Bullet Point (13 page)

WYATT DROVE OUT OF MILLERVILLE,
soon came to a junction. A right turn led back to Silver City, a slight left to East Canton. He slowed down, and as he did, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Wyatt? It’s me, Lou Rentner. Can you stop by?”

“I’m sort of on my way back,” Wyatt said. Had Doc, in a fury, gone barging into the
Beacon
office? Or had Greer shown up? Wyatt steered onto the shoulder and stopped the car. “What’s it about?”

“Have you ever seen a picture of Sonny Racine?” Mr. Rentner said.

Wyatt sensed what was coming. “No.”

“I’m talking about the young Sonny Racine, around the time of the trial. This may sound strange, but there’s an eerie similarity. Has anyone ever mentioned it?”

“No.”

There was a long pause at the other end. Then Mr. Rentner said, “I’m wondering why you didn’t ask what was similar to what.”

Wyatt gazed at the road sign.
SILVER CITY
—412
MILES; EAST CANTON
—207
MILES
.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Wyatt?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

“Maybe I can help.” Another long pause. “Fact is, I checked with Foothills Community College. They report no one registered under the name Wyatt Lathem. I’m concerned you’re getting into something a little over your—”

Wyatt clicked off. He headed for home.

It was almost fully dark by the time Wyatt drove up through the familiar streets of Lowertown and parked in front of the house he’d lived in all his life. Linda’s car was in the driveway, lights glowed in the kitchen window, a bulb was out on one of the two porch lanterns. In short, everything looked the same, except that Wyatt got this strange feeling that the whole house had no secure hold on the ground, just sat there unfastened, and could blow away if the wind rose high enough. He went to the door, took out his keys, and then paused, wondering whether entering in the normal way, just letting himself in, might frighten them. A crazy thought. He let himself in.

Wyatt heard Cammy’s voice. “Mom? I think I hear the door.”

Linda came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked down the hall, saw Wyatt, and smiled. “And just when I was losing hope,” she said.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Wyatt?” Cammy called from her bedroom.

Linda came down the hall, threw her arms around Wyatt.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.

Cammy came running, crayons in both hands. She dropped them, clutched Wyatt by the leg. “Me, too,” she said. “I’m glad, too. How come you’ve been gone so long?”

Wyatt patted Cammy’s head. Her hair felt like some strange luxury from a faraway place.

Linda had been making tuna casserole. Wyatt didn’t like tuna casserole, but tonight it tasted delicious. He found he was very hungry, had seconds and then thirds.

“Are you going to have fourths?” Cammy said.

Wyatt laughed, at the same time realizing he hadn’t laughed much recently. Cammy climbed up on his lap and showed him some drawings.

“That’s a dog I want, here’s another dog, and another one, and another one.”

“Don’t you draw anything besides dogs?”

“Here’s a puppy.”

Cammy wanted him to put her to bed.

“First a story,” she said.

He lay down beside her. “What story do you want?”

“Go, Dog, Go.”

“Isn’t that a bit young for you now?”

“So what?”

He read
Go, Dog, Go
three times.

“Let’s do fourths,” Cammy said.

“Cammy?” Linda called. “That’s it. Night night.”

“Give me a kiss, Wyatt.”

He gave her a kiss. She gave him one back.

“Walk me to the bus tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

“Tell me sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams,” Wyatt said.

“Leave the door open a crack.”

He left the door open a crack.

“Two cracks.”

He opened it a little more.

“Night, Wyatt.”

“Night.”

Wyatt went into the kitchen. “Tea?” his mom said. “Soda?”

“I’m good.”

Linda poured herself a cup of tea. They sat at the table, now cleared, the dishes all done. He saw how tired his mom looked, her face kind of sagging, dark patches under her eyes.

“How’s work, Mom?”

“Not too bad.”

“Where’s Rusty?”

“Cheyenne tonight, I think it was. He’ll be home next week.”

“And it’s, uh, working out?”

