The Bad Shit
Daniel Davis
Jimi shoved shells into the shotgun, thinking how it was all a matter of principle. You respected what a man had and didn't try to take it. How fucking hard was it to leave well enough alone? You didn't steal branded livestock, and you didn't steal a woman with a ring on her finger.
To Jimi, the analogy was apt. His ancestors had driven cattle across the Midwest, and he grew up on his grandfather's stories about his grandfather. About the hard days and endless nights, the storms that came out of nowhere, the ball lightning that could ignite a stampede. The threat of cattle thieves and what was done to them when they were caught.
Real men had their own sense of justice. Right and wrong were not subjective, and a man with a clear moral conscience had no trouble distinguishing between the two. There was no law for this. If he did nothing, the son of a bitch would go unpunished. How was that just?
A noise came from the back of the house. Sounded like the squeak of the bedroom closet. Jimi closed his eyes and clenched his fists tight around the shotgun. His knuckles were red mostly with rage, but there were speckles of blood on his right hand.
"Don’t you fucking go nowhere," he hollered back.
The noise stopped.
Jimi slipped on his sun-faded Cardinals cap and stepped outside. Slammed the door behind him. Hard. Walked down the porch steps and stood in the misty rain that seemed to hang in the air. He took off his cap and let the water soak his greasy dark curls, sluice down his cheeks into the beard he'd been trying to grow. Early May and the rain was cool on his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat burning its way through his veins like some living thing. It hadn't taken him long to get used to the sensation that he wasn't alone in his own skin. Dwight, who'd started him on the junk, told him he'd come to like it. Jimi had learned that, when it came to drugs, there wasn't nothing Dwight didn't know.
He put the hat back on and climbed into his truck. Got it started on the second try and backed out of the driveway. His vision was blurry, so he rubbed his eyes vigorously. When he pulled his hands away, he could see as clearly as he ever had in his life. Could make out each miniscule raindrop as it burst on the windshield. Clarity so sharp it almost hurt. This was the addiction, fiercer than nicotine, more powerful than cocaine. You could live without the drug itself; the problem was, there wasn't anything else in the world could make a man feel this way. So alive. As though he spent his few sober hours in another, lesser world.
Jimi drove, scratching absently at the needle marks and recessed veins hidden by his jeans. Shotgun jostling in the passenger foot well, barrel up. Headlights piercing the darkness before him like Indian scouts navigating untouched terrain. He belonged in another time. There was no frontier left. The open country was just an illusion. No matter where you stood in this state, you couldn't be more than fifty miles from civilization. And civilization meant the law. Assholes with badges who liked to throw their weight around. Act like they were better than everyone. Take what wasn't theirs because they thought they were privileged.
Jimi had a plan. It'd all come to him all at once, maybe twenty minutes ago, but with his mind as focused as it was, he knew it would work. He'd do what he needed to tonight. Call up Dwight, get the name of someone reliable out west. Montana, Wyoming, maybe down in Texas. Someplace with enough room for a man to breathe. And he'd haul his whore of a wife with him. Teach her the meaning of trust. Loyalty. Frontier justice.
He wasn't meant for this place. That was the problem. This place could drag a man down. They called this the Midwest but it really wasn’t. More like the South; people flew Confederate flags, knew the words to every damn Lynyrd Skynyrd song. Spoke with a fucking accent that was once fake but had been passed through enough generations so that it became authentic. Jimi couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand all these fake people who didn't even know they were fake. His whore of a wife was one of them. He was one of them. He'd been born into this shit hole, had been able to see through it his entire life but he was still from it. Still felt it inside him, next to the fire, beneath it. Couldn’t shake it because it was like a birthmark. Always there. He just tried to hide it, but he could see now how it had always tailored his life. Led him to the junk. To Kayla.
He'd met her in high school. They had a thing back then; he wasn't sure what you'd call it. Hand jobs under the bleachers during football games, making out in the lunchroom until a teacher told them to stop. Then they broke it off, because that's what you do when you're young. The spark was gone, to be ignited with other lovers. But neither of them left town. Jimi dropped out and got a job as a mechanic at the car dealership; Kayla worked a steady stream of fast food jobs until she became a night manager. Reasons enough for them to stay. It rarely took much.
They found each other again some random night at the bar, in their late twenties. Got drunk, went back to his place, fucked. Decided they liked it enough to do it again. They did it until she got pregnant, and he asked her to marry him because that's what you did. Then she went out and had the abortion without telling him, but what was he gonna do about it, divorce her and have to explain to his buddies why? Besides, it's not like he'd wanted to be a dad. Kids were iron weights that drug you under the surface of life and didn't let you up for breath. Parenthood was a prison, and Jimi knew enough about being behind bars to know he couldn't live like that.
And of course it had all gone to shit. That's what happened in this country when you worked hard for something—some entitled prick took it away from you. You had to look out for yourself and what was yours.
That's what this was. They would call it murder but of course they would; no one accepted responsibility for their own crimes, did they? Fuck no. This was self-defense. Jimi could see that as clearly as he could the road before him and the raindrops breaking around his truck. His ancestors had stood up for themselves just like this. Didn't let anybody fuck with them. Everyone would say what he was doing was wrong, but Jimi knew better. He was only doing what a man should do.
He could feel the road beneath him. Hard, unyielding asphalt, pockmarked by holes and cracks and road kill and the litter that accumulates when people pass through. Every little vibration rumbled through his bones and into his brain, which was already aflutter as synapses clicked and thoughts flowed one to another. Bloody thoughts but clear, sensible. Organic, almost, like this was what was supposed to happen. A man stands up for himself and what's his. You stake your claim and by God you defend it.
Everybody wanted what you had. Fact of life Jimi learned early, the back of his old man's hand a stern educator. And that's what they would say, right? That's why he was the way he was. Parental abuse. Explains everything. Bullshit. Sixteen years old, he'd been big enough to defend himself. Punched his father square in the face, never had to deal with him again. You don't take shit. You give it.
Like this. Like now. Fire in his veins, his blood aflame like he was a phoenix arisen from the ashes. Purpose. The junk gave him purpose. Or let him see it, highlighted what had otherwise been hidden in shadow. He owed Dwight a debt but didn't like to think of it that way. Liked to think of it as fate, this was meant to be, gonna happen one way or the other. Jimi was a big believer in destiny. Nothing just happened. One thing led to another which led to another. A chain of events which sometimes stretched back generations. He smiled at the thought. The lawman getting a face full of buckshot all because Jimi's ancestors had been hard men of the land who knew right from wrong and passed the knowledge down their bloodline like a righteous inheritance.
Jimi sensed it coming before it hit him, such was the power of his senses. He could feel it, a bend in reality, a new presence in the world that refused to be ignored, that couldn't be ignored. And for the brief moment he had, he was in awe of this interloper, his plans and troubles forgotten in a heartbeat. His world overcome with the glorious light of epiphany.
Then the crash. The screech of metal on metal, the thunderous roar of two manmade beasts colliding in combat. The universe shook; the air sparkled with shattered glass suspended in headlight glow. Jimi's brain spun in his skull; the warmth in his veins intensified, and he felt no pain or confusion, only a mild form of surprise.
Two things happened almost simultaneously, except one occurred slightly before the other. First, the shotgun fell away from the impact, towards Jimi. The stock collided with the console between them and the gun fired. Jimi, already falling into and through the driver's side door, took a spray of buckshot along his right arm and the side of his face. Then he was out of the truck and rolling across the pavement, bucked from his own trusted steed. No greater dishonor for a man.
The world did not descend immediately into silence when the collision came to a halt. Glass tinkled to the pavement. Oil leaked in a steady, assured patter. From beyond the intersection, the beginnings of commotion: doors opening, voices starting to raise in concern. A click coming from the other vehicle.
Jimi rolled onto his back. He could feel a dull ache somewhere deep in his muscles, and the right side of his face felt wrong. He pushed himself up too quickly; the clarity he had been enjoying vanished instantly, and the world was a red and blurry mess. He screamed at the sudden change, enraged. The heat coiled in his body and gave him the strength to stand.
What he saw was this: his truck, with another, smaller truck sticking out the passenger side. Like a wart. Or a cancer. The engine of his truck was certainly dead; it barely clung to life on a good day. The other truck was still running, and this pissed him off more than anything else. Wasn't fucking fair. His truck was bigger. The other guy hit him. It wasn't right, and if Jimi was in a mood for anything, it was to make shit right.
He limped towards the vehicles, unaware that his left arm hung at a new angle. He saw the barrel of the shotgun laying across the driver's seat and he grabbed it, curses spilling out of his mouth in a monosyllabic rant that slowly became intelligible. He didn't feel the burn of the barrel in his hand. He felt rage.
"Fucker," he said, not quite aware that he was speaking. "Stupid dumb cocksucking fucker."
He rounded his truck and saw the son of a bitch leaning against his own ride. Little man, sanded down by age and junk. Fucking Sleeman, a goddamn junkie if ever a goddamn junkie shat himself, a junkie whom even other junkies made fun of. Little pathetic fucking Sleeman.
"You son of a bitch," Jimi said, raising the shotgun by its barrel. "Look what you fucking did you little—"
A serious of small pops. A new pressure in his chest. Jimi blinked. Saw the junkie's arm extended towards him. Saw the muzzle blasts after they'd already happened, like he was living life a second out of sync.
