Darzell was right about one thing. Telling the story took time, and in the warm sunlight of after, I felt disjointed, cold, and overawed. Thoughts of my brother, the things he’d done …
“How about I drive this time?”
Becky took the keys, and I looked back at the pool hall, squinting in the bright light. Darzell was still inside, but his father stood in the open door, giving me a long look and a somber wave before stepping back into the gloom.
“Come on, handsome.”
Becky got me back to the car, and inside. Even behind the wheel, she left me alone; as if she understood the kind of processing I needed to do in order to understand the many pieces and all the complicated ways they fit.
“It’s not fair,” I finally said.
“No, it’s not.”
“I don’t know him at all. I don’t think anyone does.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I ran the movie Darzell had put in my head, a silent reel of bodies in a blood-soaked river, of all the people dead, and all the ones not dead. “Why didn’t Jason tell me? Jesus, Becky. Why didn’t he tell any of us?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“It makes sense, though. The drugs. The way he is.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“That I know the truth? I don’t know. I feel like my head is going to explode.”
“Just breathe, okay? In and out, nice and deep.”
I closed my eyes, and did as she asked. When I opened them again, I had no idea where we were. “Wait. Where are we going?”
“You trust me, right?”
“I do.”
“So trust me.”
She showed cool eyes and a slender smile, so I watched the city pass, thinking of cops, reporters, and prosecutors, thinking, They don’t know him, either, none of them do …
Ten minutes later, I knew where we were. The abandoned hardware store. A tumbledown and familiar house. “We’re going to your place?”
She flashed another slender smile, but drove past her street, turning at the next one, and pulling to the curb at an empty lot with old, small houses on either side. “Come with me.”
She took me into the vacant lot, and we clambered through the foundations of a long-gone house, then out the other side, and down a steep bank, wading through waist-deep kudzu until trees appeared and the vines grew up and over. She pulled me deeper into the forest, and when we reached the creek, she turned along the bank, parting vines until the same pool of deep, clear water appeared.
“You remember our swim?” She slipped off her shoes, entirely serious. “How about a real one this time?”
When her shirt came off, the bra came with it. She blushed only a little, and I thought of all the times I’d seen her at the quarry, browned by the sun and sleek as a seal. She helped me out of my shirt, and kissed me. Her breasts flattened on my chest, and I felt them there, small and warm, a brush of skin before she stepped back and removed the rest of her clothes. The blush was still there, but she turned for the pool, crooked a finger, and tossed off a knowing smile. “Are you coming or not?”
I undressed and followed her into the pool, moving close until there were mere inches between us. “Why now?” I wanted to know.
“Because I was watching your face, and not Darzell’s.” She moved closer until we were touching. “Did you know that you were crying?”
“Only at the end.”
“I thought it was beautiful.”
“Why?”
“Because he made you believe in what you were doing.”
“I already believed.”
“But there’s a difference between duty and love. You wanted to help Jason because he’s your brother—that’s the duty. Darzell made you love him.”
It was true. She was right.
“Kiss me,” she said, and that’s what I did.
Softly.
Adoringly.
“Now, love me,” she said, and I did that, too.
Later, with Becky stretched beside me on a bed of ferns and moss, I thought for the millionth time that the day was barely real: the touch of our bodies, the foundations of childhood we’d burned down together. Even now the lines of her were like forgings on my skin: one leg across my own, her fingers twined into mine.
“Regrets?” she asked. In response, I held her tighter. “Can we do it again, then?”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
It was becoming my favorite question.
Much later, we dressed self-consciously, the awkwardness passing only when Becky caught my eye, and grinned. “The clothes came off a lot easier.”
After that, it was familiar and easy, her hand in mine as we made our way uphill through the old trees hung with ivy and kudzu. At the car, Becky pushed her hands into her pockets, shoulders rising as she measured me in a knowing, still-amused way. “Was that your first time?” I blushed furiously before she took pity. “It was pretty awesome.”
“The second time was better,” I said.
“Really? I thought, the third…”
She grinned again, and I kissed the curving lips, one hand on hot denim and the other on hot metal. Only the breeze was cool, and that’s because it was getting dark.
“So…?”
She broke the kiss as if dusk on the street ended more than the day. Sadly, I felt the same truth: that time may have stopped for a while, but only in the place we’d been. “This has been good,” I said.
“Good, but real.”
“Next-level stuff,” I agreed.
“So…?”
She said it again, but this time it was about Jason rather than us, the shadow of the day. “I’ll go home, I suppose. Talk to my father.”
“Will you tell him what we learned?”
“About Jason?”
“Maybe it will help.”
