by Gregory Ashe
“You’ve got a bit of a crack situation,” Tean said.
Jem pulled up his jeans and winced at the sooty fingerprints he left on the denim.
“Viewer, beware,” Tean said. “You’re in for a scare.”
“Holy shit, you know Goosebumps?”
“Amos made me watch it when we were kids.”
“Well, that’s amazing, but first of all, don’t ever misappropriate Goosebumps. Second, you like my ass.” He would have added his third point about the viewer spending a significant amount of time viewing, but something, probably ash from the stove, got into Jem’s eye. He blinked and wiped furiously, trying to clear it. “Come over here and take a look at this.”
Tean sat crisscross next to Jem, examined the scraps of paper, and shrugged. “I can’t make out anything.”
“God damn it. I know this son of a bitch has something. He wouldn’t have freaked out and tried to kill us otherwise.”
“He had the necklace.”
Jem didn’t answer that. He kicked the wood stove, which rang hollowly and puffed ashes out of its open door. They snowed down on Jem, settling into his shirt and jeans. When he scrubbed at them, they left long, greasy smears.
Tean caught his wrist. “You’re making it worse. Hold on.” He left the cabin and came back a minute later with wipes, and he used them to clean Jem’s hands first, then his face and neck. “I can’t promise we’ll be able to save the clothes, but we’ll try.”
The coolness of the cloths, the moisture on dry skin, and the light fragrance—they made Jem take a breath. It didn’t hurt that the doc was so slow, so careful, so steady when he worked like this. Those crazy eyebrows were knitted together as he worked the cloth over the bridge of Jem’s nose and then applied fresh bandages.
“You look like Scipio,” Tean said with a soft smile. “After he’s been trying to get a mole.”
Jem rolled his eyes.
“It’s a good thing.”
“Of course it’s a good thing. I’m not arguing that it’s a good thing. Scipio and I are both fucking adorable.”
“I hid my watch in a new spot.”
Jem snorted.
“It’s a really good one.”
“Please, not this again. Every time you hide it, I find it in five seconds.”
“Not this time.”
“This time, we’re not at your apartment, so I can’t look for it.”
“But you know where it is.”
“Sure.” Jem shrugged. “But you’ll just cheat and tell me I’m wrong when I guess.”
“Oh yeah?” Tean was cleaning Jem’s fingers again, running another wipe between the digits. He had a little stubble on his cheeks. He smelled like sagebrush and the pomade Jem had used.
“No, I guess not. Because you’re unbearably honest and when you try to lie, you do it for shit.”
“So?”
Jem ran through the list of hiding spots; Tean had gotten surprisingly good at this game. Underwear drawer, inside a pair of shoes still in a shoebox, behind the books on his bookcase, in a baggie buried in the flour canister, in a baggie inside a carton of peanut-butter ripple. That one had been really good. Tean had somehow gotten the block of ice cream out of the container, sliced it down the center, carved out an open space, and placed the watch inside. Then he’d reformed the block of ice cream and returned it to the container. When Jem had opened it the first time, the ice cream had looked untouched; he almost missed it that time and lost the game. That was the secret to any good hiding spot—letting people convince themselves that whatever they saw was exactly the way it was supposed to be. In that case, the giveaway was the huge smile on Tean’s face when Jem had started to put the peanut-butter ripple back in the freezer.
“Holy shit,” Jem said, grabbing Tean’s hand and squeezing it. “Holy shit, you’re a genius.”
“What?”
Grabbing the screwdriver from the pile of tools they’d brought in from the truck, Jem said, “Almost. He almost got me. He would have, if you hadn’t helped me reboot my brain.”
“I’m glad it worked, but if you’re trying to get out of our game—”
“Somewhere on your balcony. Probably taped to the underside of the boards.”
Shock painted Tean’s face. “How in the hell—”
“Swear jar,” Jem said as he jogged over to the front door. Squatting, he eyed the lock. Then he tapped the latch with the screwdriver.
