American Rust

1. Grace

She was sitting on the porch, staring out over the Valley and watching the light change, she could feel the sun burning her skin but didn’t move out of the chair. She’d gone two days without eating now. Three times she’d decided to go inside and call Harris, to tell him not to do it, that she would rather face other consequences. Three times she had thought of Billy laid out on the mortuary table or in a drawer and how his face would look. She’d stayed in her chair. She could remember the first time he’d moved inside her, a schedule, every night around eleven. His kicking felt like a very strong heartbeat.

He hadn’t wanted to come out. Nearly ten months she had carried him and after that she hadn’t been able to get pregnant again. As if he had known he would be all she could handle, known he would need all her attention. Looking around now at the hills and soft pastures and clearness of sky it all seemed hostile and cold, an illusion, the land had always made her feel calm, seemed some inseparable part of her, but she saw now how unreal that feeling was. Those things never changed, they were not loving and suffering.

But she was not doing anything. She could not even be sure of what Bud Harris intended. No, she knew. That man, the former auto mechanic, had tried to kill her son once and now he was trying to do it again. But even that, she thought, that’s only a lie you’re telling yourself, the truth is you have no idea what that man did, or what your son did, but still you have to make this choice, innocent or guilty it has all stopped mattering. That seems like it can’t be true, she thought.

But what she wanted was Bud Harris out there right now, going to kill that man. That was what she wanted. She wanted that man dead who she knew only because he had seen her son do something. Or was lying about her son doing something. She wanted that man dead so her son would live. That was the truth. Any mother would want this, she thought. Anyone in your shoes would want this same thing.

No, I didn’t tell him anything, I did not actually come out and say that to Bud Harris. He will make his own decisions. Except it was a lie to think that. She didn’t have to say anything. They had both known. They knew right now. If Bud Harris does something to that man it will be the same as if you did it yourself. You cannot put this off on someone else. There is evidence you are choosing to ignore—that man who went to the police when your son did not. But that evidence does not change the truth. What would Billy have to have done for you to not want this?

You’re at the end, she said out loud. They’ll all know. In the past week, Cultrap, the farmer at the other end of the road, had looked right at her as she drove by but hadn’t waved, she had known Ed Cultrap twenty years. It was because of Billy killing that man. People forgave you your children but this was too much.

No, what had passed between her and Bud Harris was just as clear as if they’d spoken. And it would be just as clear to anyone else. They would run her out of town or worse, they had all known when Bud Harris got Billy out of his last scrape, that was supposed to be kept very quiet but, somehow, everyone had found out. Now, this—she could not even imagine. I don’t care, she thought. As long as it’s me and not him.

2. Isaac

It was long after dark and he’d walked all day from Little Washington to Speers, nearly twenty miles. From Speers it was only eight miles to Buell.

He stood on the I-70 bridge looking out over the Mon River for a few minutes before making his way down to the train tracks. He passed a group of teenagers sitting under the highway and one of them started to say something. But then Isaac must have given them a look because they all got quiet and when he was past them he realized they had seen his hunting knife.

When he was out of sight he undid the knife from his belt and tossed it into the river without ceremony. The kid renounces the old ways. If he doesn’t choose it gets chosen for him. Look at him—walking—he decides to put one foot in front of the other; it happens. Think about that. The way Lee’s cat used to knock pencils off your desk. Why? To remind itself that it could. Because some part of it—oldest part—knew that one day it wouldn’t be able to. Take a lesson, he thought. Wake up ignorant every morning. Remind yourself you’re in the land of the living.

He continued heading south. The tracks passed through a wide meadow and the night was clear and black and the stars stretched down to the horizon. Billions of them out there, all around us, an ocean of them, you’re right in the middle. There’s your God—star particles. Come from and go back. Star becomes earth becomes man becomes God. Your mother becomes river becomes ocean. Becomes rain. You can forgive someone who is dead. He had a sense of something draining out of him, down his head and neck and the rest of his body like stepping out of a skin.

South of Naomi he decided to stop for the night. A few miles left for morning. He went to a flat place by the river and sat to think. Can’t go home—they’ll just talk you out of it. As you would do for them. Better to wait.

