Swallowing Stones (21 page)

Michael peered around Joe, squinting into the dark foyer to see if anyone was listening. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk here,” he said.

“Do we have something to talk
about
?” Joe’s face was absolutely expressionless.

Michael felt the weight of his friend’s words on Michael’s chest. He would have turned away, gone home right then, but
his need to know what had happened at the police station was stronger than his sense of loss and humiliation. “I think we do,” he said, trying to sound in control.

Joe banged open the screen door with his fist and headed around to the backyard. Michael was right on his heels. He suspected Joe was going to the tree house. These days the old tree house was really no more than a wood platform with two walls and half a roof. The ladder that led to it was missing several rungs. Michael wondered why the Sadowskis had never torn it down. All their kids were grown up and had left home, except for Joe, who was the youngest. And besides, the tree house was a real eyesore. Still, it was a place where he and Joe could go to talk, just as they had when they were small boys, and no one would overhear their conversation.

Joe climbed the ladder, sat down cross-legged, and lit a cigarette.

Michael sat across from him. “I thought you gave those things up.”

“What’s it to you?” Joe said, exhaling a stream of smoke in Michael’s direction.

This was not going to be a long conversation. Michael knew he had to ask what he had come for and then leave. He could tell that Joe was barely able to stand the sight of him. “So what happened down there? They didn’t try to pin anything on you, did they?”

Joe pulled his knees up close to his chest and took another drag from his cigarette, squinting to keep the smoke from burning his eyes. “I stuck to our original story, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He shook his head. “Man, how many times do I have to tell you? Without the gun, they ain’t got a case. They couldn’t arrest me because they don’t even have circumstantial
evidence. Just a stupid hunch.” Joe flicked his ashes over the edge.

“So why did they bring you in for questioning?” Michael still couldn’t understand it. Especially if the cops really didn’t have anything to go on. “Why didn’t they just talk to you here, like last time?”

“Who knows?” There was a definite edge to Joe’s voice. “They wanted to know why I took so long filing that report for the stolen gun. Then they started harping on how there wasn’t any damage to my car. They said it was a pretty clean robbery. No signs of a break-in.”

Michael noticed the thin mustache of sweat on Joe’s upper lip. When he lifted the cigarette to his lips, his hand trembled. Whatever had gone on down at the police station had really shaken him up. “So what did you tell them?” Michael asked.

Joe ran his thumbnail along his upper lip. “I said for all I knew, I’d left the damn car unlocked. I said I couldn’t remember that far back.”

“That’s still not enough reason to take you down to the station,” Michael said.

Joe was squinting through the smoke. “Seems I got quite a reputation with the local powers that be. First they pick me up from the scene of a car accident, drunk. Then they charge me with being drunk and disorderly and with assault for stomping in that stupid bitch’s windshield.” He flicked more ashes over the side. “Let’s face it, man, I ain’t exactly their candidate for mayor.”

At the mention of Amy, Michael felt a rush of anger. But then Joe started talking again, and Michael backed off.

“Besides, a couple of kids from the party told them I was
messing around with your rifle that day.” Joe stared Michael right in the eye.

“Why would anyone say that?” Michael was certain the only time Joe had even held the gun was when they were in the woods.

“Because it’s true, man.” He rubbed one eye with his palm. “You were off making it with that pig. Jeez, I just wanted to look at it.”

This time when Joe brought up Amy, Michael grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt. He almost threw him over the side. “Lay off Amy,” he warned.

Joe gave him an ugly sneer. “I think
lay
is the operative word here.”

Michael would have slammed his fist right into Joe’s face if it hadn’t suddenly sunk in that Joe had just confessed to being seen at the party with the rifle. Now a muddle of questions flooded his mind. Had Joe fired the gun that day without Michael’s knowledge? If he had, then maybe he, Michael, wasn’t the one who had killed Charlie Ward. He let go of Joe’s shirt.

“You said you had my Winchester that day?” he asked, trying not to sound as if he was accusing Joe of anything.