“Seriously?”
“Only one way to find out.” Jem undid the screws on the mounting plate, and immediately the lock and plate sagged free from the door. The reason was visible: a piece of paper, folded into a thick rectangle, was taking up free space. Jem jiggered the paper free. When he unfolded it, a flash drive slid out of the tight folds. Jem caught it before it could hit the ground.
The handwriting on the flash drive had been done with a fine point pen, and the spidery script made Jem’s head throb. He passed it to Tean and said, “Please?”
“Dispatch log 7-19-18.”
“That was Thursday.” Smoothing the paper out against his knee, Jem studied it. It was a computer printout. A five-column table lined the page; the headings at the top were: DATE/TIME, INCIDENT #, LOCATION, TYPE, RESPONDER. Only six rows filled the columns.
“Here,” Jem said, pushing the paper toward Tean.
Tean ignored it. Instead, he squatted next to Jem and brought Jem’s hand down to where they could both see the page. “Let’s look at location first, right?”
“Will you just do it, please?”
“Do you think we should start with location?”
“God, yes, obviously.”
“Row one.”
“472 E Kemper Lane.”
“Row two.”
“31 W High None Road.”
“That’s good, but it’s noon. Two o’s make that sound, and I know you know that, but I’m reminding you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Tean.”
“What’s our hurry?”
“I’d prefer not to be here when he gets back. I like my brains inside my skull.”
“We’ll hear him a long time before he gets here. Row three.”
Jem made a noise in his throat.
“Row three,” Tean said firmly.
“50 E Saxon Road.”
“Row four.”
“710 E Rocky River Street.”
“Row five.”
“850 E Wild Horse Ave.”
“Great, but ‘ave,’ like avenue. Not ‘ave’ like fave.”
“Fuck this.”
“Row six.”
“This isn’t fair. This isn’t supposed to be practice. I haven’t even been working on my books this week.”
“Excuse me?”
“Um, this weekend. I meant this weekend.”
“Row six, Jem. You’re almost done.”
“Scipio gets a treat when he does a trick.”
“You’re not doing a trick, and you’re not nearly as well behaved as Scipio. Row six.”
“Onion Creek HMA.” Jem’s head came up. “Holy shit.” He ran his finger along the row. “Date/Time: July 19th, 2018, 22:57:46. Incident number, who the fuck cares. Type just says, ‘CHECK AREA.’ Responder: Weckesser.”
Tean ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back, messing up the neat lines of the comb. It was immediately bushy and wild again.
“I think,” Jem said, “we just figured out who died in that canyon.”
25
As Tean drove them down the mountain, with the Ford’s A/C at full blast to combat the intense heat, Jem called the Grand County Sheriff’s Department. The call was answered by a woman who was—he was pretty sure—sharpening pencils in the background.
“Arvinna speaking, Grand County Sheriff’s Department, hold please.”
But she didn’t press hold, and hold music didn’t come on the line. Instead, Jem heard the receiver on the other end clunk against somet
hing solid—the desk, he imagined—and the pencil sharpening went on. Then the pencil sharpening cut off, and Arvinna said something that sounded like, “Stop, Roy, stop,” and then a high, nasally laugh with the same rat-tat-tat delivery of a machine gun.
“Hello?” Jem shouted. “Hello?”
The receiver scraped across the desk, and Arvinna said, “Arvinna speaking, Grand County Sheriff’s Department, hold please.”
“No! I mean, I promise I’ll be really fast.”
“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“I’m trying to deliver a package to Larry Weckesser. I’ve been to his house out on—” He held up the scrap of paper where he had scribbled the address they’d found on a white-page site. “—Pepperweed, but I can’t catch him at home. I’ve got to have a signature, and he put this place down as his alternate delivery address. Do you have any idea how I can catch him?”
