“Got a minute?”
The sheriff was sitting with his feet propped on the desk and a cigar between his fingers. A cloud of smoke engulfed him. His hair was thick and gray and combed in an arrow-straight part. “You can have as many minutes as you want if you can fill them up with something I wanna hear. But I’m going to say you’re about to tell me Russell Gaines didn’t do a damn thing and don’t know a damn thing.”
Boyd walked into the office and sat down in a chair across from Harvey’s desk. He started to cross his legs but he was too big for the chair and they wouldn’t cross so he slouched instead.
“This air freshener don’t do nothing,” Gina griped.
“Go to lunch,” Harvey called to her.
“It’s ten thirty.”
“Then go to brunch. Go somewhere. Leave me alone,” he said and he brought the cigar to his mouth and puffed again. He blew the smoke straight up and then said by God she’s bound to retire one day.
“I ain’t deaf,” she yelled and they heard her desk drawer and then the office door slam.
“Hallelujah,” Harvey said. “So I’m right. You got no news.”
“No news,” Boyd said. “Not that I wanted any from Russell anyhow.”
“I bet Mitchell Gaines is cussing my ass right about now but we ain’t exactly dripping with leads. I know it ain’t in Russell to do something like that but you never know how a fellow comes out of prison. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.”
“Sometimes the same.”
“Not the same. God, it don’t seem like it’s been that long since he killed that Tisdale boy. I remember it, though. Russell’s damn neck was split wide open and both those vehicles were twisted up like tin foil. I wanted to puke when that boy was dead cause I knew what was coming for Russell. Especially when I found that empty whiskey bottle up under his seat. I wanted to die riding out there and waking up Mitchell and telling him what happened.”
The phone rang and Harvey looked at it. “I bet you it’s that peckerhead from the newspaper. He’s called about twenty times already and he can’t figure out why the sheriff’s department don’t have nothing to say. We don’t got nothing to say cause there ain’t shit to say and when there is he’ll be the last to know anyway. Little son of a bitch.”
They both stared at the phone until it stopped ringing and then the sheriff smoked again.
“Did we find out anything about that woman at the shelter?” Boyd asked.
“I sent Watkins over there. Got a name but it brought up next to nothing.”
“What was it?”
Harvey moved around a couple of papers on his deck. He picked up a sticky note and read it. “Maben. Maben Jones.”
“What?” Boyd asked. He sat up a little in the chair.
“Maben Jones.”
Boyd rolled his eyes up at the flickering fluorescent light.
“Ring a bell?” the sheriff asked.
“I’m thinking that was the name of the girl who was left standing the night of Russell’s wreck. The girl out there with Jason Tisdale. The one who ran up the road and called it in.”
The sheriff took his feet down from the desk and took a long drag of the cigar and examined the sticky note that read MABEN JONES. “That’s a helluva memory,” he said.
“What happened when you checked it?”
“Nothing. Apparently there’s no such thing as a Maben Jones. Jones part could be made up.”
“Could be,” Boyd said. “Ain’t many Mabens.”
Harvey blew out a stream of smoke and turned in the chair and bent over and let out a gruff cough.
“You ain’t supposed to smoke that in here.”
The sheriff raised up. “Put on a khaki skirt and cop the attitude of a rattlesnake and I got a secretary’s job ready for you.”
Boyd waved at the smoke cloud. “What now?”
“Why don’t you ride back over to the shelter and talk to them? See what she looked like. Any tattoos or anything. If she had a car and what kind was it and whatever else.”
“All right,” Boyd said and he stood up and walked around behind his chair. He paused and looked around the sheriff’s office. Framed newspaper clippings and certificates of duty and pictures of grandchildren were hung without pattern. A hat rack stood in the corner and held Harvey’s gun belt and a green John Deere hat and a full-length raincoat with PIKE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT in block letters across the back.
“I swear to God I should just pack up and go home,” Harvey said. “Hard to believe I gave up being a park ranger for this headache of a life.”
“How many times you gonna tell me that?”
“Gets harder to believe, though. Don’t it? I don’t even understand it myself. All I had to do all day was ride around and wave to men in boats across the dam. Watch kids play on the sandbanks and watch their mommas in their bathing suits with their pretty legs stretched out. Talk to campers, take a beer if offered. Traded all that for car wrecks and wife beaters and fools with guns. And now this crazy meth shit on top of all else. Teeth rotting and brain eating itself. Why the hell would I trade sunrises and sunsets for this?”
Boyd didn’t answer. He then asked Harvey if he could have a cigar.
“Didn’t I just tell you to go and do something?”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna need a couple of minutes to recover.”
The sheriff pulled open a drawer and took out a cigar and handed it to him across the desk. “From what?”
Boyd reached down and took a lighter that was sitting on a pile of papers. “You tell such gutwrenching sad stories I got to cope somehow. I swear to God I’m gonna bust out crying like a little girl next time you start talking about sunsets.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and crossed his heels on the edge of the desk and said I wish to God you’d go do something. Boyd flicked the lighter and huffed and puffed until the end of the cigar glowed orange and the fog in the room spread into all corners.
