Swallowing Stones (12 page)

The older man, a man about Michael’s father’s age, wearing khaki slacks and a madras shirt, was Ralph Healey. He’d been a sergeant on the police force as long as Michael could remember.

At the sight of them, Michael’s body grew rigid. He stared at the two men as if they had just announced their plans to torch the MacKenzie house and everyone in it.

“We need to ask you and your family a few questions, Mike,” Sergeant Healey said. He had his head tipped slightly to the side, eyes narrowed. Michael knew he was being sized up.

“They’re watching
Jeopardy!
” Michael said, acutely aware of how stupid he must sound.

“It’ll take only a couple of minutes,” Healey assured him. “Strictly routine.”

And because there didn’t seem to be any other course of action, Michael stepped back and let them in.

Josh was so engrossed in his program that he didn’t even look up when they entered the living room. “Just talk loud,” he told everyone, not bothering to turn the sound down on the TV. But as soon as the men announced they were there about the Ward case, he grabbed the remote and the TV screen went blank.

Michael thought about going up to his room and letting his father handle the police, but he was afraid it might look suspicious. Besides, Ralph Healey had said he wanted to talk to all of them. So Michael took an inconspicuous seat in the corner of the room. Josh merely stayed in the same place on the floor, except that he now faced the other direction.

Doug Boyle made himself at home on the couch without being asked, but Sergeant Healey extended his hand, squeezing Tom MacKenzie’s in a hearty shake. “Sorry about the intrusion.”

“Forget it. Have a seat.” Michael’s father pointed to the empty space next to Doug Boyle. “I heard you guys have been asking questions around the neighborhood.”

Ralph Healey leaned forward, hands folded, elbows balanced on his thick knees, and nodded. “The guys from Picatinny finally zeroed in on the area where the bullet was fired from. They narrowed it down to four blocks.”

“So you think somebody from this neighborhood shot that gun?” Tom MacKenzie rubbed the palms of his hands along his thighs.

Healey looked grim. “Well, it sure looks that way,” he said. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve been doing the rest of the investigation on foot. Asking the folks around here a few questions.”

Michael’s father stared down at the carpet but didn’t say anything.

Michael was suddenly aware of every muscle in his body, as if he were readying himself for an explosive takeoff from the starting block at a track meet. All his senses were attuned to Healey’s every word, his every move. Waiting.

Ralph Healey had rough red hands. He kept them folded, fingers locked, as if he were about to pray. Michael found the image disturbing. “I guess you’ve been following the case in the papers,” Healey said to Michael’s father.

“Everyone in town has,” Josh volunteered. “I mean, man, this is
so
cool. A murder right here in Briarwood.” Then he looked over his shoulder at Michael and gave him a sly grin, hinting that he knew something. Michael wanted to punch his lights out. Meanwhile the three men were staring down at Josh as if he had just surfaced from somewhere beneath the carpet.

Tom MacKenzie glared at Josh. “I hardly think someone dying, especially the way Charlie Ward did, could be described as cool.”

Watching his father and brother, Michael was suddenly aware that his father had not looked his way even once since the police had entered the room. It was as if he weren’t even there. Such behavior was so out of character for his father that Michael began to wonder if he suspected something.

“You guys have any ideas about what kind of gun it was?” Tom MacKenzie asked, turning his attention back to the two men.

When Healey didn’t say anything, Doug Boyle slid his wide backside forward on the couch, as if he’d just decided to be part of the investigation. “We can’t give out that information,” he said.

“We’re just asking people if they have any handguns or rifles in their houses or if they know of anybody in the neighborhood who does.” Ralph Healey parted his hands apologetically. “It’s nasty business, asking people to point fingers. But if you know of anybody …”

“A lot of people around here have rifles,” Tom MacKenzie said. “I don’t know about handguns.” He frowned, looking skeptical. “I’ve got two rifles of my own.” Then he cocked his head toward Michael. “And Mike’s got an old .45-70 Winchester his grandfather gave him.”

Michael’s heart raced uncontrollably. A light sheen of sweat appeared on his upper lip and forehead. He was sure someone would notice.

