A Stranger Lies There Read Online Free PDF Page A

with it. The body was lying there. There was nobody around. We called you guys—my wife did—and that’s it. We already told the deputies all this.”
    Branson tapped his cigarette and I watched the wind carry the ash into the gutter.
    â€œUh-huh. Tell me about yourself.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œHow long you’ve lived here. What you do. Like that.”
    Another pull, another tap, more drifting ash. Seemed to accelerate as it neared the ground. I couldn’t help thinking of the boy’s life in the same way—a fragile thing carried off by a killing wind. Figured what happened was just starting to hit me.
    â€œWell … we’ve lived here about three years, been married for two. I do carpentry, woodworking, furniture refinishing and repairing. Most of it here at home in my garage. My wife works in a clinic—”
    â€œWhat kind of clinic?”
    â€œDrug rehab.”
    He raised an eyebrow at that. “Young people?”
    I shrugged. “Sure, I guess. You think this is drug related?”
    â€œShe know him?”
    â€œNo, of course not.” Silence. You sure? “Look, we have nothing to do with it. Neither of us has ever seen him before. I’m sure he could have ended up next door just as easy.”
    Branson frowned. “That’s entirely possible. Either way, we’ll need you and your wife to make an official statement down at the station. Tomorrow morning? We’ll say eight o’clock.” He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and held it out for me. “Ask for me.”
    I took the card. Branson started walking toward the crime scene.
    â€œDo you know who the victim is yet?” I said to his back.
    Branson stopped, turned around and told me, “That kind of information will be released at the appropriate time. See you tomorrow morning.” Then he continued towards the blinking red and blue lights, the uniforms, the milling spectators, and the news van that had just pulled up.
    I followed him back to the house. Snatches of conversation billowed out: official talk, questions from reporters, cops interviewing the neighbors, conjecture about the crime. Across the street, a TV reporter live on camera. My house was dwarfed by the San Jacintos rising behind it—if it were an animal, it would have been trembling, ready to bolt. I wanted to go inside, lock the door, and never come out. But first I had to get through the rabble on my front lawn. A deputy cleared a path, and I stopped a moment before going inside.
    The body was being lifted onto a stretcher. Someone hadn’t zipped the body bag all the way closed. They wheeled it over to the back of the white van and slid it inside. Just before the doors were slammed shut, one of his hands slipped out. Gloved with a brown paper bag and a rubber band, it dangled over the edge of the pallet, a parting gesture that only I seemed to notice. Then the van was gone and the space it had occupied was quickly filled with people, some of them here to investigate, some to keep order, and others to package the event and sell it.
    I turned away. Deirdre had cleaned up the mess on the front porch and was sitting alone in the living room. Face the Nation on TV with the sound too low. I closed the curtains and sat beside her on the couch. We didn’t speak for a long while.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” Deirdre finally said.
    I shook my head slowly.
    â€œI mean, I know what you’re thinking about, but…”
    â€œHow much we could get for the house. Where I would put my tools.”
    She put down the remote she’d been holding for the last twenty minutes. “Why?”
    â€œBeen too long in the desert,” I answered, half to myself.
    â€œYou want to move.”
    Ten years here, three of them with Deirdre. So the desert was only outside.
    â€œNo.”
    *   *   *
    That night was a night of release, desperate and