Billy Summers

‘Hush. You’re not ruined yet, that’s the important thing. You’re okay. I know because when I asked you how you were doing with Klerke, you said you were trying. I knew what you meant, I know that you are, and in time you’ll be able to put it behind you. Except in dreams.’

The red light, shining and shining. Painting the corn. It is so silent here and his hands are burning in hers.

‘Klerke screamed, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘He screamed that it hurt.’

‘Stop, Billy, it’s horrible and we have to get back on the turnpi—’

‘Maybe he deserved to be hurt, but when you give pain it leaves a scar. It scars your mind. It scars your spirit. And it should, because hurting someone, killing someone, is no little thing. Take it from someone who knows.’

Blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth. No, from both corners. She gives up trying to stop him from talking. She knows what this is, it’s a dying declaration, and her job is to listen as long as he’s able to speak. She says nothing even when he tells her he’s a bad man. She doesn’t believe it but this is no time to argue.

‘Go to Bucky, but don’t stay with him. He cares for you and he’ll be kind to you, but he’s a bad man, too.’ He coughs and blood flies from his mouth. ‘He’ll help you start a new life as Elizabeth Anderson, if that’s what you want. There’s money, quite a lot of it. Some is in the account of a paper man named Edward Woodley. There’s also money in the Bank of Bimini, in the name of James Lincoln. Can you remember that?’

‘Yes. Edward Woodley. James Lincoln.’

‘Bucky has the passwords and all the account information. He’ll tell you how to manage the flow of money into your own bank account so you don’t attract attention from the IRS. That’s important, because that’s how they’re most apt to catch you. Unreported income is a trapdoor. Do you …’

More coughing. More blood.

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Billy.’

‘Some of the money goes to Bucky. The rest is yours. Enough to go to college and a start in life after that. He’ll treat you fair. Okay?’

‘Okay. Maybe you should lie back now.’

‘I’m going to, but if you try to drive all night you’ll be an accident waiting to happen. Check your phone for the next town big enough to have a Walmart. Park where the RVs are. Sleep. You’ll be fresh in the morning and back at Bucky’s by late afternoon. Up in the mountains. You like the mountains, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise to stop for the night.’

‘All that corn,’ he says, looking over her shoulder. ‘And the sun. Ever read Cormac McCarthy?’

‘No, Billy.’

‘You should. Blood Meridian.’ He smiles at her. ‘Fucking Marge, huh?’

‘That’s right,’ Alice says. ‘Fucking Marge.’

‘I wrote the password to my laptop on a piece of paper and stuck it in your purse.’

That said, he lets go of her hands and falls back. She lifts his calves and manages to get his legs into the car. If it hurts him, he gives no sign. He’s looking at her.

‘Where are we?’

‘Nebraska, Billy.’

‘How did we get here?’

‘Never mind. Close your eyes. Rest up.’

He frowns. ‘Robin? Is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I love you, Robin.’

‘I love you, too, Billy.’

‘Let’s go down cellar and see if there are any apples left.’

7

Another knot pops in the woodstove. Alice gets up, walks to the refrigerator, and gets a beer. She twists off the cap and drinks half of it.

‘That was the last thing he said to me. When I parked with the RVs at the Kearney Walmart, he was still alive. I know, because I could hear him breathing. Rasping. When I woke up the next morning at five, he was dead. Do you want a beer?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

Alice brings him a beer and sits down. She looks tired. ‘“Let’s go down cellar and see if there are any apples left.” Maybe talking to Robin, or to his friend Gad. Not much of an exit line. Life would be better if Shakespeare wrote it, that’s what I think. Although … when you think about Romeo and Juliet …’ She drinks the rest of her beer and some color comes into her cheeks. Bucky thinks she looks a little better.

‘I waited until the Walmart opened, then went inside and bought some stuff – blankets, pillows, I think a sleeping bag.’

‘Yes,’ Bucky says. ‘There was a sleeping bag.’

‘I covered him up and got back on the highway. Keeping no more than five miles an hour over the speed limit, just like he told me. Once a Colorado State Patrol car came up behind with its flashers going and I thought I was cooked but it went by and on down the road, lickety-split. I got here. And we buried him, along with most of his things. There wasn’t much.’ She pauses. ‘But not too near the summerhouse cabin. He didn’t like it. He worked there but he said he never liked it.’

‘He told me he thought it was haunted,’ Bucky says. ‘What comes next for you, darlin?’

‘Sleep. I just can’t seem to get enough. I thought it would be better when I finished writing his story, but …’ She shrugs, then stands up. ‘I’ll figure it out later. You know what Scarlett O’Hara said, don’t you?’

Bucky Hanson grins. ‘“I’ll think about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.”’