Long Bright River(100)

—Thank you? says Kacey.

—For telling me.

And then I hang up the phone.



* * *



—

A churning, uncomfortable dissonance roils inside me. My belief in my own instincts conflicts with my belief in Kacey’s words. The only solution, it seems to me, lies in allowing Kacey’s assertion to be a theory that must be proved—or disproved—with evidence.

I’m down the stairs, knocking at Mrs. Mahon’s door, in a hurry.

When Mrs. Mahon opens it, I’ve already got my jacket on and my purse in my hand.

—I know, she says, before I can say anything. Go do what you need to do. I’ll stay with Thomas upstairs. I’ll fall asleep there if I need to.

—I’m so sorry, I say. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mahon. I’ll pay you.

—Mickey, she says. This is the most useful I’ve felt since Patrick died.

—All right, I say. Thank you. Thank you.

Then, cringing, I ask something else of her. I don’t think I’ve ever asked so much of anyone in my life.

—How would you feel if we swapped cars? I say. Would you mind if I borrowed yours for a while?

By now, Mrs. Mahon is laughing. Whatever you need, Mickey, she says. She fetches her keys from off the hook in her entryway, and I hand Mrs. Mahon my own.

—It’s got good pickup, says Mrs. Mahon. Just so you know.

—Thank you, I say again, and Mrs. Mahon waves a hand dismissively.

Then she follows me upstairs. She sits down on the sofa and takes a book out of her purse.

I go to the closet and reach toward the top shelf, toward the lockbox where I keep my weapon, a department-issued Glock with a five-inch handle. I’ve never had any desire for an alternate personal weapon before today. Today, I wish for something smaller, more compact, something I could easily carry undetected.

Instead, I’ll have to put on my duty belt and fit the bulky weapon into it. I have a jacket big enough to conceal the whole thing, but it still feels cumbersome.



* * *



—

Back in the living room, Mrs. Mahon looks up from her book.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say, don’t open the door for anyone.

—I never do, says Mrs. Mahon.

—Not even the police, I say.

Mrs. Mahon looks suddenly worried. What’s going on? she says.

—I’m trying to figure that out, I say.



* * *



—

    I pull out of our driveway so quickly that the tires on Mrs. Mahon’s Kia squeal. It does, indeed, have good pickup. I have to remind myself that I’m not on duty, not in a cruiser. The last thing I need is to be pulled over. I slow to a more reasonable speed.

At this time of night, going slightly above the speed limit, it only takes me half an hour to get to Truman’s house in Mount Airy.

I park on his street, half a block from his house, and quietly get out of the car.

It’s eleven at night now. Most of the houses are dark. Truman’s is still light inside, though, and from the street I can see his bookshelves and the many volumes they contain. I don’t see Truman. I walk unseen to his porch.

Tiptoeing now, I ascend the stairs and look through a window. Both Truman and his mother are in the lit-up living room, Truman reading, his mother dozing in her armchair.

I look hard at him. He seems very interested in whatever he’s reading: I can’t get a look. He’s prone on the couch, barefoot, and with one foot he scratches the other.

He says something to his mother that I can’t make out. Maybe Go to bed, Ma. Wake up, time for bed.

Then his gaze shifts from his mother to the window. For a second, it seems like he’s looking right at me. I drop to the ground. I huddle there, my back against the wall of the house. But the front door doesn’t open, and finally my breathing slows down.

Eventually, I creep back down the steps, staying low. I head to Mrs. Mahon’s car. Get inside.

From this vantage point, I watch the house.

Five minutes go by. Ten. Then, at last, Truman rises from the sofa. In the window, he is silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He walks across the room. There is still, I notice, a slight hitch in his step.

That’s when the first glimmer of doubt settles into my stomach. And a question occurs to me that, perhaps, I should have been asking all along. Was the attack that sent Truman out on disability random, as he led everyone to believe?

Or was his assailant motivated by something else?

More questions occur to me, one after another.

Was he telling me the truth about visiting Dock? He went to find him twice, and each time reported back to me about his day. But I have no evidence, in fact, that either of these visits actually happened.

Was any of it true?



* * *



—

Abruptly, the lights in Truman’s house go off.

It’s then that a final thought occurs to me, sickly. One that I can’t push aside. It was Truman who first suggested to me that Simon might be the culprit. Standing on the other side of his house, in the backyard, he asked me to make that leap with him. And then he left me hanging out to dry when Mike DiPaolo told me I was crazy.



* * *



—

It’s getting cold now. I can see my breath. Every so often, I turn the car on, run the heat, and then shut it off again. I turn on the radio.