The Mortal Groove (41 page)

“You're my real family?” wrote Mia, looking at Peter and Sigrid, then up at Jane.

“Yes, sweetheart,” said Peter, putting his arm around her and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Jane started to laugh, but ended by choking back her tears.

 

 

R
andy and Del stood in the shadows at the far edge of the ballroom as Mar Rios, Ray's new campaign manager, introduced him. She'd already primed the crowd with her signature mixture of laid-back humor and passionate politics. The sound of applause roared in the hall as Ray stood up at the head table and moved over to the podium. Mar shook Ray's hand, clapped him on the back, and then sat down.

Randy elbowed Del in the ribs. “Come on,” he whispered, “follow me.”

They used the elevators outside the ballroom to take them down to level A in the parking garage. Standing in the semidarkness next to a concrete pillar, Randy handed Del an envelope.

“What is it?”

“It's from Larry,” said Randy. “Believe it or not, the guy came through for us after all. I expect this is his parting gift to his old buddies. And it's a whopper.”

“Meaning?”

“It's a full confession. In the note, he says he was the one who murdered Sue. He describes the night, what happened, everything.”

Del opened the flap, but didn't take it out. “Man, I never thought he'd do that. Never, not in a million years.”

“Figured it was important for you to have the original,” said Randy. “Just in case.”

“Thanks, man. I hear you.”

“I made a copy for myself. Store yours somewhere safe. You never know when the cops might come calling.”

Del seemed dazed. He pressed his fingers to the side of his temple. “When did you last hear from him?”

“Four days ago. I arranged a money transfer. Once Larry let Peter go, he was planning to head up through Canada, fly to Zurich, and meet up with my account manager. So far, he's been a no-show.”

“Four days is a long time.”

“I know.” Randy had pretty much come to the conclusion that something had happened to Larry, although he'd never be able to prove it. “You know, I think Larry was insane.”

“Always or just recently?”

“Always,” said Randy.

“You think he'll ever contact us again?”

“He better not.”

They watched a woman close and lock her car and then walk quickly to the elevators.

“I'm sorry you lost your job,” said Randy.

“Don't worry about it. I'll land on my feet.”

“Yeah, you always do.” Randy stood there, squeezing the back
of his neck. It seemed like he should say something more about what happened back in Waldo, but nothing came to him.

“Feels like something has ended,” said Del. “Something huge.”

“It will never end for me,” said Randy.

“I know, man. She was your girl. I should've never gone back to her house and made her come out again and talk to us that night. I just . . . just wanted us to all have a chance to cool off, part friends, you know? But it didn't work out that way.”

“No, it didn't.”

They gripped each other hard.

Del stuffed the envelope in his suit pocket. “Why don't we go find ourselves some dinner?”

“Can't. Not today. Maybe next week.”

“Sure. Fley, what do you hear from Sherrie?”

Randy cleared his throat, looked off in the distance. “She filed for divorce. Got the papers today.”

“Ah man, that sucks.” He searched Randy's eyes. “You okay?”

“I been better.”

“But you're okay.”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

Before they said good-bye, Randy put a hand on Del's arm. “You think Lawless is gonna make it?”

“Honestly? Yeah, I do. Come next November, I think he's gonna be our new governor.”

“Good luck, man.”

Del patted his suit coat pocket. “Don't need luck, now that I got Larry's confession.”

 

Randy took 1-94 to Stillwater, then turned north on Highway 95, heading back to his home in Marine on St. Croix. The sun
had set behind the tall limestone bluffs. In the growing twilight, he could just make out the river far below him as he sped along the winding road.

Something Larry had said to him a million years ago about the “fucking pearly gates” had somehow lodged in his mind and wouldn't let go. In the last few days, it had almost become a mantra. Except, a mantra was supposed to bring you peace. These words did just the opposite.

Randy felt jittery. He turned on the radio and heard an NPR voice talking about Iran. No way was he going to listen to that crap. He switched to an oldies station. The song “Wait Till the Midnight Hour” was playing.

“Jesus,” he said, snapping it off. Who the hell ever listened to Wilson Pickett anymore? It was a Vietnam song. Memories flooded his thoughts. And then he remembered Larry's comment again. Maybe it was time. Maybe this was the door and he should finally walk through it. At that moment, he knew with total certainty that Larry was right, he
had
been the weak link. So why wait for fate to choose the time, when he could take control, force himself to have the conversation he'd been dreading his entire adult life. It was madness, for sure, but then, maybe like Larry, he'd always been mad.

On the next curve, instead of slowing and turning, he pressed the pedal to the floor, shot straight ahead through the metal barrier, and sent himself flying, floating, rushing toward the river. With his last conscious thought, he begged his daughter to forgive him.

T
hree young men on a northern Iowa back road, cutting through the pit of night. The moon is down, but their soldier's eyes guide them in the darkness. They swerve and stumble, but push ahead, away from the field, where a dead woman lies with her back comforted against a willow.

