Читать книгу Witness To Death - Dave White - Страница 19
ОглавлениеHe wasn’t going to get out tonight. He was pretty sure of that. The judges were all asleep in their beds, so he couldn’t be arraigned, or whatever they called it. And if they weren’t going to come down tonight, they wouldn’t be coming in for the rest of the weekend. He was going to have to sit here with the drunks and druggies, waiting until Monday morning.
They did, at least, give him one phone call.
He called Michelle, after fighting the urge to dial Ashley. No matter what had happened to him tonight, his mind still flashed to Ashley.
“Are you all right? Where are you?” Michelle asked.
“I’m in the Jersey City Police Station.”
“What happened?”
“Coming out of the PATH train. I went to the police for help, and they arrested me.”
“You went right to the police? John, your face is all over the news. They have a picture of you.”
That damn cell phone camera. John’s hand squeezed tighter around the receiver.
“I haven’t seen a judge yet. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to see a judge. The only thing I know about being arrested is that whole ‘right to remain silent’ stuff. There were, there were dead people everywhere. Blood and—and—Fff—”
“I know, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay. I’m going to talk to my dad again. We’ll get you a good lawyer, and be down there as soon as possible. You need a lawyer. If my dad doesn’t help, Frank will. He knows people too. Sit tight.”
“Wait,” he said, his shoulders tightening at the mention of Frank’s name. “Frank was there. It was all him. He killed them all.”
No response. She’d hung up. As soon as he finished talking, he heard the dialtone.
John put the phone down and let the officer cuff him and direct him to a door.
****
They dragged him into a room with only a table, two chairs, and a streaked mirror. The room smelled like rancid coffee. One of the uniformed cops pulled out the chair facing the mirror and pushed John into it. As he sat, he had to angle his arms backward so he didn’t sit on the handcuffs.
A tall cop with almond skin and a shaved head entered. His badge was clipped to his belt, and his tie was loosened. He didn’t have a gun on him, but he held a cup of coffee that smelled fresher than the room. In his other hand was a legal notepad.
He reminded John of one of the sixth grade teachers at work, Mr. Travers, who’d stand in the hallway and yell at the kids no matter what they did. He would gesture with his coffee and yell things like “Stay to the right!” and “This is not a locker period.” The talk in the teacher’s room centered around the Master’s Degree he held in education or how many times he’d brought a kid down the principal’s office in a day. John would try to ask what Travers was teaching that day, only to get ignored.
John closed his eyes.
“So,” the cop said. “Why’d you kill those people?”
“Kill those—No, that wasn’t me. That was Frank.”
The cop pulled out a chair, put his coffee and notebook down on the table, and then sat, wrists resting against the corner of the table. He breathed through his nose hard, as if John was frustrating him already. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pen.
“All right. I’ll play. Who’s Frank?”
“He’s my… well, I guess he’s a friend. I was following him tonight, I thought he was cheating on his girlfriend.”
The cop scribbled on the paper, and John could tell he wasn’t actually writing anything. Just like a student who was trying to look like he was working.
“Frank Carnathan,” John said, exhaling the words as if he’d just been running. He shouted out Frank’s address.
Now the cop actually started to write. “How do you know this Frank Carnathan? You said he’s a friend?”
John took a deep breath. The cop was actually listening. “He’s my friend’s—my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend. I saw him sitting with some girl at a Starbucks a few days ago.
He’s weird; I don’t trust him. So tonight, after my own girlfriend broke up with me and I decided…”
The cop looked up. “Your girlfriend broke up with you tonight?”
Did she? Why does he keep saying she did? “Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?” Come on, John thought. Let me tell you about the trail of bodies Frank left around tonight. The ones I can’t get out of my head. Every time I picture them, I want to throw up.
“Are you okay with the break-up? Did it surprise you? Did it piss you off?”
John’s mouth tasted sour and dry again. It seemed like the saliva on his tongue was drying up or creeping back down his throat. He felt as if his body was imploding.
He knew where the cop was taking him with these questions.
“No! I didn’t kill them. They were going to kill Frank and me. They were going to shoot us. Frank just took them out. He told me it was us or them. He shot them. He shot them!”
John’s hands flexed into fists and pulled against the chains of the cuffs. The metal dug into his wrists, sending electric charges up his arms. He pressed his feet flat into the floor. The chair squeaked back a few inches on the ground.
The cop leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Easy, buddy. Easy,” the cop said.
“I’m not lying to you,” John said. He was out of breath. “I didn’t kill anyone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could be dead right now.”
“You said they had guns, these guys. There weren’t any guns found at the scene. Nothing. Just the bullets in their chests.”
