The Journeyman

Chapter Five: Late for the Party

7:56 A.M.

James had a knack for dressing very quickly. As a child, he made a game of it. On a Saturday morning he could hop out of bed, shed his pajamas, and put on his shorts and Izod shirt all within thirty seconds. He'd lost a little of that speed through the years and, he learned as he got older, putting on adult clothes was not as simple as sliding on a T-shirt and pants with an elastic band. Still, he was very quick and on the morning of July 3, he needed that speed.

I'll never make it on time! he thought frantically as he buttoned his Levi's and pulled a red corduroy over his white T-shirt. It was going to be a hot day. Palpable rays of sun leaked through his glistening window pane. You never knew when an afternoon shower or a gusty breeze might pass through the area. James prepared himself just in case.

He'd never been late for work in his life. Even when he worked that horrible position at the haberdashery in Atlanta. He showed up every day a few minutes early, worked hard and had a good sales record, but they still fired him. From his first day on that job, James had disliked the manager, Mr. Holloway. He was a prissy bastard who talked through his nose, held his cigarettes with his flat palm facing up like a German Nazi would do in a bad forties' movie, wore tight buttoned shirts with motley neon colors, and he wiggled his butt from side to side as he walked. He sashayed through the store as though he were a model on a Paris runway. Mr. Holloway even preferred the thumping beats of the techno music played at Paris fashion shows. If he couldn't take himself to the Mecca of pop culture, he insisted on bringing pop culture to his store.

Everyone who worked there knew he was gay. Holloway didn't do much to hide it. His choice didn't bother James. He empathized in his own way, understanding what it felt like for people to judge you by stereotypes. People heard his stutter and thought he was a retard or some kind of idiot savant. They had asked James to play the piano like Mozart or calculate incredible equations like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. When James told them he couldn't do any of those things, they were disappointed and gave him that baleful stare that beckoned, then what are you good for? James usually had an answer.

I can sell clothes, he had told Mr. Holloway, not stuttering once during the interview. Holloway hired him on the spot--he liked having attractive young men working for him and he refused to hire women on principal--and James did not let him down. At least not for the first week. The second week, however, things got hectic.

The new spring fashions arrived and people flocked to the store like seagulls to the coastline. James did his best, helping one customer at a time and he actually made quite a few sales before the barrage hit. Soon, one customer became two, then three, then four, and finally three men and two women were all asking him questions at once.

"Is this on sale?"

"Do you have this shirt in blue?"

"I can't find the tag."

"Can't you go any faster?"

They believed that they could attract the attention of the young sales rep by talking louder than the others. Within moments, the crowd had devolved into a cacophony of screaming voices and fervent demands. James couldn't handle it. His stutter broke out of its cage with a ferocity he had never experienced. They shouted questions at him and he replied with incomprehensible mumbles. Every p gave him fits and James' temperature rose to a scalding boil. He had to lie down.

"Sc-Scuse m-me," he mumbled as he pushed through the crowd.

James broke free of the circling vultures and ran behind the counter. Squatting on his knees, he stuck his head between his legs. Somehow, he repressed the inclination to vomit. After seven or eight hot, sweaty breaths, James looked up and saw Mr. Holloway, his glare admonishing instead of prissy, staring down at him. He shook his head in disgust and returned to the sales floor. He had watched the entire incident and couldn't believe he had hired a stuttering imbecile.

The next morning, Holloway invited James into his office. He offered James one of his clove cigarettes and James held up his hand saying, "No thanks," in a clear and calm voice. Holloway lit the clove and leaned back in chair, kicking his black shined wingtips onto his desk blotter.

"You know, James," he began, "I really like you. You're a good kid and you're young so you've got a lifetime ahead of you. Sometimes I wish I had it all to do over again. I never would have chosen clothing. It's a rat race, James, really is. I could tell you some stories, but they're all too long with bad endings."

James interrupted, "Mr. Holloway, what are you saying? I've got lot's of work to do."

Holloway took a deep drag on the clove and pulled his feet off his desk. He appeared more serious, his managerial pose. Both his elbows dug into the desk and he leaned forward, looking James in the eyes. "I've got to let you go, James. The last week was a trial and I'm afraid you didn't work out as I'd hoped."

"I made over a thousand in sales last week alone," James protested, his voice rising an octave.

"Yes, but you haven't handled the spring crowd well. I need someone who can work with more than one or two customers at a time."

"I'll d-do better," James insisted, almost pleading. He was broke again and desperately needed this job. "P-p-p-please give me another chance. I w-won't st-stutter again. I need a little p-p-p-practice is all."

"This is not about your stutter!" Holloway insisted emphatically and it was in that moment that James knew it was only about his stutter. A defensive parapet cloaked Holloway and James could only shake his head despondently. How ironic, he thought, that a gay man, someone who would most likely have to hide his orientation in any other job, had fired him because he stuttered. It wasn't the last time his stutter would cost him a job, but this firing stung the worst because Holloway wouldn't admit to it. James had pressed him and Holloway repeated, "It has nothing to do with your stutter."

James pounced to his feet, causing Holloway to gag on his noxious smoke. "Screw this job!" he screamed without a hint of stutter.

***

It had everything to do with my stutter, James thought as he knotted the black and yellow laces of his Nike all-weather boots. He prided himself on his promptness and he wondered what it would feel like to lose a job for something other than his impediment. Perhaps I'd feel more human, like a regular guy, James considered, but he didn't want to test that premise. He'd rather be an employed stutterer at the Amoco than a regular guy on skid row.

James stuffed his wallet into his front pocket, ran his fingers through his mussed hair, and bolted through the door. He estimated that at a full sprint, he could make it to the station in less than four minutes. That speed would only make him a few minutes late, certainly not tardy enough to lose his job. James sprinted down the wobbly bank of steps inside his building, jumping down six risers at a time, and hit the door with both hands as he barreled outside.

He hadn't slept well last night. He had laid awake in bed, counting the abrasions on his stucco ceiling and thinking of Carrie. He tried to divert his mind, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't know much about her, but she was a real person with real feelings--he was sure of that much. And he cared for her. That made her like him--different. In two nights, she'd never mentioned or even acknowledged his stutter. She finished a few of his words, but never in a condescending way. James harbored a genuine affection for her that people reserve for the important people in their lives, the friends they can tell anything to and feel safe.

