One False Move (9 page)

“South,” Jared told her. “Turn right. We want to leave Douglas County, remember?”

She glanced at him and only then did she notice the front of his coverall was wet and stained. That was when she recognized the smell that filled the car. It wasn’t just Charlie’s vomit. It was blood.

4:46 p.m.
Platte River State Park

“So you think I have no life?” Andrew revived the subject as he shoved aside his plate and drained his second bottle of Bud Light. He rarely finished one.

Tommy sliced another chunk off his filet and stuffed it in his mouth. He had left his cell phone out on the table after losing the connection and trying to call back whoever had called him. He had pretended the phone call had been no big deal. Yeah, right. That’s why he kept glancing at it as if expecting it to ring. “I’m just calling it like I see it, Murderman.”

“Murderman.” Andrew still smiled at the nickname Tommy and the other Omaha detectives had given him. Actually he liked it enough to use it for his e-mail address. That they had even bothered to give him a nickname had been a sign—an odd one, but still a good one—that the group approved of him.

He sat back in the wrought-iron chair, part of the bistro set on the screened-in porch. They had chosen to eat out here despite the stifling humidity. Andrew glanced at the sky. If only it would just rain and get it over with, but the thunderheads kept their distance, preferring just to threaten. The wind, however, had picked up, and the breeze was refreshing. It brought with it the scent of pine needles and the lulling sound of cicadas.

Andrew watched his friend devour a forkful of deli potato salad, following it with a bite of the garlic bread he had grilled alongside the filets. One thing Andrew had learned through his friendship with Tommy was that cops could eat no matter what the circumstances or surroundings were. He had watched Tommy chow down on a blood-rare porterhouse steak while showing Andrew Polaroids of a dismembered corpse.

Watching his friend, he realized, not for the first time, how very different the two of them were.

“You know, we probably wouldn’t have even liked each other as kids?” The beer was starting to give him a buzz.

“I don’t know about that,” Tommy said. “You want that last piece of garlic bread?”

Andrew shook his head. “Seriously, though. You played tackle football in the middle of the streets during the summertime. I hid between chores on the farm just so I could read.”

“We didn’t play in the streets,” Tommy corrected him, getting up from the table. “We played in the parking lot behind Al’s Bar and Grill,” he added now from inside the cabin as he pulled the last two beers from the fridge.

“You and your friends would have picked on me. You probably would have called me a sissy or a wuss.”

Tommy handed him one of the bottles before sitting back down. “Kids do stupid stuff.”

“Even now, you have to admit we’re pretty different. You’re South Omaha Polish dogs with kraut. You’re an usher or some fricking thing at Saint Stanislaus. You coach Little League for your four daughters.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Tommy said. “You’re saying we reversed roles or something, right? You saying I’m the wuss now?”

Andrew laughed. He knew Tommy was humoring him, indulging his buzz. The beer seemed to have had no effect on Detective Pakula.

“You investigate murders. You step over corpses, collect maggots, poke around entrance and exit wounds. I just write about it.”

“And you do a hell of a job.” Tommy held up another forkful of potato salad in a salute.

“You deal in real life. I deal in make-believe.”

“So what’s your point?” But there was no impatience in his friend’s tone, only curiosity.

“I guess I understand why you think I have no life.”

“Oh, I see.” This time Tommy sat back, finally realizing Andrew was serious and not joking around. “I didn’t mean your work. I meant your personal life. When was the last time you were in a relationship? Or wait, I’ll make it easier for you—when was the last time you got laid?”

“I told you there was someone I was interested in.”

“Oh, that’s right. A woman who’s already sort of involved in a long-term relationship. The one who lives about a thousand miles away.”

“See, why do I tell you personal stuff if you’re just gonna make fun?”

“I’m not making fun. Hey, I can see where it might be safe to want somebody who doesn’t want you back.”

“Safe? Sure you don’t mean stupid?”

“No, I mean safe. Especially safe for a guy like you.”

“A guy like me?”

“Okay, now don’t go getting postal with me.” Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m not. Go on. Explain yourself.” Andrew grabbed his third Bud Light by the bottle’s neck and took a sip.

