Good Day In Hell (21 page)

He looked at her for the first time. He pitched his voice low as well. “What?”

She glanced at the door again. “Nothing happened, Stan. We didn’t do nothing.”

He snorted and looked back at the TV. “Right.”

“I mean it, Stan,” she said. “He’s havin’ one of his spells.”

Stan sat up. “Just what is it that he’s sick with?”

“There was somethin’ wrong with the water back at his old place. Some kind of poison in the ground. He thinks it gave him cancer. In his brain. It’s why he gets the headaches. It’s one reason he’s so mad.”

“So why did you—” Before Stan could finish, the bedroom door opened and Roy came out. “You get any rest?” he said to Stan.

“Yeah,” Stan said. “A little.”

“Good,” Roy said. He looked at the TV.

“Hey, it’s quarter ‘til eleven,” he said. “Turn on Channel Ten.”

Stan looked at him, then tossed him the remote. “Here,” he said. “Change it yourself.”

Roy caught the remote in the air. He gave Stan a hard look, but didn’t say anything as he pressed the button.

The anchor on the screen was a young white guy with capped teeth and perfectly coiffed brown hair. “Hey,” Roy said. “Where’s that Chinese girl? The one who gave us her number?” No one answered.

“God damn it,” Roy fumed. “Where the hell…”

Stan held up a hand to silence him. The graphic that seemed to hang in the air over the anchor’s shoulder said “Shooting Investigation.” Roy shut up and thumbed the volume control.

“Police and federal investigators have confirmed a definite link between the shootings at a rural church and the massacre at a diner this past Friday,” the anchor said.

“All right,” Roy said with evident satisfaction. “The feds.”

The anchor went on. “Ballistics evidence has shown that the same military-style weapons were used in both shootings. Law enforcement officials however, continue to reassure the public that these acts are not the work of foreign terrorists.”

“Damn straight,” Roy said. “I ain’t no fuckin’ towelhead.”

The anchor had moved on to a story about local football, then went to a commercial.

“Not bad,” Roy said. “But where’s the Chinese chick?”

Stan crossed the room and picked up the cell phone lying on top of the TV. The battery was dead. “Well, we can’t call her on this. Unless we pick up a recharger.”

“We can stop at a Wal-Mart on our way out,” Roy said. “We’re leavin’ in an hour. You might want to fix yourself somethin’ to eat. It’s gonna be a long drive.”

“Where are we going?” Stan said.

Roy grinned. “Time for scene three.” He walked to the door. Stan watched his back for a few moments, his eyes narrowed, appraising. Then he got up and followed.

Marie came out of the interview room rubbing her eyes. The FBI agent who had conducted what he called a “debriefing” had been polite but relentless. He had taken every statement Marie had made and quizzed her about it from every possible angle, poking at every perceived inconsistency, all the while apologizing for doing so. She felt wrung out, like her brain had been squeezed for every scrap of information. And this is how they treat the people on their side, she thought wryly. I could really use a cup of coffee. She headed toward the squad room, hoping against hope that there was something left besides bitter bottom-of-the-pot dregs.

As she approached the squad-room door, she heard voices. One was raised, agitated.

“It ain’t right, doggone it,” the voice was saying. “It ain’t right, an’ you know it.” Wardell, she thought. The other voice came back, deeper, tired-sounding. “I know, Tom,” he was saying. By then, Marie had reached the door and pushed it open.

Wardell and Shelby were sitting across a flimsy-looking folding table, each of them hunched over a Styrofoam cup. They looked up as Marie came into the room, then quickly looked away. Oh shit, Marie thought. This can’t be good.

“Hey,” she said as she walked over to the coffeepot on another nearby table. Both of them mumbled their responses. The pot was full with fresh brew. Thank God for small favors, Marie thought. She poured herself a cup and sat down at the table with Wardell and Shelby. Neither had spoken since she came into the room.

“So,” she said. “From the look of you two, I’m thinking someone’s got some bad news.”