I nodded, but had my doubts. I was still so angry.
Even if my father believed …
Or if he already knew …
Becky took me home in Dana’s car, and the quiet between us was a comfortable one. We said goodbye at the bottom of my parents’ driveway, and what I saw in her eyes was like a jewel to carry in my pocket, and take out if the night got long. After she left, I stayed outside to watch stars come alive as purple light was drawn off like a veil. The air was heavy with the perfume of my mother’s garden, a blend of climbing rose and camellia, of Princess Blush and heliotrope, hibiscus and Plum Mist, hydrangea and dogwood and daffodil—a glut of plants and vine I was embarrassed to know as well as I did.
Turning, at last, I walked up the long drive and found my car parked near the garage. My father must have brought it from the impound lot. Inside the house, it seemed every light was burning, the rooms so bright I couldn’t find a shadow if I tried. I closed the door gently, wary of hushed-voice sounds that carried from the kitchen. In the years since Robert’s death, caution like that came to me as naturally as breathing. Fights. Tears. Hysteria. I’d walked in on every scene imaginable.
This time, it was quiet but tense, my mother looking wan as my father knelt at her side, speaking with the kind of calm assurance that had become, I’d often thought, the thread that held her together.
“He’s fine, sweetheart. I promise.”
“But we don’t know … we haven’t heard…”
“I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”
“But Chance said…”
“Chance said Gibby was fine, honey. He said not to worry.”
“But that was hours ago…”
Damn. I could have called. I should have. “Uh … hi, guys.”
They turned at the same time, and my mother swept up and across the room, her arms tight on my neck as she squeezed. I tried to disentangle the embrace, but she only squeezed harder, her face hot against my shirt before she pushed back, and let the anger out.
“Where the hell have you been? Do you know how I’ve worried? Do you have any idea?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m okay.”
She pulled me into a second embrace so desperate and maternal I could barely stand it.
“I said I’m okay. Okay?”
Thank God for my father.
“Sweetheart, please. He’s home and safe.” He drew her back, and guided her across the room. “Let me talk to him for a bit. You should rest. How about a hot bath and some tea?”
“Don’t patronize me, William.”
“He’s not going anywhere. Gibson, tell her.”
“I won’t go anywhere.”
I made it sincere, but she pulled away from my father, her eyes wide and dark with worry. “Did you have something to do with that girl? They say you’ve been sleeping with her.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised had she drawn a knife and stabbed me.
“Martinez and Smith,” my father explained. “They’ve been here twice, trying to find you. They made some veiled allegations, asked some unpleasant questions. We’ll talk about it in a bit. And you?” He turned my mother into the circle of his arms. “Don’t let them rattle you. You’re a cop’s wife. You know how this works.”
“I just hate it so much! What they said, what they implied…”
She cut her eyes my way, but my father caught her chin with a finger. “He’s home and safe. I won’t let him leave.” He kissed her forehead, and she relaxed against him. “Now, how about that bath?”
They left me alone with my thoughts, which in essence were, What the hell? When my father returned, he put the kettle on to boil, and offered a pinch-lipped, apologetic smile.
“You’re not angry?” I asked.
“I am, but mostly at Martinez. He’s running early and hot, and knows it, too, the uncaring little shit.” He pulled two beers from the fridge, and handed one to me, a first. “As for your mother’s concerns, it didn’t help that you ditched school, skipped dinner, and told Chance you were coming straight home. She has imagined all kinds of horrible scenarios.”
“What did Martinez say that made her so upset?”
“Oh, nothing much.” My father sat across the table. “Only that you’ve been involved with an older woman of dubious morals, and that he found you, once, half-dressed in her home. That said woman is considered missing, possibly abducted. That you know more about Tyra than you’re letting on, and more about Jason, too, that brothers are brothers, and genes will tell.” My father sat across the table. “Martinez doesn’t like me very much.”
I had no idea what to say. I didn’t even try.
“Let’s talk about Sara.” He gave a keen-eyed look I didn’t much like.
“Burklow told you what happened?”
“That you entered Sara’s home illegally? That you’re the one who found her gone? You should have come to me, son. Are you really that angry with me?”
I stayed quiet again. I didn’t want to answer.
“Listen, Martinez and Smith may be ahead of the curve on this, but they’re not on the wrong road. Any cop would look at you sideways right now. That means you need to talk to me. I need to know everything you know. It’s how I stay ahead of this. Son, look at me. Do you understand the stakes involved?”
“I didn’t hurt anybody.”