“Maben,” Harvey said.
“Yep.”
“Maybe I knew her momma.”
“She still around?”
“Nah. She wasn’t no good. If it’s the woman I’m thinking about.”
“This Maben had a kid with her,” Boyd said.
“And that is the beginning and the end of what we know.”
“That’s it.”
“Then take your free cigar and go find out something else.”
41
BOYD HADN’T TOLD THE SHERIFF THE PART ABOUT RUSSELL AND THE woman at the Armadillo. Caroline. Wasn’t much to go on but he figured it was worth riding by the bar and asking, deciding to wait until later to go visit the shelter. The Armadillo didn’t open until around one so he lost a couple of hours riding the highways. He dragged a dead deer out of the middle of the road. Ate lunch at the truck stop so that he could look around. See if maybe they were missing something.
He finally drove downtown to the bar and he walked in. It was dark even in midday, lit only by a row of lights that shined on the liquor shelves behind the bar. He heard a clamor and he called out and then a man in a sleeveless shirt came through the swinging door behind the bar. He held a case of beer and he set it on top of one of the coolers and looked at the deputy and hoped he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“How you doing?” Boyd asked and he sat down on a bar stool.
“Fine. You?”
“Not complaining. Not right now.”
The bartender’s tattoos covered most of his arms and he wore a silver earring in each ear.
“Mind if I ask you a thing or two?” Boyd asked.
“Nope.”
“You don’t happen to know a woman named Caroline. Comes in here from time to time.”
The bartender opened the case of beer. Pressed his lips together. Seemed to be thinking. Boyd knew the look. The look of someone trying to figure out how to answer.
“She’s in no trouble,” he said. “None at all. Nobody is.”
“No
body?”
“Nobody mentioned so far. You know her or not?”
He slid open a cooler and took beers from the box and placed them in and the bottles tapped against one another in small clangs. “I think I know who you’re talking about,” he said.
“What’s she look like?”
“Not too damn bad,” he said.
“Come on. Gimme something.”
The bartender shrugged. “Brown hair. Some freckles.”
“How old?”
“Depends on the light.”
“Ballpark.”
“Thirtysomething. Fortysomething?”
“Don’t know a last name, do you?”
“Caroline. Caroline.” He closed his eyes. Trying to see the name on the credit card. “Caroline Pitts. Caroline Pitts,” he said and he opened his eyes. “No. Potts. Caroline Potts.”
“Caroline Potts.”
“Think so.”
“All right. That’s a big help,” Boyd said and he stood.
The bartender held a beer toward him. “One for the road?”
“Good one,” Boyd said and he nodded and left.
Back in the cruiser he radioed the dispatcher and asked for an address on a Caroline Potts. He cranked the engine and turned up the air conditioner and waited. A minute later he had what he needed and he drove on toward the address of Caroline Potts, telling himself that this was a waste of time. That Russell had told him the truth.
The four houses sat in a rectangle and they looked identical. White siding. Green shutters. Red front door. He looked around for number 12. A gray four-door was parked in front and he parked next to it. He walked along the skinny sidewalk that led to the front door and he knocked. He could hear a television. He waited and when no one came he knocked again and the sound of the television went down. Then the door opened and a woman stood there wearing a robe and a towel wrapped around her head. The hair that stuck out from under the towel was wet and there were beads of water on her neck. She seemed a little out of breath and she looked at the sheriff as if he were a strange animal.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said.
She tugged at the robe and tightened it across her chest and neck.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Are you Caroline Potts?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Are you Caroline?”
“Yes.”
“Caroline Potts?”
“I said yes.”
“I need to ask you a couple of questions if you got time. Real quick, I promise.”
She opened the door farther and moved back and he walked inside. She left the door open and she wiped at her neck. With her face freshly clean and free of disguise the freckles were more abundant across her nose and cheeks.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“I got two questions and I’m done. If you shoot me straight.”
“Fine.”
“First one is do you know a man named Russell Gaines? He claimed he met you downtown at the Armadillo.”
She nodded. “Maybe.”
“Maybe what part?”
“I met a man named Russell. Couldn’t tell you his last name.”
“You know what he looks like?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome. Like all of them down there, right? Had a soft little beard, though.”
“That’s plenty,” he said. “Part two. Did he spend the night here with you?”
She gave a cross look. “Without modesty I say yes. But he didn’t stay all night. Got up and left. Can you arrest him for that?”
“If I could arrest people for that I’d stay pretty damn busy,” Boyd said and he tried to imagine what was behind the robe.
“If you ever start I got a few more names for you. Anything else?”
“No. Don’t guess there is,” he said and he stepped through the doorway. She was about to close the door but then he turned around and he reached out and stopped the door with his hand. “One more thing,” he said. “What night was that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Thursday. Or maybe Friday.”
“Thursday or Friday?”
“That’s right. Runs together sometimes.”
“I need you to think a little harder.”
She pursed her lips. Then she said Thursday.
“You’re sure?”
“I told you yeah. Until he decided we were done and then he left out.”
“But not Saturday.”
