Candy from a Stranger

by Buckner, Daryl;

  Arnie’s voice cried out, “Who? Who would defile my house in this way? Launi? Was it you?”

  I heard Launi whimper a denial but it had all the effect of a summer breeze. Arnie was beside himself. I carefully eased out the window.

  Arnie’s thin, reedy voice was so loud it sounded hoarse, distorted.

  “There’s going to be Hell to pay!!”

  Holy Christ! I closed the window, muffling most of the madman’s volume and ignored the still-open clasp. I wanted nothing more than to disappear before a neighbor decided to investigate. Arnie’s back yard was enclosed by a six-foot high wooden fence and I launched myself at the side to the right, shimmying over the top and landing ass-over-tea-kettle in the neighbor’s back yard... right in front of a huge Great Dane. Oh, F…

  I lay on my belly with grass in my mouth, feeling bruises and wood rash on my arms and legs, and stared into the face of the monstrous dog. I waited ten seconds for him to rip my throat open and then I realized that he was down, face on his paws in the shade of his master’s house, with a look of benign sadness that said: hot enough for you, pal?

  I whispered praise to the beast as I carefully lifted the latch to the fence and walked in front of the neighbor’s house and one more till I was abreast my car. Christ all mighty! I unlocked the door, slid into the seat, and broke out into fresh flop-sweat. Adding insult to injury I shakily fired up a cigarette, turned the engine over, and drove back to Breakline watching my rear-view mirror all the way. It took two stiff drinks and one more smoke before my hands settled down... and then the cell rang.

  Fulton.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’ve been by your place twice and you’re never there. There’s a pile of newspapers a foot high on your porch. Where have you been?”

  I took a big hit of scotch. “Special Agent Fulton? I don’t recall you being my father so I don’t have to tell you where I’ve been. I haven’t been out of the state so your involvement with me ends there. Why are you calling?”

  I could hear him exhale in frustration. “My ‘involvement’ with you remains to be seen. I’ve been in contact with your wife and it seems her recollection of your trip to Durant doesn’t quite match yours.”

  Oh Christ. Jeanie and I had spent the day drinking and sampling the buffets and purposely played nickel video poker so as not to get fleeced too badly. My recollection of the hours we spent there was a little fuzzy but I couldn’t recall a moment that would stand out as odd in anybody’s memory.

  I said, “I don’t understand. We drank, we gambled – that was it.”

  “It seems that Mrs. Cain recalls a period of several hours where you were out of her sight. Where you could have been anywhere.”

  Fulton’s tone when he said “anywhere” implied that I might have been in Abu Dubai conspiring with the Taliban to assassinate the President. What I really was doing was nursing a headache up in our room.

  “We had a room for the day; I went and lay down for a bit. Big Deal.” I put as much venom in my voice as possible. “Are you saying you’re wasting the taxpayer’s money tracing my movements in Dumpwater, Oklahoma? If so, they’re not getting their money’s worth. I highly doubt Jeanie is going to turn State’s Evidence and rat me out for stealing the hotel’s towels.”

  Fulton didn’t reply immediately. Finally, he broke the silence by saying, “Look, we’re not all pencil-pushers here at the bureau. I’m highly aware that there is a similarity between some boys that have been reported missing and your son, and I want you to know that we... that I’m taking it very seriously.”

  It’s about freakin’ time! There was something that Fulton wasn’t saying. I said, “And?”

  Another long pause, then: “The boy reported missing in the area of Durant is a twelve-year old, with a long history of spousal abuse in the household, and he... he…”

  “And?”

  Fulton was not happy. “And... he’s not blond. We made a mistake. He’s red-haired, in fact.”

  Red haired. This boy probably has no connection to Arnie at all.

  I wasn’t letting the “Special Agent” off the hook. “What does that tell you?”

  Again an exasperated sigh. “Look, being as the Durant boy seems to be totally unconnected to any other cases there is no breaching of state lines here, which severely limits federal involvement.”

