Текст книги "The Simple Truth"
Автор книги: David Baldacci
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
John, thank God youre okay.
Fiske was furious that the man had gotten away. He stomped around in tight circles. Dammit! Shit!
What the hell was that all about?
Fiske calmed down. Bad guys one, good guys zip.
Sara put an arm around his waist and walked him over to the car. She eased him into it. Then she climbed in the drivers side and they started off. You need to see a doctor.
No! Its just a stinger. Did you see the guy?
Sara shook her head. Not really. He came out so fast, I thought it was you.
My size? Distinguishing clothing? White, black?
Sara thought hard for a moment, trying to visualize what she had seen. I dont know about his age. He was close to your size. He had on dark clothing and a mask, I think. She sighed. It happened so fast. Where was he?
In the pantry. I didnt hear him on my first pass through, but I heard the floor squeak on my way back out. He rubbed his shoulder. And now comes the hard part. He picked up her cell phone and pulled a business card from his wallet. Telling Chandler what just happened.
Fiske paged Chandler and the detective called back a few minutes later. When Fiske told him what he had done, he had to hold the phone away from his ear.
Slightly upset? Sara asked.
Yeah, like Mount Saint Helensslightlyerupted. Fiske brought the receiver back to his ear. Look, Buford
What the hell were you thinking, doing something that stupid? yelled Chandler. You were a cop.
Thats how I was thinking. Like I was still a cop.
Well, youre not a damn cop anymore.
Do you want the description of the guy or not?
Im not finished with you yet.
I know, but theres plenty of me to go around.
Give me the damn description, Chandler said. After Fiske finished, Chandler said, Ill get a squad car over there right now to secure it, and Ill request a tech team ASAP to go over the place.
My brothers briefcase wasnt at his apartment. Was it in his car?
No, I told you we found no personal items.
Fiske looked at Sara. Is the briefcase in his office? I dont remember seeing it. Or his laptop computer.
She shook her head. I dont remember seeing the briefcase. And he usually didnt bring his laptop to work, since we all have desktops.
Fiske spoke back into the phone. Looks like his briefcase is missing. And so is his computer; I found the power cord to it.
Did the guy maybe have either of the items on him?
He was empty-handed. I know. He clocked me good with one of those empty hands.
Okay, so we got a missing briefcase, missing laptop and a dumb-as-shit ex-police officer who Ive got half a mind to arrest right this instant.
Come on, you guys already towed my car.
Put Ms. Evans on the line.
Why?
Just do it.
Fiske handed the phone over to a perplexed Sara.
Yes, Detective Chandler? she said, nervously twirling a strand of her hair.
Ms. Evans, he began politely, I thought you were simply going to drive Mr. Fiske to his car and maybe get a little dinner, not engage in filming a James Bond movie.
But you see, his car was towed and
Chandlers tone quickly changed. I dont appreciate you two making my job even more difficult. Where are you?
About a mile from Michaels apartment.
And where are you headed?
To Richmond. To tell Johns father about Michael.
Okay, then you drive him to Richmond, Ms. Evans. Dont let him out of your sight. If he wants to play Sherlock Holmes again, you call me, and I will come directly over and shoot him myself. Do I make myself clear?
Yes, Detective Chandler. Absolutely.
And I expect to see both of you back in D.C. tomorrow. Is that also understood?
Yes, well be back.
Good, Tonto, now put the Lone Ranger back on.
Fiske took back the phone. Look, I know it was stupid, but I was only trying to help.
Do me a favor, dont try to help anymore unless Im with you. Okay?
Okay.
John, any number of things couldve happened tonight, most of them bad. Not only to you, but to Ms. Evans.
Fiske rubbed his shoulder and glanced over at the woman. I know, he said quietly.
Give my condolences to your father.
Fiske put down the phone.
Can we go to Richmond now? Sara asked.
Yes, we can go to Richmond now.
