Damage (14 page)

Billy let out a long breath and sank back into the sofa. His head bobbed up and down, though Ray couldn't tell if it was in agreement or from exasperation. A hand disappeared into his pants pocket and he took out a small multipurpose knife and placed it on the coffee table next to the flask.

"Look familiar?" he asked.

Ray didn't need to examine it. Throughout the years he had known Jake Veitch, the man used the tiny Swiss Army knife more times than he could recall. In high school Jake would joke about carrying a concealed weapon, even though the knife blade itself was less than two inches long. Once, when he thought he had lost it during a night out drinking while at college, Ray helped him search until they found it next to a toilet in one of the dive bars they frequented. It was a gift from Jake's grandfather -- a cherished family heirloom of no value to anyone but Jake.

"I found it under a chair in the Wallace's living room, not twenty feet from the body," Billy said.
 

Ray leaned forward and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.

"I had a bad feeling," Ray said. He held out his hands, palms up, to show Billy the many scrapes and cuts. "You see this? I've got a few on my knees, as well. It's from all that broken glass on the ground around Correen Wallace. Jake's hands were cut up exactly the same way."

They stared at each other, Ray lost in thought about how Jake might have snapped. Maybe his friend was robbing the Wallace's house and the couple caught him in the act? Ray couldn't fathom any other reason why Jake might have tried to murder the Wallaces in their home.

"What time did you pick Jake up at Marco's yesterday?" he asked.

Billy screwed up his face and gave the question some thought. "Three? Quarter after three, maybe?"

"And you took him home?"

"Not straight away. We went to my house first," Billy said. "I tried to sober him up before taking him back to his place, but he was too far gone. Kept running his mouth about..."

"About what?"

Billy looked sheepishly at Ray. "You gotta understand, Ray. If I knew something like this was gonna happen I never would have let him be on his own."

"What was he running his mouth about, Billy?"

Billy reclined again and started talking. It was the longest chain of words Ray had ever heard Billy string together at one time.

"You know he submitted an application for that new clubhouse they're putting up out near St. Thomas? Well, he had it in his head they'd hire him to run the restaurant. Forget he's a drunk with no experience, he had it stuck deep in his head he'd be perfect for the job. When he shows up for the interview a couple weeks ago, I guess the answers he's giving them don't match the horse shit on his resume. He says they laughed in his face and threw him out. Whatever the truth is, he's been fuming over it. That's what he kept running his mouth about. How Lonesome Pines Country Club, a place that don't even exist yet, ruined his life."

"Who did he interview with?" Ray asked.

"Evan Wallace."

Ray groaned again for his friend. Jake's pocket knife was found at the scene, his shoes probably matched the muddy footprints in the Wallace's house, the glass in his hands probably came from the third story window through which Correen Wallace tumbled, and in a drunken rant less than twenty-four hours before the crime was committed he told a policeman, in no uncertain terms, why and how much he hated the victim.

"When did you see him last?" Ray asked, hopeful he could plot a timeline that eliminated his friend as a suspect.

"I dropped him at his house at five-thirty," Billy said. "One of the neighbors spotted a car just like Jake's driving fast down that dirt road leading up to the Wallace farm."

"At what time?"

"Short after I clocked in for my first shift, about a quarter to seven."

"He's fucked, isn't he?" Ray asked.

Billy didn't respond.

Monday, Part XIV

Riding south on Cotton Street in the cab of Billy's old red pickup truck, Ray was struck by the contrast between his cousin's personal and professional vehicles. The police cruiser was kept immaculately clean, nothing in it that didn't belong. His truck, on the other hand, was littered with children's toys and the remnants of visits to fast food restaurants. A stained car seat next and an equally abused booster seat filled the row behind them. Ray wondered how useful the truck would be after their third child joined the family.