  “Which means your involvement.”

  To his credit, Fulton seemed to care. “Yes, but I want you to know that I’m going to keep my eye on developments in your... your situation.”

  My situation. I wanted to reach right through the phone and strangle him. Fulton was telling me that he knew I was on to something but the mighty FBI was just too busy to put two and two together and do their goddamn job.

  Looking downward, I noticed a one-inch hunk of fabric from the leg of my Chinos was missing. I thought of my flight over the fence at Arnie’s house and I could feel the scotch in my stomach roil.

  I said, “I’ve got nothing more to say to you. I think in the future, if you need to speak with me, you can speak directly to my lawyer. I’d be happy to give you his number.”

  Fulton softly said, “I’ve got it.”

  Asshole.

  “Agent Fulton, I was wrong – I have one more thing to say to you.”

  Expecting a curse, Fulton said with resignation, “What?”

  I said, “Thanks for nothing.” and hung up.

  *

  The cell phone connection to Seattle wasn’t very good.

  “What do you mean you didn’t say anything to the FBI?”

  Jeanie was in her quiet phase: nothing matters, it is what it is, and a phone call from a Special Agent of the federal government happens every day.

  She said, “I answered him truthfully. I don’t understand why you’d be upset; we’ve already gone over this ground before.”

  “Yes, but now their focus is back on us.” I didn’t say that Fulton had as much as said his hands are tied.

  “Again, I don’t understand. You’ve wanted the FBI to get involved and now they are. Have you been drinking?”

  I ignored the obvious. “Involved, yes – but I want them to turn their attention on the guy who did this. Not on us.”

  “Oh, Ben…”

  I already knew where this was going to go. If Jeanie says one more word about “moving on”…

  “Bennie, we have to move on. There isn’t any new information, or new leads, or anything that they haven’t already looked at. Can’t you see that?”

  Nothing new? How about this: I found him. Yes, that’s right – I found him. After all their stumbling around and all their fancy-schmancy computers, I found him – and he’s been here right under our very noses all this time only I can’t tell you because I can’t trust you not to go to Perez and have him foul up the one good thing I’ve been praying for.

  “Didn’t you get my message from your mother?”

  There was a long pause. Finally, “You said there’s been another one. I just thought that was…”

  “The booze talking? You know, that’s the trouble with you: you never take me seriously.”

  “Ben, how can you say that? I…”

  All the anger, all the resentment welled up.

  I didn’t yell.

  “Listen to me very carefully. While you were sitting up there in Seattle with mommy and daddy, taking tea and shopping at Nordstrom’s, I’ve been here every day... every day! Listening to their drivel, waiting outside their offices, calling on the phone – I feel like I’m on the front line and there’s no one... no one supporting me!”

  “Ben, what can I do?” I could tell she was crying but her weak, simpering voice drove me over the edge. This time I did yell.

  “You can get on a goddamn plane and come down here and help me!”

  I had gone too far. It felt good, it felt right to say the truth but I really didn’t want her to help me. The thought of Jeanie getting involved, of being in danger with what I had to do was more t
han I could bear. I tried to calm myself.

  I said, “Look, I’ve got a few things to do the next couple of days. I’ll call you in a few when I’ve calmed down. I’m sorry I lost my temper – I was tired, haven’t been sleeping too well.”

  “The nightmares?” Jeanie said.

  If Jeanie ever had a nightmare like mine or one of her own... she never said.

  I said, “Yeah, they seem just as strong – maybe stronger.”

  “Ben, they have medi…”

  “No!” I interrupted, “No drugs. The last thing I need is a foggy head. Jesus, Jeanie... you ought to know that.”

  Jeanie had been on Cymbalta for months, probably more. Probably still is.

  This conversation was over. As usual I kicked myself for asking questions I didn’t want the answer to, for saying things I didn’t mean, or if I did mean it for saying things that would only deepen the wounds we shared even more.

  Fingering the tear in my pants leg I felt a new chill go up my back.

