Bullet Point (17 page)

WYATT GOT INTO THE MUSTANG,
turned, and drove out of the trailer park. In the rearview mirror he saw Sonny stomp on Doc’s searchlight, bringing back the darkness with a quiet smash, and then two shadowy forms were moving toward the trailer.

Wyatt pulled over, not far from the entrance, and parked by the side of the road. He tried to make sense of what he’d just seen, tried to make it fit with everything he’d already learned about that night at 32 Cain Street; and was still trying when headlights appeared down the street. A car came nearer, a small sedan. As it passed under a streetlamp—the only one on the block that was working—Wyatt caught a glimpse of the driver, a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair: Charlene. Charlene of Good Time Charlene’s bar, married to Bob Waters with whom she lived in that well-kept bungalow, at the same time having a secret affair with Doc Vitti. She drove by, gaze straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel, and turned into the trailer park. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and followed on foot.

The rain began to let up. Wyatt ran down the lane that led to the silver trailer, saw Charlene getting out of the sedan, fumbling with an umbrella. She walked to the trailer, adjusting a small purse she carried on her shoulder, and knocked on the door. Wyatt moved closer, staying in the shadows.

The door opened and Sonny looked out; he had the bat in his hand, now reddened at the end.

“Oh my God,” Charlene said.

“Surprise,” said Sonny.

Charlene backed away. Sonny grabbed her wrist. She dropped the umbrella, tried to get to her purse. Sonny yanked her close with one hand—his other still held the bat—and kissed her mouth. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get away. Finally he let go. Charlene wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You used to kiss better than that,” Sonny said. “Maybe you don’t love me anymore.”

“What have you done to him?” Charlene said.

“See,” Sonny said, “that’s where we reached the tipping point. Covering for you—no problem, I was cooked anyway. Heard you got married to some little fellow. Well, life goes on. But spreading your legs for Doc, who was always sniffing after you and you wouldn’t give him the time of day? When I heard that”—he shook his head—“it had a big effect on me, let’s put it that way. Do I have to explain why? Doc fucked me over big-time, and now again he’s fucking me right through you, if you see what I mean.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Charlene said.

Sonny gave her a good one with the back of his hand.
Charlene’s head snapped back but she didn’t fall. Instead she said, “Fuck you,” opened her purse, and took out a gun.

“Same goddamn twenty-two?” Sonny said, showing no fear at all. “But you’re a lousy shot, Charlene—proved that a long time ago, outside the window at thirty-two Cain.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Charlene said, stepping back.

Sonny came out of the trailer, moved toward her.

“Not another step,” Charlene said.

Sonny took another step. The gun went off, the orange flash bright, the sound enormous. Sonny rocked back, a red stain appearing on his left shoulder at once. The expression on his face turned from fearless to murderous with nothing in between. Charlene tried to take another step back, stumbled a bit, and before she could squeeze the trigger again, Sonny swung the bat—with just his right hand, but so fast Wyatt could hear the whoosh of air—and struck her on the side of the head. The sound was sickening, and so was the sight. Charlene toppled over and lay still. Sonny dropped the bat, picked up the gun, and went back into the trailer. Wyatt turned and puked, just like Doc.

Sonny came out of the trailer almost at once, keys in one hand, a towel pressed to his shoulder. Wyatt stood motionless in the shadows. Sonny climbed into Doc’s pickup and drove out of the trailer park.

Wyatt didn’t take another glance at Charlene or what was left of her head, didn’t even think of going into the trailer. He just panicked, running to his car as fast as he could, jumping in, turning the key. But at that moment, before he’d had a single coherent thought, a cell phone rang. Not his, but
Greer’s: he recognized that Dobro ringtone. Greer’s? How was that possible? It rang again and stopped, just before he found it in the glove box.

Wyatt held Greer’s phone in his hand. Van had come to the foreclosed house, taken her away while Wyatt was getting ice and sandwiches. He could see her not waiting for his return just so she could retrieve her phone—not worth the potential scene—but why not leave a note about sending it along, or a message with Sonny? And then came another thought, a thought that chilled his whole body: If Greer’s phone had been in the car the whole time, how had Van called her at all?

Wyatt checked the screen on Greer’s phone: two new messages. He went into her voice mail: 7777#.

Message one: “Hi, honey, this is Dad.” Bert Torrance was speaking fast and sounded scared. “Sonny Racine’s escaped. Hector beat him up—but it’s a complete scam: Sonny actually paid him, just so he could get past the walls. Don’t go anywhere near him—and warn Wyatt, too.”

Message two, the one that had just come in: “Greer? Van here. I’m terminating your lease at the end of the week. Better get back here and clean out your things if you don’t want to lose them.”

Wyatt started shaking, so bad he could hardly hold on to the phone. He took a deep breath, and another, then jammed the car into gear, spun it around in a shrieking one-eighty, and tore off in the direction Doc’s pickup had gone.

A half mile or so later, he came to a highway, a right turn leading east, toward East Canton, a left heading west, out
of state. He saw nothing to the east; a single set of far-off taillights was just visible in the west. Wyatt swung left and put the pedal to the floor. Somewhere behind him a siren started up.

