Moving through Gideon’s room, Elizabeth touched schoolbooks, a turtle shell, a jar of pennies. Nothing had changed, she thought, then she considered the outcome should Gideon die.
Nothing ever would.
Closing the boy’s bedroom door, she checked the rest of the house, then went looking for his father. Beckett was right about Robert Strange. He drank and was undependable, an otherwise broken man who loved the boy as best he could. He worked part-time for a shade-tree garage far out in the county. The owner was a drunk, which meant Robert could drink, too. He worked off the books, mostly on American cars, mostly for cash. That’s where he would be, she thought, at the garage and useless and drunk.
It took eighteen miles of country road to get there, the route twisting past the quarry, the gun range, the ruins of an old theater. She drove past dairy farms and plowed-under fields, turned left, and ran under heavy trees that swayed with the breeze. Two miles into the last stretch of gravel road, she turned onto raw dirt and followed the track to a corrugated shed that sat on a high bank in the last bend of the river. She turned off the engine and stared for long seconds through the glass. Hot cars and stolen tires weren’t the only illegal things this far out in the county. There were meth labs and cockfights and trailer-park brothels run by large men with long hair and swastika tattoos. People went missing this far out, and not too many years passed without hunters finding the remains of one poor soul or another. So, Elizabeth took a good, long look around and checked the gun at her back before she stepped from the car.
Even then, she didn’t like it. Dogs lolled in the shade. Beyond them, the river hissed along the bank, then flattened and slowed as it spilled across the county line. Elizabeth watched the dogs as she walked. Two of them stayed down, but one found his feet, his head low, a pink tongue hanging out as he panted in the heat. Elizabeth kept one eye on him and one on the shed. Ten feet from the bay door, she smelled grease and gasoline and cigarette smoke.
“Can I help you?”
A man stepped from beneath a truck on a hydraulic lift. He was in his late fifties with close hair and grease-stained shoulders. Six-four, she guessed. Two-thirty. He wiped thick hands on a dirty handkerchief and guarded his expression.
“My name is Elizabeth Black.”
“I know who you are, Detective. We do get the papers out here.”
Not aggressive, Elizabeth thought. Not helpful, either. “I’d like to speak to Robert Strange.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He works here four days a week. You pay him cash, off the books. That’s his moped under the pecan tree.”
She pointed at a yellow moped, and another dog stood up, a whine in its throat as if it sensed tension in the air.
The big man stepped out onto gravel, sunlight hard on his face. “Aren’t you suspended?”
Elizabeth counted five men, now, most of them holding back in the dimness of the shed. There’d be warrants out on a few of them: missed court dates, felony charges. “Are you going to make this difficult for me?”
“I’m not sure, yet.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“Is it about his boy?”
“You know about that?”
“Glenn’s wife works 911 dispatch.” He pointed at one of the men. “She told us what happened. The boy comes around sometimes. He’s a good kid. We all like him.”
Elizabeth studied the shed, the men inside. She thought of Gideon here and could see it. He liked cars and the forest. The river was down the hill. “I want to talk to his father. It’s important.”
“We don’t want any trouble.”
“There won’t be any.”
“Back room, then.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Past the Corvette.”
The Corvette sat on a floor jack, front tires off the rims, the bearings pulled. Beyond it was a metal door painted black. Looking at it, Elizabeth felt a tingle in her fingers. The men were still watching her, nobody working. She’d have to the pass through the gauntlet of their bodies, then twist between cars and jacks and lifts. It was dim in the shed. They were staring at her, waiting; and she wondered what was in the back room, if there would be windows or darkness or a mattress-shaped hole in the world.
“Detective?”
Elizabeth started, then pushed into the shed, between the men. To her surprise, they stepped back to make room. Three of them nodded politely and one mumbled the word “Ma’am,” before ducking his head as if embarrassed. At the door, she looked back, but no one else had moved, so she touched a handle that clicked as she turned it. The room beyond was just a room, a small, square space with vending machines, a vinyl sofa, and a table with four chairs. Robert Strange sat with both hands on the table, a bottle and a glass between them. The lines in his face seemed deeper than normal. He did not look well.
“Hello, Robert.”
“I figured it was you who’d come looking.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s always you, isn’t it?” He lifted the glass and choked on brown liquor. “Is he dead?”
“I talked to the hospital an hour ago. He’s in surgery. I’m hopeful.”
“Hopeful.”
The word leaked out. Elizabeth saw doubt and regret, but darker things, too. She tried to gauge how drunk he was, but he’d always been a quiet, grim drinker. “Do you know why your son was shot?”
“You should leave, Detective.”
“He was shot trying to kill Adrian Wall. Are you sober enough to understand that? He was out by the prison. Fourteen years old with a loaded weapon.”
“Don’t say that bastard’s name.”
“Where were you when this was happening?” He lifted the glass, but she took it from his hand. “Where did he get the gun?”
“Give me the glass.”
“Answer the question.”
“Can you, for once, mind your own goddamn business?”
“No.”
“He’s my son, you understand? Why are you in the middle of that? Why are you always in the middle?”
It was an old argument between them. Elizabeth was part of Gideon’s life. Robert didn’t like it. Looking at him now, Elizabeth studied the bright eyes, the swollen veins. His hands twisted the bottle as if it were her throat. “Did you give Gideon the gun?”
“For God’s sake…”
“Did you want Adrian dead, too?”
He hung his head and ran fingers through greasy hair. Elizabeth studied the heavy jaw, the veined nose. He was tired and nearly ruined and only thirty-nine. With all the bitterness and regret, it was easy to forget that he was a young man, heartbroken from the death of a beautiful wife. “Did you know what your son was doing?” She asked it more gently. “Did you know he had a gun?”
“I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“I was drunk.” He pressed fingers against his eyes. “I thought it was a dream.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gideon with a gun in his hand.” Robert shook his head, dark hair glinting. “It came out of the television. That had to be a dream, right? Guns coming out of TVs. That can’t be real.”
“Was it your gun, Robert?” His mouth stayed shut, so she pushed harder. “Did you know that Adrian Wall was getting out of prison today?” He looked up, his eyes so suddenly pink and shattered-looking Elizabeth knew the answer. “Jesus, you did.”
“It was a dream. Right? How could that be real?”
He buried his face in his hands, and Elizabeth-understanding-straightened.
Had he really thought it was a dream?
Or had some part of him known?
That was the part of his soul that had him weeping. The part that thought it was real and decided not to call the cops, the part that wanted Adrian Wall dead and was willing to let his son do the dirty work.