["C28"]CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In his friends pickup truck, Josh Harms drove along the deserted country road. The dense forest bracketing the narrow lanes gave him a certain comfort. Isolation, a buffer between himself and those who would hassle him, had been Joshs one constant goal in life. As a carpenter of considerable skill, he worked alone. When he was not working, he was either hunting or fishing, again alone. He did not desire the conversation of others, and he very rarely offered any of his own. All of that had changed now. The responsibility he had just acquired had not yet fully sunk in, but he knew it was considerable. And he also knew his decision had been the right one. The truck had a camper and his brother was back there supposedly resting, although Josh had doubts as to whether the man could really be sleeping. The back of the camper was also filled with a months worth of food and bottled water, two deer rifles and a semiautomatic pistol in addition to the one he had tucked in his belt. That arsenal was insignificant compared to what would soon be coming after them, but he had faced long odds before and survived. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke cleanly out the window. They were already two hundred miles from Roanoke and he was putting as much distance between it and them as he could. The escape would have been discovered by now, he knew. The roadblocks would be set up, but not out this far, he figured. They had gotten a head start, but that gap would quickly close. The boys in green had a big advantage in manpower and equipment. But Josh had fished and hunted around the area for the last twenty years. He knew all the abandoned cabins, all the hidden valleys, the smallest opening in otherwise solid forest. His survival skills had been honed as much from scraping for an existence in America as from dodging death halfway around the world in Vietnam. Even with his outright distrust of all authority, he didnt break the law lightly. He had never figured his little brother for some crazed killer. Rufus never should have joined the Army, wasnt cut out for it. Ironically, Josh had been the decorated war hero, and he had been drafted. His brother had volunteered and had spent his career in the stockade. Josh hadnt been too thrilled about taking up a rifle for a country that had largely failed him and anyone his color. But once in the service he had fought with great distinction. He had done it for himself and the men in his company, and for no other reason. He had no other motivation to fight and kill men with whom he had no personal quarrel. Josh slowed the truck and turned down a dirt road that led deeper into the woods. Rufus had filled him in on some of the details of what had happened twenty-five years ago, what those men had done to him. Josh felt his face grow hot as he now recalled an incident he had kept buried. It was principally what drove the anger, the hatred in him. What their little town in Alabama had done to the Harms family after the news of Rufuss crime. He had tried to protect his mother then, but had failed. Let me meet up with the men who did this to my brother.You hear that one, God? You listening? His plan was to hide out for a while and then hit the road again when the pressure died down. Maybe try to get to Mexico and disappear. Josh wasnt leaving all that much behind. A disintegrated family, a carpentry business that was always on the wrong side of profitability despite his skill. He guessed Rufus was all the family he had left. And he was certainly all Rufus ever would have. They had been cut off from each other for a quarter century. Now, in middle age, they had a chance to be closer than brothers normally were at this time in their lives. If Josh and Rufus could survive. He tossed out the cigarette and kept on driving. In the back of the camper, Rufus was, indeed, not asleep. He lay on his back, a black tarp partially over him Joshs doing, the tarp designed to blend in with the dark truck bed liner under him. Stacked around him were boxes of food, secured by bungie cords also Joshs doing, a wall to prevent anyone from seeing in. He tried to stretch out a little, relax. The motion of the truck was unsettling. He had not been in a civilian automobile since Richard Nixon had been president. Could that really be? How many presidents ago was that? The Army had always transported him between prisons via helicopters, apparently unwilling to let him get this close to the road, to freedom. When you escape from a chopper, there wasnt much place to go except down. Rufus tried to peek between cardboard, out at the passing night. Too dark now. Freedom. He often wondered what it would feel like. He still did not know. He was too scared. People, lots of them, looking for him. Wanting to kill him. And now his brother. His fingers gripped the unfamiliar texture of the hospital Bible. The one his mother had given him was back in the cell. He had kept it beside him all these years, turned again and again to the scriptures as sustenance against all that was his existence. He felt empty of brain and heart without it. Too late now. He felt his heart start to accelerate. He figured that was bad too much strain on it. From memory he recited comforting words from the Bibles bounty. How many nights had he mumbled the Proverbs, all thirty-one chapters, the one hundred and fifty Psalms, each one telling and forceful, each one with particular meaning, insight into elements of his existence. When he finished his readings, he half rose and slid open the window of the camper. From this angle he could see his brothers face in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
I thought you were sleeping, Josh said.
Cant.
Hows your heart feel?
My heart aint troubling me none. If I die, it aint gonna be because of my heart.
Not unless its a bullet ripping through it.
Where we headed?
A little place in the middle of nowhere. I figure we stay there a bit, let things die down, and then we head out again when its dark. They probably think were shooting south, going for the Mexican border, so were going north to Pennsylvania, at least for now.