“Larry?” Arvinna said the name with disbelief. “Larry’s at his folk’s place in St. George. He left Friday and won’t be back until a week from Monday. You’re not going to catch up with Larry unless you drive to St. George.” More rat-tat-tat laughter. “You bring that thing right in here, and I’ll sign for him.”
“Thank you,” Jem said. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Why are you making deliveries on a Sunday?”
Jem disconnected the call.
“That’s the right address?” Tean asked.
“Not only is it the right address, but she told me Larry left for his parents’ place on Friday. St. George. He’s off for a week.”
“Jeez. Ok, maybe it wasn’t him in the canyon. Maybe we’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Maybe.”
Tean frowned, but he didn’t say anything, his gaze fixed on the uneven road that carried them back to juniper country, the land of prickly pears and tumbleweed and rattlesnakes. Once they were back in Moab, it was easy to find the deputy’s house. Larry Weckesser lived alone by the look of things. The brick house was small and neat, well kept up without any frills or ornamentation. Like every house, it had a green lawn that looked ludicrous against the red rock walls and the high desert that stretched to the horizon. A row of white firs, their needles looking frosty even in the summer heat, marched along one line of the property. On the other side sat a nearly identical brick house, although this one’s yard was littered with toys.
Tean drove up the street and back. They parked opposite Weckesser’s house and watched it for twenty minutes. If he had curtains or blinds, they weren’t in use; Jem could see into the darkened house and make out the shadowy shapes of furniture. Nothing moved; the street was quiet.
Tean was tapping quietly on his phone.
“Are you writing me a poem?
“I’m sending the pictures from Jager’s cabin.”
“Great. Ammon will be up our chutes in five seconds. You’ll probably like it, but me on the other hand—ow! Jesus Christ, don’t pinch me.”
“You deserved it. And I’m using a burner address, so he won’t know who the information came from.”
“That’ll fool him for five seconds.” Jem was still rubbing his bicep. “You used your nails.”
“Don’t be such a baby. There. Done.”
“Let’s do this,” Jem said, and they got out of the truck.
They were halfway up the driveway when a man came bustling out of the house with the toys in its yard. He was wearing a white dress shirt and tie with gym shorts, and he was one of those skinny men who managed to carry a lot of weight in his belly. Instead of shoes, he was wearing bunny socks with flip-flops.
“Excuse me,” he called. “Excuse me, who are you? Larry’s not home, so who are you?”
“Can you handle this?” Jem whispered.
“Absolutely not.”
“Make it good. Something about bunnies.”
“Jem, don’t you dare.”
“I believe in you. Dig deep and find your morally deviant homosexual.”
“Don’t—”
“That’s not a sex thing either.”
Tean looked like he was trying not to scream as Jem quickened his pace, leaving the doc behind to deal with the neighbor. “Teancum Leon,” Tean said. “I’m with Utah’s Division of Wildlife Resources. Thank you for stepping outside, sir. I needed to talk to you anyway.”
“Larry’s not home,” the man called after Jem. “Excuse me, excuse me, where do you think you’re going? Larry’s not home!”
“Sir, this is a routine follow-up. We’ve had an outbreak of rabbit hemorrhagic disease, serotype two, and as I’m sure you know, the disease is often transmitted by humans carrying the virus on their shoes. Can you tell me the last time you were on Mr. Weckesser’s property?”
“Oh my gosh,” the man said. Jem looked back; the neighbor was clutching his tie with both hands, his face twisted up in anguish. “Did you say rabbits? Did you say rabbit disease?”
“Rabbit hemorrhagic disease, serotype two,” Tean said. “As I’m sure you know, there’s no treatment, and it’s inevitably fatal.”
“Oh no. Oh no. Oh my gosh, no.”
“I’ll just need to ask a few questions while my coworker looks for any sign that Deputy Weckesser carried the virus home with him.”
