What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy (34 page)

“You’re okay,” the woman above me said. Not a question. Shortish dark hair pulled back. Hazel eyes in which glints of green surfaced and sank. She sounded pretty certain. I’d have to take her word for it.

“Mr. Aleché has agreed to call off his dogs. That right, Mr. Aleché?”

From high above terrycloth and tabletop, out of the clear blue sky up there, came a “Yes.”

“One of his dogs seems to have taken bad,” I said, glancing left again.

“Other one’s a bit the worse for wear, too.”

“Terrible shame.”

Her face broke into a smile. Before, I’d always believed that to be merely a figure of speech.

“And lest you wonder, Mr. Aleché says these are the two men you’re looking for. He seems to be under the impression that I know what’s going on and that I am somehow your partner in this enterprise.”

She held out her arm at a ninety-degree angle, inviting me to take it and lever myself to a sitting position. We grasped hands thumbs-over and, leaning hard into strong forearm and biceps, I pulled myself up.

“Mr. Aleché has also been kind enough to agree that by way of reparation he’ll cover all medical expenses for your fellow officer and dispatcher. And he hopes you’ll accept his apologies for his employees’ misguided enthusiasm.”

It’s over, then, is what most people would think. But, even as she helped me up, I saw that she knew better, saw her clearly: the stance, feet planted squarely, center of gravity kept low, eyes taking it all in even as they appeared not to.

“You’re a cop.”

“That obvious, huh?” Again the smile. “I’m also your daughter.” She held out a hand. “J. T. Burke.” Lots of scatlike noise and harrumphing from Sam Hamill back at the station, words to the effect that here was another fine mess I’d gotten him and MPD into, one shouldn’t lie down with dogs, and it would be best if I were out of town by sundown.

“No sign of Judd Kurtz, huh?” Tracy Caulding asked. She’d stayed behind for her own counsel once Sam was done with me, then followed me out to the parking lot.

“Doubt there will be. Hope it didn’t go too bad for you in there.”

“About as you’d expect. What the hell was I thinking, tuck in the corners, it better not come back to bite his butt. Then he said, ‘You need any help with this—stitches show up in the works, anyone whosoever tries giving you grief—you call me, you hear?’”

“Don’t guess he added he’d be happy to have me back on the job any time?”

“I don’t believe that came up. Take care, Turner.”

We surrendered J.T.’s rental Buick at a drop-off on Lamar, grabbing coffee to go at a Greek diner next door. The cups were shaped like Shriner’s hats and, inexplicably, had rabbits on them. Not cuddly little bunnies, but huge kangaroo-thighed jackrabbits.

“Obviously they think a lot of you back at the station house,” J. T. said as we pulled into traffic.

“I’m a legend here on the frontier.”

“Must be nice.” She stared silently out the window. “It all starts looking the same after a while, doesn’t it? Same streets, same victims, same impossible stories and apologies.”

We passed a car with the hood up, driver leaning into it. As we came abreast, he hiked his middle over the rim and slid in further. It looked as though the car were swallowing him piecemeal.

“If that’s what you’re looking for, an apology, I don’t have one.”

“Good. I’ve had enough of those, plenty to last me. And I’m not looking for anything—well, I
was
looking for you. But I found you, didn’t I? So now I’m not.”

“And how, exactly, did that come about, the finding me?”

“I talked to some people in town, learned about the cabin, and went out there. There was a woman sitting on the porch.”

“Val.”

“I’d figured just to look around, maybe wait till you showed up. But I introduced myself, told her who I was, and we got to talking. She told me what’s been going on, and that you were up here. I was waiting to turn in at the motel when I saw the Jeep pulling out.”

“So you followed. Keeping well back, from the look of it.”

She shrugged. “Old habit. Check exits before you go in, try to figure what’s going down before you step in it. Like that.”

“Cop thinking.”

“You know how it is. Kind of takes over after a while.”

Later, after one last stop in the city, well out of it and coming abreast of a long line of tarpaper shacks bordered by a service station and a church whose white paint had long ago gone to glory, we’d pick up the conversation. J. T.’s head turned to read the sign that told us we were entering the town of Sweetwater.

“So this is the South.”

“Part of it, anyway. Disappointed?”

“Not really, just trying to get the lay of the land. Disappointment requires expectations. Like people have these scripts running in their heads about how life is supposed to go?”

“And you don’t?”

“Mostly, no.”

“Just take things as they come.”

“I try.” After a moment she added: “Seems to have worked for you.”

We rode on past Sweetwater, through Magnolia and Rice-town, into mile after mile of cotton and soybean fields, plumes of dust on far horizons where pickups and farm machinery stalked the land.

“How’s your mom?”

“Speaking of expectations.” She laughed. “Somewhere in Mexico, last I heard. One of those gringo artist enclaves. That was over a year ago.”

“She’s an artist now?”

“I think she applied for the Grande Dame position. I’m sure they needed one, whether they knew it or not. Actually, she’s mellowed.”

“Some of us do. Others just wear down. . . . And your brother?”

An ancient, battered lime green Volkswagen bus with lace curtains in the windows came up behind. Pointing to the VW’s bumper sticker, J. T. said, “Kind of like that.”

GOD WAS MY CO-PILOT
BUT WE CRASHED IN THE MOUNTAINS
AND I HAD TO EAT HIM

When I looked at her, she said, “You don’t know, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Don died last year. Had a little more fun than he planned one Saturday night, got deeper than he thought, and flew off forever on his magic carpet of crack.” Her eyes came to mine. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be crude. Or cruel.”

“It’s okay.”