“I was looking at it,” Joe said. “I picked it up, that’s all. I didn’t do anything with it.” He squashed the cigarette on the weathered boards.

Michael was still staring down at the smoking butt when he heard Mr. Sadowski’s voice below telling Joe that the police were there with a search warrant and that he’d better get himself inside.
Fast
. Suddenly Michael was eleven years old again and Mrs. Sadowski was peering over the top of the tree house ladder, her face contorted in fury, screaming at him and Joe for sneaking a can of beer from the refrigerator. They had been
sitting there, the half-empty can between them like a warm campfire, until they’d been caught.

“They think you’ve got the gun hidden here,” Michael said when he could collect his thoughts.

“No kidding, Sherlock.” Joe stood up and stared down at him with disgust. “They think I’m their man,” he said. “But they ain’t going to find a thing. My dad’s attorney was at the station with me this afternoon. He says they need hard evidence. And as far as I’m concerned, they ain’t got diddly-squat.”

It had gone this far. Mr. Sadowski’s attorney had been there. Michael realized he would probably be needing an attorney himself soon. “What did you tell him? Your attorney, I mean.”

Joe snorted, then shook his head. “I told him I didn’t fire the gun at the party. I said I didn’t even have the stupid gun. I told him the truth, man.” Joe stared up at the sky through the missing section of roof. He seemed to be thinking about something. “I asked him, though, just for jollies, what would happen to the person who did it.”

Michael did not want to hear what was coming next. It was all he could do to keep from leaping over the side of the tree house and taking off at a run. But Joe was staring him down again, and he didn’t dare move a muscle.

“He said he’d probably be charged with involuntary manslaughter, which is pretty much what we figured in the first place—unless, of course, he was stupid enough to try to conceal the evidence, which, it seems, would be an obstruction of justice. The judge might not be so understanding in that case.”

Michael massaged his forehead. His head had begun to ache. “What about that report you filed?”

“Filing a false police report ain’t exactly gonna make their day, either.” Joe lowered himself onto the first rung of the ladder.
“Oh, yeah, there’s this other thing. Shooting that gun off like you did. They’ll nail you for that, too. Illegal discharge of a firearm.”

Michael hadn’t said a word. His mouth was as dry as sand. He wanted to tell Joe that they’d been wrong, that they should have gone to the police that morning as soon as they heard the announcement on the radio. But there didn’t seem to be much point in bringing that up now. So he said nothing.

Joe was watching him, a twisted grin on his face.

“If they arrest you,” Michael said, licking his lips, “I mean, if they think they’ve got a case or something, I’m going to tell them the truth.”

Joe snickered. “Sure you will,” he said, backing down the ladder. “Any way you look at it, we’re dead.”

m
ichael had fully intended to go right home. He knew his mother would have dinner ready by now. But he didn’t feel much like eating. All he could think about was Joe.

It troubled him that Joe hadn’t told him about the gun sooner, about picking it up when Michael wasn’t around. He wondered what else Joe might be hiding. There was no telling what was going on in his mind anymore, no way to predict his behavior. He was a walking time bomb.

Michael had begun to entertain the possibility that he wasn’t a murderer after all. Maybe it had been Joe all along. Maybe Joe had shot the Winchester while Michael and Amy were in the garage.

He thought back to that morning in July when they had first learned of Charlie Ward’s death. He remembered how Joe had insisted that Michael hide the evidence, and how persistent he had been about not going to the police.

Then he’d started talking about doing things he wasn’t proud of. Michael wondered now what Joe had meant by that. Was it possible that he’d been talking about firing the gun that killed Charlie Ward and letting Michael believe it was his fault?
Yet even as he tried to shift the blame to Joe, he knew in his heart that his friend hadn’t done it.

Even if Joe
had
fired the gun while Michael was in the garage with Amy, the bullet wouldn’t have been the one that killed Charlie Ward. Michael and Amy had been together later in the afternoon, at least an hour after the accident had taken place.

