“What do you mean?”
“It’s an easy question. Were you there for five minutes? Ten? Half an hour?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But long enough for a couple beers.”
“Yeah.”
“Even though you were afraid.”
He finally saw what Charlie was getting at. Charlie waited patiently, his expression bland.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “They’re not the type of people you just walk away from.” “Oh,” Charlie said. He seemed to accept that, and he brought his fingers to his chin. “Okay… so let me make sure I understand. Otis told you-no, suggested-that they killed Missy, and you thought they’d do the same to you because you owed them a bunch of money. So far, so good?” Earl nodded warily. Charlie reminded him of that damn prosecutor who’d put him away.
“And you knew what they were talking about, right? With Missy, I mean. You knew she’d died, right?”
“Everyone knew.”
“Did you read about it in the papers?”
“Yeah.”
Charlie opened his palms. “So, why didn’t you tell the police about it?”
“Yeah, right,” he sneered. “Like you guys would have believed me.”
“But we should believe you now.”
“He said it. I was there. He said he killed Missy.”
“Will you testify to that?”
“Depends on the deal I get.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s change gears for a second. You got caught stealing a car, right?”
Earl nodded again.
“And Otis was responsible-you say-for you getting caught.” “Yeah. They were supposed to meet me out by the old Falls Mill, but they never showed. I ended up taking the fall.”
Charlie nodded. He remembered that from the trial.
“Did you still owe him money?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
Earl shifted in his seat. “A couple thousand.”
“Isn’t that what you owed before?”
“About the same.”
“Were you still afraid they’d kill you? Even after six months?”
“It was all I could think about.”
“And you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them, right?”
“I told you that already.”
Charlie leaned forward. “Then why,” he asked, “didn’t you try to use this information to lighten your sentence? Or put Otis away? And why, in all this time here when you were complaining that Otis set you up, did you never mention that he’d killed Missy Ryan?”
Earl sniffed again and glanced toward the wall.
“No one would have believed me,” he finally answered.
I wonder why.
In the car, Charlie ran through the information again.
Sims was telling the truth about hearing what he’d heard. But Sims was a known alcoholic and was boozing that night.
He’d heard the words, but had he heard the tone?
Was Otis joking? Or serious?
Or lying?
And what had the Timsons talked about with Earl for the next thirty minutes? Earl hadn’t really cleared any of that up. It was obvious he didn’t even remember the conversation until Charlie brought it up, and his account pretty much fell apart after that. He’d believed they would kill him, but he’d stayed for a few beers afterward. He’d been terrified for months, but not enough to scrounge up the money he owed, even though he stole cars and could have gotten the money. He’d said nothing when he’d been arrested. He blamed Otis for setting him up and blabbed to people in the prison about it, but he didn’t mention the fact that Otis had confessed to killing someone. He’d lost an eye and still had said nothing. The reward had meant nothing to him.
A boozing alcoholic, providing information to get off free. A convict with a grudge, suddenly remembering critical information, but with serious holes and flaws in the story.
Any defense lawyer worth his salt would have a field day with both Sims Addison and Earl Getlin. And Thurman Jones was good. Real good. Charlie hadn’t stopped frowning since he’d been in the car.
He didn’t like it.
Not at all.
But the fact was that Otis had indeed said “the same thing is gonna happen to you that happened to Missy Ryan.” Two people had heard him, and that counted for something. Enough to hold him, maybe. At least for the time being. But was it enough for a case?
And, most important, did any of it actually prove that Otis did it?
Chapter 23
I couldn’t escape that image of Missy Ryan, her eyes focused on nothing, and because of that, I became someone I’d never known before. Six weeks after her death, I parked the car about half a mile away from my final destination, in the parking lot of a gas station. I made the rest of the way on foot.
It was late, a little past nine, and it was a Thursday. The September sun had set only half an hour earlier, and I knew enough to keep out of sight. I was wearing black and kept to the side of the road, going so far as to cower behind some bushes when I saw headlights closing in on me.
Despite my belt, I had to keep grabbing for my trousers, which kept slipping over my hips. I had begun doing that so frequently, I had stopped noticing, but on that evening, with branches and twigs pulling at them, I realized how much weight I had lost. Since the accident, I’d lost my appetite; even the idea of eating seemed to repulse me.
My hair, too, had begun to fall out. Not in clumps, but in strands, as if decaying slowly but steadily, like termites ravaging a home. There would be strands on my pillow when I woke, and when I brushed my hair, I would have to use my fingers to clear the bristles before I finished or the brush would slide without catching. I would flush the hair down the toilet, watching it swirl downward, and once it was gone, I would flush again for no other reason than to postpone the reality of my life.
That night, as I was climbing through a hole in the fence, I cut my palm on a jagged nail. It hurt and it bled, but instead of turning around, I simply squeezed my hand into a fist and felt the blood seeping between my fingers, thick and sticky. I did not care about the pain that night, just as I do not care about the scar today.
I had to go. In the last week, I had gone to the site of Missy’s accident and had also visited Missy’s grave. At the grave, I remember, the headstone had been placed and there were still remnants of fresh earth, where the grass had yet to grow, almost like a small hole. It bothered me for a reason I couldn’t quite explain, and that was where I set the flowers. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and simply stared at the granite. The cemetery was mostly empty; in the distance, I could see a few people here and there, tending to their own business. I turned away, not caring if they saw me.
In the moonlight, I opened my hand. The blood was black and shone like oil. I closed my eyes, remembering Missy, then moved forward again. It took half an hour to get there. Mosquitoes buzzed around my face. Toward the end of my trek, I had to cut across yards to stay off the road. The yards here are wide, the houses set far from the road, and it was easier going. My eyes were locked on my destination, and as I approached, I slowed down, careful not to make any sound. I could see light streaming from the windows. I saw a car parked in the driveway.
I knew where they’d lived; everyone did. This was a small town, after all. I had seen their house in the daytime, too; like the scene of the accident and Missy’s grave, I’d been there before, though I’d never been this close. My breathing slowed as I reached the side of the house. I could smell the scent of freshly mowed grass.
I stopped, my hand pressed against the brick. I listened for squeaky floorboards, a movement toward the door, shadows flickering over the porch. No one seemed to realize I was there.
I inched my way to the living room window, then crept onto the porch, where I wedged myself into a corner, my body hidden from those who might pass on the road by an ivy-covered trellis. In the distance, I heard a dog begin to bark, then pause, then finally bark again to see if anything would stir. Curiously, I peeked in.