Ralph Healey eased his body back into the couch, as if he could relax now that he’d gotten what he’d come for. He sighed and looked toward the picture window. “I’ll need to see those rifles,” he said. Then added, “Nothing personal. We have to inspect everyone’s guns.”

Michael watched as his father stood up, hands in pockets. He could tell his father had been caught off guard by the sergeant’s
request. Then he turned to Michael for the first time since the police had shown up. “Better go get the Winchester,” he said.

Maybe it was something about the way his father said this, but in that single moment Michael realized with horror that his father had at least considered the possibility that the shot had come from his own house.

Michael licked his lips. “It’s not here,” he said, surprised by the evenness of his own voice.

His father stared back at him, hands still in his pockets. He shook his head as if he hadn’t heard right. “Where is it?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Michael said, “At Joe’s.”

His father continued shaking his head. He seemed bewildered. “What’s it doing at Joe’s?”

Michael kept his eyes on his father’s face. He was afraid that if he looked away, the gesture would scream his guilt. He shrugged as casually as he could, although the muscles in his shoulders and neck ached with tension. “I loaned it to him.”

Tom MacKenzie yanked a hand from his pocket and jerked his thumb in the direction of the cordless phone. “Well, call him and tell him to get it over here.”

Michael could see that his father was upset. He couldn’t be sure if it was only because his son had loaned out the rifle or because he sensed something else. Michael picked up the phone and dialed Joe Sadowski’s number. He wasn’t worried. He knew Joe was at work. All he’d have to do was leave a message. But to his horror, Joe answered.

“I thought you’d be at work,” Michael said, forgetting the others who stood only a few feet away.

“I got fired.”

Michael knew he should ask him what happened, but this was not the time. Somehow he had to pull this thing
off. And he had to make Joe play along. “Listen, I need my rifle back.”

The silence lasted so long he was afraid Joe had hung up. “What in—? Man, I don’t have your rifle.”

“Oh, man, you’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you tell me before?” Michael said. “My dad’s gonna be pissed.”

“About what? I don’t have your goddamn rifle.” Joe drew a deep breath. “Man, you’re losing it. You’re really losing it.”

“Jesus, they stole it right out of the car?” The desperation in Michael’s voice was convincing. He
was
desperate. But not for the reasons the men standing behind him in the living room believed.

“Tell him to find the damn gun and get over here,” Tom MacKenzie said loudly. “Now!”

“Was that your old man?” Joe asked. “He’s standing right there? What the—?”

Michael looked over at his father. “He can’t, Dad. It was stolen.”

Tom MacKenzie raked his fingers through his hair. “Stolen? Who the hell stole it?”

“He doesn’t know. It was in the backseat of his car. Somebody broke in, took his CD player and the rifle.”

Ralph Healey took a step forward, coming within a foot of Michael. “Did he file a report?”

“Who was that?” Joe said from the other end of the phone. “That wasn’t your dad.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Healey,” Michael said. Then to Joe, “Did you notify the police?”

“The
cops
are there? Oh, man. Oh, man, we’re screwed.”

Michael kept his gaze steady as he looked at Healey. “He says it just happened last night. He hasn’t had a chance to file a report yet.”

“Mike?” Joe’s voice was barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“Meet me at the park in an hour.” Then he hung up.

Michael pushed the Off button on the phone and laid it carefully on the table. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me before now,” he said.

“That Winchester belonged to your grandfather when he was a boy,” his father said. Michael could see he was angry.

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

“What in hell were you thinking? Loaning that gun to an idiot like Sadowski.”

Ralph Healey interjected a light cough. “Well, maybe you could just show us those other two rifles for now,” he said to Tom MacKenzie. Then he turned to Michael. “Don’t worry about your Winchester. We’ll track it down.”

b
y the time Michael left for the park, the tornado had already struck and moved on. The rain that followed lasted for only fifteen minutes. And then it was all over.