You're a fool, James. Don't let that bitch trick you. Little James Hall, the idiot. Why don't you get up and give us another speech, James? Just like you did at the prom.

"Whoa!" James mumbled as he broke his stride and held his hands in front of him as though he was searching for a candle after the power has gone out. He didn't know where that thought had come from, but it scared him a little. He didn't feel that way about Carrie at all.

A shooting pain ripped through his head above the left eye, hewing his tiny capillaries, and transparent waves of heat rose off the sidewalk in long streams. James rubbed a hand against his perspiring forehead and felt a little woozy. The pain faded as quickly as it had overtaken him and he massaged his closed eye. It was hotter than he had anticipated--he knew an egg could fry on the sidewalk, but he'd rather eat a fired chunk of old leather than put an egg yoke on his tongue. Something was afoot. A crowd had gathered up the road a few yards away. James counted at least a dozen people and the rotating blue beacon of a police cruiser radiated from the center of the road.

James couldn't stop himself. He always slowed down when he passed a car wreck or stopped to gawk at the rare train pile up. This incident was the same. Whatever was beyond that crowd of onlookers, no matter how gruesome, James had to take a gander. How bad could it be? he asked himself rhetorically. He trotted up the road, pushing past the crowd as hushed whispers filtered among them, until he saw what they were staring at.

In the middle of Robert E. Lee Boulevard, a few inches away from the raised sidewalk, Carrie Mason's deteriorating body lay sprawled in the grip of death. Her wan eyes looked up at James--they would never blink again and the cloudiness of the collapsed fluidic barriers gave Carrie's a ghastly air. Her lips spread apart a few centimeters and James saw the dried blood on her teeth. It must have filled her mouth because tiny coagulating streams criss-crossed her cheeks like tributaries of some mighty river. That wasn't the worst. James' hands immediately covered his mouth when he looked at her forehead. Giant blue and brown bruises covered it from end to end as though Ken Griffey, Jr. had used her skull for batting practice. He noticed tiny fractures covering her crown and it left James with no doubt: someone had beaten Carrie to death. He turned away, sickened.

But why was she here, only a block away from my apartment, James pondered. Was she coming to see me? Maybe she wanted to talk and maybe whatever she had to talk about did this to her. She was upset, right? Something was after her, I think. Oh Jesus, he caught her before she could get to me! Why did I let her leave last night?

A tidal wave of regret and second-guessing swept over James as he considered all of those questions. He didn't have any answers and that made him feel worse. The police had arrived. They had to know something and James had to ask them. He ducked under the yellow police ribbon and walked toward Carrie's body. Plump tears swelled in his eyes and lapped over his lashes. They glistened down his face as he knelt beside her. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, feel her skin once more, but he thought it might damage the evidence. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize the investigation. He leaned closer, sitting on one knee, when he found an answer to all his questions. They wouldn't need to investigate. The only clue they needed rested on the roadside next to Carrie's outstretched, rigid finger. In her own blood, or so it appeared, she had drawn a small mark. An x.

She fucking used you, James. You stuttering idiot!

More tears ran down his face and he couldn't stand it. The voice, her body, the crowd--James wanted to crawl inside a turtle shell and never emerge.

"Scuse me, son, you can't be here. Get back across the line," a voice ordered James.

He looked up and saw the swelling belly of the sheriff standing over him. The sheriff's belt did little to prevent his stomach from lapping over his pants, but he hid his girth behind a brown leather jacket and a beige shirt buttoned to the collar. James stood up and stared into the sheriff's nose. He was larger than average, with a full black mustache, and circumspect eyes. The sheriff was reaching his own conclusions very swiftly. "You know this girl, son?"

"Her n-name is C-C-Carrie M-Mason."

"Yeah, we know that," the sheriff answered a little contemptuously. His tone didn't yield any surprise and James wondered if they had expected this? "I mean do you know anything about what happened to her?"

"I only m-m-met her t-t-two night-t-ts ago."

"Then you need to step back behind the line," the sheriff ordered and he grasped James' bicep with the force of an iron vise.

"No!" James suddenly shouted. He jerked his arm away and stepped closer to the body. The sheriff grumbled, motioning for his deputies, when James leaned forward and shouted, "See that!"

"It's some blood, son. Nothing else."

Only dumbass fools get out of their cars at night, James. Remember Shelbyville? What did the sheriff call you then?

"It's an X!" James shouted at the spiteful voice in his head.

"You better calm down, boy."

"It's an X! I k-know who d-d-did this! C-C-Cletus! I don't k-know h-h-his last n-name. X is h-h-his s-symbol." James recalled what had happened at the Boar two nights ago, the memory flashing into his head like a fort watt filament glowing for an instant before burn out.

The sheriff and his deputies leaned closer to the ground, studying the smattering of blood more intently, until he concluded, "Aw shit, son. That's just some blood that came out of her ears or her mouth. Don't go gettin' yourself worked up."

Only a dumbass gets out of his car at night, James! The sheriff is right! He's always right, you stuttering freak!

"You're w-wrong!" James retorted. "G-go and s-see where C-C-Cletus was l-last n-n-night! He's this g-guy t-that h-hangs around the B-Boar."

"Sheriff," one of the deputies intoned as he knelt over the body. The sheriff joined him and they studied her cotton blouse. The sheriff waved his hand and a deputy handed him a baggie and tweezers. Carefully, he plucked a dark brown hair out of the fabric. He slid it into the baggie and stared at James studiously.

Instinctively, James' hands covered his scalp. He knew what the sheriff was thinking because he was thinking it also. That could be my hair. Carrie was still wearing the same clothes and they had huddled close together. A follicle easily could have clung to her static filled shirt.

Then James imagined how far the sheriff could take that little shred of evidence. He was an unknown drifter, probably the last person to see Carrie, and he imagined what the other people at the Boar would say. Yeah, I saw them arguing. It all added up to a convincing case of circumstantial evidence.

"It was Cletus!" James suddenly shouted, for no other reason than he could no longer withstand the sheriff's judgmental glare.

