Last Call for the Living (15 page)

Clawing through a leafy detritus, Charlie cried out and rolled onto his back. He looked up at a tree split by lightning, a charred V forking the length of a great oak. He closed his eyes and rested.

Prompted by the patter of rain, he dragged himself into the nook of the split tree trunk. Lightning flickered. It began to rain harder. Something rattled from deep within the oak.

This will be as g-good a place to die as any,
he thought.

*   *   *

Exhaustion pulled Charlie
into a coffin-sized sleep. In his dreams leathery things slid over him, but they meant no harm. They welcomed him as one of their own. He felt cool air, cavernous air. The rattle persisted. As did the sensation of being overrun, his body negotiated like an obstacle.

REM sleep and
rockets … those were always the best dreams … in this one he held a competition model, balsa nose and fins with a standard payload packed inside. Next the separation joint, followed by the parachute, the wadding packed tight. Body tube feeling smooth to his fingertips. The thrust ring just above the motor. The specs of the nose base and nose tip appeared. Diagrams he would draw himself in the glorious light from his desk lamp. Protractor in hand, along with his favorite graphite pencil …

… jumping as dreams are wont to do … where a detailed scale of the tail floated in space, turning to allow a side view of the Tomahawk model. Scrolling like a movie's end credits … first the law of tangents … the triple-track tracker … the law of sines stating c
÷
sin(angle)C
=
b
÷
sin(angle)B
=
a
÷
sin(angle)A. All followed by vertical triangles that appeared on his dream screen like a psychedelic after-school special, dancing, spinning in place … jump-cutting … the apogee of a rocket against a blue sky, a bright yellow sun.

But then the sun turned black, as if it'd been flushed with ink.

*   *   *

He was dragged
by his ankles from the nook of that tree, a familiar voice cursing him. Charlie sensed sunlight behind him and desperately wanted to fall back asleep, to feel protected again. But those hands gripped him tighter. When he looked back at the split trunk he thought he saw the eyes of a snake, a tongue that flickered at him.

Like an old friend waving good-bye.

Hicklin lifted Charlie to his feet and cinched a rope around his neck.

It was dawn, the forest alive with
chacks
and whistles.

Hicklin yanked on the rope, causing Charlie to trip, his feet catching on the exposed roots of a box elder. They crossed another stream, sinking again into the silt, mucky water splashing with every step. Hicklin was mad as hell. That Charlie could tell.

They hiked in silence.

The cottage appeared ahead of them like a woodland mirage. Seventy, eighty yards away. That's all the ground he'd covered.
Swore it felt like ten miles last night.
Charlie's feet hurt terribly. The toes stubbed and stinging, the skin from nail to heel cracked.

The failure to escape depressed him the most. His temples throbbed. He tasted blood on his tongue. He reached behind him and felt a fresh bruise on his tailbone. Hicklin didn't look back once, pulling Charlie as though he were an afterthought, a chore to be carried out. There were a few moments where Charlie thought his head would come clean off.

As they neared the cottage Hicklin took off at a boot-camp trot. Despite Charlie's aching feet, he had no choice but to pick up his own pace. They stopped only once so he could vomit.

He ran a hand across his mouth, dropping to a knee so as to catch his breath among the tall, noble-looking pines. He glanced up. In the distance there was a plane. Maybe a 747, he thought. Boeing. Cruising at high altitude. Thin and flat against a blue canvas. Charlie wished he could say,
Hello.

Help.

Anything to attract their attention.

*   *   *

He knew how
to get to the plane. If only he had the means.

*   *   *

Hicklin tied him
to the chair again, the rope tight enough to chafe the skin. He smacked Charlie across the face, not speaking. As if an explanation for the beating would have been a waste of time.

Charlie heard Hummingbird whimpering behind him. There was a clatter of dishes. Moments later she offered Charlie a plate of ham and beans and a soda with a straw. He worked his jaw, wincing from the pain as, more blood collected in his mouth.

