“You didn’t name anyone?”

“No, dude, no one. Don’t worry, you ain’t involved at all.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever.”

There was a long pause.

“Julian,” he said, “you’re a smart dude. I’m countin’ on ya here. What am I supposed to do?”

I thought quickly. “We need to get you a lawyer.”

“Alright. How do we do that?”

“Did they read you your rights?”

“My rights?”

“Yeah. Miranda rights. ‘You have the right to remain silent.’ That shit.”

“Yeah, they did that.”

“When?”

“Right when they cuffed me. Outside the car.”

“Fuck.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, just…you need a lawyer. Alright, when this call is over, next thing you do, before they ask you any more questions, you tell them you want a lawyer. They you don’t say shit until one gets there, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Not a damn word.”

“Got it.”

“I’m gonna make some calls. You sit tight until you hear from me again. If they try to ask you questions, just keep telling them you want to talk to a lawyer.”

“Cool.”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

“Alright.”

36

It was early morning by the time I got a hold of Vince. The sun came through my blinds, and a thin layer of frost melted down my window. Outside I heard a crow call echo through the trees.

Initially I texted Suzanne to get Vince’s number. She didn’t respond, which was understandable; it was late, she was probably sleeping. I then called her, twice, to no answer as well. Eventually I worked up the courage and sent Adeline a text, not because I wanted to—at all—but because it was the only real option if I was to get in touch with him. Surprisingly, she did respond, and didn’t question why I needed to speak with him so urgently. She simply relayed his number. I tried him five times and nothing. Hours passed and I paced the room, trying every 15 minutes. A pot of coffee sat warming in the kitchen when the call came in.

“Hello Julian.” The voice was firm and clear.

“Vince,” I said, my hands shaking and my voice erratic. I’d been drinking coffee for hours. “Damon got in trouble.”

“Yes, I heard.”

I stopped pacing. “You did?”

“Yes. Busted for speeding, I believe.”

“Well, yeah…but…they arrested him. He’s in jail.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately these local police can be quite disagreeable.”

I waited for more of an explanation, and received none.

“Well…we have to get him out.”

Vince chuckled. “I appreciate your concern, Julian. And I imagine Damon does too. But not to worry; I have it taken care of.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve handled the situation.”

I looked around the room. “So Damon’s fine?”

“Of course. It was just a routine traffic stop, remember?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I have to run, Julian. Glad we could clear this up.” He hung up.

Taken care of. So Damon was out?

I spent the day calling Damon’s cell phone every thirty minutes and being sent straight to voicemail. If he was out, his phone was still off. This continued until 3 p.m., my self-imposed cutoff time, when I called the jail and asked about him. They told me they couldn’t give out inmate information over the phone. So I drove there.

Eagle County Jail. Another stupid decision. Showing my face and giving my name to the people who arrested Damon for committing the same crime I’d committed, with him, that night. Dumb. But I needed to do something. Bad decisions weren’t affecting me like they used to anymore. I had decided there wasn’t always a good decision and a bad decision, a right way and a wrong way. Sometimes there were only wrong ways, and you just had to pick one.

The drive took an hour and I walked right in. The jail was tiny, connected to the larger Eagle County Police Department. I wasn’t nervous, but I figured I was out of nerves. It was easy; there was a small, bland reception area through the front door, just like a normal office. The only difference was the receptionist; a young man in uniform stood behind the front desk, fit and straight-standing, short blonde hair neatly pushed to one side. He was fresh off the assembly line.

“Hi,” I said, approaching, “I need to ask for information on an…inmate.”

“Sure,” he said, bright smile and glowing cheeks. “What’s the name?”

“Damon Peters.”

He clicked around on a computer and frowned.

“Can you spell it?” he asked.

I did. He frowned again.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Not showing up in our system.”

“Ok. Well can you tell me when he was released?”

“No,” he said, looking up at me, “that means he’s never been here.”

I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Huh.”

“You sure you’re at the right jail?”

“Eagle County?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Maybe…maybe he was never formally arrested.”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t matter. Anyone comes through those doors, they go in the system. Long as they’re charged with something, I mean. Not people like you.”

“Right,” I said. “Is there anyone else I could talk to?”

“You could,” he said, “but it wouldn’t do you any good. They’re lookin’ at the same screen I am.”

I said nothing and processed the information.

“You want me to call the guys over at Summit County?” he asked. “Could’ve been just a simple mix up.”

“No,” I said, “thanks.” I knew I was at the right place. I left through the front door.

In the parking lot, I tried Damon’s cell phone again. Straight to voicemail. Expected. Something was off, again. I’d been right about the drugs, and I was right about this. I knew it. I didn’t trust a single damn person.

I zipped up my fleece and walked to my car. The parking lot was nearly empty; not a lot of action on a weekday afternoon at the Eagle County Police Department & Jail. The tree leaves shook in the gentle breeze, most already having turned striking reds and yellows, and many falling to the ground.

On my drive back through the canyon, I was reminded of the beauty of this place. Those autumn colors lined the highway underneath a deep blue sky, like some desktop wallpaper. There was a heart to the Rockies, a crisp earnestness, a far-off wonder. And now there was an infection in it, something that started small and innocuous but grew dangerous. Something I should have caught earlier, but I didn’t want to catch. And now I would have to treat it, because it was inside me. I had let it get out of hand, and now I had to be careful, and I had to treat it.

I was tired, physically and mentally. My mind was exhausted. I felt like a wet animal outside in the cold. I was out of worry, and out of fear. I didn’t give a shit. I called Vince, and the son of a bitch actually answered.

He sighed and greeted me. “Hello again.”

“Vince. Listen. Okay, just listen to me for a minute. Something is off. Something is fucked up. And I don’t know what’s going on, but it isn’t okay. It isn’t.”

“What’s wrong, Julian?”

“Damon,” I said, and then I told him what I knew. Told him about the jail and the database and everything, how it didn’t add up. He let me speak without interrupting, and when I was finished, he invited me to his home.

“We shouldn’t discuss this over the phone,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There are things I can tell you, Julian. I probably should tell you. And I probably should have in the first place. Come up this evening, and we’ll hash it out. I promise you, it will make sense then.”

I told him I’d be there in an hour.

A quick stop at my apartment and a change of clothes, and I was on the road again, gaining elevation. Before I walked out my front door, I surveyed my apartment. I looked at the half-filled duffel bag, still sticking out from under my bed. I considered taking it. Having a go-bag ready, just in case things went sideways. I was tired, but I was still alert. I shook my head, and grabbed the three-inch camping switchblade off the kitchen counter and stuffed it in my pocket. I knew it was silly, but it put me at ease, at least a little.