The buzzing conversation among the crowd suddenly grew livelier after James' rant. The sheriff peered at them and grasped James by the bicep again, pulling him aside. James struggled to resist, but the sheriff was twice his size. He towed James across the street and looked down at him. "Son."

"I'm n-not y-y-your son."

"Shut up, boy!" The sheriff had seen James' type before. An outsider who thought he knew how to get the job done better than the ignorant locals. "You're a little late for this party and don't know all the guests. I ain't seen you around before. Makes me think you're a new kid in town. There's a few things you should learn. First, I'm the sheriff and my word is the laws. Second, you're gonna let me and my boys handle this investigation. I don't want to see you again and I don't want you goin' around town, shootin' your mouth off, telling people it was Cletus Watts. We know who he is and if you're smart, you'll keep that mumbling mouth of yours shut. We're gonna do this one by the book. Don't defy me, son. That's the only warning I'll give you. Now git!"

The sheriff slapped him on the butt like a parent spanking a child and the urge to belt him across the face rose up from James' belly. He stopped himself before his hand curled into a fist, however, and he watched in furious silence as the sheriff returned to the crime scene. He didn't care about Carrie Mason, but James did and he wasn't ready to let her become another statistic.

The sheriff was right. James did think he could do a better job than the locals. Or, at least, he could ensure that the locals did a good job. For her sake and mine, he thought as he watched a deputy carry away the baggie with the brown hair.

The sheriff's right, James. You should leave while you still have a chance, dumbass. The storm is coming.

James ignored the echoing voice in his head and closed his eyes until they hurt. When he opened them, the sun flooded his vision and all he saw was bright red.

Chapter Six: Under Pressure

9:26 A.M.

The semi-sweet smell of fresh pines soothed Amy Stewart's throat and lungs. She really needed it. When Amy was outside, she never felt more at home. We're all born in a state of nature, she often argued, and she took the words of that esteemed philosopher literally. Amy loved the outdoors. Her father took her on a camping expedition through the great Northwest when she was ten and during the seventeen years since then, Amy daydreamed about hiking cross-country. She would start in Vermont, somewhere up north in the early spring, and by September, she would comfortably stand on the last paces of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. Neither mountains nor rain nor snow could stop her. Real life, however, could. Responsibilities eventually impeded that dream, but Amy still got back to nature as often as possible.

Like all graduate students at Vanderbilt, Amy didn't have a designated summer break per se--her studious inner voice harassed her with reminders that she had papers to write and research to perform even if it was the beginning of July--but she needed this retreat more than she had ever needed anything in her life. In the wilderness, the only pressure she faced came from the capricious weather. Out here life followed a savage simplicity. There weren't any gray areas. Either you survived or you didn't. After what she'd been through, Amy yearned for that challenge.

What was Roger thinking? she pondered hopelessly. Amy berated herself for asking that question again. How many times had she asked it in the last three days? At least four dozen times. It simply didn't make sense to her and for a woman who prided herself on finding the answer to any query, her ignorance was confounding.

Roger had been the love of her life until three days ago. He was a beautiful volleyball player she met through tutoring. Roger was funny, compassionate, and, with her help, intelligent. He wasn't half the erudite Amy was, but she let him think so. After acing last semester's Sociology final, Roger had declared, "Who's got the bigger brain now?"

"Certainly you," Amy had agreed, kissing his forehead. "The brain's folds grow deeper with refined intelligence. You certainly have the smoother and fatter head."

"Is that a joke?"

"You tell me, Mr. Big Brain."

"Tell you, I'll show you," he replied and he dove on top of her, tickling her ribs. Amy kicked and flailed, but loved every minute of it. She loved Roger. Enough to forgive his next, ignorant comment. "At least I got an A in a real subject."

Amy had studied Women's Issues for almost eight years, reading Faludi and Steinem at every free moment. Amy's friends thought she was ridiculous for coddling Roger or that she was a traitor to the causes they worked to promulgate through their research. Amy replied with a laugh and reminded them of the Taming of the Shrew. Hadn't Kate, the smartest woman in the play, seemed obedient when really she controlled her husband without his knowing? Amy thought so.

That was her talent. She manipulated Roger--as all people do in relationships at some level--but allowed him to think he was in charge. It retrospect, Amy realized that approach was a horrible mistake. That attitude led to what happened last week.

"Why did he have to do it?" she contemplated aloud as she pressed her left foot against a weatherworn granite slag. She bent at the knee, stretching her sore calf muscle, and breathed deep the fresh forest air. It made her slightly better, in spirit if not in soul, and Amy lowered her head. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. That's why she was here, after all, to forget about Roger and what he had done to her.

But I love him, she confided to herself. It was an omission she never dared share with anyone: not her friends, her mother, or least of all Roger. She didn't want to admit it because for Amy, admitting love felt like she was giving herself to someone else, mind, body, and spirit. Roger could drag her along with a leash of obedience because she couldn't help herself. She didn't want to concede that level of control, but Amy never considered, perhaps she was more afraid to give into her own emotions. She'd worked very hard to build a rough, protective shell around herself. It guarded against any hint of vulnerability and she couldn't imagine a more vulnerable moment than telling a man that she loved him.

Hiking rejuvenated Amy's soul. In the forest, she controlled her environment. Nature ran as wild as her long hair before a morning shower, but Amy knew where to tread. Like all things, nature had a nasty streak, but if you stepped cautiously, you could avoid it. Amy had recognized the dangers her whole life. She went on a Girl Scout expedition at age thirteen and during the four hour hike across eastern North Carolina, she became separated from her group. Amy spent twenty-six hours alone among the firs and pines surrounded by descending night. She had nothing more than her backpack and a few supplies. When the Park Rangers found her, Amy had not only survived, she had thrived. She'd built a shelter, maintained a fire, and found water. Amy was in control. Every time she hiked, she was in control.

But you couldn't control Roger, could you?

No, I guess not, she answered the voice in her head with a tone of self-loathing. It was Roger's fault, not hers, but matters of blame seemed trivial to Amy. She had loved him, still loved him. I was stupid to let that happen! she scolded herself with sudden vigor. Every man wanted the same thing, her research on the male psyche had made that fact abundantly clear. But when it came to Roger, she ignored her analytical sense. Pragmatism wilted in the face of love.

You should have let him do it, Amy!

