At the Edge (18 page)

I was trembling all over. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't.

“Then he came after you, Dee. You didn't have any choice. You shot again. It was self-defense. You don't have to worry, Dee. I saw it all. I'll tell them . . . No one will make a fool out of me. We're going to make them pay. We're going to make them feel what we felt.”

“The police will investigate,” I said. “They'll think it's a pretty big coincidence that Leonard and I happened to be here at the same time.”

“James can honestly say he had no idea who you were. You said so yourself—you never told him. You never told me, either.”

“My dad will never believe you. He used to be a cop. He'll get to the truth.”

“I'm willing to take that risk,” Mr. Derrick said. His voice was eerily calm. “So is Dee, aren't you?” he looked at James. “He promised me he'd make this right no matter what. Isn't that right, Dee? This man”—he glanced at Leonard—“murdered my son. And her mother saw that he got away with it. You're going to make it right, aren't you, Dee?”

I looked at James.

“You could go to prison,” I said. “You could throw away your whole life.”

Without taking his eyes off Eddy Leonard or me, Derrick handed James the gun. James looked down at the deadly object in his hand.

“You got it wrong, kid. You had it wrong all along,” Eddy Leonard said. “I didn't kill your brother. I was never in that alley.”

“Raise the gun, Dee,” Derrick said. “You can do it. We talked about it, remember? You can do it.” He turned to me. “Stand up.”

“Look,” Leonard said. “A person sees something like what you saw, in a dark alley like that, he don't always remember it right. Maybe the guy you saw was my height. Maybe he even looked like me. But it wasn't me. I wasn't—”

“Shut up,” Mr. Derrick said. “It was you. I saw you with my own eyes. I saw you scuttling away from that alley like some kind of insect.”

“I heard the shots, and I got out of the area fast, you bet,” Eddy Leonard said. “I was trying to break into a shop a few doors up. I didn't want the cops to see me anywhere near there. But I wasn't in that alley. I didn't shoot that kid.”

I stared at Mr. Derrick. So he had seen Eddy Leonard. The description he had given the first officer on the scene had been true, even though he'd later said he was mistaken.

The first officer on the scene had said that James was mute. In shock. It was only after Charlie Hart and his partner from Homicide had turned up that James had started talking, and then he had recited the description of the shooter over and over.

An idea took shape in my head.

Mr. Derrick had seen Eddy Leonard hurrying away from the alley.

Mr. Derrick would have known that any statement he made would be circumstantial—that just because Leonard had been near the alley, that didn't mean he had been in it, or that he had shot anyone. He would have known that James's statement was crucial if Leonard was to be convicted of murder—James was the only eyewitness. But he was also a badly shaken-up eyewitness who was mute from shock.

Mr. Derrick also would have known that when a crime was committed, the police kept witnesses separated. They didn't let them talk to each other because they were afraid that what one witness said would influence the other.

But the police had let Mr. Derrick stay with James every step of the way. Why? Because they didn't consider Derrick to be a witness. He had told the police that he hadn't seen anything.

James had already let his dad down once before. Greg had almost drowned, and Derrick had held James responsible. Then came the shooting in the alley. Greg was dead, and James was the only person who was able to make sure that justice was done.

James, who, when he had finally started to talk that night, had given Charlie Hart and his partner the exact same description of the shooter that his father had given to the first officer. He had repeated it over and over again so that he wouldn't forget it, just like he had repeated shopping lists and the errands he was supposed to do.

So that he wouldn't forget one of the most traumatic experiences of his life? An experience that had given him nightmares ever since? What would have made James think that he would forget something like that?

  .    .    .

“Stand up,” Mr. Derrick said again.

But I stayed on my knees and did my best to pretend that James wasn't pointing a gun at me.

“Look at him, James,” I said. “Look at Leonard. He says he didn't do it. He says he was never in that alley. Look at him and tell me—is he the man who shot Greg? Not the man you saw in the lineup, or in court. The man you saw in the alley—is it him, James? Did you see him shoot your brother?”

