Part 23 (1/2)

CHARLIE SAWED LOGS in the back bedroom. I eyed his car keys in the bowl of waxed fruit on the kitchen table next to my sack of papers. I fantasied a fantastic scenario, where I'd sneak out the back door, slit the cruiser tires with a switchblade, steal a car and speed my way to freedom beneath predawn skies. This is the crazy s.h.i.+t you cook up when you can't fully fall asleep.

At the window, I peeled the curtain as another heavy fist rained down.

”Open up. It's me. Turley.”

I cracked the front door, rubbing my eyes like he'd interrupted a wonderful dream. ”What the h.e.l.l time is it?”

”Thought I'd find you here.” Turley stepped past, barging inside. He stopped when he heard Charlie raising the roof. ”Is that Finn? How you get any sleep?”

”What do you want, Turley?”

”I need you to come down to the station. Some detectives from Longmont been looking for you. Got some questions.”

”Detectives?” Like the man sent to execute my brother last year? Those cops on the side of the road weren't detectives. Maybe Turley was willing to double down on that bridge. I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't.

”They said they'd been out to your place. Truck's there. You're not. I told 'em to head over.” Turley looked bored with the conversation. ”I said I'd fetch you.”

”And take me where?”

”They're gonna meet us at the station.”

”Ever hear of calling?”

”Yeah, Jay. Charlie's landline was busy. Neither of you was answering your cell.”

”That's because there's no cell reception out here for one, and two, I was f.u.c.king sleeping. It's the a.s.s crack of dawn.”

I saw the receiver belly up on the nightstand. Must've kicked it over in my thras.h.i.+ng attempts to sleep.

”Which is why I had to drive out here.” He reached for my arm.

I pulled away. ”The f.u.c.k are you doing?”

Turley's hand shot for his holster.

”What? You're going to cuff me? Arrest me? Shoot me?”

The snoring in the backroom stopped.

”No one is arresting anyone. These boys just want to talk to you. Don't be a red-a.s.s.”

”What's going on?” Charlie stood in the doorway to his bedroom, pink ham belly more swollen that usual, like the meat had soaked too long in the brine. ”What are you doing here, Turley?”

”Hey'ya, Charlie. Sorry to bother you. Got a couple of cops up from Longmont. Need to talk to Jay. Said I'd grab him.”

Charlie scratched his head. He didn't understand what was happening. But I did.

”Fine.” I grabbed my winter coat, nodding toward the back bathroom. ”Okay if I take a p.i.s.s first?”

”Knock yourself out.”

While Charlie and Turley made small talk about ice fis.h.i.+ng and elk, I walked into the kitchen, plucking a plastic apple from the fake fruit bowl. I stuffed the evidence inside my coat, double-checking that the blade was still there. I snuck out the side door.

At the back of the house, I pulled the steak knife from my pocket and slit the telephone wire. Then I crept toward Turley's squad car, cracked the driver's side door, and sliced the CB cable, too. Good luck getting a cell signal. I plunged the knife headlong into his tire.

I was turning over Charlie's engine as Turley, the fat f.u.c.k, lumbered down the steps, shouting after me.

Speeding out of the foothills, I made for the lowlands. The papers were going to love this one. Another one of the Porter boys embroiled with the law. But I'd fallen for the masquerading cop bit before. Fool me once, not this time. I had to find that reporter Bowman told me about. One objective: Get Jim Case the evidence. After that, I didn't care what happened to me. Without Jenny and my son, nothing mattered.

Nicki still refused to pick up. I kept driving, hitting the Turnpike south, checking my phone every six seconds like a girl waiting on her prom date. The dark winter skies churned, tractor-trailers zipping by, gas stations glowing with the promise of free coffee with every fill-up. I watched the rearview, antic.i.p.ating the fleet of squad cars that never materialized. I wished I had the complete package to give to the reporter, but waiting wasn't a luxury I had. I decided to forgo getting it right for getting it right now.

I needed to give Nicki time to call me back. The farther from Ashton I got, the better I felt about my decision.

One eye on the road, the other on my cell trying to follow the squiggly GPS instructions, I chain-smoked, jittery, shaky, break-of-day surreal, ears ringing, pulsating, pounding with blood flow, an old Subaru's rumbling gut underfoot.

Pittsfield wasn't far, a few counties south. At this hour, with little traffic, I knew if I got there fast enough I could catch Jim Case before he left for work, which beat all h.e.l.l out of having to trek down to Concord and trying to talk my way onto a newsroom floor.

Seemed like only minutes ticked by before I was parked outside the turquoise house on the subdivision's street, wondering if it could really be this easy. I checked the mirror, licked my palm to smooth the tangled mop atop my head. My hair looked like I'd shampooed it in a deep fryer, and with the sprouting beard I resembled a crackhead. Unshaven, gaunt, black circles under my eyes, unrecognizable even to myself. I grabbed my papers and rang the bell. The world kept going faster and faster, spinning like a bottle top I couldn't make stop.

A man answered the door. Gla.s.ses, limp hair swept to the side, already dressed and prepared to conquer the day, he held a novelty coffee mug, which read: Never Bury the Lead. I thought I recognized his face from his Facebook picture. I also knew from social media that he wasn't much older than me. Somehow he seemed a lot older. I had to be sure.

”Are you Jim Case? Reporter for the Monitor?”

He didn't respond, but his eyes told me I had the right man.

I presented my wadded-up paper bag.

Case peered past the weirdo on his porch. No one else on the street, everything serene, another pleasant valley suburban morning. How did I expect him to respond?

”That's everything you need on the Lombardis and Roberts,” I said. ”Well, almost everything.” I thrust the bag forward, my offering.

He didn't take my bag.

”You're Jim Case, right?”

Maybe I had the wrong guy. Maybe he didn't care. I was operating on a few newspaper bylines, a couple thumbnail pics, what Bowman had told me, which for all I knew was spoon-fed bulls.h.i.+t, and very little sleep. If I was wrong, the slammed door would come next.

Instead Case stepped aside, opening his home to let me inside.

Had I been thinking right, I would've asked the right questions, like why he was letting a man as disheveled as me into his home, why he hadn't asked my name yet. Only I wasn't thinking right. I was as far from right as you get. I stood inside the vestibule, on the mud mat, brain all jumbled, doing nothing to help my own cause. Jim Case carefully pried the bag from my clutches. At the breakfast nook, he removed my photocopies and charts, stacking them on the counter beneath a cupboard, going through them, one by one, not unlike Bowman, glancing over at me every few turns.

”Where did you get this?” he asked. It was the first time he'd spoken.

”Friends of mine. Copies from the courthouse. Internet research. Some parents I spoke to. Judge Roberts is selling kids to the North River Inst.i.tute.”

”What'd you say your name was?”

”Jay. Jay Porter.”