"Fuck?" he said, and he was on his back now, the sky in front of him. Couldn't breathe. Never felt that before. He thought about his great-great grandfather's day. No one ever had trouble breathing then. Not with all that space.
He closed his eyes and let his mind drift westward. The fire that had coursed through his body now spilled out onto the pavement, leaving Jimi deflated, hollow. But he didn't care. Out there, without another soul for miles and nothing but sun and blue above you, it was hard to give a damn about something so meaningless as dying.
*
In the jungle, Sleeman had seen women and children burned alive. Watched as their bodies writhed in Technicolor. He had not set them afire, but somewhere in the subsequent forty years, he forgot this fact. Not every night but almost every night, so many nights it seemed like every night, he saw them. Them and other things, some he could still identify, some that had been lost to conscious memory, and some that had never existed.
Nothing made it go away. He'd had enough time to figure that much out. Not the therapist he saw after he was discharged. Not either of his wives. Not drugs, prescription or otherwise. Couldn't be done. Had to accept this. Embrace it. Didn't have to like it.
There were ways to cope, though. Ways to get through the day without a little extra lead in your diet. Substances you put in your system that didn't take away the pain, but made you not care about it. You couldn't stop the pain and you couldn't ignore the pain, but you could stop thinking about it.
Sleeman hadn't been thinking about the pain for fifteen years. Started shortly before his second divorce. She said he would scream sometimes at night. Said she started sharing his nightmares. Said he didn't have the right to force that on anyone, least of all her.
When she left, he called up an old friend from the war. Asked him how he did it.
"Morphine," his friend had said.
Morphine wasn't easy to come by back then, not in rural downstate Illinois. Nowadays you could get anything if you knew who to ask. At first, Sleeman had to drive up to Springfield once or twice a week. Hard to keep a steady job that way, so he quit and rented an apartment in the worst neighborhood he found. Made it three years before a bullet in the shoulder convinced him to move back home. Besides, by then the morphine wasn't working. By then, there was other stuff.
Sleeman hadn't always been a fool. He had once known exactly what he was putting into his body, and how it would most likely shorten his lifespan. He just hadn't cared. He'd weighed the outcomes and chosen the path most preferable. Most people couldn't understand or handle his choices. He had none of the same friends now as he'd had before, if he even had any at all, which he wasn't always sure of. He hadn't seen his daughter in some number of years, though he couldn't remember exactly how long it'd been.
A man like Sleeman, a man who just didn't care, could get by a lot easier than most people. You didn't need a job to survive in America. You just lowered your standards. Took work when it was available. Stole when it wasn't. The deeper into the jungle Sleeman crept, the smaller and thinner he became. Didn't need as much food. Didn't exert as much energy. Dwight, who'd only come along in the past few years but knew more about this than Sleeman ever could, called it the Science of Shit. "Your body accommodates," Dwight said. "The dope becomes your fuel. You don't need as much of it as you do food and calories and shit. It's like going from a diesel to a fucking Prius. And yeah, nobody likes a Prius, but you know what? It runs just fine and does exactly what it needs to do. Same with a junkie. Nobody likes 'em, and they ain't exactly models of humanity, but they get by doing what they need to do."
What Sleeman needed to do that night was refuel. There was a period of blackness in his life, maybe forty-eight hours long, maybe longer. He could remember nothing, not where he went or what he did. When he came to that evening, the old ammo box he kept his junk in was mostly empty, save for a little weed so old he didn't even remember having it. He smoked the pot while he tore his trailer apart looking for the backup stash he kept for such instances. Wherever he'd put it, it hadn't been well enough hidden, because he found nothing.
He panicked for the first time in over a decade. A junkie's panic, blind and chaotic. He turned the trailer upside down a second time. Stepped out into the murky twilight beneath clouds threatening rain, crawled under the trailer amidst the roaches and black widows. Searched under the neighboring trailers. Mrs. Waters came out, stood on the steps yelling at him until he looked at her. Then she went scurrying back inside but he knew she wouldn't call the cops. No one in the park wanted the cops to come.
Sleeman slid into his truck. Too bleary-eyed to see the road clearly, he drove on instinct, the back way to Dwight's apartment that avoided any variables like stoplights. His internal clock, powered by hunger, timed the drive, let him know where the stop signs were. Little traffic on these roads—the part of town people avoided unless they lived there. Sleeman didn't even think about running into one of the squad cars that regularly patrolled the area. He didn't think about anything. He couldn't.
He pulled into Dwight's parking lot and stopped the truck in front of the dealer's unit. Ran up and began pounding on the door. Wood shook beneath his fists, threatening to crack. Tears of frustration streamed down Sleeman's face, though he was not aware of them.
The door to his right opened. A middle-aged black man with a scar down the left side of his face leaned out. Took in the junkie, t-shirt and blue jeans, bare feet tucked into rotting sneakers. Looked like he hadn't even heard of water.
"The fuck," the man said. "Nigga ain't home."
Sleeman didn' hear him. Kept pounding.
The man stepped out. "Man, you hear me? He ain't there."
The words finally got through. Sleeman turned and pulled up the front of his shirt to reveal his bare stomach. Skin drawn taught across his diaphragm. Ribs threatening to burst through.
The man laughed. "Dumbass, you ain't packin'. What the hell you on? Let me know so I don't ever take none."
Sleeman glanced down, frowning. He saw no gun but he could feel the cold metal pressed against his flesh. He glanced up at the man, who took a step forward, not laughing any more. Sleeman walked briskly to his truck and around the front. Leaned in and rummaged through the glove box, wrappers and napkins and receipts falling into the foot well. He pulled out the pistol and stepped out of the truck, but the man had gone back inside. Had maybe never been there, though Sleeman could usually tell when he made people up because he recognized them from back in the jungle.
He got in the truck and pulled out onto the road. What time was it? He looked at the clock on the dash but he hadn't changed it in so long he couldn't trust it. Getting dark out, though. Shouldn't have tried the apartment. Stupid. Dangerous. You don't find Dwight at home after dark. Everyone knew that. Dwight made you sure knew that. Made sure you knew if you went to his place after dark and he was there he'd put a gun in your face and maybe a hole in the back of your skull.
Sleeman had to take the main roads. He hunched over the wheel, squinting. Cars were indistinct but he could make out their shapes at least. Couldn't tell if any were cops, but the idea of getting caught didn't occur to him. Ceased to matter. Like the burning people whose flames he could feel against the back of his neck. Longer he went without a fix, the warmer and greedier they got. He needed to hide his shit better. He needed to buy enough so that he wouldn't run out again.
He made out the Bowery's neon sign up ahead. It cut right through his hazy consciousness. He pulled in, took a spot near the exit. Left his truck running. Slipped on the gravel. A fat man in a cowboy hat smoking by the door laughed at him. Sleeman brushed past and went inside.
Small bar. Barely brighter than outside. John Prine on the jukebox. Two men behind the bar staring at him, one of whom he'd served with, the other who was really there. Pool tables in the far corner, near the restroom. Dwight and two other men. Watching him.
Sleeman smoothed out his shirt and pants to calm himself. Walked casually across the room, bumping a table along the way. By the time he got there, the two men were snickering, and Dwight had a grin on his face like you saw on the Discovery Channel during Shark Week.
"Slee, man," Dwight said. "You are jonesin' hard, brotha."
Thinning black hair. Wearing someone else's letterman jacket. Black denim jeans too tight to be holding. One of the other two then, but Sleeman couldn't bring himself to look them in the eye. He thought he was supposed to know them.
"I gotta get some," Sleeman said. "Please. Whatever you got."
Dwight held up a hand. "No shit, Slee. A blind man could see that. Hell, even Henry here can see that, can't you, Henry."
"Needs junk like a virgin needs pussy," the man who must have been Henry said.
"Thank you," Dwight said. "What the fuck you know about pussy? When's last time you got a piece?"
"And not from your mother," the third man said.
"Ah fuck you," Henry said. "I got some last night, nigga. Wasn’t good but was good enough."
Sleeman shook his head. He didn't think any of the men were black but it was possible he just wasn't seeing them right, like the bartender who kept flickering in and out. The one Sleeman knew was actually there.
"Please," he said.
Dwight gestured at him. "Come on, Slee. You know the drill. Cash first, then the goods. But I gotta ask a question first." He leaned forward. "You a cop, Slee?"
Sleeman blinked as the men laughed.
Dwight shook his head. "Come on, man. No offense, but you smell like a shithouse in a pigsty in July. You gonna fork over some Andrew Jacksons or what?"
Sleeman reached for his wallet. Wasn't there. Patted his back pockets. Front pockets. Shirt. Shoes. Stared at the floor for a minute, then glanced up at Dwight, who was no longer smiling.
"Please?" Sleeman said.
"Get out," Dwight told him. "You come back when you got cash or you don't come back at all."
The man who wasn't Henry stepped forward, hand near his waist. His eyes said he wanted to lift the shirt and pull out the gun and put a junkie out of his misery.
