Bullet Point

23

“When I heard he was back here, I got it in mind to interview him, gave him a call, in fact,” said Mr. Rentner. “He told me no comment, but not in those words. One thing about the news business-we don’t like to take no for an answer.” He turned the van around-backing into a bush but not seeming to notice-and followed Doc’s black pickup.

The pickup led them down a road with boarded-up buildings. After a while they came to a strip mall, a series of stores with dusty windows and no cars parked outside. The sign over the last store read FIVE ACES LIQUOR. The black pickup pulled in there. Mr. Rentner parked a few spaces away. Doc got out of the pickup, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wore black jeans, a black jean jacket, dirty work boots; a big guy, about the size of Hector in the Sweetwater visiting room, a comparison that might have suggested itself to Wyatt from the top of a tattoo that curled up Doc’s neck from under the collar of his jacket. His eyes took in Wyatt and Mr. Rentner, sitting in the front of the van. Then he flicked the cigarette away-the wind pinwheeling it toward a Dumpster beyond the last parking space-and went into the liquor store.

Mr. Rentner raised the console lid, took out a digital camera. “Bet he takes a nice dramatic picture,” he said. He got out of the van. Wyatt got out, too. They walked over to the pickup. Mr. Rentner peered through the driver’s side window. “Always look for the telling detail.”

Wyatt peered in, too. “Like how messy it is?”

“Sure. But what else do you see? What pops out at you?”

“That shoe?” Wyatt pointed to the floor in front of the passenger seat.

“Describe it.”

“Well, uh, a woman’s shoe.”

“Color?”

“Red.”

“Style?”

Style? Wyatt knew nothing about women’s shoes styles. “High-heeled, you mean?”

“Good enough. It can’t help raising questions in anybody’s mind, such as-”

Wyatt heard the closing of the liquor store door and looked up. Doc was standing outside, a case of beer under one arm and a muscle twitching in the side of his face.

“What the hell?” he said. “Messing with my truck?”

Mr. Rentner stepped away from the pickup, but not in a hurry. “Mr. Vitti?” he said. “My name’s Rentner, from the Millerville Beacon. This is my young colleague, Wyatt. Wondered if you had a moment for a few quick questions.”

“You the asshole who called me already?” Doc came forward.

“Let’s just say I called you already and leave it like that,” said Mr. Rentner. He was an old man, tiny next to Doc, but he didn’t back away and showed no fear. Wyatt didn’t back away either, but he felt afraid inside, no question. There was something wrong with Doc-he could feel it in the air. “But,” Mr. Rentner said, “these things always work much better in person.”

“Things? What fuckin’ things?”

“An interview for the Beacon. I’m sure our readers would be interested in hearing your side.”

“My side of what?”

“Thirty-two Cain,” said Mr. Rentner. He wasn’t speaking fast, the way most people would be at a time like this, had slowed down, if anything. At the mention of the address the muscle in Doc’s face jumped again. “The events of that night,” Mr. Rentner pressed on, “and whether you see them differently looking back-how about we start there?”

“See them different?” Doc took a step closer to Mr. Rentner, was at about an arm’s-length distance now. “What’s that s’posta mean?”

“Is there anything you’re now free to add about your testimony?” said Mr. Rentner. “Some information left out at the trial? Was there anything personal between you and Sonny Racine, for example?”

“Get the hell out of my way,” Doc said.

“Our readers would also be interested in learning your plans for the future, and how it feels being free after a seventeen-year incarceration.”

“You don’t hear so good,” Doc said. “I got nothin’ to say.”

“In that case, just a quick picture will have to do.” Mr. Rentner raised his camera, pressed the button.

“God damn it,” Doc said, and knocked the camera loose with a backhand swipe. The camera fell to the pavement and Doc tried to kick it, but Wyatt scooped it up before he could. Doc moved toward Wyatt. “Give me that fuckin’ camera.”

Wyatt held on to the camera, backed away. Doc reached inside his jacket.

“Technically,” said Mr. Rentner, “you’re free on parole, which can be revoked at any time.”