“No complaints.” Linda sipped her tea, gazed at him over the rim of the cup. “What about you?” she said.

“I’m okay.”

“That’s good to hear,” Linda said. “Is your stuff in the car?”

“No.”

She put down her cup. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“Are you home or not?”

“I’m home right now. But there are things I’ve got to take care of.”

“Like what?” Linda said. Wyatt looked at her. Could he imagine this decent and kind person at some earlier stage in life firing a gun at 32 Cain Street? No. But Mr. Wertz the lawyer suspected that Sonny Racine had been covering for someone, and Mr. Rentner had heard rumors of a girlfriend. His mom had been the girlfriend, pregnant with him, waiting on a marriage that never happened.

“What’s wrong, Wyatt? Is it that girl Hildy was telling me about? Greer something-or-other?”

Wyatt gazed down at the table.

“Listen to me,” his mom said. “There’s a big, big difference between sixteen and nineteen. A girl of nineteen—any girl, she could be perfectly nice—is coming from a place you know nothing about, Wyatt, way past your ability to handle. I’m not talking about just you, but any sixteen-year-old—”

He looked up. “All right, Mom. I get it.”

Linda sat back a bit. “You’re in some kind of trouble.”

“I’m not.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“No.” But even as he spoke, Wyatt realized he really had
no idea of the answer to that question, also had no idea what Greer would want to do about it if she was. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

Linda shook her head. “It’s so weird that anyone could change this fast.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. I used to trust you completely, believe every word you said. What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” He got up, opened the fridge. Cammy’s lunch box—blue with a pattern of red dogs—was on the top shelf, tomorrow’s sandwich already made. Wyatt took out a soda, drank it down, suddenly very thirsty. He turned to Linda.

“Where were you the night of the crime?” he said.

Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “What crime?”

He gazed at his mom. Sonny Racine’s girlfriend, yes, but there was just no way. He started to think,
If I can’t trust her, who can I trust?
but then the fact of Rusty intervened, complicated things. Could he trust her when it came to Rusty? Maybe there wasn’t one single person who could ever be trusted completely in anyone’s life. But no matter what, he couldn’t play investigative reporter or detective or anything like that with his mom.

“I’ve seen him,” Wyatt said. “Sonny Racine.”

Tea slopped over the rim of Linda’s cup. “What are you talking about?”

“In the visiting room at Sweetwater State Penitentiary.”

She put the cup down; it rattled in the saucer. “Why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s my father.”

“Haven’t we been through this? He’s not a father to you. Rusty’s the one who—”

“I don’t want to hear about Rusty.”

“Don’t raise your voice. Cammy’s sleeping.”

They were both silent for a few moments. Coyotes shrieked, not too far away.

Linda’s eyes narrowed. “This…this visit of yours,” she said. “How did that come about?”

“It’s complicated. He found out I was in the area and called me.”

“How would he find out something like that? How would he get your number?”

“I told you it was complicated. But that’s what happened.”

“How? I don’t understand. Take me through it.”

“Why, Mom? That’s not what matters.”

“This girl’s involved, isn’t she?”

“So?”

“So? Just the fact you can say that means you don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want you going back there, on no account.”

“Don’t you want to know how he is or anything?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not interested.”

“But you were interested in him back then.”

“That was before I knew what he was really like, obviously.”

“What was he really like?”

“How can you even ask that question? An innocent woman got killed and her baby got mutilated. What more do you need to know?”

What more did he need to know? That was the question, right there. “Suppose he was innocent?” Wyatt said.

Linda dismissed the idea with a backhand wave. “Of course he told you that. They never admit guilt.”

“That’s what he said—that inmates never admit guilt.”

“A kind of admission, then? Is that what you’re saying? I don’t get it.”

“No. It’s really the opposite, you know, like practically telling me to doubt. I guess that’s why I’m starting to believe.”

“Believe what?”

“That he was innocent. Maybe he wasn’t even there.”

“Not even there? Did he say that?”

“No.”