She spun around, burying her distraught face in her palms, and plopped down on the granite. It sent a painful shiver up the left side of her body and she cringed, pressing her cheek against her shoulder, but that pain paled in comparison to the angst of her memory.

Roger always brought it up. That's what guys do, Amy had reminded herself. He couldn't take no for an answer. Amy was a virgin and she planned to remain one until her wedding night. Despite all the feminist literature she had read since college, her decision wasn't based on anything as meticulous as control of her sexual identity. Amy didn't want to have sex because it was a sin. She was the only graduate student in the Women's Studies department who adhered to her Christian ideals. Her friends contended that Christian doctrine was a patriarchal institution designed to oppress the feminine gender. Amy agreed in many respects--she couldn't deny the facts she had learned; how, throughout history, men used religion as the basis for the social control of women or how 'reformers' like Martin Luther had argued that prostitutes should be broken on the wheel while ignoring the fact that most often, it was the girl's father who had sold her into harlotry to begin with--but her choice was based on a personal agreement she had reached with her God. The patriarchy may have co-opted religion as an institution, but they couldn't influence Amy's God. She knew, in His eyes, sex out of wedlock was wrong. She decided to wait and even though she was now twenty-seven, feeling the incredible yearnings of a maturing women, Amy waited. Roger could not.

"Please, Amy," he had begged three nights ago. It wasn't the first time he had gotten on his hands and knees and pleaded like a dog asking for a bone. Amy had never given in. They'd fooled around and she had even performed felatio on him after he'd harassed her for weeks, but never intercourse.

"Sorry Charlie," she had answered glibly.

"Come on, baby. If you care about me, you'll do this." Amy had read about such techniques. Roger placed the blame on her. His implication was clear: if you don't do this for me, I can't be responsible for what happens next. But he was.

"You know it's not going to happen," Amy had answered, putting her book aside. "I think its time you headed back to your dorm."

Roger groaned as he kneaded his hands together. He had waited months for this. Every other woman he had ever dated had given it up. What was so special about Amy Stewart? "Sometimes you're a real jerk!" he said childishly and walked toward the door of her apartment.

Amy could have left it alone. He was angry, blowing off steam, and when he got back to his dorm, he could blow off some other things with his hand. Then he'd feel better and start acting like the man she loved. Amy, however, couldn't let it die. Arguing was her passion. It made her a great student, but a terrible judge of character. "I'm not the one making ridiculous demands," Amy countered, grinning and looking down at her notepad. She knew he would notice. It was a smug, overconfident grin.

Roger turned around. "Shut the hell up! You think my demands are, uh, ridiculous? You're the one acting ridiculous, babe. Don't call me, uh, like anything. I know what I'm talking about."

"You're rambling, darling," she opined, hiding the zealous smile on her face. Amy had won. Roger wasn't much of a competitor, but she gloated nonetheless.

"What are you gawking at!" he shouted, grabbing her wrist and pulling her off the chair. The smile immediately disappeared, replaced by an expression of shock as Amy's lips curled into a flabbergasted O. "Stop acting like such a bitch all the time. I'm not like stupid, you know." His frosted yellow and brown hair glistened with sweat as his powerful muscles strained with rage. The arms stored all a volleyball player's strength.

"Roger, you're hurting me." Her cheeks quivered as though she had a facial tick and Amy held back a stream of tears. Her wrist started to swell under his bruising.

"Is that what you're afraid of!" he screamed, not sounding at all like himself, but more like an enraged animal that had gotten its first taste of blood. "You think it will hurt!" he said and Amy noticed that Roger was no longer looking at her face. He was staring directly at her crotch.

"Roger! Stop it!" she shouted and twisted her wrist, trying to squirm away. The clamp around her arm tightened and Amy mouthed yells of pain. She was out of breath and unable to add the authentic screams.

"Shut up!' he responded and he ripped her belt off.

"Please Roger, what are you doing?" I love you, she finished in silence.

"It won't hurt a bit," he answered as he tugged her jeans to her ankles. Roger stared at her white panties and his lips spread apart unevenly. Urine dripped to the floor where she had wetted them. He was dumbstruck and his intensity waned.

Amy didn't hesitate. She reared back and slapped him across the face, leaving three red welts the shape of fingers on his cheek. Roger's head bounced off his shoulders, returning him to reality. He looked at her, a menacing scowl on his face, and pushed her to the floor. "You stupid bitch! I wasn't gonna hurt you! Dammit, why'd you do that?" he asked, almost remorsefully, as he rubbed his stinging cheek.

"Get out! Now!"

"I'm never coming back!" he said and he stormed through the door. Amy didn't believe him. Roger was hard up, the pressure building in his scrotum had transformed him into Mr. Hyde, but he'd return to his old self and her apartment soon. Very soon. She was sure of it.

Twenty-four hours crept by and Amy was ready to forgive. It was against her better judgement, but she loved him and had never seen Roger enraged. It was an aberration, she decided. He couldn't possibly do that again. Amy dialed his number on her portable phone. The plastic receiver felt greasy in her hand and she had to sit on her free palm to stop chewing her nails.

After the third ring, a mellow voice answered, "Hello."

"Hey baby, it's me, please don't hang up, oh please just listen to what I have to say. We can work this out, I know you weren't yourself last night and I forgive you, just please talk to me, tell me it was all a mistake."

A tired sigh lingered on the other end of the phone and Amy's hand squirmed out of her back pocket. There weren't any nails left to chew, but she sucked at her fingertips anyway. "Please, say something," she begged.

Roger hung up the phone.

Amy wouldn't give up. She'd invested so much of herself, so many of her feelings, into Roger that she couldn't imagine life without him. And he couldn't get away from her that easily. Amy knew where to find him. She saw him leaving one of his summer school classes the following afternoon, hand in hand with a large breasted, blond freshman.

"Roger," she whimpered not loud enough for him to hear.

He didn't look back and They hadn't talked since, but the wound, the heart he had ripped out of Amy's chest, still hurt. It was still too soon.

You should have let him bang you!

Maybe so, Amy considered as she rose from the granite rock and wiped the tears from her face. She had considered that possibility over and over, wondering if Roger would have remained the caring person she first met if she had only given in. It must have been the pressure, she thought. If I'd let him shoot his stuff, he wouldn't have had the energy to get angry.

