A Bend in the Road

"No, it's not about that."

"Then what is it?"

"Let me make certain first--he didn't say anything to you at all last night."

Miles thought for a moment. "Not really. He knew who I was, so he called me by name. . . ." He trailed off, trying to recall if there was anything else.

"Was he acting strange?"

"It didn't seem like it ...just sort of out of it, you know?"

"Huh ... ," Charlie mumbled, and he seemed lost in thought again.

"C'mon, Charlie, tell me what's going on."

Charlie sighed. "He says he wants to talk to you."

Miles waited, knowing there was more coming.

"Only to you. He says he has information."

Miles knew Sims's history as well. "And?"

"He won't talk to me. But he says that it's a matter of life and death."

Miles stared at Sims through the bars, thinking the man looked almost on the verge of death. Like other chronic alcoholics, his skin was a sickly yellow. His hands were shaking, and sweat poured from his forehead. Sitting on the cot, he'd been absently scratching at his arms for hours, and Miles could see the red trails, tinged with blood, like streaks of lipstick applied by a child.

Miles pulled up a chair and sat forward, his elbows propped on his knees.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

Sims turned at the sound of his voice. He hadn't noticed that Miles had arrived, and it seemed to take a moment for him to focus. He wiped his upper lip and nodded.

"Deputy."

Miles leaned forward. "What do you have to say, Sims? You've got my boss pretty nervous upstairs. He said you told him that you have information for me."

"Why'd you bring me in last night?" Sims asked. "I didn't hurt nobody."

"You were drunk, Sims. And you were driving. That's a crime."

"Then why haven't you charged me yet?"

Miles debated his answer, trying to figure out where Sims was going with all this.

"I didn't have the time," he said honestly. "But according to the laws of this state, it doesn't matter if I did it last night or not. And if that's what you wanted to talk to me about, then I've things to do."

Miles made a show of standing from his chair and took a step down the corridor.

"Wait," Sims said.

Miles stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"I've got something important to tell you."

"You told Charlie it was a matter of life and death."

Sims wiped his lips again. "I can't go back to jail. If you charge me, that's where I'll go. I'm on probation."

"That's the way it goes. You break the law, you go to jail. Didn't you ever learn that?"

"I can't go back," he repeated.

"You should have thought of that last night."

Miles turned again and Sims rose from the cot, a panicked look on his face. "Don't do this."

Miles hesitated. "I'm sorry, Sims. I can't help you."

"You could let me go. I didn't hurt nobody. And if I go back to jail, I'll die for sure. I know that as sure as I know the sky is blue."

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can. You can say you was mistaken, say I fell asleep at the wheel and that's why I was swerving...."

Miles couldn't help but feel a little pity for the man, but his duty was clear. "I'm sorry," he said again, and he started down the corridor. Sims moved to the bars, grasping them.

"I got information...."

"Tell me later, once I get you upstairs to do the paperwork."

"Wait!"

There was something in his tone that made Miles stop once more.

"Yes?"

Sims cleared his throat. The other three men who'd been in the adjoining cells had been brought upstairs, but he looked around to make absolutely certain he hadn't overlooked anyone else. He motioned with his finger for Miles to come closer, but Miles stayed where he was and crossed his arms.

"If I got important information, would you drop the charges?"

Miles suppressed a smile. Now we're talking.

"That's not up to just me, you know that. I'd have to talk to the district attorney."

"No. Not that kind. You know how I work. I don't testify, and I remain anonymous."

Miles said nothing.

Sims looked around, making sure he was still alone.

"There ain't no proof of what I'm saying, but it's true and you'll want to know it." He lowered his voice, as if confiding a secret. "I know who did it that night. I know."

The tone he used and the obvious implications made the hairs on the back of Miles's neck suddenly stand on end.

"What are you talking about?"

Sims wiped his lip again, knowing he had Miles's full attention now.

"I can't tell you no more unless you let me go."

Miles moved toward the cell, feeling off-balance. He stared at Sims until Sims stepped back from the bars.

"Tell me what?"

"I need a deal first. You gotta promise me you'll get me out of here. Just say that because I didn't take the Breathalyzer, you don't have any proof I was drinking."

"I told you--I can't make deals."

"No deal, no information. Like I said, I can't go back to prison."

They stood facing each other, neither of them looking away.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?" Sims said finally. "Don't you want to know who did it?"

Miles's heart began to race, and his hands clenched involuntarily at his side. His mind was spinning.

"I'll tell you if you let me go," Sims added.

Miles's mouth opened, then closed as everything--all the memories--rushed back, spilling over him like the water from an overflowing sink. It seemed unbelievable, preposterous. Yet... what if Sims was telling the truth?

What if he knew who killed Missy?

"You'll have to testify," was all he could think to say.

Sims raised his hands. "No way. I didn't see nothing, but I overheard people talking. And if they find out that I'm the one who told, I'm as good as dead. So I can't testify. I won't. I'll swear that I don't remember telling you nothing. And you can't tell 'em where you learned it from, either. This is just between us-- you and me. But..."

Sims shrugged, his eyes narrowing, playing Miles perfectly.

"You don't really care about that now, do you? You just want to know who did it, and I can do that. And may God strike me dead if I ain't telling the truth."

Miles grabbed the bars, his knuckles turning white.

"Tell me!" he shouted.

"Get me out of here," Sims responded, somehow keeping his cool in spite of Miles's outburst, "and I will."

For a long time, Miles simply stared at him.

"I was at the Rebel," Sims finally began, after Miles had agreed to his demands. "You know the place, right?"

Sims didn't wait for an answer. He swiped his greasy hair with the back of his hand. "This was a couple of years back or so--I can't really recall when it was, exactly--and I was having a few drinks, you know? Behind me, in one of the booths, I saw Earl Getlin. You know him?"

Miles nodded. Another in a long line of people well-known in the department. Tall and thin, pockmarked face, tattoos up both arms--one that showed a lynching, the other a skull with a knife driven through it. Had been arrested for assault, breaking and entering, dealing in stolen goods. Suspected drug dealer. A year and a half ago, after being caught stealing a car, he'd been sent up to Hailey State Prison. Not due for release for another four years.

"He was kind of antsy, fidgeting with his drink, like he was waiting for someone. That's when I saw them come in. The Timsons. They stood in the door for just a second, looking around until they found him. They ain't the kind of people I like being around, so I didn't draw no attention to myself. Next thing I know, they were sitting across from Earl. And they were talking real low, almost whispering, but from where I was, I could hear every word they were saying."

Miles's back had gone rigid with Sims's story. His mouth was dry, as though he'd been outside in the heat for hours.

"They were threatening Earl, but he kept saying that he didn't have it yet. That's when I heard Otis speak up--until then, he'd let his brothers do the talking. He told Earl that if he didn't have the money by the weekend, he'd better watch out, because nobody screwed with him."

He blinked. Blood had drained from his face.

"He said the same thing would happen to Earl that had happened to Missy Ryan. Only this time, they'd back up and run him over again."

Chapter 18

I remember that I was screaming even before I brought the car to a halt.

I recall the impact, of course--the slight shudder of the wheel and the nauseating thud. But what I remember most are my own screams from inside the car. They were ear-shattering, echoing off the closed windows, and they went on until I turned the ignition off and was finally able to push open the door. My screams then turned into panicked prayer. "No, no, no . . ." is all I remember saying.