Gone ’Til November Page 11

  “She was with him.”

  She held the envelope out. He took it, put it on the desk.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking Derek home.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “Mikey said you’d take care of this. Take care of the people that hurt Derek. What happened to him wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve that.”

  Mikey don’t give a shit about Derek, Morgan thought. If you think he does, you’re as big a fool as that boy was.

  Pain in his stomach then, the first time in days. He grimaced.

  “You all right?” she said.

  “What else you find out?”

  “They said the case is closed. No charges.”

  “What about the car?”

  “They impounded it. They’re keeping it, I guess.”

  “They find anything else in it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Not that they told me. And there’s nothing in those reports.”

  He got up, walked past her into the bathroom, took the Vicodin bottle out of his overnight bag. He shook out a half tablet, filled a plastic glass with water from the sink, washed it down. He could feel her watching him.

  “Mikey give you anything for me?” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Money.”

  He went back out, shook his head.

  “He owes me for what happened,” she said.

  “You need to take that up with him.”

  He went to the window and pushed the curtains aside to look out. Insects fluttered around the outside light.

  “Mikey tell you how much he paid Derek to come down here?” she said. “Four thousand dollars. That what his life was worth?”

  He let the curtains fall closed.

  “It’s not fair,” she said. He looked at her, saw water in her eyes. She blinked it away.

  “He needed that money for us,” she said. “For his little boy. That’s the only reason he came down here. If he hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”

  “You need some cash? I could give you a hundred or so.”

  He saw the anger then, pushing away the fear. Liking it, the strength there.

  “A hundred?” she said.

  “I can maybe go two.”

  “You’re all the same, aren’t you? You and Mikey and C-Love, all of them. You don’t care what happens to anyone else, do you? It’s all about the money.”

  “What did you think it was about?”

  “We’re owed,” she said. “I’m owed. And my little boy. For Derek, for what happened to him down here.”

  This woman is trouble, Morgan thought. Trouble for Mikey, trouble for C-Love. Once she walked out that door, though, not his trouble anymore.

  “Like I said, you need to get with Mikey on that.”

  “I will.”

  She stood, picked up the purse. “I’ll wait outside. I don’t like the smell in here.” She started for the door.

  “One thing you need to be careful of,” he said. “When you get back up there.”

  “What?”

  “Mikey don’t pay his debts if there’s a cheaper way to solve the problem. You feel me?”

  He got his wallet, took out three fifties, then, after a moment, three more, held them out. She looked at the bills.

  “For the ride home,” he said.

  He kept them out there. She took them, then unlocked the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

  He opened the envelope, took the papers out, got the reading glasses from his bag.

  Copied reports, twelve pages altogether. One was from the coroner’s office, had the generic outline of a body, front and back views, Xs marking entrance and exit wounds. Newspaper clippings and a plain sheet of white paper. On it, she’d written two names and addresses in a small, precise feminine hand.

  He saw headlights, went to the window, and parted the curtains. The cab was there. She got in, looked back at the room, at him. Then the driver turned around and headed back the way he’d come.

  He lay in the dark until one thirty, then went out to the car. The night was filled with the sound of crickets, the ragged hum of air conditioners, a muffled TV from one of the rooms.

  He popped the trunk, got the bag Otis had given him, a screwdriver from the toolbox, the gun cleaning kit he’d bought at a sportsmen’s shop in North Carolina. Then he opened the passenger side door, sat on the blacktop, and worked by the glow of the courtesy light.

  When he was done, he replaced the rocker panels, locked the doors, carried the bag inside. At the desk, he cleaned and oiled the Beretta, then reassembled it. He spilled a box of 9 mm shells out on the blotter, brass glinting in the light. He thumbed fifteen rounds into the clip, pushed it into the grip until it seated. He chambered a shell, decocked the gun, engaged the safety.

  He did the same with the Walther, the gun only slightly heavier when it was loaded. When he was done, he took out the bag of reefer, got the pack of rolling papers from his overnight. The pain in his stomach was back, low and burning. He sat on the bed, lit the joint, sucked in smoke and held it, thought about the three hundred and fifty thousand.

  Mikey’s money, but he’d be inside before long, one way or another. Morgan knew if he brought it all back, Mikey would find a way to cheat him on the cut. Or just give him up to the Trey Dogs to make peace, keep it all himself.

  With the three fifty and what he had stashed in Newark, Morgan could start again in another city, another state, bring Cassandra and the boy with him. He could find a doctor there, begin the treatments. If Mikey or C-Love or the twins came looking, he could deal with that, too, protect what was his. What he’d earned.

  He put the Beretta in his overnight, left it unzipped, easy to get at. The Walther went under a pillow. He lay back on the bed, drew on the joint, let the smoke relax him. The pain in his stomach began to ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the night.

  FOURTEEN

  After she clocked in, Sara went to the storeroom that held the SO’s single general-use computer. She signed on, typed quickly, sat back and waited, hearing voices in the corridor, a toilet flushing down the hall.

