Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (38 page)

"You do all this?"

He lowered his hands, gauging my expression, staring at me with that dumbfounded look. I noticed the thin sheen of sweat on his face and arms. He'd been working frantically, looking for something. "People talk about you, McKane, say you're out there, maybe a closet fruit, so I figured you might have a journal or a diary or something.”

“Why?”

“To see what you knew about...that night."

I took a tentative step toward him; he, in turn, took a tentative step back. "So you were there."

"My life's on the fucking line here, McKane. The Brickmeyers are already floating the idea that we killed that boy. I didn’t. I know they said you was involved somehow, but I don’t believe that, neither."

"Jeffrey Brickmeyer's got a completely different idea of what happened."

"He's fucking lying, man. I swear. We roughed the Laveau boy up a little bit, trying to get something useful out of him, but the way he looked the night he was killed, somebody really put the wood to him. He was unrecognizable as human."

I lowered my hands completely. “That’s going to be a hard defense to manage.”

"We hit him, but only with the intention that he come out and talk about being Jeffrey's bottom, get him to say that Leland knew and hid it from the public to help his own career. You know people in Georgia wouldn't take to that. It'd ruin him. Ronald knew that."

"How did Ronald find out?"

"Caught the two of them together. He was out on patrol."

"And the reason you're here."

"I had to find out what you saw. Ronald hoped the Brickmeyers would keep all of this secret, cover it all up, but then the paper came out today, and, well, shit I figured I had nothing to lose."

"I don’t have a record of that night."

"It's just, well, God, such a damn
weird
thing to say in public. Out loud to somebody. Ronald don't even know I saw what I did. I was too freaked out to even tell
him
."

"He'll find out soon enough. What
did
you see?"

"What?"

"I know what I witnessed. What did you see out there? It might be different."

"Shit, I don't know. It was like dropping a television in the tub. I saw a commotion, and red lights, and people being dragged down into hell. I saw me and my brother, and I saw two black fellas get blown away and dragged outta the Boogie House by their necks. That place is cursed, man. I ain't never heard of nothing like that in all my life."

It was completely different from what I'd seen. "Did you recognize any of the men from the hallucination?"

"What?"

"Their
faces
. Did you see their faces?"

He sputtered, trying to fake an incredulous laugh. "I tried
not
to see what was happening. I thought I was losing my damn mind."

"But did you see them?"

"The people's faces? No. They was just smudged. Blurry, you know, like a picture taken at dusk where everybody's moving. It was all just a blur. Is that what you saw, McKane? You see the same thing as me, or am I going crazy?"

"I think everybody around here's gone a bit crazy," I said.

"Ain't that the truth." He placed his hands on his hips. "Ron tricked me. Told me he'd get my warrants taken off the books if I helped him."

"If you kidnapped Laveau."

"Right. But I swear on my life, McKane, we didn't do nothing but slap him around some. We ain't killed him. Somebody framed us, came in behind us and killed him off."

I stared him square in the eyes, thinking about the pictures randomly sent to the police department. "Well, I reckon that's something you'll have to explain to a lawyer," I said, intending only to mean he’d have to talk about this
sometime
.

However, his expression changed immediately. He became beet red, his whole body rigid, and his eyebrows converged to a single black line above half-opened eyes.

“No,” he said. He was gearing up to whoop my ass.

I knew I didn't have a chance if he got going, so I tried to catch him before he got charged up. I didn't have time to lunge for my piece - which was under the bed - so I took two quick steps and smashed him in the face as hard as I could.

The punch just seemed to wake him up, to distract him. He rubbed his jaw with one hand, staring at me, though his expression had smoothed out somewhat.

But it hadn’t. It was like the threat of a fight calmed him.

The impact of his fist sent me into another plane of existence. I had to blink to stay conscious. He had a hell of a right hand, and it knocked me to the floor, onto the pointed edge of one of my drawers, just out of reach of my weapon. I managed to stay aware enough to reach for the pistol case. I thought I was about to get the worst beating of my life.

But that didn't happen. H.W. ran from the room, and I listened to his thunderous footsteps as he disappeared down the hall.

I retrieved the .45 and followed him, swaying punch-drunkenly on my feet. No sign of him. I got to the end of the hall and flipped the light on.

The front door hung wide open, and I've got to be honest: I didn't want to go through it. Not at all. Still, I crossed the living room and edged up toward the door, watching for any sudden movement. None came. I swung around and peered outside. Nothing.

My entire body seemed like it was buzzing with a faint electricity. The yard lay empty, deathly still. I couldn't hear the big man lumbering off into the distance but still I had to make one last appeal to him. "Hey," I screamed, "I'm not gonna turn you in. Come back and talk to me."

I went off into the front yard and ran toward the road. Every few steps I glanced behind me, keeping the .45 handy. I tripped once and nearly fell but managed to keep my feet despite the darkness.

It was about the time that I reached the road that I saw the faint glow of taillights, but they were nowhere near. H.W. had stashed his vehicle down the road a ways so he could escape through the woods. His truck disappeared around the curve, and I backtracked to the house, fumbling for my keys. They weren’t in my pocket.

I went back inside, thinking I might have dropped them on the table next to the door, but they weren’t there, either. The bedroom yielded no keys, too.

When I went back outside, I noticed that my car - Jarvis Garvey’s, really - wasn’t parked in the driveway. I walked over to where it had been and stared at the dirt on the ground as if I might find it there.

