Bullet Point Read online

  “Let’s just say I called you already and leave it like that,” said Mr. Rentner. He was an old man, tiny next to Doc, but he didn’t back away and showed no fear. Wyatt didn’t back away either, but he felt afraid inside, no question. There was something wrong with Doc-he could feel it in the air. “But,” Mr. Rentner said, “these things always work much better in person.”

  “Things? What fuckin’ things?”

  “An interview for the Beacon. I’m sure our readers would be interested in hearing your side.”

  “My side of what?”

  “Thirty-two Cain,” said Mr. Rentner. He wasn’t speaking fast, the way most people would be at a time like this, had slowed down, if anything. At the mention of the address the muscle in Doc’s face jumped again. “The events of that night,” Mr. Rentner pressed on, “and whether you see them differently looking back-how about we start there?”

  “See them different?” Doc took a step closer to Mr. Rentner, was at about an arm’s-length distance now. “What’s that s’posta mean?”

  “Is there anything you’re now free to add about your testimony?” said Mr. Rentner. “Some information left out at the trial? Was there anything personal between you and Sonny Racine, for example?”

  “Get the hell out of my way,” Doc said.

  “Our readers would also be interested in learning your plans for the future, and how it feels being free after a seventeen-year incarceration.”

  “You don’t hear so good,” Doc said. “I got nothin’ to say.”

  “In that case, just a quick picture will have to do.” Mr. Rentner raised his camera, pressed the button.

  “God damn it,” Doc said, and knocked the camera loose with a backhand swipe. The camera fell to the pavement and Doc tried to kick it, but Wyatt scooped it up before he could. Doc moved toward Wyatt. “Give me that fuckin’ camera.”

  Wyatt held on to the camera, backed away. Doc reached inside his jacket.

  “Technically,” said Mr. Rentner, “you’re free on parole, which can be revoked at any time.”

  Doc glared at him. His hand emerged empty from inside the jacket. “Watch your step, old man,” he said, then turned to Wyatt. “Do I know you, punk?”

  Wyatt didn’t answer.

  “I do now,” Doc said. “Better believe it.” He brushed past Mr. Rentner, climbed into the pickup, slinging the beer inside, and drove off, tires squealing.

  Wyatt handed Mr. Rentner the camera. Mr. Rentner peered at the screen. “Not bad,” he said, and showed Wyatt the photo: a furious Doc launching that backhand swipe, the letters H-A-T-E clearly visible on his knuckles. “Excellent work on your part, Wyatt. One of the best no comments I’ve gotten in some time. In fact, what do you think of ‘No Comment’ as the headline, running the photo right beneath that, and the piece following?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said.

  All at once, Mr. Rentner’s expression changed, no longer so exhilarated. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to ask about the red shoe.”

  They got into the van, returned to the Beacon office. Mr. Rentner’s good humor returned. He smiled and said, “What are your plans for the summer?”

  “Not sure.”

  “But they’ll include work.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I might have something-more or less an internship, but it’ll be paid, if not well. Interested?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and thought: Wow. “Thanks.”

  “Not well at all, but write down your phone number.”

  Wyatt wrote his cell number on a scrap of paper. Mr. Rentner parked beside the Mustang. Greer wasn’t there.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Mr. Rentner. They shook hands. Mr. Rentner hurried into his office. Wyatt got into the Mustang, called Greer, went right to voice mail. He sat outside the Beacon office, wondering what to do. After a while, Mr. Rentner appeared in the window. He made a questioning gesture with his hand. Wyatt waved good-bye, started the car, and drove off.

  He cruised around Millerville, first in the downtown area, where he saw few people out walking, none of them Greer, and then farther and farther into residential areas, where he saw only one walker, a postman on his route. Wyatt pulled over, tried Greer’s cell, again got sent to voice mail. He headed back downtown, and was driving slowly along the main drag when he spotted what he took to be the new bus station, the simplest kind of bus station, just a ticket booth and a space in front for a single bus to park.

  Wyatt got out of the car and walked to the booth. BACK IN 10 MINUTES read a sign in the window. On the schedule taped up next to it Wyatt saw that a bus for Silver City-last one of the day-had left half an hour before. He got back in the car, formed an incomplete plan involving catching up to the bus at some stop down the road, seeing if Greer was on it, seeing what might happen next. At that moment, the black pickup went by, Doc at the wheel. Wyatt didn’t think twice, or even once, really. He followed Doc.

  Doc turned left at the next corner, drove for a few blocks, and stopped outside a bar called Good Time Charlene’s. Wyatt parked a few spaces behind him, a landscaper’s truck in between. Doc didn’t get out of the pickup, just sat there. After a few minutes, a woman came out of Good Time Charlene’s. She walked past the pickup without a glance, went by Wyatt, too. When she’d first appeared, he’d thought she was in her midtwenties, but now he saw she could be twice that: a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair, lots of makeup, tight jeans, and a tight red sweater. She must have had a great body at one time, still did, in fact, maybe just a little overweight. In his rearview mirror, Wyatt watched her get into a small sedan. She drove away. Doc pulled out and followed her. Wyatt followed him.

