“Well, well,” Sonny said, peering inside. He reached in and took out Wyatt’s bat. “What a beauty.” He assumed a batting stance-a very good one, balanced and comfortable-and swung the bat gently two or three times. “You’ll get it back, I promise,” he said. He lowered the bat, held it loosely in his left hand, extended his right. “This is good-bye,” he said, “at least for now.”
“Good-bye?”
“Shh. Can’t have you implicated-in case anything goes wrong. You haven’t seen me, know nothing about this.”
Wyatt hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Sonny said. “If all goes well, I’ll be down at the police station in an hour, presenting my evidence.”
“The police station here? In Millerville?”
“Sure.” Sonny smiled his broken smile. His lips were wet with a mixture of rain and blood.
“Your evidence meaning the twenty-two that was never found?” Wyatt said. “Is that why we’re here?”
Sonny laughed. “My kid the genius,” he said. “Take good care of yourself. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“But-”
Sonny’s smile vanished. “Hey, Wyatt-please don’t mess this up. I’m trying to get my life back here.”
Wyatt nodded. They shook hands. Sonny’s grip was strong and warm-almost hot, in fact. Then, as Wyatt stepped around the car, a powerful light flashed on from a point ten or fifteen feet from the trailer, framing Sonny in a white circle. Doc-his rough voice instantly recognizable to Wyatt-called out: “Don’t fuckin’ move, Sonny. Got a twelve-gauge pointed at your head.”
But Sonny did move-so fast Wyatt wasn’t clear exactly what was happening-diving out of the white circle and at the same time hurling the bat at the source of the light. Wyatt caught the gleam of the spinning bat, and then came a thud and a cry of pain, and next the beam pointed wildly in several directions and finally went still, aimed straight up at the sky. Sonny was already on the move, running toward the light and the dark form beside it, shaped like a man on his knees. The man on his knees was reaching for something on the ground, but before he could get it, Sonny was on him. Another thud, another cry of pain, and then Sonny rose. Wyatt went closer, close enough to see Doc lying on his back, bleeding from the side of his head, blood and mud clotting in his long graying hair; and Sonny standing over him, one foot resting on Doc’s throat, the shotgun in his hand.
“Can’t say the years have been kind to you, Doc,” Sonny said. “You look like shit.”
Doc gazed up at him, eyes full of hate. “Seen yourself lately?”
Sonny flashed his messed-up smile. “All fixable,” he said. “Just part of the plan-a disguise, you could call it.” He took his foot off Doc’s throat and said, “Up.”
Doc rolled over, got back on his knees, then suddenly bent forward and puked.
“That’s just the fear talking,” Sonny said. “You’re not hurt that bad.” He grabbed Doc by the collar and pulled him up. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he said.
At that moment, Doc noticed Wyatt. He blinked. “You?”
Sonny glanced at Wyatt. “Weren’t you on your way, son?”
“But-”
“Doc and I need to go inside and straighten things out, and there’s only so much time. I’ll be in touch, like I said.” Sonny smiled. His face was hard, and shiny with rain.
31
Wyatt got into the Mustang, turned, and drove out of the trailer park. In the rearview mirror he saw Sonny stomp on Doc’s searchlight, bringing back the darkness with a quiet smash, and then two shadowy forms were moving toward the trailer.
Wyatt pulled over, not far from the entrance, and parked by the side of the road. He tried to make sense of what he’d just seen, tried to make it fit with everything he’d already learned about that night at 32 Cain Street; and was still trying when headlights appeared down the street. A car came nearer, a small sedan. As it passed under a streetlamp-the only one on the block that was working-Wyatt caught a glimpse of the driver, a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair: Charlene. Charlene of Good Time Charlene’s bar, married to Bob Waters with whom she lived in that well-kept bungalow, at the same time having a secret affair with Doc Vitti. She drove by, gaze straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel, and turned into the trailer park. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and followed on foot.
The rain began to let up. Wyatt ran down the lane that led to the silver trailer, saw Charlene getting out of the sedan, fumbling with an umbrella. She walked to the trailer, adjusting a small purse she carried on her shoulder, and knocked on the door. Wyatt moved closer, staying in the shadows.
The door opened and Sonny looked out; he had the bat in his hand, now reddened at the end.
“Oh my God,” Charlene said.
“Surprise,” said Sonny.
Charlene backed away. Sonny grabbed her wrist. She dropped the umbrella, tried to get to her purse. Sonny yanked her close with one hand-his other still held the bat-and kissed her mouth. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get away. Finally he let go. Charlene wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You used to kiss better than that,” Sonny said. “Maybe you don’t love me anymore.”
“What have you done to him?” Charlene said.
“See,” Sonny said, “that’s where we reached the tipping point. Covering for you-no problem, I was cooked anyway. Heard you got married to some little fellow. Well, life goes on. But spreading your legs for Doc, who was always sniffing after you and you wouldn’t give him the time of day? When I heard that”-he shook his head-“it had a big effect on me, let’s put it that way. Do I have to explain why? Doc fucked me over big-time, and now again he’s fucking me right through you, if you see what I mean.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Charlene said.
Sonny gave her a good one with the back of his hand. Charlene’s head snapped back but she didn’t fall. Instead she said, “Fuck you,” opened her purse, and took out a gun.
“Same goddamn twenty-two?” Sonny said, showing no fear at all. “But you’re a lousy shot, Charlene-proved that a long time ago, outside the window at thirty-two Cain.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Charlene said, stepping back.
Sonny came out of the trailer, moved toward her.
“Not another step,” Charlene said.
Sonny took another step. The gun went off, the orange flash bright, the sound enormous. Sonny rocked back, a red stain appearing on his left shoulder at once. The expression on his face turned from fearless to murderous with nothing in between. Charlene tried to take another step back, stumbled a bit, and before she could squeeze the trigger again, Sonny swung the bat-with just his right hand, but so fast Wyatt could hear the whoosh of air-and struck her on the side of the head. The sound was sickening, and so was the sight. Charlene toppled over and lay still. Sonny dropped the bat, picked up the gun, and went back into the trailer. Wyatt turned and puked, just like Doc.
Sonny came out of the trailer almost at once, keys in one hand, a towel pressed to his shoulder. Wyatt stood motionless in the shadows. Sonny climbed into Doc’s pickup and drove out of the trailer park.
Wyatt didn’t take another glance at Charlene or what was left of her head, didn’t even think of going into the trailer. He just panicked, running to his car as fast as he could, jumping in, turning the key. But at that moment, before he’d had a single coherent thought, a cell phone rang. Not his, but Greer’s: he recognized that Dobro ringtone. Greer’s? How was that possible? It rang again and stopped, just before he found it in the glove box.
Wyatt held Greer’s phone in his hand. Van had come to the foreclosed house, taken her away while Wyatt was getting ice and sandwiches. He could see her not waiting for his return just so she could retrieve her phone-not worth the potential scene-but why not leave a note about sending it along, or a message with Sonny? And then came another thought, a thought that chilled his whole body: If Greer’s phone had been in the car the whole time, how had Van called her at all?
Wyatt checked the screen on Greer’s phone: two new messages. He went into her voice mail: 7777#.