The old man, he tried. He did try. You can say that for him. Tomorrow you will go and tell Harris what you did. That is the right thing.

As he sat there on the ground he could feel the stiffness easing out of him, as if his bruises were healing. The Swede might have sat in this same camp two weeks ago. Old fire rings. Nice to have one now. No matches, though. He looked out at the river, flowing slowly through the trees. Bedtime, he thought. Your last night of freedom, sleep it off.

3. Henry English

They drove to Pittsburgh to talk to the lawyer that day a big firm at the top of the old Koppers Building near Grant Street. He could tell as Lee wheeled him into the elevator that it was going to be expensive. He couldn’t stand the thought of her new husband helping the family with money but no other arrangement was possible.

The lawyer had a corner office, he was a man nearly Henry’s age but tall, thin, and fit with a full head of gray hair, the type that probably played tennis. Most women after a certain age would have found him attractive. Henry took an immediate dislike to him but when he glanced at Lee he could tell she felt comfortable. These were her people now. It gave Henry a sick, jittery feeling, or maybe it was just being in this office, or maybe it was knowing why they were here, or maybe it was all three. He shifted himself in his wheelchair.

“Are you comfortable enough, Mr. English?”

“I’m fine. Used to this by now.”

They sat and the man went over the fees and rates and a client’s bill of rights, the most important feature of which seemed to be that they could expect their phone calls to be returned promptly. Lee nodded and took out the checkbook. Henry saw her name was on the top along with Simon’s. Only it was still Henry’s last name. That was a comfort, anyway. All these things he’d never asked her about.

Peter Brown, the lawyer, quizzed them amicably about Isaac’s background, where they lived, what Henry had done, even how his accident had occurred. He asked about Isaac’s mother and Henry would have protested but Lee told the man everything. She told him too much. Then Lee told the man what Billy Poe said about Isaac having killed the man in the factory. Peter Brown set down his pen for a moment and brought out a small digital recorder from his desk.

“Maybe we shouldn’t make a tape of this,” said Henry.

“Those are good instincts, Mr. English, but this is for our purposes and not the state’s. They’d have to break in here and steal it from us.” The man had a quiet voice and you had to sit still to listen to him. Henry looked at Lee again.

“Do you remember exactly what he said?” asked Peter Brown.

“I can try,” said Lee.

“My son didn’t kill that man. There’s no point in making a tape recording.”

“Dad.”

“Your son was there when this man died. If we don’t face up to this now, they’ll make us face up to it in court. That’s the only reason we’re doing it.”

“Except that Billy Poe hasn’t said a word about this. If he had, they would have already charged my son.”

“Billy Poe hasn’t even seen his lawyer yet and once he does, things will start changing pretty quickly. The fact that Isaac hasn’t been charged yet is more a technicality than anything else.” He looked down at his notepad. “I’m sorry,” he said.

It was ten o’clock and Henry was sitting in his bedroom in the wheelchair, looking at his desk, going through his papers. He heard the shower running upstairs for a long time and then Lee knocked on the door and asked if he needed help getting in bed but he said no. She waited for a minute outside the door.

“Anything else?”

“No. Get some sleep.”

He heard her moving around the house and then she went upstairs and settled into her room and then it was quiet except for the creaking of the house, cooling. He dozed off in his chair, he dreamed he was still working at Penn Steel, he looked forward to waking up, he was tired at the end of the days and dirty and happy to be home to his wife but in the mornings he was always ready to go to work. Something creaked and he woke up hungry for air.

He was still in his bedroom. With effort he took deep breaths, sometimes when he slept he didn’t get enough oxygen. How small your life feels—that was what you couldn’t explain to people. If I could have known how it would turn out I would have known what to do. Slow slip down.

Mary had left him alone, he knew that, she had given up. It shouldn’t have been her to do that, it made no sense. If they had talked about it they could have come to an arrangement that made sense, she could have taken the kids and gone somewhere else, but she had gone and done it without telling him a thing. His arms were trembling, how many times had he wanted to do that, he should have, but she had gone first. She was weak, that was the truth of her, the truth of all women, it was why he’d laid his bets on Lee. He had to get her out, he couldn’t have her ending up like her mother.

