The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [20]
She looked at him a long few seconds. There was no way out. The officer would ask his question, no matter what, no matter where.
The black-haired one was there now, and squatted again, looked at me. “All we need to know is when you saw your uncle last. That’s all.”
I said, “But he didn’t do it.”
“We just want to know where he is,” he said. “Nobody’s convicting anybody here.”
“You haven’t talked to him yet?” Mom asked, her voice quiet, like she couldn’t believe it. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”
“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, ma’am,” the blond said.
I twisted in my chair, looked up at Mom behind me.
Her mouth was open, her eyebrows up: she was thinking maybe Unc really was in on this.
I looked at the black-haired officer. I said, “So I’m next to last. That means Unc is all you have left.”
He looked down. He was sitting on his heels, his shoes spit-polished. He put his hands together, like a prayer. “He rode in with Deputy Thigpen and Yandle and Dr. Morrison and you,” he said. “Nobody had time to interview him. He’s the only one left, and we can’t seem to locate him.”
“He was here yesterday afternoon,” Mom said, quick and loud. “He left around two o’clock. I figured he’d just find a way home.”
The only one left. A blind man, and they couldn’t find him.
The blond pulled his billfold out again, brought out a business card, handed it to Mom. “This here’s the number you can reach us at, if you hear anything.”
And now they were done.
They weren’t here after Constance Dupree Simons at all.
Tell Leland I didn’t do it, she’d told me.
It was Unc they were after. Not Constance.
“So what about this Constance?” I said. “The one who killed that boy, the doctor?” I knew the words might draw attention, me changing the subject from Unc and all to her. But I wanted to know, because if they had her already, then maybe she’d told them she’d visited me last night, and these two already knew everything about her showing up. Maybe all they were doing was just waiting for me to cough up what was in my pocket.
The black-haired one stood, and the two looked at each other. The blond made a face, shrugged: I don’t care. “It’ll be on the news tonight,” he said. “The TV crews were over there practically before we were. It’s no secret.”
The black-haired one took in a breath, looked down at me.
“What?” I said.
“She’s dead,” he said. “Suicide. She hung herself over to the Rantowles Motel, in one of the rooms.” He paused. “Somebody called it in at six this morning. A man, wouldn’t give his name.”
Here came that feel again, the same pinch at my throat as yesterday, the same collapse inside me.
She was dead.
I’d talked to her only last night. I had something of hers in my pocket right now.
Mom turned the wheelchair, aimed us for the door, her silence signal enough to me something inside her was collapsing too.
“You call us, you hear anything,” the blond said from behind us. “You have my card.”
The automatic doors opened up, and we were out on the street between the hospital and parking garage, out in sharp, white daylight. Mom turned the chair to the left, said, “Now let’s stand up,” and put a hand to my arm.
I stood, but felt my knees about to fall under me, about to snap.
“Oh, baby,” she said, “are you okay?”
I swallowed. “No,” I whispered, “but just let’s go on home.”
We started across the street, Mom’s arm looped in mine, leading me, just like I did Unc.
That’s when I saw the black Crown Victoria parked about twenty yards down to my right and across the street. Standard-issue SLED.
But behind it was a cruiser, leaning on the hood of it a man with his arm in a sling.
Yandle.
He was smiling, watching us. He had a Styrofoam cup, took a sip, winced for it. He put the cup in the other hand, the one in the sling.
He pointed at me. It was a small move, nothing big or showy. Mom didn’t even see him for helping me along the crosswalk.
Then he made his hand like a gun, pulled the trigger. He smiled, slowly shook his head.
It was a small move. Meant only for me.
“Mom, let’s go,” I said, and tried