“He admitted he was there—that was never in question,” Linda said. “And even if he didn’t do the actual shooting, he’s every bit as guilty.”

“Come on, Mom. That’s just what the law says.”

“And I say it, too. Think of that poor mother. Think of the baby.”

Wyatt met his mom’s gaze but couldn’t hold it. If she’d been at 32 Cain Street, if Sonny had covered for her, then she was a gifted liar and he didn’t know her at all. “How did you find out about that night?” he said.

Linda closed her eyes. “I’ll never forget,” she said. “I was asleep. This was in the apartment I had then over on Bates Street—Sonny stayed there when he got weekends off from
the construction. Knocking woke me up. I answered the door and there was a cop with a search warrant. Donnie Reeves. He’d been three years ahead of me in school.”

That was that. The whole protecting-the-girlfriend theory was out.

Her eyes were open now, and watching him closely. “By the way,” she said, “you asked me that same question two different ways. Any explanation?”

Wyatt almost laughed. He had a smart mom. And—he almost went further, almost found himself thinking he had a smart dad, too. The urge to laugh disappeared fast. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“I got together with a guy I didn’t really know,” Linda said. “That’s all there is to understand.”

“Why don’t you want to hear how he’s doing?” Wyatt said.

“I just don’t.”

“He had nice things to say about you.”

“I don’t care. That’s all in the past and it’s no good to live in the past, not for me, not for you.”

That had the sound of good, sensible advice, but not the feeling. All at once Wyatt remembered a line from
Hamlet
—so weird, because he wasn’t good at remembering stuff like that, even when he tried to memorize it, and in this case he hadn’t. Actually he didn’t remember the line exactly. “Do not for ever” something something “seek for thy noble father in the dust.” Spoken by Hamlet’s mother, the queen, to Hamlet.
Whoa.
He felt a lurch inside, as though the ground had abruptly lowered itself. “I saw that baby,” he said, the words just popping out.

“What baby?”

“The baby who got shot.”

Linda covered her mouth with one hand. “My God,” she said.

“Her name’s Toni.” Wyatt told his mother about Toni—how she’d been adopted by the Pingrees, was going to Northwestern, seemed happy. Linda’s face, worried and irritated when he started, had softened by the end, and her eyes were damp.

“Thank you, Wyatt,” she said. “That’s good to know.” She reached across the table, took his hand. “But that’s enough now. Promise me.”

“Promise you what?” said Wyatt, who was wondering whether to bring Doc into the story.

“That this is over,” Linda said. “That you’re back home.”

Wyatt rose, went around the table, put his arms around her, and kissed her cheek. “It’s good to be home, Mom.” That was true, but it promised nothing, not in his mind. She gazed up at him with worried eyes.

Wyatt slept in his own bed that night, had no dreams, sweet or otherwise. He fell deep, deep down into a state of perfect rest, sleeping, yes, like a baby.

“HEY, WYATT—IT’S A NICE DAY.”

“Shh—he’s sleeping.”

“But I want him to take me to the bus.”

“You’ve been going to the bus on your own.”

“But now Wyatt’s home. I want him to take me to the bus.”

Wyatt opened his eyes. For a moment he felt great; lighthearted, energized, rested. Then memory awoke. His mother was wrong about the past: it returned every morning.

“It’s okay,” he called. “I’ll take her.”

His door burst open. Cammy ran in and jumped on the bed, then kept jumping, higher and higher.

“No jumping on the bed,” Linda said, watching from the doorway. She was dressed for work but hadn’t finished with her makeup, one eye still undone. Something about that sight touched him. He was lucky to have a mom like her.

Cammy landed on her knees beside him. “Mommy says are you going to school today.”

Wyatt looked past Cammy to his mom. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” said Linda.

Linda left for work soon after. She was going in a little early these days—the boss had laid off one of the girls, as they were called, saving one salary and making the others nervous at the same time. A two-fer, she told Wyatt on her way out.

Wyatt and Cammy had cereal for breakfast.