Sleeman fled outside, crying openly. The fat cowboy laughed at him and Sleeman almost pulled the pistol and shot him but didn't. Instead, he searched his truck three times, as a soft rain began to fall. Then he climbed in and sat behind the wheel for a bit. Thought of going in and getting it at gunpoint. But he'd never get anything else from Dwight, except maybe a bullet. If he died, then the burning people would get him. He'd lost much of his childhood to the fog squeezing his brain, but he remembered the images of Hell instilled in him at Bible school. He would never be able to forget those no matter how hard he tried.
He pulled onto the road and prayed his body would make it home. Prayed that he wouldn't have to go to Mrs. Waters' trailer and pull her out and take the Oxy he knew she kept in the bathroom cabinet. She might actually call the cops then and Sleeman wouldn't be able to get a fix in lockup.
So he headed in the direction he thought was home even though he could barely see. Truck knew its way home, he told himself. His need knew the way home. The Science of Shit. He'd get there because he needed to get there, and his wallet would be there because he needed it to be there. Things worked themselves out that way. He just had to let them happen.
Sleeman was smiling when he ran the intersection. As close to peaceful as his need would let him get. He might have even had his eyes closed; he couldn't necessarily tell. All he knew was that one moment he was moving, and the next he wasn't.
The world cracked and disappeared. His head swam; he saw unconsciousness approaching, a glowing red beast against the darkness behind his eyes. It seemed to dance; as he stared at it, it began to twist and grow and he saw the form taking shape, feminine and angry, and he reared back in his seat and screamed.
Eyes snapped open. All he saw was white. His arms flailed, hit the soft, yielding surface. The airbag, he understood, but this didn't calm him down. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and put it against the airbag and fired. The cloth wilted. His ears rang.
Sleeman opened the door and fell to the pavement. Pushed himself up and fell against the side of the truck. His face hurt. His chest hurt. A sharp, clear pain, so unlike his hunger, which defied definitions and dimensions. This new pain, he could see it, he could prop himself up against it. It was real in a way nothing else appeared to be. How much of his life, of his reality, only existed in his head? Was he even here? Was this even happening? Was he still out there, in the jungle, in some cage maybe, covered in dirt and worms and his own filth? Had the past four decades only been in his head? Was his need not the hunger for junk but the craving for escape, for clean air and cheeseburgers and people who didn't want him dead?
A voice called to him. Commanding. He lifted his head and turned. A scream caught in the back of his throat and choked him. He thought of Jesus and the burning bush. He thought of an oil well afire. A crack into hell right there in the middle of the street and the Devil reaching a giant finger through to touch the world and drag one hapless junkie down.
Sleeman raised the gun and fired. The flames flashed brighter when the bullets hit and Sleeman closed his eyes against the glare. The pistol barked in his hand. A keening hum came from deep inside of him. He felt a wave of heat crash against him, searing his nostrils and eyelids, and he turned his face away as he realized, distantly, the gun was clicking empty.
The heat passed and Sleeman opened his eyes. The night was dark and still. The fire had vanished, the crack in the earth sealed. In its place lay the prone body of a man. Shaking, Sleeman approached. He expected to see how horns, a tail, but instead it was just a man like any other, maybe thinner than most but in every other way unexceptional. Sleeman tapped the man with his foot to make sure the body was real.
He started to go back to his truck, then stopped. His mouth twisted into what was meant to be a smile. He knelt next to the body and felt around until he found the wallet. Pulled it out and looked inside. Several bills, enough to get him through the night. He slipped the wallet into his pocket. He thought he may have laughed as he did so.
Back in his truck, he ignored the people who were starting to gather and pulled away. Heard a few of them yelling at him. Their voices seemed encouraging. Maybe they'd seen what he'd done. Put down the flaming demon. He was grateful it hadn't been one of the burning people from the jungle. He didn't think they would tolerate one of their own dying again. Thought maybe they would come for him all at once and drag him back. But the cash in his pocket was an amulet. A shield. He drove with a smile. A purpose. He could feel the money burning in his pocket, but this burn he enjoyed.
*
Murphy took the call but Davidson was the first on the scene, holding back the curious citizens in their pajamas and summer evening garments who had gathered to gawk despite the rain. Murphy scanned the crowd with something like contempt, knowing if he didn't have the uniform he would probably be among them. Not a damn thing else to do in town.
Davidson waived him over and said, "Some show, huh?"
Murphy nodded. "Hit and run?"
"With a side of two in the chest."
"Someone was shot?"
"The stiff. Other guy got away. Drove off. I wouldn't believe it except I don't think this guy was hit by an invisible car."
Murphy craned over the other officer's shoulders. "I.D. on the perp or victim?"
"I wouldn't go calling him a victim just yet. The twelve-gauge is his. Looks like he managed to shoot himself with it. And I looked in his truck. He's got some bad shit in there, man. He was running on all kinds of powder."
"Coke?"
"And heroin. I had to guess, it's that Hoosier H shit they told us was coming across the border." Davidson shook his head. "Look. Go tell me who it is, will ya? Ain't got a wallet on him, and I swear I know who it is."
Murphy walked over to the body. He tried to put the scene together in his head. Someone ran the intersection. T-boned the truck. Neither individual too injured not to pull out their guns and shoot it out. The winner took off. Murphy had been on the force for just over two years, and he'd spent all but a couple of the prior years in the county. Shooting deaths were rare but they happened, but not right in the open like this. He figured something else had to be involved. Collisions such as these usually resulted in lawsuits, not gunfights.
Rain had kept the blood around the corpse from congealing. Murphy watched his footing and leaned closer. Two holes in the chest, several inches from each other. A scuff on the pavement that may have been from a bullet. The perp was shooting wild, panicked maybe. Probably a lucky thing no one else was hurt.
Murphy's eyes moved up to the man's face, the right side stitched with buckshot. Even with the new landscaping, Murphy recognized him. Leaning forward, his stomach cramped and he felt the sudden urge to vomit. His legs went numb and the inside of his mouth tingled. He closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, trying not to think of anything.
He straightened when he heard footsteps. Davidson said, "You okay there, Murf?"
Murphy nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, something I ate." He pointed at the body. "Jimi Paxton."
"Shit, I knew that." Davidson shrugged. "I wonder if anyone will even bother going to his funeral. His wife, maybe."
Ambulance sirens began to drift towards them. Another squad car, too. Murphy couldn't remember who the third officer on duty was. He tried to swallow the cotton ball feeling in his mouth. His hands were trembling.
"We probably need to wake the Chief for this," Davidson said. "But I really don't want to."
"I'll do it," Murphy said, maybe a little too quickly because Davidson looked at him. Murphy forced his voice to be calm and added, "You'll owe me one."
Davidson grinned. "Assuming he doesn't put you in the morgue next to this guy."
Murphy wandered back to his cruiser and pulled out his cell. Dialed the number and closed his eyes, listening to the ring. Some piece of classical music, courtesy of the wireless provider. Three rings, four. The rain felt like sweat on his face. He shifted his weight. Maybe the house phone?
After several more rings, right before the voicemail would have kicked in, she answered.
Murphy waited for her to speak, but the seconds stretched and the only thing he heard was her breathing.
"Kayla?"
A strained sound on the other end. Then she said, "It's really you."
"Kayla? Are you all right?"
"You're alive."
It'd been a week since he'd told her they should stop seeing each other. His wife was catching on. Maybe not the who, but possibly the what. The marriage came first; he'd struggled to get Kayla to see this, how much the marriage meant to him, the promises made. He was her escape, he knew, her window to a world filled not with violence but tenderness. She needed him, or what he offered, and he should've known that she wouldn't let him go without a fight.
He sighed and said, "Listen, this is important, okay? Please don't argue. This isn't the time."
"I thought you were dead," she said. "I never thought I'd see you again. He was so angry…"
She trailed off. He listened to her voice. Sounded as though she was struggling to speak. The edges of her words rounded soft. Despite what he'd tried not to feel, Murphy gripped the phone tighter and said, "Kayla? Are you using again?"
Her response was muffled. Then she said, "Sonya gave it to me. For the pain."
Sonya? Murphy hadn't met Kayla's neighbor, just seen her when he drove by. She hadn't struck him as a junkie but wasn't that the whole problem? These days you couldn't always tell.
"Christ," he said. He wanted to yell at her but thought it would only make things worse. And it wasn't his place anymore, right? He'd pushed himself away. Exiled himself from whatever feelings he'd had for her. Choices you don't go back on.
"There's been an accident," he said, his tone more brusque than he'd intended it to be. "Jimi's dead, Kayla. He's been shot."
"You shot him instead?" He could hear her smile, even through the drugs. "That's sweet."
Instead? Instead of whom? Or what? He couldn't talk to junkies. Some officers, like Davidson, had a knack for it, a natural patience borne from amusement. Murphy only felt disgust. Couldn't understand why someone would rot their soul for a high. He hadn't known Kayla when she'd been using; she'd told him about it once, wide brushstrokes with no detail, though she did say that Jimi gave her hell for going into rehab. Murphy had always admired her resolve, though he couldn’t see why she'd stayed with her husband after she got clean. Maybe the cocaine hadn't been her only addiction.
"Someone's gonna come to tell you," he said, gritting his teeth. "You should try to clean up. And don't act like you already know." He paused. "Don't act happy, either."
"I am happy," she said, her voice a whisper now. "I'm happy you're not dead."