A used paper cup rolled under Ray's feet as the pickup veered left onto Short Road. The well-maintained middle class houses at the head of the street gave way to rougher dwellings and eventually to trailers as Billy rolled the truck through stops at several intersections. Nestled between two single-wides was a two-story house that, despite its second level, appeared smaller than any of the trailers. Two ruts with hints of once being a gravel driveway led around the house on the right side to a free standing garage. The rain had let up, but the cloud cover kept the moon from offering any natural light. Billy aimed his headlights at the house and left them on after killing the engine.

A hand grabbed Ray's arm when he reached for the handle to open the passenger door.

"Let's be careful," Billy warned, and reached under his seat to retrieve a black leather holster from which he withdrew a steel pistol. Ray gave him a questioning glance. "Just stay with me."

They quietly approached the front door. The only noise was the sound of a poorly tuned car engine running somewhere nearby. Without ringing the bell or otherwise announcing their presence, they entered the house. The screen porch was dark. The door leading inside sat open to the chilly night air. Dim light from a single floor lamp in the living room allowed them to navigate the hallway leading past a bathroom to a small kitchen where another open door accessed the backyard. A staircase to their left led to the bedrooms on the second floor.

They slowly climbed the steps, but all they found were a sparsely furnished bedroom and a second room with a metal desk and no chair. Ray turned on the lights in both rooms and they split up, Billy taking the bedroom and Ray taking what he assumed was intended to serve as a home office. Although he had been in Jake's house hundreds of times, this was his first time beyond the ground floor. He fully expected Jake to catch them rummaging through his personal belongings at any moment, but his curiosity and concern over his friend's possible involvement in Evan Wallace's death overrode that fear.

The metal desk was mostly empty. Worn down pencils and several pens rattled around the shallow center drawer, and a handful of empty hanging file folders hung in the tracks of the large bottom drawer. On top of the desk, placed squarely in the middle of the coffee stained blotter, was a plain white envelope with the words "For Clay" scribbled on it in pencil. Inside the envelope were three one-hundred dollar bills and a fifty.

The two men regrouped outside the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Billy poked in his head to check it out. When he found the bathroom vacant, his shoulders and chest dropped in a huff of exasperation. Ray showed him the envelope.
 

"There's three-fifty in it," he said. "That's more cash than he's had on him at any one time for years. Any idea who Clay is? Billy?"

But the big man had zoned out, lost in thought as he checked out the envelope and counted its contents. He handed it back to Ray/

"Just put it back where you found it," Billy told him.

Back in the kitchen, Billy instructed Ray to stay inside while he checked out the garage. Ray watched from the doorway. The weak light from the kitchen fixture helped light up the yard just enough for him to see Billy walk to the side door of the garage and press his ear to it. All of a sudden, he began to bang on the door with his fist, calling out Jake's name. Stepping out onto the back stoop, Ray realized he could still hear the sputtering engine they had heard when they arrived. The sound grew louder the closer he got to the garage.
 

Billy tried the locked knob and pounded at the door with his palm. Throwing his entire weight into it, Billy splintered the door jam and disappeared into the garage. Within seconds, the front garage door shot up so violently it nearly rebounded closed. Billy caught it and ran out with his face buried in the crook of his arm. He made it only a few feet before falling to his knees, coughing and dry heaving as
 
a wave of exhaust spread around them. The engine of Jake's old Nova rumbled on inside the garage. Ray struggled to drag Billy away from the poisoned air. It stung his eyes and made drawing deep breaths difficult. Once he had Billy seated on the back stoop of the house, Ray turned back to the garage. He pulled up his jacket to cover his face and entered through the side door Billy had broken through. He found the light switch. The dim light from the high hanging bulb barely made a difference. Jake's car vibrated noisily, as if it were almost too worn out to continue running. His throat and sinuses burned as he breathed.

Not knowing what to expect, or even considering what he might find, Ray opened the driver door to shut off the engine. Instinctively, he leapt back and fell over a pile of rakes and shovels, landing in a sitting position. He made no effort to catch himself and banged his head against the wall. His eyes remained locked on the figure in the driver seat now illuminated by the interior light of the car. The clothing and general shape of the body were unmistakably Jake's. The face, however, was unrecognizable. Its skin, bright pink and bloated, made his head appear too big for his body. The mouth was forced open by the tongue, so swollen it could no longer be contained. Jake's trademark cheap black sunglasses had fallen into his lap, revealing eyes that bulged sickeningly from their sockets.

