Graveyard Fields Page 15

  When I hit SEND, the devils applauded my rash decision, but the angel grimaced. I knew the angel was thinking, What if you’re wrong?

  I sat at the table for half an hour pondering that thought. Maybe I was being rash. There were a lot of gray Audis in the world, and Perry owning one didn’t necessarily make him guilty of anything. It could be just a fluke, even if it was a fluke I didn’t like. I’d been wrong about a lot of things in my life, so why should I all of a sudden think I’d finally connected the right dots in the right order?

  I considered sending Perry another email. This one to say I’d been joking. But just like my attempt at writing a book, I couldn’t come up with the words. In the end I decided to let it be. I would just wait and see how he responded.

  I grabbed a fresh beer and headed to the deck. I stared at Cold Mountain, half hoping to see a flicker of light somewhere on its slope. A flicker of gold that I could drive up to and collect without having to limp more than ten feet. But what would I do with a chest of gold? Head to Vegas and try to double it? Fly to South America and disappear? Wherever you go, there you are—isn’t that what they say? Where could a new me go that the old me would never find? I’d give up a chest of gold to know that answer.

  I looked at my phone for the time. It was almost three, and my Waffle House coma was finally starting to subside. If Diana was coming at six thirty, I had a little over three hours to clean the cabin, shower, shave, and come up with something interesting to talk about rather than a book I didn’t know how to write.

  Listening to a Dale-approved playlist of eighties heavy metal, I spent the next several hours trying to make the cabin presentable. I cleaned off the kitchen table, wiped down the counters, and vacuumed the living room carpet with a metal canister vac that had probably been manufactured during the Carter presidency. In the bathroom I scrubbed the sink, toilet, and tub. I made the bed, cleaned off the nightstand, and threw all my dirty laundry into a hamper in the closet. On a high shelf in the kitchen I found a couple of scented candles, most likely left over from Carla. I placed one in the kitchen and one in the living room and let them battle it out with the lingering scent of Dale.

  By five o’clock the cabin was cleaner than the day Dale first showed it to me. I went down into the basement and organized my brewing equipment. My setup wasn’t much to look at, but it worked well. I had two growlers of my IPA left, and I dug them out from behind a piece of plywood leaning up against the basement’s cinder-block wall. I’d hidden them there from Dale, not putting it past him to wander off with them during one of his unannounced visits. I put the growlers in the fridge, then hopped in the shower.

  At 6:25 I was looking through the sliding glass door, eagerly waiting for headlights to appear. I was still there fifteen minutes later. Evening was coming quicker these days, and soon happy hour would start in total darkness rather than in the fading light of dusk. Although my happy hour always started soon after waking, so it didn’t really matter.

  I felt like a teenage boy standing at the window. I wasn’t nervous, or even really excited—the pills did a good job at numbing those particular feelings—but I was hopeful. It would be nice to enjoy an evening of real conversation rather than arguing with Dale. But maybe I was just hopeful for the same thing most teenage boys hope for when a girl is on her way over.

  As I was looking out into the night, I thought of a discussion I’d had with Dale. We’d been sitting on the deck, drinking beer, and listening to music from his phone. When the song “Heaven” by the band Warrant came on, Dale became sentimental, which was surprising. He sang along for a bit, then shook his head.

  “That was me and Carla’s song,” he said. “She used to love it.”

  The song was a power ballad. A slow tearjerker heavy-metal bands were obligated to write if they wanted steady radio airplay. I hadn’t heard it in years.

  “Davis, I’ll tell you something. They ain’t nothin’ worse than missing a woman.”

  I didn’t have a response to that, so we drank in silence for a few moments until the song ended. The next track that played was Dokken’s “In My Dreams,” a song about a man pining for his ex-love.

  “You miss that woman down in Charleston?” Dale asked. “That one that kicked you out?”

  “Which one? I’ve been kicked out more than once.”

  “That last one—Samantha or something?”

  I listened to the song for a few moments while pondering Dale’s question.

  “No, I don’t miss Sarah,” I said. “I don’t miss anyone.”

  Dale grabbed his phone and searched for another track to play.

  “You’re full of shit,” he said. “A woman loves you, you’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

  “A woman loving you is no good reason to love her back.”

  * * *

  I wasn’t lying. Once a woman told me she loved me, I knew she wasn’t someone I needed to be with. It was the old Groucho Marx line: I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as a member. Sarah had told me she loved me a few days after we moved in together. That’s when I started to become distant. She put up with it for a while, and then when things didn’t change, she kicked me out. I thought about her once in a while, but thinking about someone is not the same as missing them.

  When six forty-five rolled around, I started to wonder if Diana had received my email with directions to the cabin. I hadn’t checked for a response.

  I went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where I’d placed my laptop when cleaning up. I was about to pull it out when I heard a knock at the back door. Through the panes of glass I could see Diana holding a large cardboard box. I opened the door and took the box from her; it was filled with grease-stained paper bags and two growlers. Diana was wearing jeans, a thick gray sweater, and the same fleece jacket she’d been wearing when I first saw her at El Bacaratos. She stepped into the kitchen, removed her jacket with a graceful spin, and hung it over the back of a chair.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I missed the turn, then had a hard time finding a place to turn around.”

