Not Quite Dead Yet, page 14
“Please don’t get in the way of the investigation again,” he said.
“Cool.” Jet blew out her lip. “Good talk. Always a pleasure.”
She sidled over to her family.
“Oh, Jet, look at you, sweetie,” Mom said. The past day must have been hard on her, her face grayer and gaunter somehow. “You’re filthy.”
“Yep.” Jet’s arms slapped down to her sides.
“Why don’t you come home? I’ll run you a nice bath.”
“No.” Jet sniffed, sleeve to her nose, rubbing more dirt on than off. “I don’t have time for a nice bath and I’m not coming home. I’m not giving up, not this time, Mom. I can do this. I’m doing it, see. I just found the murder weapon. Not the police, me. I have to do this. I’m supposed to do this.”
“But, Jet—”
“—It’s supposed to be hard,” Jet said, trying to convince herself too. A lot harder now, her suspect pool shifting, opening up from two to…anyone. No, not anyone. Someone who had a connection to this construction site, who knew that the concrete was going in the morning after, that this would be a perfect place to hide the phone and the weapon. That narrowed it down a bit. Maybe a lot.
“Dad.” Jet turned to him. “Can you get me a list of all Mason Construction employees? All contractors and subcontractors, anyone who could have known about this site?”
He nodded, hand pressed to his side, knuckles white. Jet knew what that meant, knew the unrelenting pain.
“Luke can get that for you, honey,” Dad said.
Jet turned to her brother, eyebrows raised. “As quick as you can, Luke.”
He sniffed. “This project was already delayed, and now it’s shut down. Now it’s a crime scene.”
“It’s not a crime scene because I smashed up your foundations, Luke. It’s a crime scene because the killer came here to bury the evidence, probably someone you know or someone you employ. Be mad at them, not me.”
“Luke’s not mad at anyone,” Dad said. Because Dad had no idea. None at all.
“Sergeant Finney!” Ecker called. “A word?” Beckoning him over.
Jet pursed her lips, shot Jack a look, said sorry with her eyes as he wandered away.
She pulled out Billy’s phone, still in her pocket, swiped into the photo reel.
“This is the hammer, Dad.” She showed him. “See the brand. Coleby. Is that one you use at work, that your employees have?”
Dad took the phone from her for a closer look, squinting at the screen.
“No, it’s not the kind we usually order in.” He cleared his throat. “But contractors will often use their own tools.”
“Know anyone who uses this type?”
Dad’s chin dipped, moving side to side. “Sorry, kiddo.”
“Luke?” She showed him the screen.
“Not off the top of my head.”
“No, it was off the top of my head, Luke. The back actually.”
“You feeling OK, Jet?” Mom interrupted, stepping between them.
“I feel like I just spent an hour playing with a sledgehammer.”
“Billy.” Dianne’s gaze fixed on him, sudden and surprising. Ah, so she did remember his name. The same thought spooled behind Billy’s eyes; Jet could tell, the twitch in his parted lips. “Are you making sure she’s getting enough rest?”
“Well, I—”
Dianne didn’t let him answer.
“—Jet, come home. Please.”
“I can’t.” Jet folded her arms in front of her heart, hiding it, protecting it? “I have to keep going. Come on, Billy.”
Billy came on.
“I’ll take good care of her, Dianne. I promise,” he said.
“And Luke,” Jet called, opening the truck door. “That list. ASAP. ASAP meaning I’ll be dead in less than five days, got it?”
Fourteen
“Oh good, you’re back.”
Billy stood in the doorway, his doorway, plastic bags rustling, five hooked over his fingers.
“Got some more food,” he said, shutting the door awkwardly, Billy Bag-Hands, taking them over to the counter. “That chocolate you like. I know it wasn’t on the list, but…Stopped by the pharmacy too, got better bandages.”
Jet was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, her laptop open on the table, eyes back to the screen. The web page spliced, doubled, but Jet hadn’t touched anything; she swore she hadn’t. She rubbed her eyes, blinked, and the image fused together again, back to normal.