Sounds good.
Hey, you said Rayfield and that other sonofabitch
Tremaine. Old Vic.
Yeah, you said theyve been watching over you all this time. After all those years went by, how come they were still hanging in there? Didnt they figure if you remembered what happened you wouldve said something before now? Like maybe at your trial?
Been thinking about that. They maybe thought I couldnt remember nothing then, but maybe I might one day. Not that I could prove nothing, but just me saying stuff might get them in trouble or at least get people looking around. Easiest thing was to kill me. Believe me, they tried that, but it didnt work. Maybe they thought I was messing with em, playing dumb and hoping theyd give up the guard, and then I start talking. With them at the prison, they pretty much had me under their thumb. Read my mail, checked out people coming to see me. Anything look funny, then they just take me out. Probably felt better about doing it like that. After so many years, though, they got a little lazy, I guess. Let Samuel and that fellow from the Court come see me.
I figured that. But I still got that letter from the Army in to you. I didnt know all this shit was going on, but I didnt want them having a look-see at it either.
The two stayed quiet for a while. Josh was naturally reserved and Rufus wasnt used to having anyone to talk to. The silence was both liberating and oppressive to him. He had a lot he wanted to say. During Joshs thirty-minute visits at the prison each month, he would talk and his brother would mostly listen, as though he sensed the accumulation of words, of thoughts in Rufuss head.
I dont think I ever asked you: You been back home?
Josh shifted in his seat. Home? What home?
Rufus started slightly. Where we was born, Josh!
Why the hell would I want to go back to that place?
Mommas grave is there, aint it? Rufus said quietly. Josh considered this for a moment and then nodded. Yeah, its there, all right. She owned the dirt, she had the burial insurance. They couldntnotbury her there, although they sure as hell tried.
Is it a nice grave? Whos keeping it up?
Look, Rufus, Mommas dead, okay? Long time now. Aint no way in hell shes knowing nothing about how her grave looks. And I aint going all the way down to damn Alabama to brush some leaves off the damn ground, not after what happened down there. Not after what that town done to the Harms family. I hope they all burn in hell for it, every last damn one of em. If there is a God, and I got me some big-ass doubts on that, then thats what the Big Man should do. If you want to worry about the dead, you go right ahead. Im gonna stick to what counts: keeping you and me alive.
Rufus continued to watch his brother. There is a God, he wanted to tell him. That same God had kept Rufus going all these years when he had wanted to just curl up and sink into oblivion. And one should respect the dead and their final resting place. If he lived through this, Rufus would go see to his mothers grave. They would meet up again. For all eternity.
I talk to God every day.
Josh grunted. Thats real good. Im glad Hes keeping company with somebody.
They fell silent until Josh said, Hey, what was the name of that fella come visit you?
Samuel Rider?
No, no, the young fella.
Harms thought for a moment. Michael somebody.
From the Supreme Court, you said? Rufus nodded. Well, they killed him. MichaelFiske.Anyway, I guess they killed him. Saw it on the TV right before I came to get you.
Rufus looked down. Damn. I figured that would happen.
Stupid thing he did, coming to the prison like that.
He was just trying to help me. Damn, Rufus said again, and then fell silent as the truck rolled on. ["C29"]CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
With Fiske directing her, Sara drove to his fathers neighborhood on the outskirts of Richmond and pulled into the gravel driveway. The grass was brown in spots after another heat– and humidity-filled Richmond summer, but fronting the house there were carefully tended flower beds that had benefited from consistent watering.
You grew up in this house?
Only house my parents have ever owned. Fiske looked around, shaking his head. I dont see his car.
Maybe its in the garage.
Theres no room. He was a mechanic for forty years, and accumulated a lot of junk. He parks in the driveway. He looked at his watch. Where the hell is he? He got out of the car. Sara did as well. He looked at her over the roof of the car. You can stay here if you want.
Ill come in with you, she said quickly. Fiske unlocked the front door and they went in. He turned on a light, and they moved through the small living room and into the adjacent dining room, where Sara stared at a collection of photos on the dining room table. There was one of Fiske in his football uniform; a little blood on the face, grass stains on the knees, sweaty. Very sexy. She caught herself and looked away, suddenly feeling guilty. She looked at some of the other pictures. You two played a lot of sports.