  A mile or so later, they were in a not-too-bad neighborhood, nicer than Wyatt’s in East Canton. The woman parked in the driveway of a well-kept bungalow that backed onto some woods. Doc kept going, turned a corner, stopped by a small park with a swing set, the swings shifting in the wind. Doc parked. Wyatt kept going. In the rearview mirror, he saw Doc get out of the pickup, glance up and down the street, then hurry into the woods, moving in the direction of the bungalow.

  Wyatt stayed where he was for a minute or two, then made a U-turn and drove back past the bungalow. The woman was at a window, closing a curtain. There was a man in the room behind her, possibly Doc, but Wyatt couldn’t be sure. An electrician’s van was parked a few houses farther on. Wyatt pulled in behind it.

  He turned, looked back. All the houses on the street had mailboxes out front, some plain black, some big and fancy, decorated with painted flags or ducks. The bungalow had the duck kind, and over the ducks two names in red letters: BOB AND CHARLENE WATERS.

  Wyatt sat there. Half an hour later, he thought he heard a door close, possibly the slap-snick of a screen door, but no one appeared. A few minutes after that, Wyatt drove back around the corner to the small park. The black pickup was gone. He returned to the bungalow and stopped right outside.

  What now? He could chase after the bus, assuming Greer was on it, or-

  The bungalow door opened and the woman came out. She was still wearing tight jeans but she’d changed sweaters, now wore black. She saw Wyatt, gave him a close look. He got out of the car.

  “Uh, ma’am?” he said.

  “If you’re selling something, forget it,” the woman said.

  “No,” Wyatt said. “I’m from the community college. We’re doing this project and maybe you can help.”

  “Project?” she said. “What kind of project?”

  He went a little closer, smelled her perfume, also couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts stretched her sweater taut. Her eyes were small and watchful.

  These things were easier with Greer. He glanced at the mailbox. “You’re, uh, Charlene Waters?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “This project,” Wyatt said, “it’s about a crime that happened-”

  That was as far as Wyatt got before the black pickup came around the corner. It seemed about to drive on by, then swerved
to a stop maybe twenty yards farther on. Doc hopped out, the red shoe in his hand.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Charlene shot a quick look up and down the street. “What the hell are you thinking?” she said in a very loud half whisper that might have been funny in different circumstances.

  “I forgot about-” He held up the shoe. “I was going to park around the-” Doc’s gaze went to Wyatt. “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

  “Some project at the community college,” Charlene said, still in that loud half whisper.

  “Community college?” said Doc. “He works for the goddamn paper.”

  Charlene turned to Wyatt. “Is that true?”

  “No,” Wyatt said.

  “He’s lying,” Doc said. He was on the move now, his stride quick and jerky. Wyatt backed toward the car. “What did you tell him?” Doc said.

  “Nothing,” Charlene said. She closed in, too. “Who are you?” No half whisper now, and her tone was aggressive.

  Wyatt didn’t answer. He slid around to the driver’s side of the car, fumbled for the handle, and was opening the door when Doc dropped the red shoe and charged. Wyatt sprang inside-at least in his mind; in real life he was moving in slow motion-and reached for the key. The next thing he knew, an iron hand had him by the arm. And the moment after that he was in midair, flung from the car.

  Wyatt landed hard on the pavement, rolled over, started to get up. Doc came forward, big fist poised for a roundhouse punch, H-A-T-E on the knuckles.

  “Doc!” Charlene said. “Not here.”

  “Fuck that,” Doc said, the muscle twitching in his face. Doc swung that big fist at Wyatt, landing a heavy blow on the shoulder that knocked him flat. Doc kept coming. He wore heavy work boots with thick lug soles. Wyatt rolled away from those boots. A thought came to him, kind of strange and maybe beside the point: he didn’t want his nose broken again. Something about that thought ignited a jet of anger in him, an anger that at least for the moment overwhelmed his fear. He sprang to his feet-not at his fastest, but not in slow motion, either-and got his hands up.

  “Boy’s lookin’ to get his head beat in,” Doc said.

  Maybe a boy, but the boys from East Canton knew something about fighting. Doc was big and strong, no doubt about that; it didn’t mean he was fast. Wyatt watched that big right hand. The twitchy muscle was on the right side, too.

  Charlene called out, “Doc! Not here!”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Doc said, and he threw that right hand. Not with a whole lot of speed; Wyatt ducked under it with ease and threw a left of his own, not at Doc’s head-he had no illusions about the damage one of his punches would do to a big thick-boned head like Doc’s-but at his throat. And yes: square on the voice box; it felt like punching a steak. Doc made a retching, gasping sound and sank to his knees, one hand clutching his throat.

  Charlene’s mouth opened wide. Wyatt jumped in the Mustang. He sped off and didn’t look back.

  24

  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 sa
id. “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.