The Long and Faraway Gone (14 page)

The barstool next to Crowley was empty. Julianna watched him lean over, heavily, and say something to the woman sitting on the other side of it.

The waitress brought the drinks. Julianna gave her a twenty and told her to bring another round of drinks when these were finished.

The drunk woman lifted her drink. It looked like a mojito. “Whooo!” she said. And then, “Whooo.”

Julianna took a sip of her beer. Bud Light? It tasted like something you'd wring out of a dirty rag.

The redhead was smirking. “Boyfriend or husband?” she asked Julianna.

“Boyfriend,” Julianna said. “If he's meeting that bitch here again, I'm going to kill 'em both.”

The redhead smirked. “Which one is he?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” the drunk woman asked again.

The redhead lifted her big purse off the floor. Turquoise leather, trimmed with rhinestones. She opened it and showed Julianna its contents: a small black gun in a turquoise leather holster that matched the purse.

“But I'd use me a knife,” the redhead said. She set the purse back on the floor and laughed. Her laugh was sandpaper and ground glass. “A big old butcher's knife.”

The woman that Crowley was talking to had moved over onto the empty barstool between them. She had one thick brown braid that fell almost to her waist and wore a denim vest, nothing on beneath it.

She leaned into Crowley now, to hear what he was saying. When she turned her head, or shook it, or bobbed it to the music, her heavy braid barely moved. Crowley watched the woman like he'd watched the shot glass fill. Julianna felt a shiver move through her.

“He's the one at the table by the door,” she told the redhead, picking a table at random.

“Hmm,” the redhead said. “The squirrelly one or the—­ No. Girl like you, bet you go for the big boys, don't you? The strong, silent type.”

“That's him.”

“He's a cutie. How's he measure up in the cock department?”

“Why?” Julianna said. “You the last slut in Oklahoma City hasn't gone down on him yet?”

The redhead laughed.

A biker dude with a giant walrus mustache had made his way over. His buddies at another table observed.

“Ladies. Buy y'all a drank?”

His mustache moved, but you couldn't see his mouth underneath. It was like watching a sock puppet talk.

“Can't you see we're having a weighty discussion here?” the redhead said. “I mean.”

Walrus Man chuckled. “I can get weighty.”

“I bet you can,” the redhead said. “Now, go away. I'll let you know if you're needed.”

He chuckled again, hesitated, and then returned to his table. Julianna thought the redhead could do better tonight than Walrus Man. She was hard-­looking, but more attractive than Julianna had noticed at first glance. Probably the redhead agreed she could do better than Walrus Man but wasn't yet positive about it.

“I need a
fucking
cigarette.”

“Damn,”
the redhead said. She lifted her purse back up, pawed around, came up with a single broken cigarette. She handed it to her friend and lit it for her with a turquoise Bic. The flame wavered. The tip of the cigarette wavered. “Hold still, Carla May.”

Crowley paid his tab, cash, without taking his eyes off the woman on the barstool next to him.

Where had he been for those fifteen years since he was released from prison? What had he been doing? Julianna didn't really care. She wanted to know what he'd been doing for fifty-­five minutes in September of 1986. Did he see Genevieve? What did he say to her? What did she say to him? Was there someone else in the trailer with them? The man with the cowboy hat?

“That guy at the end of the bar,” Julianna asked the redhead. “With the long hair and the goatee. Have you ever seen him in here before?”

“You do go for the big boys,” the redhead said. She squinted. “No. Never have.”

“Mr. Blue Eyes,” the drunk friend said.

Julianna and the redhead looked at her. She grinned.

“Carla May,” the redhead said. “Did that man
romance
you and I didn't hear the juicy details?”

“He wanted to romance me, all right. He bought me a drink is all, the other day.”

“Did he say anything?” Julianna asked.

The drunk friend frowned at Julianna. “Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“I don't recall.” She looked at the cigarette between her fingers and mourned the spreading ash. “Mr. Blue Eyes. I had to go pee, then I don't know where he went.”

Julianna watched Crowley stand. He held out a hand, the gentleman, and helped the woman with the braid off the barstool. He followed her toward the door, close behind and towering over her, his big hand on her shoulder now. Julianna felt another shiver.

If she hurried, she could head them off at the door. Maybe Crowley would talk to her for five minutes, just to get rid of her. And he wouldn't want Julianna to tell the woman with the braid that he was an ex-­con, that he'd been the primary suspect in the kidnapping and murder of a teenage girl. Or would he care? Would the woman? This wasn't the Starbucks in Nichols Hills.

Julianna stayed seated. When Crowley and the woman reached the door, he stopped and glanced back across the big room, a quick scan. For an instant, Julianna was certain he'd seen her. But his eyes skimmed past, no drag or hesitation.

He put both hands on the woman's shoulders and steered her out the door.

The waitress brought two more mojitos. The two guys at the closest table were getting ready to make their move. Julianna could see it. The redhead could see it.

“Have fun tonight,” Julianna told her. She stood up.

The redhead shook her head and laughed. “Well, hell if I know what you're up to.”

“Hell if I know either,” Julianna said.

The drunk friend lifted her fresh mojito. “Whooo.”