That idea was spurious and Amy knew it. The wound hurt so badly that she felt it in every part of her being. Now she was in the woods, though, ready to move on with her life, breathe some fresh air, and take charge once again. The forest, where Amy Stewart, the once lost girl scout, had learned to take care of herself and became a woman. This was her domain.

You can go back to him. Let him fuck you and get it over with. You'll have to give in eventually!

Amy's face trembled as though she might cry again. She began to hate that voice. . .that voice, she suddenly realized. It wasn't in stereo like other thoughts that reverberated through her head. She'd heard it through her left ear. It was a human voice, nearby. Amy frantically turned her head in both directions, but didn't see a sign of any other people.

I'm looking for you Amy! I need you!

"No!' she shouted and she tore through the woods. She'd definitely heard it that time. It was a male voice, very close, and a snicker echoed between the trees like an autumn breeze. Amy ran as hard as she could, her backpack with the metal tent rack slamming against her svelte back, until she was out of breath. She leaned against a giant tree felled by lightning and peered through the forest. She saw a tree frog and a woodpecker sleeping with its beak tucked under its wing. Insects swarmed through the sky, foliage blocked the trails, and hot perspiration saturated the air, but nothing more. She was alone. Amy knew the signs. Humans left odors and footprints. She didn't detect any. The voice was her stress, she decided. No more. She wouldn't let it dominate her. This was her environment and, for the moment, she was still in control.

Need a little rest. That's all, some rest.

Amy exhaled like a machine, broken gasps that tickled her throat. Rata-tat-tat.

Chapter Seven: The Bad Gig

9:48 A.M.

"When are you going to let me drive?" Linda asked sharply. In her mind there was never any doubt that she would get a chance. She'd helped pay for this car, the Big Brown Buick, and Todd couldn't last forever. He would tire as the rolling peach fields of Georgia melded into one another, creating a long and hazy landscape of yellowing grass and sallow meadows.

He looked across the seat at her, half his mouth upturned like a rabid dog showing his teeth. Todd couldn't believe she would even pose such an idea. She ignored his scowl and twisted her index finger around a long shank of hair, a snake trying to climb a vine. Todd returned his lips to their normal state of pursed disgust and glanced at the squeeze bottle in her lap. Somewhere along the way, she'd refilled it.

Probably not last night, he decided. Sleep hadn't come easily and he had laid awake in a semiconscious dream state for most of the night. Doubts festered in his subconscious, yawning awake in the eerie darkness of the hotel room. So many questions about this move, about Linda, about himself flared in his mind. He felt cold though it was the height of summer and he had two covers thrown over him.

Gotta get some sleep, Todd told himself and he forced his eyes shut, noting how the blackness behind his eyelids was no darker than the sable chamber.

As soon as his racing mind had sputtered near a stop, wild thoughts exploded in his brain like fireworks. Every crack of the settling room echoed loudly and the faucet dripped in the bathroom. Was it dripping before? Todd wondered. He didn't think so, but how could it spontaneously leak? Only if he'd turned it on in the last hour and he hadn't. Suddenly gripping his arms and clenching his teeth, Todd realized someone else could have turned it on.

I'm not alone! His body sprung to attention and Todd sat up in bed, the tight covers trying to pin him to the mattress. He searched the room, his eyes abruptly adjusting to the blackness and noticing the curve of the furniture and the dead glow of the TV tube. He imagined his eyes glowed sour-apple-green, penetrating the night like a superhero. And like any self respecting superhero with supersenses, Todd perceived a presence. Something had crept into the sterile room as he tried to sleep, negative energy on a wisp of air blowing through the AC system. A fey sensation permeated his body, warming his cold bowels. The gravity of another being--a powerful force--pulled his soul closer, hewing it from his corporeal body. The intruder reached into the depths of Todd's sickened mind and tasted his weakness, new where to strike him.

I can give you a hit, Todd. One little line one hurt you.

No! The answer had echoed through his thoughts more calmly than he would have guessed.

Detox was the hardest thing Todd had ever done in his life, but staying clean grew easier with each passing day. The physical cravings had passed, no more upset stomachs and cramps that sliced through him like a Ginsu knife. All the doctors and counselors told him that the mental craving was the hard part, but Todd Bundy was strong. Or at least he was distracted. He didn't have time for the mental cravings. Even the strong ones, like the voice resounding in his head, he learned to ignore. Linda required all his energy. Keeping her appearance up, washing the vomit out of her clothes, making sure she hadn't fallen asleep on her back for fear that she might asphyxiate. He hated every moment of it and wanted to run away, the Talking Heads song blasting through his soul--Run, run, run, run, run, run, away! Psycho killer!--but he wouldn't. He loved her, felt it deep in the back of his knees whenever they kissed. He'd disappointed Linda too many times already for one lifetime and never again. He promised that much. She had waited for him to get help. Now, it was his turn.

Get out! he had ordered the voice in his head and the baleful invader left his room. Eventually, Todd fell asleep. Now, as he continued what seemed to be an endless drive north, part of him wished he'd given into temptation and found a line to snort.

He peeked at the squeeze bottle in her lap again and she nestled it between her knees. They both realized he was staring at it and Linda cleared her throat, tacitly demanding an answer.

I know you're there, Todd thought disgustedly, but he knew she wouldn't like the answer. "Baby, you know you're too loaded to drive."

"I rode with you when you were plastered to the ceiling! You were more fucked up than a mute in a choir."

"You shouldn't have ridden with me," he answered, taking the moral high ground. Todd felt like a corrupt TV evangelist--demons begone! What right did he have to tell other people the difference between right and wrong? Just because he'd gone through life's wringer and came out clean on the other side didn't make him an expert. The rebel in him thought it was too parental, but that's what he had become: Linda's babysitter.

How about a hit now?

No, Todd thought again, recalling last night at the hotel and that eldritch feeling in the darkened room. It hadn't been Linda in there with him. He listened to her buzz saw snoring through the whole night from the adjoining room. She was drunk to the gills, couldn't wake up, let alone creep into his room. But something had been there with him, Todd was sure of that more than ever.

What the hell was it?

