landed in a tangled pile with Reams.
“Shut up, Morgan,” Reams said. “You’ll give away our position.”
“Goddammit.” Morgan rolled onto his side, pushed himself onto an elbow, and shook his head. “For Christ’s sake I’m covered in mud here.” Morgan noticed the book in Reams’s white-knuckled hands was a copy of
Reams returned to his crouch. “Quiet. Here he comes.”
Morgan squinted through the shrubs, looked down the sidewalk. A lone man on a frail bicycle, the thin wheels whirring in the quiet morning.
The rain began again.
“Reams.” Morgan tapped the jittery man on the shoulder. “Uh… Reams?”
Reams swatted Morgan’s hand away. “We’ll show the little son of a bitch what Joyce is good for.”
Morgan recognized the cyclist. It was Pritcher. He wore an obscene spandex outfit that bunched his nuts into a tight wad.
Pritcher’s ten-speed was humming along at a good clip when it passed between the big fountain and Reams’s hiding place. Reams darted from his crouch, sprung himself at Pritcher’s bicycle. He flung the copy of
It sailed, the cover opening wide, pages flapping. The book spun end over end like some awkward, epileptic wounded bird in its final tailspin.
Morgan watched, his jaw dropping, stomach tightening.
Joyce’s complex novel hit, a corner of the cover lodging in the spokes of the rear wheel. The simple machinery of the bicycle clenched, gears jamming, chain tangled. Pritcher screeched like a fruit bat and flew over the handlebars.
He sailed high and far, landing in a half splash, half crunch in the big stone fountain.
Morgan gulped. “Jesus, Reams, you killed him.”
Pritcher lay still for a long time. The rain came harder. Morgan stood next to Reams, put his hand on the professor’s shoulder. Both men prayed for Pritcher to move.
“You’d better go have a look, Morgan.”
“To hell with that,” Morgan said. “You go look. You’re the one that killed him. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” Reams’s voice sounded far away. “I was crazy. He just made me insane, I guess. I must’ve been out of my mind. You’ll testify, right, Morgan? I wasn’t in my right mind.”
They still watched. Pritcher still didn’t move.
“I’ll have to take responsibility,” Reams said. He stuck his chest out, lifted his chin. “I’ve killed a man, and I’m going to pay for that.”
Pritcher’s foot twitched. Loud cursing and splashing came from the fountain.
“He’s fine!” Reams said. “Run!”
Reams elbowed Morgan aside, tore off through the bushes like he was on fire, a panicked stumbling and clawing. Morgan followed. They pushed their way through to the parking lot on the other side. Morgan’s car was near.
“This way,” Morgan shouted.
Morgan didn’t bother to see if Reams followed. He ran for his car as fast as he could while digging into his front pocket for his keys. The keys were stuck, tangled in stray threads inside his pocket. Morgan ran awkwardly, tugging at the keys.
He reached the car door and jerked hard, tore the keys loose, half his pant leg ripping open down to the knees.
“Shit.”
Morgan unlocked the door, climbed inside, cranked the engine.
Reams was on the other side, hitting the passenger window with the heel of his hand. “Let me in, man. Hurry.”
Morgan flashed on an old black-and-white submarine movie. A sailor trapped on the other side of a sealed hatch, the compartment filling with seawater. He thought just for a moment about leaving him. Morgan popped the locks, let Reams in.
They drove fast, sideswiped a library book return box with a metallic
Reams leaned back, sprawled in the passenger seat, rubbed at his eyes.
The windshield fogged over. Morgan wiped at it with a sleeve.
“I can’t believe it,” Reams said. “I thought I’d killed him. I could have fucked up my whole life. I’m up for tenure next year. You can’t get tenure if you kill a guy.”
“No. It’s not like the old days,” Morgan said.
“I really thought I’d broken his neck, Morgan. Do you know what that feels like? The thought that you’ve killed somebody?”
Morgan saw Annie Walsh’s face in his mind, saw her naked, skin slack and cold in his bed. Remembered the weight of her wrapped in the plastic. He started to speak, to say something to Reams, but his voice caught. Another memory, the shallow grave in the peach orchard.
“I hope you never have to feel like that,” Reams said.
twelve
Morgan dropped Reams off at his house then went home.
He was soaking wet. He peeled off the slippers and tossed them into the trash. He showered, thought about getting dressed, but crawled under the covers instead.
He didn’t sleep well. Annie’s corpse followed him through the world of dreams, called to him from beneath the ground. He knew somewhere a mother and father wondered why they hadn’t heard from her. Friends would talk. Other professors would wonder why she wasn’t attending class.
Morgan awoke sore, sweat slick on his forehead and under his arms. He tumbled out of bed, groaned, stood, stretched. He felt heavy and weak and unhappy. Maybe he’d try to write. Maybe a drink first. No, he needed another shower. He wanted to rinse off the nightmare sweat.
After the shower, he shuffled into the kitchen. He looked out the window and saw that the day was creeping into evening.
He made coffee, stood and watched it brew, then poured himself a mug, took it to his little desk. It was a mess, so he started cleaning and found an unfamiliar manila folder. He opened it.
It was Fred Jones’s poetry.
“Hell.”
Something caught his eye, so he kept reading. A good line here and there. He read two or three, came to one that might work with some edits. The old man had decent instincts, smooth with images. Nothing too didactic. The poems must have been in chronological order because they improved as he went along. He pulled out two near the bottom and began marking them with a green pen. As Morgan critiqued each poem, he came to a horrifying realization.
The old man was good.
His images were fresh and energetic, savagely raw and gritty without being overly gruesome. They didn’t pander. His voice was rugged, straightforward, and American.
Morgan was sick with jealousy but couldn’t pull himself away from the old man’s work. Outside it grew full dark, the weather turning sour yet again. The wind kicked up. A little rain. Morgan switched on the tiny desk lamp and kept reading.
After another hour, the wind really started to howl, so he didn’t hear when Jones walked into his house, stood over him at the desk, and put the gun to his forehead.
