Redemption Road(22)
It was a good answer, Elizabeth thought. Honest. Fair. “He’s in surgery. I don’t know more than that.” She paused. “Beckett says Conroy is the one who shot him. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Was it self-defense?”
“The boy came to kill me. Conroy did what he had to do.”
“Would Gideon have done it?”
“Pulled the trigger? Yes.”
“You sound certain.”
“He said it’s what a man would do. He seemed convinced.”
She studied his fingers, which looked as if they’d been broken and poorly set. “All right. I believe you.”
“You’ll tell Beckett?”
“Beckett. Dyer. I’ll make sure everyone understands.”
“Thank you.”
“Adrian, listen—”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Look, it’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time, and you were good to me, once. But don’t pretend to be my friend.”
They were difficult words, but she understood. How many times had she driven past the prison since his conviction? How many times had she stopped? Gone inside? Not once. Not ever.
“Can I do anything for you? Do you need money? A ride?”
“You can get out of the car.” He was looking at Beckett and a group of men standing by a dark sedan on the edge of the road. Suddenly pale and sweating, he looked as if he might be sick.
“Adrian?”
“Just get out of the car. Please.”
She thought about arguing, but to what end? “Okay, Adrian.” She swung her legs into the heat. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
*
Elizabeth walked away from Adrian and met Beckett halfway across the lot. Behind him, men slipped into the sedan, which turned across traffic and accelerated toward the prison. She recognized a face in the window, a flash of profile, quickly gone. “That was the warden.”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
Beckett watched the car for long seconds, eyes narrowed. “He heard about the shooting and knew it involved one of his prisoners.”
“Were you arguing?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“The fact he has no business on my goddamn crime scene.”
“Take it easy, Charlie. I’m just asking.”
“Yeah. ’Course. Sorry. Did you get anything from Adrian?”
“He confirms the bartender’s story. Gideon came looking for revenge. Conroy shot the boy to save Adrian’s life.”
“Damn. That’s brutal. I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Adrian? Take a statement. Cut him loose.”
“Does Gideon’s father know?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
“He’s a deadbeat drunk in a county full of shit-heel bars. Who knows what rock he’s crawled under for the day?”
“I can track him down.”
“Tell me where you think he might be, and I’ll send some uniforms.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “We’re talking about Gideon. His father should be with him when he wakes.”
“His father is an * who hasn’t done two good things for that boy in his whole life.”
“Nevertheless, I’d rather find him myself. It’s personal, Charlie. You understand.”
“Your interview with the state police is in three hours.”
“I said I’d do it.”
“Okay. Fine. Sure. Whatever.” He was angry, but it seemed everyone was. “Three hours.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t be late.”
Late? Maybe. Elizabeth wasn’t even sure she’d show up.
Dropping into the car, she thought she was out clean. But Beckett filled the open window before she could put the car in gear. He leaned in, looking swollen in a tight suit. She saw scratches on his wedding ring; smelled shampoo that was probably his wife’s. Everything about him was earnest and heavy. The stare. The sound of his voice. “You’re in a strange place,” he said. “And I get that. Channing and the basement, state cops and Adrian. Hell, the boy’s blood’s not even dry.”
“I know all these things, Charlie.”
“I know you do.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying people don’t think straight when they get twisted up. That’s normal, even for cops. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Bad men. Dark houses.”
He was trying to help, but that was the hard edge of Elizabeth’s world: bad men and the things that happen in dark houses.
*
Putting the prison in her rearview mirror, Elizabeth took her time driving back to the city. She wanted a moment’s quiet, but thoughts of Gideon in surgery made that impossible. A .32 was a small bullet, but he was a small boy. Did she blame Nathan Conroy for shooting him? No. Not really. Did she blame Adrian? What about herself?
Elizabeth pictured Gideon’s mother, as she’d been—tall and clear-eyed and elegant—then pictured her son in the dark, lying in wait with a loaded weapon in his pocket. Where did he get the revolver, and how did he get to Nathan’s? Did he walk? Hitchhike? Was it his father’s gun? Jesus, did he really plan to kill a man? The line of thought made her nauseous, but maybe it was a delayed reaction to sight of the boy’s blood, or that she’d had three cups of coffee after two days without food, or that she’d barely slept six hours out of the last sixty. Slowing at the river, she pulled onto the verge and called the hospital to check on Gideon’s status.