“Mr. Hewitt?” says Judy.
She feels so close to the truth. Her heartbeat quickens.
“Mr.—” she begins, and then at last she hears him.
“Barbara?” he says.
Judy shivers a little. “No, Mr. Hewitt,” she says. “My name is Judyta—” she begins, but Vic Hewitt cuts her off.
“Barbara,” he says. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Mr. Hewitt,” calls Judy, “I’m not Barbara. Is Barbara inside with you?”
Silence.
“Mr. Hewitt?”
She feels the weight of the gun in her hands. Considers her options. She could retreat; could walk or drive up to the Command Post; could bring yet another fleet of troopers to this structure. Could risk being seen as a fool yet again.
Instead, she says, “Mr. Hewitt, stand back from the door.”
She aims her pistol sideways at the padlock, ensuring that the bullet won’t make its way through the door. She braces her arm. Fires.
The padlock falls with a clunk to the floor, and Judy opens the door.
• • •
Inside a sparsely furnished room, an old man lies in a twin bed. A blanket covers him from his chin to his feet. His body is small; his expression confused.
“Who,” he says, over and over again.
Instantly, Judy feels guilty.
“I’m not here to harm you,” she says. “I just need to ask you some questions.”
But Vic Hewitt only lets out a series of sounds that Judy can’t comprehend, and at last, she recognizes that she’s in a situation she can’t get out of: with the padlock broken, she has no way to lock the door again; with the state this man is in, she has no way to bring him outside. And she has no way to bring others to him either, without leaving him alone.
Judy looks straight down at the ground, between her feet. Maybe, she thinks, this wasn’t the right line of work for her after all. Maybe she would have been better off remaining a trooper.
Then, from the bed, there is movement.
“Oh,” says Vic Hewitt. “Oh. Oh. I guess you’re here about Bear.”
His voice is remorseful—but also younger, more energetic, as if he is returning in his mind to another time in his life.
Judy hesitates. She isn’t certain whether statements from those with infirm minds—the term she learned at the academy—are admissible in court. But her own personal curiosity, in this situation, wins.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m here about Bear.”
Vic Hewitt is struggling, now, to sit up in bed. Judy bends down, places a hand on his back. Helps him. Then sits on the edge of his bed. Upright now, Hewitt gazes directly at her, and she sees his eyes are filled with tears.
“I only helped,” he says. “I only helped.”
“You didn’t kill him?” Judy asks.
“Kill him? God no,” says Vic Hewitt.
“Who did?” Judy says.
And then, from outside the door, the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Judy goes quiet. Draws her gun. Walks swiftly toward the wall next to the threshold, and puts her back to it.
“Oh no,” says Hewitt. “Oh no.”
The person stops outside the door. Judy can hear breathing. She will fire this gun, she tells herself, only if necessary.
At last, T.J. Hewitt takes one step into the room, looking in Judy’s direction already, as if she knows who will be there.
She looks Judy up and down. Looks directly at her gun.
“I’ve got one of those too,” she says, mildly. “But I don’t draw it on people.”
“Lie down,” Judy says. And then she adds: “Please.”
T.J. sighs. Takes her time. She gets down on her knees, looking up at Judy all the while as if demonstrating the ridiculousness of the exercise. Then lowers herself, in a slow push-up, to the ground.
Judy, gun still drawn, pats her down.
“All right, listen,” she says. “You and I are going to walk toward the Command Post together.”
