them
could be a repository of scraps and butts of marijuana, and there were times when
those roaches had to be stripped down and consolidated into re-rolled joints. These
times usually occurred around 10:00 p.m., when someone made a hoagie run. It was spring
of senior year and the only one who was still studying was Ellis. He was hoping to
become a doctor.
It was not likely that anybody would ring our doorbell at 9:30 in the morning, but
there it was. Ellis was off at class; McFetridge was out; Tuttle wasn’t going to get
up for anything or anyone. The bellrang and rang until I had to come down from the second floor to get it. I did not
even brush my teeth. I should have at least done that.
A grown man was standing on our front porch. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, running
shoes, a gray jacket that was unzipped. Could have been a neighborhood guy, come to
complain about the music, the junk in the yard, the lights that stayed on all night.
Except he had an air of authority about him. If he had flashed a badge, I wouldn’t
have questioned it. But what he showed instead was a cardboard tray holding two coffees,
a couple of small containers of cream, stir sticks, and half a dozen packets of sugar.
“You George Becket?” he wanted to know.
I told him no.
Very slowly, a smile spread across the man’s mouth. It was not a wide mouth and the
smile did not have far to go, but it was there. “I’m not a bill collector, kid,” he
said.
I figured he wasn’t a coffee delivery guy, either. He was probably five-feet-ten,
but looked taller, just by the way he carried himself. His hair was dark, cut short
around the ears, combed carefully from left to right on top of his head. His eyes
were as dark as his hair, his features narrow. There was, from what I could see, not
an ounce of fat on him. Indeed, he seemed almost spring-loaded, as though he could
bounce up and hit his head on the ceiling of the porch, come back down and not spill
a drop of the coffee.
The longer we stood there the more sure he became that I was George Becket. Perhaps
he had seen a picture. Perhaps it took him a while to realize that the tousle-haired,
sleepy-eyed guy in front of him was, in fact, the same person who had appeared in
a coat and tie for a fraternity or graduation photo.
“I’ve got a little something to talk to you about, Georgie,” he said. He gestured
to the porch, where perhaps he expected there to be chairs. He recovered fast enough
to keep his hand moving until it ended at the top step. “We can do it out here.”
I could have, I suppose, simply closed the door in his face. But I was not thinking
clearly. I moved to the top step and sat down. I had nothing on but jeans and a gray
athletic department T-shirt that had thenumber 46 on its chest. I shivered in the morning air and tried to place myself in
as much sunshine as possible.
The man handed me one of the coffees, let me take a cream and a sugar and a wooden
stir stick, and waited until I had mixed and stirred and sipped.
“My name is Roland Andrews,” he said. “I work for a man named Josh David Powell.”
He let the name sink in before he continued. He wanted to see what kind of effect
it would have. “I believe you know his daughter. Kendrick.”
I gave a lot of thought to my next move. I, of course, had no idea what Mr. Andrews
did for Mr. Powell, but I had my suspicions.
“She said you were very nice to her.”
Nice. I helped clean her up. I walked her out of the party. Put her in her car. Kept
her panties in my pocket.
I sipped my coffee and tried to buy time. How much time can you buy when a man on
a mission is sitting right next to you, watching every breath you take, every flick
of your eyes, every twitch of your face?
“She said you were there when she was raped by Peter Gregory Martin.”
Raped
. It was a word I had been thinking about for two weeks straight, ever since we returned
could be a repository of scraps and butts of marijuana, and there were times when
those roaches had to be stripped down and consolidated into re-rolled joints. These
times usually occurred around 10:00 p.m., when someone made a hoagie run. It was spring
of senior year and the only one who was still studying was Ellis. He was hoping to
become a doctor.
It was not likely that anybody would ring our doorbell at 9:30 in the morning, but
there it was. Ellis was off at class; McFetridge was out; Tuttle wasn’t going to get
up for anything or anyone. The bellrang and rang until I had to come down from the second floor to get it. I did not
even brush my teeth. I should have at least done that.
A grown man was standing on our front porch. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, running
shoes, a gray jacket that was unzipped. Could have been a neighborhood guy, come to
complain about the music, the junk in the yard, the lights that stayed on all night.
Except he had an air of authority about him. If he had flashed a badge, I wouldn’t
have questioned it. But what he showed instead was a cardboard tray holding two coffees,
a couple of small containers of cream, stir sticks, and half a dozen packets of sugar.
“You George Becket?” he wanted to know.
I told him no.
Very slowly, a smile spread across the man’s mouth. It was not a wide mouth and the
smile did not have far to go, but it was there. “I’m not a bill collector, kid,” he
said.
I figured he wasn’t a coffee delivery guy, either. He was probably five-feet-ten,
but looked taller, just by the way he carried himself. His hair was dark, cut short
around the ears, combed carefully from left to right on top of his head. His eyes
were as dark as his hair, his features narrow. There was, from what I could see, not
an ounce of fat on him. Indeed, he seemed almost spring-loaded, as though he could
bounce up and hit his head on the ceiling of the porch, come back down and not spill
a drop of the coffee.
The longer we stood there the more sure he became that I was George Becket. Perhaps
he had seen a picture. Perhaps it took him a while to realize that the tousle-haired,
sleepy-eyed guy in front of him was, in fact, the same person who had appeared in
a coat and tie for a fraternity or graduation photo.
“I’ve got a little something to talk to you about, Georgie,” he said. He gestured
to the porch, where perhaps he expected there to be chairs. He recovered fast enough
to keep his hand moving until it ended at the top step. “We can do it out here.”
I could have, I suppose, simply closed the door in his face. But I was not thinking
clearly. I moved to the top step and sat down. I had nothing on but jeans and a gray
athletic department T-shirt that had thenumber 46 on its chest. I shivered in the morning air and tried to place myself in
as much sunshine as possible.
The man handed me one of the coffees, let me take a cream and a sugar and a wooden
stir stick, and waited until I had mixed and stirred and sipped.
“My name is Roland Andrews,” he said. “I work for a man named Josh David Powell.”
He let the name sink in before he continued. He wanted to see what kind of effect
it would have. “I believe you know his daughter. Kendrick.”
I gave a lot of thought to my next move. I, of course, had no idea what Mr. Andrews
did for Mr. Powell, but I had my suspicions.
“She said you were very nice to her.”
Nice. I helped clean her up. I walked her out of the party. Put her in her car. Kept
her panties in my pocket.
I sipped my coffee and tried to buy time. How much time can you buy when a man on
a mission is sitting right next to you, watching every breath you take, every flick
of your eyes, every twitch of your face?
“She said you were there when she was raped by Peter Gregory Martin.”
Raped
. It was a word I had been thinking about for two weeks straight, ever since we returned
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