Shelby finally looked at her. “Lieutenant says he wants to see you. As soon as you got done with the FBI guy.”

Marie took a sip of coffee. She leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling, stretching her neck. “Great,” she said. “Looks like our boy Garrett scored some points.”

“It’s only an administrative suspension,” Shelby said. “With pay. Just till the SBI can investigate the, uh …”

“The brutality complaint,” Marie said.

Shelby gulped his coffee. “Yeah,” he said. “And Garrett’s filing a lawsuit. Against you and the department.”

She shook her head. “This day just gets better and better.”

“It ain’t right,” Wardell muttered. “I was there. I saw ever’thing. I been with this department for years. They oughta believe me.”

Marie smiled at him. “I know you went to bat for me, Sarge,” she said. “I appreciate it. And they’ll believe both of us. Eventually.”

“Hey, Jones,” Shelby said with forced joviality. “It’ll be like a vacation. Paid time off, girl. Can’t hardly beat that.”

She looked at him. “You feel like taking any vacation time right now, Shelby?”

The fake smile left his face. “Naw,” he said as he looked away. “Sorry.”

She reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay.” The three of them looked into their coffee cups, silently contemplating whatever it was they saw there. Finally, Marie spoke.

“You know, I grew up wanting to be a cop. Like my dad. I thought he was Batman, Superman, Starsky, and Hutch all rolled into one. I couldn’t think of anything better than to be like him.” She took a sip of her coffee. “And I love it, you know? I really love this job. But somehow, it’s like it doesn’t love me.”

Shelby looked alarmed. “What are you thinking of, Jones?” he said.

She finished off the coffee. “Nothing, Shelby,” she said. “I’m just tired.” She heard the door of the squad room open behind her. “Deputy Jones?” the lieutenant said. “I need to speak with you a minute.” As she stood up, Shelby spoke.

“Don’t do anything you can’t undo, Jones,” he said. “You’re a good officer. This’ll blow over. Don’t throw it all away.”

“Thanks, Shelby,” she said. “I’ll think about it.” She squared her shoulders and followed the lieutenant into his office.

The sharp trilling of the cell phone jarred Grace out of sleep. She stuck her hand out from beneath the covers and flailed for a moment until she found the phone. She lost her grip on it for a moment and it clattered to the floor. “Fuck,” she muttered. She flung the covers off, sat up, and picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said.

“Why weren’t you on the news tonight?” The voice was male, deep, with a distinct Eastern North Carolina accent.

“Is this who I think it is?” she replied.

“Don’t know. Who do you think it is?”

There was a half-empty bottled water on her nightstand. Her hands were shaking with excitement as she picked it up and took a drink. “One pretty angry guy,” Grace said.

There was a pause. “You got that right,” the voice said finally. “So why weren’t you on TV?”

“Had a little disagreement with my producer,” she said. “You might say I got a little pissed off myself.”

Another long pause. “You won’t be no good to me if you’re fired.”

“I’m not fired. Like I say, it’ll pass.” Especially if I get an interview with you, she thought. “So what are you mad about, Mister … what do you want me to call you, anyway?”

Another pause. “What are they calling me?”

“Who?”

“The cops. Other reporters. They give me a name yet?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, like the Green River Killer. The Boston Strangler.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Uh, no. Not that I know of.”

A slight chuckle. “Well, it’s still early. They’ll think of something.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She took a sip of water. “What do you want to be called?”

This time the silence went on so long that Grace thought she’d lost the connection. “I create scenes. I imagine them in my head, then I make ‘em come true.”

“So you’re like a writer.”

There was a derisive snort of laughter. “Hell, no. Who the fuck cares about the writer? I put everything together. They’re my productions beginning to end.”

“So you’re the producer?”

“Good as anything else.”

“Look, Mister Producer,” Grace said. “You don’t have to hurt anybody else. You’ve got our attention. If you want to tell your story, just tell it to me. I’ll get it out.”