Maybe you were the one who was weak, he thought. Maybe her doing that makes her stronger. You know the reason she went to the river and you know the reason your son ended up like this. Still, he didn’t see what he could have done. The three years he’d commuted from Indiana, home once a month, that had not been easy for them but it had not been easy for him, either, living in boardinghouses and month- to- month hotels. But Steelcor paid plenty well. They just worked you hard and it was not safe. You looked at the stats, they had more accidents. But you didn’t have to look at the stats. They were there to make money. They were trying to squeeze every dollar out of that mill before they’d ironed all the kinks out. What would you give to have called in sick that day.

At first he hadn’t minded being nonunion, like Reagan said, the labor costs were out of control, it was a problem with the unions, you voted for him. Except it was not just that. Penn Steel hadn’t spent a dime in their factories in fifteen years, most of the other big American mills were the same, the places were all falling apart, plenty of them were single-process right up to the day they closed, whereas the Germans and Japs had all been running basic oxygen since the sixties. That was what you didn’t hear till later: they—the Japs and Germans—were always sinking money into their plants. They were always investing in new infrastructure, they were always investing in themselves. Meanwhile Penn Steel never invested a dime in its mills, guaranteed its own downfall. And all those welfare states, Germany and Sweden, they still made plenty of steel. Meanwhile they were the ones supposed to go bankrupt. He looked at his desk and couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing. He drifted off again.

They’d tapped the furnace and filled the crucible and the crane was bringing it over, getting ready to make the pour. Then there was a different sound, he’d heard it over all the other noise. Crane keeps swinging but the ladle gives a little wobble and then it’s headed for the ground, fifty tons of liquid steel. See the ladle hit the floor and boom, all that steel comes blooming into the air, blinding light, like the sun rising up out of the crucible, everything else was shadows, Chuck Cunningham and Wayne Davis they were shadows, the steel washed over them like lava from a volcano. Missing you by ten feet. Should not have been able to see that and survive, felt like the last thing you would see. Hiding there waiting to die. Felt the building shake as the back end of the shop blew out. Felt how small you were. Didn’t seem fair. Didn’t think of Mary, only thought it is not fair this is happening.

Supposed to be a safety brake on the hoisting drum. Company too cheap. Something sheared in the gearbox.

Tower was burning and the whole place was on fire and you decided to jump. Three stories. Scrap metal flying through the air, a five-hundred- pound toolbox goes by your head and hits the shop roof. Things kept exploding, the sound like a dragster running nitrous, too loud to even hear, you just felt it, felt your skin start burning under the silver suit, can’t see anything, there’s nothing but fire and shadows. Dead anyway— fuck it, take a leap. Come to and that black boy is dragging you out— came back through the fire for you. Air full of burning steel and he doesn’t get a scratch. Ought to play the lottery. Says he saw you jump.

OSHA fines the company thirty grand. Same amount the company makes every minute.

That was it. Chucky Cunningham gone, Wayne Davis, fat old Wayne, Wayne, you always told him, you’re too fat Wayne, hot load washed right over them, you’d been standing there a minute before. Took the jump and that was your mistake. Should have stood your ground, family would have been taken care of, nice payout from the pension and the company. First you felt sorry for Wayne and Chuck but they saved themselves and their families and you did not.

The house had been silent a long time. He thought the longer you wait the more scared you’ll be. The boy had done it and it wasn’t Billy Poe, all of that is on you. He wheeled his chair back and forth. Regardless of what the boy had done, he himself was the one who’d caused it, the boy was never supposed to stay here. They all want you dead anyway, he thought, your own family. You never should have waited this long. Afraid of your own children. Afraid they would leave you alone, you wouldn’t be able to stand it. To lose Mary and Lee in the same year. You were not going to lose Isaac as well.

