The Debt Collector (33 page)

He shook his head ever so slightly. “Don't be embarrassed about this, Sonora. Every really intelligent, thinking person comes to this, sooner or later. Or over and over, for ones like you and me.” He grinned, just a flash, to let her know that he understood.

“Over and over, Sonora, the thoughts just won't go away, will they?” His face changed. He held up his wrists, looking as weary as she felt. “Are you here to arrest me? Or are you here to return my jacket?”

“To arrest you.”

“You have no proof.”

“I have proof and you know it. I'm wearing it.”

“I'm not following you, Sonora.” But he was. She wondered when he'd realized the mistake, a fatal error, generated by kindness and good manners.

“You left your gloves in the pocket. The gloves you were wearing when you hit Aruba. The gloves you were wearing when you went into the Stinnets' house.”

“Try to do a good deed. How about this? They're not my gloves.”

“Don't embarrass yourself.”

“I don't particularly care anymore. You know that, don't you? But don't you want to know what happened?”

She didn't answer. Didn't trust herself to play these games and win.

“Follow me, then.”

He led her down the hallway like the Pied Piper, and she followed him like a child.

He led her the length of the wasted hallway till they faced a freight elevator, metal sides covered with peeling black paint that showed the dull silver beneath. A crisscross metal rack gated the dark opening, door yawning open like the gates of hell.

Van Owen stepped in and turned to face her, and she half-expected something, like a gun—but no. Just that gentle, knowing smile that frightened her because it hinted at a knowledge of things she wanted to keep totally private. And promised an understanding that she craved.

“I'm a burning house. Are you going to run away?”

“No, and neither are you. Come off the elevator, Jack.”

He waited, looking so … polite. Waiting.

“Step off the elevator, Jack. I'm not playing games with you.”

“Shoot me or let me go. Your choice.”

“Death by cop?”

“Death by perp?”

She had no answer to that one.

He waved a hand. “I can see it, that death wish you have. It hums in the air around you like an aura. Like the sound of bees in a hive. If I were to kiss you, I could taste it on your mouth.” There was such intelligence, a knowing something in his eyes like a candle in a jack-o'-lantern. She had to watch him. It was like driving by a terrible car wreck.

“There is a third option,” he told her.

“Explain it quick, before I lose count.”

“You can find out what really happened.”

“I'm listening.”

He pointed upward. “To the roof.”

“No.”

“We'll do it at gunpoint. You've got your weapon there, tucked in the back of your jeans, right? Get it out. Take the safety off. Point the gun at my heart. I want you to come to the roof, and I want you to feel safe.”

She did as he said. Took out the gun, so familiar in her hand. She felt better. More in control.

He smiled.

She followed him into the elevator. She had a bad moment as he shut the gate, hating the cavernous freight elevator, like something out of
Angel Heart
. She stood with her back to the wall and watched him push the button for the roof.

The elevator moved slowly at first, then gathered speed. He spoke quickly, a man running out of time.

“When my son was born, Lacy and I felt so blessed. We named him Angelo, and we called him our Angel. We'd been trying to have a child for five years.” He turned his head to face her, keeping his back to the wall and his hands at his sides. “Detective Sonora Blair, you have two children. A boy, Tim, who is seventeen? And a little girl named Heather, who is eleven.”

He knew her, knew the names and ages of her kids. She thought of the way her house looked that first night when she was called out to the Stinnets', brightly lit against the falling dark, the living room that was probably dark now while the kids slept in their rooms down the hall, trusting that she would come home, as she always did.

What did it mean to be a mother? Did it mean that you were sentenced to life?

“Listen to me, Sonora. Last week your son was arrested in Boone County for speeding, driving with a suspended license, and carrying a concealed weapon.”

“His license was fine; it was a computer glitch. It happens.”

“The weapon?”

“A machete he takes camping. And it wasn't concealed, it was sitting on the floor of the backseat. It's still legal, as far as I know, for teenage boys to go camping. And I checked this
weapon
myself. The edge is so blunt you couldn't cut a sandwich with it.”