“You keep saying you don’t do commitment, right? As soon as a woman starts showing any signs of getting serious you start running in the opposite direction. So, who do you choose to fall in love with? A woman who ain’t ever gonna get serious on you.”

“So, if your theory is correct, I’m a real schmuck.”

“Oh, yeah, big-time.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Actually, you’re not a schmuck. It’s evidently your method of survival.”

“You’re saying I don’t really have feelings for this woman?”

“I’m saying it’s safe to have feelings for her. You said she told you she’s in with this guy for the long haul.”

“Maybe she’s confused.”

“Maybe she enjoys jerking you around. You don’t think she gets off having someone like you pining for her?”

Andrew sat back again, rubbing his jaw as if Tommy had just sucker punched him. The woman in question, an attractive redhead named Erin Cartlan, owned a small bookshop in lower Manhattan. They had met two years before when she introduced herself at Book Expo America and invited him to schedule a book signing at her store. She was attractive and witty, and he could still swear that she had been flirting with him that weekend though she denied it later, pretending not to know what he was even talking about. Since then they had maintained a sort of friendship, more professional than personal, although Andrew had to admit he constantly found himself hoping it would turn into something more.

Tommy was staring at him, shaking his head. “Crap, now I’ve got you thinking about her. You won’t get any writing done.”

“I think you just like to see me miserable.”

“That’s my whole point. I
don’t
like seeing you miserable. You’re missing what I’m saying here. You seem content to pine for a woman you can’t have. You write about crime scenes and autopsies but pass up opportunities to see them firsthand. You don’t even want to eat the fish you catch.” He shook his head. “From where I sit, that’s not exactly living life to its fullest.”

Andrew felt the heat crawl up his neck, but he kept the anger from his voice when he said, “I didn’t bring enough beers for this conversation.”

“You know I’m saying what I’m saying ’cause I care about you. You know that, right? Oh, fuck.” Tommy grabbed for his belt, twisting the electronic pager attached so he could read the LED. “Sorry, buddy, something’s going on. I’m gonna need to take off.”

Tommy grabbed his cell phone and started to leave but stopped at the porch door. “You sure you’re gonna be okay out here?”

Andrew shrugged with his good shoulder then nodded. “Yeah, of course.” But he was still thinking about Erin and wondering how he’d ever fill those blank notebook pages now.

5:15 p.m.
Highway 50

Melanie stabbed at the button on the car’s door, locking and unlocking it, then finally bringing down her window. She needed to breathe. She needed some fresh air, some relief from the smell of vomit and blood. She gulped down the warm, damp wind then, grabbing her baseball hat before it blew away, she punched the button for the window to close.

“We need to backtrack,” Jared told her, sitting sideways in his seat and watching out the back window.

She saw the gun in his lap, his finger still on the trigger. In the rearview mirror she watched for Charlie. The gags and awful retching had stopped. Occasionally she saw his head bob up into view.

“I said we need to turn around.”
Jared’s voice had returned to calm and demanding. “We need to dump this car.”

He reached into the back seat, and Melanie thought he was checking on Charlie. Instead, he grabbed Charlie’s gun by its nose, holding it as though it was contaminated. He opened his window and tossed the gun, flinging it into the grassy ditch. He kept his own gun in his lap while he reached into the back seat and pulled up his duffel bag.

“Turn around up here,” he told her again without looking at her or the road.

She heard the duffel bag’s zipper, but she kept her eyes on the highway, glancing in the rearview and side mirrors, watching, expecting at any minute to see them fill with blue and red flashing lights. The highway divided up ahead—he must mean the next intersection. She could see the road sign indicating the turnoff for Springfield. Oncoming traffic had tapered to a few cars. She could do a U-ie without much fuss. She started to slow down, watching the line of traffic behind her, some cars already moving over to the temporary passing lane to pass by them. She felt relief that none of the cars looked like police cruisers, yet the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach warned her it was pushing their luck to head back into the line of fire. But she had to trust that Jared knew what he was doing.

“Forget about it,” Jared said suddenly. “Just keep going.”

