Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead (31 page)

Andray nodded, but his eyes filled with tears. “He could get the chair,” he said, trying not to cry. “Oh, God. Life in Angola—shit.”

“I'll do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen,” I said. “I swear to you.”

Andray looked at me.

“I swear it,” I said again.

Andray looked at me and blinked his tears away. My swearing didn't mean much to him, but he knew he would get through this anyway. Just like he always had. With his friends.

“There's one thing you have to tell me,” I said. “Where'd you really get that copy of
Détection?
Vic Willing never read that book in his life.”

An almost-nearly smile pulled at Andray's mouth, but he forced it down.

“If I told you,” he said gruffly, “you wouldn't believe me.”

“I'll believe you,” I said.

Andray looked around. He kicked the ground with his expen
sive boot. From the look on his face I knew that even if he did deign to tell me the story, it didn't mean I was forgiven for solving the mystery he had worked so hard to hide.

“Once,” Andray began, still looking at the ground, “my Uncle John—I told you about him?” I nodded. Andray went on: “My Uncle John—once he took me to see this friend of his. This lady—she a little like you, actually. Somehow, some way, you remind me of her a little. Lived in this big house Uptown. White lady, real rich. She was . . . she wasn't exactly an Indian herself, but she was, like, a friend. Like a friend to the tribes. Knew all the songs, knew all the big chiefs. Anyway, we went up to see her, John and some of us kids—I was maybe seven, eight. And it was this big house, and I, somehow I got away from everyone else and I got kinda lost. I was in the library—house had its own library, if you believe that.”

I nodded. I missed that library every day.

“And that book,” Andray went on. “I don't know. It was like, like it was a light or something. Like I—I don't know. I mean, Mr. John told us not to touch anything, but it was like—like I
had
to take it off the shelf. Like it
wanted
me to take it.” Andray looked at me. “You ever feel that way?”

I nodded. I had felt the same way when I saw the book in my parents' dumbwaiter, so many years ago.

“Anyway, just then, the lady, she come in. I was—shit, I thought I was gonna be in real trouble. I thought Uncle John would . . . But that lady, she seen me with the book, and she
smiled
. She was like—like she was
glad
about it or something. You know things happen, when you a kid, and they don't seem so strange, 'cause you don't know better? And then when you think about them later, they don't make no sense at all? It was like that. So then, it didn't seem so strange. She asked me about my name and where I stayed and who my parents were, normal stuff. Real nice. Real nice lady. And she took me in the kitchen and made us tea. And after, she read the leaves leftover in the cup. And then she took the book and she gave it to me. And she told me . . .”

Andray stopped and looked around. He sighed.

“She told you that you'd know the right time to show someone the book,” I finished for him. “And she told you to remember this. To remember. And you did.”

We looked at each other. Andray's face wrinkled in confusion.

“Sometimes,” Andray said, tears streaming down his face, “sometimes the world seem so fucked up, like nothing make any sense at all. Like there's no sense at all. Just—just vicious like that. Just vicious. But then sometimes, sometimes, it's like—like it all fit together perfect, like a puzzle. Like you find this little piece, maybe five years ago, maybe ten years ago. And then years and years later, you see where it fits. And you see it made sense all along. Only you was too blind to see it. Too small to see it all at once.”

He sniffed. “Don't seem like that now, though.”

I wanted to hug him but I figured he might shoot me.

“But maybe someday,” I said carefully, “you'll look back and the pieces you have now, all the little bits that seem so awful—maybe they'll all fit together just right, and it'll all make sense.”

I didn't know if I believed that myself. Andray shrugged. The door slammed shut; he stopped crying and our moment of friendship was over. He turned around to his friends behind him.

“Terrell,” he called out. Terrell, who'd been sitting on the steps of the abandoned house with the other kids, looked up. Andray gestured him over. He came over with his usual big open smile, dreadlocks flowing around his face, white T-shirt reflecting the moonlight.

