A Welcome Grave (44 page)

“Have they told you why he died?” I said.

“Paul Brooks was afraid of him. Afraid he’d tell people what he knew.”

“He was
going
to do that, Karen. He told Gaglionci he was ready to talk to the police and tried to convince him to do the same. He wanted to send Gaglionci back to find Doran and give him his money and assure him that
he’d be cleared. He just needed a few days to prepare for it, I guess. To talk to you, I’m sure. He might have gone to jail. Probably would have. Even in the best case, his career would have been over, and he would have been shamed in a way that’s tough to imagine. He was willing to let that happen to get his honor back, Karen. To protect his son, to set right what he’d made wrong.”

She was crying.

“I think when he found you, it helped him,” I said. “Gave him an escape, almost. You were young and good and so far from being in his world, and I’m quite sure that he needed to be with someone who was all of those things.”

I was thinking of her on the boat again, the smile she’d had that I would never forget, the overwhelming sense of youth and energy and joy she gave off back then, like a pulse. I imagined Alex Jefferson meeting her in the aftermath of his greatest sin, and I understood what she would have done to him. I understood it very well.

She used her fingertips to wipe tears from her eyes. I reached out and rubbed her back, squeezed her shoulder until she ran out of tears. When they’d stopped, I put my hand on her neck and turned her face to mine.

“You told me that Alex said you healed him. That when he said that, you felt like he needed you in a way you couldn’t fully understand.”

She nodded.

“That,” I said, “was probably as true a statement as you’ll ever hear, Karen. And it should matter to you.”

We sat there for a while, and then I got to my feet. She stood with me, and I hugged her and held her and then it had gone on too long and was accomplishing too little, and I walked to my truck and drove away and left her there with her grief. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.

I
didn’t talk to her again in the weeks that followed, but I saw plenty of her. Unplugged the television so I wouldn’t have to stumble across another picture of her on the screen, listen to the commentators explain her husband’s actions, tell the sad story of Andy Doran.

Soon the newspaper was reporting she’d left town, gone to stay with family. Two weeks after Doran and Paul Brooks were killed, movers were taking furniture out of her house, loading it into trucks. A real estate agency had control of the home, but the word was they’d wait a few months before putting it on the market. Tough to sell a place that has news crews camped out on the lawn.

Sometimes, I thought about calling. The day Cole Hamilton was arrested on charges of conspiracy was one. The day traces of Alex Jefferson’s blood were found in Tommy Gaglionci’s van was another. Gaglionci had washed the van with bleach and water, but that’s the thing about blood—it’ll find places to hide, crevices perfect for disappearing, and just when you think it’s washed out of your life, it makes another appearance.

I never called, though. Lacked the words, and without them the telephone’s pretty damn useless. Maybe a call around Christmas, I thought. Maybe a card. Maybe she’d call me. Maybe there was nothing to say.

______

The media coverage was relentless. I had to change my unlisted home number, then my cell number. The more enterprising reporters took to waiting in the parking lot beneath my apartment, but they didn’t get any quotes, either. Nobody did. My involvement was the subject of endless questioning in the newspaper, my relationship with Karen became a fifteen-minute feature on one of the morning news shows, and numerous mentions were made of the arrest warrant for murder even though I’d never been charged. My attorney called to suggest a lawsuit against Targent and the department for wrongful arrest. I told him not to call again. If I required his services, I’d let him know.

Since I ignored the phones, reporters took to sending letters requesting interviews. Going through a stack of them one day, I found a postcard from Indiana. On the front was a photograph of a covered bridge in autumn, surrounded by crimson trees. I flipped it over and read the short note.

Mr. Perry—

It appears I was wrong about you. Please accept this admission, and my apology. Also, please do not ever return to my county.

Best Wishes,

Lt. Roger Brewer

I flipped the card back over and moved my hand to cover the bridge, so all I could see were the trees. It was easy to imagine they stood above a pond and gazebo, an orchard nearby. The leaves would all be gone by now, just bare limbs watching over cold water.

I went to Indiana for the money. That’s what I told Joe and Amy. If not for the money, just because I wanted to help. An honorable thing. I’d wanted to help. In my more dishonest moments, I could try to leave it there. Not anymore, though. Not with Karen gone and Matt Jefferson and Andy Doran dead.

What took me to Indiana was the Jefferson family secret. I wanted to have it before Karen had it. Wanted to know why the son cut Alex Jefferson off, what evil he’d seen in his father. He was supposed to tell me, and I’d get to tell her. I’d be the one to explain what a bastard her husband had been. Validation, the nice word. Revenge, the true one.

