and my coat from the kitchen and swipe a cigarette from mom’s purse. Once outside the apartment, I light up and trudge out into the lot. It still hasn’t been plowed.
The car chokes back to life and I crank the radio because the tape player is busted. Sliding past the other cars in the lot, I head for the drug store.
Part of me still can’t believe I did it. I’ve never burned something so big before. The Lady is probably just cinders, unless they caught it early. And Buck probably knows by now. He’s going to want to put a hurt on somebody.
What if he suspects me? My stomach tosses itself over in a sick somersault. I rushed into this and didn’t think it through to the end. Buck will probably come looking for me. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to the apartment.
It’s like when Will Hart wanted to kick my ass in the eighth grade. Doppler let me hang out at his place for a while to lay low. Will said I was a coward and worse but he never got his hands on me.
I haven’t been out to Doppler’s place since before he died. It’s near the high school, maybe a twenty-minute walk. The tiny house sits on some worthless property that nobody else wanted. No one ever bothered him out there, and as far as I know, no one ever bought the place after he died either.
One hand on the wheel, I’m zoned out when a flashing red light appears in the rearview. Damn police. I’m not even speeding. What does he want? There’s no way…no…he can’t know anything about the fire. Nobody saw me!
I don’t want to pull over, not now, not ever. Punching the gas seems like the right thing to do for a second, but the cop’s got nothing on me. There’s no reason to run. I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything. That’s all he needs to know.
Steering to the shoulder, I stamp out the rest of my cigarette between the other butts in the ashtray. Then I turn down the radio and put both hands on the wheel. Dead white fields stretch empty on either side—I try to make my mind the same way.
The cruiser whips around and parks diagonal in front of me. It looks like it might be one of those undercover cars. There’s no light bar on the top, only one of those slap-on dome lights—no decals on the doors either.
A chubby slob of a guy rolls out of the driver side door. His open jacket exposes a stained green t-shirt. Black smudges smear the thigh of his jeans. Son of a bitch. It’s Willis Freed.
What does this loony-toon want? Jackass is always butting in where he doesn’t belong. He makes a motion for me to lower the window.
The worn motor whines the whole way down. I lean out in hopes Willis will halt where he’s at. “What do you want?”
Willis strolls over in a slow, carefree shuffle. He stops a foot or so short of me. “Hey there, boy. Where you headed?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Never you mind.” He picks at something in his teeth.
“You’re not a cop, you know. You can’t just go pulling people over.”
Willis scratches his tilted head. One eye squints, as if he’s confused. “I’m not sure what to make of you, boy. This ain’t about the police. This is about information I’ve got that you ain’t privy to.”
“What information?”
“I’ve got ears all over this town and happened to come across something you might be interested in.” He snorts and then spits. “Now I know you was close with Doppler Jennings. I seen you with him a lot when he was still alive.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I imagine you was plenty upset when he died.”
“I suppose.”
“You probably wanted to ring the neck of whoever done it—might even still want to today.”
“What are you getting at?”
Willis chuckles and then shrugs. “Turns out I know who run him down.”
His words hit like a sucker punch. “What did you say?”
“Yep, I know who done it. It was Buck Armstrong. He got good and liquored-up one night and then tried to drive home. I heard him admit it myself.”
My heart stops and drops into my stomach.
The car chokes back to life and I crank the radio because the tape player is busted. Sliding past the other cars in the lot, I head for the drug store.
Part of me still can’t believe I did it. I’ve never burned something so big before. The Lady is probably just cinders, unless they caught it early. And Buck probably knows by now. He’s going to want to put a hurt on somebody.
What if he suspects me? My stomach tosses itself over in a sick somersault. I rushed into this and didn’t think it through to the end. Buck will probably come looking for me. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to the apartment.
It’s like when Will Hart wanted to kick my ass in the eighth grade. Doppler let me hang out at his place for a while to lay low. Will said I was a coward and worse but he never got his hands on me.
I haven’t been out to Doppler’s place since before he died. It’s near the high school, maybe a twenty-minute walk. The tiny house sits on some worthless property that nobody else wanted. No one ever bothered him out there, and as far as I know, no one ever bought the place after he died either.
One hand on the wheel, I’m zoned out when a flashing red light appears in the rearview. Damn police. I’m not even speeding. What does he want? There’s no way…no…he can’t know anything about the fire. Nobody saw me!
I don’t want to pull over, not now, not ever. Punching the gas seems like the right thing to do for a second, but the cop’s got nothing on me. There’s no reason to run. I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything. That’s all he needs to know.
Steering to the shoulder, I stamp out the rest of my cigarette between the other butts in the ashtray. Then I turn down the radio and put both hands on the wheel. Dead white fields stretch empty on either side—I try to make my mind the same way.
The cruiser whips around and parks diagonal in front of me. It looks like it might be one of those undercover cars. There’s no light bar on the top, only one of those slap-on dome lights—no decals on the doors either.
A chubby slob of a guy rolls out of the driver side door. His open jacket exposes a stained green t-shirt. Black smudges smear the thigh of his jeans. Son of a bitch. It’s Willis Freed.
What does this loony-toon want? Jackass is always butting in where he doesn’t belong. He makes a motion for me to lower the window.
The worn motor whines the whole way down. I lean out in hopes Willis will halt where he’s at. “What do you want?”
Willis strolls over in a slow, carefree shuffle. He stops a foot or so short of me. “Hey there, boy. Where you headed?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Never you mind.” He picks at something in his teeth.
“You’re not a cop, you know. You can’t just go pulling people over.”
Willis scratches his tilted head. One eye squints, as if he’s confused. “I’m not sure what to make of you, boy. This ain’t about the police. This is about information I’ve got that you ain’t privy to.”
“What information?”
“I’ve got ears all over this town and happened to come across something you might be interested in.” He snorts and then spits. “Now I know you was close with Doppler Jennings. I seen you with him a lot when he was still alive.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I imagine you was plenty upset when he died.”
“I suppose.”
“You probably wanted to ring the neck of whoever done it—might even still want to today.”
“What are you getting at?”
Willis chuckles and then shrugs. “Turns out I know who run him down.”
His words hit like a sucker punch. “What did you say?”
“Yep, I know who done it. It was Buck Armstrong. He got good and liquored-up one night and then tried to drive home. I heard him admit it myself.”
My heart stops and drops into my stomach.
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