Come Unto These Yellow Sands (7 page)

“Why’s that?”

“He hadn’t had time to clean himself up at all. Tears and blood.” Swift’s mouth crooked. “Been there, done that.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Swift shrugged.

“Tad said
you should see the other guy
. Did he give you any clue to who the other guy was?”

“No.” Swift thought that over. “Did it look like Corelli had been in a fight?”

“No.”

“But—” Swift tried to read Max’s face. “Doesn’t that prove that Tad wasn’t fighting with his father?”

“It doesn’t prove anything. It means Tad might have been lying about getting in a few good licks of his own.”

Swift remembered his own observation that Tad’s knuckles weren’t bruised or cut. Either he hadn’t fought back or he’d been jumped. “Okay, but what about Corelli’s hands? Were they banged up? Because maybe Tad wasn’t in a fight with him at all.”

“The two things don’t necessarily have anything to do with each other. If Corelli beat the kid, there might have been some defense argument in there, but the fact that Tad got in a brawl with someone else doesn’t mean he didn’t pop his old man. He threatened to kill him the night before, according to his stepmother.”

“But you can’t go by that. People say things in anger. Friday night you were probably mad enough to—” He broke off.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Max said.

Swift’s face warmed. “Maybe the timing of this fight gives Tad an alibi. When was Corelli killed?”

“We’re withholding that information for now.”

Swift ignored the painful implication that he was no longer trustworthy. “So it’s possible Tad has an alibi?”

“It’s possible.” Clearly Max thought the possibility slim. “Before you gave the kid your keys, did he give any indication of where he was headed?”

Swift shook his head. “He said he had to get away for a while. He didn’t specify how long, but he asked me not to drop him from the program, which tells me he planned on coming back.”

“Maybe.”

“If he was on the run for killing his father, why would he bother to stop by my office and beg me not to drop him from the program?”

“I don’t know. I know that people under extreme stress don’t always behave logically. You’ve been a mentor to this kid. Maybe he wanted to see you one last time, but he couldn’t tell you the truth about why.”

Despite Swift’s instant repudiation of the idea, it sounded logical. Plausible. Swift knew only too well how it felt to grab desperately for your old life, for any kind of stability, when the ground started to give way beneath you.

Max’s voice jarred him from his reflections. “So Corelli gave you no idea of where he was going?”

“I thought he was going to the bungalow. Just from the way he reacted when I gave him the keys, I was sure I’d find him there.”

“Are you sure he
hadn’t
been there?”

“Well, I’m not a forensics expert, but the place felt—smelled, looked—like it hadn’t been opened since I was there during the summer. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. Only dustier.”

Max rubbed his bearded chin meditatively. “So you have absolutely no idea of where Corelli would go if he was in trouble?”

“No. I’d hope that he’d come to me. Which he did. Beyond that…no. I don’t know anything about his personal life.”

Max made a sound, not exactly a snort, that indicated this was no surprise. What did that mean? Was it supposed to be commentary on Swift’s social interactions? Because how was Max in a position to judge? He had only permitted Swift into a small corner of his own life.

“Can you think of anything that might be useful?” Max asked. Meaning that so far nothing Swift had had to say was useful? That was probably true. At least from Max’s perspective.

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

Max inclined his head, accepting that much. “I don’t need to tell you—hopefully—that if Corelli
does
get in touch with you, you need to contact me immediately.”

“No.” Max’s eyes narrowed and Swift added quickly, “No, you don’t have to tell me. I know I fucked up.”

“Yep. You got that right.”

Swift opened his mouth to apologize again, but all at once he was tired of it. He was sorry, sincerely sorry, but he wasn’t going to grovel. In fact, he was starting to get irritated. His eyes met Max’s, and he saw that Max was reading him quite accurately, lip cynically curling.

Neither spoke for a few strange moments.

