The Subway

by Dustin Stevens

  Which, to be fair, was about the same as she would assign if Maine had sent a team into her backyard.

  Beside him in the rear was Jessica Marlucci, the remainder of the contingent they’d brought along staying behind on the plane.

  With any luck, this would be a short stay.

  “Not what I expected,” Lipski said, “but, they never are.”

  Beside her, Burrows grunted in agreement. A moment later, some form of sound she couldn’t quite decipher came from the backseat, the new guy trying entirely too hard to jump into the conversation.

  “Yeah,” Burrows agreed, the word cut off so it sounded closer to yut.

  “Figure, we’ll roll up to the front door,” Lipski said, “give a knock, ask where Tim is.”

  “Just like that?” Burrows asked.

  “Just like that,” Lipski replied. “This a military family, they’ll know when we start flashing badges and threatening sanctions that we mean business.

  “If Scarberry isn’t here, they’ll at least be able to tell us where to go next.”

  Without waiting for any further comment – or strange form of animal sound the local marshal seemed to prefer – Lipski exited the car. As she did so, a blast of arctic air swept over her body, flapping the lapels of her jacket, brushing her hair back from her shoulders.

  Much colder than it had been in Portland, she clamped her jaws closed and leaned forward into the stiff breeze. Circling around the front of their SUV, she pushed through a rusted wrought iron gate and walked down a short row of cracked concrete, Burrows hustling into position behind her.

  With wind moving across her body so fast it brought water to her eyes, she kept pushing on, leaning into it, until growing close enough that the body of the house was able to block it out.

  Instantly, the world grew ten degrees warmer, her body practically pitching forward without the invisible hand helping to support her.

  “Damn,” Burrows whispered, earning a nod from Lipski as he fell in beside her, the two of them stepping up the trio of wooden steps onto the porch.

  With each one, the structure moaned, the amount of peeling paint growing worse as they got closer, the smell of something rotten in the air.

  “You want the honors?” Burrows asked as they stopped a few feet from the front door, staying well back from a welcome mat with smears of what looked to be mud and animal feces sprawled across it.

  Not exactly where she would have thought to find Scarberry, but not entirely surprising either, given his occasional descents into being crass.

  At least she knew that there was no way Vic Baxter would have ever tracked him here either.

  Reaching out to ring the doorbell, her finger made it no more than halfway to its destination before the door flew open, stopping her cold.

  Filling the space was a woman that stood a few inches taller than Lipski and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. With tight red curls wrapped around her head, her cheeks glowed rosy, though it was the only thing on her person that gave even the slightest hint of warmth.

  “Don’t you dare ring that bell and wake my baby,” the woman said, her expression and tone making it clear it was non-negotiable. “I just got him down and I am not going through that again.”

  Her eyebrows rising in surprise, Lipski looked to the woman before attempting to see past her into the home, the entirety of the doorway blocked by her girth.

  “Well?” the woman snapped, catching Lipski looking. “Who are ya, what do ya want? I know ya ain’t CPS, cause I passed that last week, and the Mormons know better than to come round here.”

  This time, Lipski’s mouth sagged to match her raised eyebrows as she glanced over to Burrows.

  Of the myriad ways she’d envisioned things playing out, this was far from any she’d expected.

  Reaching to her hip, she extracted her wallet, flipping it open to display her ID and shield.

  “Good morning, my name is Deputy Marshal Lipski, this is Marshal Burrows, U.S. Marshals Service. We’re here about Tim Scarberry.”

  She stopped there, waiting for a flicker of response from the woman, still clinging to hope that their interaction could be quick and painless.

  Judging by the scrunched expression the woman wore, the likelihood of that didn’t seem real high.

  “Who?”

  “Tim Scarberry,” Lipski repeated. “The man that has been calling this number once a month for the past six years.”

  Her face growing more twisted, the woman looked at Lipski as if she had an appendage sprouted from her forehead. “Lady, I don’t even know if Scarberry is a real name. All I know is I’ve never heard it before, and I’ve only lived in this house for a year and a half.”

  Feeling her mouth go dry, Lipski dared a glance to Burrows, a quick flash that was more than enough to see him intently studying the tops of his shoes.

  “How about your husband?” she asked. “Was he in the army? Might keep in touch with somebody from his days in the service?”

  Resting a meaty hand on the doorframe, the woman glanced down, showing them the top of her scalp as she shook her head. “Now I know you two are just here messing with me.”

  Looking up, her face had twisted into something resembling a snarl, her entire visage bright red, as if she might explode at any time.

  “I got no man, let alone a husband. If I did, I sure as shit wouldn’t be living in this house.”

  From behind her, the sound of an infant wailing erupted, jerking the attention of all three to the side.

  “Dammit, now look what you two have done.”

  Chapter Forty

  There was no way to know how long the two of us stood there, locked in a surreal sort of standoff, processing what was before us.

  I hadn’t noticed from the bedroom who it was standing on the driveway, only that it was a woman, a braid of dark hair running down her back. Not until I heard her voice, turned to see her face, did it click into place.