James stared at Eddy Leonard. Just for a second, the gun trembled in his hand.

“James, is he the man you saw in the alley?” I said again. “Is he the one who shot Greg?”

“Don't listen to her, Dee,” Mr. Derrick said. “Focus on the plan.”

I forced myself to ignore Derrick. “What was he wearing, James?”

James looked blankly at me.

“You described him to me a couple of times, James, so you must remember. What was he wearing that night in the alley? You said you saw the gun. You said you saw his face. What was he wearing?”

James was trembling all over.

“Focus, Dee,” Mr. Derrick said. “Focus.”

“What was he wearing, James?”

That's when James did what I was afraid he would do: he turned to his dad.

“It's him, right, Dad?” he said. “He's the one, right?”

“Of course it's him,” Mr. Derrick said. “I saw him running away from the alley.”

“What about you, James?” I said. “What did you see?”

“I just told you what he saw,” Mr. Derrick said.

“You told me what you saw,” I said. I looked at James. “What did you see, James?”

The hand holding the gun wavered again and then lowered.

“I don't know,” he said softly.

Mr. Derrick grabbed my arm and, leaning heavily on his cane, tried to yank me to my feet.

“James, you said in court that the man you saw was wearing a blue plaid shirt,” I said. “But Eddy Leonard wasn't. The night Gregory was shot, other people saw him. He was wearing a tan windbreaker.”

James's shoulders slumped. He knew that already. I bet his dad had never let him forget it.

“You told me all about Greg,” I said. “You told me how he looked up at you. You told me that he looked surprised. But you didn't tell me how it happened. You didn't tell me why he got shot. How did it happen, James? Why did Greg get shot?”

The hand holding the gun dangled uselessly at James's side.

“I don't know,” he said.

Mr. Derrick held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Dee,” he said.

I stood up slowly. Derrick yanked the gun out of his son's hand.

“Greg was fooling around,” James said. He didn't seem to notice that his father had taken the gun away from him. “He was always fooling around. I had to grab him by the hand to get him to go with me to the car, like Dad said.” He looked at his dad. “You said to wait for you at the car. But Greg got away from me, and I got mad.” He looked at me. “So I hid from him. It was dark in the alley. I was going to jump out at him, scare him. I thought being alone in the dark would teach him a lesson.

“I heard a sound,” James continued. “It was like a door slamming. Then I heard footsteps—someone else in the alley. I couldn't see him from where I was hiding. But I could hear him. And I could see Greg from where I was hiding. I heard footsteps coming closer—and I guess Greg thought it was me. Before I could do anything, I heard him yell, ‘Freeze, you're dead!' That's when I heard a shot. Then another. Greg thought he was being smart. He thought he could scare me. But instead he startled the man ... and the man shot him. I saw the gun. I saw Greg fall.”

I looked him in the eyes. “Did you see the man at all, James? Did you get a look at his face?”

James looked at the floor. He shook his head.

The room was silent.

Then his dad said, “You said you saw what happened. You said you saw the man.”

Eddy Leonard shook his head. “It wasn't me. I swear it wasn't me.”

“You said you saw him,” James said. “You told me what he looked like. You said he was the one. So I—”

“You gave the police the description your dad gave you,” I said.

James's eyes were glistening. He looked at his father. “I said what you told me. I couldn't tell you what really happened. I thought you'd be mad. I tried to look after him, Dad. But you know how he could be. He ran away from me. I'm sorry. I'm so sor—”

Smack!
Mr. Derrick slapped James hard, sending him reeling. Derrick was holding the gun and his cane in the same hand.

“James!” I said. “James, you can't do this. You can't let him do this. It's wrong. It's—”

James lunged at his dad and tried to wrench the gun from his hand.

Blam!

I jumped. James and his dad stood staring at each other, their faces white. James reached for the gun again and pulled it without resistance out of his father's hand. He gave it to me.