He hung up before she could disappear completely. Stood for a moment with his eyes closed, stomach fluttering. Not his fault. Not his decision. Maybe the death of her husband would give her a reason to quit again. Make up for his abandonment. He could hope.
Murphy gathered himself and quickly dialed the Chief's house. The old man mumbled something vaguely threatening, but said he would be on the scene within the hour. Murphy hung up and walked back over to the truck.
Davidson whistled when he returned. "He really gave it to ya, huh?"
"I've had worse. Did anyone see anything?"
"The wreck itself, no. Everything after that, yeah." Davidson flipped through his notes. "Dark-colored two-door pickup. Red, blue, green, brown, take your pick. Definitely not white. No license plate number, because God forbid this shit should be easy. No I.D. on the driver, couple people said he was small and looked like he was sick. Coulda been the crash, of course. No hair color or any other physical descriptors. No one wanted to get too close and I can't blame 'em."
"They see where he went?"
Davidson gestured. "That way. Bastard turned around and went back the way he came. Guess he forgot something."
The third cruiser pulled up. Murphy said, "You two secure the scene, will you? I'm gonna backtrack. He couldn't have gotten far unless he was driving a tank."
Davidson frowned but didn't argue. Murphy was lucky Davidson had shown up before the third officer, Carver it looked like, who had seniority over Murphy. Davidson, only a year into the job, couldn't argue.
Murphy ducked out before Carver could stop him. Drove a couple blocks down to avoid the crowd. He wasn't sure why he wanted to find this guy. He didn't owe Kayla anything, let alone her piece of shit husband. No reason he needed closure like he did. He should just put in his hours, then go home and make things up with Colleen. Save his marriage. Wasn't that what he'd told Kayla he would do?
It was still fairly early; there was enough traffic so that one individual vehicle didn't stand out. Murphy focused solely on trucks, but even that didn't help; half the damn county drove a pickup. He kept one eye on the pavement, looking for glass or oil reflected in the headlights. Unprofessional as hell, and not exactly his job description, but he felt the urge to move, do something, not just turn away rubberneckers.
The homes gave way to businesses, and Murphy pulled into each parking lot and did a search. He was stretching the limits of what he thought the perp's truck was capable of when he spotted the Bowery. Something clicked in his brain. Jimi Paxton arrested there one night for a bar fight. Stories about dealing going on but no proof. Couldn't shut a place down without evidence. Knowing and proving were two different things; one was easy, the other impossible unless someone talked, and the regulars loved the place too much to do that. Needed it too bad.
Murphy saw the truck from the road. Dark red Chevy S-10, its front end a crumpled shadow of what it had once been. Murphy parked behind it and turned on the flashers. Either the man was laying down in the seats, or the truck was empty.
Murphy radioed it in then stepped out of his car, unlatching the strap on his holster. Scanned the parking lot for movement. Only four cars, but dimly lit. He didn't see anyone.
The Bowery's windows were covered with decorative shutters. No windows in back or along the sides. Murphy knew he should wait for backup, but if the shooter realized there was a cop outside, he might bolt out the back door. Murphy had to—wanted to—do this now.
He did a quick search of the truck. Registered to Angus Sleeman, a frequenter of the drunk tank and county lockup. Vietnam vet who'd turned to dope instead of therapy. Murphy had no sympathy for those who used their past to justify their present. Everything became an excuse eventually. It was a choice: do things the right way or the wrong way. The consequences thereafter were solely upon them.
Murphy took a breath and stepped into the Bowery. The place hadn't changed since he'd first visited as a teenager. Dim, recessed lighting gave the place a moldy feel, as though the bar were located in a cave. The men's restroom had a trowel instead of toilets or urinals; the women's restroom wasn't much better. The beer was cheap and you got what you paid for, over the counter and under it. A lot of DUI's, domestic disturbances, and damaged vehicles and property had gotten their start at the Bowery. The place was a black mark on the county, but one which could not be easily removed. There were always places like his, pit stains where the grime of humanity gathered to do business and beat one another senseless. That didn't make it right—Murphy's skin crawled just looking at the place—but there wasn't anything anyone could do about it.
The spontaneity of his appearance saved his life. It took him a moment to register the scene—three men on the ground, two of whom weren't moving, and a fourth leaning against a pool table. Murphy placed him immediately, a local dealer whose name he couldn't remember but who'd seen the inside of county lock up plenty of times. Murphy also recognized the Glock 19 in the man's hand, and what it was capable of.
The man staggered in surprise, one hand on his side, blood seeping through his fingers. Murphy yelled, "Police!" as the gun came up. The dealer acknowledged him by pulling the trigger. The bullet went wild as Murphy dropped behind the nearest table, drawing his piece. Fired three shots blindly, unable to breathe, incapable of strategizing. Running purely on instinct and the will to live.
Murphy hunkered down near the floor, waiting for return fire, but none came. He opened his eyes and peered through the rows of tables. The man was on the ground, sprawled against the pool table. Twitching, like a fish on a riverbank. Murphy watched him for a minute, then walked over and kicked the gun away. Made sure all weapons were beyond the reach of both the living and the dead.
A sudden sound made him spin and raise his gun. Finger reaching for the trigger even as he made out the figure of the bartender, arms in the air. Murphy caught his breath, stood still for a moment, then lowered the weapon.
"Call 911," he said.
The Chief himself showed up a while later. Murphy gave him a brief statement, then sat and watched the paramedics work. He tried to think of how he would explain this to Colleen. It'd only taken five seconds at most; he couldn't justify that. The sudden violence, the certainty that he was going to die. Over and done in a period of time most people took for granted, never even noticed passing. It left him numb; his brain felt hollow, as though his thoughts were drifting around in a vacuum. He didn't know how he could explain this to his wife, but he thought Kayla might understand, and not just because she was in a state right then to be receptive to new philosophical concepts. Her life had built differently, structured in a way that led her to take the world as it came.
The Chief came over and put a hand on Murphy's shoulder. "Go home, son," he said, his voice kinder than usual. "Sheriff's Department is sending a detective over. You go home, let that wife of yours take care of you like she swore to do. Get some rest."
Murphy nodded, unable to find the words to argue. On the drive home, he weighed his life choices. This wasn’t the first time he'd doubted his chosen career, but it was the first time he'd been shot at, the closest he'd come to dying. Or killing someone. The dealer, Dwight Walsh, was in critical condition; Murphy might wake up the next morning and discover he'd taken a man's life. You think you accept it signing up, getting the badge and the gun, but until you're put in the actual position, you don't know squat. Until the real thing, you're just play-acting, and Murphy had been doing his own one-man show for most of his life.
At a red light, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Doubt was inevitable, he told himself, but at least he knew he could get through this. He could get shot at without getting hit. Defend himself. He had gone through the fire, and though it had singed him, he'd made it out the other side. Not everyone could say that. Jimi Paxton couldn't say that. He'd thought he'd been able to, but two thirty-eights in the chest said otherwise.
Murphy pulled into his driveway and saw their bedroom light was on. He glanced at the clock. She should've been in bed by then. Maybe she'd heard about the night's action and had stayed up, waiting. She wouldn't have called him; she never did when he was on duty. But she probably would've tried the station, to get news. Maybe a third-party report of his good health hadn't been enough to sustain her.
He went in through the garage. Took off his holster and set it on the kitchen table. Called out his wife's name and waited for a response. She didn't reply.
So. Not concern then. The other thing. Murphy sighed. Accepted defeat. He would explain it to her, the night's events, Kayla. Everything. He just wished he could tell her why he'd done it. The one thing she would most want to know, and he had nothing to tell her. She wouldn't believe him, but there it was. He didn't know why he'd had an affair. Case closed.
"Colleen," he said, as he approached the bedroom. Listening for some sign of her mood, would she forgive him, would she leave him. The thought of the latter sent chills down his spine, in a way even the gunfire hadn't. Stupid to put so much emphasis on saving the marriage after he'd been the one to test it; he could see why Kayla had been so upset. She'd seen his ignorance and he hadn't. But that was over. Save the marriage. That's what mattered.
"I think we should talk," he said, stepping into the bedroom, but his words were interrupted by the sharp crack of a gunshot, and there was a small fire low down in his chest, something burning, worming further inside of him, as though someone held a lit cigarette against his skin, pushing deeper. He stood still for a moment, confused, almost on the verge of laugher because what the hell was going on, then his knees crumpled and he fell back against the hallway wall, sliding to the floor in a slow heap.
He looked up and saw his wife standing in the doorway, a gun in her hand, her arm slowly raising, the barrel turning from him to herself. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again she was on the floor, only her feet visible. Murphy opened his mouth to say her name, ask if she was okay, ask if there was maybe a misunderstanding or maybe she'd like to hear a good joke, but something warm and wet came out instead. He thought again of the blood flowing through the dealer's fingers before the shootout, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine why that scene came into his head just then.
His eyes closed of their own accord, and he didn't notice when he fell onto his side, head bouncing off the hardwood floor. He should have called Kayla first. Gotten her the help she needed. Talked her sober. Should have told his wife, too, sooner. Should have stayed at the wreck, not gone looking for the junkie who didn't mean shit anymore. So many things he should have or shouldn't have done, an entire lifetime's worth crammed inside his head all at once. And yet, all he could think of was how, at the bar, time had moved so quickly, bang-bang the speed of a bullet, and how now the moment seemed frozen in place. Sightless and dark and warm. He knew, deep down in the place where men know real truths, that this moment would never end.
