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light, I will kill this bitch and then myself. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m seeing an equation here where the values balance: the cockboy and the whoregirl. I’m in
the middle. I’m the equals sign, Amberson, but you have to decide. Which value gets canceled out?
It’s your call.”
“No!” she screamed. “Don’t! If you come out here he’ll kill both of u—”
The phone clicked in my ear.
5
I’ve told the truth so far, and I’m going to tell the truth here even though it casts me in the worst
possible light: my first thought as my numb hand replaced the phone in its cradle was that he was
wrong, the values didn’t balance. In one pan of the scales was a pretty high school librarian. In the
other was a man who knew the future and had—theoretically, at least—the power to change it. For a
second, part of me actually thought about sacrificing Sadie and going across town to watch the alley
running between Oak Lawn Avenue and Turtle Creek Boulevard to find out if the man who changed
American history was on his own.
Then I got into my Chevy and headed for Jodie. Once I got out on Highway 77, I pegged the
speedometer at seventy and kept it there. While I was driving, I thumbed the latches on my briefcase,
took out my gun, and dropped it into the inner pocket of my sport coat.
I realized I’d have to involve Deke in this. He was old and no longer steady on his feet, but there
was simply no one else. He would want to be involved, I told myself. He loved Sadie. I saw it in his
face every time he looked at her.
And he’s had his life, my cold mind said. She hasn’t. Anyway, he’ll have the same chance the lunatic gave
you. He doesn’t have to come.
But he would. Sometimes the things presented to us as choices aren’t choices at all.
I never wished so much for my long-gone cell as I did on that drive from Dallas to Jodie. The best I
could do was a gas station phone booth on SR 109, about half a mile beyond the football billboard. On
the other end the phone rang three times . . . four . . . five . . .
Just as I was about to hang up, Deke said, “Hello? Hello?” He sounded irritated and out of breath.
“Deke? It’s George.”
“Hey, boy!” Now tonight’s version of Bill Turcotte (from that popular and long-running play The
Homicidal Husband ) sounded delighted instead of irritated. “I was out in my little garden beside the
house. I almost let it ring, but then—”
“Be quiet and listen. Something very bad’s happened. Is still happening. Sadie’s been hurt already.
Maybe a lot.”
There was a brief pause. When he spoke again, Deke sounded younger: like the tough man he had
undoubtedly been forty years and two wives ago. Or maybe that was just hope. Tonight hope and a
man in his late sixties was all I had. “You’re talking about her husband, aren’t you? This is my fault. I
think I saw him, but that was weeks ago. And his hair was much longer than in the yearbook picture.
Not the same color, either. It was almost orange.” A momentary pause, and then a word I had never
heard from him before. “Fuck!”
I told him what Clayton wanted, and what I proposed to do. The plan was simple enough. Did the
past harmonize with itself ? Fine, I would let it. I knew Deke might have a heart attack—Turcotte
had—but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. It was Sadie.
I waited for him to ask if it wouldn’t be better to turn this over to the police, but of course he knew