But it still looked bad for Joe. He couldn’t keep the cops at bay with the same old story for much longer. Maybe they didn’t have any hard proof yet, but it seemed pretty obvious they were working overtime to build a case out of circumstantial evidence.

Michael struggled to think straight. He needed to come up with a plan. He couldn’t let Joe take the rap for Charlie Ward’s death. Or could he? He knew that even though Joe hadn’t done it, and even if it never came to trial for lack of evidence, most folks would think Joe was guilty anyway. People were like that sometimes. They had to have someone to blame. It would be the easiest thing in the world to let them believe what they wanted. It was the perfect setup, really. And he knew it.

f
or a while Michael wandered aimlessly up one street and down another with no particular destination in mind. That is, until he came to Amy’s street. And as he rounded the corner and saw the small white house at the end of the road, he realized this was the one place where he had known the only moments of peace he had found that summer. Maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe it
was
hopeless. But he had to keep trying.

The white Tercel sat in the driveway. Its new windshield caught the last rays of the setting sun. Michael stood looking at the car, remembering the day of the accident. And because he no longer expected anything, because he had lost all hope, he was not prepared for the touch of a hand on his shoulder or, as he spun around, to find Amy standing behind him. He was so stunned, he could barely breathe.

Amy did not smile. And Michael thought he recognized something of his own pain and loneliness reflected in her face.

He tipped his chin in the direction of the car. “They got that fixed pretty fast.” It was all he could think of to say.

Amy looked over at the Tercel. “Pappy’s got friends in the business.”

Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the car. “Why did Joe do it? Smash your windshield, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Because he’d been drinking, I guess.” Amy combed her fingers through her hair and stared down at her feet. Then she looked back at the house as if she were expecting someone to come through the door.

“You know …” Amy paused and squeezed her eyes closed. She seemed unsure whether or not to continue. Then she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Joe told me once why he’d brought me to your party. He said you wanted to get it on with me. He said I was his birthday present to you.” Her eyes began to tear.

“Why would he say something like that?” Michael’s heart began to race.

“I don’t know. Maybe because he was drunk when he told me. Or maybe because it’s true.”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I told you
before, I didn’t even know he was bringing you to my party.”

Amy watched him for a few seconds without saying anything. “But we ended up in your garage anyway.”

“Amy …”

“So it was just about sex, right?”

He understood now that this was what Amy had been trying to find out that evening in the 7-Eleven parking lot a few days earlier. “Look, Amy … I don’t know what you want me to say. I mean, you looked so good in that bathing suit.… Maybe it
was
about sex at first. I didn’t know you then. But it isn’t like that now. You know? I really care about you.” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry you had to go through this. With Darcy and all. It stinks, and I feel rotten about it. I don’t know what else to say.”

Amy folded her arms and looked over at the windshield.

Michael was still trying to understand why Joe would even tell Amy such a thing in the first place. Was he trying to get back at Michael because he felt Michael was letting him take all the blame for the accident? Did Joe really hate him that much?

Michael felt so betrayed that he didn’t care if Joe
was
accused of the murder.
Let
him take the blame! Nobody would take Joe’s word over his. He didn’t owe him anything anymore.

Yet even when he attempted to transfer the burden of his guilt to Joe, he felt no relief. How could he wish this pain, the same pain he had lived with for almost two months, on a friend? Even if that friend had grown to hate him. He would not wish that on anyone.

“The police were here this afternoon.” Amy’s soft voice floated up to him.

Michael knotted his hands into fists and stared up at the
sky. He did not dare look at Amy because he knew that her face would have the same open, trusting expression she always wore.

“They’re questioning everyone who was at my party.”

“That’s what they said.”

Michael jerked his thumb at the car. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Amy nodded. “I know,” she whispered.

She looked so beautiful standing there, with the light from the sunset spilling across her face. Michael desperately wanted to touch her, but he didn’t dare. He knew he should probably leave. He’d done what he came for. He had apologized face-to-face. But he wanted more than that. He wanted them to be like they had been before. And there wasn’t a thing he could say or do to make that happen.