We were still exchanging suspicious glances when a Ford Explorer pulled up beside us. CJ Norris got out on one side, a photographer the other; he went to work right away snapping photos of the trailer. She came over, looked at me, looked at Baker, then looked puzzled.
“What’s going on here?” she said, still alternating her gaze between the two of us. I wasn’t sure whether her comment was in reference to the tension mounting between Baker and me, or to the crime scene behind us.
Baker took another long drag from his cigarette, exhaled dragon-style again, then nodded toward the trailer and said, “Someone killed Newsome.”
CJ’s face went blank. “Flint? How?”
“Shot in the back of the head,” he said.
“Execution style,” I added.
Baker shot me a look.
CJ turned toward me. “And how do
Baker said, “Seems our friend here found the body.”
She looked at me.
“Long story,” I muttered under my breath. “Fill you in later.”
She was about to comment on that, but the other deputy came up to us, wiping sweat off his forehead.
“Got something in there, boss. You’re gonna want to take a look. There’s a safe behind a bunch of clothes in the closet. On its side, open, and empty.”
Without a word, Baker moved toward the trailer, his deputy following close behind.
“Looks like we have our motive,” CJ said, her eyes following the men as they walked away from us.
“Wonder what was in it.”
She gave me a funny look and said, “You going to tell me how you happened to land in the middle of all this?”
I told her.
She looked down at my leg. “I take it that’s where the rag came in.”
“Yep. Unfortunately, the dog fared much worse.”
“Saw that,” she said. “Not sure who I feel more sorry for, the dog or Newsome.”
“I’ll go with the dog.”
She smiled, nodded.
A few minutes later, Baker and his deputy came out again. “Not much chance we’ll get any prints off the safe, other than Newsome’s,” Baker said as they breezed past us, “but on the slight chance, make sure we try anyway.”
I thought about the boot print that disappeared during the trial and that Newsome was the one who had lost it. Could he have been involved in Nathan Kingsley’s murder? The guy was as seedy as they came—it wasn’t that much of a stretch.
I motioned for CJ to follow me to my car. When we got there, I said, “What’s the story on Newsome?”
She smiled. “Big time loser.”
“Yeah, I get that. Any idea why someone would want him dead?”
She leaned against the hood, crossed her arms. “Not sure. But the empty safe is sure keeping things interesting.”
“I’ll say.”
She looked down at the ground, then back up at me. “Think someone was trying to keep him from talking to you? Then robbed him?”
I shook my head. “Nobody knew I was coming, and Baker said Newsome was dead for a few days. Sure smelled like it.”
She nodded very slowly, staring off into the distance. “Guy like Newsome, there’s no telling what he had his hands in. Could’ve been any number of people who liked him better dead than alive.”
I looked at the trailer. “Man, I’d give anything to find out what he had in the safe.”
“You and me …” Suddenly she stopped, her attention fixed on something in the distance.
I looked in that direction. “What’s wrong?”
She moved forward a few steps, then stopped, eyes narrowed. “Is that dog still breathing?”
I looked, then took off running, with CJ following behind. When we got there, I rested my hand on his back and realized he was trembling ever so slightly.
“We have to get him somewhere. Fast.” I said. “Is there a vet nearby?”
CJ had the dog’s head in her lap and was stroking it; he let out a soft, helpless moan. “Up the road about six miles. Doctor Shively.”
“You stay here with him. I’ll bring my car around, and we can load him in the back seat.”
In less than a minute, we were speeding off toward the vet’s office.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I never much understood holidays. We didn’t celebrate them, and to me they seemed like a big party I was never invited to, a time when everyone else got to have fun. The decorations, the music—all of it—seemed so foreign to me, accentuating my feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.
“I hate the holidays,” my mother would grumble as we navigated the crowds. “Just a bunch of people getting in my way. Carnal pigs feeding at the trough of material wealth.”
But I wanted to feed there too. I wanted to experience what everyone else did.
It was Christmas Eve. In one of her manic moods, mother suddenly decided she wanted to paint the bathrooms. As in: it couldn’t wait until morning. As in: we needed to go to Wallace’s Discount Mart right that moment.
“And don’t go wandering off to the toy department, either,” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “If you’re not with me when I’m ready to go, I’ll leave you here.”
Inside, colorful blinking lights reflected off silvery tinsel. A fresh piney scent mixed with the smell of hot buttery popcorn, filling the air. Christmas carols played softly in the background while jolly Saint Nick sat front and center, a little girl perched on his lap. Beyond that, even more kids stood along with their parents behind a red velvet rope, waiting for their visit with the white-bearded man in red.
I felt as if I’d landed on Mars.
A sharp jolt snapped me out of it, my mother pulling me by my jacket collar toward the hardware section. I’m pretty sure I was the only kid in the world spending Christmas Eve in the paint department.
“Drop cloth,” she ordered, reading the side of a paint can. I walked down the aisle, then turned the corner in search of one, but something else caught my attention about fifty feet away in the gardening section. A life-sized Santa sat on a big, green tractor, its front end lifting as if taking off in flight. Colorful lights flashed in succession alongside him to give the illusion of forward motion. He had one hand on the wheel, the other waving at me.
I’d never seen anything like it.
As I drew closer, I heard Christmas music, sleigh bells, and Santa’s voice saying, “Ho, ho, ho!” The flashing neon sign below him suddenly came into focus. It read: “The only Deere Santa will need this year!”
I was in awe, couldn’t stop looking at it.
On the other side of the display, I saw a boy about my age who appeared just as thrilled—and for a moment, it was like looking into a mirror. Then I saw his smiling parents beside him, their hands on his shoulder.
And the mirror cracked.
He had them, and I had my mother. I think it was the first time I actually understood how different my world was from that of other children, and how much I was missing out on. I felt an emptiness building inside me, deep and dark. In my child’s mind, I wondered what I had done to deserve such a horrible life.
Then it hit me: the drop cloth. I’d forgotten all about it.
I grabbed the first one I found on the shelf, then raced to the next aisle to find my mother.