To Jimi, the analogy was apt. His ancestors had driven cattle across the Midwest, and he grew up on his grandfather's stories about his grandfather. About the hard days and endless nights, the storms that came out of nowhere, the ball lightning that could ignite a stampede. The threat of cattle thieves and what was done to them when they were caught.
Real men had their own sense of justice. Right and wrong were not subjective, and a man with a clear moral conscience had no trouble distinguishing between the two. There was no law for this. If he did nothing, the son of a bitch would go unpunished. How was that just?
A noise came from the back of the house. Sounded like the squeak of the bedroom closet. Jimi closed his eyes and clenched his fists tight around the shotgun. His knuckles were red mostly with rage, but there were speckles of blood on his right hand.
"Don’t you fucking go nowhere," he hollered back.
The noise stopped.
Jimi slipped on his sun-faded Cardinals cap and stepped outside. Slammed the door behind him. Hard. Walked down the porch steps and stood in the misty rain that seemed to hang in the air. He took off his cap and let the water soak his greasy dark curls, sluice down his cheeks into the beard he'd been trying to grow. Early May and the rain was cool on his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat burning its way through his veins like some living thing. It hadn't taken him long to get used to the sensation that he wasn't alone in his own skin. Dwight, who'd started him on the junk, told him he'd come to like it. Jimi had learned that, when it came to drugs, there wasn't nothing Dwight didn't know.
He put the hat back on and climbed into his truck. Got it started on the second try and backed out of the driveway. His vision was blurry, so he rubbed his eyes vigorously. When he pulled his hands away, he could see as clearly as he ever had in his life. Could make out each miniscule raindrop as it burst on the windshield. Clarity so sharp it almost hurt. This was the addiction, fiercer than nicotine, more powerful than cocaine. You could live without the drug itself; the problem was, there wasn't anything else in the world could make a man feel this way. So alive. As though he spent his few sober hours in another, lesser world.
Jimi drove, scratching absently at the needle marks and recessed veins hidden by his jeans. Shotgun jostling in the passenger foot well, barrel up. Headlights piercing the darkness before him like Indian scouts navigating untouched terrain. He belonged in another time. There was no frontier left. The open country was just an illusion. No matter where you stood in this state, you couldn't be more than fifty miles from civilization. And civilization meant the law. Assholes with badges who liked to throw their weight around. Act like they were better than everyone. Take what wasn't theirs because they thought they were privileged.
Jimi had a plan. It'd all come to him all at once, maybe twenty minutes ago, but with his mind as focused as it was, he knew it would work. He'd do what he needed to tonight. Call up Dwight, get the name of someone reliable out west. Montana, Wyoming, maybe down in Texas. Someplace with enough room for a man to breathe. And he'd haul his whore of a wife with him. Teach her the meaning of trust. Loyalty. Frontier justice.
He wasn't meant for this place. That was the problem. This place could drag a man down. They called this the Midwest but it really wasn’t. More like the South; people flew Confederate flags, knew the words to every damn Lynyrd Skynyrd song. Spoke with a fucking accent that was once fake but had been passed through enough generations so that it became authentic. Jimi couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand all these fake people who didn't even know they were fake. His whore of a wife was one of them. He was one of them. He'd been born into this shit hole, had been able to see through it his entire life but he was still from it. Still felt it inside him, next to the fire, beneath it. Couldn’t shake it because it was like a birthmark. Always there. He just tried to hide it, but he could see now how it had always tailored his life. Led him to the junk. To Kayla.
He'd met her in high school. They had a thing back then; he wasn't sure what you'd call it. Hand jobs under the bleachers during football games, making out in the lunchroom until a teacher told them to stop. Then they broke it off, because that's what you do when you're young. The spark was gone, to be ignited with other lovers. But neither of them left town. Jimi dropped out and got a job as a mechanic at the car dealership; Kayla worked a steady stream of fast food jobs until she became a night manager. Reasons enough for them to stay. It rarely took much.
They found each other again some random night at the bar, in their late twenties. Got drunk, went back to his place, fucked. Decided they liked it enough to do it again. They did it until she got pregnant, and he asked her to marry him because that's what you did. Then she went out and had the abortion without telling him, but what was he gonna do about it, divorce her and have to explain to his buddies why? Besides, it's not like he'd wanted to be a dad. Kids were iron weights that drug you under the surface of life and didn't let you up for breath. Parenthood was a prison, and Jimi knew enough about being behind bars to know he couldn't live like that.
And of course it had all gone to shit. That's what happened in this country when you worked hard for something—some entitled prick took it away from you. You had to look out for yourself and what was yours.
That's what this was. They would call it murder but of course they would; no one accepted responsibility for their own crimes, did they? Fuck no. This was self-defense. Jimi could see that as clearly as he could the road before him and the raindrops breaking around his truck. His ancestors had stood up for themselves just like this. Didn't let anybody fuck with them. Everyone would say what he was doing was wrong, but Jimi knew better. He was only doing what a man should do.
He could feel the road beneath him. Hard, unyielding asphalt, pockmarked by holes and cracks and road kill and the litter that accumulates when people pass through. Every little vibration rumbled through his bones and into his brain, which was already aflutter as synapses clicked and thoughts flowed one to another. Bloody thoughts but clear, sensible. Organic, almost, like this was what was supposed to happen. A man stands up for himself and what's his. You stake your claim and by God you defend it.
Everybody wanted what you had. Fact of life Jimi learned early, the back of his old man's hand a stern educator. And that's what they would say, right? That's why he was the way he was. Parental abuse. Explains everything. Bullshit. Sixteen years old, he'd been big enough to defend himself. Punched his father square in the face, never had to deal with him again. You don't take shit. You give it.
Like this. Like now. Fire in his veins, his blood aflame like he was a phoenix arisen from the ashes. Purpose. The junk gave him purpose. Or let him see it, highlighted what had otherwise been hidden in shadow. He owed Dwight a debt but didn't like to think of it that way. Liked to think of it as fate, this was meant to be, gonna happen one way or the other. Jimi was a big believer in destiny. Nothing just happened. One thing led to another which led to another. A chain of events which sometimes stretched back generations. He smiled at the thought. The lawman getting a face full of buckshot all because Jimi's ancestors had been hard men of the land who knew right from wrong and passed the knowledge down their bloodline like a righteous inheritance.
Jimi sensed it coming before it hit him, such was the power of his senses. He could feel it, a bend in reality, a new presence in the world that refused to be ignored, that couldn't be ignored. And for the brief moment he had, he was in awe of this interloper, his plans and troubles forgotten in a heartbeat. His world overcome with the glorious light of epiphany.
Then the crash. The screech of metal on metal, the thunderous roar of two manmade beasts colliding in combat. The universe shook; the air sparkled with shattered glass suspended in headlight glow. Jimi's brain spun in his skull; the warmth in his veins intensified, and he felt no pain or confusion, only a mild form of surprise.
Two things happened almost simultaneously, except one occurred slightly before the other. First, the shotgun fell away from the impact, towards Jimi. The stock collided with the console between them and the gun fired. Jimi, already falling into and through the driver's side door, took a spray of buckshot along his right arm and the side of his face. Then he was out of the truck and rolling across the pavement, bucked from his own trusted steed. No greater dishonor for a man.
The world did not descend immediately into silence when the collision came to a halt. Glass tinkled to the pavement. Oil leaked in a steady, assured patter. From beyond the intersection, the beginnings of commotion: doors opening, voices starting to raise in concern. A click coming from the other vehicle.
Jimi rolled onto his back. He could feel a dull ache somewhere deep in his muscles, and the right side of his face felt wrong. He pushed himself up too quickly; the clarity he had been enjoying vanished instantly, and the world was a red and blurry mess. He screamed at the sudden change, enraged. The heat coiled in his body and gave him the strength to stand.
What he saw was this: his truck, with another, smaller truck sticking out the passenger side. Like a wart. Or a cancer. The engine of his truck was certainly dead; it barely clung to life on a good day. The other truck was still running, and this pissed him off more than anything else. Wasn't fucking fair. His truck was bigger. The other guy hit him. It wasn't right, and if Jimi was in a mood for anything, it was to make shit right.
He limped towards the vehicles, unaware that his left arm hung at a new angle. He saw the barrel of the shotgun laying across the driver's seat and he grabbed it, curses spilling out of his mouth in a monosyllabic rant that slowly became intelligible. He didn't feel the burn of the barrel in his hand. He felt rage.
"Fucker," he said, not quite aware that he was speaking. "Stupid dumb cocksucking fucker."
He rounded his truck and saw the son of a bitch leaning against his own ride. Little man, sanded down by age and junk. Fucking Sleeman, a goddamn junkie if ever a goddamn junkie shat himself, a junkie whom even other junkies made fun of. Little pathetic fucking Sleeman.
"You son of a bitch," Jimi said, raising the shotgun by its barrel. "Look what you fucking did you little—"
A serious of small pops. A new pressure in his chest. Jimi blinked. Saw the junkie's arm extended towards him. Saw the muzzle blasts after they'd already happened, like he was living life a second out of sync.