The public park next to the library was where most of the kids from Briarwood Regional hung out during the summer months. Joe was already there when Michael arrived. He found him sitting on an empty pizza box beneath a gnarled old sycamore several yards from where most of the other kids were gathered. Joe held out a half-empty can of beer in greeting. Michael shook his head and stared down at the wet grass in front of him. Joe pulled the box from beneath him, tore off the top, and handed it to his friend. “Found this over there,” he said, pointing to a nearby trash can. Then he sat back on the half of the box that remained.

Michael lowered himself onto the cardboard. He had
spent the past few weeks avoiding Joe. And yet, when he’d had nowhere else to turn, this was the person he had called. He realized now that by making up the theft story, he had dragged Joe even further into the dark mire that threatened to swallow them both up.

“What did you do with it?” Joe asked. The red bandanna he had rolled up and tied around his head was dark with sweat.

Michael didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Hid it where nobody’s ever going to find it.”

“Where?”

The mosquitoes were biting furiously. Michael wished he had sprayed himself with insect repellent before he’d left the house. He shook his head. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“How come the cops showed up at your house?”

“They’re checking out everyone within a four-block radius.” He slapped hard at a mosquito. The smack left a red imprint of his fingers on his arm. “The ballistics experts narrowed it down to our neighborhood.”

Joe took a swallow of beer and stared down at the can thoughtfully. “They’ll be coming to my house, too, then.” When Michael didn’t answer, he added, “We got to get this stolen gun story straight.”

Michael tugged at the wet grass with his hand, pulling thin blades loose from the soil. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Joe put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and leaned into his face. “So what you’re saying is, when the cops come to my house it’s okay to tell them you made up that whole stolen gun thing so they wouldn’t find out you’re the one who fired the shot?”

Michael stared down at Joe’s hand. He felt the weight of it. “Yeah,” he said, “go ahead. Tell them that.” And he meant it.

Joe smacked him lightly on the side of the head. “I was yanking your chain, you moron. Lighten up.”

Michael felt the full impact of that playful slap. Not the physical pain of it; there was none. What he felt was the desperation behind it. The desperation to keep things the way they had always been between them. And to that end, he was sure, Joe would stand by him, tell the lies Michael asked him to tell, risk whatever lay ahead for both of them. A risk, Michael knew, his friend did not have to take. And he could not help wondering, in that moment, if he would have been willing to do the same for Joe.

“Hey, man. No matter what, you’re pretty much home free,” Joe said. “They can’t prove anything without the weapon. If they got any evidence at all, it’s circumstantial.”

Michael stared up at the old sycamore behind Joe. The base was almost four feet in diameter and had three trunks growing from it. It reminded him of the Ghost Tree, but it wasn’t as big. He hadn’t thought about that place in years, although he and Joe used to hang out there as kids and tell each other horror stories about the Great Swamp Devil. He thought of that now, sitting across from Joe. The difference was that the horror story they shared this time was real.

“Well?” Joe was studying him closely.

“Well what?”

“So what do you want me to tell the cops?” He took another long gulp of beer.

Michael shrugged. “Same thing I did. That you borrowed the gun a few days ago, and last night somebody broke into your car and stole it.”

“Along with my CD player,” Joe added. “No problem.”

Joe’s eyes were unusually bright, his face flushed. Michael
had the sudden disconcerting thought that his friend was actually enjoying all this.

The dampness was seeping through the cardboard. Michael stood up, remembering suddenly that Joe had lost his job. “How’d you manage to get fired?” he asked.

Joe chugged the rest of his beer and held up the can. “I was having a little refreshment in the men’s room on my break.”

“They caught you drinking on the job?” Michael shook his head.

“No, man. They caught me drinking on my break.”

Michael picked up the soggy cardboard and glanced over at the trash can. His preoccupation kept him from having to look at the snide grin on Joe’s face. “So what are you going to do now?” He began to fold the cardboard into a smaller square.

Joe shrugged. “We still got a few weeks left before school starts,” he said. “Might as well enjoy them.”

Michael had taken only a few steps toward the trash can when he spotted the police car by the drive-up book drop in front of the library. Doug Boyle, now in his regular uniform, was crossing the park to where a group of kids sat in a tight circle, playing cards by flashlight.