The Lesson of Her Death (37 page)

Mahoney left the room. The door remained open about six inches and through the gap Jamie could see the back door of Town Hall. He gazed through the half window at the parking lot and the thick trees beyond.

Outside, it was a May school day. The sun was brilliant and insects zipping through the light flashed like sparks. Outside, kids were lining up to be picked for softball in PE class, they were jogging, playing soccer and tennis, swatting golf balls.

Outside was an entirely different dimension from that in which Jamie Corde now sat.

The sunlight grew in radiance. No, it had moved closer to him! He was astonished to find himself on his feet, no longer sitting in the hard chair. Now, walking across the interrogation room. Now, pushing into the dark corridor, staring all the while at the back door window. In the hallway, pausing. The light began to approach him, slowly at first then picking up speed, rushing toward him, as his heart thudded with a shockingly loud pounding, beating ever faster. The light filled his vision, it illuminated his flushed skin, it grew very close. And Jamie understands that the sound is not his heart at all but the drumming of his running shoes on chestnut floorboards. His hands rise palms out fingers splayed, the back door explodes outward and a million splinters of glass precede Jamie Corde into the golden light.

One man jumped at the sound. The other did not.

Mahoney looked at the shocked face of T.T. Ebbans, who ran into the corridor behind the Sheriff’s Department and stared as the back door, now lacking most of its glass, swung slowly closed once more.

He stepped across the hall to the interrogation room and looked inside then glanced out the broken door and saw Jamie sprinting away from the station house.

“Deputy, you better—”

Ebbans turned his gaunt face to Mahoney. “Jamie wouldn’t run like that. What’d you say to him?”

Mahoney nodded toward the shattered door. “You better stay on him. You know where he’s going.”

Ebbans said evenly, “I should tell you, sir, I think you’re a real son of a bitch.”

“Deputy, he’s getting away.”

“What are you doing here?” Corde asked.

Mahoney, walking through the squad room, glanced at the coffee he sipped. “Devil’s brew.”

“Were you in there with my son?”

“I just looked in on him. He and T.T. were talking.”

Corde stepped into the corridor and saw the empty room. He returned as Mahoney was dumping sugar into his cup. “Where is he?”

“Your kid? I think T.T. said they were going to the lake and look around. I don’t know.”

Corde walked to the front door. “He should’ve told me.

Mahoney noticed the evidence envelopes containing the Polaroids and the messages they carried. “What’s this?”

Ribbon answered tentatively, as if asking for Corde’s approval, “Somebody left them for Bill. He thinks they might be his daughter.”

“You show them to her, ask her about it?”

“She didn’t see them, no. My daughter has a learning
disability. She’s going through a rough time right now. This would upset her.”

“Well,” Mahoney said with an exasperated laugh, “that’d be a shame, but—”

“I asked her if anybody’d taken her picture recently and she said no.”

“You say she’s slow?”

“She’s not slow,” Corde said evenly. “She has an above-average IQ. She has dyslexia and dyscalculia.”

“Does she now? Maybe somebody talked her into posing and warned her not to tell anybody about it. That happens all the time.”

“I know my daughter.”

Mahoney, fingering the photos, said, “Your son, does he have a Polaroid camera?”

Corde turned to Ribbon. “Can I see you for a minute, Steve?”

The men walked into the sheriff’s office, Corde leading. Ribbon left the door open. Corde reached back and closed it. He hardly ever lost his temper but the problem was he couldn’t tell when it was going to happen.

Ribbon said, “All right, Bill, I understand—”

Corde’s teeth pressed together fiercely. “No more with that guy! I don’t want him crossing my path.”

“He’s—”

“Let me finish. It may be that Jamie knows a little more than he’s saying but you know him as well as any boy in town and he wouldn’t take those pictures. I’m not going to listen to this crap anymore!”

“But Mahoney doesn’t know Jamie at all and you can’t condemn him for asking the question.”

“Hell yes I can! This thing is
way
out of hand. The town’s scared out of its mind. We got the paper counting down the days till another moon and we’re going to get ten more folk shot.”

“You’ll remember it was my thought not Charlie’s about the moon.”

“Was he interrogating Jamie?”

Ribbon paused. “He’s been helping out some. Bill … Look, he’s a famous homicide detective.”

“Oh, Steve, come on.”

“We need all the help we can get. This isn’t a frat hazing that got out of hand.”

“Do you know where T.T. took my son?”

“I don’t know if he did. Or where.”

Corde opened the door and walked into the squad room.

Mahoney said, “Hold up, Detective.”

Corde walked toward the door.

“Hey, Detective …”

Corde kept going.

The window was open, letting in the scent of lilacs and whatever snatches of breeze might penetrate the stale-ness of the room. The morning was quiet. Philip’s father was at the warehouse. His mother was asleep. She hadn’t wakened her children in time for school. Philip lay in bed, eating from a box of graham crackers. Crumbs dusted his chest and stomach. He’d wait until ten, when his PE class was over then wake his mother and have her write him a tardiness excuse.

Outside he heard footsteps. He rolled over and looked out the window. “Hey, Phil!” The voice was urgent.

Philip looked into the stand of lilac bushes. He saw Jamie Corde, sweating and pale. “Hey, Jano, what’s the matter?”

“I went by the school. What’re you doing home?” Before Philip could answer he continued urgently, “Come on out here. I gotta talk to you.”