"Fuck?" he said, and he was on his back now, the sky in front of him. Couldn't breathe. Never felt that before. He thought about his great-great grandfather's day. No one ever had trouble breathing then. Not with all that space.
He closed his eyes and let his mind drift westward. The fire that had coursed through his body now spilled out onto the pavement, leaving Jimi deflated, hollow. But he didn't care. Out there, without another soul for miles and nothing but sun and blue above you, it was hard to give a damn about something so meaningless as dying.
*
In the jungle, Sleeman had seen women and children burned alive. Watched as their bodies writhed in Technicolor. He had not set them afire, but somewhere in the subsequent forty years, he forgot this fact. Not every night but almost every night, so many nights it seemed like every night, he saw them. Them and other things, some he could still identify, some that had been lost to conscious memory, and some that had never existed.
Nothing made it go away. He'd had enough time to figure that much out. Not the therapist he saw after he was discharged. Not either of his wives. Not drugs, prescription or otherwise. Couldn't be done. Had to accept this. Embrace it. Didn't have to like it.
There were ways to cope, though. Ways to get through the day without a little extra lead in your diet. Substances you put in your system that didn't take away the pain, but made you not care about it. You couldn't stop the pain and you couldn't ignore the pain, but you could stop thinking about it.
Sleeman hadn't been thinking about the pain for fifteen years. Started shortly before his second divorce. She said he would scream sometimes at night. Said she started sharing his nightmares. Said he didn't have the right to force that on anyone, least of all her.
When she left, he called up an old friend from the war. Asked him how he did it.
"Morphine," his friend had said.
Morphine wasn't easy to come by back then, not in rural downstate Illinois. Nowadays you could get anything if you knew who to ask. At first, Sleeman had to drive up to Springfield once or twice a week. Hard to keep a steady job that way, so he quit and rented an apartment in the worst neighborhood he found. Made it three years before a bullet in the shoulder convinced him to move back home. Besides, by then the morphine wasn't working. By then, there was other stuff.
Sleeman hadn't always been a fool. He had once known exactly what he was putting into his body, and how it would most likely shorten his lifespan. He just hadn't cared. He'd weighed the outcomes and chosen the path most preferable. Most people couldn't understand or handle his choices. He had none of the same friends now as he'd had before, if he even had any at all, which he wasn't always sure of. He hadn't seen his daughter in some number of years, though he couldn't remember exactly how long it'd been.
A man like Sleeman, a man who just didn't care, could get by a lot easier than most people. You didn't need a job to survive in America. You just lowered your standards. Took work when it was available. Stole when it wasn't. The deeper into the jungle Sleeman crept, the smaller and thinner he became. Didn't need as much food. Didn't exert as much energy. Dwight, who'd only come along in the past few years but knew more about this than Sleeman ever could, called it the Science of Shit. "Your body accommodates," Dwight said. "The dope becomes your fuel. You don't need as much of it as you do food and calories and shit. It's like going from a diesel to a fucking Prius. And yeah, nobody likes a Prius, but you know what? It runs just fine and does exactly what it needs to do. Same with a junkie. Nobody likes 'em, and they ain't exactly models of humanity, but they get by doing what they need to do."
What Sleeman needed to do that night was refuel. There was a period of blackness in his life, maybe forty-eight hours long, maybe longer. He could remember nothing, not where he went or what he did. When he came to that evening, the old ammo box he kept his junk in was mostly empty, save for a little weed so old he didn't even remember having it. He smoked the pot while he tore his trailer apart looking for the backup stash he kept for such instances. Wherever he'd put it, it hadn't been well enough hidden, because he found nothing.
He panicked for the first time in over a decade. A junkie's panic, blind and chaotic. He turned the trailer upside down a second time. Stepped out into the murky twilight beneath clouds threatening rain, crawled under the trailer amidst the roaches and black widows. Searched under the neighboring trailers. Mrs. Waters came out, stood on the steps yelling at him until he looked at her. Then she went scurrying back inside but he knew she wouldn't call the cops. No one in the park wanted the cops to come.
Sleeman slid into his truck. Too bleary-eyed to see the road clearly, he drove on instinct, the back way to Dwight's apartment that avoided any variables like stoplights. His internal clock, powered by hunger, timed the drive, let him know where the stop signs were. Little traffic on these roads—the part of town people avoided unless they lived there. Sleeman didn't even think about running into one of the squad cars that regularly patrolled the area. He didn't think about anything. He couldn't.
He pulled into Dwight's parking lot and stopped the truck in front of the dealer's unit. Ran up and began pounding on the door. Wood shook beneath his fists, threatening to crack. Tears of frustration streamed down Sleeman's face, though he was not aware of them.
The door to his right opened. A middle-aged black man with a scar down the left side of his face leaned out. Took in the junkie, t-shirt and blue jeans, bare feet tucked into rotting sneakers. Looked like he hadn't even heard of water.
"The fuck," the man said. "Nigga ain't home."
Sleeman didn' hear him. Kept pounding.
The man stepped out. "Man, you hear me? He ain't there."
The words finally got through. Sleeman turned and pulled up the front of his shirt to reveal his bare stomach. Skin drawn taught across his diaphragm. Ribs threatening to burst through.
The man laughed. "Dumbass, you ain't packin'. What the hell you on? Let me know so I don't ever take none."
Sleeman glanced down, frowning. He saw no gun but he could feel the cold metal pressed against his flesh. He glanced up at the man, who took a step forward, not laughing any more. Sleeman walked briskly to his truck and around the front. Leaned in and rummaged through the glove box, wrappers and napkins and receipts falling into the foot well. He pulled out the pistol and stepped out of the truck, but the man had gone back inside. Had maybe never been there, though Sleeman could usually tell when he made people up because he recognized them from back in the jungle.
He got in the truck and pulled out onto the road. What time was it? He looked at the clock on the dash but he hadn't changed it in so long he couldn't trust it. Getting dark out, though. Shouldn't have tried the apartment. Stupid. Dangerous. You don't find Dwight at home after dark. Everyone knew that. Dwight made you sure knew that. Made sure you knew if you went to his place after dark and he was there he'd put a gun in your face and maybe a hole in the back of your skull.
Sleeman had to take the main roads. He hunched over the wheel, squinting. Cars were indistinct but he could make out their shapes at least. Couldn't tell if any were cops, but the idea of getting caught didn't occur to him. Ceased to matter. Like the burning people whose flames he could feel against the back of his neck. Longer he went without a fix, the warmer and greedier they got. He needed to hide his shit better. He needed to buy enough so that he wouldn't run out again.
He made out the Bowery's neon sign up ahead. It cut right through his hazy consciousness. He pulled in, took a spot near the exit. Left his truck running. Slipped on the gravel. A fat man in a cowboy hat smoking by the door laughed at him. Sleeman brushed past and went inside.
Small bar. Barely brighter than outside. John Prine on the jukebox. Two men behind the bar staring at him, one of whom he'd served with, the other who was really there. Pool tables in the far corner, near the restroom. Dwight and two other men. Watching him.
Sleeman smoothed out his shirt and pants to calm himself. Walked casually across the room, bumping a table along the way. By the time he got there, the two men were snickering, and Dwight had a grin on his face like you saw on the Discovery Channel during Shark Week.
"Slee, man," Dwight said. "You are jonesin' hard, brotha."
Thinning black hair. Wearing someone else's letterman jacket. Black denim jeans too tight to be holding. One of the other two then, but Sleeman couldn't bring himself to look them in the eye. He thought he was supposed to know them.
"I gotta get some," Sleeman said. "Please. Whatever you got."
Dwight held up a hand. "No shit, Slee. A blind man could see that. Hell, even Henry here can see that, can't you, Henry."
"Needs junk like a virgin needs pussy," the man who must have been Henry said.
"Thank you," Dwight said. "What the fuck you know about pussy? When's last time you got a piece?"
"And not from your mother," the third man said.
"Ah fuck you," Henry said. "I got some last night, nigga. Wasn’t good but was good enough."
Sleeman shook his head. He didn't think any of the men were black but it was possible he just wasn't seeing them right, like the bartender who kept flickering in and out. The one Sleeman knew was actually there.
"Please," he said.
Dwight gestured at him. "Come on, Slee. You know the drill. Cash first, then the goods. But I gotta ask a question first." He leaned forward. "You a cop, Slee?"
Sleeman blinked as the men laughed.
Dwight shook his head. "Come on, man. No offense, but you smell like a shithouse in a pigsty in July. You gonna fork over some Andrew Jacksons or what?"
Sleeman reached for his wallet. Wasn't there. Patted his back pockets. Front pockets. Shirt. Shoes. Stared at the floor for a minute, then glanced up at Dwight, who was no longer smiling.
"Please?" Sleeman said.
"Get out," Dwight told him. "You come back when you got cash or you don't come back at all."
The man who wasn't Henry stepped forward, hand near his waist. His eyes said he wanted to lift the shirt and pull out the gun and put a junkie out of his misery.
Sleeman fled outside, crying openly. The fat cowboy laughed at him and Sleeman almost pulled the pistol and shot him but didn't. Instead, he searched his truck three times, as a soft rain began to fall. Then he climbed in and sat behind the wheel for a bit. Thought of going in and getting it at gunpoint. But he'd never get anything else from Dwight, except maybe a bullet. If he died, then the burning people would get him. He'd lost much of his childhood to the fog squeezing his brain, but he remembered the images of Hell instilled in him at Bible school. He would never be able to forget those no matter how hard he tried.