 

J
ulianna followed Crowley's truck back to his house. She parked down the block again, closer this time. There were a lot of other cars parked on the street, both sides, and the streetlight on the corner was out. Julianna didn't think Crowley would notice her even if he was looking.

He wasn't looking. He unlocked the front door of his house and opened it but then wheeled around and pushed the woman with the braid up against the doorframe. He closed a fist around her braid and yanked it, like a bellpull. The woman's head tilted up and back. Julianna could see the white of her throat, the white of her smile.

Julianna watched them make out: Crowley's fist tight on the braid, the woman pinned against the doorframe, her body pushing and moving against his. He was so much bigger than she was, taller and heavier. She was probably five-­five or five-­six, Julianna's height. Julianna couldn't see Crowley's other hand until the woman suddenly bucked, buckled, and Julianna realized that he had his other hand between her legs.

The woman had lost one of her spike-­heeled shoes. Her bare foot stroked his calf.

Crowley knew what he was doing, apparently. After a minute or two, they moved inside. The door banged shut behind them.

Julianna pictured the groping stumble to the bed. Or the sofa? The mother-­of-­pearl snaps on the woman's denim vest popping open, Crowley's hands on her breasts, his mouth, the weight of him pressing down on her.

Julianna remembered one time, at almost the very beginning of the investigation, when the two detectives had been standing around in the driveway eating a late lunch or an early dinner. One of the detectives, the older one, shared his fries with Julianna—­crinkle-­cut fries from a white Braum's bag. He was asking Julianna how she liked school, what her favorite classes were, when a cop in a uniform interrupted to report that Schmidt and the others were on it—­
Schmidt and all them
—­checking the Cutlass for blood and semen.

Julianna had felt the detectives go rigid. The young, grim one grabbed the patrol cop by the elbow and marched him off. The older detective asked Julianna, quickly, which one she would pick, french fries or Tater Tots, if she had to eat one and only one for the rest of her life.

“Now, give it some thought,” he said. “Only fools rush in.”

The thought of blood in Genevieve's car didn't freak Julianna out. No, yes, of course it did, but Julianna had seen blood. She was familiar with blood. When she was nine, she'd opened a peel-­top can of chocolate pudding and sliced her finger on the sharp edge of the lid. Another time, in kindergarten, Julianna had seen a little boy fall off the top of a slide. His teeth were red when he cried.

Blood was everywhere, part of life. But: semen.
Semen.
Julianna, at twelve years old, was young for her age. The baby of the family, sheltered by her mother and, yes, to some degree even by Genevieve. So Julianna had only the vaguest notion of what semen was. She just knew it was gross and filthy and scary and it happened during sex, which was gross and filthy and scary.

Blood
and
semen. The combination created a new, exponential horror. Julianna had nightmares for weeks, months. Some nights she would wake up in the middle of the night and just wish she were dead.

Crowley and the woman with the braid had been inside the house for forty minutes. Still going at it? Going at it again? Julianna wondered what would happen if she knocked on Crowley's door now. He'd be pissed, standing there with his dick swinging in the wind, but he might also be . . .
spent.
Julianna, if she were lucky, would catch him in that brief moment when a man can do nothing but surrender.

I just want to talk to you.

Julianna told herself she'd wait five more minutes and then drive home. After those five minutes ticked by, she told herself she'd wait five more. After an hour the door to the house opened. The woman with the braid picked up the spike-­heeled shoe she'd abandoned and slipped it back on. Crowley was already halfway to his truck. The woman had to hurry to catch up and climb in. Her braid, Julianna could see in the glare of Crowley's headlights, had begun to fray.

Crowley dropped the woman off at her car, in the parking lot of the Double R Ranch. The lot was still almost full. Julianna guessed Crowley would park and go inside again for a drink. Instead he pulled back onto Reno and then caught I-­44 at Tenth Street. He took it north, away from his house. Julianna followed. She had come this far, had she not?

Crowley broke off I-­44 and onto the Lake Hefner Parkway. North. The shittier parts of northwest Oklahoma City fell away. The nicer parts rose up to meet them. Nichols Hills was just to the east. Quail Creek was farther north. Julianna lived in between, in the Village, not as ritzy as the other two neighborhoods but nice enough and well situated. There were parts of the Village that were nicer than others: Julianna's house was on the border between two such parts. She felt a moment of irrational alarm when Crowley took the Britton Road exit—­her exit—­but then he turned left instead of right and headed toward the lake.

The lake. Why? Julianna had to be very careful now. It was almost midnight, and once they passed the cluster of restaurants at East Wharf, there were only a few cars on the dark lake road. She stayed far back, occasionally losing the truck's lights and then picking them up again when the trees thinned. The landscape around the lake, a reservoir, had been flat and featureless when Julianna was a girl. But in recent years money had been spent, improvements had been made. There was a boathouse now, walking and jogging trails, lots of trees. At the right time of year, at the right time of day—­sunset, when the water reflected back an even deeper, richer version of the sky—­the lake could be beautiful. But the trees, at the moment, were a pain in Julianna's ass.

