Winter and Night (46 page)

"I tried this morning, with Randy Macpherson."

"They let you? I'd have thought he'd be off limits." I heard the meanness in my voice, but I didn't care. "Especially after yesterday. Must have been traumatic for all those kids, to hear about what happened, huh? Of course, Paul was just a geek, and Gary's new. But still."

"Warrenstown has counselors at the high school all day today and tomorrow." His voice expressed nothing.

"Gee, that's great. I hope the kids can get their heads screwed back on straight. Next season's sooner than you think."

"About Randy," Sullivan said mildly, ignoring my tone. "When Macpherson didn't stop me I knew it was a setup. Randy said yeah, he took clembuterol, but probably wasn't going to take it anymore, because he used to get it from Tory Wesley."

"That's shit."

"If I asked, that would be their story, all of them."

I waited for the fire, the anger, but all I felt was empty and cold. Tired beyond words. "Yeah, well, thanks for the news, Sullivan. See you around."

"Jesus Christ, will you hold on?"

"Why? It sounds over to me. Two kids dead, one crippled, but it's never too early to start getting ready for a new season in Warrenstown. It's only too bad you have to get a new coach. Hey, but maybe Tom Hamlin's available."

"Goddamn, you give up easily."

"I've been told my problem is I don't know when to quit."

"That's true, too," he said. "Here's what we have: I can't get at Ryder. ME says no one killed Tory Wesley. Even if you're right about Macpherson firing those shots—"

"I'm right."

"—even if you are, there's no crime. And you're the only one who tells it that way."

"Did you talk to Gary?"

"He doesn't know. He just remembers a lot of gunshots, and then he went down."

I saw, suddenly, rain, the circling lights on patrol cars, a wide stretch of water-sheeted asphalt. I heard gunfire and the howling wind. I lifted my eyes to the room: chairs, books, my piano, hard objects that I knew.

"Smith?" Sullivan said. "You still there?"

"What do you want?" I asked him.

"What do you want?"

Nothing, I thought, there's nothing I want, just go to hell, leave me alone. But I heard myself say, "Ryder and Macpherson."

"There was never anything I could have charged Macpherson with."

"You've made that point, Sullivan."

"And Ryder, like I said, they made a deal on the drugs."

"What about Stacie Phillips?"

"The attack? Without a positive ID from her that would never get off the ground. You said that yesterday."

"So what's your goddamn point, Sullivan? You trying to make sure I get it that I'm supposed to lay off these guys? I get it."

"It was never me they were afraid of," he said, as if I hadn't spoken. "It was never about the law, never about the steroids. It was about something that happened twenty-three years ago that wasn't prosecutable."

"So?"

"Well, Al Macpherson and Coach Ryder still went to a lot of trouble."

"Sure," I said. "Macpherson's King Shit in Warrenstown and Ryder's the god of war. Who'd want to lose jobs like that? But if it came out what they did back then— they must have been afraid there are things even Warrenstown can't stomach. But so what? You heard your chief yesterday: 'All conjecture, no proof.' Conjecture like that from Gary Russell's uncle? What the hell good would it do for me to bang on people's doors to get them to listen? It would just make things harder for my sister's family."

"I thought making things hard for your brother-in-law was what you lived for."

"I'm out of that business."

"That a fact? Well, I don't know what your partner was whispering in his ear after you broke his arm last night, but I thought the guy was going to crap his pants."

"Scott? He was scared?"

"Maybe a little, yeah."

It might make him think, I heard Lydia say. It might make him useful.

Exhaustion flooded me with the suddenness of a cloudburst. I reached for my coffee cup; empty. I wanted nothing more than to end this conversation, hang up, to be alone, in silence and stillness.

"So what?" I said.

"So what, what?"

"All of this. What the hell difference does it make now?"

"I don't know," he said. "But you're the one that brought up Stacie Phillips."

"Stacie?"

"And you're not from around here. Maybe you don't know the Tri-Town Gazette isn't published in Warrenstown. It comes out of Greenmeadow."

"I did know that."

"What the hell else," he asked, "do you need to know?"