He pulled onto the road and prayed his body would make it home. Prayed that he wouldn't have to go to Mrs. Waters' trailer and pull her out and take the Oxy he knew she kept in the bathroom cabinet. She might actually call the cops then and Sleeman wouldn't be able to get a fix in lockup.
So he headed in the direction he thought was home even though he could barely see. Truck knew its way home, he told himself. His need knew the way home. The Science of Shit. He'd get there because he needed to get there, and his wallet would be there because he needed it to be there. Things worked themselves out that way. He just had to let them happen.
Sleeman was smiling when he ran the intersection. As close to peaceful as his need would let him get. He might have even had his eyes closed; he couldn't necessarily tell. All he knew was that one moment he was moving, and the next he wasn't.
The world cracked and disappeared. His head swam; he saw unconsciousness approaching, a glowing red beast against the darkness behind his eyes. It seemed to dance; as he stared at it, it began to twist and grow and he saw the form taking shape, feminine and angry, and he reared back in his seat and screamed.
Eyes snapped open. All he saw was white. His arms flailed, hit the soft, yielding surface. The airbag, he understood, but this didn't calm him down. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and put it against the airbag and fired. The cloth wilted. His ears rang.
Sleeman opened the door and fell to the pavement. Pushed himself up and fell against the side of the truck. His face hurt. His chest hurt. A sharp, clear pain, so unlike his hunger, which defied definitions and dimensions. This new pain, he could see it, he could prop himself up against it. It was real in a way nothing else appeared to be. How much of his life, of his reality, only existed in his head? Was he even here? Was this even happening? Was he still out there, in the jungle, in some cage maybe, covered in dirt and worms and his own filth? Had the past four decades only been in his head? Was his need not the hunger for junk but the craving for escape, for clean air and cheeseburgers and people who didn't want him dead?
A voice called to him. Commanding. He lifted his head and turned. A scream caught in the back of his throat and choked him. He thought of Jesus and the burning bush. He thought of an oil well afire. A crack into hell right there in the middle of the street and the Devil reaching a giant finger through to touch the world and drag one hapless junkie down.
Sleeman raised the gun and fired. The flames flashed brighter when the bullets hit and Sleeman closed his eyes against the glare. The pistol barked in his hand. A keening hum came from deep inside of him. He felt a wave of heat crash against him, searing his nostrils and eyelids, and he turned his face away as he realized, distantly, the gun was clicking empty.
The heat passed and Sleeman opened his eyes. The night was dark and still. The fire had vanished, the crack in the earth sealed. In its place lay the prone body of a man. Shaking, Sleeman approached. He expected to see how horns, a tail, but instead it was just a man like any other, maybe thinner than most but in every other way unexceptional. Sleeman tapped the man with his foot to make sure the body was real.
He started to go back to his truck, then stopped. His mouth twisted into what was meant to be a smile. He knelt next to the body and felt around until he found the wallet. Pulled it out and looked inside. Several bills, enough to get him through the night. He slipped the wallet into his pocket. He thought he may have laughed as he did so.
Back in his truck, he ignored the people who were starting to gather and pulled away. Heard a few of them yelling at him. Their voices seemed encouraging. Maybe they'd seen what he'd done. Put down the flaming demon. He was grateful it hadn't been one of the burning people from the jungle. He didn't think they would tolerate one of their own dying again. Thought maybe they would come for him all at once and drag him back. But the cash in his pocket was an amulet. A shield. He drove with a smile. A purpose. He could feel the money burning in his pocket, but this burn he enjoyed.
*
Murphy took the call but Davidson was the first on the scene, holding back the curious citizens in their pajamas and summer evening garments who had gathered to gawk despite the rain. Murphy scanned the crowd with something like contempt, knowing if he didn't have the uniform he would probably be among them. Not a damn thing else to do in town.
Davidson waived him over and said, "Some show, huh?"
Murphy nodded. "Hit and run?"
"With a side of two in the chest."
"Someone was shot?"
"The stiff. Other guy got away. Drove off. I wouldn't believe it except I don't think this guy was hit by an invisible car."
Murphy craned over the other officer's shoulders. "I.D. on the perp or victim?"
"I wouldn't go calling him a victim just yet. The twelve-gauge is his. Looks like he managed to shoot himself with it. And I looked in his truck. He's got some bad shit in there, man. He was running on all kinds of powder."
"Coke?"
"And heroin. I had to guess, it's that Hoosier H shit they told us was coming across the border." Davidson shook his head. "Look. Go tell me who it is, will ya? Ain't got a wallet on him, and I swear I know who it is."
Murphy walked over to the body. He tried to put the scene together in his head. Someone ran the intersection. T-boned the truck. Neither individual too injured not to pull out their guns and shoot it out. The winner took off. Murphy had been on the force for just over two years, and he'd spent all but a couple of the prior years in the county. Shooting deaths were rare but they happened, but not right in the open like this. He figured something else had to be involved. Collisions such as these usually resulted in lawsuits, not gunfights.
Rain had kept the blood around the corpse from congealing. Murphy watched his footing and leaned closer. Two holes in the chest, several inches from each other. A scuff on the pavement that may have been from a bullet. The perp was shooting wild, panicked maybe. Probably a lucky thing no one else was hurt.
Murphy's eyes moved up to the man's face, the right side stitched with buckshot. Even with the new landscaping, Murphy recognized him. Leaning forward, his stomach cramped and he felt the sudden urge to vomit. His legs went numb and the inside of his mouth tingled. He closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, trying not to think of anything.
He straightened when he heard footsteps. Davidson said, "You okay there, Murf?"
Murphy nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, something I ate." He pointed at the body. "Jimi Paxton."
"Shit, I knew that." Davidson shrugged. "I wonder if anyone will even bother going to his funeral. His wife, maybe."
Ambulance sirens began to drift towards them. Another squad car, too. Murphy couldn't remember who the third officer on duty was. He tried to swallow the cotton ball feeling in his mouth. His hands were trembling.
"We probably need to wake the Chief for this," Davidson said. "But I really don't want to."
"I'll do it," Murphy said, maybe a little too quickly because Davidson looked at him. Murphy forced his voice to be calm and added, "You'll owe me one."
Davidson grinned. "Assuming he doesn't put you in the morgue next to this guy."
Murphy wandered back to his cruiser and pulled out his cell. Dialed the number and closed his eyes, listening to the ring. Some piece of classical music, courtesy of the wireless provider. Three rings, four. The rain felt like sweat on his face. He shifted his weight. Maybe the house phone?
After several more rings, right before the voicemail would have kicked in, she answered.
Murphy waited for her to speak, but the seconds stretched and the only thing he heard was her breathing.
"Kayla?"
A strained sound on the other end. Then she said, "It's really you."
"Kayla? Are you all right?"
"You're alive."
It'd been a week since he'd told her they should stop seeing each other. His wife was catching on. Maybe not the who, but possibly the what. The marriage came first; he'd struggled to get Kayla to see this, how much the marriage meant to him, the promises made. He was her escape, he knew, her window to a world filled not with violence but tenderness. She needed him, or what he offered, and he should've known that she wouldn't let him go without a fight.
He sighed and said, "Listen, this is important, okay? Please don't argue. This isn't the time."
"I thought you were dead," she said. "I never thought I'd see you again. He was so angry…"
She trailed off. He listened to her voice. Sounded as though she was struggling to speak. The edges of her words rounded soft. Despite what he'd tried not to feel, Murphy gripped the phone tighter and said, "Kayla? Are you using again?"
Her response was muffled. Then she said, "Sonya gave it to me. For the pain."
Sonya? Murphy hadn't met Kayla's neighbor, just seen her when he drove by. She hadn't struck him as a junkie but wasn't that the whole problem? These days you couldn't always tell.
"Christ," he said. He wanted to yell at her but thought it would only make things worse. And it wasn't his place anymore, right? He'd pushed himself away. Exiled himself from whatever feelings he'd had for her. Choices you don't go back on.
"There's been an accident," he said, his tone more brusque than he'd intended it to be. "Jimi's dead, Kayla. He's been shot."
"You shot him instead?" He could hear her smile, even through the drugs. "That's sweet."
Instead? Instead of whom? Or what? He couldn't talk to junkies. Some officers, like Davidson, had a knack for it, a natural patience borne from amusement. Murphy only felt disgust. Couldn't understand why someone would rot their soul for a high. He hadn't known Kayla when she'd been using; she'd told him about it once, wide brushstrokes with no detail, though she did say that Jimi gave her hell for going into rehab. Murphy had always admired her resolve, though he couldn’t see why she'd stayed with her husband after she got clean. Maybe the cocaine hadn't been her only addiction.
"Someone's gonna come to tell you," he said, gritting his teeth. "You should try to clean up. And don't act like you already know." He paused. "Don't act happy, either."
"I am happy," she said, her voice a whisper now. "I'm happy you're not dead."
He hung up before she could disappear completely. Stood for a moment with his eyes closed, stomach fluttering. Not his fault. Not his decision. Maybe the death of her husband would give her a reason to quit again. Make up for his abandonment. He could hope.