Mike was the natural athlete of the family. Every record I set, he broke. Easily.
Quite the jock family.
He was also valedictorian of his class, a GPA on the north side of four-point-oh, and a near-perfect score on the SATs and LSATs.
You sound like the proud big brother.
A lot of people were proud of him, Fiske said.
And you?
He looked at her steadily. I was proud of him for some things, and not proud of him for others. Okay?
Sara picked up a photo. Your parents?
Fiske stood beside her. Their thirtieth anniversary. Before Mom got sick.
They look happy.
They were happy, he said quickly. He was growing very uncomfortable with her seeing these items from his past. Wait here. Fiske went to the back room, which had once been the brothers shared bedroom and now had been turned into a small den. He checked the answering machine. His father had not listened to his messages. He was about to leave the room when he saw the baseball glove on the shelf. He picked it up. It was his brothers, the pocket ribbing torn, but the leather well oiled by his father, obviously. Mike was a lefty, but the family had no money to buy a special glove for him, so Mike had learned to field the ball, pull off his glove and throw. He had gotten so good that he could do it all faster than a righty could. Fiske recalled that blur of efficiency, no obstacle his brother couldnt overcome. He put the glove down and rejoined Sara.
He hasnt listened to my phone messages.
Any idea where he couldve gone?
Fiske thought a moment and then snapped his fingers. Pop usually tells Ms. German.
While he was gone, Sara looked around the room some more. She eyed a small framed letter, set on a wooden pedestal. Wrapped around it was a medal. She picked up the frame and read the letter. The medal was for valor, awarded to Patrolman John Fiske, and the letter commemorated the event. She looked at the date it had been given. Quickly calculating, she concluded that the award would have been given at about the time Fiske had left the force. She still didnt know why he had, and Michael never would say. When she heard the back door open, she quickly put the letter and medal down. Fiske entered the room. Hes at the trailer.
What trailer?
Down by the river. He goes there to fish. Go boating.
Can you call the trailer?
Fiske shook his head. No phone.
Okay, so we drive. Where is it?
Youve gone way beyond the call of duty already.
I dont mind, John.
Its about another hour and a half from here.
The nights sort of shot anyway.
You mind if I drive? Its off the beaten path.
She tossed him the keys. I thought youd never ask.
["C30"]CHAPTER THIRTY
Let me get this right: On top of everything else thats happened, you let him escape.
First of all, I didntlethim do anything. I thought the guy had just had a friggin heart attack. He was chained to the damn bed. He had an armed guard outside his door, and nobody was supposed to know he was even there, Rayfield snapped back into the telephone. I still dont know how his brother found out.
And his brothers some kind of war hero, I understand. Superbly trained in all forms of eluding capture. Thats just great.
It is for our purposes.
Why dont you explain that one to me, Frank?
Ive ordered my men to shoot to kill. Theyll put a bullet into both of them as soon as they get a chance.
What if he tells somebody first?
Tells them what? That he got a letter from the Army that says something he has no way to prove? Now weve got a dead Supreme Court clerk on our hands. That just makes our job a lot tougher.
Well, we were supposed to have a dead country lawyer too, but, funny, I havent read his obituary anywhere.
Rider went out of town.
Oh, good, well just wait until he gets back from vacation and hope hes not in discussions with the FBI.
I dont know where he is, Rayfield said angrily.
The Army has an intelligence component, Frank. What do you say you try to use some of it? Take care of Rider and then concentrate on finding Harms and his brother. And when you do, you put them six feet under. I hope thats clear enough for you. The phone went dead. Rayfield slammed the receiver down and stared up at Vic Tremaine.
This is going to hell in a handbasket.
Tremaine shrugged his shoulders. We take Rider out and then those two black SOBs, were home free, he said in a gravelly voice that seemed perfectly calibrated to command men to fight.
I dont like it. Were not in a war here.
We are at war, Frank.
The killing never did bother you, did it, Vic?
All I care about is the success of my mission.
Do you mean to tell me that right before you pulled the trigger on Fiske you didnt feel anything?
Mission accomplished. Tremaine put his palms down on Rayfields desk and leaned forward. Frank, weve been through a lot together, combat and otherwise. But let me tell you something. Ive spent thirty years in the Army, the last twenty-five in various military prisons just like this one when I couldve gotten a civilian job that paid a lot more. We all made a pact that was supposed to protect us from a stupid thing we did a long time ago. Ive kept my end of the bargain. Ive baby-sat Rufus Harms while the others went on with their lives.
