“Let’s loosen up together,” she said.
I started bragging a little, telling her about what an excellent wrestler and football player I was in high school. I’d had several offers to go to smaller colleges in both sports, but I’d wanted to stay in Knoxville, close to my mom, and I’d wanted to go to the University of Tennessee. I was nowhere near big or strong or fast enough to compete with the guys at that level, and I’d known it, so I’d satisfied my competitive itch by playing intramural football and joining a wrestling club. She seemed interested in everything I had to say, she asked questions, she laughed a lot. Then I started telling her war stories about being a lawyer, and I shared more of what happened to me when I was locked up for two years. As I talked, I kept filling her glass. Within an hour of her walking in the door, she was drunk. She got up to go to the bathroom, and stumbled into the wall along the way. When she came back, I decided it was time.
“So you told me about your family, your mother and father and brother and sister,” I said. “Do you have any aunts or uncles?”
She looked at me quizzically in her drunken state. “No auntseruncles,” she slurred.
“That isn’t what I hear. My understanding is that you have an aunt named Dawn Rule. She’s your mother’s sister, and she’s a detective with the Knoxville Police Department.”
She looked at me for a minute, then she looked down at her shoes.
“You know what else I heard? And I got this from an FBI agent so I’m sure it’s the truth. I heard that your DUI charge is nothing but a sham, a ploy to get you close to me so you could try to get admissions out of me about the murders I supposedly committed in West Virginia. You’re doing undercover work for your aunt. Only I don’t regard it as undercover work. That’s far too glamorous a term, as far as I’m concerned. You’re nothing but a rat. A snitch. A worthless, lying piece of shit who gains the trust of others with one purpose in mind. And that purpose is to turn on them later and take every bit of trust they showed you and shove it right up their asses.”
She stood and her glass fell to the floor and shattered. “I think I should go.”
“You’re damned right you should go,” I said. “Don’t ever come near me again.”
I ran into my bedroom and picked up one of my throwaway phones as she staggered toward the door. I followed her out and watched her stumble to her car. I jumped into mine and began to follow her down the street at a distance. She was weaving all over the road. I called 9-1-1.
“There’s a woman on Cedar Bluff Drive, four hundred block, who’s all over the road,” I said. “She’s driving a blue Hyundai Sonata. The tag number is 492-OST. Yes, I’m calling from a prepaid cell. I don’t want to give you my name. You need to get somebody out here quick. She’s going to hurt herself or somebody else. I don’t know if she’s drunk or high or sick, but something is definitely wrong. Oh! Man! She just ran up on the curb and now she’s back in the street and has crossed over the center line. I have to go. Send somebody.”
I backed off from her a ways as she continued down Cedar Bluff. In less than five minutes, a Knoxville city cruiser passed me and pulled in behind her. He followed her for about a quarter of a mile and hit his blue lights. She pulled to the side of the road, climbed a curb, nearly hit a tree, and came to a stop.
I figured her aunt Dawn would get her out of it, or at least try to do everything she could, but that was okay.
Karma can be a bitch.
Katherine was gone, and I was once again alone. I went back to my apartment and resisted the urge to dial Grace’s number.
CHAPTER 62
I laid low for the next three weeks, trying to get healed up and going about my business in a low-key manner. I hadn’t heard a word from the Knoxville police, which I took as a good sign. No one had tried to kill me, so I figured Big Pappy Donovan’s reach did not extend beyond the grave. I was sitting in a restaurant eating lunch when I got a text from Grace.
We need to talk, it said.
Change of heart? I replied, hoping it might be true. I’d found myself thinking about Grace more and more. I’d started to text or call her dozens of times, but I was afraid she’d flat-out reject me, and I just didn’t need the pain.
Can we meet? she wrote.
Sure, where?
My place. Six o’clock?
I’ll be there.
I knocked on Grace’s door at precisely 6:00 p.m. It was Sunday, January 20. My right arm was still in the sling, but it was getting better. I hadn’t had any problems with infections, and the gunshot wounds were almost healed. I carried in my left hand a vase of purple orchids, which were Grace’s favorite flowers.
She opened the door and smiled, to my surprise. She looked at the flowers and said, “Those are beautiful, Darren.”
“I know they’re your favorite.”
“Thank you. Come in.”
I walked in as she turned and set the flowers on the island in the kitchen.
“What happened to your arm?” she said casually.
“Big Pappy Donovan shot me,” I said. I’d decided I wasn’t going to lie to her anymore.
She turned and looked me in the eye. The smile was gone. “He shot you? With a real gun?”
“Do you want to hear the whole story, Grace? Because I’ll lay it all out for you. It will put you in a difficult position, but if you want to know, I’ll tell you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over these past few weeks. I know I went off the deep end for a little while. I know I was crazy. But there were reasons: the two years in prison, Mom getting murdered, Clancy getting acquitted, Sean moving away. I let those things overtake me and I became irrational. I did some things I’m not proud of, but I think I can forgive myself and move forward. I think I’ve learned a lot, Grace. I’ve learned a lot about life and I’ve learned a lot about myself. I also learned that you had become the very best thing in my life and I turned my back on you in so many different ways. I even convinced myself that you were one of the things that triggered my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. All I can do at this point is say I’m sorry. I’d love to try again if you’ll have me.”