The cop asks the question, but Jessup is thinking about walking with Deanne last Sunday. They were up in the university’s bird sanctuary, holding hands. Still warm. Leaves on the trees. The path didn’t have any discernible reason for twisting this way or that. They stopped deep in the woods and Deanne sat on a downed tree that formed a natural bench. Jessup was standing between her legs, kissing her, his hand under her shirt, when he felt something watching them. He opened his eyes and saw a big buck barely fifteen feet from him, the kind of rack you mount and display as a trophy. He wished he had his rifle. He whispered to Deanne, and the two of them just stared at the deer until, after thirty, forty seconds, the buck turned and walked away. He thinks of the way the buck sized them up, trying to figure out if they were a threat or not. He can’t decide how he feels about this cop, so he closes the glove box and sits up straight. He keeps his torso forward, puts his hands back on the wheel, turns his head to look at Hawkins, keeps his voice flat.
“No, sir. No tattoos.” Thinks of David John’s tattoos. On his back, “Blessed Church of the White America” circling a flaming cross—the exact same as what Ricky got, a big deal when he was old enough to get one to match David John’s, Jessup for years thinking he’d get one, too, when David John said he was old enough, though with both him and Ricky, David John expressed some doubts—an iron eagle complete with swastika high up on his stepfather’s right shoulder, double SS lightning bolts on his left pec with “fgrn”—For God, Race, and Nation—inked below, over his heart. Wonders if David John got any new tattoos in prison. Ricky wrote that he’d had a spiderweb tattooed around his elbow by one of the guys in his crew. “Not yet.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
There’s a flicker, something approaching a memory, but Jessup can’t place it.
“That’s a good thing, then. Not the worst thing to blend in. Piece of advice for you, Jessup. Skip the tattoos. Makes it too easy to flush you out. You get yourself a big old one hundred percent on your shoulder and then try to join the army? Put a swastika on your forearm and then try to become a cop? They look for that stuff. Pride is important, but it’s not always a bad thing to work in the background, keep your head down until you’re needed.” Hawkins has one hand resting on the windowsill, has the thumb of his other hand tucked into his belt, above his gun. “Tell you what. I’ll write you up a warning. No ticket, no fine. You get that taillight fixed first thing in the morning. And tell David John that Paul Hawkins says welcome home and that I expect I’ll see him at church on Sunday.”