Forever Man (7 page)

“Couldn’t you have just turned them off?”

“It wouldn’t have been the same.” His voice was so low she had to lean in to hear him. “Don’t ask me why, but it wouldn’t have been the same.”

“Okay, then why are they on the floor?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Natalie,” he said. “I was afraid that she would come back—a dead, shuffling, shambling
thing
—and that she would accuse me, the man who was supposed to keep her safe, to protect her, of failing. I was afraid she would take me away and make me suffer for letting her die.” He shivered. “The light bulbs were there to warn me.

“Now, go away and leave me alone.”

Then he buried his face into the pillow.

Izzy wanted to tell him that Natalie wasn’t coming for him, that it was his own misplaced guilt that stalked him, but decided that it would be heaping cruelty upon his own self-inflicted punishment.

She got up and started picking up the light bulbs. It wouldn’t take her long to replace them.

There was already enough darkness in her life. She wasn’t going to live in it.

*   *   *

Eugene Vincent prided himself on being pretty laid back. He wasn’t surprised by much of anything. But now he stood behind his bar, a look of astonishment on his face.

Owens had plugged in his guitar—an expensive-looking Martin acoustic with custom pickups—into the amp. The Music Man wasn’t intended for an acoustic guitar, but Owens had fiddled with the knobs along the front casing until he was satisfied. After tuning up the guitar, he’d started to play. And the man played well. Very well.

He’d opened with Fats Domino’s “Ain’t That a Shame.” But instead of the usual upbeat, swing rhythm, he’d slowed it down, added breaks that weren’t in the original, and gave it a bluesy feel.

The next five songs were also classic oldies hits. Again, they were transformed by the fingers and voice of Bart Owens into something deeper, more emotional.

Then the man shifted to rock songs. He changed the tuning on his guitar and slid into a slow, soulful rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “The Rain Song.” After a Stones’ and a Beatles’ tune, he launched into a jumping, rockabilly version of J.J. Cale’s “After Midnight.”

When he finished the song, Owens took a sip of water from a bottle sitting on the amp. He talked to the crowd for the first time that night.

“Thank you all for being here tonight. Hope you’re enjoying the music. I’m going to take a brief break. Be right back.”

He walked off the stage and headed for the restroom.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gene said, mostly to himself.

“Can’t you get some real music in here?” came an unexpected reply.

Gene looked down at the end of the bar. Denny Cain glared back at him.

Denny had wandered into the Lula early that evening. Gene had wondered why the man was here and not home with his wife but figured it was none of his business. He’d given Denny two drinks and all the food the man had wanted, on the house. But Denny—having found his drinking buddy Chet Boardman—had downed one scotch after another, matched by Chet’s bourbon and cola. Feeling sorry for the guy, Gene had let the drinking go on longer than he should have; after all, the man had just lost his only child. But both were now pretty plowed and he’d cut them off.

Gene walked down to Denny and Chet. He stopped in front of them and put his elbows on the bar top. Leaning in close, he asked, “You got a problem, Denny?”

Denny blinked slowly. Grief and alcohol had etched red lines into the whites of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble gave his face a haggard, sunken look.

“Problem?” Denny replied. “Yeah, Gene, I gotta problem. You see, my son’s dead, all ripped to shreds and lying in a morgue. I ain’t never gonna see him again. So hell yeah, I gotta
huge
fucking problem.”

“Fuckin’ problem,” Chet chimed in drunkenly.

Other customers looked over at them. Gene said, “Keep your voices down, okay? Now, can I get you guys something else to eat? Some coffee, maybe.”

“Don’t want nothing,” complained Denny. He glanced over to the stage. “But you can tell
him
to stop squawking.”

Gene frowned. “Who, Owens? Come on, the guy’s good. Easily the best musician I’ve had in here. Not my fault if you don’t like the music.”

“It ain’t the music,” clarified Denny somewhat blearily. “It’s him.”

“I’m not following,” said Gene. “What’s your beef with Owens?”

Denny glared at Gene. “You saw that mark near his eye. That teardrop thing. I ain’t stupid, Gene. I seen stuff like that on television, on those cop shows. That’s a prison tattoo. The guy’s been locked up.”

