The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

“Is it over?” he asks. She looks at him, startled. “The trial. I’ve been watching it. On television, mostly.”

She nods. “Not guilty on all counts,” she says. “The jury didn’t believe there was a crime.”

“They didn’t believe a crime happened, or they didn’t believe killing a Resonant is criminal?”

“No idea,” says Miss Washington. “I’m sure someone will interview one of them. Maybe we’ll get a hint of what they talked about in deliberation. But something like this, I can’t help thinking they couldn’t hold these men guilty without holding themselves guilty, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Owen says.

“Everyone in that town fucking knew what happened,” she says bitterly. “The cops and the ME and the wives and kids. They all knew, and they all shut up about it. We should’ve had every single one of them on trial. Not just the rednecks who held the knives and the bats.”

Owen Curry nods. He thinks of what his friend told him about delivering justice. He thinks about Miss Washington’s speech to the jury. Before he can take the next step, the doors of the bar swing open, and the defendants parade in. Owen knows them by name. He’s been studying the case. The first one through the door is Danny Randall, who, according to Scott Lipscombe’s testimony, organized the whole thing. “Troy, I want to buy these innocent men some beers,” he crows.

The men file in behind him, itching in suits they’re not used to wearing. They collectively let up a whoop, as if they came from a softball game rather than a murder trial. Danny Randall takes up a spot on the other side of Miss Washington, close enough to cast her in his shadow. “Troy, let’s make it six pitchers of Bud and keep it simple.” As the bartender turns away, Danny Randall notices who he’s standing next to.

“Well, shit,” he says. “I did not imagine you’d be staying in town very long. Troy, get another glass of wine for the little lady.”

“I’m good,” says Miss Washington.

“It’s on me,” Danny says. “Part of how we do things out here in Wyoming. No hard feelings, is what I mean.”

Troy the bartender pours Miss Washington a glass, and it sits in front of her untouched. The bar is loud with the sounds of victory. Owen spins on his bar stool, scanning the room. He looks at Miss Washington and thinks about the Bible story his mother used to tell him in which God asks to see one good man in a city before he decides to destroy it. Owen can’t remember how it ends. Something about salt. He leans over to Miss Washington, whispers in her ear.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think you’re a good person. And what you said yesterday meant something to me. I’ll tell people what you said. I wrote it all down.” He taps his notebook.

“Thank you?” says Miss Washington. She looks confused, nervous.

“I’m here to do what you couldn’t,” Owen says. “I looked you up, and I see you’ve been trying to fight for people like me. But we have to fight our own battles. That’s me. I’m the one who fights. I wish you didn’t have to be here. I’m sorry. It doesn’t change anything, but I am.”

Owen reaches into the place inside him where the null is. When he brings it into the world, it’s usually like lifting an egg, bringing a treasure up from the sea. This time, it’s the sea he’s bringing up. Owen Curry opens himself wide, and an ocean of beautiful nothing pours out, swallowing Miss Washington and Danny Randall and the other killers, and Troy the bartender, and the whole Chariot Lounge, and the towns of Gillette and Powder Basin and everyone in them, guilty or innocent, just and unjust alike.

The crater that was once Powder Basin is wide enough across that Avi can hardly see the agents working the opposite edge of the rim. The smooth, shallow bowl is striated with lines of white that catch the afternoon sun. There was heat here, pressure. The veins of coal that kept the people of Powder Basin employed and fed for three generations were crushed into diamonds in an eye blink on the ground where they died.

Louis Hoffman’s SUV pulls up behind him. He watched it make its way around the circumference toward him. All the Homeland agents drive essentially the same car, but Avi knew this one was Louis’s and that it was headed for him.

“There’s an argument to be made that this is on you,” Louis says, slamming the car door. He walks up to the very edge, digs his toe under a clump of dirt fused to glass on one side, and kicks it. It skitters down the curve with a sound like metal scraping teeth. “Assuming we’re looking at what we’re looking at. If you and I had been together on this years ago—”

“Kay was here,” Avi says.

“What?”

“Kay,” says Avi. “She was working with the prosecution. She’d been here for weeks.”

“I went over the list of the missing and didn’t see her.”

“She was practicing under her maiden name,” Avi says. “Kay Washington. It wasn’t legally changed yet, but that’s what she was going by professionally.”

“Jesus. Kay.” Louis stands with his back to the crater. His wife ran off when their kid was small. Before Avi lost his leg, Louis used to bring his kid over to play with Emmeline, but the two never got along. Kay spent time with the boy, helping him with his math homework at the kitchen counter while Avi and Louis drank beer and Emmeline drew countless pictures at the table. Avi knew she and Louis had kept in touch, not close but as close as Louis got to anyone.

“Anyway,” Avi says, “what were you saying?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right, Louis. This is on me.”

“Are you so desperate to feel important that you’d take