  Judging by the look on Lou’s face, it seemed that a similar sort of internal monologue was playing out for her as well.

  I wouldn’t say we were ever close, or even what one might call friends, but we knew who each other was. Growing up in the rural confluence of east Tennessee and the western Carolinas, there were only so many schools to go around.

  You got used to seeing the same faces year after year, of having friends that would date, the sorts of things that often occurred in small-town America.

  Talula Davis was, bar none, the best basketball player I’d ever seen – male or female. When we were kids, she had played on the boy’s teams, a fierce competitor with a chip on her shoulder that didn’t back down from anything.

  That’s where we’d first met, me on the receiving end of a hard foul that left my nose running and my vision blurred, her telling me something about not bringing any weak stuff into her house.

  The next time we played, suffice it to say I more than returned the message.

  “Tim?” she asked again, her face scrunched slightly.

  “Uh,” I said, using my chin to gesture toward the weapon still gripped in her hand. “You mind lowering that thing?”

  Glancing down, a look of apology came over her features as she dropped the front end of the gun, tracking it toward her hip.

  “Oh, right, sorry.”

  With my hands still raised, I wagged them in unison before dropping them to my side.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’d do the same if the situation was reversed.”

  Those seem to be the words she needed to hear, the shock of the initial encounter wearing off. Shaking her head, her features cleared, the deputy in her rushing back to the fore.

  “Yeah, what are you doing here?”

  Drawing in a breath, I let my chest expand, my shoulders rising, before slowly exhaling.

  “It’s a long, long story.”

  “Does it start with the part about you’re supposed to be dead?”

  Letting the top of my head dip to eithe
r side, I said, “Yeah, we can start there if you’d like.”

  Making a face, the underlying meaning not quite discernible, she asked, “Does it include explaining why the hell you’re breaking into my crime scene?”

  Nothing she was asking was wrong. Again, if in her position, I’d be firing off the same exact questions.

  Still, it didn’t mean I was quite wanting to get into things at the moment, not without yet knowing where Uncle Jep was, not while having the aching suspicion that we were being watched, even in that moment.

  “Okay,” I said, “I know how this must appear. All of it.”

  “Like a shit show on steroids,” Lou replied.

  “Like a shit show on steroids,” I repeated, having never heard such an expression before, but having no need to reinvent the wheel. “But before we get into any of that, let me ask you a couple of questions.”

  All of the initial shock, the surprise of seeing me standing before her, seemed to melt away, taking with it any wiggle room I might have. In its place was a look of steely resolve, Lou reaching to her hip and tapping at the butt of her weapon.

  “I know you’ve been gone a while, but the way it works here is the one with the badge and weapon does the interrogating.”

  “I know,” I said, my mind working fast, pushing everything I had before me into order, “I know. And I’m not trying to pull one past you, I swear I’m trying my best to answer your question.”

  The glare remained in place as Lou rolled the top of her head from one side to the other, peering at me.

  “You better start making sense-“

  “Jessup Lynch,” I said, spitting the name out before she was even done administering her threat, knowing where it was going, just as sure that I had no interest in hearing it through.

  “What?” Lou replied, her features falling blank as she stared at me, her hand again rotating back toward her hip.

  “He’s my uncle,” I said. Flicking my head back toward the cabin behind me, I added, “And this was my house growing up.”

  Hitting her with so much information at once was probably unfair, a diversion to get her off balance, to make her think on the fly.

  At the same time, it seemed to have worked, a host of thoughts and emotions playing out across her features.

  “Get inside,” she eventually managed. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Walking directly back into the house wasn’t a good option, for a variety of reasons, but that didn’t stop us from doing just that.

  Standing on the back deck, open to anybody that might happen past, sunrise just minutes from arrival, was not a place either one of us wanted to be. Not in general, and certainly not with the media having pulled out moments before, with the very real possibility of them returning soon.

  Going to Lou’s Bronco would have been a risky play for me, could end up getting her fired, so that was scratched off the list as well.

  In their stead, the only feasible thing was doing something that neither one of us wanted to, and that was heading back inside.

  Doing as instructed, I pushed back through the rear door, the cuts I’d made earlier in the tape making it easy to go right on through. If she noticed, Lou said nothing about it, stating only, “Circle around the island, stay away from the center of the room.”

  Aware that we were entering what was considered an active crime scene, I did as instructed, leaving my duffel on the deck, keeping my hands in plain sight at all times.

  I had given her just enough information to pique her interest, which could have stemmed either from the surprise and curiosity of seeing me there to simply needing something to help jumpstart her investigation.

  That didn’t mean she fully trusted me, wasn’t going to maintain the position of power for however long our interaction lasted.

  For me, I was willing to let her do just that, so long as I got some form of information back in return.

  Quid pro quo and all that.