“Do your ears need cleaning?”
“I don’t guess you’d know what time he left out.”
“Maybe one. Maybe two. I told you it runs together,” she said and she pushed the door closed. Boyd backed away from the house. Sat for a moment on the hood of the cruiser. Scratched his head. Scratched his chin. Then he got in the cruiser and as he drove he thought about it all and one word kept jumping in and interrupting.
Maben.
He wished he would have never heard it.
Russell was clear of the shooting. But he was lying about where he said he was Saturday night. And a woman named Maben ended up at the shelter downtown. A pistol found in her things by the girl on the night shift. And then the woman named Maben snatching the pistol and grabbing her child and making a run for it.
Shit, he whispered to himself. He’s got some good damn reason for not telling me the truth. He scratched at his neck and stared at the pink flamingos. If he wanted to hide something you know where he’d hide it, he thought. In the same place we hid beer and weed and girls. A pay phone we stole. The principal’s dog we borrowed for a while. You don’t want to go back out there but you ain’t got a choice. He’d hide it in the room above the barn.
He drove out to Mitchell’s place and turned onto the gravel driveway. He saw Russell’s Ford but Mitchell’s truck was not there. He sat parked for a moment and watched for movement and didn’t see any and so he drove on to the house. He parked next to the Ford and got out and walked to the back door and knocked.
“Mr. Gaines,” he called. He looked through the door’s glass pane and studied the kitchen. The light was off and it was clean. No plates or cups on the table or on the counter or in the sink. Boyd knocked again and called again but nothing. He waited and listened for the sound of a television or a radio or anything but there was only silence.
He turned and walked into the yard. The sun was high and gave him a short shadow as he looked around. He noticed the cooler out by the pond and some rusted aluminum chairs on the back porch. A full ashtray on a table between the chairs. He walked around the side of the house and the yard was cut and trimmed and it was such a quiet place. He had forgotten how nice a quiet place could be.
Then he looked toward the barn. The tractor and riding mower parked underneath. Shovels and rakes hanging on nails and stacks of paint buckets and drop cloths and a pile of rolled extension cords. And standing tall out in front of the barn was a concrete statue.
“What the hell?” he said and he walked toward it. He stopped in front and thought she must have been an angel but there were no wings and she wore drab clothing, even for a concrete statue. Then he figured it out. You never know what’s gonna end up where in this world, he thought. He shook his head and looked around again. Decided he didn’t want to go up the stairs to that room. Not yet. But when he turned to walk back to the cruiser out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtain fall in the upstairs window. And for the first time he noticed the hum of the air-conditioning unit around on the other side of the room.
He reached to the radio on his belt and turned off the sound. The stairs to the room ran up the outside wall of the barn and he walked over and climbed, taking each step slowly and listening for movement in the room as he eased his way up. He knew he wasn’t going to surprise whoever was in there but he remained patient with his steps and held his lips together tightly as he moved. When he reached the top of the stairs he unsnapped the holster and put his hand on his pistol. And then he touched the doorknob and turned it as if
it might snap or break and the door made a click and he cracked it open.
He paused. Listened. Moved to open the door wide and a voice behind him yelled, “Hey! Que tal?”
Boyd jumped and standing a few steps below him was Consuela. She was pointing a finger at him and screaming short phrases that he didn’t understand but she was damn serious about whatever she was saying.
“Holy shit, you need a damn bell around your neck,” he said.
“Pare! No suba más!”
“Calm down.”
“Váyase de aquí! Ahora mismo!” She was waving her thick arms now and had moved a step closer and looked like she might tear him up if he didn’t do what she wanted.
“All right, all right. Calm the hell down. I’m going.”
“Voy a llamar a la policía!”
“I am the damn police,” he said and he pointed at his badge. She shouted and waved and he came down the stairs and slid by her and she paused the animation long enough to let him get past and then she cranked it up again. She followed him down the stairs and stalked him across the yard as he walked quickly to the cruiser, looking over his shoulder every couple of steps to make sure she didn’t hop on his back or worse.
“Eres un rata!” she yelled. “Un rata!”
He hurried into the car and cranked it and quickly turned around. She marched toward him as he backed up and then when he pulled forward she stomped along the driveway, raising her arms and yelling in the trailing dust with a watchdog tenacity.
She chased him along the gravel road until he was onto the highway and out of sight and then she turned and waved at Maben, who was watching from the window.
42
AFTER THEY RETURNED WITH THE FRESH BAIT RUSSELL LEFT THEM to it and he got in his truck and headed to his house. He sat now on the front steps and held Sarah’s ring in his fingertips. Held it up to the sun and watched the tiny spots of light dance inside the diamond. Then he stuck the ring back into the pocket where he had kept it since Sarah had given it back. Inside he took a beer from the refrigerator and he sat down on the sofa and stared at the blank television screen. He picked up the remote but before he had the chance to turn on the television a car pulled into the driveway. He stood and looked out the window and he saw Boyd walking toward the front door. Goddamn it, he said. Russell opened the door and then he sat again on the sofa and waited.
Desperation Road Page 19