A Bend in the Road (20 page)

• • •

Brenda, wearing
a bathrobe over her pajamas, was waiting up for him when he got home. He
recounted most of what had happened, and she asked what would happen if Otis
was actually brought to trial.

“It’ll be the
typical defense,” Charlie responded wearily. “Jones will argue that Otis wasn’t
even there that night and find others who will verify it. Then he’ll argue that
even if Otis was there, he didn’t say what’s attributed to him.  And even if he did say it, he’ll say it was
taken out of context.”

“Will that
work?”

Charlie sipped
his coffee, knowing he still had more work to do. “No one can ever predict what
a jury will do. You know that.”

Brenda put her
hand on Charlie’s arm. “But what do you think?” she asked.

“Honestly.”

“Honestly?”

She nodded,
thinking he looked a dozen years older than when he’d left for work that
morning.

“Unless we find
something else, Otis is gonna walk.”

“Even if he did
it?”

“Yeah,” he said, no
energy in his voice, “even if he did it.”

“Would Miles
accept that?”

Charlie closed
his eyes. “No. Not a chance.”

“What would he
do?”

He finished the
cup of coffee and reached for the file. “I have no idea.”

Ibegan stalking
them regularly, carefully, so that no one would know what I was up to.

I would wait
for Jonah at school, I would visit Missy’s grave, I went to their house at
night. My lies were convincing; no one suspected a thing.  I knew it was wrong, but it didn’t seem as
if I could control my actions anymore. As with any compulsion, I couldn’t stop.
When I did these things, I wondered about my state of mind. Was I a masochist,
who wanted to relieve the agony I’d inflicted? Or was I a sadist, someone who
secretly enjoyed their torment and wanted to witness it firsthand? Was I both?
I didn’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t seem to have a choice.

I could not
escape the image I’d seen the first night, when Miles walked past his son
without speaking to him, as if oblivious to his presence. After all that had
happened, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Yes, I knew that Missy had been
taken from their lives . . . but didn’t people grow closer after a traumatic
event? Didn’t they look to each other for support? Especially family?  This was what I had wanted to believe. This
was how I had made it through the first six weeks. It became my mantra. They
would survive. They would heal. They would turn to each other and become even
closer. It was the singsong chant of a tortured fool, but it had become real in
my mind.

But that night,
they had not been doing okay. Not that night. 
I am not naive enough now, nor was I naive enough then, to believe that
a single snapshot of a family at home reveals the truth. I told myself after
that night that I was mistaken in what I saw, or even if I was correct, that it
didn’t mean anything. Nothing can be read into isolated instances. By the time
I got to my car, I almost believed it.

But I had to
make certain.

There is a path
one takes when moving toward destruction. Like someone who has one drink on a
Friday night, and two the next, only to gradually and completely lose control,
I found myself proceeding more boldly. Two days after my nighttime visit, I
needed to know about Jonah. I can still remember the train of thought I used to
justify my action. It went like this: I’ll watch for Jonah today, and if he’s
smiling, then I’ll know I was wrong. So I went to the school. I sat in the
parking lot, a stranger sitting behind the wheel in a place I had no right to
be, staring out the windshield. The first time I went, I barely caught a
glimpse of him, so I returned the following day.

A few days later,
I went again.

And again.

It got to the
point where I recognized his teacher, his class, and I was soon able to pick
him out immediately, just as he left the building. And I watched.  Sometimes he would smile, sometimes he
wouldn’t, and for the rest of the afternoon, I would wonder what it meant.
Either way, I was never satisfied.  And
night would come. Like an itch I couldn’t reach, the compulsion to spy nagged
at me, growing stronger as the hours rolled on. I would lie down, eyes wide
open, then get out of bed. I’d pace back and forth. I’d sit, then lie down
again. And even though I knew it was wrong, I’d make the decision to go. I’d
talk to myself, whispering the reasons I should ignore the feeling inside me,
even as I reached for the car keys. I would drive the darkened stretch, urging
myself to turn around and head back home, even as I parked the car. And I would
make my way through the bushes surrounding their house, one step after the
next, not understanding what had driven me there.

I watched them
through the windows.

For a year, I
saw their life unfold in little bits and pieces, filling in what I didn’t know
already. I learned that Miles continued to work at night sometimes, and I
wondered who was taking care of Jonah. So I charted Miles’s schedule, knowing
when he’d be gone, and one day I followed Jonah’s bus home from school.  I learned that he stayed with a neighbor. A
peek at the mailbox told me who she was.