He rolled to the drawer and opened it and there was his pistol but if Lee were to find him… there was a half bottle of Dewar’s he hadn’t touched since they told him not to. There you go, he thought. Look after yourself like a prize racehorse but don’t give a second to anyone else. He began to feel calm. He knew what he had to do. He wished he’d eaten more of that steak. In the medicine cabinet he found an old bottle of OxyContin, nearly full, he’d been off it a year, he wrapped a blanket around himself and rolled quietly out into the living room and then out the back door to the porch. He closed the door carefully behind him.

It was cold outside and to brace himself he took a big pull off the De-war’s. Then he jiggered open the pill container and took two or three of them, chewed them, they tasted awful but it would make them hit faster. His hands were shaking and he put the top back on so as not to spill the rest. Look at you, he thought, everything has been trying to take this from you and now you’re just going to give it away. Because I should have before, he thought. Isaac would not have been here, he would have been gone just like Lee.

He decided to roll all the way into the backyard, get to the right spot and then he would think about it some more. He eased himself down the ramp into the grass, felt the wheels sinking into the soft earth and he rolled himself quickly to get to where he wanted to be, scattering the deer that had been standing there.

He took the pill bottle and weighed it in his hand, he was beginning to change his mind again, right there it was all you needed, go out with a smile on your face. There’s your choice, he thought. One way or the other you will lose them. It seemed so obvious, he had never thought of it that way before. He had been fighting a battle that he would never win. Dragging them all down with you.

He held the bottle in his hand. No, it would just be from shame. That would not be the right way. They would go down much too easy. You can bear the burden yourself for once, that is not too much to ask, bear your own burden. Well? He put the container back into his pocket. How many did I take? Three I think. Not enough to kill me. Except any minute now you’ll be feeling pretty good. Wrap that blanket around you so you don’t freeze.

He looked out over the dark woods and the river in the distance, it was a good spot he had chosen, you could see all the way down the Valley. Many good years, more than anyone deserved, it was time to do what was best for the others. For his family. As he thought this the land seemed to fall away, he was on a high ledge, there was a wall of stars and sky in front of him. He had never seen anything like it. The air was so clear. With his last bit of energy, before he fell asleep, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and began to feel warm.

4. Harris

He parked his truck around the corner from the first address. The grass in the small front yard was cut but in the rear of the house the lot was badly overgrown. A large willow tree hung over the yard and there was the shell of an ancient Oldsmobile and a wheelless farm tractor, strangely out of place in the small backyard. A refrigerator sat on the back porch, humming noisily, and the roof of the porch sagged so low it nearly blocked the door to the house. Harris discerned only one person inside and he stayed in the shadows and made his way through the waist-high brush trying to avoid debris that was hidden in the grass. He went through the back door. In the living room an old woman was lying on a narrow bed with an oxygen tank stood up next to her. He put his gun away.

“Where’s Murray,” he said to her.

“He ain’t here,” she said. “He don’t have any money, neither.”

They looked at each other.

“Been laid off three years,” she said. “You ain’t gonna get nothing from him.”

Several hours after dark he was in a different neighborhood, sitting on an empty bucket in an abandoned house. As far as he could tell, the houses on this end of the street were all empty—the grass was tall in all the yards, except for a clear path beaten through that led from the street to the porch of the house he had his eye on. At the far end of the block there were two houses with their porch lights on, but aside from that there was no sign of habitation. At midnight a few deer strolled down the street, it was strange to see them walking on pavement, browsing on bushes, then they filed between the house he was sitting in and the house he was watching. They didn’t spook or notice his presence and he took it for a good omen.

He was wearing gloves and a watch cap but he was beginning to get cold and hungry. Around three A.M., a pair of men went into the house he’d been watching and he was pretty sure one of them was Murray. The electricity must have been off because they were lighting candles and building up a fire in a fireplace. Shortly after that, one of the men went into another room and lay down. It wasn’t the best situation, two men being there, he wondered if he should wait until he could get Murray alone but there was no telling what would happen, Murray Clark might up and disappear at any minute, come back for the trial.

He watched for another half hour and decided the second man was asleep.