"Asshole," Linda whispered under her breath. She turned to the side, curling both legs underneath her butt, and placed her back squarely between Todd and herself. If he was going to be a sanctimonious jerk, she didn't want to look at him.

"Come on baby, cut me some slack," he pleaded.

"I rode with you when you were high," she mumbled.

Todd combed his greasy black hair with his fingers. How long would he have to live it down? The rest of his life, he supposed. That's the reason he wanted to move. A fresh start in a new town where nobody knew him. He wanted to go in tabula rasa, a clean slate. For the first time in years, Todd Bundy wanted to be a plain old musician again. Hell, nothing that fancy! He just wanted to be a plain old guitar player again. Last time he was just a guitar player, he was eleven years old, two years before he tasted his first drink and five years before he took his first snort.

That was the man Linda loved. She loved him for the man that wasn't high. On those rare evenings when Todd was sober, he was as romantic and cuddly as a teddy bear. He'd sing songs to her, they'd take baths together, and life was generally good. That all changed last January and it could never go back to the way it was before. That fateful day had been a wake-up call for Linda. She didn't want life to return to the status quo--the sheltered days when she denied that Todd had a problem--because she liked it better this way. Seeing life through the bottom of a bottle of whiskey was less painful.

Todd loved her too, even now. Except he was ready to change, had changed, but their roles were reversed. He was ready to be a husband, a caregiver, but Linda had given up on that dream. She didn't want to hear his love songs anymore--she didn't believe in them.

The winding state roads through central Georgia passed by quickly, but monotonously. began to wonder if he'd made a mistake by turning off I-75. The mountains were still ahead, he reminded himself, and that image, snowy peaks and climbers with spiked shoes, kept him alert. It was early, though, and he could tell it was going to be another long day's journey with Linda sitting across from him.

Don't think that, he told himself as he searched for a distraction. He wished the Gibson wasn't in trunk. He wanted it in the back seat so he could grab it and find out of he could drive and play Purple Haze at the same time. Maybe the radio, he reconsidered. If he couldn't play, at least he could find some tunes.

At the moment he turned it on, static blared through the speakers and Linda jumped as though he'd awakened her from a rapturous sleep and a Mel Gibson dream. Todd tried not to notice as he pressed the scan button. Deep southern drawls preached the gospel while announcers read the play by play of minor league baseball games, but none of that interested Todd. He wanted music, good old American rock and roll! There wasn't any and he settled for the only FM news station that had an announcer who didn't sound like Foghorn Leghorn.

"And in national news," the deep and steady voice blared through the speakers, "federal authorities report that they are close to apprehending a suspect in the bombing of the Peters Family Planning Center in Knoxville, Tennessee. The bombing, which killed three and injured four others last week, is only the most recent example of growing domestic terrorism in this country. The suspect mailed a pipe bomb filled with a small amount of plastic explosive to the clinic where a desk nurse opened the package. Authorities have not revealed what kind of trigger or detonation device was used in the bombing which has prompted assumptions that this critical element must be the vital clue in their attempts to apprehend the suspect. In other news…."

Todd turned the radio knob off and shook his head in disgust. Depressing news was the last thing he wanted to hear.

He reached into the front pocket of his vest and slid an Alka-Seltzer between his fingers. Popping it in his mouth like candy, he bit down hard. The taste was bitter. Always bitter.

Chapter Eight: Shelbyville

11:06 A.M.

"Where you been all morning?" Mr. Hansen asked as James, over three hours late for his shift, ran onto the oily tarmac in front of the Amoco station. The station had three full service pumps--two unleaded, one diesel--and Mr. Hansen didn't pump gas. The summer heat made the arthritis in his knees flare up. So did the winter cold. He hired James so he could rest in the shade all day, but right now James was the one needing a rest. He was out of breath and bent over, sweat staining his white T-shirt so much that it clung transparently to his skin. "Don't you know what day it is? People will start arriving for the show. July 3 is one of my biggest days of the year you half wit."

James held up his hand, beckoning Mr. Hansen to reserve judgement. James knew that he should have called hours ago. Hospitals had phones. "I-I-I been a-at the h-h-h-hosp-p-p-pital all morning," James muttered.

"The doctor?" Mr. Hansen said. His neck stiffened and settled onto his shoulders. He didn't like doctors. Dentists either, for that matter. A bunch of overpaid quacks that charged a hundred bucks an hour and told you to go home and take a powder. A friggin' waste of money, that's all they were. Never could do a thing for his creaky knees so what good were they? "You look fine. Why'd you go to a doc?"

James shook his head frantically and gasped for air. He stood up straight, his cheeks flush from running across town, and then he bent over again. Needles of exhaustion pierced his lungs and an agonized whimper followed every deep breath. "N-not for m-me. A f-friend of m-m-mine d-died."

"Dead?" Mr. Hansen asked uncertainly. "You sure he was dead?"

James nodded.

"Who was it?"

"A w-woman named C-C-Carrie M-Mason. I d-don't know if you w-w-would know," James stopped as he looked into Mr. Hansen's distant and glassy eyes. He knew her or, at least, knew something about her. When strangers die, people don't care. When an acquaintance dies, people suddenly recall the past and become immersed in it. Mr. Hansen's eyes trapped his memory in a labyrinth of old thoughts and James waited for him to find an exit.

The old man rubbed his wrinkled hands, they resounded like pieces of dusty sandpaper, and nodded his chin slightly. "Carrie Mason," he mumbled.

"Y-you knew h-her?" James asked, suddenly rejuvenated. He'd spoken to everyone at the hospital morgue and while all the doctors and nurses agreed that Carrie didn't have any family in Ithica, they all exuded an air of caution. The coroner had turned pale when he saw the body and had to build up his courage to touch her. His fingers had quivered as he rotated her neck, listening for the soft clink of a bone fracture rolling inside her skull. Everyone seemed a bit surprised that she had died, but in the same breath, James guessed that they suspected something. The whole town seemed privy to a dirty secret that only James didn't know. Now, he felt that same vibe emanating from Mr. Hansen.

"I saw her around a bit," he mumbled and pulled a greasy blue and white bandana from the back pocket of his grimy overalls. He wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving long streaks of oil across the furrows of his tan brow, and looked for a stool to sit on. "You need anything to drink, Jimmy? Get yourself a Coke out of the cooler."