Other times, I
watched them eating dinner. I learned what Jonah liked to eat, and I learned
what shows he liked to watch afterward. I learned that he liked to play soccer
but didn’t like reading. I watched him grow. 
I saw good things and bad things, and always, I looked for a smile.
Something, anything, that might lead me to stop this insanity.

I watched
Miles, too.

I saw him pick
up around the house, sliding items into drawers. I saw him cook dinner. I
watched him drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the back porch, when he thought
no one was around. But most of all, I watched him as he sat in the kitchen.

There,
concentrating, one hand moving through his hair, he stared at the file.  At first I assumed he brought his work home
with him, but gradually I came to the conclusion that I was wrong. It wasn’t
different cases that he was studying, it was a single case, since the file
never seemed to change. It was then, with a sudden jolt of comprehension, that
I knew what the file was about. I knew that he was looking for me, this person
who watched him through the windows. 
Again, after that, I justified what I was doing. I started coming to see
him, to study his features as he peered at the file, to look for an “aha,” followed
by a frantic phone call that would portend a visit to my home. To know when the
end would come.

When I would
finally leave the window to return to my car, I would feel weak, completely
spent. I would swear that it was over, that I’d never do it again.  That I would let them lead their lives
without intrusion. The urge to watch them would be satiated and guilt would set
in, and on those evenings, I would despise what I had done. I would pray for
forgiveness, and there were times I wanted to kill myself.

From someone
who once had dreams of proving myself to the world, I now hated who I had
become.

But then, no
matter how much I wanted to stop, no matter how much I wanted to die, the urge would
come again. I’d fight it until I could fight no longer, then I’d say to myself
that this would be the last time. The very last.  And then, like a vampire, I would creep out into the night.

That night,
while Miles studied the file in the kitchen, Jonah had his first nightmare in
weeks.

It took Miles a
moment to register the sound. He’d studied the file until nearly two in the
morning; that, coupled with the all-night shift the evening before and
everything that had happened during the day, had drained him completely, and
his body seemed to rebel when he heard Jonah’s cries. Like being forced to move
through a room filled with wet cotton, consciousness returned slowly, and even
as he moved toward Jonah’s room, it was more of a Pavlovian response than a
desire to comfort his son.

It was early in
the morning, a few minutes before dawn. Miles carried Jonah to the porch; by
the time his cries finally stopped, the sun was already up.  Because it was Saturday and he didn’t have
to go to school, Miles carried Jonah back to the bedroom and started a pot of
coffee. His head was pounding, so he took two aspirin and washed them down with
orange juice.  He felt as if he had a
hangover.

While the
coffee was brewing, Miles retrieved the file and the notes he’d made the night
before; he wanted to go over them one more time before heading into work. Jonah
surprised him, however, by returning to the kitchen before he had a chance to
do so. He padded in, his eyes puffy as he rubbed them, then sat at the table.

“Why are you up?”
Miles asked. “It’s still early.”

“I’m not tired,”
Jonah answered.

“You look tired.”

“I had a bad
dream.”

Jonah’s words
caught Miles off-guard. Jonah never remembered having the dreams before.

“You did?”

Jonah nodded.
“I dreamed you were in an accident. Like Mommy was.” Miles went to Jonah’s
side. “It was just a dream,” he said. “Nothing happened, okay?”

Jonah wiped his
nose with the back of his hand. In his race car pajamas, he looked younger than
he was.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, not at all.
Why would you think I’m mad?”

“You didn’t talk
to me at all yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. I
wasn’t mad at you. I was just trying to figure out some stuff.”

“About Mommy?”

Miles was caught
off-guard again. “Why do you think it’s about Mommy?” he asked.  “Because you were looking at those papers
again.” Jonah pointed to the file on the table. “They’re about Mommy, aren’t
they?”

After a moment,
Miles nodded. “Kind of.”

“I don’t like
those papers.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he
said, “they make you sad.”

“They don’t make
me sad.”

“Yeah, they do,”
Jonah said. “And they make me sad, too.”

“Because you miss
Mommy?”

“No,” he said,
shaking his head, “because they make you forget about me.”

The words made
Miles’s throat constrict. “That’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t
you talk to me yesterday?”

He sounded almost
on the verge of tears, and Miles pulled Jonah closer. “I’m sorry, Jonah. It
won’t happen again.”

Jonah looked up
at him. “Do you promise?”

Miles made an X
over his chest and smiled. “Cross my heart.”

“And hope to
die?”

With Jonah’s wide
eyes piercing him, that was exactly what Miles felt like doing.

