“You’ve got shit,” Renz said.
“We’ve got pieces-”
“Pieces of-”
“All right, all right!” Quinn waved his fist in a gesture that was threatening enough that Renz quieted down and settled back on the sofa.
“We’ve got pieces,” Quinn continued, “that haven’t yet been put together. The beginnings of a pattern. Of a picture. It’s how these cases always shape up in the beginning. You’re the one who knows media, Renz. I’m the one who knows police work.”
Renz sighed. Made a big show of it, in fact. He picked up his Voice and stood up from the sofa, stretching and working one shoulder, moving his arm in a slow circle as if he were a big-league pitcher worrying about his rotator cuff.
“I’m gonna leave you with the thought that you don’t have much time,” he said. “Once your image is fucked, so are you. And what’s happened is, your image’s asshole is all greased and ready.” He dropped the folded paper back on the table. “You don’t believe me, read about it in the Voice. It’ll tear your heart out. It’ll make you wanna send money and flowers to little Anna Caruso.”
“I already want to,” Quinn said to Renz’s back as he walked out the door.
He seemed not to have heard.
Or to have noticed the tears in Quinn’s eyes.
26
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Luther had spent the last month learning more and more about what was becoming his trade, and what Tom Wilde assured him could be raised to approximate, if not become, art. Luther became an expert at stenciling, layering, tinting, and shading, using tone and texture and creating illusion.
His affair with Cara continued. Milford spent his evenings with his ledger books, working overtime in his office at the mine. Luther spent his evenings with Cara. She became more easily aroused and erotic under Luther’s touch, and he continued to learn from her. He thought that if she loved him only a fraction of how much he loved her, he’d be happy. She couldn’t love him more, because she was everything to him.
Nothing was out of bounds to the lovers. No part of either of them was secret to the other.
Which was why, when Milford unexpectedly came home from work early one evening, he walked into his bedroom and found Cara and Luther blissfully locked in mutual oral pleasure.
On Milford’s side of the bed.
He stood stunned, unable to believe what he was seeing. He had to look more closely to be sure that, yes, the woman was actually Cara. Doing…what she chose not to do with Milford.
So engrossed were the lovers in each other that they had no idea he was there. That somehow added to Milford’s astonishment and indignation-it was as if he didn’t exist to them. Worst of all was his feeling that he was the interloper, the one who didn’t belong here.
Here, my home, my bed, my woman…God, God, God…
Slowly he unclenched his fists, letting an inner steadiness, a solidity, focus his anger even if he couldn’t control it. He went to the closet and opened its door, then began rooting around behind the hanging clothes.
He’d made enough noise to distract Luther and Cara from each other.
“Milford?” Cara’s voice was choked.
Well, no wonder! Milford felt the rage in the core of him become white-hot.
“Milford!” she said again behind him, now with a curious hoarseness he’d never heard before, as if she were some other woman. “What are you doing?”
His hand closed on warm walnut. “Looking for my shotgun.” How calm and matter-of-fact was his voice.
“Milford-Mr. Sand-wait a minute!” Luther now, talking to his back. “Let me explain how this happened. Maybe you’ll understand. Honest, I’m not trying to make excuses, but this was something Cara and I didn’t do on purpose. It just happened! It was nobody’s fault!”
Young, so young. Milford smiled grimly. Not going to get any older.
He reached up on the closet shelf and found his box of shells. Then he turned and faced his wife and her lover as he broke down the double-barreled twelve-gauge and began loading it.
“No, no, Milford!” Cara retreated to the headboard and curled in the fetal position against it, as if shielding herself from an approaching tornado. Luther, the other nude figure in the disgusting scene, stood up from the bed and held out a palm in a signal for Milford to halt what he was doing.
“Give this some thought, Milford. Don’t do this, please!”
He seemed afraid now, but not in the slightest embarrassed. Milford thought that was odd, thinking how devastated he’d feel in Luther’s place. How wrong.
Well, Milford had read about Luther’s background. What had the filthy animal learned during his time on the streets?
And taught Cara!
Milford finished slipping the shells into their chambers and deftly locked the shotgun closed. It made a cold metallic clucking sound-so efficient, a hard, impersonal substance forged precisely to its purpose, not like flesh.
He could smell their sex now, the heat and wetness of it. It made him more sure of what he was about to do. He thumbed off the safety.
“You can’t do this, Milford!” Luther said. He was hurriedly getting dressed, already had his pants half on and was buttoning his shirt.
“Scum,” Milford said calmly. “Street scum that doesn’t deserve to breathe.”
Cara remained curled on the bed, wrapping her bare arms about her head and whimpering.
Luther was imploring but not giving ground, as if he had a few bargaining chips left to play and might yet be persuasive. “Think about this, Milford! I mean, like, really think about it!”
“I am thinking about it. Are you?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry! I apologize for this. And I really mean it! Will you give me a chance to leave? Will you promise not to hurt Cara? That’s all I’m asking!”
“No and no.” Milford raised the shotgun to his shoulder and sighted down its long twin barrels to the end of everything.
Luther was hobbling toward the door now, carrying his shoes in one hand and fumbling to button his jeans with the other.
“I’ve been a fool!” Milford screamed at him. “And you betrayed me! You betrayed me! Scum! Street scum!”
Milford squeezed the trigger for the left barrel. The right barrel was for Cara. The reload was going to be for him.
The hammer clicked on the shell, but the gun didn’t fire.
Luther continued his flight out the door, not looking back, an absurd figure dressing and hopping and ducking simultaneously. Astonished, Milford squeezed the trigger for the right barrel.
Nothing. Another misfire.
The shells must have been on the closet shelf too long. They were too old, Milford figured.
Milford screamed and hurled the shotgun at the door Luther had slammed shut behind him.
He heard Milford’s scream and what sounded like the heavy shotgun clatter off the door and drop to the floor. But Luther didn’t slow down. He kept running through the house, down the stairs and toward the front door, bumping into things, brushing furniture aside. Something fell and broke behind him. Like his life.
Then he was outside, across the wood porch and down the steps and into the warm night.
Away!
Life on the streets had taught Luther some hard lessons, and when he came across the shotgun several weeks ago, he made sure it was unloaded, then left it where he’d found it in the back of the closet. The half-dozen
