That's part of why Boon said they sat with that a while. The radio in the bay played something slow and certain. Conway Twitty, one of the old ones, a song that knew exactly what it was. Dutton told me something years later. Sully said before he died.
He mentioned that a man named Walt Callahan had been asking questions around town. Said Callahan was becoming a problem for Pierce. He looked at Boon. I didn't know what that meant at the time. Walt Callahan, Boon said, was Ruth Callahan's husband.
Ran the diner on Main Street for 31 years. He died 9 years ago on a county road he'd driven everyday for 20 years. Car accident officially. Sully looked at him for a long moment. Boon, we don't know anything yet, Boon said.
Not yet. No, Sully said, "Not yet. " They both understood what not yet meant. It meant the question was being kept open rather than being answered, which was a different thing from not asking it. Sully looked at his hands. Hands that showed their history the way all working hands did.
Now, the other thing he said, Boon looked at him. Portland, Sully said. Portland, Boon said, 22 years ago. A situation requiring a decision made in seconds with consequences that had lasted considerably longer than either of them had calculated at the time. Boon had made the call.
He'd believed then and believed now that it was the right call for the people he'd chosen to protect. But the cost had fallen on Sully's side of things. Sully's daughter had gotten pulled into the aftermath in a way the decision had made worse before it made better. The worst part had lasted 3 years. The better part had taken longer to arrive than it should have.
She's all right, Sully said. She's in Portland still. Good life. She figured out most of what happened eventually. She doesn't hold it against you.
I know, Boon said. I've kept track of her. Sully's eyes sharpened. You've been keeping track, not interfering, just knowing, making sure. Salty was quiet a long moment.
You should have told me, he said at the time, what the decision was going to cost. There wasn't time, Boon said. And I knew you'd say no. You would have said no, and the other outcome would have been worse. I've always known you know that, too.
Knowing it doesn't mean it didn't cost me something, Sully said. No, Boon said, "It doesn't. " The silence between them wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile, either. It was the silence of two men who had been through enough together that they could sit in the difficult parts without needing to rush past them. "I didn't come here to settle it," Sully said finally. I'm not sure it settles completely.
I came because what Pierce is building toward if he decides you're a threat he can't manage quietly it won't stay clean. Your daughter is here. Boon looked at him. So what's the plan? Sully said working on one.
Boon said you'll be here a few days. Few days. Sully said. They spent those days in the garage mostly. The easy companionship of men who had known each other long enough that working side by side didn't require conversation to be legitimate.
Sully handed Boon tools sometimes without being asked, which meant he still knew what each job required before the hand reached out, which was the kind of knowledge that didn't go away regardless of the years between. On the second evening, Boon told Sully about Ruth, about Walt's box in the garage, about the 9 years she'd kept it. Sully listened without interrupting. When Boon finished, Sully was quiet a while. "Dutton told me Walt Callahan was becoming a problem," Sully said.
That was his exact word. A problem for Pierce. He looked at the garage ceiling. If Pierce had anything to do with that road, "We don't know," Boon said. "No," Sully said.
"But somebody should. " Sully left Saturday morning before the town was up, before the diner opened, before the day had committed to being anything particular. Boon walked him out to the Sportster. The air had gone properly cold, the kind that came off the Tennessee hills in late October, and reminded you that warmth was earned, not assumed. Sully pulled on his jacket, checked his saddle bag straps, not because they needed checking, but because riders always did, because the ritual of it settled something before a long road. The photograph, Sully said.
Make copies. Store them somewhere separate from your house and from each other. Already done, Boon said. Sully nodded. He swung a leg over the bike.
Sat without starting it. One more thing, he said. He looked at the handlebars rather than at Boon. What happened in Portland? I spent years being angry about it.
Then I spent time trying to understand it. Then I spent time deciding whether to stay angry or let it be what it actually was. He looked up. What it was was you making a call in 10 seconds that I've had 22 years to analyze. And you were right.
I've known you were right for a long time. Boon said nothing. I'm not saying it's completely settled, Sully said. It's mostly settled and mostly is more than I thought I'd get to. He looked at Boon directly.
You're doing right by your daughter. I can see it. Trying to, Boon said. Trying's most of it, Sully said. He reached out his hand.
Boon shook it. The handshake of two men who had been through something considerable together and had come out the other side changed by it. Not friends exactly. Not anymore. Something older than friendship, something that didn't have a clean name and didn't need one.
Sully started the sportster. The ragged idol filled the morning. He pulled out of the lot, turned onto Larkin Street, and was gone. Boon stood in the cold a moment. 22 years.
Some things didn't resolve. They got smaller. Not gone, just reduced to a size that could be carried without it being the weight that defined everything else. He went inside and made coffee. Ruth had his cup ready when he came in Monday, timing it to his arrival, which she'd started doing sometime in the second week without either of them remarking on it.