And more than that, he decided as he watched Sarah slide behind the wheel, he needed time to think about Sarah.
Within a few minutes, a highway patrolman arrived--a resident of one of the nearby houses had called the incident in--and began making the report. Bennie was busy explaining his version just as Charlie pulled up. The officer took a moment to talk to him up on the road. Charlie nodded before approaching Miles.
He was leaning against the car, his arms crossed, apparently lost in thought. Charlie ran a slow hand along the dent and scrape.
"For such a little dent, you look like hell."
Miles glanced up in surprise. "Charlie? What are you doing here?"
"Heard you were in an accident."
"Word travels fast."
Charlie shrugged. "You know how it goes." He dusted the snowflakes from his jacket. "You okay?"
Miles nodded. "Yeah. A little rattled, that's all."
"What happened?"
Miles shrugged. "Just lost control. The roads were a little slick."
Charlie waited to see if Miles would add anything else.
"That's it?"
"Like you said, it's just a little dent."
Charlie studied him. "Well, at least you're not hurt. The other driver seems fine, too."
Miles nodded, and Charlie joined him against the car.
"Anything else you want to tell me?"
When Miles didn't answer, Charlie cleared his throat. "The officer tells me that there was someone else in the car with you, someone who was wearing handcuffs, but that a lady came and took him away. Said she was taking him to the hospital. Now . . ." He paused, pulling his jacket a little tighter. "An accident is one thing, Miles. But there's a lot more than that going on here. Who was in the car with you?"
"He wasn't hurt that bad, if that's what you're worried about. I checked him out and he'll be okay."
"Just answer the question. You're in enough trouble already. Now, who were you bringing in?"
Miles shifted from one foot to the other. "Brian Andrews," he answered. "Sarah's brother."
"So she's the one who took him to the hospital?"
Miles nodded.
"And he was wearing handcuffs?"
No use trying to lie about it. He nodded shortly.
"Did you somehow forget that you're on suspension?" Charlie asked. "That officially, you're not allowed to arrest anyone?"
"I know."
"Then what the hell were you doing? What was so damn critical that you couldn't call it in?" He paused, meeting Miles's eyes. "I need the truth now--I'll get it eventually, but I want to hear it from you first. What was he doing, dealing drugs?"
"No."
"You catch him stealing a car?"
"No."
"A fight of some sort?"
"No."
"Then what was it?"
Though a part of Miles was tempted to tell Charlie the whole crazy truth, to tell him that Brian had killed Missy, he couldn't seem to find the words. Not yet, anyway. Not until he'd figured everything out.
"It's complicated," Miles finally answered.
Charlie pushed his hands into his pockets. "Try me."
Miles glanced away. "I need a little time to figure things out."
"Figure what out? It's a simple question, Miles."
Nothing is simple about this.
"Do you trust me?" Miles asked suddenly.
"Yeah, I trust you. But that's not the point."
"Before we go into everything that happened, I have to think this through."
"Oh, c'mon--"
"Please, Charlie. Can you give me just a little time? I know I've had you jumping through hoops these last couple of days and I've been acting crazy, but I really need this from you. And it has nothing to do with Otis or Sims or anything like that--I swear I won't go anywhere near them."
Something in the earnestness of Miles's plea, the weary confusion he saw in his eyes, told Charlie how much Miles needed this from him.
He didn't like it, not at all. Something was going on here, something big, and he didn't like not knowing what it was.
But ...
Despite his better judgment, he sighed and pushed away from the car. He said nothing at all, nor did he look back as he left, knowing that if he did, he would change his mind.
A minute later, almost as if he'd never been there at all, Charlie was gone.
In time, the highway patrolman finished the report and left. Bennie, too, drove off.
Miles, though, stayed at the scene for almost an hour, his mind a tangled mess of contradictory thoughts. Oblivious to the cold, he sat in the car with the window open, absently running his hands over the steering wheel, over and over.
When he realized what he had to do, he closed the window and turned the key, heading onto the road again. The car barely had time to get warm before he pulled off to the side again and got back out. The temperature had warmed slightly and the snow was beginning to melt. Drops fell from the branches of trees with steady plinks, like the ticking of a clock.
He couldn't help but notice the overgrown bushes along the side of the road. Though he'd passed them a thousand times, until this morning, they'd meant nothing to him.
Now, as he stared at them, they were all he could think about. They blocked his view of the lawn, and one look was enough to tell him they were thick enough to have kept Missy from seeing the dog.
