A Bend in the Road

I knew they would come.

In my room, wedged between the pages of a book I kept in the drawer, I kept the obituary from the paper. I'd also saved the clippings about the accident, and they were folded neatly beside it. It was dangerous to have kept them. Anyone who happened to open the book would find them and would know what I had done, but I kept them because I needed to. I was drawn to the words, not for comfort, but to better understand what I had taken away. There was life in the words that were written, there was life in the photographs. In this room, on that morning with the bird outside my window, there was only death.

I'd had nightmares since the funeral. Once I dreamed that I'd been singled out by the preacher, who knew what I had done. In the middle of the service, I'd dreamed that he suddenly stopped talking and looked over the pews, then slowly raised his finger in my direction. "There," he said, "is the man who did this." I saw faces turn toward me, one after the other, like a wave in a crowded stadium, each focusing on me with looks of astonishment and anger. But neither Miles nor Jonah turned to look at me. The church was silent and eyes were wide; I sat without moving, waiting to see if Miles and Jonah would finally turn to see who had killed her. But they did not.

In the other nightmare, I dreamed that Missy was still alive in the ditch when I'd found her, that she was breathing raggedly and moaning, but that I turned and walked away, leaving her to die. I awoke nearly hyperventilating. I bounded from the bed and paced around the room as I talked to myself, until I was finally convinced it had been only a dream.

Missy had died of head trauma. I learned that in the article as well. A cerebral hemorrhage. As I said, I hadn't been driving fast, but the reports said she had somehow landed in a way that slammed her head against a protruding rock in the ditch. They called it a fluke, a one in a million occurrence.

I wasn't sure I believed it.

I wondered if Miles would suspect me on sight, whether, in some flash of divine inspiration, he would guess it was me. I wondered what I would say to him, if he confronted me. Would he care that I like to watch baseball games, or that my favorite color is blue, or that when I was seven, I used to sneak outside and study the stars, even though nobody would have guessed that about me? Would he like to know that until the moment I hit Missy with my car, I felt sure that I would eventually make something of myself?

No, he wouldn't care about those things. What he'd want to know was the obvious: He would want to know that the killer's hair is brown, that his eyes are green, that he's six feet tall. He would want to know where he could find me. And he would want to know how it happened.

Would he, though, like to hear that it was an accident? That if anything, it was more her fault than my own? That had she not been running at night on a dangerous road, more than likely she would have made it home? That she jumped right in front of my car?

Outside, I noticed that the bird stopped chirping. The trees were still, and I could hear the faint hum of a passing car. Already, it was getting hot again. Somewhere, I knew that Miles Ryan was awake, and I imagined him sitting in his kitchen. I imagined Jonah beside him, eating a bowl of cereal. I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other. But the only thing I could imagine was steady breathing, punctuated by the sounds of spoons clanking against the bowl.

I brought my hands to my temples, trying to rub the pain away. It seemed to throb from somewhere deep inside, stabbing me with fury, matching every heartbeat. In my mind's eye, I saw Missy in the road, her eyes open, staring up at me.

Staring at nothing at all.

Chapter 22

Charlie made it to Hailey State Prison a little before two, his stomach growling, his eyes tired, and his legs feeling as if the blood had stopped flowing sometime about an hour ago. He was getting too old to sit for three hours without moving.

He should have retired last year, when Brenda told him to, so he could spend his time doing something productive. Like fishing.

Tom Vernon met him at the gates.

Dressed in a suit, he looked more like a banker than the warden of one of the toughest prisons in the state. His hair was parted neatly on the side and streaked with gray. He stood ram-rod straight, and when he extended his hand, Charlie couldn't help but notice that his fingernails looked manicured.

Vernon led the way inside.

Like all prisons, it was drab, cold ...concrete and steel everywhere, all bathed in fluorescent light. They made their way down a long hallway, past a small reception area, and finally into Vernon's office.

At first glance, it was as cold and drab as the rest of the place. Everything was government issue, from the desk to the lamps to the file cabinets in the corner. A small, barred window over-looked the yard. Outside, Charlie could see the prisoners milling about; some were lifting weights, others were sitting around or clustered in groups. Every other person, it seemed, was smoking.

Why on earth would Vernon wear a suit to a place like this?

"I just need you to fill out some forms," Vernon said. "You know how it is."

"Sure enough." Charlie tapped his chest, feeling for a pen. Vernon handed him one before he found it.

"Did you tell Earl Getlin that I was coming?"

"I assumed you didn't want me to."

"Is he ready for me yet?"

"Once we have you set up in the room, we'll bring him in."

"Thanks."

