Paint It Black

Louis stared at Wainwright.

“It’s twenty grand, Louis. You earned it.”

Louis didn’t answer. He rose slowly and held out his hand.

“Thanks, Dan,” he said. “For everything.”

Wainwright rose, hesitated, then came around the desk. He gave Louis a quick but gentle clasp around the shoulders.

“Thanks for all your help,” Wainwright said. “Keep in touch. Let me know when you get settled somewhere or if you ever come back to Sereno.”

Louis nodded quickly and went to the door, closing it softly behind him.

The rain was finally letting up as Louis stopped to pay the toll. He went across the causeway and headed slowly down the tree-tu

By the time the road took a bend toward the water, the rain had stopped. He glanced to his left as he drove, watching the orange smudge of sun creep toward the gray-green water.

At the tiny town center, he pulled up in front of the Island Deli and Liquor and went in. A bell tinkled over his head as he closed the door.

The store’s narrow aisles were crammed with boxes. More boxes were stacked along the back in front of the coolers of wine and beer. To his right there was a shelf crowded with cheap ceramic birds, dolphins, and assorted shells. Colorful beach towels, embroidered with the words Captiva Island, hung along a wall.

Roberta was behind the counter ringing up a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Bud for a man in a flowered shirt. She glanced at Louis as she took the man’s money. The man gathered up his bag and moved past Louis, out the door. The bell tinkled again.

There was no anger in Roberta’s eyes as she looked at him across the counter. Fatigue maybe. Or relief. But the anger was gone.

“Evening,” he said.

She came around the counter. “I see you got my message.”

Louis nodded.

Roberta hollered toward the back. “Levon!”

Levon came around a corner. “Yeah?”

“Levon, you remember Mr. Kincaid, don’t you?”

Levon came forward slowly, an apron around his waist, a price-punch in his hand. His eyes settled on Louis’s bruised face. “Did I do that to you?”

Louis shook his head. “No.”

Levon sighed. “Good.”

Roberta tapped him on the arm. “Tell the man.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I got my meds back now.”

Louis nodded slightly. “I hope not.”

Roberta turned toward the cash register. “Watch the front, Levon. I’ll be right back.”

Roberta motioned for Louis to follow her to the back. She led him to an office that was so small he could barely get the door closed behind him.

“Sorry for the mess. Today’s delivery day.” She sat down at a desk and opened her checkbook.

“You look like shit,” she said, writing. “You doing okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

She scribbled her name with elaborate curves and ripped the check from the book, holding it out to him.

“There you go.”

He looked down at it. All the way over here he had thought about what he would do with the money. He had told himself it was his, fair and square. But now it wasn’t that easy. He lifted his gaze to her face and let out a small sigh.

She heard it and narrowed her eyes. “Take it.”

Louis hesitated. “Mrs. Tatum . . .”

She stood and slapped it in his hand. “Don’t be stupid. Somebody offers you money, you take it.”

He fingered it, then met her eyes. “It just doesn’t seem right to take money from you when you’ve lost . . . your husband.”

Roberta put her hands on her hips. “You had nothing to do with me losing Walter. But you have a whole lot to do with how I get past it. Put the damn money in your pocket.”

She reached for the door, then looked at him. “I can afford it. Does that make you feel better?”

Louis smiled. “I guess. Thank you.”

She pulled open the door. “Now get out of here. I got a shitload of stuff to get out on those shelves out there.”

He followed her out, toward the front, putting the check in his pocket. She moved to a box of ca

“Excuse me, please.”

He turned to see a woman standing behind him. Her round body was draped in a bright muumuu, her eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Silver bracelets tinkled on her wrists like the bell above the door.

“I just want to get to those,” she said, pointing.

Louis moved so she could get to the shelf of plastic trinkets.

“What do you think about this?” the woman said, holding out an ugly bird made out of shells.

“Very nice,” Louis said.

“I want to get a souvenir of this place,” the woman said. “I’ve enjoyed it so. It’s so nice and peaceful here.”

She put the bird back and plucked out a conch shell instead. She stared at it, heaving a heavy sigh.

“It’s so hard to go back to Wisconsin. All that snow and everything.” She looked up at him. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

Chapter Forty-seven

He left the car in the deli’s lot and walked down the street to the beach. The cloud cover had broken and shards of pink sun cut through the gray, but the beach was empty, the shell seekers abandoning the sand, the tourists retreating to the bars. Only a few hardy souls were walking along the surf, waiting to see if there might yet be a sunset worth witnessing.

Louis paused on the crest of the small dune. He hadn’t been back here since the day he and Emily had talked. He was remembering what she had said about being alone, about having to build a family if you didn’t have one. It occurred to him that he had never done that. As much as he cared for Phillip and Frances, he had always kept them at arm’s length, as if he didn’t quite trust himself to love them. They had put locks on his doors, always afraid he would run away. But he had anyway, even without leaving.

The storm had left the water green and churning, and the surf crashed and foamed on the hard, wet sand.

Down the beach, a little to the south, he could see the place where Harold Childers’s body had been found. He went to it and looked down. The sand was washed of footprints. It looked clean, pristine, untouched, and new.

He sat down among the swaying sea oats. He watched a group of sandpipers play tag with the surf and then turned his gaze out to the gulf.

So what will you do, Louis?

Go home.

To what? The rented cabin in Loon Lake? Another empty apartment in Detroit or some other city where he knew no one? The hope that, in ten or fifteen years, he might have a gold shield to hang on his shirt?

Twenty grand . . .

A cop didn’t take rewards. But he wasn’t a cop. Well, what the hell am I then?

“Excuse me.”

Louis turned. A man was standing on the dune behind him, hands on hips. He was wearing shorts, a bulky white sweater, and a plaid tam on his head. It took Louis a moment to recognize him. It was the Frenchman who had come down to the beach the morning they had found Harold Childers’s body.

“You can’t be here,” the Frenchman said. “This is propriété privée.”

“Can I sit down there?” Louis asked, pointing down toward the water.

“If you want,” the Frenchman said with a shrug. He paused, peering at Louis.

“I know you,” he said. “You were here with the dead man. You are le flic.”

“Yeah, I’m the flic,” Louis said.

“Things are better now, no?”

“Things are better now, yes.”

“Bon.”

Louis started to get up.

“No,” the Frenchman said. “You stay here.”