“Loved the outdoors as a kid. Roamed all over the woods, the mountains, everywhere.” Max dropped his cigarette butt, ground it under the heel of his boot: a heavy, combat-style boot, a shitkicker.
“Nice binoculars,” LeAnne said. They looked like Steiners, far better than the binoculars she’d lost. Max’s were camo coated. “Ever in the military?”
His gaze went to her bad side. “No.”
“Marci was.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“On account of you.”
He still had a slight smile on his face, but now it changed, as though losing its inner support. For a moment, LeAnne expected some sort of outburst; she was mistaken. Instead, Max turned away. “I won’t argue,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I did back then, not that it does any good. I was a different person.”
“Sorry for beating Marci up?” LeAnne said, in no mood for him to sound reasonable or to be apologetic. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
He nodded. LeAnne waited for some excuse, like Marci had asked for it, or egged him on, but there was none of that. She felt a strong urge to double down, to push him harder, and was trying to think of the most hard-hitting way, when Goody suddenly moved forward and began sniffing at Max, starting at his boots and moving higher.
“Hey, pal,” Max said, “what’s up?” He tried to pat Goody’s head. Goody twisted her head away and kept sniffing. “I know what you’re smelling.” He pulled a baggie from his back pocket, took out a sandwich. “Ham and cheese,” he said. “Okay for her to have it?”
“Yeah.”
Max held out the sandwich. Goody ignored it, continued sniffing him. Max laughed. Goody kept sniffing him. Max’s laughter faded away. At that point, Goody went still, then grabbed the sandwich and trotted off to eat it by herself. Max laughed again. “Big personality,” he said. “What’s her name?”
“Goody.”
“Cool.” Max lit another cigarette, licking his thumb and forefinger and pinching out the match tip flame. “I never really got the details on what happened to Marci,” he said.
“What difference does it make to you?” LeAnne said.
He glanced at her, then looked away. “You’re a tough customer,” he said. Then, his voice lower and softer: “No reason a beautiful woman can’t be tough, too. Just takes some getting used to, at least for a country boy such as myself.” He took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, his face momentarily vanishing behind a cloud of smoke.
Beautiful woman? Had she heard right? A combination of that and the sound of Max’s voice in this lower register shifted something inside LeAnne, and she felt Max’s sexual presence.
The smoke cloud blew away. He seemed to have moved closer, was gazing down at her. He had dark eyes, eyes hard to look away from at that moment. Max touched her shoulder. His hand felt good—there was no denying that: one of those men who knew a thing or two.
“Hungry?” he said. “We could grab a bite somewhere.”
The possibility of pleasure—temporary or even fleeting, but still pleasure—was suddenly on the table. LeAnne didn’t know what to say. Then she remembered Mr. Adelson: morons make the same mistake twice, and smart people make new ones. