The Truth (2 page)

Now

“So this Detective Fyfe shaped your story for you,” Derek says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“He told you what to tell the assistant DA.”

“He…was just trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful.” Derek shakes his head. “That's what you call it? Asking you to lie?”

“I didn't lie.”

“Oh, really?” His grip tightens on the garden shears.

“Please, don't…”

“Did you see the gun in his hand?”

Sweat from my forehead stings my eyes, and I try to blink the pain away. “He turned, he pointed it at me, and I…I just reacted… My gun went off.”

“But did you
see
the
gun
?”

“He…had it. He might have shot me, so I shot him. It was self-defense. After I shot him, he fell on the gun. That's why I didn't see it afterward. The police found it. Detective Fyfe told me.”

“And Detective Fyfe wouldn't lie, right?” he says in a harsh growl.

“No.”

“The only way you'd know for sure is if you can say you saw the gun in my brother's hand.”

“The police—”

All of a sudden, he is on his feet, with both hands now around the handle of the garden shears. “Do you think I'm kidding?” he spits, his voice now a harsh growl. “Do you think I won't cut off this finger?”

“No! I believe you! Please—”

“
Did you see the gun in his hand?
”

“
I don't know!
”

“What do you mean you don't—?”

“I want to be able to tell you. I do! It was so fast…and then my gun went off…and then he was falling… And when I think back to it, sometimes I see the gun and sometimes I don't. I can't be sure…but Detective Fyfe said they found the gun under his body, so he must've…”

“You think you're going to get by with a story like that?” he seethes. “You think you can just—”

“If I were lying, I wouldn't tell you I wasn't sure!” I shout. “I'd just tell you what Detective Fyfe told me to say!”

Hearing that, he hesitates. “Maybe,” he says.

He's going to do it. I can tell. I can feel the sharp edge start to press, starting to cut.

“Or maybe you—”

All at once, he begins to cough again, and the pressure stops. It sounds much harsher than before, and he pulls away, the blades releasing their grip as his coughing fit continues for at least a full minute, his body bent at the waist and turned away from me as he fights to regain control. In that moment, I look down at my left hand, expecting to see my little finger hanging by only the flesh. But I'm shocked to see no blood. There's just a scratch from where his coughing spasm caused him to pull the garden shears back, scraping the skin.

Finally he stops, but instead of coming toward me, he simply stares.

Waiting to see what he might do next is almost as bad as when I thought he was going to cut my finger off.

After a minute, he simply says, “Go on.”

I look back at him, confused. “What?”

“Keep talking.”

“I told you. I can't remember—”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving the hand holding the garden shears as he returns to the chair. “You can't remember if you saw a gun. Maybe that's true. I'll decide later.”

After more seconds pass, I ask, “What more do you want me to say?”

“What happened after you finished talking to the police? Did you go home?”

“Yes.”

“Go on from there.”

“I don't understand.”

He leans forward again, over the back of the chair. “Tell me what happened after you killed my brother. I want to know how it changed your life. How it changed
you.
”

“Why would you want to know that?”

“The only thing you should care about is telling the truth.” To emphasize this, he puts the garden shears back in place, once again embracing my little finger. “Now keep going.”

I don't know what more this guy wants. I told him what I told the detective. What more is there? Is there something
he
knows? Something he's not telling me? Is he waiting to see if I'll trip up, give him an excuse to cut me?

“You were finished with the cop, and you went home…” he urges.

All I know is I've still got all my fingers. I'm still alive. And people have got to be looking for me, don't they? If I keep stalling, maybe I can allow time for them to find me.

I take a shaky breath.

Then

We don't leave the station till six thirty in the morning. The first few miles home, no one says anything. I glance in the rearview mirror. Devon has his head down. I can't see his face. Finally, Mom says that Devon and I are not going to school today and suggests the three of us stay in a hotel for the day instead of going home. Get some rest, maybe go somewhere fun. She can call in at the diner. We can go home tomorrow.

“I've got a game tonight,” Devon says in a quiet voice.

“Well, I'm sure one game—”

“No way you're gonna miss your game, buddy,” I assure him. I look at Mom. She frowns at me then glances away.

A few more miles of silence pass before Devon mumbles, “I don't want to go to a hotel.”

“That's fine,” Mom says after a moment. “We'll go home. But no school. We need sleep. You especially, Devon.”

As it turns out, he can barely keep his eyes open as we pull in the driveway. I walk him into the house and right up to his room. “Don't forget to wake me in time for the game,” he mumbles as he settles in, still wearing the clothes he'd changed into before going to the police station.

“You got it.” I sit with him for a moment, rubbing his back as he closes his eyes. Not two minutes later, he begins to snore. Looking at the two of us, you might not think we were brothers. He's blond and I'm dark haired. And even though he's only ten, he seems broader and stronger than me, with my skinny frame. Another year or two at most and he'll be taller than I'll ever be.

I hear the phone ringing from the extension in Mom's room as I stand up. As I come out of Devon's room, Mom steps into the hallway, phone in hand. “It's for you,” she says, handing it to me before heading downstairs.

It's Terry, calling from school. Terry lives a couple houses down the street from us; we've been best friends since he moved into the neighborhood when we were eight. He has a younger brother as well. Brady and Devon play together on the same Little League team.

Because he's in band, Terry gets to school earlier than I do. I hear the sound of kids talking in the background, somebody blowing a trumpet. “Chris, are you all right?” he asks. “I saw the cop cars last night. I wanted to come over, but Mom wouldn't let me.”

“I'm okay,” I mumble.

“Kids are talking stupid here. Guys are saying you shot some dude. That's crazy, right?”