• • •

After having
breakfast with Jonah, Miles called Sarah to apologize to her as well. Sarah
interrupted before he had a chance to finish. 
“Miles, you don’t have to say you’re sorry. After all that happened, it
was pretty obvious that you needed to be alone. How are you feeling this
morning?” “I’m not sure. About the same, I guess.”

“Are you going in
to work?”

“I have to.
Charlie called. He wants me to meet him in a little while.”

“Will you call me
later?”

“If I get the
chance. I’ll probably be pretty tied up today.”

“With the
investigation, you mean?”

When Miles didn’t
answer, Sarah twirled a few strands of hair. “Well, if you need to talk and
can’t reach me, I’ll be at my mom’s house.” “Okay.”

Even after
hanging up the phone, Sarah couldn’t escape the feeling that something terrible
was about to happen.

• • •

By nine in the
morning, Charlie was working on his fourth cup of coffee and told Madge to keep
them coming. He’d slept only a couple of hours and had made it back to the
station before the sun had risen.

He’d been busy
ever since. He’d met with Harvey, interviewed Otis in his cell, and spent some
time with Thurman Jones. He’d also called in extra deputies to look for Sims
Addison. So far, nothing.

He had, though,
come to some decisions.

• • •

Miles arrived
twenty minutes later and found Charlie waiting for him outside his office.

“You doing okay?”
Charlie asked, thinking Miles looked no better than he did.

“Tough night.”

“Tough day, too.
Need some coffee?”

“Had plenty at
the house.”

He motioned over
his shoulder. “C’mon in, then—we have to talk.” After Miles entered, Charlie closed
the door behind him and Miles sat in the chair. Charlie leaned against the
desk.

“Listen, before
we begin,” Miles started, “I guess you should know that I’ve been working on
this since yesterday, and I think I might have some ideas—” Charlie shook his
head, not letting him finish. “Look, Miles, that’s not why I wanted to see you.
Right now, I need you to listen, okay?” There was something in his expression
that told Miles he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear, and he
stiffened.

Charlie glanced
at the tile floor, then back at Miles again. 
“I’m not going to beat around the bush here. We’ve known each other too
long for that.” He paused.

“What is it?”

“I’m going to
release Otis Timson today.”

Miles’s mouth
opened, but before he said anything, Charlie raised his hands.  “Now before you think I’m jumping to
conclusions, hear me out. I didn’t have a choice, not based on the information
that I have so far. Yesterday, after you left, I went up to visit with Earl
Getlin.”

He told Miles
what Getlin had said.

“Then you have
the proof you need,” Miles shot back. 
“Now hold on. Let me also say I think there are some serious questions
about his possible testimony. From what I heard, Thurman Jones would eat him
alive, and there’s not a jury that would believe a word he said.”

“So leave that
up to the jury,” Miles protested. “You can’t just let him go.” “My hands are
tied. Believe me, I stayed up all night, looking over the case. As it stands,
we don’t have enough to hold him. Especially now that Sims has flown the coop.”

“What are you
talking about?”

“Sims. I had
deputies looking for him yesterday, last night, and this morning.  After he left here, he just vanished. No
one’s been able to find him, and Harvey isn’t willing to let any of this go on
unless he can talk to Sims.” “For God’s sake, Otis admitted it.”

“I don’t have a
choice,” Charlie said.

“He killed my
wife.” Miles spoke through clenched teeth.

Charlie hated the
fact that he had to do this.

“This isn’t just
my decision. Right now, without Sims, we don’t have a case and you know it.
Harvey Wellman said there was no way that the DA’s office would file charges as
things stand now.”

“Harvey’s
making you do this?”

“I spent the
morning with him,” Charlie answered, “and I also talked to him yesterday. Believe
it when I say he’s been more than fair. It’s nothing personal—he’s just doing
his job.”

“That’s crap.”

“Put yourself in
his position, Miles.”

“I don’t want to
put myself in his position. I want Otis charged with murder.”

“I know you’re upset—”

“I’m not upset,
Charlie. I’m pissed off like you wouldn’t believe.” “I know you are, but this
isn’t the end. You’ve got to understand that even if we let Otis go, that
doesn’t mean he won’t be charged in the future. It just means that we don’t
have enough to hold him now. And you should also know the highway patrol is
reopening the investigation. This isn’t over yet.” Miles glared. “But until
then, Otis is free to go.”

“He’d be free
on bail, anyway. Even if we did charge him with hit-and-run, he’d walk out of
here. You know that.”

“Then charge
him with murder.”

“Without Sims?
Without other evidence? There’s no way that would fly.” There were times when
Miles despised the criminal justice system. His eyes darted around the room
before settling on Charlie again.  “Did
you talk to Otis?” he finally asked.

