Indelible (23 page)

“Goddammit, Slick,” she screamed, pushing him away. “Where the hell do you get off?”

“I don't have time for this,” Jeffrey said, thinking if he did not get away from Jessie right now he'd really hurt her. With Sara last night, the thought repulsed him, but now he wanted nothing more than to smack some sense into Jessie.

He said, “Give me Robert's keys.”

She held his gaze for a second longer, then said, “They're in my purse in the kitchen.” She waited a beat, like she wanted to make sure he knew she was making a choice. “I'll go get them.”

Jeffrey paced in the doorway as he waited for her. He was sick of this crap. It was one thing for Reggie to break his balls, but he sure as shit wasn't going to take it from Robert's cheating wife.

“Here go,” Jessie said, coming back from the kitchen with a full drink in one hand and the keys in the other.

“You're some piece of work,” he said, holding out his hand for the keys.

She gave him a strange look that he could not quite read. “I should have married you.”

“I don't recall asking.”

She laughed like what he had said was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. “You watch, Slick.”

“Watch what?”

“That Sara of yours sure seems to have you tied around her little finger.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Why, because she's better than me?”

It was true, but Jeffrey didn't want to get into it. He had learned the hard way that you could not reason with a drunk. “Give me the damn keys.”

“You're gonna marry her, and then you're gonna fuck around on her.”

“Jessie, I'm only going to tell you one more time.”

“There's gonna come a day when you realize you're not the center of her world anymore, and then you're gonna run out sniffing around for something new. Mark my word.”

Jeffrey kept his hand out, forcing himself not to speak.

She held the keys over the palm of his hand and dropped them as she said, “Come see me in a couple of years.”

“I'd rather watch my dick rot off.”

She smiled, holding up her glass in a toast. “Until then.”

R
obert's truck was the same piece-of-shit '68 Chevy he had been driving since high school. The gears were temperamental, and the whole truck groaned each time Jeffrey tried to shift. There had to be some art to making the truck move, but that knowledge was lost on Jeffrey. At each stop sign, he lurched like a
sixteen-year-old kid just learning to drive, the engine cutting out more often than not as he tried to get the damn thing into first.

Once he drove out of Herd's Gap, he did not know where to go. Sara was probably at the funeral home going over the bones. Hoss was at the station booking Robert. Jeffrey could go home, but his mother would be there for lunch and the last thing he needed was to watch his mother fortifying herself with cheap vodka before she started her second shift at the hospital. Dealing with one alcoholic a day was enough. He was heading toward Nell's, thinking she'd probably already know about Robert's arrest by now, when he remembered Possum.

That was the way it had always been with Possum: he was an afterthought. Unlike Robert, who was on the football team with Jeffrey and could carry his own socially, Possum was a third wheel, someone who tagged along as a buffer between his two ultracompetitive friends. He laughed at their jokes and kept score between them. Not that Possum was completely altruistic. Sometimes he got lucky and managed to snag some of Jeffrey's and Robert's castoffs.

Nell was definitely one of Jeffrey's castoffs, and one he had been glad to get rid of. Even as a teenager, she had known exactly what she wanted and was not afraid to speak her mind. That her mind was usually focused on what she saw as Jeffrey's many faults was the biggest problem he had with her. She was very outspoken and could be downright nasty when it came to giving her opinion on his latest transgressions. If not for the fact that she was one of
the few respectable girls in school who still put out, he would have dropped her after their first date.

Jeffrey would be the first to admit that he liked a challenge, but Nell was the sort of person you could never win with. In the end, he had to admit that Possum was a better fit for her—he didn't mind being told what to do and gladly accepted any sort of criticism at face value—though Jeffrey had been surprised to learn the month after he left for Auburn University that they had gotten married. It made him wonder what had been going on behind his back. Nine months later, he realized exactly what had been going on. If he let himself think about it, it still stuck in his craw, but in all fairness, he had told Nell they should date other people when he moved away. The problem was, he had imagined her pining away for him, not jumping into the sack with his best friend.

Jeffrey forced the truck into second as he turned into the parking lot of Possum's store. The place was still run-down and depressing, with faded Auburn flags banking either side of the door. Signs in the windows advertised cold beer and live bait; two things essential to any small-town country store.

The bell over the door clanked loudly as Jeffrey entered the building. Wooden floors that had been installed back during the Depression squeaked underfoot, dirt from sixty years of wing tips and work boots and now sneakers filling the grooves.

Jeffrey walked straight to the back and pulled out a six-pack of Bud from the walk-in cooler. Before the door closed, he pulled out a second six-pack and walked to the front of the store.