He opened and closed the revolver’s cylinder and checked his .45 to make sure there was a round chambered, there was a faint glow from the night sights. At least you can see your sights, he thought, it was comforting, he was happy he’d gotten those sights installed, it was Ho who’d made him do it, gun’s no good if you can’t see your sights, those were not things Harris worried about. It had always seemed like bad luck to think about those things too much, about the particulars of your weapons, it was like looking for an excuse to use the weapon. The best way into this house was from the back, past the bedroom where the second man was sleeping now.

The steps creaked slightly but he froze for a long time and didn’t hear anything. He opened the back door very slowly and made his way inside, through a kitchen, there was junk and boxes piled everywhere, construction debris, a long hallway to the front room. As he made his way down the hallway, someone said, “That you, Jesús?”

He took a few quick steps and he was into the living room holding on to the gun in his coat pocket, there were two old couches and candles stuck in beer bottles.

There was a man in his forties sitting on the sofa. There were circles under his eyes and he hadn’t shaved in a long time.

“Murray,” said Harris.

“You look familiar,” said Murray. He peered at Harris’s face under the watch cap. “Chief Harris?”

Harris took the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Murray. Murray put his hands up.

“Whoa,” he said. “You got the wrong guy, Chief.”

“You need to leave this valley,” Harris heard himself say. He had a distant awareness that his finger had come to rest on the trigger.

“Sure,” said Murray. “Anything you say.”

“If anyone tells me they even saw you in this state they’re gonna find you in the river. I find out you’ve been talking to that DA in Uniontown anymore, same thing.”

“I’m gone,” said Murray, but then he made a strange gesture and Harris felt someone behind him and he knew it was either turn around or pull the trigger. He pulled the trigger. The gun went off and Murray knuckled over on the couch. Someone tackled Harris from behind, sending them both crashing into the wall. He tried to roll the man off but he was pinned on his stomach with the man on top of him, there was a peculiar feeling, he was being punched in the ribs but it hurt more; the man was stabbing him but having a hard time getting through his vest. Then he dropped his knife and went for Harris’s gun. Both of his hands were pinning the revolver to the floor and working it out of Harris’s right hand. Harris’s other gun was in his rear waistband and he was arching his back trying to get at it left- handed, the grip was facing the wrong way, the man broke something in Harris’s hand, Harris heard the noise but barely noticed, he was focusing on getting each finger of his left hand closed around the grip of his automatic, the man got control of the revolver just as Harris got the .45 free and cleared the safety with his index finger and crammed the muzzle into the tangle of hair behind the man’s ear. He was faintly aware of the gun going off, saw the shell casing bounce off the wall next to him. Murray stumbled past and Harris shot him through the pelvis; Murray made it through the door and was gone.

The room was dark with only the flickering light from the candle; he rolled out from under the dead man and ran out onto the porch after Murray half deaf; the .45 had gone off right next to his head. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps, it felt like his ears were clogged.

The street was pitch black and his heart sank—there was nothing. He raised the gun in his left hand and scanned closely fumbling in his pocket for the flashlight, looking for anything moving, there—something there in the brush at twenty or twenty- five yards, he got his light out and worked it with his mostly broken hand and saw Murray, crouched over and limping through the undergrowth; when the light hit him he froze. Harris made a small adjustment to his sights and shot him between the shoulderblades. Then he fired a second careful shot.

When Harris caught up to him Murray was on his hands and knees, as if praying to someone Harris couldn’t see. He seemed to have no idea he wasn’t alone and after a few seconds he sank slowly into the tall grass, not moving again. Harris’s hands were shaking; he tried to reholster his gun, but couldn’t.

He stayed in the shadows on the way back to his truck, a two- block walk. He couldn’t get his head clear, all he could think was Keep Moving. Should have gotten their wallets, make this look like something else. Too late. His right hand was broken and throbbing. There was one shell casing in the house or maybe it was two and then a few more on the porch—he couldn’t remember how many shots he’d fired. It was too dark to find the shell casings. The revolver was still in there as well—had his gloves come off? No. Is your hat still on? He checked. Yes.