Ray couldn't look away as he got to his feet. His temples began to pound. His watery eyes overflowed. Stepping closer to the car, expecting at any moment for the thing in the driver seat to reach out for him, he managed to draw his eyes away from Jake's twisted death mask and locate the keys dangling from the steering column. The engine stammered to a halt. Ray closed the door and turned to find Billy standing at the front of the garage watching him. Their eyes met. The look on Ray's face must have told Billy everything he needed to know.

Billy wept as privately as the situation afforded, but Ray couldn't find it in him. He wasn't aware of registering any emotion whatsoever.

Unlike the events of the morning, this death did not turn the grounds into a circus of activity. Only a single Glen Meadows police car arrived, followed some fifteen minutes later by an ambulance from the hospital. The two young paramedics managed their task proficiently and with an austerity appropriate to the circumstances. They administered oxygen to Billy and carried away Jake's body about an hour after its discovery. Several of the neighbors lingered, trying to catch glimpses of the body, before dispersing back to their trailers.

It was nearing ten-thirty when the police officer sat down with them in the kitchen of the barren house. Ray had been awake for more than seventeen hours by then, Billy more than two solid days. The coarse odor of exhaust clung to them. Every time Ray moved he could smell it releasing from his fleece jacket and his hair.

The police officer -- if he had a name, it wasn't important enough for Ray to remember -- asked them a series of routine questions. How had Jake been behaving lately? Had he ever attempted suicide in the past? Did he have any surviving relatives?

Ray provided most of the answers. Yes, Jake had spiraled into drinking and possibly drug abuse within the last few days. No, this was the first time he'd tried to kill himself. Yes, he had three sisters, a mother, and a large extended family scattered throughout the Carolinas. Billy stared at the floor through most of the questioning. When they finished, the policeman escorted them out of the house and locked the door with the key on the ring he had taken from Jake's car. He left them standing together by Billy's truck.

In a soothing tone, Ray asked his cousin if he was okay and offered to drive him home. He knew Billy must be blaming himself not just for Jake's suicide, but also for the violence they both suspected Jake perpetrated at the Wallace's estate. Neither of them had mentioned anything about it to the police officer.

Tuesday, Part I

Billy didn't speak the entire drive home. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the glove compartment in front of him. When they entered the house, Amy shushed them and headed off down the hallway to put their oldest daughter to bed. Ray could tell from the expression on her face that she knew something was terribly wrong.

"Jake killed himself," Billy coldly told her when she returned.

She turned to Ray, who looked away and could manage only a weak nod of confirmation. Amy didn't even ask for details. She walked down the narrow hallway, closing the bedroom door behind her. Ray didn't see her again that night, but he could hear her sobbing. Billy went to console her several minutes later.
 

Finding himself alone, Ray decided to walk the mile-and-a-half to his apartment. He left without telling them he was going. The sky was starless, the clouds high and dark. A light mist hung in the air. He had to consider his direction only once at an intersection before regaining his bearings and turning left. The rest of the time his mind ran through different ways the scene at the Wallace's estate could have played out. With each scenario he found it increasingly difficult to cast Jake in the role of crazed murderer. He had seen Jake at his most substance-induced extremes and never once had he ever seen him behave outwardly violent. Suicide? That he could believe. Jake was self-destructive by nature, but he wasn't a killer. It was close to midnight by the time Ray walked up the crumbling concrete steps outside his apartment. Despite the late hour, he placed two phone calls he felt shouldn't wait until morning. The first was to Becky, mainly because he wanted to hear a sympathetic voice. She complied accordingly, telling him how sorry she was and convincing him to take the day off. Ray tried to protest, but she insisted.