The Way Home

TWENTY-NINE

He had parked the Cavalier in a small lot near the Capitol columns and untied the bicycle from the roof. It was now late in the afternoon and a drizzle had come that would soon turn to rain. Lawrence swung the daypack over his shoulders and got onto the bike.

He took the Crabtree loop and then Hickory Hill. He rode for miles. The rain cooled him and his pace was steady as he geared up and took the rise. The wind was pleasant on his face and it blew back his braids.

His prize possession as a boy had been his bicycle. When he would go out on long rides, to the Peace Cross, the Aquatic Gardens, and the Arboretum, he was far away from his roach-infested apartment, his smoked-up mother, her various men. He imagined that if he kept pedaling he would come to a place that was safe, find people to hold him instead of slap him, and be with adults who would talk to him with kindness and patience instead of sarcasm and cruelty. He never did find that place. But on his bike, for a short time at least, he could see it in his mind.

He pedaled up the road as the woods grew thick. He was soaked with sweat beneath his jacket as he climbed the last hill. He passed a motorized maintenance cart, its driver giving him a small wave, as he arrived at the Asia Collection and its parking lot. There were no cars. It was the most out-of-the-way area in the park and also it was raining. There would be few visitors or grounds crew here today.

Lawrence got off the bike. He walked it off the road, past the brick house that held rest rooms, and carefully stepped down a lightly forested hill, holding and guiding the bike. Halfway down the hill he laid the bicycle on its side, partially concealed behind an oak, and covered it as best he could with brush and leaves. It was not hidden, but there was no place to keep it totally out of sight without putting it very far away. He would need access to it in the unlikely event that things went right.

Lawrence lifted the pack off his shoulders. From it he retrieved the Smith and Wesson combat magnum. He broke open its cylinder and thumbed six rounds into its chambers.

“Six is enough,” he said, speaking out loud because he was nervous.

He snapped the cylinder shut and slipped the. 357 into the shoulder holster he wore under his jacket. He drew the weapon cleanly and put it back in its holster. Then he took the Crain knife from the pack and slid it into the side pocket of his North Face.

He pinned the daypack under the bike and walked up the hill.

Sonny and Wayne went into the Arboretum visitors’ center. There were some old-folk visitors in the lobby and a couple of large female employees. One was complaining to the other about her man. The two white men with the outdated facial hair looked like they did not belong here or anywhere else but went virtually unnoticed because they did not linger. Wayne grabbed a folded information pamphlet that contained a map, and the two of them went back outside.

Crossing the lot, Wayne remarked on the numerous compact Jeep security vehicles and their drivers, rented cops.

Sonny said, “What are they gonna do? Only real police and criminals have guns in this town. Anyway, my Merc’s got eight cylinders and they got four.”

“What time is it?”

Sonny checked his watch. “Three thirty-five. Our friend said he’d be there at four.”

“This bro -chure says the grounds close at five.”

“We’ll be done by then.”

Sonny ignitioned the Marquis and took off. Wayne served as copilot as Sonny navigated the roads. Wayne was confused by the icons on the map, which he found overly clever and unhelpful, but signs on the shoulder had English words and clear arrows, and Sonny followed their directions up into the hills.

“How many exits you see on that map?” said Sonny.

“Looks like three. A service road makes four.”

“Jesus, they’re makin this easy.”

Wayne lit a Marlboro, rolling the window down as Sonny arrived at the area, high atop a winding rise, marked “Asia Collection.” There was a Cushman utility truck parked on the edge of the road, bales of hay stacked on its flat bed. Sonny put the Mercury into a lined space, head in, facing a small brick structure set down a stone path. He cut the engine.

It was raining harder. Wayne kept his window open, his arm leaning on the door ledge as he smoked, not noticing that he was getting wet.

“That can’t be theirs,” said Wayne, turning his head to indicate the truck.

“That’s a vehicle for workers,” said Sonny.

“So there’s a third party here in these woods.”

“Shame on them if they see us.”

“Where’s our friends?”

“They’ll be here.”

“You reckon there’s two?”

“Well, there was that Afro American I spoke to. And Chris Carpet. Them and the smoke you butchered. They were all in this together. Criminals, like us. But not as hard as us.”