After we hung up I had more coffee, walked around the apartment, until I realized I was pacing, like Lydia. I sat on the sofa, thought about Scott in the Plaindale emergency room, about Macpherson's eyes under the Warriors cap. I thought about boys playing football in slanted fall sunlight, and about the tug streaming up the black Hudson in the middle of the night.

Goddamn that tug, I thought. Goddamn it.

I went to the desk, picked up the phone, dialed Linus Kwong.

"Yo, speak to me."

"Linus, it's Bill Smith."

"Dude! I've been calling you!"

"I know. I saw your number on my phone. I'm sorry it took me this long—"

"Hey, dude, it's cool! I mean, I saw that shit on the news last night! That was him, right?"

"That was him."

"What was his deal?"

"A football game," I said. "His high school seniors playing their own juniors and sophomores."

"Wow." Linus was silent for a moment, in awe. " 'Bigger and better,' that's what he said. Like, wow." After another silence: "But, dude. That whole thing I saw, that was like, some motel or something. Nobody said anything about a game."

"He never got near it. You stopped him, Linus. You and another fifteen-year-old kid. I want to thank you."

"Oh, hey, dude. Oh, hey. He was scary. He needed someone to stop him. Just…"

"Just what?"

"Nothing. The news. They showed the pictures, all you guys. Him being, like, shot. And it was like, I mean, I talked to the guy. I almost knew him."

"Yeah," I said. "I know, Linus. Listen, I'm sending you a check."

"Oh, hey, forget about it."

"No, I hired you."

"No, man. This was like… like, I don't want to be paid for it, you know?"

"I do know," I said. "Okay, Linus. And can I ask you something? I have a question I need to ask someone young."

"Sure, dude. What's up?"

"You could have gotten in trouble for some of the things you did for me, but you did them anyway."

"Well, yeah."

"Because you figured I could get you out of trouble, if it came?"

"Not really."

"Because you thought it was important enough to be worth the risk?"

"Sort of like that."

"What else?"

"Well, because," he said. "I mean, this is what I do."

"Okay, Linus. Thanks."

"For what? What's the question?"

"That was it, and you answered it. I'll see you, Linus." I added, "Stay out of trouble, okay?"

"Sure, dude." I heard a smile; I realized I didn't know what that looked like, on him. I'd never met Linus, never seen his smile myself. "Later," he said.

I hung up, lit another cigarette, made another call.

"Stacie Phillips."

"You ever just say hello?"

"Are you kidding? What if it's a source?" she demanded. "Or, say, someone involved in like the story of the year, calling to give me an exclusive?"

"How do you feel?"

"Who cares? I called you four times already! Come on, what happened out there? Wait, let me get my pad."

"I care, but I assume you're much better or I wouldn't be hearing this level of enthusiasm."

"For a story this big? I'd write it from a body cast."

I took a drag off my cigarette and went ahead. "I'll tell you everything that went on. And yes, it's an exclusive. I'm not talking to any other media."

"Cool!"

"It's the least I can do."

"That's true. So, spill it!"

"First I need to ask you something."

"After!"

"No, first. You know the story about the time the first mate was drunk?"

"If this is a corny joke," she said dubiously, "maybe you want to talk to my dad."

"No, I want to talk to you, and I want you to listen. The first mate was drunk, and the captain wrote in the log, 'First mate drunk today.' The mate begged him to take it out, because it could mess up his career, but the captain said any true event of unusual interest had to be entered. So the next day it was the mate's turn to keep the log. He wrote, 'Captain sober today.' "

"Is this a reporter joke?"

"It's a parable," I said. "About the uses of truth."

I spent an hour on the phone with Stacie, detailing everything I knew and thought, every theory and every fact, very careful to point out the differences between the two.

"That was the coach? Who beat me up?" she shouted, when I got to that part of the story.

"You just melted my telephone."

"I'll kill him! My dad will kill him! I—"

"No, Stacie, that's the point. You can't. You couldn't ID him then and you can't now. He'd deny it and he'd call you a hormone-crazed schoolgirl."