By then Jem had rounded the back of the house. Weckesser’s backyard was small, ending in a chain fence overgrown with some sort of thick brush. A detached garage, also brick, took up most of the space. Jem checked the window set into the garage door; no vehicle. Then he went up the steps to the cement stoop and drew out a pair of disposable gloves he’d taken from the truck. He pulled them on and checked the door. Locked.
After a moment of inspecting the lock, Jem toed back the doormat. He ran his hands along the doorframe. Then he went down the steps again. He dug around for a few minutes in a planter that held a dead mum, and then he moved around to the other side of the stoop. A hardscape of loose stone followed the perimeter of the house. Jem found the fake rock, opened it, and drew out the spare key.
As he let himself into the house, he took a deep breath, and then he exhaled in relief. No stink of rot and decay. The air was warmer than he expected, although definitely cooler than the summer day. It had the faint mustiness of a closed-up space, with a note of something else. An old, fried-meat smell that had lingered. When he stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind him, he spotted the source: a frying pan lying in the sink, with a blackened crust of burned food on the bottom of the pan.
He moved through the house quickly. Bed unmade, spare bedroom full of workout equipment, the fan in the bathroom droning endlessly. Downstairs, the basement was unfinished. When Jem lifted the lid of the washer, he smelled something foul. He pulled out mildewed clothes; in places, the fabric looked slimy. He lowered the lid and went back upstairs. In the living room, he found a tablet on the arm of a recliner. Jem picked up the tablet, tapped the screen, and let out a breath of relief when it didn’t ask for a password. Nothing dramatically revealing in the emails, and a check of the browser’s history only told Jem that this guy liked feet and didn’t know how to use the browser’s privacy feature. In the video chat app, though, was a series of missed calls from Mom. Jem turned off the screen and replaced the tablet. He glanced out the window. Tean was still talking to the neighbor, who was listening intently, nodding as Tean made some sort of gesture with his hands, obviously illustrating a point. Jem let out a sigh.
After locking up the house and returning the spare, Jem walked around to the front yard.
“—dandelions, willow leaves, that kind of thing.”
“This is fantastic,” the neighbor said. He paused to hitch up his socks. “You have no idea how amazing this is.”
“We’re all set,” Jem said.
“Well?” the neighbor asked. “Did he bring it back with him? The virus, I mean. Should I be worried?”
“Right now, I want to say you’re probably ok, but we may need to come back and run some
more tests. For now, stay off Mr. Weckesser’s property, just in case the virus is still present in the soil.”
Tean nodded. “If you see anyone on the property, please give us a call. Contact tracing is the only way to contain this. Even if you can’t give us a name, a description or a license plate will be helpful as well.”
“Of course,” the neighbor said. “Of course, absolutely.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Lutz.”
“Thank you again. Thank you so much. You’re doing the Lord’s work, you know.”
When they climbed into the truck, Jem muttered, “The Lord’s work. That son of a bitch would burn us both at the stake if he knew we were homos.”
“He seemed nice,” Tean said.
“And you’re not supposed to actually help people when you’re running a game on them. You should have asked for a cash donation to the Anti-Bunny-Sexualization League. Or you should have told him you could run a quick test on his rabbits for a small fee. Guys like that will pay a lot of money for peace of mind.”
“I kept him from bothering you,” Tean said. “And he’s not suspicious of us. And he’s going to tell us if anybody else shows up at the house. And I helped him with his rabbit constipation problem. I don’t know why I can’t do something helpful while also lying and aiding and abetting you as you commit misdemeanor trespass.” He hesitated. “It is just a misdemeanor, right?”
“Who fucking knows?” Jem said, waving a hand wildly. “You’re missing the whole point. It’s the principle of the thing.”
For some reason, that made Tean laugh softly. “Ok,” he said. “What did you find?”
Jem told him and added, “I don’t think he went anywhere. The clothes in the washer and the missed calls from Mom are the biggest signs.”
“Mr. Lutz told me he normally hears Larry get home at the end of his shift. Thursday night, though, he didn’t hear anything.”