Before getting into his truck he shucked off his hat, coat, and gloves because of the blood and powder residue, threw them in the bed of the pickup, and pulled out as quietly as he could, driving without headlights until he reached the main road. As he drove he tried to inspect himself but his hands were shaking badly, under his vest he could feel blood trickling down his side but he didn’t want to stop to see how bad it was. He was still breathing easily so it couldn’t be all that bad, the Kevlar had done its job. Two miles away and counting. He watched the odometer. Three miles.

Shortly after that he killed the lights and stopped at a turnaround next to the river to throw the .45 far out into the water. He pulled out and was driving down the road again when he realized he’d forgotten to get rid of the coat and hat in the back of the truck. Everything else, too, he thought. He stopped at the next pullout and changed into his spare clothes and running shoes and threw everything he’d been wearing, including the Kevlar, into the river.

He got to the office as the sun was coming up. He wondered who would take care of his dog.

5. Poe

The rushing came back to his head, so loud he couldn’t stand it but he couldn’t make it stop and there was a feeling of motion, I am in the river, he thought, I am going over the falls. Ninety over sixty, he heard. The feeling didn’t so much stop as slowly fade and he could see again and it was bright. I fell. I am in the dirt by the house under the tree. The light was very bright. They were trying to cram something in his mouth, they were choking him, he was going to throw up. He’s back, someone said. Get the tube out. Mr. Poe stay with us. There were ceiling tiles and bright lights. The rushing was back in his ears and he was seeing things, he was moving again, the falling feeling in his stomach, he was going over, he wanted to get away from the sounds. Stay with us Mr. Poe. They are touching me, he thought. He reached a hand down to cover his nakedness, they had taken his clothes. Squeeze my hand William. William can you hear me?

He tried to sit up, there wasn’t enough air.

“No no no,” they all said. There were strong hands holding him.

“Mr. Poe do you know where you are?”

He did remember but it seemed like if he didn’t answer them he might make it untrue. There were other things he worried he might say, about Isaac. I won’t say anything, he thought, they are trying to make me talk.

“You may have hurt your neck. You can’t move until we get the pictures back.”

Crippled, he thought. He felt tears coming into his eyes. He was having trouble breathing, he couldn’t get enough air in.

“Do you know where you are,” they said. “William. William can you hear me?”

“You’ve got holes in your lungs. We’re going to get the fluid out so you can breathe. It’s going to hurt a little bit.”

He tried to speak but nothing came out. He wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hold him,” they said.

They stabbed him in the side with something and then it went deeper and then they were putting something so deep in him that the pain was coming right from the center of him, he was rushing again, moving, and then he was awake, he could hear himself screaming.

“Hold him,” he heard someone shouting and he knew they were talking about him, don’t he told them don’t don’t don’t don’t and then he felt himself go down and under.

He came up in a different room. Very bright lights. Someone was right over him. They were doing something to his head. Stop, he said, but no sound came out. Stop, he said, but his lips wouldn’t move and there was something over his face. He tried to move it but he couldn’t. His arm wouldn’t move. They were doing something to him. He could smell something, it was burning hair, they were doing something to him. He’s awake, said someone. I see it, someone else said, and then he felt the tingling rush up his arm. I have felt this before, he thought, and then he was under the water again.

When he came up the third time it was dark. He remembered not to sit up. He looked down at himself and tried not to move too much. In a bed. Blankets on me. There was an IV bag hanging on one side of him and a window on the other with yellow light coming through it, he thought there might be houses outside. There was another bed in the room and someone was snoring. Quiet, he said, and then he felt guilty. There were machines beeping and chirping. Quiet, he whispered. He couldn’t see the machines. I will sit up. They can’t stop me. He moved and the pain came back everywhere and then he slipped under it.

Stay down. Stay down, he thought. Move your toes. He couldn’t see his feet. He tried to move his arm but it wouldn’t go anywhere, he looked and saw it was handcuffed to the bedrail. There was a deep pain in his chest and sides but he could breathe now. They got my head all wrapped up. He touched it. Something sticking out of my head. There was a tube, a plastic tube coming out of the back of his skull. Stay down. After a minute it occurred to him: I am alive.

