Redemption Road(98)

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. A college? Industry? When people think of this place what comes to mind?”

“Hell if I know.” The woman used her teeth to draw a cigarillo from the box. “Not much around here but poor people and swamp.”

*

When Elizabeth returned to the motel, she entered the lobby and inquired about room numbers from the old man working the desk.

“You mean the scarred fella?”

“Yes.”

He looked her up and down, then shrugged as if he’d seen it all. “Nineteen and twenty. Left side around the back.”

“May I use your phone?”

“I got phones in the rooms.”

“I’d rather call from here.”

“Long distance?”

“Maybe.”

A mean glint rose in his eyes, so she put $10 on the counter and watched the bills disappear.

“Ten dollars buys five minutes.” He pushed a rotary phone across the counter and shuffled into a back room.

Elizabeth dialed a number from memory and got the hospital switchboard. “I’d like to inquire about a patient.”

“Are you family?”

Elizabeth played the police card, offering her name and badge number, and telling the woman what she wanted. “Mr. Jones is in ICU. Just a moment.”

The phone clicked, and an ICU nurse answered Elizabeth’s questions. Faircloth was alive, but critical. “A stroke,” she said. “A bad one.”

“Jesus. Faircloth.” Elizabeth pinched her eyes. “When will you know if he’s okay?”

“I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

“A friend. A good one.”

“Well, we won’t know anything until tomorrow, at least. Even then, it’s more likely to be bad news than good. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

Elizabeth hesitated because she was hurting for Faircloth, and because the next part was slippery.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Do you know anything about a man found beaten on the roadside north of town? Early forties. Thickset. Uniformed officers would have called it in or transported him directly.”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone’s talking about that.”

“What are they saying?”

The nurse told her, and Elizabeth may or may not have said good-bye. She hung up the phone, walked into the night, and sat for long minutes in the car. Crybaby was still alive—the best possible news—but William Preston was not. He spent an hour in surgery, then died on the table, beaten to death, the nurse said, by an as-yet-unidentified person.

But, that was coming.

Elizabeth turned the key and felt a hot wind on her neck.

When Olivet told his story that was definitely coming.

*

Adrian sat on the edge of the bed with his back straight. He was worried, but not about normal things. He was going to lose her, Elizabeth, who, other than Crybaby Jones, was the only person alive who’d kept faith in him during the trial. He’d find her face first thing in the morning, front row as they led him in, shackled. He’d look for her, too, at day’s end. A final glimpse before they took him away. A nod that said, Yes, I believe you did not kill her.

But, that was a long time ago, and there were other issues, now. Olivet. Preston. He’d seen the way she looked at him, his bloody hands. She wanted him to be the same. He wasn’t.

“What do I do?”

He was talking to himself, the room, the ghost of Eli Lawrence. Nobody answered, so he waited for the sound of her car beyond the glass, and only as it came did Eli finally speak.

Stand tall, boy.

Adrian closed his eyes, but felt the room around him. “She saw what I did.”

So?

“You saw how she looked at me.”

You’re only what prison made you. You already told her that.

“And if she doesn’t believe?”

Convince her.

“How?”

Eli didn’t answer, but Adrian knew what he would say.

Tell her the truth, son.

If she’s all you have left, then tell her everything.

Adrian thought that made sense but had no idea how to do it. She’d think him delusional or untruthful or both. It was all so jumbled and fragmented: the things that were real, the things imagined. How could she possibly believe that, for years, his waking hours had been worse than the worst nightmare? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

A minute later, she knocked on the door.

“You came back.” He smiled, trying for a joke as he stepped aside to let her in.

She put a bag on the dresser, and bottles clanked. Something was different. She was stiff, unyielding.

“What?”

“Officer Preston is dead.”

“Are you certain?”

“He died in surgery.”

Adrian tried to get his head around that. The beating had been about Crybaby and past hurts and blind rage. He’d not meant to kill the man, but he wasn’t sad about it, either. “Is this where you arrest me?”

“If that was the case, I wouldn’t be here alone.”

“Then, what?”

“Give me your hands.”

She stepped closer and took his hands. The skin was split, but the bleeding had stopped. She held the crooked fingers, looked at the swollen knuckles, the stippled nails.