wouldn’t do to force Janet to call the police on him. But as he knocked again, it seemed he wasn’t going to be given the chance to earn such ignominy; the house on the other side of the door remained quiet.
He thought of knocking again, but then realized the futility of doing so. Instead he left the side door and walked around to the front of the house. He had no plans to break in this time. He only wanted to look at the window, to see it whole again. She had indeed fixed it, and it looked like she’d had the sill and framing painted.
Before returning to the car, he took out his phone and dialed her number. There was no message when it kicked over to voice mail, just a tone.
A year ago there’d have been no doubt about what kind of message he would have left. It would have been angry and caustic— anything to get at her, to hurt her for what she had done. And he was close to starting down that path again, especially since he didn’t know where she’d taken his dog. Yet for some reason his heart wasn’t in it.
Rather than get back into the Horch, he sat on the sideboard, facing the house—his house. He didn’t know what to say into the phone, so instead of saying anything, he hung up. He sat on the sideboard as the minutes ticked by, the sun warming him as it hadn’t once during his sojourn in New York. When after a while he dialed her number again, he knew he could talk without saying anything he’d regret.
“Hey, Janet,” he said—an admittedly weak beginning. He took a deep breath, and when he let it go, a few words came with it. “Look, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for the way everything’s turned out.” He shifted position on the sideboard and looked up into the sky, searching for the right thing to say. “I know that this is mostly my fault, and I know it’s probably too late to do anything about it, but . . .” As he lapsed into silence he could hear the ticking of the 853’s engine. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “I’ll sign whatever papers you want me to sign. And I hope everything works out for you. . . .”
He was surprised to find that he meant that, regardless of what she’d done to him. It felt good to let it go, and it was with a smile that he said goodbye, stood and slipped the phone into his pocket, then reached for the door handle. When, an instant later, a squad car swung in behind his car, that smile turned into something else.
“Down on the ground. Now!” one of the two officers shouted, exiting the vehicle and leading with his gun. CJ, whose hand was still on the 853’s door handle, and whose brain was running slow from lack of sleep, apparently didn’t comply with the officer’s order quickly enough because the man repeated the command with, if possible, more menace in his voice. By this time the other officer had stepped from the squad car and he held something that looked like a large electric shaver.
Knowing it was unlikely that the one with the gun would shoot him, but having doubts about the officer with the Taser, CJ went to his knees, and then continued on to his belly.
The Taser officer closed the distance while the one with the gun watched. Once he was close enough, the cop put a knee in CJ’s back, which hurt more than he would have thought, and proceeded to pull CJ’s hands behind his back until he could snap the handcuffs in place.
That was when the cop with the gun holstered his weapon and helped his buddy pull CJ to his feet, which again hurt more than CJ thought it should have. He was marched to the squad car, and as the officer put his hand on the top of CJ’s head and guided him in, CJ thought he saw a curtain in the front window move.
CJ sat in a holding cell at the Williamson County jail, pondering synchronicity. Just yesterday he’d visited the courthouse in the town of his birth for the first time, despite a youth spent in less than angelic fashion. Now he was visiting another venue of criminal justice in the town he’d called home for