Crowley stayed right at the fork and curled around the southern fringe of the lake. Julianna really didn't know where he was going now. And then he was gone. She lost his lights and couldn't find them again. She braked in the middle of the road—­there were no cars behind her—­and looked back. The only place Crowley could have turned off was Stars and Stripes Park. But the park entrance was gated after dark. Wasn't it?

The road was too narrow to make a clean U-­turn, and there wasn't much of a shoulder to work with here. Julianna had to ease her car carefully up onto an incline bordered by heavy brush. She nosed against the brush, testing the give, then shifted into reverse when she'd created enough space.

Headlights snapped on—­brights—­right behind her. Crowley pulled his truck tight against the back bumper of her car, pinning her in. Julianna thought her heart was going to punch its way out of her chest. She opened her door and got out. Gnats churned in the blaze of Crowley's brights. Julianna had to shield her eyes.

“Turn those off, please,” she called.

After a few seconds, Crowley killed his lights. The night went black again. There were no streetlamps out here, and the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away. Crowley had picked the perfect spot. The only light was the moon—­half full or half empty, Julianna didn't know which. The lake road here was so quiet, just the crickets and the wind, that she could hear the whistle of a train crossing Britton, miles away to the east.

Crowley climbed out of his truck and walked over, heavily, a boulder rolling slowly toward her. All night Julianna had been a spectator—­now she was part of the scene. She had to keep herself from taking a step backward. Crowley stopped a few feet away and folded his arms over his chest.

“You been following me for how long?” he said. “Since at the bar?”

He moved to his left. She turned to keep him in front of her.

“I told you to leave me alone,” he said.

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Didn't I?”

“You did.”

He moved to his left again and took a step closer.

“What you got there?” he said. He smiled a little. “Behind your back there. Pepper spray.”

She was holding her cell phone behind her back. She'd already dialed 911. All she had to do, if she needed to do it, was hit the
SEND
button.

“Yes,” she said.

“Bullshit.”

Another step to his left, another step toward her. He looked down at her. He smelled like the bar. Julianna supposed she did, too. Stale smoke and beer. But Crowley smelled of something else as well, sharp but faint, musky. Or maybe that was just Julianna's imagination, since she knew what he'd been doing half an hour ago.

He saw the phone she was holding.

“They can't track with a cell phone,” he said. “You gotta tell 'em where you're at. Is that what you was gonna say? ‘Hurry, please, I'm out by the lake somewhere.' ”

He was so close now that Julianna could feel the heat coming off him. She realized, too late, that he'd been shading left and turning her on purpose, so he could back her up against her car. She had nowhere to go now.

“I'm not scared of you,” Julianna said.

“I didn't ask if you were.”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “Listen to me good, now. Your sister?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know what happened to her. I was in jail that night. How would I know what happened to her?”

“Before you were arrested,” Julianna said.

“That was . . . shit, almost thirty years ago. I told the police everything.”

“Everything?”

He studied her and then lifted a hand. Julianna flinched. Crowley smiled again. He brought his index finger close to her lips, as close as he could get without touching them.

“Shush, now,” he said.

Julianna saw the headlights before he did. The car came up behind him and then slowed to a stop. The passenger-­side window slid down, and the driver, a man with glasses, leaned over.

“Y'all all right?” he said.

“Just fine,” Crowley said.

Julianna could see the driver peering at her, waiting for her to answer.

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

The window slid up, the car pulled away. Crowley took a step backward. Realizing, maybe, that he hadn't picked the perfect spot after all.

“I just want to talk to you,” she said. “Let me buy you a drink. Talk to me for five minutes and tell me anything you remember. Anything.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley said. “You understand?”

Julianna shook her head. “No. I won't.”

He turned and started walking back to his truck. “You're a crazy bitch.”

“Please,” she said. She didn't know what else to say. “Please. I know.”

He'd been about to swing himself up into the cab of the truck. After a second he reached into the cab and popped the brights back on. Julianna closed her eyes. She could feel the gnats churning around her.

“I can buy myself a drink,” Crowley said. He turned the headlights off.

“What do you want?” Julianna said.

“I told the police everything. So we're clear on that. I told 'em way back when.”

“What do you want?”

“Can you cook?”

“Cook?” Julianna said, surprised.

“Turkey and stuffing. Cornbread stuffing. Mashed potatoes and gravy. I know it ain't Thanksgiving yet.”

“You want me to make you dinner?”

“Way to a man's heart,” he said. “I ain't had a home-­cooked meal since I don't know when.”

Julianna tried to read him. A glimmer of pity? Weary resignation? Or had she just been turned again without realizing it, positioned right where he wanted her? It was laughable, how impossible it was to read Crowley. Julianna felt bad for the ­people over the years who'd tried to read her.

Another pair of headlights crawled up the lake road toward them. The driver slowed. Julianna waved him on.

“Tomorrow night,” Crowley said. “Tell me your address.”

Julianna knew that an evening of small bad decisions had led to the precipice of this monumentally terrible one. She no longer heard DeMars's voice in her head. That voice had given up long ago.

“And pie,” Crowley said. He was watching to see which way she would break, enjoying the moment. “Whatever kind, so long as it's sweet.”