He sat there, fists clutching the crotch of his jeans, flexing and clutching his erect penis. That hardness wasn’t obvious, but the minister saw the hand motion. He tried not to look at those hands, but did anyway. Whatever was happening there was easier to see than looking at Owen’s face. At those eyes.
At that knowing little smile.
17
Mike Sweeney sat in his cruiser, staring out the window at the dead cow. The rain was so dense it nearly obscured the animal, but Mike could just make out its shape there in the tall grass. The sight of it bothered him more than it should. It felt ominous in some undefined way. Mike scowled through the windshield at it.
No one could ever accuse him of being overly cheerful. Not at the best of times. The police chief, Malcolm Crow, made a lot of jokes about Mike being an Olympic-level brooder.
“Mike can brood the ass off a thing,” Crow would say.
That was true enough. Life wasn’t a happy bunch of puppies to Mike. Life had started with an abusive and violent stepfather and then slid downward from there. Considering everything that had happened to him over the years, and what was going on inside of him, brooding seemed reasonable. Even imperative.
Looking at the dead cow was not what depressed him. It wasn’t even the cold rainwater that had wormed its way into his boxers and puddled in his shoes.
The story the Duncans had told bothered him.
The tattoo.
Corinne Duncan was so unwaveringly certain that her husband had, for some reason, gotten the ink removed.
The husband, Andrew, was equally sure that he never had a tattoo. Mike was good at reading people, and when that man insisted that his wife never had cancer, and he had certainly never gotten a pink ribbon tattoo … there was no lie in his voice. Or his eyes.
The scar, if it was a scar, looked old. Years old.
“What the hell?” he asked the dead cow.
The cow, being both dead and a cow, said nothing.
His windshield wipers slashed back and forth and the rain fell.
“What the hell,” Mike murmured again.
And again.
18
Patty bought a case of beer and lugged it home. She was tiny but a lot stronger than she looked. Even so, her muscles ached by the time she unlocked the door and staggered out of the storm.
The iPad was singing to her when she came in, though Patty didn’t remember turning it on before she left. Didn’t matter. It was good stuff, and with all those singers it meant that she didn’t have to drink alone. The beer was cold and the first sip was better than any kiss she’d ever had. Adele was singing “Set Fire to the Rain,” which always killed her.
Patty raised her bottle to the storm outside. “You can kiss my ass.”
And sang along with the brokenhearted lyrics.
As she lowered the bottle, Patty saw the tattoo on the back of her left hand. Where he’d touched her. The spot she had rubbed and rubbed and rubbed with her thumb until it was so red the image looked faded. The image—the tattoo—which she’d inked there herself years ago in a conspicuous spot so she could not get through a day, not an hour, without catching a glimpse.
Of her.
Of Tuyet.
Sometimes seeing the sweet little face made her smile.
Sometimes it drove a spike of ice into her heart.
Now…?
She raised the bottle and took a very long pull.
“Mommy loves you,” she said softly.
19
Nobody in Pine Deep knew his name.
He couldn’t really remember it, either. Doug, maybe. Dave? Don? He wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure about the last name. Could be Anderson or was that the last name of the last guy to give him a ride? Was he also the Dave or Doug or Don?
Yeah. Maybe. It was all a gray jumble.
Which meant the man on the Crestville Bridge wasn’t sure of either first or last name.
The car—was the driver Don Anderson?—had dropped him by the entrance to the bridge.
“You’re sure this is where you want to get out?” asked the driver. Don or Dave or maybe Denny. “I can take you into Doylestown. It’s no problem.”
The fellow had a kind face. Lots of lines and creases as if he’d been there and back. The nameless man thought it was the face of someone who might have understood. Only if there were some way to tell him, though. Some way to say it.
“I’m good here,” he said, opening the door.
The driver looked at him for a long three count. “You need a couple bucks? Get yourself a hot meal?”
“Really, I’m good.”
They looked at each other, and the man thought the driver might have understood what was happening. Like the guy could read the conversation. There was a lot of sadness in his eyes. He kept starting to say something, but didn’t have the words. That made sense to the nameless man. He couldn’t put it into words, either. Not now, and not the dozen times he’d tried to spill it out before. To other drivers. To that old black guy who ran the PTSD circle group who’d bought him a plate of eggs and sausage the other day. Like remembering his own name, there didn’t seem to be enough words left in his head to make sense of it.
So, he got out and stood in the autumn weeds and watched the car go over the bridge and out of sight. Curtains of rain closed over it and the car was gone as if it never really existed. Like so many things.
Like all the memories.
God, the memories.
He walked out onto the bridge. Not too far. Not over the water.
He stepped over the rail and ducked under the supports. The storm was breathing on him. Whispering in a language he had never understood before now.
The nameless man turned and leaned his forehead against the cold metal, feeling the sharp edges where thick paint had peeled back.
“Please,” he murmured. Not to the storm. No. The storm was not his friend.
Please.
All he wanted, all he was, all he had ever been was knotted up in that single word.
Please.
If he could only have one memory back, that would be an anchor that held him to the world. Any memory of something that mattered, something that defined him. Even a small thing.
Anything.
All that was left was the sure and certain knowledge that those memories were gone. Not merely gone … that they had been stolen. He knew that for sure. The truth of it seemed to leer at him from the shadows of his mind. He could see it. A pallid face with empty eyes and a laugh that sounded like the buzzing of insect wings. Polluted and awful.
Stolen.
Gone forever.
Please.
The rain drilled holes in him. The wind laughed at him. The storm drew back its fist. The man cringed, cowered, nearly hugged the strut. Please. Just one memory that mattered.
The wind and the storm and the day and the coming night spoke a single word in response to his.
No.
Tears boiled out, cold on his cheeks because he could no longer stoke the fires of anger, of fury, of outrage. Of loss. When he leaned into his head and looked down into the bottom of the box where everything he ever was and had ever done was stored, there wasn’t even hope left. There was nothing.
“Please,” he said again, meaning something else now as he leaned back.
And back.
Until gravity took him in her arms.
The rocks below were a kindness.