long
enough to build suspense. “I was Special Forces.”
My leg almost spasmed on its own, without him even touching me.
“There were things I learned there that make me a valuable person to a man like Mr.
Powell.”
“Learned how to go around intimidating college kids, did you?”
Mr. Andrews took a long time to respond. He spent that time searing me with his eyes.
It was impossible for me to look back at him. I glanced, looked away, glanced back,
and looked away again. “I learned,” he said, his words coming out slowly, each seemingly
hanging in the few inches of air between us, “a lot more than that, pal.”
I had little doubt that he did. My hand was now shaking in counterpointto my feet and I chose not to even try to raise my coffee to my lips. “What is it
you want, Mr. Andrews?”
Very slowly, he reached inside his gray jacket. I thought about throwing the coffee
at him. I would throw it directly into his face and then roll away. Throw, roll, run.
In fact, I could not even move.
“I want you to talk to the Palm Beach County state attorney.” Mr. Andrews was now
holding an envelope that he extended into that very small gap between us. “Round-trip
airline tickets, five hundred dollars expense money.” He nodded at the envelope. “Instructions
on whom to call and where to go.” He pushed it closer, so that it was touching my
chin, then he traced it up my jawline. “I want you to fly down there and tell the
state attorney the truth about what happened at the Gregory home week before last.”
There were cars going by in the street, one after another, a steady stream heading
west. Drive off in that direction, you could just keep on going, get on Highway 80,
take it all the way to California, where nobody would have heard of Josh David Powell
and CPA Properties, and where they might not even care so much about the Gregory family.
The envelope came to rest against the side of my face. “Georgie? You still with me?”
I pulled my head away. The envelope followed. My ear was practically against my shoulder
when I said, “Look, Mr. Andrews, the truth is, I didn’t really see what went on. Kendrick
was really drunk. They all were. We all were.” Suddenly my words were flowing and
I seemed to have no more control of them than I did the cars in front of me. I didn’t
know where they came from or where they were going, they just appeared, one after
another. “She’s a beautiful girl, that much I remember, but I hardly know her. Okay?
I hardly knew anybody at the party and so I was just kind of wandering around by myself.
I was talking to her, talking to some of the Gregorys, looking at all the stuff on
the walls, and then I ended up in the library and there she was on the couch, fooling
around.”
“You keep saying that, don’t you, kid?” The corner of the envelope carved into a spot
beneath my ear. It pinned me as if it were a dart. “Peter Martin was penetrating her
with foreign objects!”
Jesus
, I wanted to say, it was only one foreign object. I stopped the second one. But I
didn’t say anything at all. For a moment or two I may not have been breathing at all.
Mr. Andrews swung around so that one of his legs was below mine, his foot on the stair
below where my feet were. He was practically surrounding me, so close I should have
been able to smell the coffee on his breath as he hissed, “That girl’s in therapy
now. Probably will be for a long time.”
I thought of telling him the things I had been telling myself. Kendrick knew what
she was doing when she went to the party in her fancy little sports car and her tight
little dress. She knew what she was doing when she got drunk, when she went into the
library with those guys. Who would go into a closed room with Peter and Jamie, for
God’s sake?
I said none of that and yet Mr. Andrews seemed to have heard it all. “You really are
an arrogant little shit,
enough to build suspense. “I was Special Forces.”
My leg almost spasmed on its own, without him even touching me.
“There were things I learned there that make me a valuable person to a man like Mr.
Powell.”
“Learned how to go around intimidating college kids, did you?”
Mr. Andrews took a long time to respond. He spent that time searing me with his eyes.
It was impossible for me to look back at him. I glanced, looked away, glanced back,
and looked away again. “I learned,” he said, his words coming out slowly, each seemingly
hanging in the few inches of air between us, “a lot more than that, pal.”
I had little doubt that he did. My hand was now shaking in counterpointto my feet and I chose not to even try to raise my coffee to my lips. “What is it
you want, Mr. Andrews?”
Very slowly, he reached inside his gray jacket. I thought about throwing the coffee
at him. I would throw it directly into his face and then roll away. Throw, roll, run.
In fact, I could not even move.
“I want you to talk to the Palm Beach County state attorney.” Mr. Andrews was now
holding an envelope that he extended into that very small gap between us. “Round-trip
airline tickets, five hundred dollars expense money.” He nodded at the envelope. “Instructions
on whom to call and where to go.” He pushed it closer, so that it was touching my
chin, then he traced it up my jawline. “I want you to fly down there and tell the
state attorney the truth about what happened at the Gregory home week before last.”
There were cars going by in the street, one after another, a steady stream heading
west. Drive off in that direction, you could just keep on going, get on Highway 80,
take it all the way to California, where nobody would have heard of Josh David Powell
and CPA Properties, and where they might not even care so much about the Gregory family.
The envelope came to rest against the side of my face. “Georgie? You still with me?”
I pulled my head away. The envelope followed. My ear was practically against my shoulder
when I said, “Look, Mr. Andrews, the truth is, I didn’t really see what went on. Kendrick
was really drunk. They all were. We all were.” Suddenly my words were flowing and
I seemed to have no more control of them than I did the cars in front of me. I didn’t
know where they came from or where they were going, they just appeared, one after
another. “She’s a beautiful girl, that much I remember, but I hardly know her. Okay?
I hardly knew anybody at the party and so I was just kind of wandering around by myself.
I was talking to her, talking to some of the Gregorys, looking at all the stuff on
the walls, and then I ended up in the library and there she was on the couch, fooling
around.”
“You keep saying that, don’t you, kid?” The corner of the envelope carved into a spot
beneath my ear. It pinned me as if it were a dart. “Peter Martin was penetrating her
with foreign objects!”
Jesus
, I wanted to say, it was only one foreign object. I stopped the second one. But I
didn’t say anything at all. For a moment or two I may not have been breathing at all.
Mr. Andrews swung around so that one of his legs was below mine, his foot on the stair
below where my feet were. He was practically surrounding me, so close I should have
been able to smell the coffee on his breath as he hissed, “That girl’s in therapy
now. Probably will be for a long time.”
I thought of telling him the things I had been telling myself. Kendrick knew what
she was doing when she went to the party in her fancy little sports car and her tight
little dress. She knew what she was doing when she got drunk, when she went into the
library with those guys. Who would go into a closed room with Peter and Jamie, for
God’s sake?
I said none of that and yet Mr. Andrews seemed to have heard it all. “You really are
an arrogant little shit,
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