“Hello?” Jeffrey called, putting the beer on the front counter. The cash register was the older kind that didn't take much to get into, and there was a coin dispenser with around a hundred dollars in change ready for the taking. Typical Possum to rely on other people's honesty.

“Possum?” Jeffrey said, taking one of the beers out of the cardboard pack. He used the Coca-Cola opener on the side of the counter to open the bottle. The beer was bitter, and Jeffrey tossed it back, trying to bypass his taste buds. He walked around the counter, looking at the photographs Possum had taped up around the cigarette displays. Like Robert, he had a lot of pictures from their high school days. Unlike Robert, there were photos of kids at various stages in life. Jennifer went from a red face in a bundle of blankets to a precocious girl. Jared grew from a little baby to a tall and rangy-looking kid. Jeffrey guessed he was about nine now, and felt genuine empathy for the kid; at that age, Jeffrey had been all hands and feet, like a colt just learning how to walk. Jared had dark hair like Nell and the same haughty tilt to his chin. There was nothing about Possum in the kid, but Jennifer was very much her father's daughter. She had his eyes, and her shoulders were hunched in that good-natured, nonthreatening way that had saved Possum from getting his ass kicked on more than one occasion.

Jeffrey took a healthy swig of beer, his tongue anesthetized to the taste by now. He thought about Robert, and what hell he must have gone through when Jessie lost their kid. Marriages were perplexing animals, always changing, sometimes gentle,
sometimes vicious. When Jeffrey was a beat cop, he had hated domestic disturbance calls because there was always something, some indefinable connection that attached a husband to a wife and turned them from wanting to kill each other to wanting to kill whoever was interfering, in this case the cops. One minute they could be wailing on each other, calling each other every name in the book, the next minute they could be throwing themselves in front of the squad car to keep their spouse from going to jail.

Children always made things worse, and as a patrolman, Jeffrey had done his best to keep them out of the fray. This was always difficult because most kids thought they could help take some of the heat off their parents by getting in the middle of things. Jeffrey had done this often enough with his own parents, and he knew what drove kids to get involved. He also knew how futile it was. There was nothing more horrible than getting a domestic call and going out to find some kid whimpering in the corner with a black eye or a busted lip. On more than one occasion, Jeffrey had set a father straight. He knew he was channeling some of his own fury when he took on an abusive parent, and up until a few years ago, Jeffrey had considered that to be one of the perks of being a cop.

Jeffrey dropped his empty into the trash and got out another bottle of beer. He used the edge of the counter to pop open the top and gathered from the scratch it made in the wood that Possum used the counter for the same thing.

He leaned his head back, taking a long swig of beer. His stomach grumbled in protest, and Jeffrey
realized he had not eaten anything since the bacon he'd had at Nell's that morning. At this point, Jeffrey did not care. He was halfway through the bottle when he heard a toilet flush in the back.

“Hey, Slick.” Possum came out of the bathroom, buttoning up his pants. He saw the beer. “Go on and help yourself.”

“Good thing I didn't,” Jeffrey said, hitting the No Sale button on the cash register. The drawer popped open, showing neat rows of cash. “There's at least two hundred dollars in here.”

“Two fifty-three eighty-one,” Possum said, taking one of the beers. He popped the top off on the counter and took a pull.

Jeffrey finished his beer and took another. Possum glanced at the two empties but held his tongue.

Jeffrey said, “Guess you heard about Robert?”

“What's that?”

Jeffrey felt a sinking in his gut. He took a healthy drink, trying to push his brain to a point where none of this mattered anymore. “He turned himself in.”

Possum coughed as beer went down the wrong way. “What?”

“I was just at Jessie's mama's. He said he did it.”

“Did what?”

“Shot that man.”

“Luke Swan,” Possum whispered. “Jesus wept.”

“Jessie was cheating on him.”

Possum shook his head. “I don't believe that.”

“You don't have to believe me. Talk to Robert. He said he walked in on the guy banging her.”

“Why would she cheat on him?”

“Because she's a slut.”

“There's no need to talk like that.”

“Talk like what, Possum? The truth?” Jeffrey took another swig of beer, then another. “Jesus, you haven't changed a damn bit.”

“Come on, now.”

“Possum,” Jeffrey said. “That's what you are, playing dead until it all passes over and then coming out like nothing's wrong.” He finished his beer, waiting for that buzz in his head that took away some of the pain. “He said he killed Julia, too.”

Possum leaned against the counter, his mouth slightly open. “That's just crazy talk.”

“Yeah, it's crazy. This whole damn town is crazy.”