“I ain’t got nearly enough attention yet. That’s about to change though. Right about now.”

“What do you mean?” That chuckle again. This time it made Grace shiver. “It’s show time, folks.”

“Wait!” Grace yelled, but the line was dead. She looked at the clock. It was 5:30 A.M.

Roy snapped the cell phone shut. “Pull over,” he said to Stan, who was behind the wheel.

“What’s going on?” Stan said as he steered the car onto the rough shoulder of the road. Fields stretched out on either side, bordered by groves of trees.

“You said you wanted a bigger part,” Roy said. His voice was almost jovial, like an uncle giving out a special sweet. “You wanted to do more than drive. Now’s your chance.” He turned to the back of the van. “Laurel, baby,” he said. “You remember what to do?”

“Sure, Roy,” Laurel said. “You sure you don’t want to—”

“Naw,” Roy said. He slid out of the passenger side. “You kids have fun. Leave the driving to me.”

Stan slid to the back as Roy took the wheel. Laurel handed him one of the M-14s.

“Remember like I showed you, sweetie,” she whispered as they pulled back onto the road.

Stan could feel his heart racing. “I don’t know where we’re going,” he whispered back.

“Look up ahead,” Roy said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Stan looked out the front window. The road had widened to four lanes. Then he saw the building.

It was a massive windowless construction of steel walls and piping, rising and sprawling across acres of the flat land, as big as a mountain and as impersonal.
The long line of stopped cars pulled into the far right lane looked like toys in the shadow of that pitiless immensity. It was one of the first cool mornings of late fall, and the steam from the exhausts rose in the air behind the vehicles before evaporating in the sun, leaving only a shimmer of exhaust fumes that made the cars seem distorted, unreal, as if they too were getting ready to vanish into the dawn. A chain-link fence topped with barbed concertina wire ran along the road next to them. The line of cars reached all the way to a break in the fence several hundred yards ahead, where they turned right through the gate into a huge parking lot. Stan could see cars in the lot, people getting out, lights being turned off. As they approached the last car, Roy pulled into the center lane around it. With practiced ease, Laurel grabbed the door handle and pulled the van’s sliding door open.

A cold clammy blast of morning air and the throat-closing stench of exhaust fumes filled the cargo compartment along with the mutter and rumble of dozens of idling engines. Roy slowed as they passed the car, a beat-up old Plymouth Volare. They were only three feet away from the driver, a middle-aged woman with white hair and the copper-brown skin of a Lumbee Indian. Stan barely had time to register the look of surprise on the woman’s face before Laurel shot her in the head. The woman was slammed to the other side of the car, her brains and blood spraying from the open passenger window. Then they were alongside the next car, a Dodge Charger driven by a young black man in cornrows. He was looking back, craning his neck as he tried to determine the meaning of the loud noise behind him. Laurel shot him, too.

“Any time, Stan,” she yelled over the roar of the wind blowing through the open door.

Stan raised the rifle. He found himself looking down the barrel at another black man, older than the first, with graying hair. The man’s jaw dropped as he found himself facing the muzzle of a rifle. Then his face dissolved in red and white and gray as Stan’s shot struck him between the eyes.

Laurel whooped with excitement. The next car was filled with young Hispanic men, crowded into the car. “Slow down, Roy,” Laurel yelled, then she and Stan began firing. Stan saw one of his shots strike the throat of a fat brown-skinned
boy who looked no older than sixteen. The boy screamed and clawed at the gushing fountain of red that had suddenly appeared below his ear. Then they were past and pulling up to the next car. Stan began firing reflexively, almost mechanically, at the occupant of each new car that came into view. Faces contorted in fear became faces contorted in agony as his and Laurel’s shots struck home.

“Almost time,” Roy yelled.

Stan looked forward again. People had begun to figure out what was going on. Cars were trying to pull out of the line, some of them running into each other as the drivers panicked.