I suspected he basically looked at me like some guitar-playing pussy. I’d never gotten any warm vibes from him.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t deal with this shit myself, so I dialed Karl’s number.

After three rings I heard him pick up, some kind of rattle, a cough and a moan, Karl’s jock voice asking, “What the hell time is it?”

“It’s Toby, Karl. I need you to get down to the station. There’s been … trouble.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“Just get down here, okay? I can’t handle this, and I don’t want to explain it all on the phone.”

“Where’s Krueger?”

“I can’t find the chief. That’s why I’m calling you.”

A big sigh on his end, lips smacking. “Okay just … let me get dressed. Just stay there, right?”

“Okay.”

“Shit.” He hung up.

I wasn’t sure if I felt better or not, but at least it was out of my hands. Karl’s problem now. I wondered if he’d arrest me, what the procedure was. Then it occurred to me Karl and Billy were pretty tight pals. Maybe Karl wouldn’t arrest me at all.

Maybe he’d pull his gun and blow my brains out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I put my feet up on the desk, sat back and lit another Winston. I was going through the pack pretty fast. I wasn’t really supposed to smoke inside the station, but if you kill a guy you get some slack. I was pretty sure that was a rule.

I exhaled, watched the smoke twist and drift, and replayed the conversation between Billy and the Mexican back at the firehouse. There was something I was supposed to pay attention to, something important, but I couldn’t get it straight in my head.

I patted my pockets. Three sets of keys. Mine, Roy’s and Luke Jordan’s.

Keys.

I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang, three times, four, five. Come on, come on come on…

Billy’s words came back to me all to clear. Go find the boy again and get the right keys this time.

Eight rings, nine, ten. Answer the damn phone, Doris!

I slammed the phone down. This time I didn’t rush off. I took the box of .38 ammunition, loaded my revolver, stuck the rest of the box in my pants pocket. I was out the front door in a flash, getting into the Nova and cranking the engine. I gunned it, squealed my tires making a U-turn on Main and hauled ass west of town, the gas pedal stomped flat.

It was all too easy to imagine. Her on the floor dead while they sacked the place looking for the keys. Or maybe they’d do worse than kill her. Who could say? Anything. And the boy. I edged forward in my seat, strained against the safety belt, willing the Nova to go faster. The engine screamed so loud I thought it would explode any minute.

I slowed as I approached the trailer park entrance and killed the lights. I parked half a block away then headed for my trailer with my revolver out. No lights in the windows. I tried to make my heartbeat slow, and I told myself a little story about how Doris probably just went back to bed and was too lazy to answer the phone. I scanned the driveway and both sides of the trailer but didn’t see the Mustang or any other cars.

I didn’t see Doris’s car either.

When my boot hit the middle step up to the door, the creak was so loud it made me wince. I held my breath, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the knob. Locked. I stuck the key in and turned slowly. I swung the door open quietly an inch at a time, stepped in, closed the door easy behind me without a loud click.

The revolver felt sweaty and heavy in my hand. I wanted to be ready, but I didn’t want to blast Doris by mistake. I stood a long time listening. It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only ten seconds. My mouth felt dry and cottony.

A flickering white light from the living room, dim and twitchy, jagged shadows on the wall and ceiling. I eased down the hall, gun in front of me, rounded the corner and saw the television turned onto a station of white noise. There was a rectangle in the middle of the TV screen, and when I took two steps closer, I saw it was a piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to the screen.

I peeled it off and flipped on the nearest lamp.

It was a note. From Doris.

Toby,

I can’t do this anymore. I do not love you, and I don’t think I ever did, although I wish I did because you’re a good father and a good person. But this just isn’t me. I have to get out. If you won’t come, then I’ll go it alone. I’ll send money for the boy once I’m set up in Houston. Don’t hate me. It’s no use, so please just don’t hate me. I knew you’d be home soon, so I left the boy sleeping—

I knocked over the lamp and end table when I jumped up and ran for my son’s room. I burst through the door, stood panting over his crib.

He lay sleeping, the covers completely kicked off. Fresh diaper, Bob the Builder t-shirt halfway up his chest, showing off his perfect round belly. His mouth hung open, his bottom lip looking like pink porcelain. A faint blush on his cheeks.

I set my revolver on his dresser and scooped him up, didn’t care if I woke him. I needed to feel his weight against my chest, touch the thin hair on his head. He didn’t wake, just made a little toddler noise and wormed his head into my armpit. I backed into the rocking chair, shifted until he was comfortable in my arms. One of his pudgy hands rested on my chest. He felt so warm and solid.

I felt that ache behind my eyes I always get when I’m about to cry. I held it back. No time. Not now. Some kind of relief. An emotional release. But not now. I let it turn to anger.

All I could think was Bitch. Goddamn bitch. How could she run off and leave him like that? Our son. My boy. Anything could have happened. When he was eight months old, I came home from a shift, walked past Doris watching Montel on the couch and found the boy in the kitchen. He sat in the playpen, face going blue. I grabbed him, panicked, flipped him upside down and slapped his back until the grape popped out. They say grapes and chunks of hotdog are the two biggest culprits for toddler choking. They’ll stick anything into their mouths. I remember my mom pulling a dry bean out of my nostril once.

Doris had felt so bad, I hadn’t yelled at her about it. But now all I could think was Just figures. Goddamn bitch. Fucking stupid bitch! And I almost cried again.

It occurred to me a second later that she hadn’t just abandoned the boy. She’d left me too. Her letter was a crumpled ball in my fist. I smoothed it out, let my eyes adjust to the dim glow of the boy’s nightlight, and picked up where I left off.

I knew you’d be home soon, so I left the boy sleeping in his room. He was wet, so I changed him. There is enough diapers and milk until the weekend, but then you’ll need to get to the store. I don’t know how to make you understand that I can’t stay here anymore. I thought there was a reason to but there is not and if I don’t go, I’ll go crazy. The Indian woman’s name is Alice. I know you always forget. She can watch TJ sometimes. I will send some money to help when I get a job in Houston, but I’m not coming back. I just read what I wrote and I guess I haven’t explained a damn thing. All I can say is that the more I’d say the less happy you’d be, so there it is.

Doris

Fuck you, Doris.

I hugged the boy closer to my chest, rocked gently. Now what? Just what the hell was I going to do now? I’d have to talk to the Indian woman. Alice. And I’d have to go soon—tomorrow—to the fertilizer plant. I’d need to earn enough to feed us and keep the lights on and pay Alice when I was working.

Maybe I should have given in to Doris. Gone to Houston. That line of thought pissed me off again. I realized I was rocking too fast, made myself slow down. When TJ was an infant, I’d rock too fast and make him spit up. I’d learned everything, how fast to rock him, how to change him, what he ate.