Problems had lay coiled up beside Don in the crib from the day of his birth. Even then he wore a tense, fretful frown, as though he knew bad things were coming, as though he knew he had to be constantly on guard—though it probably wouldn’t help much. Everything was a challenge, even the simple routines of daily life, getting up, getting dressed, leaving the apartment, shopping, a succession of near-insurmountable Everests. When things were going well, he managed to kind of plod along. But things didn’t go well very often, or for very long. Choosing between breakfast cereals paralyzed him. On the phone, back when he used to call, he’d talk for hours about all these plans he had, never manage to carry through on the first half-step of any of them.

“I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not as though we couldn’t see it coming. The surprising thing is that he held out as long as he did. Were the two of you close?”

“Not for a long time. I tried. I’d go over to wherever he was crashing and check on him, try to be sure he ate something, got some rest.”

“But you can’t . . .”

“No,” she said. “You can’t. Like you said: we wear down. Or wear out.”

CHAPTER TEN

“ I ’M SORRY,
I don’t remember you. Should I?” His eyes moved aimlessly about the room. Guards had told me he was almost completely blind now. When I spoke, the eyes would come momentarily to me. Then they’d move away again.

Because of the blindness, Lou Winter had been kept out of the general population. But they’d got to him a time or two anyway, as the wing-shaped scar splitting the side of his face attested. Cons totally lacking in conscience, people who’d slit throats over a supposed insult and murder a grandmother for busfare, can get themselves worked into a moral frenzy over child molesters.

I told him who I was.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t remember much these days.” Guards also told me that he’d had a series of small strokes over the years. “Everyone says that may be a good thing. I don’t know what they mean by that. But thank you for coming.”

After a pause he added, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I just stopped by to say hello.”

For a moment then I sensed the effort, the force of will. If he could just get hold of it, could just concentrate hard enough . . . But his eyes moved away, the curtains stayed shut, the play was over.

“I brought you this.”

His hand reached out and found by sound the box I pushed across the table.

“It’s not much. Some of the peppermints and circus peanuts the guards say you like, toiletries, a few other things.”

But he had found the totem, the tiny cat carved out of sandalwood that Al had given me all those years ago, and was not listening. He held it close to his face, smelled it, rubbed it against his cheek where the scar ran down. I told him what it was. That a friend gave it to me.

“And now you’ve given it to me?”

I nodded, then said yes.

“Thank you.” He shifted the totem from hand to hand. “Were we friends, then? Are we, I mean?”

“Not really. But we’ve known one another a long time.”

“I’m sorry . . . so sorry I don’t, can’t, remember.”

He held up the totem. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Small and beautiful. I can tell.”

“Do you need anything, Lou? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Good of you, son. But no.” For that moment I would have sworn he was looking directly at me, that he saw me. Then his eyes went away. He closed his hand over the sandalwood cat. “I’m pretty well set up here.” He nodded. “Yessir. Pretty well set up.”

J. T. asked no questions when I got back to the car. But for some reason as we drove out of Memphis I started telling her about Lou Winter, about my first months on the force, about how hard it had been, going through those prison gates and doors. We sat together quietly then for a while until, looking out at the sign welcoming us to Sweetwater and the tarpaper shacks beyond, she said, “So this is the South.”

Getting in towards town, I pointed out the Church of the Ark, a local landmark. It had once been just another First Baptist Church, but in 1921 during a major flood that wiped out most of the area, the building had miraculously lifted off its moorings and floated free, pastor and family taking aboard other survivors clinging to trees and housetops. It was renamed shortly thereafter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHE’D GROWN UP
wherever her mother lit in her never-ending pursuit of best job, best house, best climate, best schools, best place to live. Took the name of her first stepfather, then resolutely refused to change it when others came along. That was the Burke. Just after she turned twenty-one she started calling herself J. T. Never felt like a Sandra, she said. It didn’t stand for anything, “just your initials.”

She’d graduated high school at seventeen, done two years of prelaw in Iowa City, where Stepfather of the Month, a teacher of religion, had moved to study the Amish, then when that household broke up (and the marriage shortly thereafter—“in a roadside diner on the way to their new home’s the way I always imagine it, him hugging his Bible as Mom steps out to flag a ride with some trucker”), she stayed behind, crashing with friends, hanging out in college bars. Got all that essential youth experience behind me in record time, she said, couple, three months, and was done with it. Never could get the knack of small talk, parties, hobbies, that kind of thing.

She’d driven to Chicago with a friend one weekend and stayed behind when the friend headed back. Worked as a corrections officer, which led to process serving, which led to a stint as a federal marshal. Now she worked up in Seattle, detective first grade. Knew she’d hit it right the first day on the job, went home glowing.

Then she hit the second day.

A sixteen-year-old had come in late one night and quietly murdered his whole family. Drowned his baby sister in the kitchen sink so she wouldn’t have to see the rest, then with a Spiderman pillow smothered the six-year-old brother with whom he shared a room. Got the father’s ancient service revolver from a box in the garage, loaded it with three bullets he’d bought on the schoolyard (just chance that they proved the right caliber) and shot both parents to death in their bed. Before shooting himself, he sat down at their bedside and painstakingly wrote out in block letters, vaguely Gothic, a note, just one word:
ENOUGH
.

But it wasn’t, because the boy survived. Brian was his name. The round had gone through the roof of his mouth, wiping out any higher brain functions but leaving the brain stem untouched. He was still breathing, after all these years. And his heart went on beating. And one could only hope that his mind truly was gone, that he wasn’t trapped in place somewhere in there going through all this again and again.