"I'm f-fine," James answered, studying the dull shock that had descended on his boss like a hawk searching for easy prey. Trepidation spread across his face and though the mercury on the Pepsi Cola thermometer hanging from the station door read 92 degrees, it felt much hotter. He knew Mr. Hansen was lying. He may have seen Carrie around, but he knew more. Everyone did.

"I think I need one," Mr. Hansen said, but made no effort to rise from the stool.

"Sir," James began, hesitantly at first, but then more forcefully, "do you know s-s-something a-about Ms. M-Mason? I m-m-mean, s-s-omething b-b-bad?"

Mr. Hansen reached for his bandana again, but there wasn't any sweat to wipe away. He wrung the cloth in his hands, pulling the fabric tautly. Inhaling a deep breath, he looked at his feet as he spoke, "Nothing worth repeating I reckon. She came by here a few times. Hell, everyone in Ithica does at one time or another. I guess I heard some things." Suddenly, he looked up and James detected a lambency in Mr. Hansen's eyes. It had flashed so suddenly that James took a half step backward.

He's afraid. He thinks he's said too much already. Can't give up, though. "W-what d-did you h-h-hear, s-sir?"

Mr. Hansen rolled off his stool and holstered his thumbs underneath the straps of his overalls. "Nothing, I reckon. I think I'll get that Coke now." James didn't press him. Mr. Hansen had held something back, but the wide-eyed fright he'd seen warned him not to push. If Mr. Hansen couldn't tell him, then James couldn't force him. James liked his boss and didn't want to piss him off. Especially when he considered what he would ask next. "You sure you don't want one?"

"Mr. H-Hansen, I n-n-need the r-rest of the d-day off."

He looked at James from the corner of his tired eyes and studied him. As he glanced at his wiry frame from head to toe, James felt the condemnation in Mr. Hansen's eyes. It was searing hot. The old man thought he was nothing more than a scrawny kid trying to prove he could swim in the deep end of the pool. He shook his head slightly and sighed. "Go on, Jimmy. You be careful. Don't go stickin' your nose in a hornet's nest if you know what I mean." He did. "I'll call Tommy to fill in for you."

"Thanks, M-Mr. H-Hansen." James trotted off the tarmac and felt the glaring sun bear down on him. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the day could only grow hotter.

"I mean it, Jimmy. No messing around. Yer upset, but don't do nuthin' foolish. Some rocks shouldn't get turned over. Leave 'em be."

"I underst-stand," he answered, but he didn't. He'd hardly heard a word Mr. Hansen said. Too much information raced through his mind and he concentrated on an immediate goal. James took a deep breath and started running down the block. The sheriff station was only two miles away.

***

From the outside, the sheriff's station reminded James of an old brownstone apartment building someone had converted into an office building, but from the inside, it reminded him of a ghost town. The wide-open office, filled with cubicles and desks overflowing with incomplete paperwork, was sparsely populated. A box of stale Krispy Kreme donuts sat on the front counter and a receptionist was the only person in sight. If she weren't so outwardly calm, James would have thought the entire force had gone out to defuse a crisis. Weren't police stations always hopping? Usually, at least every one he had visited. Where is everybody?

"Can I help you, sir?" the young woman asked as she filed her red nails with an emery board. She wore a brown uniform, similar to the sheriff's, and popped large pink bubbles of gum in his face.

"I n-n-need to s-s-see the s-sheriff."

"You what?" she replied in a twangy southern drawl. She'd heard him fine, but asked James to repeat it because she couldn't believe that a retard had stumbled into the station. She'd never met a retard. They were shut ins or the state locked them away. This one must have escaped from some hospital, she decided.

"Where is the s-s-sheriff?" James repeatedly more slowly.

"He's busy," she said, smacking her gum like a cow. She considered calling the hospital about him, but decided not to. It wasn't her job and if they let a retard get away, let them worry about it.

"I n-need to s-see him."

"Do you have an appointment?" Of course not. She would have remembered if a retard had called.

"No. T-tell h-him it's about C-C-Carrie M-Mason."

The girl sized him up for a moment and pressed a button on her phone. Maybe the sheriff could scare him off. A small red light on her headset glowed brightly and she mumbled into the tiny microphone, intermittently smacking her gum. James leaned closer, almost prostrating himself across a counter as tall as the middle of his chest, but all he heard was the girl repeating, "He says it's about Ms. Mason."

The light on her headset dimmed and James heard the rickety squeak of brass hinges spreading apart. At the back of the office, a small door with a foggy plate glass window pushed open. The sheriff stepped through it and as soon as he saw James Hall, he yanked off his trooper hat and scratched his receding black hair. Grunting in disgust, he rubbed the back of his tense neck. James hadn't expected a polite or welcoming reaction, but it suddenly occurred to him that annoying the sheriff might be the best approach to gleaning some answers. If he could get under his skin, then the sheriff couldn't ignore him. He could also toss me in jail. For all I know, I'm a suspect. James inhaled deeply and decided it was worth the risk.

"Send him in!" the sheriff yelled as he lumbered inside his office.

"Yes, Sheriff Blaine," the girl answered and she looked James square in the eyes. "The sheriff will see you now." Smack! She blew a bubble so large that it almost grabbed James' nose when it popped.

"Th-thanks," James answered as he walked around the counter, secretly hoping the gum caught her hair. He weaved between the desks and cubes very slowly as he walked to the rear of the building. He was cautious, like a cemetery caretaker walking between the tombstones at night. Where is everyone? he wondered again. Ithica was a small town, but it wasn't Mayberry. Sheriff Blaine obviously had more than one deputy and two jail cells in the rear--actually he had five cells all located in the basement, directly below James' feet. The deputies had to be somewhere, looking for Cletus, James prayed.

James reached the sheriff's door and pushed it open slowly. The creaky hinges groaned with every inch and James found Sheriff Blaine, scowl spread evenly across his maw, sitting behind a small desk with a blotter and calendar dated 1991. "Get in here," he muttered. Frustrated anger built up in his throat and Blaine made his best effort to choke it down.