I’d wanted Matt Jefferson to tell me what his father had done that was so wrong. Now, both of them dead, I wanted ten seconds to tell him what his father had been about to do that was right.

I found a magnet and put the postcard on my refrigerator. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with the things you need to remember?

______

The office was closed for three weeks while I spent time with Amy, hiding from the media. Being a member of that obnoxious little militia, Amy has great expertise in how to avoid them. While I was gone, clients got nothing but a voice mail saying the absence was indefinite. Joe came by my apartment on the third Monday after I’d closed the office to tell me I needed to get down and open the place again.

“You stay shut down for another week and you may not recover, LP. When a client takes his business somewhere else, it’s likely to stay there.”

I nodded. “You’re right. But it’s been a hell of a few weeks, Joe. I couldn’t work. You know that.”

“I know that. And now I’m telling you it’s time to start again.”

He was standing in my living room, using his index finger to turn a lampshade that he’d decided was crooked. He wouldn’t look at me.

“Time to start again,” I said. “Yeah, I guess it is. Does that go for you, too?”

He stopped playing with the lampshade. “No, LP. I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

I sat and stared at him. He looked sad but resolved. He stepped away from the lamp and paced across the room.

“I’m going to take the winter off. Get out of town, go somewhere warm. I can’t do another winter in this town. Not right now. You know I’ve never been gone from Cleveland in the winter? You believe that? All those trips I took with Ruth, they were always in summer or fall. Maybe one in the spring. But I’ve always been here for winter, and, shit, I need a break. I’m thinking Florida, maybe Texas, somewhere down along the Gulf.”

It took me a minute to say anything. When I did speak, all I could say was “Okay.”

He finally stopped walking and sat down on the chair across from me, ran his hand over his jaw and studied the carpet.

“I just need a break, Lincoln. Don’t know for how long, exactly, but I know I need to get out of here for a while. You can handle it without me.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s not going to be a whole lot of fun.”

He snorted. “Damn, almost like a real job. You know, a lot of guys haven’t had the luxury of working with someone like me. Now you’ll have to appreciate it for the treat that it is.”

I managed a smile. “Okay, Joe. But don’t go down there and get lost. Spring
comes and it starts to warm up around here, you damn well better be on your way north.”

“I will be.”

He left on the first Sunday of December. His arm was improving all the time, but he still needed help packing the car, and I went down and loaded the Taurus up as well as I could, Joe growling out irritated instructions from over my shoulder. Finally, I wedged the trunk lid shut and stepped back. He handed me his house keys.

“Don’t forget to water the plants. And remember—no parties.”

“Right.”

Amy came out of the house and walked down to join us. “Is that it? You’re really leaving now?”

“I’m leaving, my dear. And, yes, I know that you’ll miss me.”

She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. A brisk wind was blowing, and the broad gray clouds overhead promised snow. The forecasts said it could be heavy. Joe zipped up his jacket and smiled.

“A few hours, and I’m ditching this thing for a polo shirt and a seat by the pool.”

“Rub it in,” I said. “Nice.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then I said, “Be in touch, Joe.”

“Absolutely.” He put out his hand, and I shook it, and then he got in the car. By the time he hit Tennessee he’d probably have doubled the total miles on that damn Taurus. He started the engine, and I thumped my hand on the trunk and then stepped back and waved. He turned out of the driveway and went down Chatfield toward the interstate ramp at West 150th. I watched him go, and out of nowhere Andy Doran’s voice was in my head.
All I had to do was make it through the winter. Just make it through the winter.

Amy stepped close to me and wrapped her arm around my waist. “I’m going to miss him.”

“Me, too.”

She squeezed me and then stepped back. “No sense being sad about it all day, though. I’ve got plans for us.”

“Browns game,” I said. “Right. We can watch that.”

“Christmas decorations at my apartment,” she said. “They don’t hang themselves.”

I looked at her in horror, then back out at Chatfield. “If I run really fast, do you think I can catch him?”

We locked Joe’s house and got into my truck and drove away. Snowflakes were falling now, remaining as crystals for a few seconds on the windshield before the heat from the truck reduced them to water. On the radio, the announcers were predicting six inches by nightfall. Joe would beat the storm on his way south, and I was glad for him. Amy and I were here for the duration, but that was fine, too. The snow would melt. It always does.