Where the dead lay

FORTY-TWO

Behr drove south on I-65 toward Seymour as he slowly came out of the haze in which he’d spent the last several hours. The cops had gotten there within moments. A pair of uniformed Speedway officers, then a second pair of Northwest District boys stormed the place before the brass arrived. Behr had his weapon holstered and sitting on the ground next to him and had his wallet held open so they could see his tin when they walked in. It was the last conscious thing he’d done before he was overcome by shock at what had happened, and why tiny hurtling bits of metal had stopped another man, but had passed him by and left him alive. Nobody did much talking until Pomeroy walked in. Behr was vaguely aware that they’d locked down the building and the surrounding block. Paramedics and medical examiners and crime-scene photographers dealt with Schlegel’s body. Numbered evidence cards were set up next to the shell casings he had fired. Investigators were locating the rounds in the wall high and to the right behind Behr, though they had only found three of the four so far. Four rounds. Schlegel had fired first and at twice the rate as Behr and for whatever reason he had missed. Behr knew the model of gun. It had a notoriously long trigger pull. Maybe it had caused Schlegel to yank his shots. That could happen without sufficient practice. And even with practice, it wasn’t easy. They handed Behr a bottle of water and helped him up.

Pomeroy oversaw his questioning, during which Behr gave a dry recitation of what had led him to the garage-leaving out his contact with Pomeroy and the Caro Group-and what had occurred in it. They told him he’d have to come down to the shop and run through it again soon and that he could bring counsel. When the cops recording him and taking notes were done and had drifted away, Pomeroy told him that they’d collected Flavia Inez and that she was giving a statement. They’d also picked up Victoria Schlegel, who was currently under suicide watch at Carter Hospital in an hysterical condition. Charles Schlegel had been discovered stabbed to death after a 911 call, in an apparently unrelated incident, though Behr didn’t believe much in “unrelated” anymore. Kenneth Schlegel and Knute Bohgen were currently unaccounted for and would be sought for questioning. It was going to take a while, but a slew of charges ranging from criminal conspiracy, to promoting gambling, to extortion, to murder would eventually be mounted against them.

“They’ve gone to ground,” Pomeroy said. “I wouldn’t worry about them right now.”

Behr nodded blankly.

“I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can,” Pomeroy said, raising a plastic bag that contained Behr’s gun and holster. Behr nodded once more.

“Some special family you turned up,” Pomeroy said, shaking his head.

The work continued around them, though it had slowed as it entered the wrap-up phase. Equipment was being packed. Silence had fallen between them when Behr asked, “Can I go?”

Pomeroy eyed him for a moment before agreeing.

• • •

What the hell does he know of family? Behr wondered. Other than that he’s just helped destroy one. He was headed south toward the remaining vestige of his own. Behr had passed Seymour and had reached the small town of Vallonia, where his ex-wife Linda, remarried and a stepmother, had lived for the last six years or so. He didn’t need directions to get to her place. He knew the way. He’d be embarrassed to admit how many times he’d made the southbound drive, how many times he’d parked down the road from her house and watched her comings and goings. He’d managed enough restraint not to talk to her but seemed unable to stop looking. The visits had ended over a year ago, though. A case had consumed him back then, and of course he’d met Susan. She filled a place in him he didn’t think could be filled, and the need to drive south had vanished. Which is what made it all the more strange for him to be rolling down the smooth gravel drive past the mailbox that read “Vogel,” Linda’s last name now, and parking right in front of the house. He seemed unable, or unwilling at least, to stop himself as he walked to the door and knocked.

After a moment, Linda’s face, still beautiful to him, appeared in the door’s glass pane. She still looked young-younger even than the last time they’d spoken several years ago. Her black hair was only betrayed by a very few gray strands. Upon seeing him, her eyes lit in an initial smile that quickly went out as she became guarded.

“Frankie,” she said, cracking the door, “what’re you doing here?”

“Hi, Lin,” he said. “I’m not sure.”

They stood there for an awkward moment before she opened the door to him, and he stepped inside.

It was a nice home, not lavish, but comfortable. There was evidence of early teenage children’s artwork and sporting goods equipment and the like. The place had a familiar smell.

“Beef stew,” he remarked, mostly to himself, as Linda led him into the kitchen.

“Todd likes it,” she said, “so do Gina and Jared.”

“Why not? It’s the best.” It wasn’t enough to put the smile back on her face.

“I just put up a pot of coffee. You want some?” she offered. Behr nodded. Some things didn’t change. Linda drank coffee all afternoon long. She always had. It never stopped her from sleeping either. Until their bad time together, after Tim died. Then she swore off coffee altogether and endured the terrible headaches that going cold turkey brought on, but to no avail. Nothing she tried would allow her to sleep back then. They’d both lie awake all night, helpless in their grief. Maybe this resumption of her habit signaled a return to some kind of normal. He sat down at the kitchen table while she poured and delivered his cup.

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Frankie?” she asked. She was looking at his forearm, which the EMTs at Rubber House had wrapped and taped in a white bandage. He didn’t answer for a moment. “Because you’re pale as a sheet. And you’re here, so it must be for a reason.”

“I was, I suppose, for a minute there,” he allowed. “I’m not anymore.”

“That’s good.” She stood uncomfortably across the kitchen from him.

“So you like it down here?” Behr asked. She nodded.

“It’s nice. Quiet. People down here don’t know what happened. If they do, they don’t let on. I can be how I want.”

“And things with Todd?” Behr asked.

“It’s good. He’ll be home soon with the kids. You can meet them.” She paused and grew shy, and then: “They call me ‘Mom.’”

He expected to feel like he’d been stabbed. But he didn’t. A pleasant sensation washed over him with the words.

“So you’re happy?” he asked.

“I’ve come to be,” she said.

“That’s good,” Behr said, meaning it.

“And you?”

Behr didn’t move and couldn’t answer. The traitorous feelings he’d had before, that day after the lake, made their way back into his chest, but she cut them off.

“You’ve got to,” she said. Got to what? he wondered, but Linda went on. “You’ve got to do it-whatever you want. Whatever you have to do. To get out of the tunnel… Back into life, Frank. There’s a lot of ways to say it, I guess. Do you get it?”

Behr nodded and he recognized he had come there for absolution of some kind, and that her simple words had granted it. He sat there for another minute and knew he was looking on Linda for perhaps the last time. Finally, he got up to go. That’s when he saw a stuffed monkey, a wooden fire truck, and a few dinosaur figurines along her windowsill above the kitchen sink. He recognized them well-they were some of Tim’s old favorites. There they were just beneath the window she looked out of as she washed dishes. He realized she lived with it every day, even as she’d moved on, and that it was okay. He crossed the kitchen and picked up the truck and handled it. He saw there was a rescue hero action man in the driver seat. He looked to Linda.

“Sure,” she said, “you go ahead.”

Behr drove north toward Indy, going slow, his eyes locked on the road, the little fire truck riding on the seat next to his leg.