Hummingbird let him rinse his mouth out before she fed him with a plastic fork. He chewed quickly, painfully, chasing the food with big gulps of soda. Afterward she offered him two aspirin.

When he was finished eating she patted Charlie on the head, leaning in to kiss his cheek. The gesture had a mother's tenderness. He noticed how poor she looked, her skin blotchy, eyes dimly focused. She lit a cigarette and paced for a while, stopping every now and then to read something off the yellowing newspaper tacked over the windows.

Hicklin appeared later that afternoon. The living room floor had been swept, the cans and wrappers tossed, ashtrays emptied. His weapons were neatly arranged on the couch. Action open on the handgun, magazines loaded. The shotgun Charlie recognized from the robbery. Black. Oiled. Menacing. Hummingbird turned on the radio and sat down on the couch with her pipe.

Charlie fell asleep, mumbling to himself like a lunatic.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

 

They were married in the month of July.

It was a shotgun wedding.

They bought everything that the Lord ever sold.

Except the happy ending.

 

EIGHT

Sallie Crews walked
down a short hallway, nodding politely to two uncomfortable-looking detectives stirring sugar into their coffees. Police headquarters of a metro county. The air-conditioning broke overnight and the whole building filled with an oppressive mugginess by noon. Fans had been plugged into every available socket and succeeded only in circulating warm air around the Robbery-Homicide unit, the entire second floor humming noisily like the tarmac of a busy airport.

Crews paused outside the interrogation room. Took a breath and flipped a sign next to the door. It read:
Interview in Progress.

Inside, Izuarita Sandoval sat at a wooden table. They regarded each other for a moment. Crews handed Sandoval a Diet Coke, which the girl accepted gratefully. She rolled the cold soda can along her forehead and glanced toward the two-way mirror.

Crews sat down across from her, the chair creaking as she settled in. A fan in the corner made a grating metallic noise as it pivoted back and forth. Izuarita thought the room smelled steamy. It was transient, anonymous, like a doctor's office in a third-world country. She noticed a wire running along the edge of the mirror frame but didn't see a tape recorder or closed-circuit camera. Figured there had to be one somewhere.

Her skin glistened with sweat. There was acne faintly clustered around her cheekbones and chin, probably the reason for all the concealer. Despite the blemishes, Izuarita was a beautiful young woman, with dark Latin eyes and exotic features that wouldn't be out of place at the Copacabana. A space between her teeth was small enough to be considered cute.

She also had a decent helping of barrio attitude but was playing this one nice and sweet at the moment.

Izuarita took two sips from the Diet Coke. Said something in Spanish. Crews pretended not to understand.

“What's that, honey?”

“Nothing.”

“Thirsty, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Izuarita. It's a beautiful name,” Crews said.

“Thanks.”

“Friends call you Izzy?”

She shrugged.

“You know why you're here?”

“I'm not arrested.”

“That's right. You're not under arrest.”

“Then why?”

“You're a travel teller for the North Georgia Savings and Loan?”

“Yes.”

“What's a travel teller?”

“You don't know?”

“I'd like you to tell me.”

Izuarita shuffled in her seat. She'd taken off a baggy hooded sweatshirt on arrival, a revealing purple tank top underneath that left little to the imagination. Sweaty cleavage and tight jeans. Hoop earrings. Elegant fingers with lots of rings, purple nail polish. A male detective would have been secretly drooling over Izuarita. Crews smiled softly at her.

“It's like a temp for a certain region, you know. Regular tellers call in sick or take—
este—vacaciones.
You know? Vacation,” she said.

“So you bounce around all over?”

She nodded.

“At what branch did you fill in most recently?”

“You don't know?”

“Tell me.”

“The J-Jubilation County office.”

“Off Route Twenty?”

Another nod.

“The one that was robbed six days ago?”

“I didn't know it was robbed.”