Philip rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt then walked through the house. His sister was asleep under a mound of pink satin comforter. In his parents’ room Philip’s mother also lay asleep. Her mouth was open and her lipstick had left wet, red
blotches on the pillow around her face, like stains of fresh blood. He continued outside, onto the back porch.

“Hey, man,” Philip called, walking barefoot down the stairs, “what’s—”

“I was just at the police.”

The boy stopped walking. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” Jamie whined. “Nothing.”

Shit. The knife. That’s what it was. He knew it. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. Philip continued into the bushes and sat down. Jamie sat too.

“What do they know?”

“They know I was there and they know I was there with somebody that night. They’ve got sort of a description of you.”

“Shit. Like, how did they find that out?” Suspicion filled Philip’s round face.

“I didn’t say anything. My father …” Jamie said. “He …” He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else about it. He pictured his father going through the dirty clothes, finding his underwear, putting it in an evidence bag.… He began to cry. “They said we’re going to
prison!
What are we going to do? Oh, man.”

Jamie’s hands were shaking but Philip was calm. In the dimension where he spent much of his time nothing was impossible, nothing was what it seemed. Maple trees were sodium boosters of intergalactic vehicles. Sidewalks were crystal walkways a thousand feet above the plasma energy core of the planet. Stars weren’t stars at all but holes in the paltry three-dimensional world through which the all-powerful, all-brilliant Guardians trillions and trillions of light-years big looked down. In Philip’s world fat boys in dirty blue jeans were sinewy, lithe heros, who could pull on cloaks and disappear from their terrible enemies. “We have to vanish,” he said softly.

“Vanish?”

“Like, dimensionally.” He added in a whisper, “Permanently.”

Jamie whispered, “It was just a
movie
, man.”

Philip continued in his quiet voice, “We’re both fucked. You want to go to prison? Then what? Come back and live at home? With your father?” He smiled in a weary way. “This dimension sucks, Jano.”

Jamie was silent.

“We took an oath,” Philip said quietly. “We took an oath—”

“We shouldn’t have done it to her.”

“An oath to the death.” Philip looked up at the sky through a cluster of faint purple lilacs.
“That
dimension’s real. This one isn’t. We took an oath. Are you going back on it?”

Jamie grabbed a black branch dotted with buds and small blossoms. He stripped the sinewy twigs away, like peeling skin off bones, and flung the branch away furiously with a low moan.

Philip said, “Remember Dathar? The way he leapt off the Governance Building? They thought they had him but he got away.”

“He didn’t get away. He died. The Guardians brought him back but he died.”

“It’s the same thing,” Philip whispered. “He got away.”

Jamie said nothing.

The sound of a siren, howling like a dentist’s drill, filled the front yard. Philip’s smile vanished as the squad car skidded to a stop. He stared at his friend. “You told them!”

“No!” Jamie scrambled to his feet.

Footsteps sounded. Running, the men spread out. Ebbans and Slocum and Miller and two other deputies.

“You turned me in!” Philip screamed as he began willing his huge body to run, feet pointing outward, stomach and tits bouncing with every step, feeling the sting of his chafed legs and the deeper pain of a struggling heart.

“Whoa, boy, hold up there!”

“Stop him! Slow him up!”

Slocum was chuckling. “He’s doing okay for a big fellow.”

Somebody else laughed and said, “We need ourselves a lasso.”

The men easily caught up with Philip and pulled him to the ground. They were laughing as if they’d grounded a suckling pig for a barbecue. Handcuffs appeared and were ratcheted on pudgy wrists.

One of the cops asked Jamie a question but the boy missed the words. All he could hear was the sound of Philip’s voice, filling the backyard, as he shrieked, “You turned me in, you turned me in, you turned me in!”

C
orde paused outside the house.

He saw: a broken lawn mower, termite-chewed stacks of black firewood, a V-6 engine block sweating under a foggy plastic tarp, rusty tools, four bloated trash bags, bald tires, a garbage can filled with brackish water. The lawn was riddled with crabgrass and bare spots of packed mud. Showing through the scabby white clapboard of the house were patches of milky green from an earlier paint job.

Three brilliant bursts of color tempered the grim scene—orange-red geraniums in clay pots.

Inside were T.T. Ebbans, Jim Slocum, Lance Miller and the two county deputies. Charlie Mahoney was not there. On the couch sat Philip and Jamie. Creth Halpern stood over his boy, staring down at him. His arms were crossed and he had an eerie smile on his face. Jane Halpern sat in a chair off to the side of the room. Her eyes
were red and her lips were glisteningly wet. Corde didn’t know much about her. Only that she’d been a thin, pretty cheerleader in the New Lebanon High School class behind his, and she was now a thin, pretty drunk.

The house smelled bad. Food and mold. He also could smell animal and he vaguely remembered a dog nosing in weeds behind a shed in the backyard. With the door wide open the brilliant outdoor light, which looked unnatural in the dank room, revealed a coat of grime and spheres of dustballs. The windows were mostly shaded. Corde stepped on something hard. He kicked away a small, dried dog turd. He crouched next to Jamie. “You all right, son?”

The boy looked at him silently with an undiluted hate that made Corde want to weep. He motioned to Ebbans and the two of them stepped outside. “What happened, T.T.? Did you and Mahoney spook Jamie and follow him here?”

To his credit in Corde’s mind Ebbans held the detective’s eyes and answered honestly. “I’m sorry, Bill. That’s what happened. He just asked to see him for a few minutes by himself and Steve told me to let him. I didn’t know what he had in mind. I swear that.”