Too thick to charge through?
He paced the row of bushes, slowing when he reached the area where they assumed that Missy had been hit. Bending down for a closer look, he froze when he saw it. A gap between the bushes, like a hole. No prints were evident, but black leaves were matted on the ground and branches had been torn away on either side.
Obviously a passageway for something.
A black dog?
In the distance, he listened for the sound of barking. He scanned the yards, looking there as well.
There was nothing.
Too cold to be out today?
He'd never checked for a dog. No one had.
He looked up the road, wondering. He pushed his hands into his pockets. They were stiff from the cold, difficult to bend, and as they warmed, they began to sting. He didn't care.
Not knowing what else to do, he drove to the cemetery, hoping to clear his mind. He saw them even before he'd reached the grave. Fresh flowers, propped against the headstone.
His mind flashed to Charlie and something he once had said.
Like someone was trying to apologize.
Miles turned and walked away.
Hours passed. Dark now. Outside the window, the winter sky was black and ominous.
Sarah turned from the window and paced her apartment again. Brian was home from the hospital. The cut wasn't serious, three stitches only, and there were no broken bones. It had taken less than an hour.
Despite the fact that she'd practically begged him, Brian hadn't wanted to stay with her. He'd needed to be alone. He was back at home, wearing a hat and sweatshirt, hiding the injuries from his parents.
"Don't tell them what happened, Sarah. I'm not ready for that yet. I want to be the one who tells them. I'll do it when Miles comes by."
Miles would come to arrest Brian. She was sure of that.
She wondered what was taking so long.
For the past eight hours, she'd veered from anger to worry, from frustration to bitterness and back again, one right after the other. There were too many different emotions for her to begin to sort through.
In her mind, she rehearsed the words she should have responded with when Miles lashed out at her so unfairly. So you think you're the only one who
got hurt here? she would have said. That no one else in the world can understand it? Did you stop to think how hard it was for me to bring Brian by this morning? To turn my own brother in? And your response--oh, that was the kicker, wasn't it? I betrayed you? I used you?
In frustration, she picked up the remote and turned on the television, scanned the channels. Turned it off.
Take it easy, she told herself, trying to calm down. He'd just found out who'd killed his wife. Nothing harder than that, especially coming out of the blue the way it had. Especially coming from me.
And Brian.
Can't forget to thank him for ruining everyone's life.
She shook her head. That wasn't fair, either. He was just a kid back then. It was an accident. She knew he'd do anything to change what happened back then.
Back and forth it went. She circled the living room again, ending up at the window. Still no sign of him. She went to the phone and picked up the receiver, checking to make sure it had a dial tone. It did. Brian had promised to call her as soon as Miles came over.
So where was Miles, and what was he doing? Calling for reinforcements?
She didn't know what to do. Couldn't leave the house, couldn't use the phone. Not while she was waiting for the call.
Brian spent the rest of the day hiding in his room.
In his bed, he stared at the ceiling, his arms at his sides, legs straight, as though he were lying in a coffin. He knew he'd fallen asleep at times, because the shifting light made things look different in his room. Over the hours, the walls turned from white to faded gray, then to shadows as the sun traveled slowly across the sky and finally went down. He hadn't eaten lunch or dinner.
Sometime during the afternoon, his mother had knocked at his door and come in; Brian had closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He knew she thought he was sick, and he could hear her as she crossed the room. She'd put a hand to his forehead, feeling for a fever. After a minute, she'd crept out, closing the door behind her. In hushed tones, Brian had heard her speaking to his father.
"He must not be feeling well," she'd said. "He's really out."
When he wasn't sleeping, he thought about Miles. He wondered where Miles was, he wondered when Miles would come. He thought about Jonah, too, and what he would say when his father told him who had killed his mother. He wondered about Sarah and wished she hadn't been any part of this.
He wondered what prison was like.
In the movies, prisons were worlds of their own, with their own laws, their own kings and pawns, and gangs. He imagined the dim fluorescent lights and the cold permanence of the steel bars, doors clanging shut. In his mind, he heard toilets flushing, people talking and whispering and yelling and moaning; he imagined a place that was never silent, even in the middle of the night. He saw himself staring toward the tops of concrete walls covered with barbed wire and seeing guards in the towers, holding guns pointed toward the sky. He saw other prisoners, watching him with interest, taking bets on how long he would survive. He had no doubt about this: If he ended up there, he would be a pawn.