When Ghosts Come Home(49)

“Plenty of those too,” Petty said.

“Well, I’ll be,” Winston said. “You mind sharing those names, prints, and those weapons?”

“No, sir,” Petty said. “As soon as we get them processed down here I’ll make sure my office is in contact.”

“If we can match the bullet that killed our guy up here to one of those guns down there then we’ll be getting somewhere,” Winston said.

“I got my fingers crossed,” Petty said.

“Me too,” Winston said.





Chapter 8




After finishing her dinner, Colleen had carried her tray down to the kitchen once her parents’ lights had gone out for the night, and she had taken five bottles of her father’s Old Milwaukee and brought them up to her room. She’d found her senior yearbook and sat on the bed, drinking the beers and leafing through the yearbook and finding every picture of Rodney Bellamy that she could. There he was in his senior photo wearing a tuxedo jacket and bow tie, a thin mustache above his lip. In another picture he was leaning against a car in the school parking lot, laughing at what someone was saying off-camera.

Before she turned off her light, she had taken the rotary phone from where she’d left it on the table by the beanbag chair and set it beside her pillow. Its ringing was what woke her, and with her eyes closed, her hand frantically searched for the handset. She found it and lifted it to her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“Colleen?” It was her father’s voice.

“Yeah?” she said; her throat was scratchy and dry, and her mouth tasted terrible. She kept her eyes closed tight, afraid of the light seeping around her curtains, afraid of what time the clock on the dresser would reveal.

“You sleep okay?”

“Just fine,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “I had to run out, pick up this fellow at the airport, but I’ll be home later. Maybe we can all go out for supper or something. Just got a phone call from the sheriff down in Myrtle Beach. Might be some good news on Rodney’s case.”

Colleen’s yearbook still sat on the bedside table, and when she stood from the bed, she placed her palm on it to steady herself. She forgot that she had hidden the empty beer bottles beneath her bed, and she kicked one over. It landed with a soft thud against the shag carpet.

“Colleen?” her father said.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m here. Dinner sounds good. I’ll talk to Mom.”

“All right,” he said. “Is she home?”

“I don’t know,” Colleen said. “I haven’t seen her.”

“She might’ve decided to walk a little. I almost wish she wouldn’t do that.”

Colleen’s hand was still propped on the bedside table. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed. She waited, but her father didn’t say anything.

“Thanks for picking me up yesterday,” she finally said.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” she said, then, “I just hate that you had to drive back up to the airport today.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Tell your mother I’ll be home as soon as I can. And mention going out to eat tonight.”

“Okay,” she said. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he said.

Without lifting her head, Colleen reached behind her and dropped the handset back on the cradle. She stood up straight, used her toes to push the empty bottles as far under the bed as she could without losing her balance.

Downstairs, she heard the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen to the back deck open and close. She didn’t know what time it was, but she knew her mother was back from wherever she had been. Colleen kept her eyes closed, but she felt the room turn, and she realized that her head was splitting. She swallowed, passed her tongue over her lips. She took a breath, held it for a moment, and then she left her room and crossed the hall to the bathroom.

She pulled back the shower curtain and turned the water on, making sure it was almost hot enough to burn. She slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the scorching water run through her hair and over her face. Then she turned her back to the water, sat down in the tub, and let it pour over her.

After the shower, she got dressed and pulled her damp hair back into a short ponytail and came downstairs to find her mother sitting at the kitchen table with an empty coffee cup. She walked to the coffeepot and poured its remnants into an old cup with a fading picture of a lighthouse on it.

“Good morning, honey,” her mother said. She was flipping through a magazine. Colleen noticed again how long and thin her mother’s fingers looked, how frail her knobby wrists seemed where they disappeared into the loose sleeves of her soft pink sweatshirt. Colleen knew her mother was always cold now, so she wasn’t surprised to see the collar of a light yellow blouse peeking out from the neck of her sweatshirt.

“Good morning,” Colleen said.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“I did.” She took a sip of the coffee, suddenly reminded of how weak her father always made it. “Dad called.”

Her mother sighed. “I’m sure he was checking in on me, making sure I haven’t lifted a finger in his absence.”