  “Good night, Jeanie.” No “I love you”, no “take care.”

  “Good night, Bennie.”

  We hung up, no further out of the quicksand than we were before I called.

  Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  *

  Today was Sunday. I was reasonably certain that Arnie would be involved with his other routes on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday was another story. Wednesday could be the day when I put this all behind me... really “move on” as Jeanie said. Monday and Tuesday. I clicked “maps” on the laptop and calculated the shortest route to my next destination.

  Fredericksburg.

  *

  Arnold Russell drank in the late evening heat and stared at the piece of fabric wedged between two one-by-sixes on the fence that separated his yard from the drunkard, Christian. Christian! That was a joke! Brian Christian was no more a God-fearing man than he was a circus clown. Old man Christian had no children in the house, hadn’t had for years, and even if he had he knew there’d be hell to pay if any one of them had scaled his fence and trespassed on his property. Christian himself was too much a tippler and too gone in years to try anything like jumping the fence. Well, the fabric just didn’t get there all by itself now, did it?

  Calling the two girls out into the back yard, he lined them up in front of the bathroom window and pointed to the small indentations in the paint on the bottom sill. Did either one of them know how the marks got there? No? Better tell the truth because the truth shall set you free sayeth the Lord. No? Better tell daddy the truth or he might be forced to put a few marks of their own in both of your backsides. No?

  Arnie knew that neither he nor Launi would buy something as dirty and willful as the clothing that this fragment came from. That meant trespassing. A man’s home is his castle and you don’t trespass on a man’s castle. Not if you want to keep your head, you don’t. A man has a right to safeguard his home, even from the wicked. Especially from the wicked. Even if it meant punishing the wicked. Severely.

  Arnold Russell knew a thing or two about punishing the wicked.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was only natural that Albrecht and Gerda Mueller would come to settle in Fredericksburg, Texas.

  Fredericksburg was one of several pioneer communities settled by people who were primarily of German descent. Even the first commissioner general, Baron Von Meusebach, was an expatriate German, making the peace with the Indians and founding the Society for the Protection of German Immigrants and attaining his office in 1845 with their support. New Braunfels and Gruene to the south evolved into city and town respectively, but Fredericksburg retained its old-world flavor, turning into a kitschy tourist stop with antique stores, chocolate shops, and beer halls, all with German-themed names and pseudo traditions.

  I was lucky to find that my forty-minute trip through hill country wasn’t a waste of time. The Fredericksburg Standard and Pioneer Memorial Library is one block off Washington Street and as it turned out, I only needed the library. Of the four people working, the eldest employee, a Mrs. Engel, was the most helpful one.

  “The Standard you say? Piece of cake, sonny boy. We’ve got back issues on microfilm running back to 1890.”

  Mrs. Engel was well over retirement age and a trifle in need of stronger bifocals but she had a ton of spirit and I couldn’t resist telling her so.

  “That’s the German in me coming out. Say what you want about the politics but we Germans are built to last.” She giggled, “My married name means ‘angel’ and you’d better believe me... I ain’t one!” She gave me a wink and opened up one of two machines in front of me.

  I said, “I have to confess, I’m a computer guy and I’m not exactly sure how to run this.” I looked at the projector and could only guess how the film was loaded.

  Mrs. Engel shockingly took her rear end and bumped me onto the next chair. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.” She settled in her seat, turned the machine on and then looked at me myopically, her glasses sliding to the end of her nose. “Now, what date are we looking for?”

  “Oh, man. I’m not quite sure. It could be anywhere from the twenties to now. Can’t we just enter a search word?”

  She looked at me as if I’d said giraffes could fly. “You’re kidding, right? This is microfilm. It’s linear tape, not digital. If you don’t know the date, you have to start somewhere close and work your way forward.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Engel. I don’t have a clue. I’m just looking for two people, probably in their sixties or seventies, and hopefully their families.”