Two of the men are shaking, broken, sobbing. One is astonished. He feels as if he's wired to all the electricity in the universe, glowing in the dark. The men assume combat silence as they search for cover. Beer and Jim Beam boil in their veins. What they don't know but will soon find out is this: the young woman's murder will forever weld their pasts to their futures and their lives to each other.

The one called Delavon sees it first. An abandoned, falling-down barn that lists heavily to one side. He points.

“No way,” says Larry, coming up behind him. He squints at Delavon, smiles to himself. Black skin and a moonless night. All Larry can see is the white around Delavon's round eyes and his perfect teeth. He's like a cartoon ghost. “A puff of wind and we're buried in old lumber,” says Larry.

“Fine,” says Delavon, setting off through a cornfield. “Go find yourself one of them holes you're so partial to.”

Larry waits a beat, then grabs Randy around his waist before he falls over, drags him into the field.

“I wanna die,” mumbles Randy.

“You will,” says Larry. “Count on it.”

They all drop to the ground just inside the barn door.

Delavon raps Larry on the arm. “Flick your Bic. Let's see what we got.”

The interior is empty except for a rusted pitchfork lying in the dirt a Jew feet away.

“Smells like cow shit, “says Larry.

Randy falls on his stomach. He's alive but he shouldn't be. He should be back there in the field with Sue. He should have seen it coming. He was drunk. They all were. “I'm gonna puke,” he says.

Delavon watches him crawl away, empty his guts in the corner.

Larry cuts the fame, thinks about lighting a cigarette.

“What happened?” says Delavon, a kind of wonder in his voice.

Larry leans back against the doorframe. He figures if the building starts to collapse, he can scramble out. “Was just a fluke, man. She had one of them fragile-type throats. Just a little pressure, and . . . snap.” He scratches his stomach. “What can I say? Death makes me feel . . . purely alive. Nothing else comes close.”

“You're sick!” screams Randy from over in the corner.

“Yeah, man, but I'm breathin'.”

Randy crab-walks back to them, flips on his back. He lies there watching the scene in his head. “1 loved her,” he says, grief grabbing at his throat.

“So did I,” says Delavon. He's done crying, but he still feels a few chest chokes.

Randy sees her float through the darkness toward him. She tells him she can't marry him. She doesn't love him. His skin feels too tight.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Delavon shouts the word at least a dozen times as he feels around beside him in the dirt.

“What?” says Larry. He's impatient as he taps out a menthol cigarette.

“My tags. They're gone.”

Larry lights up. “If they're back in that field, your ass is grass.”

“It already is. Who do you think they're gonna pin Sue's murder on? Not the beloved town war hero
—
not when they got themselves a real live nigger to string up.”

“This place ain't exactly in love with this boy, either,” says Larry, breathing smoke into the darkness.

“That's why we all gotta stick together,” says Delavon. “Come up with a good cover story.”

“Hell, we weren't even there,” says Larry. He shrugs. “There ain't no witnesses, so who's gonna say we were?”

“If I left my tags back there, it's gonna be kinda obvious I'm lying. But hell, maybe they got ripped off when Sue's brother jumped me.”

“Good,” says Larry. “Use it. We'll back you. Right, Turk?”

Randy is too far away to hear the question. He's still back in the killing field, his hands around Sue's neck, squeezing and squeezing until the terror leaks out her eyes and they turn flat and indifferent. Larry and Delavon pull him off. They stand around in the ferocious silence, unsure what to do. Until Randy breaks and runs.

Larry ficks a bright spark of cigarette ash next to his boot. “We are so freakin ‘fucked.”

Randy rolls on his side. “I can't do it. I can't live with myself. First light, I'm gonna turn myself in.”

“Hell you are,” says Delavon.

“You do that and they're gonna haul all our asses in,” says Larry. “We're in this together, whether we wanna be or not.”

“If I tell them what really happened
—
”

“You think they'll believe you?” says Delavon, eyes narrowing. “They love you, man. They'll figure you're still being a hero, protecting your psycho war buddies.”

“No,” says Randy.

“Yes!” shouts Delavon.

“He's the weak link.” Larry snaps his half-smoked cigarette away. “Always has been.”

“I can't live with myself,” bawls Randy.

Larry climbs over Delavon and straddles Randy's body. With both hands, he grabs Randy's shirt, yanks him up off the ground. “Sure, man,” he says, his face inches from Randy's. “We understand. You're the professor, the college guy. You got delicate sensibilities. So go ahead and tell the truth. We'll even cheer you on. When you get to the fucking pearly gates, man, tell Saint Peter whatever shit you want. But until then, you keep your mouth shut. That's the way it's gotta be. We clear?”

Randy looks around, knows he can't fight them both. He closes his eyes. “Clear,” he says, feeling the word crush him.