“Do you ever just eat sugar right out of the bowl?” she said.

“No.”

“I do.”

He walked her to the bus stop.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asked her.

“Don’t need it. The sun’s out.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s warm.”

“I’m warm.”

The bus rolled up. The door opened, and Mr. Wagstaff looked out. “Hey, Wyatt—ain’t seen you in a while. Been sick or something?”

“No.”

“Lost some weight, buddy.”

Cammy climbed onto the bus. Before the door closed, Wyatt heard her starting to tell Mr. Wagstaff about the three helpings of tuna casserole.

Wyatt walked back home. A bank foreclosure sign hung in front of the house across the street, and someone had spray-painted
JOHN
3:16 on the front door. The wind rose,
and Wyatt thought it carried the distant sound of a baseball smacking into a glove, and was listening for it again when his phone rang.
UNKNOWN CALLER
.

“Hello?” Wyatt said.

“Hi, Wyatt. It’s Sonny.”

“Hi.”

“Just thought I’d give you a call. How’s everything?”

“Not bad.”

“Been up to anything interesting?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither,” Sonny said. He laughed. “Rude to laugh at my own joke, I know, but humor gets you through sometimes. There are some funny guys in here, believe it or not. One even did the Laugh Factory before his bail got revoked.” There was a silence. “Ever been to a comedy club?”

“No.”

“I took your mother to one in Fort Collins. We laughed so hard our stomach muscles hurt.”

“She never mentioned that.”

“No?”

There was a silence. Wyatt heard a man speaking Spanish in the background. His hand tightened on the cell phone. “Where was she the night of the—that night in Millerville.”

Pause. “That’s a strange question. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.” He waited for an answer.

“Just a strange question out of nowhere,” Sonny said. Another pause. Boys from East Canton, especially boys like Wyatt, learned the value of keeping their mouths shut at an
early age. “Where are you right now?” Sonny said.

“Out walking,” Wyatt said, avoiding a precise geographical answer.

“A nice day for it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s raining here,” Sonny said. “In Silver City, I mean. Fair weather in Millerville and East Canton—at least according to the weather report.”

Wyatt felt himself turning red, kind of crazy all by himself, the other person hundreds of miles away.

“But what’s more boring than talking about the weather?” Sonny said. “The answer to your question is that Linda was at the apartment we had at the time—Bates Street in East Canton. They woke her up in the middle of the night with a search warrant. I always felt bad about that.” Another pause. “Any other questions?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? Take a rain check if you like—I’m not going anywhere.” Another joke? If so, Sonny wasn’t laughing this time. “I enjoyed your visit—hope it wasn’t too unpleasant for you.”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“You’re welcome to come back whenever you like—goes without saying.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Nice talking to you—enjoy your walk.”

“Okay.”

“Take care. Oh—almost forgot—had a quick word with Bert today. He’s got some concerns about his daughter.”

“What concerns?”

“Not the kind I’d like to discuss on the phone.”

“But is she all right?”

Wyatt heard voices in the background. “Sorry, Wyatt. My time’s up.”

Click.

He called Greer, once more got sent straight to voice mail. “Greer? It’s me. Are you all right? Where are you? Call.”

Wyatt went back inside the house, his mind racing. He was halfway finished making his bed before he realized what he was doing. Making his bed? He straightened, gazing at nothing. He never made his bed. His eyes focused on his baseball trophies glowing dully on a shelf. Maybe because of a trick of the light, the trophies looked old, like antique trophies from some long-ago era of baseball.

Wyatt finished making his bed, closed the door to his room, and went into the kitchen. He found pen and paper and wrote a note.

He paused, scratched that out.

He left the house, making sure the door was locked behind him, got in the car, and drove down out of Lowertown. The gas gauge needle was quivering halfway between one quarter and empty. He checked his wallet—found he had $37 left—stopped where he always did for gas, Low Low Gas. It was boarded up. He hit the Exxon station two blocks down and filled up. Mr. Mannion drove by in his Caddy. He didn’t look Wyatt’s way, but in those few moments, Wyatt took his eye off the pump. By the time he checked, it read $41.10. He let go of the handle, too late.