John saw them again. Saw the fire exploding from their hands. Saw their own bodies explode in red. He swallowed hard.
“How can you think I did it? What’s going on here? I’m just a teacher. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have followed Frank. I should have stayed home. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do it. The wrong place. That’s all it was. I was in the wrong place. Let me go. I’m getting a lawyer.”
“Okay. All right.” The cop’s hands were held out before him now, palms out.
“You have to help me,” John said. His ears felt warm. There was pressure at the sides of his temples.
There was a knock on the door behind them. The cop got up and walked over to the door. John tried to breathe through his nose.
Don’t pass out.
When the cop opened the door, a man handed him a piece of paper. The cop read it and then looked up at John.
The cop put his hands on his hips and twisted his neck as if he was cracking it.
“Tell me what happened tonight.”
“I did.”
The cop slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across it. Some coffee spilled over the top of his cup.
“Tell me.”
John took a deep breath. The right to remain silent. That’s all he had left. He’d said too much already.
“I —”
“Yes?”
“I need to wait for my lawyer.”
The cop stood up and picked up the coffee and notebook. He guzzled the coffee, then said, “Fine.”
****
Two hours had passed and still no Michelle. No lawyer. John had already counted the tiles on the floor—trying to do anything to occupy his mind. He was also pretty sure the odor in his cell wasn’t shit. That didn’t solve the problem of what it was.
Distraction didn’t help. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. There weren’t any guns at the crime scene? He saw them. He kept seeing them in his head. Every time he saw them, he’d come close to losing it again.
He sat on the cot and brought his knees up to his chest. The burning in his wrists from when they’d taken off the cuffs had finally faded. What was he involved in? He couldn’t get the blood out of his brain. Just like the water. The last time—the only time—he’d ever seen someone die before tonight, the only image he’d remember was water.
****
They were at their aunt’s in Freehold, Mom and Dad with their wine and beer. Uncle Roger was behind the grill. Smoke twirled into the sky. True to form, Uncle Roger had found sausages no one had ever heard of. When they were driving down the Parkway, Mom and Dad were promising hot dogs and hamburgers. Uncle Roger was always trying to be original.
That didn’t really matter to John. The sun was beating down, making the concrete hot to the touch of his foot. The pool was warm for once. Hannah was pushing down her swimmies, trying to get them off. John sat on the steps, filling his plastic water gun. He heard the thump of one of the plastic swimmies hitting the ground behind him. Hannah always managed to free herself of them.
“Keep those on,” he mumbled, knowing Mom or Dad would yell. The last thing he wanted was them coming over here. Once this gun was filled, he was going to sneak over and spray them all.
He heard the other swimmie hit the ground too. His sister exhaled just like that guy in that movie the other day, the one who got out of prison. He wanted to see more of that movie, but Dad had flipped it off.
He watched the last bubbles pop out of the open end of the gun. He capped it and held it up. The sun reflected off the green plastic. He squeezed the trigger and watched the water squirt up into the air like his doctor watched the medicine come out of a needle. He was about to stand up and begin his assault when he realized there wasn’t any more splashing.
John turned to see Hannah sinking in the shallow end. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and bubbles drifted from her nose like out of the end of his water pistol. She flailed, and John waited for her to start swimming to the surface. Her arms reached out ahead of her, and then gave in to the pressures of the water. Hannah sank some more.
“Stop playing, Hannah,” he said. He remembered Mom saying that if Hannah ever fell to get her right away.
He should say something. Hannah’s mouth opened, and a stream of bubbles came out. She was trying to breathe.
“Dad?” John turned toward the party. The music was playing off the radio and no one reacted at first. “Dad!”
His father looked up, and John said, “Hannah’s trying to breathe underwater.”
The beer bottle shattered against the hot concrete. His dad dove into the deep end, pumped his arms, muscles straining against his skin. He glided into the shallow end. Pulled Hannah out of the water. Mom screamed. Hannah’s face had turned blue. Dad started to kiss Hannah’s mouth.
“Hannah!” his dad yelled. “Hannah, wake up!”
“Oh my God,” Mom said, though it was a whisper.
Uncle Roger said he was going to call 911. Hannah never moved. And all John could do was watch.
****
One of the cops opened his cell and waved him toward the door.
John stood.
“Come on,” he said. “You have a visitor.”
Finally. John followed the cop, who led him to the same bare room. The light was a faded yellow and gave him a headache. He squinted and sat in one of the chairs. The cop stepped out of the room and closed the door. John heard the lock click.
More waiting.
This time, only five minutes passed. The lock clicked again, and John looked up. A woman stood in the doorway. John squinted a little more.
Ashley McDonald entered the room and sat in the chair across from him.
