The blinds were open as I carved the block of clay into smaller pieces. The time traveler that I had created needed opposition. Every good guy needs a bad guy. I decided that his nemesis would be wealthy, like an aristocrat from the 1920s with a top hat and an overcoat, and that he would also travel back and forth in time.
Morning sun came through the window. It lit the room in perfect light, and I worked the clay as my mind wandered.
Lincoln had not come to see me over the past week. My mother told me that he needed time, and I wondered what I would say to him when he did show up.
I thought about why my father wanted me to carry on his legacy, and why I had been so hesitant to embrace the idea. Part of my reluctance was surely an acknowledgment that Lincoln, despite his ambition and sometimes questionable tactics, had stepped forward when I had drifted away. My brother wanted what our father had to give and had positioned himself to receive it. Yet I had received the offer, not Lincoln.
And it was a fact that taking the position would solve some, if not all, of my problems.
I’d have money. I’d have a purpose, and Sammy and I could leave Saint Louis. We could find distance from the memories of my deceased wife that haunted every corner of the city.
Maybe I’d fallen so low that the darkness had convinced me I wasn’t worthy of a lot of things in life: depression had rewired my brain. Maybe I should seriously consider it. I’d promised my father that I would, so why not?
Another hour passed, and then my cell phone rang. The screen said that the call was coming from Annie. It was the first time that she’d reached out since I was beaten and arrested. Each night as I tried to fall asleep, I wondered whether she would call or pay me an unexpected visit, but it hadn’t happened.
I touched the screen to answer. “Madame Mayor.” I pretended that I wasn’t hurt by her absence. “It’s been a while.” There was noise in the background. She was breathing pretty hard. I figured that she was walking to a meeting and probably late.
I asked, “Interested in coming over tonight?”
She didn’t answer. There was only background noise.
“You there?” I asked.
“Yes,” Annie said, but she didn’t answer my question. There was another long pause, and then she asked whether I’d heard from Lincoln lately.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said. “Just wondering if you two had talked recently.” There was another pause, hesitation in her voice. “Listen, Justin, I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll see you later.” She was vague about where and when. “We need to talk.” There was a beep, and then she was gone.
It was a strange exchange.
I set down the phone, wondering whether we had gotten disconnected. Then a few minutes later the phone rang again. I figured that it was Annie, calling back. Perhaps she had found a more private place to talk.
“Hello,” I answered, but it wasn’t Annie. It was Sergeant Schmidt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I drove west on Highway 44, out of the city, through the dense first-ring suburbs, and eventually into a land called West County. It was noted for big lots, low taxes, and rich schools. I drove another twenty miles, and the subdivisions gave way to forest.
A large blue sign on the side of the road announced a new HIGHWAY IMPROVEMENT PROJECT courtesy of the governor. Then the highway was reduced down to one lane by the construction. Yellow lights flashed. Men held signs instructing me to slow down. There were orange pylons, huge trucks, and piles of pipe and rebar piled along the side of the road.
I was getting close.
My stomach tightened.
Then I saw it.
Yellow police tape wrapped around a pine and connected to another tree about a hundred yards farther west. There were three ambulances, four police cars, and a dozen officers. A helicopter circled overhead. I thought it all might be a little too much, but then I figured that finding a dead body was a relative novelty in this part of Missouri.
I pulled over. As soon as I got out of the car, a deputy sheriff spotted me and held up his hand to halt me. I nodded. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t going any farther until we had a chance to talk. The car ride had stiffened me. The pain in my side was back, and I didn’t feel like getting into another confrontation with the cops.
“Area is closed.” He kept walking toward me. The deputy’s chest was puffed. His teeth were gritted. “You gotta move along.”
“Sergeant Schmidt from the Saint Louis Police Department sent for me.” I nodded toward the woods. “He back there?”
The deputy was about to yell at me. Then he realized what he had just heard and stopped—delayed reaction. The deputy was mad, in a way that only cops can get mad. Cops hate people who mess with their protocol and make them think, and it didn’t help that I was black. The deputy had just issued me a clear command to leave, and now he had been forced to back down.
“I’ll radio it in.” The deputy took a few steps back but did not turn. His eyes studied me, filled with suspicion. He pressed a button on top of a box attached to his belt and spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder. Noise came back at him, which I couldn’t understand. Then he barked questions into his shoulder. “Got a guy here who claims he’s supposed to meet up with some Saint Louis cop.” His voice dripped with skepticism and disdain.
Static came back along with a mumbled response from dispatch.
“Says there’s a Sergeant Schmidt here to meet with him.”
More static, and then there must have been a response that the deputy didn’t like, because I saw his lips tighten and his eyes roll.
To the person on the other end of the radio he said, “Fine.” Then the deputy walked back toward me, still skeptical. “The sergeant will be out here in few minutes.” He pointed at my car. “Wait in there.”
I sat and listened to the radio. I switched between KMOX and Saint Louis Public Radio, wondering if and when they were going to report the discovery, but there was nothing. The media didn’t know yet, or didn’t know enough to report.
I thought more about it and then considered the possibility that maybe they didn’t care. Maybe Devon Walker and his short, tragic life didn’t warrant any news coverage. Perhaps the only people in the world who cared were me and his little sister, Tanisha.
I waited for another ten minutes and then decided to call my mother. I didn’t know how long it’d take, and I wanted her to be home when Sammy got back from school.
We talked.
My mother wasn’t too happy to hear about my field trip, but in the end, she promised that she would take care of Sammy. As I hung up the phone and fiddled with the radio, Schmitty emerged from the woods just below where I’d parked.