Doc glared at him. His hand emerged empty from inside the jacket. “Watch your step, old man,” he said, then turned to Wyatt. “Do I know you, punk?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

“I do now,” Doc said. “Better believe it.” He brushed past Mr. Rentner, climbed into the pickup, slinging the beer inside, and drove off, tires squealing.

Wyatt handed Mr. Rentner the camera. Mr. Rentner peered at the screen. “Not bad,” he said, and showed Wyatt the photo: a furious Doc launching that backhand swipe, the letters H-A-T-E clearly visible on his knuckles. “Excellent work on your part, Wyatt. One of the best no comments I’ve gotten in some time. In fact, what do you think of ‘No Comment’ as the headline, running the photo right beneath that, and the piece following?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said.

All at once, Mr. Rentner’s expression changed, no longer so exhilarated. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to ask about the red shoe.”

They got into the van, returned to the Beacon office. Mr. Rentner’s good humor returned. He smiled and said, “What are your plans for the summer?”

“Not sure.”

“But they’ll include work.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I might have something-more or less an internship, but it’ll be paid, if not well. Interested?”

“Yeah,” he said, and thought: Wow. “Thanks.”

“Not well at all, but write down your phone number.”

Wyatt wrote his cell number on a scrap of paper. Mr. Rentner parked beside the Mustang. Greer wasn’t there.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Mr. Rentner. They shook hands. Mr. Rentner hurried into his office. Wyatt got into the Mustang, called Greer, went right to voice mail. He sat outside the Beacon office, wondering what to do. After a while, Mr. Rentner appeared in the window. He made a questioning gesture with his hand. Wyatt waved good-bye, started the car, and drove off.

He cruised around Millerville, first in the downtown area, where he saw few people out walking, none of them Greer, and then farther and farther into residential areas, where he saw only one walker, a postman on his route. Wyatt pulled over, tried Greer’s cell, again got sent to voice mail. He headed back downtown, and was driving slowly along the main drag when he spotted what he took to be the new bus station, the simplest kind of bus station, just a ticket booth and a space in front for a single bus to park.

Wyatt got out of the car and walked to the booth. BACK IN 10 MINUTES read a sign in the window. On the schedule taped up next to it Wyatt saw that a bus for Silver City-last one of the day-had left half an hour before. He got back in the car, formed an incomplete plan involving catching up to the bus at some stop down the road, seeing if Greer was on it, seeing what might happen next. At that moment, the black pickup went by, Doc at the wheel. Wyatt didn’t think twice, or even once, really. He followed Doc.

Doc turned left at the next corner, drove for a few blocks, and stopped outside a bar called Good Time Charlene’s. Wyatt parked a few spaces behind him, a landscaper’s truck in between. Doc didn’t get out of the pickup, just sat there. After a few minutes, a woman came out of Good Time Charlene’s. She walked past the pickup without a glance, went by Wyatt, too. When she’d first appeared, he’d thought she was in her midtwenties, but now he saw she could be twice that: a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair, lots of makeup, tight jeans, and a tight red sweater. She must have had a great body at one time, still did, in fact, maybe just a little overweight. In his rearview mirror, Wyatt watched her get into a small sedan. She drove away. Doc pulled out and followed her. Wyatt followed him.

A mile or so later, they were in a not-too-bad neighborhood, nicer than Wyatt’s in East Canton. The woman parked in the driveway of a well-kept bungalow that backed onto some woods. Doc kept going, turned a corner, stopped by a small park with a swing set, the swings shifting in the wind. Doc parked. Wyatt kept going. In the rearview mirror, he saw Doc get out of the pickup, glance up and down the street, then hurry into the woods, moving in the direction of the bungalow.

Wyatt stayed where he was for a minute or two, then made a U-turn and drove back past the bungalow. The woman was at a window, closing a curtain. There was a man in the room behind her, possibly Doc, but Wyatt couldn’t be sure. An electrician’s van was parked a few houses farther on. Wyatt pulled in behind it.

