Chapter Eighteen #2
“How you getting home,
Bobby?” Sawyer asked.
“None of your fucking
business.”
One of the guys at the end of the bar
stood. His hair curling from under a Giants ballcap was gray, and
he had more of a gut than before, but Walker still recognized him
as Ted Alvarez, who’d coached his Little League team when he was
ten.
“C’mon, Bobby. I’ll drop
you off at your place.”
“I want fucking Owen to
serve me a fucking drink.”
“Sure you do. And if you
don’t make a bigger fuss than you already have, Owen will serve you
next time you come in. But not tonight.”
Bobby looked like he’d continue
arguing, then his shoulders slumped. “Whatever. Beer’s watered down
here, anyway.” He weaved his way toward the back door, mumbling
under his breath. “Bunch of assholes.”
“Next one’s on the house,
Ted,” Owen said.
“Thanks.” Ted nodded to
Sawyer and clapped Walker on the arm as he moved to follow Bobby.
“Glad you’re back, son.”
“Guy doesn’t drink
anything harder than Coke.” Owen nodded after him as Ted followed
Bobby out. “Lonely bastard. Comes in most nights since his wife
died about eight months ago.”
“Mrs. Alvarez
died?”
Owen confirmed it with a grim
nod.
Walker remembered Alvarez’s wife, a
tiny woman who’d always worn purple. Purple hats, sandals with
purple flowers, purple t-shirts. She’d attended every one of the
games her husband coached, cheering from the bleachers, and made
awesome tacos for the end-of-season team party.
He wondered what it would be like to
have been married that long and then suddenly have to live without
that person. He guessed there was a message in there about making
the time you had count. He shook off the gray mood and returned to
the table, taking the last swallow of beer from his
glass.
Sawyer stood with his phone in his
hand, staring at the screen while Walker took their empty glasses
to the bar.
“Later, Owen.” Sawyer
jerked his head at the back and Walker followed him to the
door.
They stepped out into the cool night.
Ted and Bobby were already gone. Sawyer stopped in the glow of the
light over the back door. “Detective sent me photos from the
assault in Pine Cove.”
Something in Sawyer’s tone had the
hairs on the back of Walker’s neck standing on end.
Sawyer held up his phone to show the
screen. “This is the knife they found at the scene.”
Walker stared at the image and felt
like he’d taken a sucker punch to the face. “What the
fuck?”
“That your knife,
brother?”
Bone handled. Blood on the blade. It
was the same knife his grandfather had given him on his fifteenth
birthday with “Walker” carved onto the handle by James in small,
precise letters. The same one Delaney had cut her thumb on the
night Pop had died. If it wasn’t on his belt, he kept the knife in
its sheath in the glove box of his truck.
“I need to look in my
truck.”
He pulled out his keys, but even
before he unlocked the passenger door, he knew he wouldn’t find his
knife. He went through the motions anyway, opening the truck door,
punching the release on the glove box. He felt around inside,
coming up with nothing.
The sucker punch to the face now felt
more like he’d been flattened by a semi. He shoved back to lean
against the side of the truck, staring up at the night sky. The
sharp memory of the metal bars clanging shut on his cage that first
night he’d spent in prison echoing through his head. He pulled
pine-scented air into his lungs and told himself to keep
breathing.
Sawyer went through the glove box
himself before standing with his hand on Walker’s shoulder. “When’s
the last time you saw it?”
Walker pushed the heels of his hands
against his eyes and swallowed against the sudden urge to
vomit.
Sawyer tightened his grip, the
pressure helping to focus him. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not going back to
prison.”
“No, you’re not. But
someone’s fucking with you and we need to figure out what’s going
on before that knife is tied to you. And that’ll happen soon.
There’s not going to be a long list of people around here with your
name. When did you last see the knife?” he repeated.
Walker shook off Sawyer’s hand and
began to pace. “I had it when Delaney and I found Bud in the creek.
I used it to cut the rope from his neck. Yesterday morning I put it
in the glove box.”
“Do you lock your
truck?”
The sick feeling in his stomach
ratcheted up. “If I’m out, but not when I’m home. If I’m at the
cabin, I don’t bother.”
Sawyer swore under his breath. “It’s
too convenient. It’s too fucking convenient for your knife to show
up at a crime scene and then get left behind.” Sawyer’s tone was
grim. “The call came in at about midnight. Where were you at that
time?”
“Home, and before you ask,
I was alone.”
“Did you talk to anyone
last night? Text anyone?”
He shook his head. “I’d been going
through the box, continuing what we were doing the other day,
pulling out papers that had anything to do with
Fetterly.”
His phone went off and he pulled it
from his pocket. Seeing the name on the screen, he brought it to
his ear. “Laney.”
“Walker, there’s a fire at
the mill.”