Crews looked past the girl at the wall. Izuarita wanted to turn around. She tried hard not to shift her eyes or chew her nails. A progression of lies formed in her head.

“How long have you lived in Georgia?” Crews asked.

“A year next month.”

“An apartment downtown.”

Izuarita thought this was a question, then realized it wasn't. Phlegm caught in her throat made her cough. She didn't cover her mouth.

A manila folder lay on the table, but Crews hadn't opened it yet. Izuarita wondered what was inside. The more surprised and bewildered she looked, the better. She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of a hand.

“Want a tissue?” Crews said.

She shook her head, offering Crews a distrustful half smile.

“Where did you live before coming here?”

“Southern California.”

“Where in Southern California did you live?”

“El Sereno.”

“Where's that?”

“East LA.”

“And why'd you move here?”

“I met a guy.”

“A guy? Come all the way out here for some boy?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In a bar.”

“In El Sereno?”

“No. In Marietta.”

“What were
you
doing in Marietta?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Honey, you're only twenty. Making you nineteen or maybe eighteen when you met this guy. What on earth were you doing in a bar?”

“I have a fake ID, okay? Is that what
this
is about?”

Crews took the manila folder and left without a word. The fluorescent light from the hallway brightened the room for a moment before the door closed. Izuarita looked at her reflection in the mirror, at the wire that seemed to go nowhere. She ran a hand across her forehead. Sipped her soda, staving off a nicotine craving by chewing on a cuticle.

She couldn't believe this was happening. Someone from the bank waking her on a day off, saying a cop wanted to ask her some questions. About the bank robbery and other tellers she knew. Everybody at work had been talking about it. Figured she'd just play it dumb.

Earlier a cop had brought her potato chips and ice water. An hour went by. She thought she might pass out from the humidity. A male detective came in first, asking about her work schedule. Current address. What kind of car she drove. Izuarita just went along with it. She even gave the guy one of her famous winks, thinking it might help. Then Crews walked in and Izuarita knew right away this woman wasn't ordinary police.

Izuarita's eyes wandered. She drummed her fingers against the empty can. Someone had scribbled
God Help Me
into the tabletop with a ballpoint pen.

Concern replaced boredom. Izuarita began to wonder if she might need a lawyer.
Can they do this?
she thought.
Just have me sitting around for hours?
Finally the door opened, offering that phony light again and a blast of chatter and ringing phones. Sallie Crews shut the door behind her. Sat down with the manila folder and a box of tissue.

“And who's Joey Da Silva?” she said.

“Como?”

“Joey Da Silva?”

“Oh, that's my brother.”

“You didn't recognize your own brother's name?”

“I never called him by that name. He's Jorge to me. Jorge Sandoval.”

“Da Silva?”

“Guess he took my father's name.”

“Doesn't sound Chicano.”

“It's Portuguese. His father was from Brazil.”

“And where's Jorge now?”

“Out west.”

“That's an interesting way of putting it.”

“What you mean?”

Crews didn't explain.

“You talk to him lately?”

“Not since my sixteenth birthday.”

“It's been four years?”

“Something like that.”

“You don't know where he is?”

She shrugged.

“I do, sweetie … he's in prison.”

Izuarita put a hand to her face, wrinkling her mouth dramatically. She muttered something in Spanish, a lament of some sort. Crews found it a lousy performance but pretended to buy it anyway. The amateur theater between them might be the only way to gain important information. She handed the girl a tissue.

“
Ay Dios mio,
” Izuarita whispered. She wiped a tear from her eye. Sweat dripped freely from a line of beads near her hairline.

“No te preocupes.”

She looked up at Crews, truly surprised. “You speak Spanish?” she said.

“Seguro que si. Hablo cuatro lenguas.”

Izuarita looked away again and buried her face in her hands, sobbing. Crews waited patiently.

“What did Jorge
do
?” Izuarita said.