6. Isaac

When he walked into the door there was a cop behind the desk, the short Asian one from the night he and Poe had been caught at the machine shop. He was drinking coffee and looked like he’d been up for days.

“I need to talk to Chief Harris,” said Isaac.

Ho looked at him. “He isn’t available.”

There’s your excuse, thought Isaac. But then he said, “I see his truck out there. Tell him it’s Isaac English.”

Ho got up reluctantly and disappeared down a hallway. Isaac watched: your last chance. But he knew he was not going to leave. There was not another way to do it.

Then Ho came back. “Door at the end.”

Isaac went down the hall alone and knocked on the metal door and then, he didn’t know why, opened it before he heard an answer. It was a big room and something was strange about it, the same cinderblock walls and fluorescent lights as the rest of the building, but the furniture was all wood and leather and there were paintings hanging on the walls. Harris was sitting up on a couch, a blanket around his shoulders. He was pale and disheveled and one of his hands was taped with a splint.

“You’re back in town.”

“I’m turning myself in.”

“Whoa,” said Harris. He put his hand up to stop Isaac’s speech, stood up slowly, clearly in some pain, and walked to the door. He checked outside and then closed and locked it. “Come sit.” He motioned to the couch. Isaac sat down on one side, Harris on the other.

“Billy Poe didn’t kill that homeless guy,” Isaac said.

Harris looked stricken. He sagged back against the cushion and closed his eyes. “Please don’t say anything else,” he asked quietly.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Billy and I were—”

But Harris leaned over suddenly and took him by the shirt, as an older brother might, and put his hand so as to nearly cover Isaac’s mouth. His skin was pale and damp- looking and Isaac could smell his sour breath.

“The district attorney just called to tell me that those two men you were in that factory with were found dead.” He let go of Isaac and sat back toward his side of the couch. “All three of those men are gone now, Isaac. The only people from that night who are still here are you and Billy Poe. You understand?”

“What happened to them?”

“It could have been anything,” said Harris.

They sat in silence for a long time, it might have been minutes, until Harris got up slowly and went to his desk and opened a wooden box, taking a long time to peer into it before removing a cigar. “You don’t smoke these, do you?”

“No.”

“I need one.” He cut the end off and lit it and stood by the open window. He seemed to be collecting himself.

“I don’t know if you know this, because when I went to your house to talk to you, you had already taken off. They charged Billy with killing that man but it now appears they’ll have to let him go. And you they’ve never heard of and I’m guessing that since Billy hasn’t given you up yet, he probably won’t ever, especially once his lawyer hears about these new developments. Which I’ll call her as soon as we’re done here.”

“When did he get locked up?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Last week sometime?”

“What was he charged with?”

“He was charged with killing that man,” said Harris. “With murder.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

Harris shook his head.

Isaac was quiet a minute. “I’m going to leave here,” he said. “I should probably go live with my sister in Connecticut.” He was surprised to hear himself say it. But it felt right.

“That’s a good idea,” Harris told him.

“So what happens to Billy?”

“Probably after a month, give or take, they’ll have no choice but to release him.” He walked away from the window and took a pen and a notepad from his desk. “Listen, you start feeling bad about something, you come see me. I’m going to give you my cell number and my home number, too, just call me and I’ll meet you.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said Isaac. “I think I feel fine.”

“You did the right thing, you know that? I wish I could give you something for coming down here, because I don’t think I’ve known many people who would have done it. But now…” He shrugged. “Time for you to go home.”

Isaac felt himself walk out of the office, down the steps, and onto the road toward town. The clouds were beginning to move. He was halfway through town and nearly to the river when it occurred to him that he’d decided to trust Harris. The others as well. He would try that and see how it turned out.

A few blocks more and he crossed the old railroad and stood on the bank in the reeds. His mind was quiet. He stood watching the sun on the slow river, he knelt and put his hand into it, the ripples growing out, there was light on the dome of the cathedral and the windows of all the houses, a pair of terns headed for open water and soon that would be him, gone.