I hesitate, mumble something like, “Somebody broke in…”

“What? You mean it's true? Jesus, Chris…” A pause. “Are you coming in late today?”

“No. We just got back from the police station a little while ago. We need to sleep.”

“Sure, that makes sense. What was I thinking? Jeez, the police station. How's Devon doing? What about the game tonight? Sorry, that's a stupid question.”

“We'll be there.”

“Really? Okay. Cool. Uh…I'll see you tonight. We'll talk then.”

“Okay.” Feeling a little dazed, I hang up.

Downstairs, I find Mom in the living room, drinking a glass of wine even though it's morning.

She sees me looking at the glass and shrugs self-consciously. “I'm going to sleep soon.”

I consider getting myself a glass of orange juice but it means going into the kitchen, where you can still see faded blood on the counter. As if reading my mind, Mom says, “Tomorrow, I'm buying the best cleanser I can find and scrubbing down the whole kitchen. It's been needing it for a while anyway.”

I join her on the sofa. “You call Devon's school?” I ask.

“Yeah. Your school too. And work.”

The baseball dice game still sits open on the coffee table, the dice and board pieces still waiting to be put away. Mom has closed the front window curtains, but the two edges don't quite meet, so I can still see outside. The day looks dreary, but it's supposed to clear up by early afternoon.

Mom takes a couple more sips of wine then says without looking at me, “It's just a game, you know. I would imagine after what happened it wouldn't be a bad idea—”

“I think we should keep things as normal as possible for him,” I tell her.

After a moment, she nods. “I guess that makes sense.”

She takes another sip, glances at me. “He told the police he didn't see anything. He heard the gunshot but that was it; he stayed in the living room. Is that true?”

“Yes. He stayed there until the police arrived.”

“He never saw the body? At any time.”

“No.”

“Thank God.” She takes another sip of wine.

We sit in silence.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here,” she says, frowning. “I should have been home a lot sooner.”

“It's okay. I knew you'd be late.”

“I shouldn't have been that late.”

She goes back to her wine but after a moment puts it down and says, “I need to ask you, and you need to tell me the truth: What you told the assistant DA, that's what really happened?”

My heart wants to jump up into my throat, and I swallow hard. “What…what do you mean?”

“I know what those guys at the station would do to protect you because of your father, what he still means to them…” She pauses a moment. “I know Bob Fyfe probably helped you shape your story for the ADA. I just want you to know…if it didn't happen exactly the way you told it, it's okay. If…I don't know…they had to do something at the scene—”

“Like what?”

She looks at me.

“The guy had a gun. He pointed it at me. I fired. I didn't want to, but I did. End of story.”

She continues to stare at me. Mom's not one to just let things go. I wait for her to push. But, surprisingly, she just nods. Leans in. “Then you did the right thing.”

She seems about to put her arm around me but picks up her wineglass and empties it instead. Mom's never been one for hugs or kissing boo-boos, even when Devon and I were little. She's grown even tougher since Dad was killed.

“I'm going to bed,” she says. “You should too.” Leaving her glass on the coffee table, she stands.

“I'll set an alarm,” I tell her. She looks at me. “So we're up in time for Devon's game.”

“Right.” She gives me a half smile. “Always looking out for us, aren't you? I don't know what I'd do without you.” She leans forward “You did good, Chris. You did real good.”

She seems a little off balance as she heads up the stairs. How much wine did she have before I sat down? I realize I never asked her how her date went. She'd only started dating again in the last few months. The first two tries didn't go beyond the first date, but this guy was different, she'd said.

I set the alarm on my cell and have every intention of going upstairs to my room and bed as well. But I start drifting and tell myself I'll stretch out here on the couch for just a few minutes.

• • •

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” I'm screaming at Dad. But Dad's moving toward the girl instead, so I lunge for Dad's gun on the floor because if I can get to it before the guy fires—

I wake up and stop short of crying out. Mom is leaning over me, her hand on my shoulder. I realize I never made it off the sofa.

“You okay?” she says, eyes wide.

“Yeah, I… Sorry, I…” I sit up. Through the crack between the curtains I can tell that the sun has pushed aside the day's grayness, just as the weather report promised.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” she says, excitement in her voice. “That was Bob Fyfe on the phone.” I hadn't even heard it ringing. “Good news. They're calling it a clear case of self-defense. The case is closed. It's over.”

“Over?” I mumble, picking at some crust in my eye.

“Well, the ADA had a little trouble with the fact you went and got the gun instead of just calling the police. But the gun's registered, right?” She hesitates then adds, “Turns out there've been a few incidents in the neighborhood, people reporting that when they got up in the morning they could tell someone had been in the house and gone through their stuff. One report had a couple waking up and seeing someone running out their front door. You're the one who just happened to catch him.”

She nods her head. “But it's over. You have nothing to worry about.” Her eyes go to the sofa. “Why don't you go up?”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Noon. You can sleep for a few more hours. I think I'm going to. Later, I'll order in something for us, a late lunch, early dinner, whatever.” When I don't move, she adds, “Come on. Your bed's gotta be better than this sofa.”

“What was his name?” I ask suddenly.

“Who?”

“The…intruder. Did Detective Fyfe tell you?”

“I don't know and I don't care.” She looks scared.

I look away. Maybe I should say something, but I don't know what.

“The important thing is, you're safe. You and Devon both. Go to bed,” she says.

After a moment, I nod. Following Mom up, I watch her go into her room before I walk into mine.

It's harder to fall asleep this time. When I close my eyes, I see a figure turning toward me, pointing something. It's hidden in shadow.

Gunfire.

The image repeats itself several times before it finally stops. After a while, I'm finally able to fall asleep.

At least this time, the dream leaves me alone.