He smiled as if making a point. “Listen to you, Detective. To hear you talk, the poor child was set up by a computer. And you dismiss the machete like it's a joke.”

“This isn't about me, and it isn't about my son.”

“It's about every parent who ever made an excuse for his child.”

“Then that's every parent, Jack.”

He turned sideways and faced her. “Bingo.”

The gates of the elevator opened to darkness. Sonora smelled rain. She got that horrible closed-in feeling, a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. The only light came from the interior of the elevator. Van Owen did not move, his back plastered to the wall.

“You're not so different from me, Sonora. You can't distance yourself on this one. I loved my son like you love yours; I saw the good in him, saw it every day of his life—”

“You talk about him like he's dead.”

“He is dead.”

“He did not die in the wreck with your wife.”

“No, he did not. He took the wheel of that car and jerked it out of her hands, sweet Lacy, and their car crossed the path of a coal truck. She died twelve hours later in Union, Kentucky. She was down there in the same place you were, bailing our son out of trouble, just like you did with Tim.”

“It's not the same.”

“I hope not. For your sake, Detective. You want to know
why
he grabbed that wheel? Because he wanted to stop for cigarettes, and she said no. He told me everything. He cried and said he was sorry. But I'm a cop, Sonora, I can't lose it, I live, eat, and breathe
cop
, and while the daddy in me saw the good in my son, the cop saw the bad boy, the antisocial, no conscience, manipulative … the Angel, my son. Angelo.

“I had him committed to an institution in Arlington, Texas, until he turned twenty-one. It's easy enough, Detective. The definition of mental illness and typical teenage behavior are surprisingly similar. If you've got insurance, or if you've got money, you've got a soft little room. Drugs, shrinks, and therapy. Until he turned twenty-one. And then I brought him home. Cured. To help me run the business.”

“Where is he now?” Sonora said. “You can't protect him, not after this.”

The look he gave her was puzzled. “Still not there yet, Detective?”

The elevator light, keyed to a timer, blinked and went out. Sonora took a step forward and Van Owen touched her arm.

“Hold on just a minute. There's a light here, somewhere.”

She noted that he knew exactly where, that he flipped the switch like a man following a script. But she was grateful for the blinding yellow light, which showed a small room with metal doors thrown open to the roof. Jack Van Owen beckoned and she went behind him, gun steady in her right hand.

Sonora felt the bottom of her socks go instantly soggy, the roughness of wet concrete beneath her feet. A car passed on the street below, the tires making a shushing noise on the wet pavement, then the peculiar silence of a city at night. Somewhere, a long way away, she could hear a train.

“Are you afraid of heights, Sonora?”

“Maybe.”

“I am.” He walked toward the edge of the building and she followed, drawing a mental line she promised herself she would not cross. He stopped a good six feet from the edge. “Hell of a view, though.”

She knew she was meant to look away, but she was too good a cop. She watched him and only him.

“My son cried when he told me about Joy Stinnet. Oh, I cried, too, I admit it. He told me about the baby, and the teenage girl, and the dog. He was wracked. I cried and he cried and we cried together. But I was happy, Detective. God help me, I was happy that my son had a conscience, that he had limits, that he stood up to Aruba. Angelo punched Aruba in the mouth, those are his gloves in that jacket pocket, it was Angelo who pulled him off the girl. He tried to save her, got some towels, tried to stop the bleeding when Aruba slashed her throat. He was panicked; it was useless, but he tried.

“It takes courage, you know, something like that, when the blood is up and everyone is going crazy and is in a panic. I was proud of him. And I was ashamed.” Van Owen rubbed his temples. “He came to me in such agony. He was in shock, he'd never seen something like that, something so brutal. He begged me to make it go away, he wanted to turn himself in. I didn't know … what to do. Jail—how could I send my son, my Angelo, to jail with the hard-timers? But he had to be punished. Wherever he went, people died, bad and terrible things happened.”