Now, in addition to my military pension, Ive got over one million bucks sitting in an offshore account. In case youve forgotten, youve got the same little nest egg. Thats our comp for all these years of doing this crap. And after all the shit Ive been through, no one and nothing is going to keep me from enjoying that money. The best thing Rufus Harms ever did for me is escape. Because now Ive got a bulletproof reason to blow his sorry ass away and nobodyll ask any questions. And as soon as that sonofabitch has breathed his last, this uniform Im wearing goes into mothballs. For good.
Tremaine straightened up. And, Frank, I will destroy anyone who even remotely tries to mess that up. His eyes became black dots as he said the next word. Anyone.
["C31"]CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On the drive to the trailer, Fiske stopped at an all-night convenience store. Sara waited in the car. A rusty Esso sign clanked back and forth from the force of a semi sailing past and made her jump. When Fiske got back in the car, Sara stared at the two six-packs of Budweiser. You intend to drink your sorrows away?
He ignored the question. Once we get down there, theres really no way for you to get back by yourself. Its really in the middle of nowhere; sometimesIget lost.
Im prepared to sleep in the car.
About thirty minutes later, Fiske slowed the car, turned into a narrow gravel drive and drove up to a small, darkened cottage. Youre supposed to check in here and pay the guest fee before going into the grounds, he explained. Ill do it before we leave tomorrow.
He pulled the car past the cottage and into the middle of the campground. Sara looked at the trailers, which were laid out in a street grid style. Most of them were brilliantly outlined with Christmas lights and had flagpoles either attached to the trailer or porch, or sunk into concrete. With the strings of lights and the moonlight, the area was surprisingly well illuminated. They passed late-blooming flower beds of impatiens, and red and pink mums. Clumpy vines of clematis gripped the sides of some homes. Everywhere Sara looked were outdoor sculptures of metal, marble and resin. There were a number of cinder-block grills and a large smoke pit; the commingled smells of cooked meat and charcoal lingered tantalizingly in the hot, humid air.
This place is like a little gingerbread town built by gnomes, Sara said. She eyed the numerous flagpoles and added, Patriotic gnomes.
A lot of the people are from the American Legion and VFW crowd. My dad has one of the tallest flagpoles. He was in the Navy in World War II. The all-year Christmas lights became sort of a tradition a long while back.
Did you and Michael spend much time here?
My dad only got a weeks vacation, but Mom would bring us down for a couple weeks at a time during the summer. Some of the old guys taught us to sail, swim and fish. Things Pop never had time to do. Hes made up for it since he retired.
He stopped the car in front of one trailer. It had bright Christmas lights and was painted a soothing, muted blue. His fathers Buick, with a SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE bumper sticker, was parked next to the trailer. Fronting the trailer was a bed of bulky plantation hostas. Next to the Buick was a golf cart. The flagpole in front of the trailer went a good thirty feet into the air. Fiske eyed the Buick. At least hes here. Well, this is it, John, no more reprieves, he thought.
Is there a golf course nearby?
Fiske glanced at her. No, why?
So whats with the golf cart?
The owners of the trailer park buy them secondhand from golf courses. The roads are pretty narrow here and, while you can drive your car to your trailer, you cant drive it around the grounds. And the people down here are elderly, for the most part. They use the golf carts to get around.
Fiske got out of the car with the two six-packs. Sara didnt move to join him. He looked at her questioningly.
I thought you might want to talk to your dad alone.
After everything weve been through tonight, I think youve earned the right to see it through. Ill understand if you dont want to. He looked over at the trailer and felt his nerves slowly disintegrate. He turned back to her. I could sort of use the company.
She nodded. Okay, give me a minute.
She flipped down the visor mirror and checked her face and hair. She grimaced and reached for her purse, doing the best she could with lipstick and a small hairbrush. She was sweaty and sticky too, her dress clingy, her hair beyond salvation thanks to the rain and humidity. As trivial as worrying about her appearance seemed under the circumstances, she felt like such a fifth wheel that it was the only thing she could think to address. With a sigh, she flipped the visor back up, opened the door and got out. As they headed up the wooden porch, she smoothed down her dress and fiddled some more with her hair. Fiske noted this and said, Hes not going to care how you look. Not after I tell him.