“You don’t know that,” countered Gene, though he’d had similar thoughts earlier in the day. “And even if it’s true, that has nothing to do with him working here. As long as he minds his own business, I’ve got no problem with him.”

“I knew he was trouble,” said Chet, “from the moment I saw him.”

“And you,” Gene said, jabbing a finger at Chet, “can quit stirring the pot.”

Chet sat quietly, sliding his empty glass back and forth across the bar, first to one hand, then to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. His eyes followed the glass. “I thought you wanted a real musician. I didn’t think you was gonna bring in one of them.”

So that was it, Gene thought. And I thought I’d left that garbage behind in Chicago. “Chet, you don’t need to go there.”

Then Denny Cain finished it. “You brought in a nigger.”

“My kid’s dead and what does that asshole do? He throws
me
out!” Denny shoved one hand down his jacket pocket, fumbled around, and came up empty. His other hand was no more successful than the first. “Where the fuck are my car keys?”

“Gene took ‘em,” Chet replied. “Yours and mine, remember? We’re walkin’ tonight.”

Denny didn’t remember. Truth be told, after he’d gone to see his boy, he didn’t remember much of anything. His day in hell had started late this morning with the visit from Chief Morris. The woman had broken the news about Jimmy’s death. Then things got worse. Maddie, after learning that her boy was dead, had taken down every dish, plate, saucer, glass, knife, fork and spoon from the cupboards and washed them—every single damn one of them. And when she was done with them, she’d piled that crap on the floor and proceeded to wipe down all the cupboards and counters. Then Denny had gotten the call: could someone come over to the hospital and positively identify the deceased’s remains? He’d asked Maddie if she wanted to go. At the time, she was scrubbing the ceiling with a brush and a bucket of undiluted Pine-Sol. With a flick of her wrist, she’d nailed him point blank on the top of his head with the brush. Well, having gotten his answer, Denny drove alone to the hospital. And when the doctor pulled back the sheet, when Denny saw what had been done to his son, he ran to the nearest sink and threw up until he got the dry heaves. After that, the rest of the day was a smudge of memory.

But now, in the cold clarity of the night, Denny’s alcohol-hazed brain
pushed
, a thought advanced—and the smudge was gone as completely as if it had been scrubbed away by Maddie’s mad brush.

He knew who’d killed his boy. It had to be.
Goddammit
, it was so simple. Why hadn't anyone else figured it out?

“He did it.”

“Who did it?” Chet asked as he continued to lead Denny out of the parking lot. “I mean, who did what?”

“That guy. Owens. He did it. He killed my boy.”

Chet Boardman stopped walking. He let go of Denny’s arm. “You ain’t serious.”

“That damn nigger killed him.”

“Come on, Denny. That’s crazy. The man looks like trouble, sure, but—”

“He’s an ex-con,” Denny said, his voice hot enough to raise blisters on asphalt. “He came into town, killed Jimmy, and now he’s in there singing.” He gestured toward the Lula. “Like nothing happened. How fucking arrogant can you get?”

“Christ, you’ve lost your mind. Seriously, who’d kill someone and then hang around, in public, while the cops are investigatin’? It don’t make no sense.”

“Excuse me, fellas,” said a new voice.

Denny turned. A Chevy Silverado sat in the entrance to the Lula’s parking lot, blocking any potential traffic. Under the harsh glow of a nearby streetlamp, the truck looked colorless; it could’ve been white or silver, or perhaps even light blue. A man sat in the cab. His left arm hung outside the window, a cigarette dangling casually from between his fingers. Shadows concealed his face.

“Sorry to bother you,” the stranger continued, “but I thought you fellas might need a lift. Especially you.” The man flicked cigarette ashes in Denny’s direction. “You look like shit.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and drew in deeply, then blew smoke out from a wide smile that Denny could barely see from within the cab’s shadows.

“How’d you know we were walking?” asked Denny.

“Good ears,” replied the stranger. “So, you guys up for it?”

“No thanks,” Chet said hastily. “We’re fine.”

Denny was about to agree—who took rides from strangers anymore?—when the man stuck his other hand out the window. He was holding an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold. It was the good stuff, the
expensive
stuff. The stuff Denny couldn’t afford on his wages.