Wayne took the Taurus from his waistband and pushed it under the seat. Its barrel had been cutting into his middle. He pitched his cigarette out the window and found a snow seal in the pocket of his Wranglers and carefully unfolded it. In it was a small amount of white crystal speckled with blue. He put his nose to it and snorted it up. He licked the paper hungrily, crumpled it, and dropped it on the floor.

“That did it,” said Wayne, instantly lit. His eyes had begun to spiral.

“Now your nose is gonna bleed.”

“Means it’s good.” Wayne nodded toward the small brick house. “Them’s bathrooms?”

“No, it’s a mo-tel.”

“ ’Cause I feel like I could shit.”

“Clench your sphincter,” said Sonny.

Wayne folded his arms petulantly and unfolded them. “I need to walk. Look around. Could be they’re lyin in wait.”

“Dumbass. You think they parachuted in?”

“I’m sayin I can’t sit still.”

“Go ahead, then, but roll up that window before you do. That rain’s gonna damage my velour.”

Wayne closed the window. “You comin?”

“Nope. I think I’ll stay dry.”

“What if somethin happens?”

Sonny smiled. “I’ll hear you scream.”

“Or them,” said Wayne, and he stepped out of the car.

Sonny watched him go down the stone path toward the rest room structure. It was hard to see him through the windshield, what with the rain. Wayne turned the corner and went around the back of the building and was gone.

Lawrence stood behind the brick house for a long while, but his nerves got to him when he heard the work truck come to a stop on the road. He looked around the corner and saw a young, heavyset female in an Arboretum shirt get out of the truck, a big cell or two-way holstered to her side. She was a white girl and she wore a rain slicker over the shirt and carried a bucket and hand shovel. If she saw him she’d see a hood rat from the side of town she never drove through, and she would get suspicious and maybe call security. Lawrence guessed she was one of those college girls who had majored in trees and plants. They had a name for that. Whore culture. Lawrence was too nervous to remember the word. But she was not the type to be cleaning out a bathroom. Wasn’t no way she’d walk into the men’s. Lawrence slipped around the corner and quietly pushed on the door to the men’s room and stepped inside.

It was smaller than he thought it would be. Around a green metal divider, along one wall, were two urinals and a green metal stall holding a toilet. On the wall to his right was a white sink, a soap dispenser above it, and to the left one of those hot-air hand dryers that no one liked to use. Beside the sink, an office-sized trash can lined with a plastic bag. The floor was made up of small tiles in various shades of brown.

Rain tapped at the shingled roof. Lawrence heard the engine of a car, sounded like a big one, as it neared and then came to a stop.

He realized then that he had no plan.

In his mind, he had seen himself facing them, his gun hand hanging loosely at his side, his eyes steely, perhaps a small smile on his face, drawing quickly, beating their draw because they were white boys and slow, spinning the gun and holstering it before they even hit the ground. Ron O’Neal. The Master Gunfighter.

But here he was, low Lawrence Newhouse, cowering in a dirty bathroom. Trapped.

If one of them walked in, Lawrence would have to use Ben’s blade. The sound of a gunshot would bring the other one, prepared, and that would mean that he, Lawrence, would be doomed.

Lawrence stood in front of the toilet stall. In his quivering hand was the carpet knife. The wood handle was damp with his sweat.

He shook his braids away from his face and tried to raise spit.

Wayne Minors had gone around the back of the building with the shingled roof and had found nothing but bright green ivy and a meter on its red brick wall. He had to go, but he preferred to urinate outside. Because he was still a child, he pissed his initials against the bricks. When he zipped up, he moved back from the wall and looked down a gently sloping hill.

He squinted through the mist and the rain. Down there behind a tree he thought he saw… yes, it was. A bicycle. Wayne stared at it, his mouth open, breathing through his nose. He got down to one knee and as his pants leg rode up, he drew his Rambo III knife from its sheath.

He gripped the hardwood handle and pressed the heavy-duty pommel and the steel blade against his leg. He went around the corner of the building and looked to the Mercury, parked in the space at the end of the stone path. He made a chucking motion with his chin but could not clearly see Sonny’s reaction, or if he had one at all. The windshield was heavy with water.

One bicycle, one man. Ain’t gonna be no problem. I’ll walk out with a trophy and see the admiration in Sonny’s eyes. Because I am his equal. I am not stupid.

Wayne turned and stepped quickly into the men’s room.

Lawrence got a look at the man who had come to kill him as he emerged from behind the green metal divider. He was a little white man, tightly wound and strong, with a thick mustache and slightly crossed eyes. He held a hunting knife.

