Long Bright River(36)

Then he turns around.

—Were you waiting, he says. He doesn’t know me. He wants me to leave the store before making the arrangement he’s here to make.

I wait to see if Mr. Wright will introduce us, but he stays out of it.

—No, I wasn’t waiting, I say. And then, Any chance your name is Dock?

—No, says the man.

—No? I say again.

I’m usually better at this.

—Nope.

The man stares at me. He crosses his arms around his middle. Taps his toe a few times on the ground, making it clear that he’s waiting.

—Okay, I say. It’s just that you look like him in a picture I saw once.

Dock shifts. What picture? he says.

He glances every so often at Mr. Wright. At the moment, I am the one standing between him and the key that will grant him a fix. Clearly, he needs one badly. He begins to shift his weight from foot to foot.

I try a different tactic. Listen, I say. I’m looking for Kacey Fitzpatrick.

Dock pauses, finally, and puts his hand on the counter.

—Ohhhhh, he says, softly. Oh. You her sister?

I have a sudden memory of all the times I fished Kacey out of houses she shouldn’t have been in, when we were younger. All the men who eyed me while asking that question. And I ask myself if the decision I have made, to do it all over again, is correct.

—I am, I say.

There’s no hiding it. Despite other physical differences, Kacey and I have nearly the same face. When we were younger, people used to comment on it frequently.

—Mickey? says Dock.

—Yeah.

Mr. Wright keeps his eyes down.

—She always talked about you, he says, and my body flashes cold for a moment. Talked sounds like someone who’s dead.

—Do you know where she is? I ask him abruptly.

He shakes his head. Nah, he says. She left me a couple months ago. Haven’t heard from her since.

—So you were—I say.

He looks at me like I’m an idiot.

—You were together? I ask.

—Yeah, he says. Then: I have some business to attend to here. Let me know if you hear anything from Kacey.

—Can I have your number? I ask him.

—Sure, he says. And he gives it to me.

To make sure he gave me the right one, I call him right away. From inside his pocket comes his cell phone ring: the sound of a song I vaguely recognize, something popular when I was a child. I didn’t know the name of it then, and I don’t now.

—All right, I say. Thanks.

On my way out, Dock says, Hey.

—You’re a cop, right? he says to me.

I hesitate. Yes, I say.

He says nothing. Mr. Wright says nothing.

—Anything else? I ask.

—Nah, says Dock.

He keeps his eyes on me until I leave the store.





So, says Truman, on the other end of the phone.

—So, I say.

I’m half walking, half jogging in the direction of Alonzo’s store. I’m out of breath. I’m chattering all over in the cold. My left arm is wrapped tightly around my midsection. I want to get to my radio and my gun. They feel like children I left behind: like Thomas felt to me, when I first went back to work. I wish, now, I could sprint.

—What happened? he asks.

I tell him.

—What’d you think of him? asks Truman.

—I think he’s dishonest, I say, after thinking. And untrustworthy.

Truman says nothing.

—What are you thinking? I ask him.

—Sounds about right, I guess, Truman says. He hesitates. I know why: agreeing with me too strongly means bad things for Kacey. I mean, who knows, he adds.

—Thank you again for your help, I say.

—Will you stop that, says Truman.

I return to Alonzo’s, retrieve the bag from him, head into the bathroom, and get my uniform back on as quickly as I can. I check my phone compulsively, half expecting texts from other officers: Where the hell are you? Ahearn’s looking for you. But none comes in. I thank Alonzo again and head for the door before having a second thought. I weigh the bag in my hands, full now of my civilian clothes.

—Alonzo, I say. Any chance I could leave this here for the time being? Is there someplace out of the way I could keep it?



* * *



—

As I run to the car, I can’t shake the thought that Sergeant Ahearn will be there, waiting for me, when I turn the corner onto the little side street where I parked. Checking his watch.

But no one’s there. I breathe. I open my trunk and retrieve my possessions. A call comes over the radio. Theft from auto: nothing urgent.

Gratefully, I respond.





On my way home, the gravity of what I’ve just done settles onto my shoulders. And I am suddenly struck by a sense of anger, the kind I used to feel with regularity, the sort of anger that led me to stop speaking to Kacey. When I made this decision, my life instantly improved. The thing is: I do have a temper. Simon used to tell me I was the calmest person he knew, until I wasn’t anymore.

What is making me angriest, at present, is the fact that today’s episode imperiled my profession, which I largely enjoy, and my livelihood, and my ability to earn a salary and benefits for myself and my son. Imagine, I think, if I had been caught and fired for my behavior today. Imagine if I had jeopardized everything I’ve built for Thomas, the modest but respectable life I have made for us both. And for what? For someone who probably does not want to be found, who has perhaps intentionally gone missing, for someone whose every decision has been a self-serving one, who has rejected out of hand every attempt others have made to set her on a better path.