When he came up the third time it was dark. He remembered not to sit up. He looked down at himself and tried not to move too much. In a bed. Blankets on me. There was an IV bag hanging on one side of him and a window on the other with yellow light coming through it, he thought there might be houses outside. There was another bed in the room and someone was snoring. Quiet, he said, and then he felt guilty. There were machines beeping and chirping. Quiet, he whispered. He couldn’t see the machines. I will sit up. They can’t stop me. He moved and the pain came back everywhere and then he slipped under it.
Stay down. Stay down, he thought. Move your toes. He couldn’t see his feet. He tried to move his arm but it wouldn’t go anywhere, he looked and saw it was handcuffed to the bedrail. There was a deep pain in his chest and sides but he could breathe now. They got my head all wrapped up. He touched it. Something sticking out of my head. There was a tube, a plastic tube coming out of the back of his skull. Stay down. After a minute it occurred to him: I am alive.
6. Isaac
When he walked into the door there was a cop behind the desk, the short Asian one from the night he and Poe had been caught at the machine shop. He was drinking coffee and looked like he’d been up for days.
“I need to talk to Chief Harris,” said Isaac.
Ho looked at him. “He isn’t available.”
There’s your excuse, thought Isaac. But then he said, “I see his truck out there. Tell him it’s Isaac English.”
Ho got up reluctantly and disappeared down a hallway. Isaac watched:
Then Ho came back. “Door at the end.”
Isaac went down the hall alone and knocked on the metal door and then, he didn’t know why, opened it before he heard an answer. It was a big room and something was strange about it, the same cinderblock walls and fluorescent lights as the rest of the building, but the furniture was all wood and leather and there were paintings hanging on the walls. Harris was sitting up on a couch, a blanket around his shoulders. He was pale and disheveled and one of his hands was taped with a splint.
“You’re back in town.”
“I’m turning myself in.”
“Whoa,” said Harris. He put his hand up to stop Isaac’s speech, stood up slowly, clearly in some pain, and walked to the door. He checked outside and then closed and locked it. “Come sit.” He motioned to the couch. Isaac sat down on one side, Harris on the other.
“Billy Poe didn’t kill that homeless guy,” Isaac said.
Harris looked stricken. He sagged back against the cushion and closed his eyes. “Please don’t say anything else,” he asked quietly.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Billy and I were—”
But Harris leaned over suddenly and took him by the shirt, as an older brother might, and put his hand so as to nearly cover Isaac’s mouth. His skin was pale and damp- looking and Isaac could smell his sour breath.
“The district attorney just called to tell me that those two men you were in that factory with were found dead.” He let go of Isaac and sat back toward his side of the couch. “All three of those men are gone now, Isaac. The only people from that night who are still here are you and Billy Poe. You understand?”
“What happened to them?”
“It could have been anything,” said Harris.
They sat in silence for a long time, it might have been minutes, until Harris got up slowly and went to his desk and opened a wooden box, taking a long time to peer into it before removing a cigar. “You don’t smoke these, do you?”
“No.”
“I need one.” He cut the end off and lit it and stood by the open window. He seemed to be collecting himself.
“I don’t know if you know this, because when I went to your house to talk to you, you had already taken off. They charged Billy with killing that man but it now appears they’ll have to let him go. And you they’ve never heard of and I’m guessing that since Billy hasn’t given you up yet, he probably won’t ever, especially once his lawyer hears about these new developments. Which I’ll call her as soon as we’re done here.”
“When did he get locked up?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Last week sometime?”
“What was he charged with?”
“He was charged with killing that man,” said Harris. “With murder.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
Harris shook his head.
Isaac was quiet a minute. “I’m going to leave here,” he said. “I should probably go live with my sister in Connecticut.” He was surprised to hear himself say it. But it felt right.
“That’s a good idea,” Harris told him.
“So what happens to Billy?”
“Probably after a month, give or take, they’ll have no choice but to release him.” He walked away from the window and took a pen and a notepad from his desk. “Listen, you start feeling bad about something, you come see me. I’m going to give you my cell number and my home number, too, just call me and I’ll meet you.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said Isaac. “I think I feel fine.”
“You did the right thing, you know that? I wish I could give you something for coming down here, because I don’t think I’ve known many people who would have done it. But now…” He shrugged. “Time for you to go home.”
Isaac felt himself walk out of the office, down the steps, and onto the road toward town. The clouds were beginning to move. He was halfway through town and nearly to the river when it occurred to him that he’d decided to trust Harris. The others as well. He would try that and see how it turned out.
A few blocks more and he crossed the old railroad and stood on the bank in the reeds. His mind was quiet. He stood watching the sun on the slow river, he knelt and put his hand into it, the ripples growing out, there was light on the dome of the cathedral and the windows of all the houses, a pair of terns headed for open water and soon that would be him, gone.
7. Harris
He watched Isaac leave, shutting the door politely behind him. He wondered if he would be able to keep quiet. It all could have been a disaster. It might still be.
He hadn’t told Isaac that Billy Poe had been stabbed and nearly died, after refusing to see his lawyer for several days. A different person than you thought. Grace didn’t know yet. He could not be the one to tell her. He could feel his head begin to swim but sooner or later the DA would come around asking and he would have to get himself in order. His fingers ached and the pain was radiating up his arm, the wound on his rib cage refused to close, it ought to be stitched but tape would have to do.
He had to get up. There was a story to get straight about where he had been last night, he needed to go over the truck with a Q-tip. New tires, probably. The tires—that was being too careful. Maybe not. Hell hath no fury like a spurned lawyer. He grinned at his little joke and then felt a lightness come over him. Both of those boys were