“Do you believe him?”

Jeffrey was surprised by the question, mostly because Possum never questioned anything. “No,” he said. “Hell, I don't know.”

“Damn,” Possum said.

Jeffrey reached for another beer. Possum's hand caught his, and he told Jeffrey, “Maybe you oughtta pace yourself.”

“I've already got a mama.”

“She's as good a reason as any to slow down a bit.”

Before he could stop himself, Jeffrey punched Possum in the jaw. His aim was off, but the power behind his fist was enough for Possum to lose his balance and fall back against the store safe.

“Ow!” Possum said, more surprised than outraged. He put his hand to his mouth and looked at the blood. “Jesus, Slick, you near about broke my tooth.”

Jeffrey raised his fist to hit him again, but the look in Possum's eye stopped him. Possum wouldn't
hit back. He never hit back. He never got angry and he never thought anything Jeffrey did was wrong.

Jeffrey reached into his pocket and took out a couple of tens for the beer.

“No,” Possum said, pushing the money away even as blood dribbled down his chin. “Forget about it.”

“I pay my own way,” Jeffrey said, throwing the money on the counter. He picked up the remaining bottles and the other six-pack.

“Listen, Slick, lemme give you a ride—”

“Fuck off,” Jeffrey said, pushing him away.

Still, Possum followed him to the door, saying, “You don't need to be driving like this.”

“Like what?” Jeffrey asked, opening the passenger door to Robert's truck. He put the beer in and walked around to the driver's side, his foot catching on a loose bit of pavement. He grabbed the hood ornament, keeping himself up.

Possum said, “Jeffrey, come on.”

Jeffrey climbed in behind the wheel, feeling his eyes blur as the world turned upside down. The truck turned over with a rewarding purr, and he pulled out of the parking lot, jerking the wheel at the last minute so he would not take out the gas pumps.

2:50
P.M.

M
olly climbed into the passenger seat of the ambulance, looking Lena up and down. “They didn't have a tighter shirt?”

“Guess not,” Lena said, knowing the other woman was trying to lighten things up but unable to play along. Her hands were sweating and her nerve, usually as strong as steel, was failing her. Things would be okay once she got inside the station. Lena was the type of person who faced her fears head-on. Jitters were understandable, but once the show was on, she would be ready to perform.

Molly took a deep breath. When she let it go, her shoulders dropped like a deflating balloon. Her stethoscope was wrapped around her neck, and she grabbed either end in her fists and said, “All right, I'm ready.”

Lena tried to put the key in the ignition, but she could not keep her hand steady enough. After a couple of tries, Molly leaned over, saying, “Here.”

“It's from the scars,” Lena said as the ignition caught. “Nerve damage.”

“Does it bother you much?”

Lena gassed the engine, feeling the vibrations through the floor. “No,” she said, then, “Sometimes.”

“Did they have you do physical therapy?”

Lena did not understand why they were having this stupid conversation, but she kept it up as she put the ambulance in gear, liking the chatter. “About three months,” she said. “Paraffin soaks, playing with a tennis ball, putting pegs in holes.”

“For dexterity,” Molly said, staring straight ahead at the street.

“Yeah,” Lena said. The Grant Medical Center was less than three hundred yards from the police station, but the closer they got, the farther away it seemed. Lena felt like they were following a tunnel into a black hole.

“I had to do PT for my knee a while back,” Molly said. “Hurt it running up the stairs after my youngest.”

“You have two kids?”

“Two boys,” she said, a note of pride to her voice.

Lena steered the van over a steel plate covering a hole in the road, the heavy ambulance barely registering the rough terrain. She wondered if there was a baby growing inside of her, and whether it was a boy or a girl. What would happen if she had a kid? If she married Ethan, she would never be able to get away from him.

Molly said, “Twins.”

“Shit,” Lena said, though not for the reason Molly was probably thinking. Twins. Twice as much
responsibility. Twice as much danger. Twice as much pain.

“You okay?” Molly asked again.

“It's my birthday today,” Lena said, not really paying attention to where she was going.

“That so?”

“Yep.”

Molly said, “Here should be a good spot,” and Lena realized she had nearly passed the station. Nick had said not to block the door, but they had figured the best place to park would be closer to the dress shop, not the college.

Lena considered backing up, but it was too late. “Guess it'll have to do.”

“Right,” Molly said, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “Well, this should be routine, right? Just go in with the food and get out with Marla, yes?”

