Bridge of Clay

Clay saw no reason to lie. “I like it.”

The Murderer ran a hand through his wavy hair. He rubbed at an eye. “The river destroyed it—not long after I moved in. And barely any rain since then. It’s been dry like this a good while.”

Clay took a step toward him. “Was there anything left?”

Michael pointed to the few embedded planks.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

There was still the red rumbling out there, a silent flood of bleeding.

They walked back to the house.

At the steps, the Murderer asked.

“Is it Matthew?” He’d handed it across more than spoken it. “You say his name a lot, in your sleep,” and he hesitated. “You say all of them, to tell you the truth, and others. Ones I’ve never heard of.”

Carey, Clay thought, but Michael said Matador.

He said, “Matador in the fifth?”

But that was enough.

Don’t push your luck.

When Clay gave him the look, the Murderer understood. He came back to the original question. “Did Matthew say you couldn’t go back?”

“No, not exactly.”

There was no need for anything else:

Michael Dunbar knew the alternative.

“You must miss them.”

And Clay raged at him, within.

He thought of boys, backyards, and clothesline pegs.

He looked into him and said, “Don’t you?”

* * *

—

Early, very early in the morning, close to three o’clock, Clay noticed the shadow of the Murderer, standing next to his bed. He wondered if it recalled in him, as it did in himself, the last time he’d stood just like that, on the terrible night when he’d left us.

At first he’d thought it was an intruder, but soon he was able to see. He knew those hangman’s hands anywhere. He heard the fallen voice:

“Pont du Gard?”

Quiet, so quiet.

So he’d seen him after all.

“Is that your favorite?”