But when he saw the look on Andray's face, he stopped smiling.

When he reached the truck, Andray nodded at him.

“She know,” Andray said.

Terrell's face crumpled. “Fuck,” he said.

“Come on,” I said to Terrell. “Get in.”

Andray looked sore as hell at me when we drove away. I figured he'd get over it. If he was going to be the detective he was clearly meant to be, he was gonna need help, training, and an
education you couldn't get in any school. And even as good as he was to begin with, there weren't too many places he could go to get it. Mick would teach him everything he knew—that would take about three months. After that, he'd need me. There was no one else.

For the first time I knew how Constance felt when she found me.

Like I'd spent a lifetime sifting through dirt and shit and finally, at the bottom of the pile, found a bright, beautiful piece of gold.

I
DROVE TERRELL
to a parking lot and stopped. After we parked I realized it was the same lot where Andray had almost killed me.
COMMUNITY COFFEE!
the old mural shouted.
NEW ORLEANS COMES TO
LIFE
WITH COMMUNITY COFFEE!

Terrell sat silently while I drove, looking out the window, leaning as far away from me as possible. When we parked he looked straight ahead. We sat in silence.

“You gonna tell the police?” Terrell said after a while.

“No,” I said. “I'm going to talk you into turning yourself in to the feds.”

He didn't say anything, just set his face and stared straight ahead.

“It's the best way,” I said. “You can't go on like this forever. You can't live just hoping you'll never get caught. It'll drive you crazy. I've seen it happen.”

“I can't go to Angola,” he said. “No fucking way.”

“I'm gonna get you a lawyer,” I said. “A good one. Mick's gonna help, Andray's gonna help, I'm gonna help. You're not going to be alone.”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I know who's gonna be there.”

I looked at him. He looked out the window. We sat for a while until he was ready to talk.

“It only happened like, like six times,” he said. “I was—shit,
I was twelve years old. It was this mentoring thing. Like a Big Brother thing? We were supposed to—it was a long time ago. I don't know why I couldn't just forget it. I don't know why I couldn't just forget. I wanted to. But it was always with me. All the nasty things we did, it was always in the back of my mind, like just sitting there. Just waiting to come out and ruin everything, fuck everything up. Like sometimes when I'm with a girl and, you know, everything's going good, and then
that
shit's got to come in my head and fuck it all up.

“So that night. Shit. I went down to try to
help
,” Terrell said bitterly. “I wasn't even thinking about—about
him
. He was like, not even on my mind, not at all. Shooting someone, that wasn't—I wasn't even thinking about that. Me and some other boys, we were up at this girl's house. Shonda. And people is coming in to see us, other people we knew. People with no way to get out, like us. Stuck here. And they start telling these stories—each one crazier and crazier. About the water bein' so high, about people stranded, about no one helpin' them. People left all alone with no one to help.

“So I make up my mind. All the rest of those niggas, they can sit around and smoke weed all day if they want. Me, I'm not sittin' around doin' nothing when kids dyin' out there. People stranded on rooftops and shit. I'm not sitting around doing nothing while that's going on.

“So I go down to the water. I go down and it's a fucking mess down there. I mean, really a mess, because garbage and shit is washing up from everywhere. And it's hot, and people is acting crazy, screaming and crying. And there's—fuck. There's
bodies
everywhere. I hadn't thought—I mean, I thought I'd go down there and it'd be like some sailor shit, pulling people out of the ocean. But it was—people was crying, people was hungry, people was all sunburned, being on their roofs for days. People was looking through the dead people looking for their kids and shit. It was like when in church, when they talk about hell? Like it being hot and dead people all over and shit? Like your worst nightmare, but it ain't a dream anymore.
That's
what it was like.

“I went down there to
help
. To try to
save
people. I mean . . .” Terrell's voice trailed off, as if he couldn't quite believe himself how it all turned out.