  “Yeah, this cabin is pretty secluded. That’s one of the things I like about it.”

  “Are you hiding from someone?” She gave me the same playful smirk she’d flashed after smacking me on the ass at Long Branch.

  “No, of course not,” I said, not knowing whether I was trying to convince her or myself.

  I nodded at the bags in the cardboard box. “Looks like you brought more than just chips and guacamole.”

  “Tacos, burritos, quesadillas. I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought a selection.”

  I grabbed a few plates and started sorting out the food.

  “Where are your glasses?” Diana asked.

  I pointed to a cabinet next to the stove.

  “Interesting place to store your laptop,” she said a moment later.

  I looked up and saw Diana pulling two glasses from the cabinet’s bottom shelf. My laptop sat just above them.

  “Did you do a quick cleanup before I arrived?” she asked. She smiled, and her dimples tripped me up for a second.

  “There’s, uh … well, there’s not really a lot of storage here.”

  “Do you keep your book research under the sink?”

  She winked, and I felt the spark of connection again. It was a spark no amount of alcohol or pharmaceuticals could replicate or impede.

  Diana filled both glasses with beer and put the growlers in the fridge.

  When the food was on the plates, I suggested we take everything to the living room. It took two trips, but we soon had a Mexican buffet set out on the coffee table. Diana plopped down in the middle of the couch, giving me the choice to sit right beside her or in the recliner beside the coffee table. I chose the recliner. Cat zero, string one.

  “So, tell me more about your book,” she said. “What made you decide to write about that plane crash?”

  I had anticipated the question. It was the same one Byrd had a
sked me at El Bacaratos. But just like with Byrd, the answer was not one I was comfortable sharing. The documentary I’d seen about the plane crash affected me. Like Byrd said, those airmen had walked away from plenty of dangerous battles only to fly into the side of a mountain. The concept of something coming out of nowhere to take you down was certainly one I could relate to. But it just didn’t seem fair. It made me think that experience and determination might not matter all that much. If a crew of highly trained airmen could accidentally fly into the side of a mountain, then why bother training at all? We were all bound to the same fate, so why go through the hassle of trying to prolong the inevitable? It was like the stories you heard about a fifty-year-old runner who fell dead from a heart attack in the middle of a marathon. Or the guy who’d never smoked a day in his life but was diagnosed with stage-four throat cancer. I figured life was like Perry’s description of the Charleston Police Department—a living maze. Why bust your ass trying to navigate it when you could just sit still, especially if each path led to the same destination anyway?

  I heard Diana clear her throat. “Are you okay? I lost you for a minute.”

  I wiped my mouth on a paper towel.

  “Just trying to come up a with a solid answer to your question,” I said.

  Diana giggled and grabbed a few chips from a plate.

  “When was the crash again?” she asked.

  “September 1946. Friday the thirteenth, interestingly enough. No one saw it or heard it. Those men lay dead on that mountain for two days before their bodies were recovered.”

  “What caused it?”

  “The weather was bad, and they were flying way too low. They probably never saw the mountain. Barreled into it at two hundred miles an hour.”

  Diana pursed her lips and let out a little puff of air.

  “So show me what you’ve got,” she said. “I want to read it.”

  I had been anticipating, or rather dreading, that question as well.

  “As soon as I write something, you’ll be the first to know,” I said.

  Diana lowered her eyebrows. “You haven’t started writing yet? How long have you been working on it?”

  “Only since I’ve been here, so about a month, I guess. Plus, I’ve been distracted. This cabin belongs to Dale, and he seems to think being a landlord involves coming up here to push my buttons almost every evening.”

  Diana laughed and picked at a burrito. “So what did you do before you became a writer?”

  “I was with the Charleston police force for a while; then I was a private detective.”

  “Ooooo. A private detective. So what kinds of things did you investigate?”

  I downed the last of my beer and gave Diana my most smoldering stare.

  “Things that were private,” I said.

  I tried to wink, but I was out of practice. When my eye closed, the corner of my mouth shot up in a sneer. Diana looked down at her plate, and I could tell she was trying not to laugh.

  “Is that how you got your limp? Investigating something that was private?”

  “You’re a pretty good detective yourself.”

  Diana stood up and grabbed our empty glasses. “I’ll get us more beer, and then you tell me how you got that limp.”

  While I tried to come up with an alternate but believable story that would explain my leg injury, I heard Diana rustling around in the kitchen, the sound of drawers opening and closing and cabinet doors smacking against their frames.

  “Can I help you find something?” I yelled.

  “I’m looking for a bottle opener. I want to try this double IPA that’s in your fridge.”

  The woman was definitely forward, I had to give her that.

  “It’s bolted to the wall next to the door.”

  A minute later Diana was back on the couch and two half glasses of beer were on the coffee table.

  “So what happened to your leg?”