  Mrs. Engel scratched her wrinkled chin. “For that you’d be better off with someone who was around the same time as these people.” She patted her hair. “Someone smart, intelligent, beautiful…”

  I smiled. “Someone like you?”

  She looked at me mock-seriously. “You’re very intuitive. Are you married?”

  I said, “Does it matter?” She swatted my arm and chuckled to herself. Smoothing the collar of her dress, she said, “Now, let’s get down to business. I play tuba in the Oom-Pa-Pa band next door and I’ve got a rehearsal in an hour. I don’t have all day to flirt with handsome men who come through the door.”

  “The tuba? You’re kidding, right?”

  “This is Fredericksburg, not Austin. We take our polka music very seriously here.”

  I threw up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Here it is: I’m looking for some information on the Mueller family. Gerda and Albrecht. And hopefully, Arnold.”

  Mrs. Engel’s face dropped.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Mrs. Engel looked at the other library workers and measured the distance to them, not wanting young ears to hear what she had to say.

  She said, “The Mueller family. That’s something we don’t really like to talk about in this town.” Her veined hands were worrying a fold in her dress. “This is a tourist town, we make our money from people coming through and stopping when they see the quaint little German town in the middle of red-neck country. Arson, death, possible murder... they’re not real big toe-tappers around here.”

  Murder? I said, “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Engel laughed. “Neither do we! Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning…”

  The Allies in the 1960’s continued to pour massive amounts of money and aid into Western Europe, mainly to thumb their noses at a succession of Soviet leaders. Money meant commerce, commerce meant supply and demand. One thing no one, east or west, could do without was wood. The patriarch Johann Mueller and his wife Alba, having made a fair-sized fortune in lumber concerns outside the boundaries of west-controlled Berlin, decided to honor their only son’s request to expand the family’s fortunes by sending him, his new bride and one-year-old son, Arnold, to the land that had made so much of this possible: America.

  Armed with the family money and a European work ethic, Albrecht and Gerda chose Kerrville, Texas as a base to set up a small chain
of family-owned lumber outlets while taking a home in nearby Fredericksburg. The presence of so many Germans was comforting even as the Muellers embraced America. Unfortunately, The Muellers began their lumber dynasty at the same time another man with a similar idea began what would become Home Depot. The Mueller business struggled till 1992 when both Albrecht and Gerda died.

  “Died?” I said, “How?”

  Mrs. Engel was looking at her watch. “Fire. Took ‘em both. It was a big thing around here during that time. It was summer, there was a drought going on and the house went up like kindling.”

  A fire? I said, “And the boy... Arnold?”

  “Oh, he escaped. There was a lot of talk going on because the fire examiner said he thought it could be arson but they never proved anything. A lot of folks were upset because the parents died and the son didn’t have a scratch on him – and there was the other boy.” Tuba practice was calling in Mrs. Engel’s ears. She fidgeted in her chair.

  I said, “Boy? What boy?”

  “Why the brother, of course. Arnold was a one-year-old when they came here but they had umm... Felix. Yes, that’s it – Felix. They had him I think a year after they came to Fredericksburg.”

  A brother. Arnie had a brother.

  I excitedly said, “Where can I find this brother?”

  Mrs. Engel looked concerned. “I’m sorry, dear; I thought I made that clear. They never found him. Not in the fire, not at a neighbor’s, nowhere. Poof! He just up and vanished and you’d have thought UFOs had landed or something for the way the cops were scurrying around. But, in the end the old folks were gone, Felix was nowhere to be found, and Arnold went off to live with the Russells.”

  Jesus! I crossed my fingers and said, “Is there any chance that these ‘Russells’ are still around?”

  Mrs. Engel looked at her watch and stage-whispered, “I have to get to rehearsal” and then said in a normal voice, “Only the old bag – I’m sorry, Elma is still alive but Bert passed a long time ago. You can find Elma out on old 49, past the McClendon place. Just go down Main, take the first right; that’s 49, and follow it all the way till you see the water tower. Her place sits right under the tower. Now I’ve got to go.”