“Tried to this
morning. His lawyer was there and advised him not to answer most of my
questions. Didn’t get any information that would help.” “Would it help if I
tried to talk to him?”

Charlie shook his
head. “There’s no chance of that, Miles.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t allow
that.”

“Because it’s
about Missy?”

“No, because of
the stunt you pulled yesterday.”

“What are you
talking about?”

“You know exactly
what I’m talking about.”

Charlie stared at
Miles, watching for his reaction. Miles seemed to have none, and Charlie got up
from behind the desk.

“Let me be
frank, okay? Even though Otis wouldn’t answer any questions about Missy, he did
volunteer information about your behavior yesterday. So now I’m going to ask
you about it.” He paused. “What happened in the car?” Miles shifted in his
chair. “I saw a raccoon in the road and had to hit the brakes.”

“Do you think I’m
stupid enough to believe that?”

Miles shrugged.
“It’s what happened.”

“And if Otis
tells me that you did it simply to hurt him?”

“Then he’s
lying.”

Charlie leaned
forward. “Is he also lying when he tells me that you pointed your gun at his
head, even though he was on his knees with his hands up? And that you held it
there?”

Miles squirmed
uncomfortably. “I had to keep the situation under control,” he said evasively.

“And you think
that was the way to go?”

“Look, Charlie,
no one was hurt.”

“So in your mind,
it was completely justified?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Otis’s
lawyer didn’t think so. And neither did Clyde. They’re threatening to file a
civil lawsuit against you.”

“A lawsuit?”

“Sure—excessive
force, intimidation, police brutality, the whole works. Thurman has some
friends at the ACLU and they’re thinking of joining the lawsuit as well.”

“But nothing
happened!”

“It doesn’t matter,
Miles. They have a right to file whatever they want. But you should know that
they’ve also asked Harvey to file criminal charges.” “Criminal charges?”

“That’s what
they say.”

“And let me
guess—Harvey’s going to go along with that, right?” Charlie shook his head. “I
know you and Harvey don’t get along, but I’ve worked with Harvey for years and
I think he’s fair most of the time. He was pretty hot about the whole thing
last night, but when we met this morning, he said he didn’t think he was going
to go forward with it—” “So there’s no problem, then,” Miles interrupted.

“You didn’t let
me finish,” Charlie said. He met Miles’s gaze. “Even though he may not go
forward, that’s not set in stone. He knows how caught up you are in this, and even
though he doesn’t think you had the right to let Sims go or take it on yourself
to arrest Otis, he knows you’re human. He understands the way you felt, but
that doesn’t change the fact that you acted inappropriately, to say the least.
And because of that, he told me that he thinks it would be best if you’re
placed on suspension—with pay, of course—until all this works itself out.”

Miles’s face
registered disbelief. “Suspend me?”

“It’s for your
own good. Once tempers cool down, Harvey thinks he can get Clyde and the lawyer
to back off. But if we act as if we—or I—feel you did nothing whatsoever that
was wrong, he isn’t so sure he’ll be able to talk Clyde out of it.”

“All I did was
arrest the man who killed my wife.”

“You did a lot
more than that, and you know it.”

“So you’re gonna
do what he says?”

After a long
moment, Charlie nodded. “I think he’s giving me good advice, Miles.

Like I said, it’s
for your own good.”

“Let me get this
straight. Otis goes free, even though he killed my wife. And I get booted from
the force for bringing him in.”

“If that’s the
way you want to look at it.”

“That’s how it
is!”

Charlie shook his
head, keeping his voice steady. “No, it’s not. And in a little while, when
you’re not so wound up, you’ll see that. For now, though, you’re officially on
suspension.”

“C’mon,
Charlie—don’t do this.”

“It’s for the
best. And whatever you do, don’t escalate the situation. If I find out you’re
hassling Otis or snooping around where you shouldn’t, I’ll be forced to take
further action and I won’t have the option of being so lenient.” “This is
ridiculous!”

“It’s the way
it is, my friend. I’m sorry.” Charlie began making his way to the chair on the
other side. “But like I said, it’s not over. Once we find Sims and talk to him,
we’ll look into his story. Maybe someone else heard something, and we might
find someone to corroborate it—” Miles tossed his badge onto the desk before
Charlie finished talking. His holster and gun were draped over the chair.

He slammed the
door behind him.

Twenty minutes
later, Otis Timson was released.

• • •

After storming
out of Charlie’s office, Miles got into his car, his head spinning from the
events of the past twenty-four hours. He turned the key, grinding the engine,
and pulled away from the curb, accelerating hard and swinging into the other
lane before righting the car.