Caught

“No, no, we just preach that so we can clear the playing fields for ourselves.”

She smiled at that. “Ingenious.”

Pops looked up at her. “What else is wrong?”

Wendy had debated not saying anything about it, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“I got a couple of letters from Ariana Nasbro,” Wendy said.

Silence.

John had been Pops’s only child. Hard as it was for Wendy to lose a husband, no parent wants to speculate what it might be like to lose a child. The pain in Pops’s face was a living, breathing thing. It never left.

“So what did dear, sweet Ariana want?” he asked.

“She’s doing the Twelve Steps.”

“Ah. And you’re one of those steps?”

Wendy nodded. “Step Eight or Nine, I forget which.”

The front door burst open, stopping the conversation. They heard Charlie rush in—he had clearly spotted the Harley in the driveway. “Pops is here?”

“We’re in the den, kiddo.”

Charlie sprinted into the room, his smile wide. “Pops!”

Pops was Charlie’s only surviving grandparent—Wendy’s parents had both died before Charlie was even born, and John’s mom, Rose, had passed away two years ago from cancer. The two men—Charlie was still a boy, sure, but he was now taller than his grandfather—embraced with everything they had. They both squeezed their eyes shut. That was how Pops always hugged. Nothing was held back. Wendy watched them and again felt the pang of missing a man in their lives.

When they stopped, Wendy aimed for normalcy. “How was school?”

“Lame.”

Pops threw his arm around his grandson’s neck. “Mind if me and Charlie go for a ride?”

She was about to protest, but Charlie’s expectant face made her stop. Gone was the sulky teenager. He was a kid again.

“You have an extra helmet?” she asked Pops.

“Always.” Pops arched an eyebrow at Charlie. “You never know when you may run into a safety-conscious biker chick.”

“Don’t be out late,” Wendy said. “Oh, and before you go, maybe we should send out a warning.”

“A warning?”

“To lock up the ladies,” Wendy said. “The two of you on the prowl and all.”

Pops and Charlie shared a knuckle bump. “Oooh yeah.”

Men.

She walked them to the door, shared more hugs, realized that part of what she missed was simply the physical presence of a man, the hugging and embracing and the comfort there is in that. She watched them roar off on Pops’s Hog, and as she turned to head back inside, a car pulled up and parked in front of the house.

The car was unfamiliar. Wendy waited. The driver’s-side door opened, and a woman stormed out. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet from tears. Wendy recognized her right away—Jenna Wheeler, Dan Mercer’s ex-wife.

Wendy had first met Jenna the morning after Dan’s episode aired. She went to the Wheeler house and sat on Jenna’s bright yellow couch with bright blue flowers and listened as Jenna had defended her ex—publicly and loudly—and it had cost her. People in this town—Jenna lived less than two miles from Wendy, her daughter even went to the same high school as Charlie—were, of course, shocked. Dan Mercer had spent time in the Wheeler household. He had even babysat Jenna’s children from her second marriage. How, neighbors wondered, could a caring mother do that, let that monster into their community, and how could she defend him now that the truth was so obvious?

“You know,” Wendy said.

Jenna nodded. “I’m listed as his next of kin.”

The two women stood there on the stoop.

“I don’t know what to say, Jenna.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you set Dan up?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No, Jenna, I didn’t set him up.”

“Why were you there, then?”

“Dan called me. He said he wanted to meet.”

Jenna looked skeptical. “With you?”

“He said he had new evidence he was innocent.”

“But the judge had already thrown out the case.”

“I know.”

“So why—?” Jenna stopped. “What was the new evidence?”

Wendy shrugged, as if that said it all, and maybe it did. The sun had set. The night was warm but a breeze was blowing through.

“I have more questions,” Jenna said.

“Why don’t you come in, then?”

Wendy’s reasons for inviting Jenna in were not entirely altruistic. Now that the shock of witnessing horrific violence had passed, the reporter in her was coming to the forefront.

“Can I get you some tea or something?”

Jenna shook her off. “I still don’t understand what happened.” So Wendy told her. She started with Dan’s phone call and ended with her returning to the trailer with Sheriff Walker. She didn’t go into Ed Grayson’s visit to her house the day before. She had told Walker about that, but there was no reason to fan the flames here.

Jenna listened with moist eyes. When Wendy finished Jenna said, “He just shot Dan?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t say anything first?”

“No, nothing.”

“He just—” Jenna looked around the room, as though for help. “How does a person do that to another?”

Wendy had an answer, but she said nothing.

“You saw him, right? Ed Grayson? You can give the police a positive ID?”

“He wore a mask. But, yeah, I think it was Grayson.”

“Think?”

“Mask, Jenna. He wore a mask.”

“You never saw his face?”

“I never saw his face.”

“So how did you know it was him?”

“By his watch. His height, his build. The way he carried himself.”

Jenna frowned. “Do you think that will hold up in court?”

“I don’t know.”

“The police have him in custody, you know.”

Wendy didn’t know, but again she kept her mouth shut. Jenna began to cry again. Wendy had no idea what to do here. Offering words of comfort would be at best superfluous. So she waited.

“How about Dan?” Jenna asked. “Did you see his face?”

“Pardon?”

“When you got there, did you see what they did to his face?”

“You mean the bruises? Yeah, I saw them.”