7. Harris

He watched Isaac leave, shutting the door politely behind him. He wondered if he would be able to keep quiet. It all could have been a disaster. It might still be.

He hadn’t told Isaac that Billy Poe had been stabbed and nearly died, after refusing to see his lawyer for several days. A different person than you thought. Grace didn’t know yet. He could not be the one to tell her. He could feel his head begin to swim but sooner or later the DA would come around asking and he would have to get himself in order. His fingers ached and the pain was radiating up his arm, the wound on his rib cage refused to close, it ought to be stitched but tape would have to do.

He had to get up. There was a story to get straight about where he had been last night, he needed to go over the truck with a Q-tip. New tires, probably. The tires—that was being too careful. Maybe not. Hell hath no fury like a spurned lawyer. He grinned at his little joke and then felt a lightness come over him. Both of those boys were worth saving, he thought. That is something you wouldn’t have known.

Ho hadn’t called in relief—he’d stayed the entire night himself. He’d known something was happening. All of them, he thought. All of these people. Harris knew he had to get up but it was two days since he’d really slept, the sun was coming in the window now, he’d been waiting for it, it was easing across the floor, it was moving so slowly he watched it inch across every grain of wood, he would rest another minute and feel it on his face. Then he would start his day.

8. Poe

He knew he’d been in the hospital for a while but it seemed like he was waking up for the first time. It was daylight and hot in the room, there was a parking lot outside his window and on the other side of the parking lot there were houses and an old man watering a planter box.

A woman, a nurse he guessed, opened the curtain.

“Here I am,” he said.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “You lost so much blood your heart stopped. You’re lucky you’re young.”

“I’ll trade you anytime you want.”

“We were worried you’d have brain damage.”

“I probably do, but it ain’t from that.”

She smiled but went on checking things.

“Did I say anything while I was out?”

She shrugged. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“They want to take you back but we’re keeping you a few more days. You can’t move around too much, you’ve got too much stitched up inside you.”

“Am I going back to Fayette?”

“You’re going back somewhere,” she said. “But I doubt they’ll take you back there.”

“Can I have visitors?”

“No,” she said.

“Can I call my mother?”

“Maybe tonight.” She started to walk out. “There’s a state policeman outside the door. Just so you know.”

9. Grace

Later that day there was a knock at the back door. She was lying on the couch. She hadn’t eaten in three days and she hadn’t heard any car come up the road.

There were footsteps at the back of the trailer and a short sturdy man appeared in the living room, taking note of her on the couch, then making a circuit of the house. She didn’t recognize him. He went in and out of all the rooms before returning to stand next to her. Here it comes, she thought. This is the one they sent for you.

“I’m Ho,” said the man. “I’m a friend of Chief Harris.”

She stared. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.

“I hear you have family in Houston.”

“Where’s Bud Harris?”

Ho shook his head. “He’s a busy man.”

She felt a wave pass over her and then fade again. She closed her eyes.

“Has anyone else come over here, or tried to contact you?”

“No,” she said quietly. “You’re the first person I’ve seen.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s good news.”

“Would you tell me what happened?”

Ho cleared his throat and glanced around the room. “Your son is going to be fine,” he told her. “But you can’t stay here.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“You know I haven’t talked to my brother in years.”

Ho shrugged.

“Can’t I see Bud?”

“You have to pack now,” he said gently.

She nodded. She was beginning to smell food very strongly.

“He said I ought to bring you something to eat.”

“He would.”

“I used to hear him talk about you.”

He knelt next to her and he must have noticed how dirty she was, she was suddenly conscious of it, but he didn’t react. He lifted her gently and got a pillow behind her. He took a small container from a bag.

“Here,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

But when he brought the food to her lips, she opened her mouth to accept it.

She stood looking out the window a long time, there was nothing moving, a quiet cool night. She closed her eyes and she could see her son walking, it was summer and the road was baked and dusty and he reached the end and there was nothing left. He was looking out over things, it was all gone, the trailer was a burned shell, even the trees around it had burned. Poe stood looking for a long time and then he was walking back down the road, toward a new place. Making his way toward her.