Murphy gathered himself and quickly dialed the Chief's house. The old man mumbled something vaguely threatening, but said he would be on the scene within the hour. Murphy hung up and walked back over to the truck.
Davidson whistled when he returned. "He really gave it to ya, huh?"
"I've had worse. Did anyone see anything?"
"The wreck itself, no. Everything after that, yeah." Davidson flipped through his notes. "Dark-colored two-door pickup. Red, blue, green, brown, take your pick. Definitely not white. No license plate number, because God forbid this shit should be easy. No I.D. on the driver, couple people said he was small and looked like he was sick. Coulda been the crash, of course. No hair color or any other physical descriptors. No one wanted to get too close and I can't blame 'em."
"They see where he went?"
Davidson gestured. "That way. Bastard turned around and went back the way he came. Guess he forgot something."
The third cruiser pulled up. Murphy said, "You two secure the scene, will you? I'm gonna backtrack. He couldn't have gotten far unless he was driving a tank."
Davidson frowned but didn't argue. Murphy was lucky Davidson had shown up before the third officer, Carver it looked like, who had seniority over Murphy. Davidson, only a year into the job, couldn't argue.
Murphy ducked out before Carver could stop him. Drove a couple blocks down to avoid the crowd. He wasn't sure why he wanted to find this guy. He didn't owe Kayla anything, let alone her piece of shit husband. No reason he needed closure like he did. He should just put in his hours, then go home and make things up with Colleen. Save his marriage. Wasn't that what he'd told Kayla he would do?
It was still fairly early; there was enough traffic so that one individual vehicle didn't stand out. Murphy focused solely on trucks, but even that didn't help; half the damn county drove a pickup. He kept one eye on the pavement, looking for glass or oil reflected in the headlights. Unprofessional as hell, and not exactly his job description, but he felt the urge to move, do something, not just turn away rubberneckers.
The homes gave way to businesses, and Murphy pulled into each parking lot and did a search. He was stretching the limits of what he thought the perp's truck was capable of when he spotted the Bowery. Something clicked in his brain. Jimi Paxton arrested there one night for a bar fight. Stories about dealing going on but no proof. Couldn't shut a place down without evidence. Knowing and proving were two different things; one was easy, the other impossible unless someone talked, and the regulars loved the place too much to do that. Needed it too bad.
Murphy saw the truck from the road. Dark red Chevy S-10, its front end a crumpled shadow of what it had once been. Murphy parked behind it and turned on the flashers. Either the man was laying down in the seats, or the truck was empty.
Murphy radioed it in then stepped out of his car, unlatching the strap on his holster. Scanned the parking lot for movement. Only four cars, but dimly lit. He didn't see anyone.
The Bowery's windows were covered with decorative shutters. No windows in back or along the sides. Murphy knew he should wait for backup, but if the shooter realized there was a cop outside, he might bolt out the back door. Murphy had to—wanted to—do this now.
He did a quick search of the truck. Registered to Angus Sleeman, a frequenter of the drunk tank and county lockup. Vietnam vet who'd turned to dope instead of therapy. Murphy had no sympathy for those who used their past to justify their present. Everything became an excuse eventually. It was a choice: do things the right way or the wrong way. The consequences thereafter were solely upon them.
Murphy took a breath and stepped into the Bowery. The place hadn't changed since he'd first visited as a teenager. Dim, recessed lighting gave the place a moldy feel, as though the bar were located in a cave. The men's restroom had a trowel instead of toilets or urinals; the women's restroom wasn't much better. The beer was cheap and you got what you paid for, over the counter and under it. A lot of DUI's, domestic disturbances, and damaged vehicles and property had gotten their start at the Bowery. The place was a black mark on the county, but one which could not be easily removed. There were always places like his, pit stains where the grime of humanity gathered to do business and beat one another senseless. That didn't make it right—Murphy's skin crawled just looking at the place—but there wasn't anything anyone could do about it.
The spontaneity of his appearance saved his life. It took him a moment to register the scene—three men on the ground, two of whom weren't moving, and a fourth leaning against a pool table. Murphy placed him immediately, a local dealer whose name he couldn't remember but who'd seen the inside of county lock up plenty of times. Murphy also recognized the Glock 19 in the man's hand, and what it was capable of.
The man staggered in surprise, one hand on his side, blood seeping through his fingers. Murphy yelled, "Police!" as the gun came up. The dealer acknowledged him by pulling the trigger. The bullet went wild as Murphy dropped behind the nearest table, drawing his piece. Fired three shots blindly, unable to breathe, incapable of strategizing. Running purely on instinct and the will to live.
Murphy hunkered down near the floor, waiting for return fire, but none came. He opened his eyes and peered through the rows of tables. The man was on the ground, sprawled against the pool table. Twitching, like a fish on a riverbank. Murphy watched him for a minute, then walked over and kicked the gun away. Made sure all weapons were beyond the reach of both the living and the dead.
A sudden sound made him spin and raise his gun. Finger reaching for the trigger even as he made out the figure of the bartender, arms in the air. Murphy caught his breath, stood still for a moment, then lowered the weapon.
"Call 911," he said.
The Chief himself showed up a while later. Murphy gave him a brief statement, then sat and watched the paramedics work. He tried to think of how he would explain this to Colleen. It'd only taken five seconds at most; he couldn't justify that. The sudden violence, the certainty that he was going to die. Over and done in a period of time most people took for granted, never even noticed passing. It left him numb; his brain felt hollow, as though his thoughts were drifting around in a vacuum. He didn't know how he could explain this to his wife, but he thought Kayla might understand, and not just because she was in a state right then to be receptive to new philosophical concepts. Her life had built differently, structured in a way that led her to take the world as it came.
The Chief came over and put a hand on Murphy's shoulder. "Go home, son," he said, his voice kinder than usual. "Sheriff's Department is sending a detective over. You go home, let that wife of yours take care of you like she swore to do. Get some rest."
Murphy nodded, unable to find the words to argue. On the drive home, he weighed his life choices. This wasn’t the first time he'd doubted his chosen career, but it was the first time he'd been shot at, the closest he'd come to dying. Or killing someone. The dealer, Dwight Walsh, was in critical condition; Murphy might wake up the next morning and discover he'd taken a man's life. You think you accept it signing up, getting the badge and the gun, but until you're put in the actual position, you don't know squat. Until the real thing, you're just play-acting, and Murphy had been doing his own one-man show for most of his life.
At a red light, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Doubt was inevitable, he told himself, but at least he knew he could get through this. He could get shot at without getting hit. Defend himself. He had gone through the fire, and though it had singed him, he'd made it out the other side. Not everyone could say that. Jimi Paxton couldn't say that. He'd thought he'd been able to, but two thirty-eights in the chest said otherwise.
Murphy pulled into his driveway and saw their bedroom light was on. He glanced at the clock. She should've been in bed by then. Maybe she'd heard about the night's action and had stayed up, waiting. She wouldn't have called him; she never did when he was on duty. But she probably would've tried the station, to get news. Maybe a third-party report of his good health hadn't been enough to sustain her.
He went in through the garage. Took off his holster and set it on the kitchen table. Called out his wife's name and waited for a response. She didn't reply.
So. Not concern then. The other thing. Murphy sighed. Accepted defeat. He would explain it to her, the night's events, Kayla. Everything. He just wished he could tell her why he'd done it. The one thing she would most want to know, and he had nothing to tell her. She wouldn't believe him, but there it was. He didn't know why he'd had an affair. Case closed.
"Colleen," he said, as he approached the bedroom. Listening for some sign of her mood, would she forgive him, would she leave him. The thought of the latter sent chills down his spine, in a way even the gunfire hadn't. Stupid to put so much emphasis on saving the marriage after he'd been the one to test it; he could see why Kayla had been so upset. She'd seen his ignorance and he hadn't. But that was over. Save the marriage. That's what mattered.
"I think we should talk," he said, stepping into the bedroom, but his words were interrupted by the sharp crack of a gunshot, and there was a small fire low down in his chest, something burning, worming further inside of him, as though someone held a lit cigarette against his skin, pushing deeper. He stood still for a moment, confused, almost on the verge of laugher because what the hell was going on, then his knees crumpled and he fell back against the hallway wall, sliding to the floor in a slow heap.
He looked up and saw his wife standing in the doorway, a gun in her hand, her arm slowly raising, the barrel turning from him to herself. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again she was on the floor, only her feet visible. Murphy opened his mouth to say her name, ask if she was okay, ask if there was maybe a misunderstanding or maybe she'd like to hear a good joke, but something warm and wet came out instead. He thought again of the blood flowing through the dealer's fingers before the shootout, but for the life of him he couldn't imagine why that scene came into his head just then.
His eyes closed of their own accord, and he didn't notice when he fell onto his side, head bouncing off the hardwood floor. He should have called Kayla first. Gotten her the help she needed. Talked her sober. Should have told his wife, too, sooner. Should have stayed at the wreck, not gone looking for the junkie who didn't mean shit anymore. So many things he should have or shouldn't have done, an entire lifetime's worth crammed inside his head all at once. And yet, all he could think of was how, at the bar, time had moved so quickly, bang-bang the speed of a bullet, and how now the moment seemed frozen in place. Sightless and dark and warm. He knew, deep down in the place where men know real truths, that this moment would never end.
