‘You’re kidding,’ I say, suddenly worried about where this is going.
“I knope. It’s bullshit, right? It’s a stupid idea. But the decision has come down from the top. One of those dot the i’s and cross the Ts that’s going to cost time and money and get no result. The upshot is we’re digging her up on Monday’
‘Don’t you need something more to be able to do that?’
‘The gun Bruce shot himself with. Do you know where he got it?’
“I always wondered.’
‘It belonged to his father. I mean it belonged to Sidney Alderman.’
‘And?’
‘And Alderman bought that gun years ago. He bought it the same week his wife died. About two days before she suddenly jumped out in front of a car by accident. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘You think he bought the gun to kill his wife and pushed her
in front of a car instead?’
“I’m not saying anything. But you remember what happened last time we started digging up bodies? I’m telling you, Tate, it’s going to be a long week. And take some advice — get yourself a good lawyer, man. These drink driving charges aren’t going to disappear, friends in the department or not. You’re going to be doing some time. Get yourself sorted, start jogging — you’ve put on what, three, four kilos in the last month? Get your life back on track. Do anything else but this case, man. I know we could have made a difference two years ago, but you have to let it go and let the rest of us take care of it.’
His cellphone starts to ring.
“Hang on, Tate.’ He talks quickly into it, then hangs up. ‘Jesus, I gotta go,’ he says, and rushes to his car.
All I can do is watch him as he speeds out of the street, and all I can think about is what they are going to find buried in the dirt when they exhume Sidney Alderman’s wife on Monday.
chapter forty-one
For the longest time I can’t move. My breathing becomes
shallow and I start to sweat. The house is cold and the air slightly damp because of the busted window in the lounge. There is a restricting pain in my chest. On Monday they are going to find Sidney Alderman buried on top of the coffin of his wife. He’s going to look like he died hard. There are going to be contusions and gashes and deep cuts. Realistically there shouldn’t be any evidence pointing directly at me, not that I can think of, but there might be something. Regardless of that, they’ll know I did it. It won’t be like Quentin James, where they knew I did it but didn’t try looking too hard to prove anything. This time they’ll make an effort because the man I killed was innocent.
I walk outside to the garage and find a piece of plywood and some nails; of course, I have no hammer. I use a drill and some screws to hold the plywood over the busted window. The work helps to calm me, at least for a few minutes. When the last screw is buried, I start to go through my options, and the one that keeps coming up is that I ought to call Carl Schroder and tell him to come back here. We could sit down and he could listen to my sins.
I sit down at the table and eat some more pizza. I need to
start making the most of good food, since I won’t be seeing any for another ten years. On the other hand, Schroder was right.
I should be joining a gym. Or at least running. Doing something.
I reach down and grab a handful of stomach. A month ago I was lean. Now I’m not. I reach up and find extra padding around my neck and jaw that shouldn’t be there either. I hope Schroder’s estimate of my added three or four kilos wasn’t conservative.
I finish off the pizza and drink the rest of the Coke. Daxter comes wandering down the hall, probably hoping I kept him
some pizza. I give him his usual and he seems placated by it.
I head to bed and set my alarm clock. I slide it to the far end of the bedside table to kill the risk of my reaching out and slapping the snooze button while still in some dreamlike state.
I end up dreaming about my wife, about Emily, and in my
dream they are both alive. They talk to me, but what they say makes little sense, because in the dream I seem to be burying my family while they’re still alive. Rachel Tyler appears — she’s a younger version, one of the Rachel Tylers on display in the hallway of her parents’ house. She accuses me of murder, and in this world of dreams as well as outside of it it’s exactly what I am.
When the alarm goes off it’s two o’clock in the morning and
it’s raining. Daxter is curled up next to me, the first time he has done that in two years. I wonder if this means something. My house is cold and my mind is full of bad ideas. I get dressed and step out into the night.
chapter forty-two