“Anyway,” he began again. “I started feeling like, you know, this was a mistake. A
real
mistake. I was like—I didn't even know where to begin. So I just went to the water, went up toward there and figured I just pitch in. And then—”

He stopped, and turned toward the window. Tears were running down his beautiful face.

“And then you saw him?” I guessed.

“And then I saw him,” Terrell repeated softly. “I saw him up at the water, right at the edge. Just a few feet away. He didn't see me. He was getting out of a boat with this kid, this boy—little kid about twelve. Real dark kid, all wet, shaking. So
him
, he picks the kid up, out of the boat. And he just
held
him, held him like—” Terrell shook his head. “Like he was gonna carry him away,” he said. “Just take that boy and, you know. And I started to sweat—I was already sweating, but really sweat—and I was shaking. It was like, like that kid was.” He started to cry. “Fuck. Like it was happening all over again. Like it was
still happening
. Like it never stopped. Like everything I done since then, everything I am, all my friends, my brothers—it was all just gone and it was just, just that fucked-up time forever, that tiny little fucked-up time
forever
Like I was in that room with him, over and over again, and I wasn't getting out.”

He stopped talking and cried.

“But this time,” I said. “You could protect yourself.”

He nodded.

“Andray and Trey,” he went on. “They always telling me, you got your piece, use it. I always carry, ever since I was a kid. But I ain't never—I mean, I could shoot, and I
did
shoot. But I never killed no one before. But this time, this time. They always telling me, that once you do it a lot, it becomes automatic, like you don't even think about it no more. It was like that. I was in that room with him, in that fucking hell, in that room, dead bodies everywhere, everyone screaming and crying, and him going and getting another boy.
Another boy
. I couldn't let that—it was
like automatic. I hardly even thought about it. I just—I wasn't even thinking. It was just this mess in my head. Just all this shit. And then I remembered my protection. And it was like—like a way for it to be over, you know? I didn't think about murder or nothing like that. It was just like, make it end. Make it over. Finally. Not just that minute, that one time. All of it. Like if I shot him here, in real life, I could get him out of my head once and for all.

“And I did it. I took out my gun and I shot him. I don't know how, but somehow I got him,
pow
, right in the heart.”

He stopped, hypnotized by his own memory.

They tell you it's going to be easy. Automatic. They tell you you'll forget about it soon. But you never do. Some people just do a better job of pretending than others.

“Then what happened?” I asked gently.

Terrell shook his head. “I don't know. I don't remember. I mean—I just ran. I don't know where, I don't really remember. I just got the fuck outta there. I ran 'cross the whole fucking city. When I stopped, I was up in Audubon Park. I found a little spot, kind of like hidden, under a tree. This big tree, branches coming down to the ground. A little spot I knew. Used to sleep there sometimes. I just stayed there. Just stayed there, tryin' to catch my breath.”

“And then Andray found you,” I said.

Terrell nodded. “He knew me. Knew that spot. Knew I used to go there when I was a kid. Andray, he wouldn't leave town without me. And then once he saw me, and I told him everything—shit. He jumped right up to action. First thing we do is, we go to Vic Willing's house and leave his prints all over. Andray's. 'Cause he know he didn't do it. He know that gonna throw everyone off. But it ain't enough to convict on. Then he tell me my story—
our
story. That we was together the whole time, went here, went there. All these details—he knew, nobody doubt a story like that. Not for that time, not with all the little things he put in there. Then we go, we get a car, and we get the hell out of town. Get goin' to Houston. The whole time, I was like—like I been hypnotized or some shit. But Andray, he took
care of everything. Always take care of me. When we got back, he made sure no one knew. Not no one saw me, at least not my face. And when you started lookin' around, he did everything he could to get rid of you. Told people not to talk to you, tried to scare you off, out of town.”

“He risked going to prison for you,” I said.

Terrell nodded.

“I know it,” he said. He took a deep breath. “So what happens now?”