  “It’s really a boring story,” I said. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Diana slid across the couch toward my recliner. She put her hand on my knee and looked straight into my eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

  Diana eyes were like perfectly cut opals flecked with spots of pink and blue. They were mesmerizing in a way. Like looking at a hypnotist’s pocket watch. I started to feel a little dreamy, relaxed, calm. It was the same feeling I got when the first pill of the day hit my system.

  Maybe it was her eyes, or the warmth of her touch, or maybe it was the revelation of Perry’s possible betrayal—whatever the reason, I let it all out. I told Diana about Laura and Greg and the drugs and the gun and my temper and the gray Audi and the bullet that went clear through my leg. I told her Greg was in a coma and that Laura had told me to stay away. It was a complete report, minus the copious amounts of beer and pills.

  When I finished, Diana’s hand was still on my knee. Her other hand was over her mouth.

  “Oh my god,” she said through her fingers. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  A couple of people had said those words to me since I’d been shot. I still wasn’t quite convinced.

  “I don’t know. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. My friend Perry was at the side of my bed. He told me someone had called 911 to report gunshots at the storage facility. By the time the Mount Pleasant police and the EMTs showed up, I had lost a lot of blood and Greg was still out cold. We were both taken to MUSC. Since Greg was Charleston PD, the Mount Pleasant police begged off to let Charleston handle it. Perry’s a senior detective and was put in charge of the case. He interviewed me at the hospital, and I told him the truth.”

  “So what did Perry do?”

  “He promised to hide the fact that I’d beaten Greg. And he told me he would get to the bottom of whatever Greg was into.”

  Diana stared at me like I was a lost puppy.

  “He also promised to find the person who shot me,” I said.

  I thought of the storage unit door slowing opening and the figure silhouetted in the light. The figure raised a hand and whispered, You’re not cut out for this, Davis.

  “What are you thinking?” Diana asked.

  My eyes began to well up, and I closed them quickly. I didn’t want to cry in front of Diana, but I was overwhelmed. I’d always thought Perry was the one person I could count on. But had I been as wrong about him as I’d been about almost everything in my life?

  I felt Diana’s hand on my cheek; her finger wiped away a stray tear. In that moment I made a decision.

  “I think Perry may have shot me,” I said.

  Diana jerked backward as if I’d punched her chest.

  “What? You mean your friend?”

  I nodded. “I just found out a few hours ago that he drives a gray Audi. And I think he’s lying to me about the investigation.”

  “Oh, baby,” she said. “My poor baby.”

  Diana put her arms around my neck and pulled me toward the couch. When I was seated next to her, she rubbed the back of my neck and stared at me with her mystical and now watery eyes. I hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time, but I was certain I remembered how. I tilted my head and leaned forward. Just before our lips met, I heard the cry of sirens in the distance. It was as if an alarm had sounded. Davis Reed is about to make out with someone way out of his league; alert the authorities. As we kissed, the sirens echoed through the hills until they disappeared somewhere up the river. Whatever trouble they were after didn’t interest me at all.

  28

  Five minutes later my head was spinning, my dick was hard, and Diana was nibbling my earlobe. Normally that would have been a dream situation, but my stomach was sending me an urgent message. The beer and Mexican food were locked in a furious battle. I needed a moment alone, and as much as I hated to do it, I gently pushed Diana aside and told her I’d be back in a minute.

  “Take your time,” she said. “I’ll start cleaning up.”

  In the bathroom I splashed some cold water on my face and popped a pill, hoping it would ne
gotiate a truce between the beer and the food. But as I stared at myself in the mirror, I realized my queasiness probably had nothing to do with what I’d eaten. It was anxiety. I’d told Diana too much. I’d opened up like a patient on a psychiatrist’s couch. I hadn’t confided in anyone in a long time. It had been ages since I’d shared my feelings rather than pushed them back with medication and alcohol.

  I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about what I’d become. I was not the man I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be a recluse. I didn’t want to be crippled with anger. I didn’t want to be constantly numb. I wanted to be a man who could wake up and feel good about himself instead of a man who didn’t really care if he woke up at all. Maybe Diana could pull me out of that hole. Even if it was a hole I’d dug myself. Maybe she could lift me out of it and convince me to put down my shovel.

  While I continued to stare in the mirror, I heard noise coming from the bedroom. I wondered if Diana had crawled into my bed. The woman was forward, after all. I hoped she hadn’t—my stomach couldn’t handle it. What kind of man hopes a gorgeous woman doesn’t throw herself into his bed on the first date? An idiot who stares at himself in the mirror amazed at how big of an idiot he is.

  When I opened the bathroom door, the bedroom was empty. I went through to the kitchen to find Diana standing by the counter staring at my legal pad.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  I grabbed the pad and tossed it onto the table.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just a distraction.”

  I opened the fridge and pulled out a fresh beer. My stomach didn’t need it, but my head did. “I found some keys a few days ago,” I said. “I’ve been trying to locate the owner to give them back.”

  Diana nodded and started packing up the leftover food. I hoped it wasn’t the first phase of her exit plan. I didn’t feel up to a night of unbridled passion, but I was eager for another ear-nibbling session on the couch.