“What did you do?” Sonora asked. It came out as a whisper.

“I had a bucket, a metal bucket. It was a paint bucket he took from the Stinnets' garage. I don't know why he took it, one of those dumb things that doesn't make any sense. I told him. I said for him to get down on his knees and pray. He was crying so hard, I couldn't make out the words he was saying, and then … and then I didn't believe him anymore.” Van Owen looked up. “Ever had one of those moments, Sonora, when reality shifts right under your feet? Those tears were crocodile tears. Oh, he was afraid, afraid of getting caught, afraid of getting punished. Daddy had to save him. So I … saved him. The only way I knew how.”

Sonora was afraid to ask, to press. She held her breath, waiting.

“I told him to put his head in that bucket, and I took my gun, my department issue thirty-eight, and while he cried and begged for me to save him … I shot my son in the head.”

“Where is he now?”

“I buried him.”

“Where?”

“I buried him with the Stinnets' bucket, wrapped my baby up in a blanket and buried him. I told myself that I killed my own son because I had to. That it was the only way I could save him. But the truth is?” Van Owen looked up. “I think I was just saving me.”

Sonora took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Come on, Jack. Come with me.”

He tilted his head to one side. “People who are afraid of heights, these are people who know that they're going to jump.” He tapped his chest, over the pumping muscle of his heart. “Somewhere, deep in here, you know. On a subconscious level. So the brain, not being dumb, hits that panic button when you find yourself near an edge.” He massaged his temples.

“It's that way for you, too, isn't it? You don't see Sonora Blair standing at the edge like those others who approach the drop zone, waggle their butts, look over their shoulders, grinning like idiots, sticking their tongues out. Like they're brave, like they have one over on you because they dare to stand so close.

“But they're not brave. Stupid, maybe, if they're at all prone to be clumsy or to trip, but brave? Not hardly.

“They don't feel it, do they, Sonora? They don't feel that sinking knowledge, that if you get too close you'll
have
to do it, if for no other reason than to get it the hell over with.

“That
panic …
that panic, you've felt it, that makes you grab hold and shut your eyes. That's your survival instinct kicking in. That's your mind's awareness that standing three feet away is for you the equivalent of someone else dangling from a forty-story balcony by a piece of string.”

He took a step backward, looked away from the edge. “Where do you think the compulsion comes from? Did we fall to our deaths in a previous life? Do we just have … a death wish? Maybe it's simpler. Maybe it's nothing more than an absolute craving for freedom.”

“Freedom?” Sonora asked.

“Sure. Think about the moment, Sonora. Where you step away from everything—the edge of the cliff, the lip of the brick, step away into nothing. Nothing to hold you, nothing to stop you … a total and complete letting go of everything. Your past, your future … your life. Seconds, just seconds, of absolute total freedom from absolutely everything.

“Have you never seen anybody fall to their death? They always scream. Don't they? It sounds like fear. But think about it. People scream on roller coasters. Maybe it's not fear. Maybe it's more like … exhilaration.”

He moved to the very edge, tips of his shoes lined up at the very end of the building. He looked at her over his shoulder and smiled. “Are you staying behind, Sonora? Facing it all alone?”

“Step away from the edge, Jack. Come on.”

The sound of her voice, the hoarseness, alarmed her. She read herself as if she were a stranger.
Yes, this woman is considering her options. This woman is thinking thoughts. Watch her. You might want to worry here
.

“What scares you, Sonora? Me? The heights? Yourself?”

“All of it.”

He smiled till his eyes crinkled. “I'm not going to hurt you, Sonora. I'm done. I think maybe you're done too. Death isn't what scares you, is it? Not anymore, it doesn't. Sonora?” Her name on his lips was like a caress. “Take my hand?”

She shook her head. The gun felt so heavy, her arm so tired. She let her hand drop.

She wanted to take his hand. Everything went away from her, the night, the noise of the city. She saw the edge of the roof like the end of a tunnel, like there was only one way to go.