Then he’d be stepping outside the gate. Returning to Denver. Registering his address. Showing proof of employment that did not involve drugs in any way.
One of his employment options was to have been taking over running a liquor store that his cousin owned on Colfax in Denver. It was a fairly grotty liquor store, but it had high foot traffic, and a high probability of him having to carry a gun on his person on account of the high likelihood of the store getting robbed on a regular basis. His parole team would never allow the gun.
What was the name of the place again? Blackjacks or something.
His plan had been to take a Greyhound to Denver and pick up work like nothing had happened. Swear to his parole officer that, of course, he was not carrying a gun, because that was prohibited in his conditions of release.
Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that now, would he. All he was going to have to worry about was not getting lost as he made his way through the woods sans flashlight and without a very good map in his head as to where his tent was.
Which wasn’t like him. He usually had a very good memory for keeping track of his position in the world, but then, most of his life had been lived on the same streets, in the same neighborhoods, since the day of his birth.
Here, in Wyoming, everything was strange and new, and the darkness seemed to ooze through the trees like something was pressing on it from the other side.
It wasn’t like him to be itchy and fidgety, ever, sitting at the campfire with nothing to do. He could feel his body attempting to digest all the sugar he’d eaten, and it had just about driven him crazy. Even Kell’s bright presence, and the flickering fire, hadn’t been enough. And certainly Galen’s covert, slightly intense glances his way didn’t help.
He needed to get up and move. So that’s what he did, catching Galen’s startled glance at him as he strode into the woods.
Like he knew where he was going. Like he had any idea what would happen next.
In the past, he knew what any moment was likely to bring. Cut some cocaine and hire a guy to deliver it. Show up at a glitzy gala event wearing a freshly pressed tuxedo, one of several that he owned, and while the wives and girlfriends downed champagne, make several handshake deals for the coming year. Arrange for more cocaine to be delivered. Check out the meth trade and back away slowly.
Money had rolled across his palms. He’d stashed most of it into several bank accounts. Some, he’d tucked away, filling old coffee cans with gold and silver coins. Those, along with a black plastic bag of unmarked tens and twenties, he’d tucked in the shed in the back yard of his Aunt Lorraine’s house out in Aurora.
He’d even leased a lovely blue BMW convertible, getting a new one each year.
All that was gone, now. Seized. Impounded. Except for the coffee cans and black plastic bags of money, which he hadn’t told anyone about.
After he’d been arrested, he’d never had the chance to retrieve that money. Now that he was released, he could have gotten a quick bus to Denver and dug them up, but that would have drawn attention to Aunt Lorraine, which she would not appreciate, and probably get handcuffs slapped on him again for holding back from the cops.
As for now, his pockets empty, he shuffled through the woods, finally finding his tent, undoing the zipper, thinking it wouldn’t keep anyone out, bear or man, and fumbled for the overhead light.
A pair of moths danced crazily around the bulb like they were waiting for him to join them. But he had no energy now and sat on his cot and looked down at the new work boots on his feet and thought about what he might have told Winston, had he been there.
Winston Ludlow had danced into Bede’s life right after high school, danced out again, and then danced in again, like a tan, bright-eyed will-o'-the-wisp with a sharp toothed smile and a penchant for romance.
The last time Winston had danced in, he’d stayed, always at Bede’s side, loyal, funny. Sweet.
He was a crack shot, and didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, though he always made sure his hands were groomed and clean afterwards.
In bed, Winston was confident and slow, never rushing pleasure, naked on top of the bedclothes. Afterwards, they’d smoke a clove cigarette, or maybe a little weed, the breeze drifting across them both as the sweat dried on their skin.
Sometimes Bede missed Winston so much, it blunted everything else, all feeling, all sensation, all joy.
He lost Winston in that shootout in that alley in Denver. He’d never been able to find out where the bullet that killed Winston had come from. He’d never wanted to ask, either, so as not to draw attention to himself, or give away his very earnest desire to stab the one whose hand had been on the trigger.
Winston had died alone, beneath the hands of some dumb fucking cop fucking up CPR, making Winston choke on his own blood. Bede, in handcuffs, couldn’t get close enough to help. He remembered screaming, throat raw with rage, as they’d shoved him in a cop car and trundled him away.
The circle of blood around Winston’s head as he lay in that alley had been a near perfect halo. Winston had been no saint in life, and in death, he surely hadn’t been good enough to end up in heaven. But Bede had loved him, heart and soul, and missed him with every other breath, even when it was hard to breathe.
His heart had turned off, and with nowhere for his anger to go, mostly he just sucked it down and absorbed it. Ate it, jagged bites that cut into his soul.
And now, he was all alone, for the first time in his entire life.
Before prison, back home, there’d always been something going on, mostly drug-related. Everyone in the neighborhood knowing everyone’s business.
In prison, the guards were always at you. Yelling. Shoving. Making you do stupid shit like jumping jacks in the hallwayoutside the cafeteria, just to show you that they were the boss of you.
But here? The tent was a small cocoon in a vast forest of darkness, and not a single soul was there to witness if he cried over Winston. He never had. And now, maybe his body had forgotten how, because he could only slump on the cot and grow more aware of the sounds beyond the canvas tent.