"I did want to talk to you for a second about the prisoner. Just so you're not surprised."

"Oh?"

"There's something you should know."

"And what's that?"

"Earl was in a scuffle last spring. Couldn't really get to the bottom of it--you know how things work in here. No one sees anything, no one knows anything. Anyway . . ."

Charlie looked up when Vernon sighed.

"Earl Getlin lost an eye. Had it gouged out in a brawl down in the yard. He's filed half a dozen lawsuits alleging that we were at fault somehow." Vernon paused.

Why is he telling me this? Charlie wondered.

"The point is, he's been saying all along that he didn't belong here in the first place. That he was set up." Vernon raised his hands. "I know, I know--everyone in here says they're innocent. That's an old song, and we've all heard it a million times. But the point is, if you're here to get information from him, I wouldn't get your hopes up, unless he thinks you can get him out of here. And even then, he might be lying."

Charlie looked at Vernon in a new light. For such a natty dresser, he sure as hell seemed to know a lot about what went on in his prison. Vernon handed him the forms, and Charlie scanned them for a moment. Same ones as always.

"Any idea who he says set him up?" he asked.

"Hold on," Vernon said, raising a finger. "I'll get that for you." He went to the phone on his desk, dialed a number, and waited until someone came on. He asked the question, listened, then thanked the person.

"From what we've heard, he says it was some guy named Otis Timson."

Charlie didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Of course Earl blamed Otis.

That made one part of his job a whole lot easier.

But the other part suddenly became that much harder.

Even if he hadn't lost an eye, prison had been less kind to Earl Getlin than most people. His hair looked hacked off in places, longer in others, as if he did it himself with a pair of rusty scissors, and his skin had taken on a sallow color. Always on the thin side, he'd lost weight and Charlie could see the bones under the skin of his hands.

But most of all, he noticed the patch. Black, like a pirate, like a bad guy in the old war movies.

Earl was manacled in the typical way, his wrists chained together and connected further to his ankles. He shuffled into the room, stopped for a moment as soon as he saw Charlie, then proceeded to take his seat. He sat across from him, a wooden table separating them.

After checking with Charlie, the guard backed quietly out of the room.

Earl stared with his

one good eye. It seemed as if he had been practicing the stare, knowing that most people would be forced to look away. Charlie pretended not to notice the patch.

"Why are you here?" Earl growled. If his body looked weaker, his voice had lost none of its edge. He was wounded but wasn't about to give up. Charlie would have to keep an eye on him after he was released.

"I came to talk to you," Charlie said.

"About what?"

"About Otis Timson."

Earl stiffened at the name. "What about Otis?" he asked warily.

"I need to know about a conversation you had with him a couple of years back. You were waiting for him at the Rebel, and Otis and his brothers sat at your booth. Remember that?"

It wasn't what Earl seemed to have been expecting. He took a few seconds to process Charlie's words, then blinked.

"Refresh me," he said. "That was a long time ago."

"It concerned Missy Ryan. Does that help?"

Earl raised his chin slightly, looking down his nose. He glanced from one side to the other.

"That depends."

"On what?" Charlie asked innocently.

"On what's in it for me."

"What do you want?"

"Come on, Sheriff--don't play stupid. You know what I want."

He didn't have to say it. It was obvious to both of them.

"I can't make any promises unless I've listened to what you have to say."

Earl leaned back in his chair, playing it cool. "Then I guess we're in a bit of a bind, aren't we?"

Charlie looked at him. "Maybe," he said. "But I figure you'll tell me in the end."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because Otis set you up, right? You tell me what was said back then, and I'll listen to your side of events later. And when I get back to town, I promise to look into your story. If Otis set you up, we'll find out. And in the end, you two just might find yourselves trading places."

It was all Earl needed to talk.

"I owed him money," Earl said. "But I was a little short, you know?"

"How short?" Charlie asked.

Earl sniffed. "A few thousand."

Charlie knew the situation was illegal, most probably drug money. But he simply nodded, as if he knew this already and weren't concerned about it.

"And the Timsons come in. All of 'em. And they start telling me that I gotta pay up, that it's making 'em look bad, that they can't keep carrying me. I kept telling them that I'd give them the money as soon as I got it. Meanwhile, while all this is going on, Otis is real quiet, you know, like he's really listening to what I have to say. He had this sort of cool expression, but he was the only one who seemed to care about anything I was saying. So I start kind of explaining the situation to him and he starts nodding and the others pipe down. Right after I finished, I waited for him to say something, but he didn't say anything for a long while. Then he leans forward and he says that if I don't pay up, the same thing is gonna happen to me that happened to Missy Ryan. Except that this time, they'd run me over again."