Lawrence opened his mouth to speak but could not. The little man giggled and came across the room. He was on Lawrence fast as fire, his knife hand raised.

This is the man who murdered Ben, thought Lawrence Newhouse, stepping back against the sink wall, frozen, unable to raise the Crain carpet knife, as he watched Wayne’s weapon come down toward his chest.

The blade glanced off the holster and butt of Lawrence’s gun. It surprised Wayne and woke Lawrence up.

This is the man who murdered Ben.

Wayne raised the knife again.

Lawrence grabbed Wayne’s knife hand at the wrist and pushed him back. He danced Wayne across the tiles and into the green metal divider, rocking it. He had Wayne’s T-shirt bunched in his right hand, still gripping the wood of the carpet knife. He spun him and held tight, pushing and lifting him, Wayne’s feet grazing the tiles as they headed back to the sink wall, and Lawrence, with great force, slammed him up against the hand dryer. He let go of Wayne’s shirt and moved the knife to the little man’s neck and broke the flesh with the end, hooking it in beside the artery. Wayne’s eyes pinballed in their sockets and he bared his teeth. He made an animal sound and freed his hand from Lawrence’s grasp and stabbed at Lawrence furiously with the spine-cut knife. Lawrence gasped as the blade entered his chest again and again. Still, he held fast to Wayne.

Lawrence buried the hook deep and found purchase in the little man’s flesh. He grunted with effort and ripped the Crain knife violently and almost completely through Wayne’s neck, severing his artery and windpipe. Lawrence was showered in blood.

Wayne’s head unhinged in a backward direction as he crumpled and fell. His boots kicked at the tiles. His head, loosely attached to his torso, floated in a widening pool of fluid. He had voided his bowels, and the stench was heavy in the room.

“God,” whispered Lawrence.

He stumbled to the divider and leaned against it. He looked down at his T-shirt, drenched in crimson. He winced at the pain and dropped the Crain knife to the tile floor. He listened to the wheeze in his own breath.

Let me keep my feet.

Lawrence drew the heavy revolver from inside his shredded jacket and walked out of the men’s room and into the rain.

The heavyset woman was now standing beside her truck. She saw Lawrence and her eyes grew wide. She turned and bucked. Lawrence saw her lift her radio off her hip as she ran into the woods.

He heard the opening of a car door. An old black sedan was parked at the end of the stone path. Its driver’s-side door was opening and a big white man with a walrus mustache was getting out. He stood behind the open door and glass. Lawrence raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s torso.

Lawrence saw the big man reach inside his windbreaker. His eyes lost their will, and his hand came out empty.

The man smiled. “Where’s my friend?”

Lawrence did not reply.

Sonny Wade’s hand slipped back inside his jacket.

“You ain’t get to do that twice,” said Lawrence, his weak voice lost in the rain.

“I can’t hear you, fella,” said Sonny, and he drew his. 45.

Lawrence squeezed the trigger of the magnum. The. 357 round shattered the window and blew a quarter-sized hole in Sonny’s chest. The slug flattened, tumbled, and ruined everything in its path. When the lead exited, its hole was as big as a fist. Sonny grabbed the top of the open door, and Lawrence walked forward and shot him again. Sonny went down on his back.

It felt to Lawrence that he was floating as he moved crookedly to the car. He stood over the big man, whose shirt was moving in and out where he had taken the first bullet. The second round had entered Sonny’s abdomen. His chest and belly were slick with red. Sonny was blinking his eyes slowly, struggling to breathe, the rain hitting his pale and frightened face as he pondered eternity. Lawrence pointed the gun at the big man’s face and locked back the hammer. But he did not pull the trigger.

I’m not gonna give him that gift, thought Lawrence. Let death laugh at him and walk toward him slow.

Lawrence stumbled to the edge of the parking lot. He saw the path of wood chips and mud lined by beveled railroad ties. He made it there. He looked at his hand and saw that it no longer held the gun. He tripped and fell and slid down the hill. He managed to get back up. He saw the bench at the end of the trail, set before the ledge. He was there and he dropped onto it. He sat and looked across the treetops, down to the Anacostia. It was a wide ribbon of brown, and rain dotted its surface. He heard sirens and his vision began to fade.

This is where I want to be.

Lawrence stared at the river.

When they found him, he was staring at it still.