Spilled Blood

17

Chris was drowning.

He felt himself carried on the shoulders of turbulent waters in his dream, surrounded by debris, caught in an undertow that sucked him down like a whirlpool. Each time he broke through the surface, gasping for breath, he spun in circles. He wasn’t alone. Hannah was with him in the water, reaching for him with her hand in the gesture that had always said I love you. They were sinking together, dragged down by the sheer muscle of the rapids. The river carried them toward a bridge, where Chris flailed for the steel I-beam over his head like a lifeline. He held on, and Hannah held onto him, but the water wrenched his fingers away and washed them downstream. As the bridge vanished behind them, he saw the silhouette of a man on the span, watching the flood overpower them. His voice boomed like the voice of God.

‘My name is Aquarius.’

Chris bolted upright in the motel bed. He checked the clock on the nightstand and saw that he had slept for two hours. It was nearly ten in the morning. Sunshine streamed through a crack in the curtains, and dust floated in the light. He blinked, shaking off his dream. He got up and turned on the shower, and the hot water revived him. When he was dressed, he stepped outside into the motel parking lot and found a beautiful day. The rain and clouds had moved east. The temperature was still unseasonably warm. It made the previous night seem almost unreal.

He stopped at the office to pour a cup of weak coffee from a silver Thermos and grab a powdered donut from an open Little Debbie’s box. That was Marco’s idea of a continental breakfast. He ate two donuts and wiped the white sugar from his mouth. He spotted the local newspaper on the motel counter, and he picked it up to read the Barron headlines. To his dismay, he and Olivia were on the front page. A reporter had snapped their photo coming out of the courthouse after the detention hearing. They both looked wet and guilty. In contrast, Ashlynn Steele’s yearbook picture, which the paper printed next to the courthouse photo, was perfect and pretty. The accompanying article speculated on the likelihood that Olivia would be tried as an adult for Ashlynn’s murder. It was more poison for the jury pool.

Michael Altman was on the front page too, but he was talking about a different investigation. The county attorney offered details of a recent arrest in the Twin Cities suburb of Hugo, in which a police search related to embezzlement by a city worker had unearthed a trove of child pornography. The stash included a flash drive of videos mailed with a postmark from the Minnesota town of Ortonville, which was an hour northwest of Barron. Altman sought the public’s help in identifying those involved in trafficking child porn in Spirit County.

Chris thought about Hannah: This isn’t Mayberry. No, it wasn’t. The idyll of small-town life was an illusion.

‘Mr. Hawk.’

Chris put down the newspaper. Marco Piva stood behind the counter, his fleshy Italian face grim. ‘Mr. Hawk, there are no words.’

‘Thank you, Marco.’

‘How is your daughter?’

‘She’ll be okay. I’m going back to the hospital to see her now.’

‘When I heard the news, I fell on my knees and prayed for both of you,’ Marco said.

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Do the police know who did this terrible thing?’

‘They’re investigating. Sometimes you know who did it, but you can’t prove it. I’m worried this could be one of those times.’

Marco studied Chris long and hard across the counter. His black mustache twitched as he frowned. ‘I see something in your face, Mr. Hawk.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Anger. It is a dangerous thing.’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘No, no, that’s not it. I understand, my friend. I know anger. I’m still angry about losing my wife, but for you, it’s your child, your own flesh and blood. Something has been taken from you, and you don’t know how to get it back. You want to rage against the world.’

‘Banging my head against a wall gives me a headache,’ Chris said.

‘I know, but we’re men. We bang our heads anyway.’

He managed a smile. ‘You’re a wise man, Marco.’

‘Wise men can be the most foolish. We ask: is it better to do nothing in the face of injustice or do the wrong thing?’

‘I don’t like doing nothing,’ Chris said.

‘That’s what worries me. I like you, Mr. Hawk. You seem like a solid man, and that’s the highest praise I can offer. Doing nothing is like surrendering for men like us. However, it’s one thing if you’re alone in this world like me. You – you have a daughter. Remember that.’

‘I do.’

‘You remind me of a friend in San Jose,’ Marco told him. ‘He had a daughter like you. Married. Two kids. Beautiful girl. Unfortunately, her job took her to one of those Indian casinos in the desert. Those gaming places, they prey on people. This girl started gambling, and it took over her life. She lost her job. Her house. It broke up her marriage. Terrible.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Chris said.

Marco wagged a finger at him. ‘My friend banged his head against the wall until it was bloody. He wanted justice.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know,’ Chris said, ‘but what did he do?’

‘He drove out to the desert, and he waited in the parking lot for two of the tribal leaders to come out. Then he shot them both in the head.’

‘That was a bad choice,’ Chris said.

‘Yes, it was. He’s in jail, and he’ll never get out. But I think when he sleeps, he still sees those bodies on the ground, and I bet you he smiles about it.’

‘You sound like you’re defending him.’

The motel owner shook his head. ‘Oh, no, no, don’t think that at all. I’m saying I understand him. I know what he went through. I know what you’re going through, too, Mr. Hawk. Sometimes choices are easy. Sometimes they are hard.’

Marco slid open the top drawer of the desk behind the counter. Inside was a revolver with a wooden grip and a two-inch barrel. He removed the gun from the drawer and laid it on the counter next to a scattering of reservation forms and a glass jar stocked with spiky white candies. ‘We all have to be careful these days, don’t we?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we do.’

Marco took a handkerchief from the pocket of his pants and carefully wiped the surfaces of the gun, rubbing them clean with firm buffing of the cloth. The butt. The barrel. The hammer. The revolver was fully loaded, and he opened the cylinder and wiped each cartridge, too, before replacing them. ‘I keep a gun for safety,’ he said.

‘People don’t often get robbed here, but you never know. There are vagrants everywhere who make a point of seeking out deserted motels like this. A loaded revolver gives me peace of mind.’

Chris said nothing.

Marco opened the drawer again, placed the gun inside, and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. ‘Of course, guns have been known to be stolen. Who knows, a guest sees what I keep in my drawer, and I turn my back, and it’s gone. Things like that happen. What can I do?’

He slid the drawer shut. His eyes were dark and meaningful.

‘I will keep praying for you, Mr. Hawk,’ Marco told him. ‘When you see your daughter, you hug her to your chest, okay? Keep her safe, and make sure she always has her father to look after her.’

Marco disappeared into the living room behind the office and shut the door, leaving Chris alone. The only noise was the hum of the old house fan, rattling as its blades turned.

Do nothing or do the wrong thing.

Chris was shocked by how quickly he made the decision. Some choices are hard, some are easy. He leaned his chest across the counter, opened the drawer with his long arm, and took Marco’s gun.