“OK, so I’ve done more research on this hammer,” she said, over Billy’s rustling. “Turns out you can’t actually buy the hammer on its own. It’s only sold as part of a set. Comes with a sixty-piece set in this black tool kit.” She clicked through the images. “Various screwdrivers, lots of different fittings, a file, this little wrenchy thing, measuring tape, a knife, a little saw, pliers or something. You get the picture. So the killer has to have this full set somewhere. Or once had it.”
“OK,” Billy said, putting a carton of milk in the fridge.
“And the other thing I found out,” Jet continued, “is that this set is only sold in North America, various retailers like Home Depot, Lowe’s, Amazon, so that…well, I mean, that doesn’t really help us at all.”
Billy pulled out a loaf of bread. “And we now think it’s someone connected to your dad’s company, who might have known about the project on North Street, and when the foundations were going in.”
“Correct,” Jet said. “They had to. Just waiting on that list from Luke, then I can figure out who knew about the North Street site, then go ask them what their favorite brand of hammer is.” Jet stared at it on-screen. The clean, shiny new version of the thing that killed her. “Maybe we got a little too excited about the red wig hair, but it still could be Andrew—he has that connection.”
Jet glanced through the front door, re-creating the space beyond it, that narrow hall that split toward two apartments: 1A through there, and here 1B. Fancy that—living about twenty feet away from one of your murder suspects.
“OK.” Billy balled up the empty grocery bags, quickly, the swishing sound of their whispered secrets. “I better get down to the bar.” He turned to check his reflection in the mounted microwave, fixing his hair, one stubborn curl that wouldn’t let itself be fixed.
Jet slumped against the sofa. “You working tonight?” she asked, watching Billy as he crossed to the far wall, picked up his guitar case.
He shrugged, hiding his face from her. “Kinda,” he said. “It’s th-that live music thing I told you about. I—I’m the music. And I’m…live,” he added.
“Oh,” Jet said. “That’s tonight?”
“Yeah. Tuesday is the only day Allison will let me do it.”
“When’s it start?”
Billy glanced back at the microwave, at the little clock. “Literally ten minutes. I should already be down there, setting up. People are waiting.” He finally looked at her, resting the case on the tops of his shoes. “But I can cancel it, I can stay, if you—”
“—No, no,” Jet cut him off. “You go. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Allison. I’m fine.”
Billy hoisted the guitar case on his back, his eyebrows furrowing. Maybe his arms were sore too: Jet’s were killing her. OK, OK, she heard it.
“I mean,” Billy said, quieter now, unsure, “you could come down, i-if you want. It’s not far.” He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his pale eyes. “You’ve been staring at that hammer for hours already. A quick break might, I don’t know, do you good.”
Jet opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find an excuse in time. Busy was already out the window, she knew it, and Billy knew it too. She couldn’t say later, or next time, because those weren’t options either, not anymore.
Billy watched her, jumped in to fill the silence. “Your mom told me to make sure you’re getting enough rest and…she terrifies me.” He laughed, catching it in his closed fist. “I’m not…I’m not terrible, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I didn’t think you were terrible.” Lie.
Billy smiled, like he knew it. Ah, fuck sake, Billy Finney, looking at her with those sad blue eyes, a tug of warm guilt in her chest, sliding down to her belly.
“Yeah, OK,” Jet said. “Maybe I’ll see you down there.”
Billy’s eyes lit up, a different blue somehow, trading ice for a summer sky.
“OK,” he said, a lopsided smile. “See you down there.”
The front door closed behind him.
“Fuck sake, Billy,” Jet muttered, closing the lid of her laptop. She pushed herself up from the floor, the muscles down the backs of her arms complaining. An ache they didn’t forget as she headed into the bedroom. Well, she couldn’t go down to the bar in her sweats, could she? And her clothes from today were basically ruined.