H.W. had an accomplice, probably his brother, who snatched the car while the two of us were talking. It had to have been an impromptu theft, because they hadn’t planned on me showing up.

I sighed. It wasn’t my car and wasn’t worth the time it would take to find it, but I was pissed. Why take the fucking car? What purpose would that serve? What were the Bullens going to do, drive it into the Brickmeyers’ kitchen?

Back in the bedroom, I dialed Deuce's number, nestling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I cleaned up some of the mess. The junk strewn about my bed needed a place to go until the morning.

When Deuce picked up, I told him about what happened, told him to keep it from the police, and then I closed my phone and lay in my messy bedroom, pressing a frozen bag of peas to my swollen and throbbing eye. I suddenly had the urge to talk to Vanessa. In sobering up, she had become so zen about this world, more objective. It was as though she could see truth for truth’s sake, and I needed that stability.

But who knew where she was. My eyes fixed on an uncertain dark point on the ceiling, and I stared at it, waiting for headlights to appear, until my own lights went out.

*  *  *

Emmitt Laveau wasn't the only person to visit me in my dreams that night. This time I ended up in the Boogie House during an elaborate party, bumping into people long dead. I stood with my back to the bar and listened to the tinkle of shot glasses and the inexplicable roar of laughter.

A group of people parted, and I saw Vanessa in the center of the dance floor, hands clasped behind her back, smiling sweetly across at me. She seemed - like the others - to glow, and I followed the illumination to her.

I leaned into her and we danced, turning slowly with the gentle back-and-forth rhythm of the piano. The song was slower but not quite bluesy. More of a traditional jazz ballad, and it lent itself to slow-dancing. "I'm going to miss you," she said. Her voice tickled my ear.

"I didn't mean to make you mad," I admitted. "Please don't go away. I still love you."

"I love you, too," she said. "But that's not all that matters. You can't repeat the past, Rol. It never works out."

I nodded, and wetness stained the shoulder of her dress. I said, "I'll be here when you're ready to come back. The house will always be there."

"The Boogie House is nothing but ashes," she replied.

I tried to tell her that wasn't the house I was thinking of, but then I saw who was playing the piano and stopped. Emmitt Laveau was stooped forward, his hands moving deftly over the keys. "Give me a moment," I said, and then I went over to where he was playing.

I turned and caught one last glimpse of Vanessa before the crowd swallowed her again. She was beautiful, unmarked by her addiction. She was the person I always imagined in my mind when I thought of her, young and pretty and elegant - innocent - and the way she smiled then would stay with me forever.

I waved and turned my attention to Emmitt.

"Hey, partner," he said, not looking up. "I'm lucky to be playing at all, or for you to be hearing it, for that matter."

"Why's that?" I asked, watching his fingers. The song was slow and sweet and sad, and the people in The Boogie House murmured with the music.

"I'm six feet under the earth. Do you even realize how loud this must be in the graveyard?"

"I'm going to find your killer," I said.

He smirked. "I know."

He added a little flourish to the melody, and I admired the way his hands moved. I almost got caught up in the music, felt the swell almost pull me away. I had to force myself back into the conversation.

"I think the Bullens did it. I think they tried to frame Leland Brickmeyer with it to get their land back. Or something like that."

"Seems about right. I'll just stay here, if you don't mind. I’m real busy right now."

"That's okay."

“The longer I keep playing, the longer they let me stay. Whenever I stop, I can feel the darkness coming in closer on me. So I don’t. I don’t stop playing, ‘cuz I like it here, and I’d rather not leave.”

“I understand that,” I said.

“I won’t like the alternative. I don’t think anybody does, and that’s why they stay here. They figure if they stop, then the party stops, too.”

“Nope, I guess not. You don’t have an opinion on me finding out who killed you?”

“That’s my mama, I reckon. Not much I can do from here. Maybe it’ll change my situation, and maybe not. It’d be better, I suppose, if you found out. Might help you, and it might help mama out, but it’s no consequence. Plus, I don’t know if I want to know what exactly happened to me.”

“But it might keep the darkness away.”

“Nope,” he said, banging away on the keys a little bit harder. “The darkness always comes around, no matter what you do. You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”

I hadn’t considered that. “I guess you’re right,” I said.

"Lotta good I am. I can't even help you out. But at least you know where to find me."

"Is there something you want me to tell Jeffrey?"

But he didn't respond. He just smiled and kept on playing. I felt the others crowding in on me. Turning on me. When I glanced back, Vanessa had disappeared, and in her wake stood a group of shuffling party goers, staring unhappily in mine and Emmitt’s direction.

I thought I might have a word with Vanessa before I was dragged out of my dream, but she was nowhere to be found.

I tried to rush back to the center of the dance floor, but the crowd converged, blocking me in. I tried to find her dress, or glimpse her hair, but she had gone away, and I went to my knees, trying to peer between the feet of other dancers for a sign of her light blue glow. But I didn’t see anything at all.

*  *  *

I got the call from Vanessa’s dad just before dawn. I answered without checking the number. "Deuce, hey, anything new?" I asked.

It wasn't Deuce. D.L.'s voice sounded ragged, the chain rattling on an old fence. "She overdosed. Found her this morning." He paused. "She's gone, Rol."

As if to put a finer point on it, he added, "She's dead."

By some miracle of will, I managed to hang on to the phone long enough to press the little red
end
button. The phone beeped and then died.

Outside, a dry breeze kicked through the pines, the clouds above threatening rain, and the branches clicked on the side of the house.