“Yes,” Lena agreed, her hand slipping on the gearshift as she put the van in park. She cursed under her breath, trying to psych herself into doing this. She was never afraid of things. Lena had seen more horror in the last few years than anyone should see in a lifetime. What did she have to be afraid of? What was waiting in that building that could be worse than what had happened to her two years ago?

“Listen,” Molly began, a tinge of hesitancy to her voice. “Nick told me not to tell you this. . . .”

Lena waited.

“Standard procedure is to have a time limit. If we don't come out, they come in.”

“Why didn't he want me to know?”

“Because he was afraid they would find out,” she said, meaning the gunmen.

“Right,” Lena said, understanding. Nick didn't trust her to be in there. He had said as much to Amanda Wagner. He thought she was going to do something stupid, something that would get them all killed. Maybe she would. Maybe without even thinking, Lena would screw this up like she had screwed up everything else in her life. Maybe this was it. The end of everything.

“We'll be okay,” Molly said, reaching over and taking Lena's hand.

For lack of anything better to do, Lena looked at her watch.

Molly followed suit, saying, “We synchronized mine to his,” as she showed Lena the large Snoopy watch she wore. Lena adjusted her digital watch to Molly's, wondering if this would come to anything.

“They'll come in exactly forty minutes after we walk through the door.” She checked her watch again. “I guess that'll be 3:32.”

Lena said, “Okay.”

Molly put her hand on the door handle. “We'll get you back in time for your party.”

“Party?” Lena asked, wondering what the hell she meant.

“For your birthday,” Molly reminded her. She opened the door a few inches. “Ready?”

Lena nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They both got out of the van and met at the back, where Wagner's men had loaded boxes of cold water and prewrapped sandwiches they had gotten from one of the gas stations on the outskirts of town. As they walked toward the station, Lena concentrated on the sandwiches. She read the labels, wondering who
would actually pay money for a ham salad sandwich on white bread. The expiration date on the pack read three months from now. There were probably enough preservatives in one bite to pickle a horse.

“Here we go,” Molly said, just as the door was pushed open from the inside.

Lena suppressed a gag as Matt's body flopped back onto the ground. What was left of his head made a splattering sound as it hit the concrete, blood and brain spilling out onto the sidewalk. Most of his face was gone, his left eye dangling from a nerve like a fake Halloween mask. The bottom part of his jaw was exposed, and she could see everything—his teeth, his lolling tongue, the way the tendons and muscles held the whole thing in place.

“Slow,” said the man standing just inside the doorway. He was wearing a black knit ski mask that had almond-shaped slits for the eyes and mouth but no nose. He reminded Lena of something out of a horror movie, and she felt a cold shock of fear that nearly paralyzed her. Frank had not mentioned masks. The men had put them on specifically to hide their identity from the paramedics. What that meant for the hostages who had already seen them, Lena did not know.

“Nice and easy,” he said, motioning them in. In one hand he held a shotgun—the Wingmaster Frank had seen—and in the other was a Sig Sauer. His Kevlar vest was tight to his chest, and she could see another pistol sticking out of the waistband of his fatigues.

Lena realized she had stopped walking when Molly whispered, “Lena!”

By sheer force of will, Lena managed to get her feet moving. She tried to step over Matt without actually looking at him, her stomach in such a knot the whole time that she felt the urge to double over. Her sneakers left tracks in his blood.

Inside, the temperature of the station was at least twenty degrees hotter than on the street. There was a second shooter standing behind the counter, an AK-47 resting on the surface in front of him. He wore a ski mask, too, but his had more of an hourglass shape to it, leaving ample room to breathe. His eyes were flat, almost lifeless, and he barely glanced at Lena and Molly as they entered the lobby.

The first one, probably Smith, tried to shut the door but Matt was in the way. He slammed the door into the body, but it would not move. “Fuck,” he mumbled, viciously kicking Matt in the side. His boots were steel-toe military issue, and Lena heard something break, probably Matt's ribs. They snapped like twigs.

Smith said, “Come move this fucker.”

Lena stood there, the box of sandwiches in her hands, frozen to the floor. Molly gave her a panicked look before setting down the box of bottled water. She walked over to Matt and grabbed his ankles to pull him back into the station.

“No,” Smith said. “Outside. Get this fucker outside.” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his arm. “Fucker stinks.” As Molly walked toward the head, Smith gave Matt another solid kick to the chest. “Fucking prick,” he said, an edge to his voice that stopped Molly in her tracks. He raised his foot again, kicking Matt in the groin. The dead weight
did not resist, and the sound of boot hitting flesh reminded Lena of the noise Nan made when she would hang the rugs from the house on the laundry line and beat them with the broom.