  Without the tension of sneaking in, my second entry was much easier than the first, though that did nothing to ease the growing heat within the cabin. Feeling as if it was already five degrees warmer than when I’d stepped out a moment before, I wiped a handful of sweat from my brow and passed it against the leg of my pants, careful not to drip as I made my way through the kitchen.

  Passing into the living room, I turned, asking, “Where to?”

  “Take the sofa,” Lou replied, her voice all business, a tone it seemed she was used to, the cadence rolling out naturally.

  Doing as instructed, I walked to the sofa – a large wooden frame model with a cushioned seat patterned like a Pendleton blanket – and sat down.

  It was every bit as uncomfortable as the frame intimated, another classic example of form over function.

  Stopping in the doorway between the two rooms, Lou opted to stand. Leaning against the wood casing, she folded her arms, her lips pursed before her.

  “Talk.”

  I didn’t appreciate being issued a command or the tone it was given in, though I knew better than to let anything show on my features. Much like with Lipski, I had to play the game, give them the impression of being in control, if I was going to get what I needed out of the interaction as well.

  What that yet was, I didn’t know for certain, only that it needed to be fast.

  There was a reason Uncle Jep had been left here, the place no doubt under surveillance.

  “How far back?” I asked.

  Her face maintaining the same look, Lou replied, “Start with your uncle and this cabin. The rest we’ll get to in time.”

  Far from the answer I wanted, intimating that this was going to take a while, I forced no reaction, staring back at her.

  “Jessup Lynch was my father’s best friend, two guys that grew up together in the fifties, were completely inseparable. Played ball as kids together, went to Vietnam and back together.”

  A crease appeared between Lou’s brows as she listened, a silent indicator that she had no idea what any of this had to do with the situation we were now standing in.

  I would get there.

  “From the day I was born, he was known as Uncle Jep,” I continued. “And when my parents both passed, it was never a question who I would go to live with.”

  I didn’t bother expounding further on that part of things. In communities as small as the ones we each grew up in, that kind of news traveled fast.

  It was certain she had heard about they’re sudden deaths when we were in high school, would know at least that much was true.

  “For the last six years, I’ve called every month on the eighth to catch up with Uncle Jep,” I said, pushing ahead. “And on every last one of them, he has answered.”

  “Until this month,” Lou replied.

  “Until this month,” I echoed.

  Glancing to the side, Lou raised a hand to her face. Using the back of her thumb, she wiped away a streak of sweat, cleaving a line through the middle of the moisture on her skin.

  Clearly, the heat in the room was beginning to get to her as well.

  I couldn’t help but wonder about the growing smell of blood.

  “So you came running?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, “I flew, but yeah.”

  I almost added that I’d gone to his house first before pulling up, not wanting to add any more detail than necessary. Right now, I had no idea how much she knew, what the details of the investigation even were.

  Which meant it was time for me to turn the conversation around for a while.

  “And, somehow, you ended up breaking in here this morning?” she asked.

  Lowering my head, I glanced at my shoes for a moment, droplets of sweat running down the length of my nose. Letting them fall, sucked up by the laces crisscrossed over the top of my feet, I looked up, doing my best to sound contrite.

  “I haven’t been able to get ahold of him yet. I went by his place, all his old haunts, but there’s no sign.”

&n
bsp; “So, again, you came here?” she asked.

  “This was our house growing up,” I said. “I was running out of options, clutching at straws, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to take a look.

  “That’s when I saw the crime scene tape.”

  It was patchy, had more than a few holes that someone objectively listening would poke to hell, but it sounded close enough. Given even a modicum of emotion on my part, it might be sufficient to get past her.

  I just needed to steer her in that direction before she had a chance to dwell on it.

  “Look,” I said, again glancing down, “I know this is bad, and if I’m in trouble, I’ll accept it, but can you tell me if the person found here was my uncle?”

  Turning to look up at her, I could see the same hardened features staring back at me, silently trying to measure me up, before softening just slightly.

  “What makes you think...?”

  “Come on,” I said, my head shifting an inch to the side. “Do you smell that? Either someone butchered a pig for dinner last night, or there’s been a shitload of blood from something else in here recently.”

  Shifting to look past her into the kitchen, I added, “I was in the army for ten years. Believe me, you don’t ever forget that smell.”

  The last part I threw in by way of an explanation, wanting to put her at ease as to how I was so certain the coppery tang in the air was blood.

  I would have recognized it even as a teenager, not needing the military to tell me that, but it didn’t hurt to throw in.

  For almost a full minute, there was no response, Lou continuing to stare at me, before shifting her gaze to the side.

  “Yes,” she eventually said, the word curt, tone sharp. “Your uncle was found here two days ago.”

  She stopped there, so I prompted, “Dead?”

  Flicking her focus to me for just an instant, she added, “Yes.”

  Since hearing the voicemail back in Portland, I had known that, though hearing it out loud spiked the wrath that was in me, lurking just beneath the surface. Closing my eyes, I clenched my hands atop my thighs, raising my face up toward the ceiling.

  Breathing slowly through my nose, I held the pose, entire body gripped tight.