“Why
did
you do it?” Max sounded curious. “Why did you keep it from me? Aside from the fact that you were breaking the law, you had to know it wasn’t going to…end well between us.”

That cool
end well between us
knotted Swift’s stomach, doused his flare of rebellion. If he’d realized at the time that he was ending things between himself and Max, then of course he’d have handled matters differently. Didn’t it go without saying? He’d never intended or wanted to lose Max. Maybe he’d been naïve enough to think that whatever was between them was strong enough to survive—no. The fact was, he just hadn’t thought far enough ahead. He’d acted on impulse. And his efforts to fix his mistake had failed. It was that simple.

Max was still waiting for an answer. Swift said, “It wasn’t a conscious decision.”

“Really? Were you unconscious at the time?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I can’t begin to understand what the hell went through your head. I’ve tried.”

“I know it doesn’t count for much now, but I wanted to spare him—”

Max’s face changed instantly. “Christ. Spare
me
,” he interrupted. “He played you, Swift. You don’t get that yet, do you? You still think, what? He’s innocent and hiding from the real killer or some other bullshit story?”

Swift deserved that. He was probably wasting his breath, but he tried anyway. “No. I don’t know. Will you just listen to me, Max? Can’t you give me that much?”

Max pressed his lips against whatever it was he dearly wanted to say. He waited. Pointedly.

Swift knew that set, stubborn line of Max’s jaw. He wasn’t going to change Max’s mind. Not about Tad and not about himself. He tried anyway. He had to. It was too important not to try, however unflattering to himself the truth was. “I’d been clean for two years when I got word my…dad had died. I heard it on the nightly news. That’s one reason I’m not big on television.”

Max’s expression altered infinitesimally. He started to speak, but Swift rushed ahead. He needed to say it while he still had the guts.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t have relapsed anyway. They were a rough two years. Every day was a struggle. But what I
can
tell you is finding out the way I did sent me into a tailspin.” He didn’t want to think about that time. The time when his entire world had been reduced to the rat-bag motel he was living in and his regular trips to the local crackhouse, when all he had lived for was the next line of coke, when he would have done
anything…
and all too frequently had.

“The only reason I’m alive today is I had enough people who cared whether I lived or died to step in and…save me from myself.”

“I know you identify with this kid. But so what?” There was no sympathy, no understanding in Max’s face.

Swift’s forehead wrinkled. “So…what?”

“What did you think you were doing here? Sponsoring the Bingers and Bedbugs Boys Club?”

It was the disgust in Max’s face that was hard to take. Max despised junkies. He made no secret of it, though he’d tempered his comments once he’d learned Swift’s history.

“I was trying to help. I didn’t know—”

“No you didn’t. You knew nothing about anything, but you still stuck your oar in. You ever hear the saying ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’, Teach?”

There was no bending, no softening. What had Swift hoped? He met Max’s hazel gaze. “Yeah. I’ve heard that one.” He turned away.

He could feel Max watching him, though the other man was silent now. Outside the classroom door, Swift listened to the racket of kids moving through the halls, laughing, calling out despite the fact that other classes were in session.

All at once he was very tired, amped-out, although the letdown here had nothing to do with artificial stimulants.

Max said finally, “All right. You thought that your breaking the news to him would make some difference.” His tone wasn’t exactly kind, but Swift could tell Max was making an effort not to be cruel again. “But Corelli already knew his old man was dead because he killed him.”

That glimmer of protest within Swift sparked back to life. He faced Max. “Maybe you’re right. But whatever happened to presumed innocent?”

“Whatever happened to coming forward and explaining your side of it to the police?”

“Kind of a waste when the police chief already has his mind made up.”

Max’s gaze flattened. “I hope this kid is worth everything you put on the line for him.”

Swift gave a tired laugh. “Me too.”

Max stood motionless for a moment. Then, “I’ll be in touch.”

It was not a promise of sweet things to come.

