There are two cops in uniform standing in front of the cruiser, one black, one white, and they’re talking to David John. The black cop turns and looks at Jessup, waves him in, so Jessup pulls past and parks with the nose of the truck almost touching the side of the trailer. He gets out, suddenly aware of how grungy he is. His coveralls are splattered with mud and blood. His jacket smells of the deer’s death.
Both cops are turned to look at him, but Jessup is looking at David John, sees the quick, small shake of his head.
“Didn’t I stop you last night?” the white cop says.
It’s the same guy. Hawkins. “Yes, sir.”
“Last person I stopped before my shift ended last night, first person this morning. Twice in twelve hours is a little much.”
“A little more than twelve hours,” Jessup says.
Hawkins isn’t smiling. “Don’t be a smart-ass. You’re in some trouble here. And I thought you were going to get that taillight fixed first thing this morning.”
“Yes, sir.” He motions over. “Got a new lens and bulb right in the truck. Going to fix it right now.”
The black cop has his hand resting on the butt of his gun. “You were out hunting?” Jessup nods. “Rifle in the truck?” Jessup nods again.
“Yes, sir. In a case. Unloaded. Trigger lock on it. It’s behind the seats.”
“You carrying anything else?”
Jessup feels like he’s underwater. Everything is moving slowly. Hawkins is separated from his partner by ten, fifteen feet. The black cop is older, clearly the one calling the shots. He’s only got the heel of his hand on the butt of the gun, but it’s making Jessup nervous.
“What’s this about?” he says.
“Answer the question,” the cop says. “You carrying anything else?”
“Got a hunting knife in my jacket pocket. Multitool in my coveralls has a blade on it, too.”
“Why don’t you take those out and put them in the front seat of the truck, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
Jessup complies. He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t want to act nervous, plus it gives him a few seconds to think, run it through his head.
There’s nothing. They’ve got nothing. He had gloves on when he picked up Corson, no fingerprints. And it would have looked like an accident. Wouldn’t it have? That was the whole point of what he did. Everybody knew Corson was drunk. And Jessup left a good forty-five minutes after Corson and the rest of the Kilton Valley kids did, nobody out on the driveway to see Corson come back. No reason to believe that Jessup had anything to do with it. Just an accident, dumb luck for a dumb kid dumb enough to drive when he’d been drinking. Corson still jacked up and angry, coming back to the party to finish what he started with Jessup, and then just making a mistake and heading down the slope into the trees. Wear your seat belt, boys and girls. No, Jessup thinks. All they’ve got is people talking about Corson coming at him at the party, but even that leaves him clean. They didn’t fight, nobody taking a swing. The only time anybody saw Jessup hit Corson was on the football field. Clean hit. Bang-bang play. Cops are only here because kids talk, because Ricky killed those two black boys in the alley, because David John is home, because word gets around about the Blessed Church of the White America and there’s another black kid dead and Jessup’s name comes up.
Doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen with the truck, Jessup thinks. They can’t know about that. He forces himself not to look back at the new dent at the rear of the truck.
Jessup closes the door, sees the black cop relax, his hand drifting off the gun.
Hawkins seems relaxed now, too, and Jessup knows they have nothing. Just talk.
“Where’d you go after I stopped you?” Hawkins says.
Jessup starts to answer, but the black cop cuts him off, his voice loud, jacked up.
“That blood on the truck?” he says, and his hand is now firmly on the pistol. Jessup can’t stop himself from stepping back, lifts his hands, palms out. Same gesture of supplication he offered to Corson at the party. He’s pressed back against the truck.
“Like I said, I was hunting,” Jessup says. “Got a big buck.” Sees the black cop squint at the word “buck.” The cop knows exactly who David John is, exactly what church the family is going to tomorrow morning. But nothing Jessup can do about that except keep talking. “Just dropped it off at a processor’s, but even field-dressed, probably two hundred pounds. Heck of a lot of work to get into the truck. Had blood all over my gloves. Some of it got on the truck, I guess. Hard not to get blood everywhere.” He gestures at his coveralls, his jacket, careful not to move suddenly. “I need a shower, man. Guess I could stand to hose down the truck, too.”