What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy by James Sallis Page B

rabbit—they say once those have the stench of human on them, parents seek them out and kill them.
    “You’d best go ahead and feed the thing,” he said after a moment, “else we’ll never hear the end of it.” Then to me: “You’ve done some hard wading against the current.”
    “Off and on.”
    “More on than off, from the sound of things. Work like what you ended up doing, that has to be like police work, demands a lot of you. And the better you are at it, the more it takes.”
    “True enough. Just being on the job, on the streets, not anything in particular that happened, made a difference. Changed me, damaged me: the point could be argued. All those years tramping around in other people’s heads was a kind of repeat.”
    “Not to mention prison.”
    We watched June, outside, scatter birdseed on the sill and back away from it as the mockingbird returned. Glancing up at us, she waved.
    “One day ostensibly like all others, sitting there with my morning coffee and appointment book, I looked out the window and realized the floors were gone. They’d just dropped out from under me, they were gone. I knew I no longer trusted anyone or anything. That I could see around, through and behind every motive—my own no less than everyone else’s.”
    “So you decided to be alone.”
    “I’m not sure it was a conscious decision. How much of what’s most important in our lives ever is?”
    June came in and pulled her purse from an open desk drawer, saying she had to pick up Mandy at school, she’d drop her off and be right back.
    “That time already, is it?” Bates said. And I, once she was gone, that I hadn’t known June had a child.
    “No reason you would. But she doesn’t—not yet, anyway. Friend of hers, Julie, works as a nurse, twelve-hour shifts twice a week. June helps out. The two of them went right through school together, kindergarten on up, you couldn’t pry ’em apart with a crowbar.”
    “June and Julie.”
    “Cute, huh?”
    “Other kids must have had fun with that.”
    “Only the first time or two. You haven’t seen it yet, but that girl has a temper’d make a grizzly back off, go home and call out for food.”
    “Someone else takes care of the child once she drops it off?”
    “Julie’s brother. Clif ’s not old enough to have his license yet, but he goes over after school and stays with Mandy till Julie gets home. Has dinner waiting most nights, too, I hear.”
    The phone rang.
    “Sheriff B—”
    He looked at me, shook his head.
    “Yes ma’am, I—”
    His end of the conversation was like a motor turning over again and again, never catching.
    “Yes ma’am. If—”
    “Yes ma’am. Can I—”
    “What—”
    He tugged a notepad towards him and scribbled something on the top page.
    “We’ll get right on that, ma’am,” he said, then, hanging up, “Surprise you?”
    It took a beat or two for me to realize the last comment was addressed to me, that he was referring to what he’d told me about June and the friend’s baby.
    “A little, Sheriff.”
    What I’d truly been thinking was whether I was still in the United States. This couldn’t be the same country I saw reflected in news, TV shows, current novels. Mind you, I didn’t watch TV or read newspapers and hadn’t read a novel since prison days, but it all filtered in. Thoreau, Zarathustra, Philip Wylie’s superman alone and impotent on his mountaintop—in today’s world they’d all be aware what shows were competing for the fall lineup, the new hot fashion designer, the latest manufactured teen star.
    But people watching over friends’ children as though their own? A teenage brother taking responsibility for his sibling’s child?
    Bates tore off the note he’d just made and tipped it into the wastebasket.
    “Time you dropped that ‘Sheriff ’ business, don’t you think? Friends call me Lonnie.”
    Five or six responses came to mind.
    “Friend’s a tough concept for me,” I finally said.
    “It’ll