“That’s childish thinking. Martinez can ruin your life without convicting you, or even charging you. He can hold you, interrogate you, destroy you in the press.” He turned the beer bottle in his heavy fingers. “Chance said you dropped him off at two o’clock. That was seven hours ago. I want to know where you went afterward, who you were with, and what you were doing.”
My time with Becky made an answer to that question impossible. “Ask a different question.”
“Let’s start with Sara, then. Have you been sexually active?”
“Is that your business?”
“Martinez will ask, so I need to know.”
“No,” I replied coldly. “No sex with Sara.”
“But you’ve been in her condominium.”
“Yes.”
“Her bedroom?”
I looked away.
“Son, I need to know what you touched, when you were there, who saw you there. So let’s try this again. Have you been in Sara’s bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was worried. I went upstairs to check on her.”
“What did you touch? What did you see?”
I told him the same story I’d told his partner.
“What about Tyra Norris?” he asked. “Have you been in her bedroom?”
It went like that for ten minutes. An interrogation. Round and round. Backtracking. Checking for inconsistencies. “When you were with Sara, where would you go?”
“Her place. The car. We didn’t spend that much time together.”
“Were you ever alone with Tyra?”
“No.”
“In her room?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“What about her car?”
“No.”
“Chance mentioned a girl named Becky Collins. Is that who you were with today?”
“What if I was?”
“Does she know you were involved with Sara?”
“No.”
“Could she have guessed?”
I shrugged.
“Why did you go to Sara’s condominium?”
“I wanted information on Tyra. I thought Sara could help.”
“A moment ago, you said you went because you were worried.”
“I guess it was a little bit of both.”
“So this is about Jason?”
I shrugged again. He didn’t like it.
“You said you were done trying to help your brother. This morning in your bedroom, that’s what you said.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Are you done with this foolishness or not? Because you need to be. And you need to look at me, too. Look at me, and tell me that you’re done trying to play detective. I want to hear it. No more bullshit for your brother. Tell me it’s over.”
I clenched my jaw, as stubborn as I’d ever been. “I went to see him at Lanesworth.”
His eyes narrowed before he got control of his anger. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Son, that was an incredibly stupid thing to do. You don’t think Martinez can make hay with your visit? He’s already thinking, Conspiracy. We need to worry about you, your future.”
“What about Jason?” I asked.
“What about your mother?”
He raised his voice, probably from long habit. My mother was the lever that had always worked. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
“From where I sit, you are.”
“I understand that you feel that way. Let me tell you the problem from where I sit.” I stared him down, as cold as the bottom of a cave. “From the time I could speak, what I heard from you was family first. Family first, and then faith and trust and love and everything else. Those were good years and good lessons.”
I stood, and looked down, flush with all the things I wanted to say: that my father lived on the fence, and my mother on the wrong side of everything, that trust was not built into the bones of this house. There were other things to say, too, like Jason’s warning about dangerous people, and what I’d learned about his time in Vietnam, that it explained who he was, and why he was. I wanted to say, too, that Jason knew who’d killed Tyra, that he was protecting me, and that he knew more than the cops, who thought they were so smart. I should have told my father all of those things, but did not.
He should have believed in Jason.
He should have believed from the very start.
In my room, I locked the door. The place was not that big, but I paced it, thinking of Vietnam, Jason, and my father, the thoughts like a dog chasing its tail. Throwing myself on the bed, I pictured Robert’s dive from Devil’s Ledge, the cross of his body nailed to that high, pale sky. He’d been too soft for war.
Jason, though …
His first year in Vietnam had been raw combat from day one: deep-cover recon, search and destroy, cross-border infiltration. In that first year, Jason won a field promotion, two Purple Hearts, and a Silver Star. Darzell’s feelings about it had been pretty plain.
People talked about him even then …
We never heard a thing about it.
Jason must have impressed some important people, though, because when he re-upped for another tour, he was seconded to a Navy SEAL master chief and an ARVN colonel in command of three South Vietnamese rangers, the six of them tasked to run disguised gunboats into the DMZ to rescue downed aviators. In the first six months, they saved eleven Americans, including a marine lieutenant with a bullet in his lung, and two shattered legs. Under heavy fire, Jason dragged him from a crumpled jet, and carried him four miles through dense jungle, getting shot twice for the trouble. That earned him another Purple Heart and, this time, the Navy Cross. None of us knew about that, either, but Darzell had nursed the bitterness for a while.
Should have been the Medal of Honor.
Ask any marine.
No one could doubt my brother’s willingness or courage. He’d won other commendations. Darzell had other stories.
But the rest of it …
What came last …
I rose from the bed, too keyed up to have my head on a pillow. The room was still a box, but I paced it, anyway.
What else could I do?
Seriously.