“Get it out of here,” he said. Tears trickled down his face as he turned back to his dad.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Mr. Derrick leaned heavily against the counter, his head bowed. Eddy Leonard looked at me and at the gun in my hand. He staggered to his feet.

I carried the gun out of the house, went straight to James's car, and retrieved my phone from the backseat. It was turned off—and I'd promised my father that I would keep it on. I switched it on. There were three messages, all from my dad. I dialed his number. My hands were shaking.

“Robbie,” he said when he answered. “I've been trying to reach you. Are you okay?” I barely noticed the urgency in his voice. I was just glad to be speaking to him.

“I have a gun,” I said. “It's loaded. I don't know what to do with it.”

“A gun? What's going on? What happened?”

“I'm outside,” I said. “At James's place near Harris. James and his dad are inside. Dad, Eddy Leonard is here.”

“Are you hurt, Robbie?”

“No.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“The police are on their way. They should be there soon.”

It didn't occur to me to ask how that could be.

“Don't hang up. Stay on the phone with me until the police arrive,” he said. “We'll be there in twenty minutes.”

It didn't occur to me to ask who he meant by “we,” either.

“Are you safe, Robbie? Is anyone threatening you?”

“No, Dad.”

“Is there a place you can put the gun until the police get there? Somewhere no one will be able to find it?”

There was an outcropping of rocks a few feet away. I walked over to it and hid the gun between two enormous boulders.

Eddy Leonard came out of the house and blinked in the late morning sun.

“Are you okay?” he called to me.

I nodded.

He hovered on the porch, uncertain, until he came down the steps and stood on the dust and gravel.

“The police are coming,” I said.

“I didn't do anything.”

“I know.”

The house behind him was silent. Neither James nor his dad had emerged. I started across the yard toward the porch.

“You should stay clear,” Leonard said. “That man, the father, he's carrying around a lot of hate.”

I think that's why I climbed the porch steps. I had seen that hate. I had seen what it had driven him to do. They were in there, just the two of them, and it was too quiet.

I opened the door and went inside. James was sitting on the stairs in the front hall, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked up when I came through the door, and I saw that he had been crying.

“Where's your dad, James?”

James stared blankly at me for a moment before he said, “In the kitchen, I think.”

“Are you okay?” I said.

“I should have been watching him. If I'd been watching him, if I hadn't played that stupid trick on him, he would still be alive. It never would have happened.”

“You don't know that, James.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I do.” His face was ashen. His eyes looked huge. “I wasn't driving that day,” he said.

“What are you talking about? What day?”

“My dad was driving. We'd just come back from the cemetery, from visiting my mom. He was so different, Robyn. After my mom died, he was so different. He hardly ever spoke to me. He hated me, I know he did. He said he didn't want to live anymore. He said he'd lost everyone important to him—that he had no reason to live. He was driving the car when it crashed—my dad, not me.”

I stared at him. He couldn't possibly be telling me what I thought he was telling me.

“I was in the hospital for a long time. So was my dad,” he said. “I think that's when he decided. He wanted to come back here. He wanted to get the guy who shot Greg. And he wanted me to help him. He said I owed him.” He shook his head. “We moved back to town, and I came up here in the summer and followed Leonard around. I found out about his habits, what he did, so that my dad could figure out how to get him to our place.”

He let out a long, mournful sigh. “When my dad got that job in Australia, I thought that was the end of it. I'd go with him, make sure he got settled. Then I'd go to college somewhere. I'd make a new life. I didn't know he was going to be here today, Robyn. I told him I was coming up here with you to clean the place, like he wanted. But he didn't tell me he was going to be here. You have to believe me. I didn't know what he was going to do.”

“I believe you, James.” I glanced down the hallway that led to the back of the house. Then I heard the sound of a car approaching and went to the door to look out. My phone was still in my hand. I lifted it to my ear.