It was hard, very hard, to be on the outside—and Swift was most definitely on the outside now. In fact, looking at the uncompromising set of Max’s shoulders, the ramrod-straight line of his back, it was difficult to believe they’d ever laughed together, let alone made love. Not that it had been love for Max. Swift was not convinced it had been love for him either, although he had clearly felt more than the other man.

A lot more.

He busied himself erasing the boards so he didn’t have to watch Max walk away.

Chapter Six

You are the first mate of the ocean-research vessel North Star. Your ship has been chartered by the United Nations for a very special mission. Your mission is to travel to the Antarctic to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a satellite during a routine check of ice-melt levels.

Speaking of ice-melt levels… Swift shook the ice in his glass and glanced around for the waitress.

She caught his eye across the brick-wall divider. He indicated another round for the table, and she smiled acknowledgment.

Swift relaxed. He liked this place. Liked the dark wood paneling and the gleaming brass fixtures, liked the faded prints of early Stone Coast. Bean’s Tavern had been around since the Revolutionary War. The food was good, the beer was better. He and Max came here sometimes for dinner. It was busy but somehow private thanks to the smoky lighting and high-back leather booths.

Once a month Swift hosted dinner in the tavern’s back room for the six or seven graduates and current students of the Lighthouse program who lived locally. Lighthouse was a low-residency program which meant that the majority of students spent fourteen days on campus at the beginning of each semester participating in intensive workshops before returning to their regular work lives. During the rest of the semester the Lighthouse students corresponded online or by phone with their faculty advisor. The idea behind low-res programs was to offer MFAs for those unable to interrupt their lives and current careers to earn their degree.

Now and then another Lighthouse faculty advisor joined them at these monthly get-togethers, but the idea was Swift’s and he paid for the dinners out of his own pocket. He received monthly living expenses from a strictly monitored trust fund left to him by his father.

The money had been a sore spot for a few years. Swift had petitioned legally once for control and had been denied. That had been a humiliating process. There was nothing like having friends, family and your health-care professionals go on the record that they did not believe you were (or ever would be) competent to manage your own business affairs—and then having a judge agree. It had been equally humiliating when his trust-fund checks were cut in half the minute he’d begun to earn a steady salary teaching. The official explanation was simple and blunt. While his trustees approved of his decision to work, too much money would present a temptation to him.

In other words, it was only a matter of time before his next relapse, and they all knew it.

Anger over that had helped him through a few difficult nights. And, in fact, the amount of his trust-fund checks had gradually increased to an additional couple of hundred dollars each month, so someone somewhere had apparently determined that Swift deserved an atta boy after six years of being clean and sober. He would never be allowed control of his trust fund—that had been spelled out to him in court—but for the most part he no longer cared. The extra money was nice, but he lived comfortably within his means, and he was proud that the only time he’d had to ask his trustees for an additional dime was for the down payment on his house.

“Sometimes I wonder if poetry is even relevant in our modern society,” someone down the table was saying.

It was a popular refrain at these dinners. Swift had long ago decided it was a rhetorical question and no longer engaged in the debate. Maybe he
was
getting old.

He tossed off the final mouthful of drink. He restricted himself to one scotch on the rocks on these evenings. He was actually a little shy in intimate gatherings and the alcohol helped, though he knew better than to start relying on that. Tonight he was dealing with his various stresses by allowing himself a second drink. It was getting to be a habit after each run-in with Max, and even as he ordered it, he wondered if he was starting the first slippery steps down a very steep path. But the nagging, restless
want
had stuck with him all day, and it was starting to scare him.

Three, four hours. That was the longest the craving should persist. Especially this long into his recovery. But as it didn’t seem to be fading, he needed to numb it. Despite what the professionals advised, he believed that tonight his best option was alcohol. Coping strategies came in all sizes and shapes. He liked this little band of students and ex-students, but he didn’t want to be here. Nor did he want to hear anything more about Tad Corelli this evening, but not surprisingly it was the main topic of dinner conversation.