  When the report came up, she scanned it, hit PRINT. Behind her, the printer chattered. She looked toward the half-closed door, hoping no one would come in, ask what she was doing.

  The printer spit pages, went silent. She closed the file and signed off. She gathered the pages from the printer, went out into the hall, and closed the door behind her.

  One call this morning, a lawn mower stolen from a shed in Libertyville, and since then the radio had been mercifully quiet. At ten thirty, she parked the cruiser on a dirt road that led down to the river, lowered the window, shut the engine off. The drone of cicadas filled the silence it left.

  She had a dull headache from the sleep she’d missed the night before. She had lain awake after Billy left, listening to the rain, wondering why she had let him back into her house, her bed. Not knowing the answer.

  She read the report again. Little in it she didn’t already know. Appended were Billy’s statement, her statement, the medical examiner’s report, and an inventory of everything found in the car and on Willis’s body.

  The wind shifted, moved the trees, brought the smell of the river. She looked through the inventory again. The recovered guns were listed by make and caliber: Ingram MAC-10 machine gun; Smith and Wesson Model 5906 semiautomatic; Heckler and Koch P7. All high-end weapons, with ammunition for each. Willis’s gun was listed as a Taurus Model 85, .38 caliber, rubber grips, serial number burned off. She paged forward to the lab report. The only prints on the weapon belonged to Willis, full finger and thumb impressions. A 100 percent match.

  She remembered the Taurus lying there in the wet grass, inches from his hand. The bluing had been nicked and scratched. With those better, flashier weapons in the trunk, why was he carrying that? She looked back at the
inventory of ammunition. Six boxes of 9 mm shells. Nothing in .38 caliber. The Taurus didn’t fit.

  She left the papers on the seat, got out, and walked down the dirt track to the river. It was running low and muddy, wind feathering the surface. There was a clearing here, a collapsed dock, pilings protruding from the water. She realized then where she was. As a teenager, she’d parked here with Roy in his Firebird. Senior year of high school, before she’d gone off to college up north, thinking she was leaving Hopedale for good. You’ll be back, he’d told her. He’d been right.

  She sat on a flat rock, looked out at the river. On the opposite bank, dark trees rose like a hanging wave. A dragonfly flitted over the surface of the water, drifted on.

  She picked up a stone, tossed it, watched the ripples spread.

  That’s what life is. You make one decision, take one action, and it affects everything. It spreads out across your present, into your future. And it never stops.

  Life had seemed full of choices back then, opportunities. As she got older, door after door had shut. Now here she was, forty in sight, alone except for Danny.

  What decision are you making now?

  Had Elwood and the sheriff wondered about the Taurus, too? If not, with the investigation closed, Billy free and clear, what would be the point of bringing it up to them? What would that say about her?

  She stood, dusted off her pants, and walked back to the cruiser, feeling totally and irrevocably alone.

  When she got home, Danny was at the kitchen table, the Tyrannosaurus half assembled. She’d left it for him with a note, hadn’t told him where it came from.

  “Hey, little guy.” She touched his hair. “How you making out?”

  “Almost finished.”

  “You feed the rabbits?”

  “Yup.”

  She got a bottle of water from the refrigerator, twisted off the top. She could hear the rumble of the dryer in the basement, JoBeth doing laundry.

  There was a note on the refrigerator, held there by a parrot magnet. JoBeth’s handwriting. Dr. Winters called. 4:45.

  Shit. She looked at her watch. Five thirty. Still a chance to catch him if he was working late.

  “When did you have pizza?” Danny said.

  She realized then she’d left the box in the refrigerator.

  “Last night. I got hungry after you went to bed. We’ll have the rest for dinner, okay?”

  “It’s cold.”

  “That’s what microwaves are for, kiddo.”

  She got her cell out, went to her bedroom, speed-dialed the doctor’s office. On the fourth ring, he picked up.

  “Sara Cross,” she said. “Returning your call. Sorry, I just got the message.” She closed the door behind her.

  “Hi, Sara. It’s okay, I’m in the office trying to get my desk cleared anyway. Danny’s lab results from last week came in, and I wanted you to know about them.”

  She swallowed, felt tightness in her stomach, tasted sourness. “Go on.”

  “As you know, one more treatment and we’ll be reaching the end of the induction therapy. The new lab work shows we’re on the right track as far as his T-cell count is concerned. I don’t think I’m going too far to say we could be looking at a near-total remission by the end of the therapy.”

  She sat on the bed, closed her eyes. “But?” she said.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. You know some of this already, but a patient like Danny diagnosed with ALL may have a hundred billion leukemia cells. When it’s successful—and in his case it looks like it is—induction therapy destroys at least ninety-nine percent of them. At that point we say the patient is in remission. However, that could still leave as many as a hundred million leukemia cells in the body. So we have to go after those aggressively. If not, they can grow and multiply later on and lead to a relapse.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I think we should go ahead with what we talked about last time.”

  “More chemo.”