She slipped on the clean pair of jeans, searched her backpack for a shirt. Hmm, see, this was why you didn’t pack in a hurry, or when you were mad as fuck. She hadn’t packed anything bar-appropriate. Her eyes scanned up to Billy’s closet, pulled it open. Flannel shirts of almost every color combination, checked and striped and checked again. Billy was a Country Boy and he knew it. And he probably wouldn’t mind if Jet borrowed one. Probably. Jet pulled one out—navy and cream—and buttoned it up.
In the bathroom, Jet sprayed some of Billy’s deodorant, pulled out her makeup bag, and studied her face.
Her hair was a mess. Should she try to wash it sometime, around the wounds? Was there even a point? Jet tried to get a brush through; it was still matted around the bandages, but it would have to do.
Next, her face. Her skin was a little blue, a little swollen, by her temple, the bruise creeping out from under the bandage there. A bit of foundation covered that, and the circles under her eyes. Blush on her cheeks and a little on her nose. Eyebrow gel to stick them up the way she liked them. A pale pink on her lips, up and down the sharp lines of her cupid’s bow.
Jet leaned closer to the mirror, mascara wand in hand. She blinked. The pupil on the right was still dilated, a dark abyss in the middle of her eye, mismatched from the other. There wasn’t much the mascara could do about it. But, hey, for a dying girl, she could have looked worse.
* * *
—
Jet had her own table, the one by the upside-down-witch-legs lamp, hands cupped around a cold bottle of beer, stinging the raw scrubbed-clean skin of her palms.
The bar was busy, surprisingly busy, maybe forty people in here, shuffling feet and chatter crammed into the small space. A completely different world from earlier, when it had just been Jet and Billy and Andrew Smith.
The crowd started to cheer, bursts of clapping, and Jet watched as Billy emerged from the door behind the bar, his hand around the neck of his guitar. He jogged toward the makeshift stage, the microphone on a stand waiting for him. More applause, whoops from a group of middle-aged women, a wolf whistle from a burly man at the back.
“Thank you,” Billy said into the microphone, a screech of feedback. “Thanks Steve.”
Jet gripped the underside of the table, too nervous for him, crossed her legs because she couldn’t sit still.
“I’m Billy, and it is my pleasure to play for you tonight,” he said, strumming one chord, hooking the guitar strap over his head. “I’m gonna start off with a song probably none of you have ever heard before.”
He started to play, fingers dancing across the strings, and the opening riff drew a laugh from the crowd. More when he started to sing.
That song everyone knew. The one about Vermont and sticks. Very popular around here, especially at this time of year, right on the cusp of the season of the sticks.
The crowd quieted and Billy continued the verse, and Jet gripped the table harder and…wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. Billy was good. More than good. He could actually sing, oh my god, he could actually sing. A raspy tone to his voice that wasn’t there when he spoke, climbing the notes like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Jet felt the hairs standing up along her aching arms. She hugged them to herself. Billy Fucking Finney, eh? Who would have thought?
Everyone joined in with the chorus, butchering the notes, coming in too late. Jet wanted them to shut up, so she could hear her friend sing.
Billy’s eyes scanned the crowd, like he was looking for someone, and then he found her, sitting here at her table, alone.
Jet raised her beer and Billy winked back at her. Moved on to the next verse, but he was smiling so wide out one side of his mouth, it must have been hard to sing through.
“That’s my friend,” Jet said to a guy at the next table.
“Billy’s everyone’s friend.”
Well, fuck you, sir.
The song ended, another wolf whistle from the back of the room.
Billy grinned into the microphone. “OK, next up: Steve’s favorite, because he’ll start heckling if I don’t.”
He cleared his throat and picked at the strings. Teenage Dirtbag, another crowd-pleaser, and Steve back there looked more than pleased.