"Sit down," Sheriff Blaine offered, holding his hand toward a stiff wooden chair across from his desk. It wasn't truly an offer, it was a request. The office was a mess--cabinets overflowing with yellowing, crinkled paper; faded chocolate brown rings covered the desk where sheriff Blaine hadn't used a coaster; and a fine layer of dust sparkled in the air, filtering the slanted rays of light penetrating the crooked blinds. FEMA could have declared the office a disaster zone. And they should, James tentatively concluded. He lowered himself to the seat and opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, the sheriff held up his hand. "Hold on, son. I know what you're goin' to say. Didn't you listen to a word I said this morning? God damn, you is either a stupid son of bitch or more stubborn than a barnyard mule. I thought I told you to leave town."

"But, the h-h-h," James stopped, mashing his lips together.

"The hair," Sheriff Blaine finished dolefully, but James said nothing. He may have already incriminated himself. "Shit, son. You couldn't pull the wings off a horsefly. Tell me, were you fucking her?"

"Wh-What?"

"You do know what fucking is? I want to know, did you screw her? We found your hair all over her."

"I th-think I n-need a law-wyer."

"No you don't. I'll tell you when you need a lawyer. I haven't charged you with anything yet, except maybe pissing me off."

"You're n-not g-gonna charge m-me?"

"Hell no, you moron. That's what I just said. You don't have the arms to beat up a woman like that. Hell, Carrie was as big as you. No, son, I know how to handle this investigation and it don't involve you," he boasted. Blaine studied James with a circumspect edge in his brusque eyes and voice. "That's why I want you outta here. You already stepped in the shit up to your knees and I don't need an idiot deciding he knows more than me. I can see it in you. City boy thinks he can do a better job than old Sheriff Blaine. You can't. I don't want to see you ever again. Now get out."

I'm not a suspect, James thought. He should have felt relieved, but the pessimistic realist inside him wouldn't allow it. If he doesn't suspect me then he must already have some leads. Or maybe he knows more than he's leading on. Why's he so belligerent? A frightening realization dawned on James like a dim morning sunrise. Through the murky fog of daybreak he saw it. There was only one explanation: He's involved. He's hiding something and that means he's involved! "I c-c-can't leave."

"You stuttering idiot! What are you tryin' to prove?"

"I-I-I. . . ."

"Shut up, son!" the sheriff snapped like a rattlesnake. He leaned back in his chair, hiding behind a shadow of darkness that engulfed the rear of the office and James watched his eyes sparkle like two pieces of flint lodged in the blackest earth. "There's a lot of things goin' on this town you got no ideas about. I lived in Ithica for half my life and I been sheriff for twelve years. By the look of you, I'd say you haven't been here a month. So once you've walked in my boots for a spell, then you can talk. Otherwise, keep your lips. Son, if you got a lick of sense, you'll stop runnin' your mouth about Cletus and get out of town before you run into any accidents." James eyes scanned downward and saw the sheriff's right hand on the wooden butt of his gun. He had a clear idea of what kind of accidents the sheriff meant. He'd seen those kinds of accidents before: a cop killing a man as he proclaims self-defense. James had visited enough small towns to know the score.

Remember Shelbyville, James? Only a dumbass gets out of his car at night!

"B-but s-sh-sheriff, you d-d-don't underst-stand."

"No, you don't!" Blaine shouted furiously as he jumped out of his seat. The legs of James' chair screeched across the shellacked hardwood floor as he backed away, but the sheriff surprised him with his speed. Before James could react, Blaine had a handful of his red corduroy collar and escorted him out of his office. "Get out of town. You couldn't have known Ms. Mason all that long and I don't care how many times you might have fucked her. You two ain't an avenging lover and now that she's dead, you can move on to some other place. You catch my drift, son?"

Before James could answer, he landed on the sidewalk in front of the brownstone building and the door slammed shut in his face. Sheriff Blaine hadn't wanted a response and James wasn't prepared to give one. James doubted it was legal for the sheriff to remove a citizen from the premises by force, but he couldn't stop him. Ithica was Blaine's town and James was a very small fish in his pond. If the sheriff chose to treat Carrie's murder just like any other unexplained homicide, then there was nothing he could do about it.

I know that asshole is involved.

You couldn't do anything about it in Shelbyville, right James? You really made a good impression on the authorities that night, didn't you?

He hated that memory. James recalled why he thought of it now. Shelbyville, Tennessee, a small burgh in the south-central part of the state, was the first place he'd ever had a run in with the law. It wasn't the same as what had just happened to him, but James made the association. It had happened two years ago, but it felt much more recent. He still remembered that night clearly in his mind. . . .

***

Sheriff Gill Gaddis enjoyed every Friday evening playing the same game. The deputies finished their patrols around nine o'clock and returned to the Shelbyville station house to play poker until dawn. Friday was payday and Gill had developed a knack for going home with a little extra spending money every weekend. He was the best poker player of the bunch, winning almost every hand of Anaconda and High-Low they dealt. He recognized all his deputies' give aways--they had poker faces as discrete as tornadoes in trailer parks--and Gill demanded no interruptions when they played. Taking these boys' money required all his concentration.

Six months ago, a resident on Sixth Street called the sheriff four separate times about his neighbor playing a loud stereo too late at night. Each time he called, Gill said he'd be there as soon as possible. After the fourth call, following the footsteps of a hand where the sheriff lost twenty bucks, Gill Gaddis decided it was time to take swift action. He marched to the man's nearby house and asked his neighbor to turn up the stereo volume as loud as it could blare. When the man complained again, Gill pulled his snub-nose from the mini-holster on his ankle and left him with a final warning, "You call my station on a Friday night ever again and I'm gonna run you up for calling in false reports. I might even find you resisting arrest and if I'm in a pissy mood, you might become violent and I might be authorized to use deadly force to subdue you."

In time, the small population of Shelbyville learned not to disturb the sheriff on Friday night unless it was a dire emergency. Nothing put Gill in a fouler mood than interruptions during the game. Nothing except losing.

On the night of April 12, over two full years before James Hall arrived in Ithica, Gill Gaddis played the worst night of poker in his life. By eleven o'clock, he was down forty-two bucks without much hope of getting it back. It was the worst thrashing he'd ever suffered at the hands of his deputies and he boiled like a kettle ready to explode. That's when a scrawny kid stumbled through the courthouse doors, blood leaking from his broken nose.