He turned, looked back. All the houses on the street had mailboxes out front, some plain black, some big and fancy, decorated with painted flags or ducks. The bungalow had the duck kind, and over the ducks two names in red letters: BOB AND CHARLENE WATERS.

Wyatt sat there. Half an hour later, he thought he heard a door close, possibly the slap-snick of a screen door, but no one appeared. A few minutes after that, Wyatt drove back around the corner to the small park. The black pickup was gone. He returned to the bungalow and stopped right outside.

What now? He could chase after the bus, assuming Greer was on it, or-

The bungalow door opened and the woman came out. She was still wearing tight jeans but she’d changed sweaters, now wore black. She saw Wyatt, gave him a close look. He got out of the car.

“Uh, ma’am?” he said.

“If you’re selling something, forget it,” the woman said.

“No,” Wyatt said. “I’m from the community college. We’re doing this project and maybe you can help.”

“Project?” she said. “What kind of project?”

He went a little closer, smelled her perfume, also couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts stretched her sweater taut. Her eyes were small and watchful.

These things were easier with Greer. He glanced at the mailbox. “You’re, uh, Charlene Waters?”

“That’s what it says.”

“This project,” Wyatt said, “it’s about a crime that happened-”

That was as far as Wyatt got before the black pickup came around the corner. It seemed about to drive on by, then swerved to a stop maybe twenty yards farther on. Doc hopped out, the red shoe in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

Charlene shot a quick look up and down the street. “What the hell are you thinking?” she said in a very loud half whisper that might have been funny in different circumstances.

“I forgot about-” He held up the shoe. “I was going to park around the-” Doc’s gaze went to Wyatt. “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

“Some project at the community college,” Charlene said, still in that loud half whisper.

“Community college?” said Doc. “He works for the goddamn paper.”

Charlene turned to Wyatt. “Is that true?”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“He’s lying,” Doc said. He was on the move now, his stride quick and jerky. Wyatt backed toward the car. “What did you tell him?” Doc said.

“Nothing,” Charlene said. She closed in, too. “Who are you?” No half whisper now, and her tone was aggressive.

Wyatt didn’t answer. He slid around to the driver’s side of the car, fumbled for the handle, and was opening the door when Doc dropped the red shoe and charged. Wyatt sprang inside-at least in his mind; in real life he was moving in slow motion-and reached for the key. The next thing he knew, an iron hand had him by the arm. And the moment after that he was in midair, flung from the car.

Wyatt landed hard on the pavement, rolled over, started to get up. Doc came forward, big fist poised for a roundhouse punch, H-A-T-E on the knuckles.

“Doc!” Charlene said. “Not here.”

“Fuck that,” Doc said, the muscle twitching in his face. Doc swung that big fist at Wyatt, landing a heavy blow on the shoulder that knocked him flat. Doc kept coming. He wore heavy work boots with thick lug soles. Wyatt rolled away from those boots. A thought came to him, kind of strange and maybe beside the point: he didn’t want his nose broken again. Something about that thought ignited a jet of anger in him, an anger that at least for the moment overwhelmed his fear. He sprang to his feet-not at his fastest, but not in slow motion, either-and got his hands up.

“Boy’s lookin’ to get his head beat in,” Doc said.

Maybe a boy, but the boys from East Canton knew something about fighting. Doc was big and strong, no doubt about that; it didn’t mean he was fast. Wyatt watched that big right hand. The twitchy muscle was on the right side, too.

Charlene called out, “Doc! Not here!”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Doc said, and he threw that right hand. Not with a whole lot of speed; Wyatt ducked under it with ease and threw a left of his own, not at Doc’s head-he had no illusions about the damage one of his punches would do to a big thick-boned head like Doc’s-but at his throat. And yes: square on the voice box; it felt like punching a steak. Doc made a retching, gasping sound and sank to his knees, one hand clutching his throat.

Charlene’s mouth opened wide. Wyatt jumped in the Mustang. He sped off and didn’t look back.