Fragile

which started as a paved road but devolved into little more than a rocky path, completely impassable after a heavy snowfall.

Chief Crosby (everyone still called him that, thought of him that way, though he’d retired long ago) owned the surrounding hundred acres, thick with hemlock and pine. Rumor had it that he’d had offers from developers-huge offers-that he’d summarily turned down. Every winter Jones fully expected to have to find a way to haul the chief’s giant corpse out of there. But every spring he emerged in his big red pickup truck, looking a bit slimmer, like a bear emerging from hibernation.

“My old man is never going to sell this land, not even a sliver of it,” said Travis. “It’s worth a fortune.”

“He won’t live forever,” said Jones.

“We’ll see,” said Travis, flicking his cigarette out the window.

As they turned onto the drive, Jones saw Marshall’s car parked on an angle beneath the glow of a spotlight that shone from the garage. There was a low crescent moon, and a field of stars he didn’t usually get to see in the brighter light of town. The Crosby house was built from field-stone, a massive chimney reaching up through the red and white pine; it was still and dark, sure of itself to the point of being contemptuous, like the old man himself.

Off down to their right, a stone carriage house tilted in the landscape, its boards splintered and gray, its roof caving in. Jones exited the vehicle and approached the Chevelle, got stiffly to his knees, joints and lower back protesting, and spotted the dark puddle on the ground beneath it.

When he stood up again, he was surprised to see Travis directly behind him. He hadn’t heard the door open and close, had assumed the other man was still sitting in the warmth of the vehicle.

“What are you doing, Crosby?” said Jones, taking a step back. He felt the urge to rest his hand on the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. He knew, though, that a move like that, slipping your hand inside your jacket, was one of antagonism for another cop. He didn’t want to overreact, but the sight of Travis unnerved him. Shadows had settled on the hollows of Travis’s face, in the valleys under his eyes, in the deep lines around his mouth.

“Do you ever think we should have just owned up to what happened that night?” Travis said.

Jones drew and released a deep breath. Here it was, clawing its way up from the dirt beneath their feet. “Why are we talking about this now?”

Travis turned up the corners of his mouth in a mirthless grin. “Come on, Cooper. We all died that night. We’re just ghosts in our lives, aren’t we? Everything is rotten, decayed.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her. Not… kill her.” His voice shattered on the last words.

“I know that. I do.”

“I just keep thinking that if it had just stopped there, if I’d just had the courage to own it…,” Travis said. He let the sentence trail and his eyes drift over to the old house, the place where he’d grown up. “The thing is, I wanted to be a better man than my father, a better father than he was. I just never knew how. You can’t build a house without the right tools, you know.”

Jones saw the other man begin to cry and cast his eyes away. He didn’t want to see Travis break down. His hand was itching to reach for the gun in its holster. It’s too late for all of this, Travis, he wanted to say. We’re too far gone. All our mistakes, everything we’ve done wrong. It is just part of who we are now. There’s no such thing as redemption. Two people are dead because of all the things we did and didn’t do. Your tears mean nothing. But he was pretty sure that was not what Travis needed to hear. He wished Maggie were here; she’d know what to say to him. She always had the answers.

“I know I can’t undo the things I’ve done. I can’t go back and be a better father. But I can protect my son right now. I can do that.”

When Jones looked back at Travis, the other man had a gun in his hand, a.38-caliber Smith & Wesson, his old service revolver.

“What are you doing, Travis?”

“What I have to do.”

“What’s he done, man? We can work it out.”

Jones thought about Maggie and the things she’d said, how angry she’d been at him tonight, the accusations she’d leveled against him. And he saw now that she was right about everything. And Travis was right, too, about them all being ghosts in their lives-not living right, not at rest or at peace, just howling at the fringes.

“Hiding the truth isn’t the same as protecting someone.” Even as he said it, he knew what a sad hypocrite he was. “What good did it do any of us?”

But Jones could see the blank determination in the other man’s eyes. He knew instinctively that he wouldn’t have time to draw his weapon now. He’d waited too long.

He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender; when he saw Travis relax, Jones rushed him, hoping that Travis’s reaction time was slow because he was drunk. But before he could reach Travis, the explosion of the firing gun opened up the night.

22

He was a coward. Charlene was right about him. He was a mama’s boy, because that’s where he wanted to be, at home with his mom. Instead he was driving around The Hollows, flirting with the entrance to the interstate that would take him into the city. But he couldn’t quite get himself to drive up the on-ramp. He’d passed it three times already. He could drive to New York, and then what? Go to a club, hope to bump into her? He didn’t know where anybody lived. Would he wander the streets, looking at every girl who passed?

He ran one hand through his hair. It felt as hard and spiky as Astro-Turf from all the gel he used to create that carefully messed-up look. The action caused his arm to ache. He wasn’t sure a tattoo was supposed to hurt this much; the skin beneath the ink looked red and raw. He’d dabbed away a little pus. That was all he needed, for the stupid thing to get infected. That would really send his parents off the deep end.

She uses people. She used you. Earlier he’d been so sure that something had happened to Charlene. But now he wasn’t sure of anything. Whose car had she gotten into? Where had she gone? Why did his father believe he’d done something to hurt her? Or that he was lying? On the seat beside him, his phone started ringing again. Mom calling, the screen blinked anxiously. He didn’t answer. As much as he wanted to pick up and talk to her, he didn’t.

He was tired, pulled into a deserted gym parking lot. He’d already been through the drive-through at Taco Bell, had an Enchirito and nachos while he drove. Then he went through Starbucks and got a venti Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce. So, for a while, he was wired, his mind buzzing with one grand plan after another. Now, crashing hard, Rick just wanted to go home. But he couldn’t stand the thought of them-his father’s accusations, his mother’s worried frown. If he went home, they wouldn’t just leave him be; they’d be up all night fighting. He wondered what it was like to live in a family where people didn’t feel compelled to talk all the goddamn time about every little thing. Not that this was a little thing. It was a big thing, the biggest thing. The girl he loved was missing. His father thought he had something to do with it.

He brought the car to a stop and killed the engine, sat in the deserted parking lot. It was after midnight, and he hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He rested his head against the window, started to doze, and immediately began to dream. He dreamed that he was swinging a bat, and as it connected with a ball pitched to him by his father, it made a sharp crack, the bat splitting in two. The sound startled him awake. Then he heard it again.

Carried on the night air, it sounded like the firing of a gun. His dad had taught him the difference between gunfire and the backfiring of an engine. The sound of gunfire had a crack to it, a report, whereas the sound of a car backfiring was more explosive. He listened for it again, but he only heard the wind through the leaves. He rolled down the window and caught the scent of cut grass and something else, the faintest odor of skunk. He kept listening for a while, hoping to hear it again, but there was nothing. Then his phone started ringing again.

Sitting there listening to it, wondering if he should finally answer, Rick felt his fatigue and sadness become unbearable. He couldn’t sit alone in the dark anymore. He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. He knew where to go, someplace where he could rest and be left alone.