"Hormones? What do my hormones have to do with it?"

"Nothing. I'm just telling you how it works. The only thing you can do— the only thing anyone can do— is what we're doing now."

"That can't be true. You mean he can just get away with it?"

"People get away with things all the time."

"Is that what being a grownup is about?"

"It depends who you are."

"What do you mean?"

"You," I said, "are a reporter."

I finished the story, all the details. I asked, "You understand I'm the first mate here?"

"You're drunk?"

"Besides that. I'm the guy you quote, attributed or not. Then you say, there's no proof. No evidence of truth to the rumor. You interview Tom Hamlin, publish whatever he says, all in quotes. The army can do a positive ID for you, by the way. You interview Chief Letourneau. He'll probably talk to you, but he won't be happy about it. Do you care?"

"No, but I'll tell my dad to watch out for parking tickets."

"That's a point to remember, Stacie. Your folks could catch some heat over this, from other kids' folks."

"My dad and mom are expecting to retire to Tahiti after I win my Pulitzer and can support them. I don't think I can do that if I let stories like this get away."

"Tahiti," I said. "I like it there."

"You've really been there?"

"I can tell your folks where to get breakfast."

"I'm sure they can't wait."

"Stacie? You'll need to talk to my brother-in-law."

"He'll talk to me?"

"He's your only real witness."

"But after all these years?"

"I think he understands now," I said slowly, "that the only way to protect his son from Macpherson is to stop protecting Macpherson's secret." And you had nothing to do with that, Smith, I reminded myself. All you wanted was to kill him, to make your sister a widow and Gary a killer's nephew. Lydia did it: found a way to use Scott's fear for his family— Scott's love, goddammit, because that's what we were talking about, love— found a way to use that, while you were desperate to use hate to destroy everything.

"Hel-lo?" I heard in my ear. "Earth to detective. Come in, detective."

"Sorry," I said. "Did you say something?"

"The Gettysburg Address. Your phone run out of batteries?"

"No, I did."

"Well, welcome back. The question was, do you think I can talk to Gary?"

"I… that's your call, Stacie."

"Okay," she said, and for a moment neither of us said anything else.

"And then," I started again, "you call Macpherson and let him deny it all, and publish whatever he says."

"Can he do anything to you?" she asked, sounding a worried note. "Get you in trouble?"

"Let him try. But he could sue the paper, so you have to be really careful how you write it. You and Stuart."

"Stuart?"

"Isn't that his name? Your rival at the Gazette?"

"Stuart Early? You think I'm giving any of this to him?"

"You have to. Most of it. The byline, if he'll take it."

"What?"

"You're the one who got beat up. This can't read like some wild revenge fantasy. It's got to look like you're trying to help out Ryder and Macpherson by giving them a chance to deny all these rumors, going back years."

"My story!" she wailed.

"Justice," I said.

"Not really," she said. "So we embarrass them. So what? It's not enough."

"You don't know what'll come of it. For one thing, if enough people believe the coach beat you up and Macpherson started that fire-fight, it'll ruin them. For another, you don't know who'll remember what from those days, stop telling himself he didn't know. This could change your town, Stacie."

"Is that what we're hoping for?"

"I am."

"It's still not enough. I don't see how you can call it justice."

"That's the problem with justice. There's no such thing."

We talked for a little longer, going over facts, times, dates. Then she hung up; she had a story to write.

I lit a cigarette, leaned back in the chair, shut my eyes. A few minutes later I sat up again, killed the cigarette, checked the voice mail. I listened to Sullivan's messages, and Linus's, and Stacie's. I erased them.

And there was one from Lydia: "Call me."

I stared at the phone, then walked over to the piano, lifted the lid off the keyboard. I didn't sit down. I fingered the keys, a few tentative chords. I used no strength, no serious muscle, but still the sound was too strident, the harmonies false and the notes unsustainable.

I closed the keyboard, stood looking around this place where I'd lived for so long. Outside, I heard a man shout to another. The steel shutter of the loading dock groaned and clanked as it lifted, ready to begin another day.

I picked up my jacket, went out to walk along the river.