The rain had stopped now and so had the wind. The road was almost dry, a straight highway, no traffic: Wyatt hit 105 and kept it there, reeling in those red taillights. Soon he was just a few hundred yards behind; black Dodge Ram pickup, no doubt about it. He flashed his high beams. The pickup didn’t slow down; sped up, if anything. Wyatt flashed his lights again, then crossed the yellow line and roared up alongside the pickup. He looked over, saw Sonny looking over at him. Wyatt held up his hand in the stop sign.

Sonny didn’t stop. Instead he swerved slightly, just enough to bump the side of the Mustang. Wyatt felt the Mustang’s rear end sliding out from under him, threatening to fishtail. He backed off the gas, went with the slide, let it take him farther to the left, almost to the edge of the shoulder—the night flashing by—before traction returned, the Mustang again grabbing hold of the road. And when it did, he steered back across the road and clipped the pickup behind the left rear wheel, just hard enough.

Sonny lost control immediately. The pickup shot sideways off the highway, spun round and round, flipped, and skidded to a stop in a bare field, lying on its roof, one headlight shining up at a forty-five-degree angle. Wyatt came to a stop a few hundred feet down the road, turned, and drove back. He parked on the shoulder, got out of the Mustang, pocketing the keys, and walked into the field. The howl of
many sirens was in the air, and the clouds glowed with a pulsing blue reflection.

Sonny crawled out of the pickup’s cab and rose, one hand pressed to his shoulder.

“What have you done to Greer?” Wyatt said.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t come any closer.”

“I’ll come as close as I like,” Sonny said. He reached into his pocket and took out the .22, held it by his side. “She shouldn’t have slapped me is all. It was just a proposal—a simple ‘no’ would have done.”

Wyatt didn’t stop to think, just charged. The gun came up, but Wyatt crashed into Sonny before he could fire. They wrestled in the muddy field, first, for a brief moment, Wyatt on top, then Sonny. His strength was tremendous, even with one arm practically useless. It was over very fast, no contest at all. Sonny straddled Wyatt’s chest and raked the barrel of the gun across Wyatt’s face. The sirens grew louder.

“Stupid fucking kid,” Sonny said. He raised the gun to do it again. “I’m taking your car.”

Wyatt gazed into Sonny’s eyes and felt nothing, no kinship at all. Fear, which had been threatening to take over completely, now shrank inside him; still there, but not in power. “Then you’ll need the keys,” Wyatt said. “They’re in my pocket.”

Sonny smiled that messed-up smile. “That’s better,” he said, getting off Wyatt.

Wyatt rose, reached into his pocket. Then, in one quick motion, he took out the keys and threw them across the field with all his strength.

“God damn you.” The murderous look was back on Sonny’s face. He raised the gun. But at that moment, a cruiser skidded to a stop behind the Mustang and two cops with rifles jumped out. A searchlight shone down, capturing Wyatt and Sonny in its blinding beam: frozen in place, Sonny pointing the .22 at Wyatt’s head.

“Drop it,” one of the cops shouted.

Sonny didn’t drop it. Instead he grabbed Wyatt, spun him around, and darted behind him, the .22 still pointed at Wyatt’s head, his arm around Wyatt’s chest.

But: the wounded arm, the one with no strength in it. “Shoot!” Wyatt called out, and he bolted free.

Actually not free—a slight separation was all he managed: somehow Sonny held on. But the cops fired anyway, one bullet making an insect sound close to Wyatt’s ear, the other making a red hole in Sonny’s forehead. His eyes went dead as he fell.

More cruisers arrived. An amplified voice spoke from one of them, but the sound seemed to come from way above. “Hands up high.”

Wyatt raised his hands.

Doc’s body was found in the tiny bathroom at the back of the silver trailer. And then came something too awful to think about, although for a long time after, Wyatt could think of nothing else: Greer’s body was in Bert Torrance’s secret bedroom closet hidey-hole in the foreclosed house in Silver City. Wyatt came away with only one sure thing, a sure thing that didn’t help, actually hollowed him out all the
more: He’d been right to love her.

Wyatt faced a number of felony charges, including aiding and abetting the escape of an inmate from a state prison and harboring a fugitive, but after a month’s deliberation and consultation with a prominent attorney hired by the Mannions, the DA decided not to bring the case. They made a deal that Wyatt would join the Army as soon as he turned seventeen. He probably would have done that anyway: he had no other ideas; and inside he felt he deserved much worse.

One funny thing—this was in the period before Wyatt went away to boot camp—he now got a lot more respect from Rusty. Rusty took him fishing on the river whenever he was home. Wyatt had never been particularly interested in fishing, but Rusty really knew what he was doing and Wyatt began to enjoy it. Sometimes they all went, Linda and Cammy, too. Cammy liked fishing, as long as the fish got thrown back. Linda just liked sitting beside Wyatt, not talking much, but making sure of things, like he wasn’t hungry or thirsty, and was wearing sunblock.

“This family excels at fishing,” Cammy said.

“Excels?” said Wyatt. How would she ever have friends, talking like that?

“It means doing real, real good,” Cammy said.