Wyatt went inside to pay. A quick plan sketched itself in his mind, something unimaginative about returning later with the $4.10 but the attendant looked unfriendly, even a bit aggressive, possibly one of those old guys who hated kids. Opening his wallet, Wyatt saw Sonny’s $200 stuck in one of the slots for credit cards, still waiting to be returned. He took a twenty from that slot and added it to his own money. The attendant licked his fingertip before making change.

Wyatt drove to Silver City, losing the sunshine at about the halfway point, heading into rain not long after. By the time he got to Greer’s apartment building, the wipers could hardly keep up. Wyatt pulled his jacket up over his head and ran to the door.

He pressed the buzzer for her apartment, waited for a response, dry under the overhang. Water poured off the strange stone creature over the door, seemed to be coming
from its open mouth. A taxi rolled up the street, stopped behind the Mustang.

A man with a suitcase and an overnight bag got out, fumbled with an umbrella, and came hurrying up the path to the door. Wyatt stepped aside. The man groped in his pocket, produced a set of keys, stuck one in the lock, and paused. He turned to Wyatt. “Help you with something?” he said.

A man of about Wyatt’s height, maybe ten or twelve years older—Wyatt had trouble guessing the ages of older people who weren’t yet old—wearing small oval eyeglasses with expensive-looking frames.

“No,” Wyatt said.

“Visiting one of the tenants?” the man said.

Wyatt shrugged. It was none of this guy’s business. The guy shifted the garment bag on his shoulder impatiently. A soft leather garment bag, also expensive-looking, and on the side a sticker:
CHECK ROOM, HOTEL DYNASTY, HONG KONG
.

“The reason I ask,” the man said, “is that I happen to own this building and I’ve spent a lot of time and money making it safe for my tenants.”

“Your name’s Van?” Maybe not the smartest move—maybe no move at all would have been smarter—but the question just came out on its own.

The man put down his suitcase. “That’s what some people call me. Who are you?”

Wyatt felt his chin tilting up. “A friend of Greer Torrance’s,” he said.

Van’s face flushed slightly. “What kind of friend?”

“That’s for her to say.”

“Is it?” Van said. He looked down his nose at Wyatt and said, “Fine.” Then he ran his finger down the row of buzzers and jabbed it at Greer’s. No answer. Van turned to him. “Your friend Greer, whatever kind of friend she happens to be, doesn’t seem to be in at the moment, so I can’t see you’ve got any reason to be hanging around my door.” He turned the key and let himself in, shoving the suitcase along with his foot, then banging the door closed with his elbow. Wyatt jabbed his own finger at Greer’s buzzer and kept it there. He thought he heard it sounding up above.

Wyatt backed away from the door, right under the water pouring from the mouth of the stone creature, soaking his head. He ran to the Mustang, water dripping down the back of his neck, and jumped inside. Looking up, he saw Van watching him from Greer’s front window. He overcame any stupid impulses, like giving him the finger, but he didn’t drive off until Van backed away from the window. Owned the goddamn building: a few gaps in his understanding of Greer began filling themselves in.

Wyatt headed for the bowling alley. Any chance she’d be there? Probably not, but where else could he look? He was almost there when his phone rang.

UNKNOWN CALLER
. Wyatt answered on the first ring.

“Wyatt? Sonny here. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No.”

“Good,” Sonny said. “I’d hate to be intrusive. The thing is I’m available at visiting time today.” Wyatt was trying to think how to respond when Sonny continued, “And I understand
you’re back in town.”

The back of Wyatt’s neck, already wet, now felt cold as well. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“But I’m asking you how.” Was he being followed somehow? Wyatt looked around, saw normal-looking traffic moving in normal-looking ways.

“It’s nothing nefarious,” Sonny said. “Why don’t I explain in person?”