She sighed. I know. I guess I just didnt want to look like too much of a disaster.
Fiske took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again. Pop. He waited a moment and knocked again, louder this time. Pop, he called out, and kept knocking. They finally heard movement in the trailer and then a light came on. The door opened and Fiskes father, Ed, peered out. Sara looked at him closely. He was as tall as his son, and very lean, although he had vestiges of the powerful musculature shared by both his boys. His forearms were enormous, like thick pieces of sun-baked wood. Sara was able to observe this because he had on a tank-top shirt. He was deeply tanned, his face lined and starting to sag, but she could see he had been handsome as a younger man. His hair was thinning and curly and almost totally gray except for small flecks of black at the temples. She fixed for a moment on his long sideburns, a holdover from the seventies, she guessed. He had on a pair of pants halfway zipped up, the clasp unbuttoned so that his striped boxers were clearly in sight. He was barefoot.
Johnny? What the hell you doing here? A broad smile cracked his face. When he registered Sara, he looked startled and quickly turned so his back was to them. They watched him fumble with his pants until they were right. Then he turned back to face them.
Pop, I need to talk to you.
Ed Fiske glanced over at Sara again.
Im sorry Sara Evans, Ed Fiske, John said.
Hello, Mr. Fiske, she said, trying to sound both pleasant and neutral at the same time. She awkwardly held out her hand. He shook it. Call me Ed, Sara, pleased to meet you. He looked back at his son curiously. So whats up? You two getting married or something?
Fiske glanced at Sara. No! She worked with Mike at the Supreme Court.
Oh, well, hell, where are my manners, come on in. I got the air going, sticky as the damn devil out there.
They went inside. Ed pointed to a worn sofa and Fiske and Sara sat down there. Ed pulled a metal chair from the small dinette and sat down opposite them.
Sorry I took so long. Just nodded off to sleep.
Sara looked around the small space. It was paneled with thin plywood stained dark. Several stuffed fish were mounted on plaques and hung on the wall. Slung across a rack on another wall was a shotgun. In the corner she saw a long, round container with one end of a rod and reel poking out. A folded newspaper was lying on the dinette table. Next to that was a small kitchen area with a sink and a little refrigerator. There was a worn-out recliner in one corner, a small TV across from it. There was one window. Mounted on the ceiling was an air conditioner that was making the room deliciously cool. She actually shivered as she adjusted to the temperature. The floor was cheap, uneven linoleum with a thin rug covering a portion of it. Sara sniffed and then coughed. She could almost see the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. As if in response to her thoughts, Ed pulled a pack of Marlboros from a knicked-up side table and deftly popped a cigarette in his mouth, taking a moment to light up, then blew the smoke to the nicotine-coated ceiling. He grabbed a small ashtray off the same table and tapped his cigarette in it. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. She noted that his fingers were abnormally thick, the nails cracked, and blackened in spots from what looked like grease. He had been a mechanic, she recalled.
So what brings you two down here so late?
Fiske handed his father a six-pack. Not good news.
The elder Fiske tensed, and he squinted at them through the smoke. Its not your mom. I just saw her, shes okay. As soon as he said this, he shot a glance at Sara. The look on his face was clear: She worked with Mike. He looked back at John. Why dont you tell me whatever the hell it is you need to tell me, son.
Mikes dead, Pop. As he finished saying it, it was as though he were hearing the news for the first time. He could feel his face grow hot as though he had leaned too close to a fire. Perhaps he had waited to see his father, to join his grief with his. He could believe that, couldnt he? Fiske could sense Sara looking at him, but he kept his gaze on his father. As he watched the devastation wash over the man, Fiske suddenly found he could barely breathe. Ed took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped the ashtray, his fingers shaking. How?
Robbery. At least they think so. Fiske paused and then added the obvious, since he knew his father was going to ask anyway. Somebody shot him.
Ed tore off one of the Buds from the plastic holder and popped the tab. He drank it down almost in one swallow, his Adams apple moving up and down. Ed crushed the beer can against his leg and threw it against the wall. He stood up and went over to the small window and looked out, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, his big hands closing and opening, the veins in his forearms swelling and then diminishing.
