"Thanks, mom," I said. But the joke didn't go over well.
"What d-did they have d-down there?" he asked without turning from his work. "I ch-checked the online reports, b-but it was all standard p-press release stuff."
He tipped his chin at a video screen that was recessed in the wall above one end of the counter. A Web page for the local newspaper was up.
I told him about the prints leading into the water, the obvious presence of the FBI and the dead dog. While I talked he laid out the seasoned tuna on two plates with steamed okra and put the garlic bread between them. He ate standing up, thumbed a few buttons on the remote and the Web page screen turned into a live broadcast of the local news. The abduction was the lead story.
A young reporter with glasses was doing a standup in the neighborhood, motioning back to the two-story pink stucco home. The camera had to leave him and zoom to get a grainy shot from where the press had been cordoned off more than a block away. Back in the frame the reporter scribbled circles onto a pad while giving the name of the missing girl and making the leap to put her in with the other victims of what the media had taken to calling the "Moonlight Murderer."
"Another innocent victim silently swept away from her home leaving law enforcement with nothing to do but wait," blabbed the reporter. When coverage jumped to a photo of the child and an interview with one of her teachers, I got up and started making a fresh pot of coffee. I stood at the machine and listened to the lead reporter interview neighbors, asking them if they were now afraid for their own families. One said she was trying to sell her house and knew three other friends putting theirs on the market. A man spoke cryptically about "armed security" and "you do what you have to do."
Billy punched off the report and I sat back down.
"S-So if they l-let you inside, you are at l-least off their suspect list," he said, always the attorney.
"It helps that I was with one of their own detectives when the abduction happened," I said, sipping the coffee. "But once a suspect, always a suspect."
"W-Well, y-you've got one f-fan," Billy said, handing me a message slip from his office. Fred Gunther had called from the hospital, asking me to come in and see him.
"He say how he's doing?"
"Sounded d-depressed to me. They are still not sure about the leg."
"Say why he wants to see me?"
Billy shook his head.
"Maybe he just w-wants to th-thank you."
That night I dreamt of the city, of running from my mother's Philadelphia house near St. Agnes Hospital down Mifflin Street to Front and then north. The heat of the summer is stirring a soup of gutter dust and exhaust fumes and I am pointing my face out to the Delaware River hoping to catch a breeze from the Camden side. On the water, container ships are sliding down with the current and from the sidewalk I can only see their superstructures, moving like buildings on rollers. I hit the cobblestones past South Street and my ankles are twisting and my knees are aching but I ignore the pain and push on. I know there is a fountain up ahead in the park at Penn's Landing so I keep pounding with the goal of cool water splashed up in my face and down my shoulders but when I finally reach the wide, knee-high pool I bend to the clear water and cup my hands around the face of my own reflection but it is Lavernious Coleman's cheeks that I touch, his eyes, filmed and growing sightless. I try to pull my hands away but can't get them out, my fingers are stuck in the cattails and the duckweed of the Everglades and the sawgrass is trying to pull me down.
When I woke up I was sweating. I could hear my heart thumping under the sheets in Billy's guest room. I sat up and swung my feet to the floor and rubbed my face and knew there would be no more sleeping this night. On the patio the ocean was black and murmuring against the beach and I sat waiting for the first soft light of dawn to tinge the horizon.
I needed to get my truck. Needed to get back in my own vehicle, drive at my own pace. Feel like I had some control over something instead of depending on others and spinning whichever way they determined I should be yanked.
I took a cab to the ranger's station, over Billy's protestations, and got there about ten o'clock, just as Mike Stanton was loading up the Whaler for a run out on the river. My truck was parked in the visitor's lot under a light pole. The kid saw me get out of the taxi and pay the driver, but turned back to his work.
I walked to the truck, gave it a once-over and opened the driver's door. A cab full of heat and stale air spilled out. I tossed my bags in and walked across the lot to the boat ramp.
"Nice job on the scratch, Mike. How much do I owe you?"
"About fifty dollars, Mr. Freeman," he said, finally looking up at me. "My friends and I did it ourselves."
"She run all right for you?"
"Yeah, fine. 'Cept I have never been pulled over so many times in my life," he said.
I raised as much innocence into my face as I could.
"Four times in two days by cops asking all kinds of questions about who I was and where the owner of the truck was and had you left the state. It wasn't worth it so I just parked it."
"I'm sorry for the trouble," I said, handing the kid five twenties from my wallet. He took all five without comment.
"Oh, and Mr. Freeman," he said as I started to turn away. "Cleve said to tell you to use his canoe 'round the side there if you wanted. Said yours got busted up?"
"Thanks," I said without elaboration.
I walked back to my truck feeling guilty, knowing the kid must be just shaking his head.
The noon traffic was no different from any other part of the working day, but this time sanity sat behind the wheel. No blue light, no horn, total adherence to the laws of the state. It took me more than an hour to get to the hospital, and when I asked for the room of Fred Gunther, the elderly woman at the information desk gave me a visitor's badge and directed me to follow the blue stripe on the hallway floor.
I thought I had sworn off hospitals two years ago when I. was wheelchaired out of Jefferson in Philadelphia with a bullethole in my neck and an appointment for a follow-up with a psychiatrist, neither of which I had asked for. Now I was on my second visit in five days. I hated hospitals, had watched my mother die in a hospital, eaten from the inside by cancer, refusing to end her pain with medication. Her knurled and leathery hand closed tight around my fingers, whispering a Catholic prayer with her final breath. I shook the vision. I hated hospitals. I moved through the hallways with pastel wallpaper, dodging staff dressed in blue and pink and green. It was a color-coordinated world with no place for black.
When I reached Gunther's room the door was open and he was alone. The media swirl had moved on to the next exclusive of the day. The big man was lying in bed, his eyes closed and his huge hands folded over his chest, fingers stacked in a pile. I scanned the length of the bedclothes and saw two lumps where both feet were covered. When I shifted my eyes back to his face, he was awake.
"How you doin'?" I said, covering some embarrassment.
"I've been better."
His voice was raspy and tired. I let him come full awake and watched him shift his weight using his powerful shoulders and arms.
"How much longer they going to keep you?"
"A while. They say I'll be able to keep the leg."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Thanks to you."
I let that sit. Avoiding a trite response. We'd quickly run out of polite things to say.
"Could you close that door, Mr. Freeman?"
I shut the heavy door and when I came back the listlessness had left his face.
"I've had a lot of time to think," he started. "And I wasn't sure who to tell this to, but it seems that maybe you're the one."