits or plans I made to keep myself busy. Just me and Darnell, trapped in that house, like two ghosts haunting the fuck out of each other.

Tires hummed. Around us, Jefferson Street became Market Street. It was a weeknight, and it was late, and the places that catered to tourist families were closing. The only places still open were where you could still do some serious drinking. St. Taffy’s. Maybe we were going to get that drink Peterson had offered.

“What do you think?” Peterson asked.

“No.” I tried again. “No, thank you, Chief.”

“Gray, I’m not sure you heard me.”

Too quickly—and too sharply—I said, “I heard you.”

We passed St. Taffy’s. Peterson stopped at a stop sign. There was nobody around. He could have rolled through it. Hell, he could have blown through it. Who’d say anything to him about it? But he stopped. He looked. And then we started forward again.

“I understand that this case is important to you.”

“You’re goddamn right it’s important. Do you know who knew that boy was missing? Nobody. His friends. Not his dad. Not his mom. Not those two dumb fucks at the sheriff’s department. I told them he was missing. I told them something bad might have happened to him. And they acted like I was out of my fucking head.” I sat back. And then I hammered the window once. “And now I’m the fucking bad guy?”

“You’re angry.” Peterson’s voice stayed calm. “But I need you to think about this like a detective right now. You’ve got someone without any official legal standing who can’t stay away from an investigation. You’ve got…parallels. He provides helpful information to law enforcement. He even discovers the body.”

I rubbed my eyes. I took deep breaths. That was what killers did. Some of them. They wanted to be close to the case. Some because they liked the thrill. Some because they were trying to control the investigation. Mostly because they were all nutjobs.

“So, we’re back to square one. I did it. Or Darnell and I did it together.”

“If I thought you did it, Gray, I’d be driving you to jail instead of the motor court. But this isn’t a matter of opinion. That boy was in your bed. Whether you like it or not, by getting yourself involved in this investigation, you’ve made yourself a person of interest.” Peterson fell silent. And then he said, voice tight, “And your judgment seems to be seriously in question.”

Rory, bent over the arm of that ugly fuck of a sofa, moaning. Jordan, on his knees, slobbering as I pulled his hair. A flush ran through my body. It felt like pins and needles across my chest, up my throat, into my face. I thought I caught a whiff of the first hint of flop sweat.

“Do you know what it’s like to have to hear from someone outside my department that one of my detectives has been having sexual relationships with key people in an ongoing investigation?”

I opened my mouth.

He spoke over me, and the wound-up fury of his voice kept me silent. “What were you thinking?”

I couldn’t answer that; I shut my mouth.

We passed a Phillips 66; the pumps were bathed in harsh, white light, but the convenience store was dark. We passed a twenty-four-hour laundromat where, on the other side of a wall of windows, a middle-aged guy with a turkey neck was standing in nothing but a pair of briefs. At the Dairy Queen on the next corner, the line was three deep. The last car was a Caddy with its wheel wells rusted out and a bumper sticker that said IF YOU HAVE TO DRINK AND DRIVE, AT LEAST DRINK A SHAKE.

“You have tainted everything you’ve touched in this investigation,” Peterson said, and although his voice was calmer now, I could hear the fading echo of his anger. “God willing this ever comes to trial, what is a defense going to do with you? You were supposed to be a witness, Gray. You found him. You called it in. That’s all. But instead, your fingerprints are all over everything. Witness tampering is the start of it. Not to mention the fact that any defense lawyer worth his salt is going to put you on the stand and let the jury take a look at you and ask them how you could possibly be unbiased in a case like this.”

It had been a long time since I’d cried. Since I’d even felt the need. But my eyes stung now, and I blinked and looked away and fought to keep myself under control.

“And that’s not to mention,” Peterson continued more gently, “the fact that if someone is trying to make it look like you and Darnell were involved in this, you’re doing their job for them.”

I nodded, but I had to keep looking out the window. Dark strip malls. A shuttered QuikLube. A pancake house all the old queens liked to go to after karaoke night at the Pretty Pretty.

“So,” Peterson said. “I’d like you to take some personal leave.”

It was like a hand closing around my lungs, squeezing until there wasn’t room left for air. I tried to breathe slowly. I tried to count. But blackness flecked the corners of my vision, and a ringing sound started in my ears.

“Gray?”

I shook my head.

A hint of command entered his voice: “Gray?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

I shook my head again.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

The Bridal Veil Motor Court was old, with glass-block windows and a roadside sign that assured anybody driving by that this shit pile still had vacancies. Peterson stopped in front of the office. It had a sign that said AFTER HOURS, RING FOR SERVICE.

“If you’re not going to take personal leave,” Peterson said, “then you’re going on administrative leave. That’s your choice.”

It was strange how your brain worked sometimes. Everything inside me was shifting, sliding away from me. But I had this one clear thought of what John-Henry would do.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said and got out of the car.

Peterson sat there for a moment. And then he drove off.

I waited until his taillights blinked out before I started walking.