  “We call it consolidation therapy. It reduces and hopefully kills off the remaining cells. As I said, it takes about four to six months.”

  Six more months.

  “Sara, you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Consolidation therapy can be intense, especially at Danny’s age, but I think it’s the only way to go. We’ll decide on the drugs and doses later. It won’t be easy, but I think we have a good shot at whipping this.”

  “When do we start?”

  “I have Danny’s last induction session scheduled for two weeks from today. We’ll see how that goes, what our test readings are, then come up with a plan for the consolidation stage.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is progress, Sara. Trust me. This far into the treatment, Danny’s doing pretty well. The induction therapy, if it takes, leads to remission in about ninety-five percent of the children we treat. The consolidation therapy puts that figure even higher. So far, in Danny’s case, it looks like it’s taking extraordinarily well.”

  She went to the door, opened it, looked down the hall. She could see Danny at the kitchen table, his back to her.

  “I don’t mean to downplay the effects. The next few months will be rough. He’ll have some of the same reactions to the chemo as he’s had before, but hopefully not as pronounced or severe. We can talk more in two weeks, after his session, how’s that sound?”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll see how he’s feeling and take it from there.”

  She thanked him, ended the call. When she went back into the kitchen, Danny was sitting forward, elbows on the table, looking down at the last unassembled pieces. The dinosaur was no further along.

  “Was that Dr. Jack?” he said.

  “It was.”

  “Is that why you went to your room?”

  “Just wanted a little privacy, that’s all.”

  “Am I still sick?”

  She looked at the back of his head, the patchwork of missing hair. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezed gently, felt his warmth.

  “Not for long, sweetie. Dr. Jack says you’re going to be better soon.”

  He picked up a piece, placed it against another. They didn’t fit. He put them back down.

  “How soon?” he said.

  He’s not letting you off the hook. He never does.

  “Soon.”

  He fit two pieces together, clicked them into place. The tail and back legs, the dinosaur almost done.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Better than leftover pizza. How about we hit the park before it gets dark, then get some burgers at Dairy Queen?”

  “Can we?”

  “If we leave now, sure. I just need to get changed. Are you ready?”

  He snapped the final piece into place.

  “All done,” he said.

  “Good job.”

  “It wasn’t that hard.”

  “It would be for me.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he said. “You can fix anything.”

  The sun was sinking when they got to the municipal park, the carousel lights already flashing. Tinny calliope music, the smell of cotton candy and hot dogs from the pushcarts. It was cooler now, and she’d made Danny put on a jacket before they left the house.

  There were only a half-dozen kids on the carousel, all younger than him. For most of the town, the novelty of it had worn off in the year it had been here, but it wasn’t until the past summer that she’d let Danny ride. “You baby him too much,” Billy had said once, “You can’t protect him from everything.” She’d known he was right, but he didn’t know what it was like to lie there at night, the house silent, imagining life without Danny. A life alone.

  She bought tickets, helped him onto one of the horses, rode a circuit with him, and then stepped off, joining the other adults standing nearby. He waved at her as he went around, his other hand clutching the pole, his smile hu
ge. She waved back.

  A cool wind blew across the park. She turned, looked toward the dirt lot where the Blazer was parked. On the far side, a gray Toyota with Florida plates sat beneath a live oak, away from the other vehicles, a figure in shadow behind the wheel. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. A parent maybe, listening to the radio, out of the wind, while their child rode the carousel.

  Danny called to her as he came past again, the horse rising and falling lazily. Love you, kid, she thought. Then the carousel took him around again and out of sight.

  Morgan watched them from the stolen car.

  The woman had been easy to find. He’d taken the Toyota from the lot of an outlet mall near Arcadia, switched plates with another car, then driven down here. He’d gone to the sheriff’s office first, parked in a strip mall across the street. On the seat beside him was a newspaper clipping with photos of the woman and Flynn. A little after five, he’d watched her pull her cruiser into the lot.

  He got a better look when she left, still in uniform. Midthirties maybe, a good shape, brown hair tied up behind. She’d gotten into a silver Blazer, and he’d followed at a safe distance. First to her house, where he’d parked down the block, watched her go in and then come back out in street clothes, with a little boy. Then here to the park.

  The carousel slowed, children getting off, others getting on. The boy ran toward her, and she scooped him up in her arms and hoisted him onto her shoulders, the way a father might, holding on to his ankles. They crossed the lot to the Blazer. As they got closer, Morgan saw there was something wrong with the boy. He was too thin, his hair sparse and uneven. When she set him down, he looked spent, had to hold on to her while she opened the back door, helped him up and into a booster seat.

  He’s sick, Morgan thought. Something bad. Something that won’t go away.

  As the woman got behind the wheel, she looked across at Morgan. He knew he was far enough from the streetlamp that she couldn’t make him out, if she could see him at all.

  He watched them drive off. He didn’t need to follow. He knew where she lived now, what she drove.

  Tomorrow he would find Flynn.