driveway.
Whatever you’ve done, Billy Boy, you’ve screwed us both.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she drove. She missed the turnoff that would take her home, realized she was headed toward CR-23. She remembered what the woman had said.
You may not be now. But you will be.
Heading south on 23, she topped the rise, saw the cross in the distance. Thought of what she should have said to her.
Why can’t you just leave us alone? Why did you have to come down here and start all this? That boy’s dead, he’s never coming back, no matter what you do or who you hurt.
When the cross loomed ahead, she braked hard, steered onto the shoulder. She got out of the Blazer, left the door open. The air reeked of burnt cane and, under it, the sulfur stench of swamp.
The plastic vase was overturned, the flowers gone, the photo sun-faded. The teddy bear tilted loosely, a single strand of wire holding it to the cross, its fur soiled by dust and rain.
She kicked at the cross, missed, lost her balance, almostfell. Then she reached down, pulled it from the ground.
Just leave us alone.
She twisted, threw it. The cross sailed awkwardly through the air, landed in the wet grass, the bear a few feet away, face down. Where Willis’s body had been.
She almost started down the slope to pick them up, throw them deeper into the swamp, out of sight forever. Caught herself, walked back to the Blazer.
She started the engine, U-turned off the shoulder, spraying gravel. A half mile later, she braked, pulled to the side of the empty road, and began to cry.
ELEVEN
The Indian woman behind the counter didn’t greet him, watched him as he made his way down the aisles. Basic foods, brands he’d never heard of, cans with faded labels. Stretches of dusty shelf with no product at all. Morgan remembered the A&P on West Market Street when he was a boy. A city block long, it had seemed. Endless rows of fluorescent lights, everything clean and bright. A store a boy could get lost in.
He picked up two overpriced quarts of motor oil, a handful of chocolate bars. There were no baskets, so he carried it all in the crook of his arm.
On a shelf near the counter, he saw a turn-rack of cassettes with sun-faded labels. A handwritten sign read 3 FOR $5.
Stock left from the previous owners, he guessed. Nobody bought them anymore.
He scanned the titles, remembering what he’d left behindat the hotel. He chose a Sam Cooke collection, O. V. Wright, the Impressions’ greatest hits. The tape cases were covered with a thin film of dust. He found six he wanted, brought them to the counter.
The prepaid cells were on the wall behind the register, between hanging sheets of scratch-off lottery cards.
He pointed. “Two of those.”
She scanned the items without a word. He pulled a roll of bills from the pocket of his leather, handed over three fifties. She frowned, unfolded them on the counter one by one, and passed a counterfeit detection pen over each. Then she opened the register, gave him his change, put everything in a single thin plastic bag.
He went out into the fading daylight, started across Elizabeth Avenue to where the Monte Carlo was parked. He’d taken the chance on driving. With the stops he had to make, a cab would be too much trouble. The bag dangled from his left hand, his right hand free. His coat was open, the Beretta in back. He put the bag in the trunk, got behind the wheel.
His next stop was three blocks away, a hardware store tucked between a fast-food chicken place and a shuttered shoe repair shop. He went up a flight of narrow stairs, through a glass door with an old-fashioned OPEN sign.
Otis was behind the counter, grinding a key. His hair had gone solid gray in the months since Morgan had last seen him. Reading glasses hung from a cord around his neck.
He saw Morgan, stopped what he was doing, the key machine winding down.
“My man,” he said. “Long time.”
“How you doing, Otis?”
“Day by day. Like everybody
Whatever you’ve done, Billy Boy, you’ve screwed us both.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she drove. She missed the turnoff that would take her home, realized she was headed toward CR-23. She remembered what the woman had said.
You may not be now. But you will be.
Heading south on 23, she topped the rise, saw the cross in the distance. Thought of what she should have said to her.
Why can’t you just leave us alone? Why did you have to come down here and start all this? That boy’s dead, he’s never coming back, no matter what you do or who you hurt.
When the cross loomed ahead, she braked hard, steered onto the shoulder. She got out of the Blazer, left the door open. The air reeked of burnt cane and, under it, the sulfur stench of swamp.
The plastic vase was overturned, the flowers gone, the photo sun-faded. The teddy bear tilted loosely, a single strand of wire holding it to the cross, its fur soiled by dust and rain.
She kicked at the cross, missed, lost her balance, almostfell. Then she reached down, pulled it from the ground.
Just leave us alone.
She twisted, threw it. The cross sailed awkwardly through the air, landed in the wet grass, the bear a few feet away, face down. Where Willis’s body had been.
She almost started down the slope to pick them up, throw them deeper into the swamp, out of sight forever. Caught herself, walked back to the Blazer.
She started the engine, U-turned off the shoulder, spraying gravel. A half mile later, she braked, pulled to the side of the empty road, and began to cry.
ELEVEN
The Indian woman behind the counter didn’t greet him, watched him as he made his way down the aisles. Basic foods, brands he’d never heard of, cans with faded labels. Stretches of dusty shelf with no product at all. Morgan remembered the A&P on West Market Street when he was a boy. A city block long, it had seemed. Endless rows of fluorescent lights, everything clean and bright. A store a boy could get lost in.
He picked up two overpriced quarts of motor oil, a handful of chocolate bars. There were no baskets, so he carried it all in the crook of his arm.
On a shelf near the counter, he saw a turn-rack of cassettes with sun-faded labels. A handwritten sign read 3 FOR $5.
Stock left from the previous owners, he guessed. Nobody bought them anymore.
He scanned the titles, remembering what he’d left behindat the hotel. He chose a Sam Cooke collection, O. V. Wright, the Impressions’ greatest hits. The tape cases were covered with a thin film of dust. He found six he wanted, brought them to the counter.
The prepaid cells were on the wall behind the register, between hanging sheets of scratch-off lottery cards.
He pointed. “Two of those.”
She scanned the items without a word. He pulled a roll of bills from the pocket of his leather, handed over three fifties. She frowned, unfolded them on the counter one by one, and passed a counterfeit detection pen over each. Then she opened the register, gave him his change, put everything in a single thin plastic bag.
He went out into the fading daylight, started across Elizabeth Avenue to where the Monte Carlo was parked. He’d taken the chance on driving. With the stops he had to make, a cab would be too much trouble. The bag dangled from his left hand, his right hand free. His coat was open, the Beretta in back. He put the bag in the trunk, got behind the wheel.
His next stop was three blocks away, a hardware store tucked between a fast-food chicken place and a shuttered shoe repair shop. He went up a flight of narrow stairs, through a glass door with an old-fashioned OPEN sign.
Otis was behind the counter, grinding a key. His hair had gone solid gray in the months since Morgan had last seen him. Reading glasses hung from a cord around his neck.
He saw Morgan, stopped what he was doing, the key machine winding down.
“My man,” he said. “Long time.”
“How you doing, Otis?”
“Day by day. Like everybody
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