Jet took another sip of her beer, the fizz of the liquid inside her cheeks, a warm glow pressing in from the other side. Well, in one of them; the other cheek felt nothing. Could you normally feel your cheeks? Jet took another sip, finished off the beer. She glanced over to the bar, scouting her path through the crowd. There was a clear way, there, right to one of the bar stools, and a woman sitting on it. Jet recognized her immediately. Her name wasn’t Noelle, like Billy was singing now, but it was close. Nell. Jankowski. The chief’s wife.
Jet got to her feet, zigzagged her way through, all eyes on Billy.
“Can I have another?” Jet placed the empty bottle down on the bar, standing right next to Nell, hair like bronze, graying at the temples. She was drinking a glass of white wine, the glass sweating, ghostly fingerprints left behind. “Hi,” Jet said. “I’m Jet.”
Nell glanced at her, eyes that matched her hair, softening as they landed on Jet. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, straightening up. “I know who you are. Lou’s told me about…He’s good, isn’t he?” Nell pointed her glass toward Billy.
“The best,” Jet answered without a pause. “What has Lou told you?”
Nell hesitated, breathing in the wine. “I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry about your situation. It’s truly awful, what happened. Are you feeling OK? If there’s anything I can do before—”
“—I feel fine,” Jet lied. “No different. Turns out dying feels a lot like living.”
“I’m sorry.” Nell stared into her glass, wincing as the crowd joined in with the chorus.
Jet waited for the sound to die down, then asked: “Is it true? That my dad is planning to sell Mason Construction to you?”
Nell choked on her wine. “He told you?”
“Someone else did.”
Nell’s chin dipped up, a question in her eyes.
“Andrew Smith,” Jet answered. “So it’s actually true?”
Nell nodded. “He shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably a lot of things Andrew Smith shouldn’t have done.”
“I pay him to do jobs around the house sometimes,” Nell said. “One of the first people I met in town, in here actually.” She looked around, but Andrew wasn’t here. “I worry he’s lonely. We chat sometimes. I didn’t think he…He shouldn’t have told you that. Your dad doesn’t want anyone to know yet.”
“Are you going to buy it?” Jet asked. “The company.”
Nell ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “It makes sense to. I own a home construction business, based in Hartland and Hartford, where we lived before Lou got this job. Now we live in Woodstock, it makes sense to expand here. We’re not total out-of-towners, like people think. Lou actually lived here for six months, in his thirties.”
“Thank you,” Jet said to the guy behind the bar, handing her an open beer.
“I’ll get this.” Nell jumped in, reaching toward the card machine before Jet had a chance.
“Thanks.” Jet took a sip. “It would also make sense for my dad to leave the company to Luke when he retires. He’s worked there more than ten years. It’s what we all thought would happen.”
Nell went back to staring at her wine. “Your dad doesn’t want to do that. He has two children. Doesn’t think it would be fair on you, to give the company to Luke.”
“Well, lucky for Luke, I guess that’s not going to be a problem anymore. Dad’s only gonna have one kid left by the end of the week.” Jet took another sip. “Excuse me—someone’s trying to steal my table.”
Jet made her way back, eyeballing the man who was reaching for her chair until he backed off.
“Thank you, thank you,” Billy said, his breath tickling the mic. “OK, next I’m gonna play one of my own songs.” The crowd oohed. “I know, I know. I wrote this song a while back, so you might have heard it already. This one’s called For Her.”
Billy’s fingers skipped across the strings, picking out the chords, eyes down on his feet.
“If you asked my heart how long, it could only say it’s been a while,” he sang. “And I’d ask you instead: how could you not love that dangerous little smile? She laughs like an old man dying, and I gotta keep it together, I’m really trying. Loved her since the start, since day one, but day one won’t ever be one day ’cause…”
He strummed harder, the guitar picking up for the chorus, Billy’s voice too, gravelly beneath the notes. He sang:
She might not ever love me back,
Wrong place or time or maybe neither.
But she looks at me with those earthy eyes,
And I’m not sure I can breathe ugh.
Don’t think it’s in the cards or stars,
Not on the same page or track.
But, hell, I’m gonna play it,