“Hold on,” he told Chet, placing a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The man’s just being polite. Maybe we should catch a ride home. After all, the night’s gettin’ cold.”

“Are you outta your mind?” Chet said, almost shouting. “You don’t need more trouble tonight. I’m telling you, let’s just walk.”

“Fellas,” the stranger said. “This is a limited time offer. Either partake now or forever hold your regrets.”

Denny found himself walking toward the truck. Chet tagged along behind him, continuing to jabber on about how this was a bad idea.

Denny spun around. “Look, I’ve had a real shitty day. Worst goddamn day of my life. I just want to drink a little more and forget. Is that such a bad thing?”

“No,” Chet said, his expression softening. “It’s not. So let’s go drink, but not with
him
. I mean, who drives up in the middle of the night and offers two strangers a ride and that kind of booze? Doesn’t that set off any warning bells?”

Under other circumstances, it may have. But Denny’s warning bells had been rung earlier in the day, rung hard, rung until his damn ears almost bled. He was deaf to anything else. All he could think of now was getting so bombed that the image of his dead son faded from memory.

“I’m going with him,” Denny said flatly. “Either come along or shut up.”

Chet looked like he was about to say something, to argue his point further. Then he threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Have it your way. At least it’ll be two against one if he tries anything…queer.”

The stranger looked pleased. “Good to see you boys have reached an accord. Hop on in.”

Together, they walked over to the SUV and climbed in.

The Silverado pulled out of the parking lot, turned smoothly onto the road leading back into town, and was eventually swallowed by the night.

Sunday

The October morning was overcast. Slate-and-ash-colored clouds had rolled in and chased away the morning sunshine. Along the hiking trail, trees defined and limited the terrain—they huddled closely together, arm in arm, conspiring to keep the ground soft and muddy. The decaying leaves gave the air a musty, wet smell that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Crying softly, Katie Bethel stepped between two trees. She was only dimly aware of the other volunteers scouring the area where Jimmy’s body had been found. So far, they had searched either side of the trail, starting at the campground’s parking lot and ending here, where the tragedy had taken place—without success. They had moved quietly through the woods, treading solemnly, eyes downcast, as if they were praying for a miracle.

Perhaps they were.

“Excuse me,” said a voice next to her.

Katie’s head snapped up. A man stood there. One of the volunteers—along with Sgt. Talbert, Mr. Vincent and several high school friends assigned to search this part of the woods. She wiped her tears with muddy hands.

“I’m sorry—who are you?” she asked nervously.

The man gave her a peculiar little bow. “Bart Owens. I work at the Lula. Mr. Vincent brought me along to help.” He gestured to her tears. “I saw you were crying. Are you okay? Do you need me to get somebody?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, taking a cautious step away from the man.

“This kind of thing is never easy,” Mr. Owens continued, nodding to the searchers milling about. “You hope to find something, but you’re also afraid of what you might find.”

Frowning, her tears momentarily forgotten, she studied the man more carefully. He was taller than she, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. He wore jeans and a heavy nylon jacket that he had zipped up to ward against the brisk morning air. His face seemed pleasant enough, with high cheekbones and an angular jaw. His dark skin was smooth, perhaps a little too smooth for someone his age, and she wondered briefly if he was yet another citizen of the Botox nation. And then there were his eyes: so blue, like the sky on a hot August day. His only disturbing feature was a small teardrop he’d had tattooed under his left eye; it seemed out of place to her, almost as if he were purposefully drawing attention to it.

“You’ve done this before?” she asked.

Mr. Owens nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. He offered it to her. “You have a little mud on your face.”

Katie gazed down at her mud-stained hands. Horrified, she grabbed the handkerchief and scrubbed at her cheeks. By the time she had finished, the white cloth was streaked with brown dirt. She held it out with a trembling hand. “All I seem to do today is cry.”

“‘To weep is to make less the depth of grief.’” Mr. Owens took back his handkerchief. “Everyone should know a little Shakespeare. And luckily, I knew it’d be muddy out here. I came prepared.” He pulled out another handkerchief and handed it to her. “I take it you know the girl we’re looking for?”