U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

Walker climbed the hill a few steps behind Jon. He’d wakened early, finding himself at peace for the first time in weeks. He felt good. He had energy and optimism. He’d suddenly turned a corner. He had no idea why or when the shift had occurred. When he’d opened his eyes that morning at the Pelican Motel, a sight that should have been depressing was actually all right. He’d have preferred to be home with his wife and kids, but for now, he could do this. It dawned on him that being clean and sober felt better than the best moment of being drunk. He didn’t want to live as he had, from happy hour to happy hour, drink to drink, from one hangover to the next. It was as if a heavy set of chains had fallen away. His demons had loosened their hold and he was light as air. The battle wasn’t over. Come 5:00, he’d probably still have the urge to drink. But he knew now all he had to do was what he’d been doing for the past ten days. Just not drink. Just not succumb. Just think of something else until the urge went away. Being clean and sober for ten days hadn’t killed him. The alcohol had been killing him. The absence of alcohol was to be celebrated—and not with a drink or a cigarette or a pill or anything else that might come between him and his own soul. If he could attribute the sense of well-being to anything, it was his decision to turn himself in. In his conversation with Jon, he’d implied that he was still on the fence, but it wasn’t true, He wondered if this was the euphoria experienced by someone bent on suicide. Turning himself in would be the end of life as he knew it, and that was okay with him. He’d brave it, all of it—the shame, the humiliation, the public castigation. That was the deal he’d made twenty-one years earlier. There was no escaping his fate, and he accepted that now. Drinking created the illusion he’d gotten away with something, but he couldn’t obliterate the burden in his soul. Owning up would do it, taking responsibility.

At the crest of the hill he paused to absorb the view. Southern California was at its best in April. Wildflowers had sprung up in the meadow and the long grass rustled in the wind. It was quiet up here, even against the faint noise of traffic that rose from the town below. Jon moved over to a table, where he stood, arms crossed, his hip resting against the edge. In early March, a storm had blown in with hard rain and high winds that had downed trees and torn off branches that now littered the area. Walker bent and picked up a stick. He flung it like a boomerang, though it whipped off without returning.

“I guess we better talk while we can,” Jon said.

Walker sat on a picnic bench, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together loosely. “I was thinking about it on the way over. This business with Sutton won’t work. I don’t want to be on the hook to him, you know? Waiting around for his next appearance. Fuck that. The whole point in coming clean is we don’t have to sweat this stuff. It’s over and done.”

“For you. We still have the problem of how I come out of it unscathed.”

“We already went through this—”

“I know we did. I was hoping you’d come up with a solution. So far, I haven’t heard one. Get me out of the line of fire. That’s all I ask.”

“I’m still racking my brain.” Walker looked at his watch. “What time did you tell him? Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

“I told him half an hour.”

“Well, where is the little shit? You called me at noon.”

“That was twenty-five minutes ago. You’re avoiding the subject.”

“Which is what, how you keep out of the line of fire?”

“Right. I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“Yeah, well, my thoughts are to stay clean and sober. To do that, I gotta get square, and I’m cool with that.”

“So you said. Have you any concern whatsoever about what this will do to me? I looked it up. The deal is, you make amends unless doing so would injure others. You don’t think I’ll be ‘injured’ if you blow the whistle on me?”

“I don’t think the admonition applies when there’s a serious crime involved,” Walker said. “I feel bad, Jon. I do. We were good friends, the best. Then this came between us, and I’ve regretted it. We can’t socialize. We can’t acknowledge one another in public. I can’t even talk to you by phone.”

“That’s more your rule than mine,” Jon said, mildly.

“Bullshit. That was your dictate from the beginning. I only ever called you twice in the last twenty-one years, and that was in the past few weeks. And you blew me off.”

“Water under the bridge. I’m asking for protection. You owe me that.”