'Man, where've you been?' he demanded. His face was haggard, sleepless. His jumpy eyes flashed from Lydia to me. 'Where's your car?'
'My car's too obvious. I wanted to come up here in something Brinkman wasn't looking for.'
He eyed Lydia again.
'This is Lydia Chin,' I told him. 'We work together sometimes, in the city. She's okay.'
'Thanks,' said Lydia dryly.
We followed Jimmy into the shack. He lit the wobbly kerosene lamp. His clothes stank of sweat and smoke; there was a pile of cigarette butts on the table.
Jimmy shifted uneasily.
'You scared the shit out of me.'
'For Christ's sake, Jimmy, what's wrong?' I put the 7- Eleven bag on the table.
'Someone was here.'
A chill went through me. 'Who?'
'I don't know, man! Last night, in the rain. Someone came up the truck road. A car. I saw his lights.'
'Did he see you?'
'I don't know. He could've. I had the lamp lit, you know, just .. .' He shrugged. 'I killed it when I saw his lights, but he could've seen it.'
'And you didn't see him?'
'No, man. It was raining, it was dark.'
'Did he drive close to the shack?'
'Uh-uh. Just to the top of the truck road. He was here maybe five minutes, then he split.'
'Did he get out of the car?'
'I don't know! I couldn't see him!'
'Okay, Jimmy, okay. Here, we brought you some dinner. And some beer. You look like you could use it.' I reached into the bag, put a six-pack on the table. Jimmy yanked a can off the plastic; I did the same. He looked unsurely at Lydia. 'You want one?'
'No, thanks,' she said. She had stationed herself by the window, listening to us, keeping an eye on the empty landscape.
Jimmy sat on the rickety chair. I perched on the edge of the table. He unwrapped the sandwich, bit into the end as I asked him, 'What did you do?'
'When?' he asked, muffled by chicken and cheese.
'Last night.'
He swallowed. 'What did I do? I didn't do anything!' He took a long pull on his beer. 'I thought about it, man. I thought, soon as he's gone, I'm history! I figured with the rain and all, I could make the Thruway and be in Canada by morning.'
'Why didn't you?'
He stared at me. 'Because you said not to! Because you said stay put!'
'Good.'
'But then you didn't come last night, and you didn't come today . . .' He looked at me out of eyes that seemed as tired as mine. 'Jesus, Mr. S. What's gonna happen?'
'What's going to happen is that you're going to tell me the truth.'
'Oh, man—'
'Don't start that shit, Jimmy!' I slammed my beer down on the table. 'Here's what happened last night: someone cracked me on the head, left me lying in the woods in the rain. That I'm not dead is pretty much an accident. And someone tore up a shed belonging to a friend of mine. I want to know why. And someone drove your truck off the road into the ravine.'
He paled. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'It's what I said the other night: this is no goddamn game, not anymore.'
'Game,' he muttered. He shook his head. 'Are—are you okay?'
'No. My head is killing me, my shoulder's sore, I'm stiff, I'm tired, and I'm generally pissed off. So now tell me, Jimmy, it's Ginny who had the truck, isn't it?'
He shook a Salem from the pack in his parka. 'Yeah.' He lit it, looked at me in silence, as though he didn't want the answer to the question he was about to ask.
'There was no one in it,' I told him.
He let out a breath, nodded. 'Jesus,' he said.
'Since when has she had it?' I asked.
'Last week. Thursday, I think.'