Smith's anger was spent fairly quickly, and with one final kick, he told Molly, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Move the fucker.”

Molly looked like she did not know where to touch him. Matt was wearing his usual short-sleeved white shirt with a tie that had gone out of style when Jimmy Carter left the White House. Blood from his head wound saturated his shirt, and there were fresh rents along his arms where Smith had kicked him. These newer wounds were a strange purple color, and they did not bleed.

Smith pushed Molly with his boot. It was not a threatening gesture in and of itself, but considering his earlier display, Molly seemed to take it for the threat it was. She tried to pull Matt by his shirt, but it just came untucked, the buttons popping off and tapping against the floor like hail, his white fish-belly rounding over his pants. Finally, she grabbed him under his arms and pulled.

The body would not move, and Smith was about to give it another kick when Molly said, “No.”

Smith was incredulous. “What did you say?”

“I'm sorry,” Molly said, looking down. The front of her uniform was covered in black blood. She looked at Lena. “For God's sake, give me a hand.”

Lena looked around, like she did not know where to put the box she was holding. She did not want to touch him. She could not touch his dead body.

Smith leveled the Wingmaster on her. “Do it.”

Lena put down the box, feeling her lungs shake in her chest as she tried to breathe. She clamped her jaw shut, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She had never been so scared in her life. Why was she afraid? There had been times in the past when she had welcomed death, even begged it to come to her door, but now she was terrified by the thought of being killed.

Somehow, she managed to kneel at Matt's feet. She stared at his cheap black loafers, the frayed cuffs of his worn pants, the white athletic socks that had a dirty brown cast to them. Molly counted to three, and they lifted him. The pant cuff slid up on his left leg, and Lena saw his ankle jutting out, the pasty white, hairless skin around the bone wrinkling as the foot flexed flat against Lena's abdomen. She thought of the baby inside her, wondered if he knew how close he was to a dead man. Wondered, too, if it was catching.

They set him out on the sidewalk away from the front door, Smith watching their every move. His mouth was twisted into an expression of deep satisfaction as he watched them, and Lena fought the urge to run as she followed Molly back into the station. She did not realize what had happened until they were back inside. Smith had the food and water. He could have shut them out right then and there. He could have shot them in the face or told them to fuck off, but he hadn't.

“That's better,” Smith said. “Tolliver was stinking up the room.”

Molly's head jerked around, her mouth open.

“What?” Smith asked, pointing the Sig at Molly's
forehead. “You want to say something else, bitch? You want to mouth off?”

“No,” Lena answered for her, surprised she was capable of saying the word.

Smith's smile behind the mask was horrifying. She saw his eyes crawl up and down her body, paying specific attention to her breasts; the glint told her he liked what he was seeing. He pushed the muzzle of his gun into Molly's head one last time before turning his attention to Lena. “That's what I thought.” He motioned for her to turn around. “Hands against the wall.”

The phone started ringing, a shrill bell that cut through the air like a knife.

Smith repeated, “Turn around.”

Lena pressed her palms between two framed photographs from the 1970s Grant County police force. They were all men, all in blues, all with shaggy mustaches. Ben Walker, then the Chief of Police, was the only one who looked out of place with his military crew cut and clean-shaven face. Farther down was a photograph with Lena in it. She held her breath, hoping to God Smith did not notice.

“You hiding anything?” Smith's hands were like a sledgehammer as he patted her down. He pushed her flat to the wall, pressing himself against her. “You hiding anything?” he repeated, deftly unbuttoning her blouse with one hand.

She was silent, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried not to look at the photograph less than two feet from her nose. She had been so young then, so open to her future and what it held. Being a cop like her old man had been Lena's life plan for as long
as she could remember. The day that photograph had been taken was one of the best days of her life, and now it might end up killing her.

Smith slipped his hand into her open shirt, his palm cupping her breasts. “You got something good in here?” he asked. “Heart sure is beating fast.”

She stood as still as she could, eyes squeezed shut as his hand moved to her other breast. His breath was heavy, his pleasure evident.

Lena should have been terrified, but she was not. Something was eerily familiar about the threat of his body pressed into hers. Smith was a small man, compactly built. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest, and if Lena let herself consider it, he reminded her of Ethan. She knew how to handle Ethan, how to keep him walking that tight line between anger and control. Seeing how far she could push her lover was almost a game by now. The problem was that sometimes she lost. Lena had the split lip to prove it.

Smith whispered, “You got something good?” his breath hot in her ear. She could feel him pressing harder into her, making his intentions obvious. Lena felt herself floating somehow, like her soul was in another place while her body remained at the station.