Chapter 43: Mickey
Sunday night Tex brings me bourbon. He sits in the armchair and doesn’t say anything for twenty minutes, which is the longest Tex has been silent in my presence since the night of the shooting. The not-talking says more than the talking ever could. Then he stands up and says “tomorrow” and leaves.
I sleep. Not well, but I sleep.
My uniform’s khaki shirt has been hanging in the closet since Tex brought my things from my house. The fabric is stiff from months of not being touched, and the shirt smells like cedar from the closet.
The badge clips to the chest. The department patch is on the left shoulder. The shirt fits differently now — tighter across the chest and shoulders, looser in the waist from the weight I lost in the hospital. The pants are the same khaki but the legs are arranged by my hands instead of standing in them and the belt goes on while I’m sitting.
I wheel to the bathroom mirror. Now I’m a cop in a wheelchair. Hair cut short from the trim Sheila gave me yesterday. She said if I was going back to work, I was going back looking right.
I take the elevator down. Tex is behind the bar doing the morning setup and he stops when the doors open. He looks at the uniform. His chin trembles. Once. Just a flash. Then he clears his throat and the trembling is gone.
“Look at you all dressed up,” he says.
“It’s just a shirt, Tex.”
“It’s not just a shirt and you know it. Get out of here before I say something I’ll deny later.”
Stormy is at the end of the bar restocking glasses. He looks at the uniform and nods once.
My truck is in the parking lot with the new hand controls. They dropped it off on Saturday. I transfer from the chair to the cab. The chair folds into the back seat. I close the door and I’m sitting behind the wheel of my own truck in a sheriff’s uniform. The last time I sat behind a wheel in this uniform I had working legs and a life that looked completely different from the one I’m driving into now.
The Bay County Sheriff’s station is twenty minutes from the Roadhouse. I’ve been in this building a thousand times but I’ve never entered it in a wheelchair. The accessible entrance is on the side — a ramp, an automatic opener. I press the button. The door swings wide. The hallway is the same one I walked through for nine years, and the only thing that’s different is me.
The bullpen is through the double doors. Desks in rows. Computers. The hum of a Monday morning. My desk is the third one on the left. The chair fits underneath. The computer is on, the files are stacked and three cold case folders are in the inbox.
There’s one thing missing.
I reach into my bag and pull out an empty photo frame. Silver. Five by seven. I set it on the desk, front and center, angled toward the aisle where every deputy who walks to the coffee maker will pass.
The sergeant walks by and stops.
“Weaver. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Sarge.”
His eyes go to the empty frame. “Photo coming soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nods and moves on. The day keeps going. I dig into work. Cold case files. Evidence logs. The work is different from patrol. Patrol was the body. This is the brain. My brain is good at this.
At lunch I take a photo of the desk. The computer, the files, the coffee mug the sergeant left as a welcome gift, the nameplate that says DET. WEAVER. And the frame, front and center, empty and waiting.
I send it to Dante.
Mickey:This is my desk. Today is my first day back at work. The frame is for a photo of me and Benji. It’s empty because I don’t have the photo yet. I’m going to take it today. I need to know where he is. Please.
Delivered. Read.
Three dots appear and disappear and appear again. Dante composing and deleting. The photo of the desk did something words alone couldn’t do.
Dante:Seagrove. A cottage. White clapboard, blue shutters, two rocking chairs on the porch. I’ll send the address. I won’t tell him you’re coming. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll disappear.
Then a second text.
Dante:Don’t you dare show up without that frame.