“There’s not that much traffic. I can do it.”

“Fuck it. Keep going.”

And then, as they got closer, she saw it. On their left at the Phillip 66 Station was a black and white, Sarpy County Sheriff’s Department in bold print on its side. She hadn’t noticed it before because it had been partially hidden by the gas pumps. Now, as they drove by, there it was.

“Don’t speed,” Jared instructed. “Don’t make any stupid moves.”

Melanie wanted to tell him it wasn’t any of
her
stupid moves that had gotten them into this mess. She wanted to tell him if it hadn’t been for her quick—not stupid—moves they’d already be sitting in the back of a police cruiser. Instead, she simply flipped on her turn signal and eased back into traffic, trying to ignore her sweaty palms, fists gripping the steering wheel. Her teeth were clenched again, her lower lip between them. Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to keep her head from moving, from looking in the direction of the cruiser. It was like roadkill in the middle of the highway and that annoying instinct to look even though you knew you shouldn’t.

“Stay calm,” Jared was saying, suddenly smooth and comforting.

Melanie recognized his seductive tone, the one he used like hypnosis usually to take the sting out of one of his cutting insults.

“No sudden moves,” he said. “Just be cool.”

She caught a glimpse of Charlie, now huddled on the seat in a ball, hugging his backpack, face white, eyes glazed. She didn’t have time to worry about him, not now when it took all her concentration to keep the car in the right lane of the two-lane highway and watch the cruiser in her side mirror.

Jared was watching the highway, too, while digging in the duffel bag. Soon she heard a rhythmic
click-click
and her stomach pitched when she saw him reloading the gun.

She wanted to tell him his gun had already gotten them into enough trouble, to remind him that she and Charlie had never had to use guns before. Instead, she said nothing.

Both she and Jared were so focused on the black and white at the gas station that neither noticed the one in the oncoming traffic. Melanie gasped out loud when it passed by.

“Be cool,”
Jared said as he turned his entire body to watch out the back window.

Melanie forced her eyes forward. She couldn’t, wouldn’t look in the car mirrors. She held her breath and kept the car steady despite her shaking hands and pounding heart.

“Fuck, fuck,” Jared said. And she knew before he added, “Here he comes.”

5:23 p.m.

Grace let Emily wear Vince’s William and Mary alumni baseball cap. He had also promised his daughter she could use his favorite travel mug for her juice but Grace couldn’t find that box. As Grace passed Emily’s bedroom she could hear her daughter telling her friend, Bitsy, about her daddy’s favorite cap, his lucky cap.

She checked her watch and decided she had time to unpack one more box before she started their dinner. It was amazing that they had managed these past weeks with all their worldly belongings buried in cardboard boxes, half mislabeled and the other half not labeled at all. This evening she needed to get back to the case files she had brought home. She had a preliminary set for Friday morning. Another crack whore up on drug charges. The only reason she remembered so clearly was because the defendant was being represented by Max Kramer. She thought that perhaps after his media stint with Barnett ole Max wouldn’t need to defend any more lowlifes.

Sometimes Grace wondered why men like Max Kramer became lawyers.

For Grace it was easy. When anyone asked—though the question came less frequently these days—why she had chosen to become a lawyer, she always said, without hesitation, that it was because of Atticus Finch. As a little girl Grace had been mesmerized by Harper Lee’s character in
To Kill a Mockingbird
who Gregory Peck brought to life on film. In the courtroom scenes, Atticus commanded respect, dressed in that crisply pressed three-piece suit, the shiny chain of his watch dangling when he pushed back his jacket and put his hands in his trouser pockets. Atticus Finch was a strong, quiet hero, the true personification of good in the midst of evil.

Yes, Atticus Finch had inspired Grace to become a lawyer. That’s what she told anyone who asked, especially anyone in the media. It was easy, less messy, and for the most part, it was true. However, it was Jimmy Lee Parker who convinced Grace she should be a prosecutor. It was Jimmy Lee Parker who, on a hot, sticky night in July 1964, broke into a police officer’s home, sneaked up the narrow staircase to the officer and his wife’s bedroom and bashed in their skulls with a baseball bat.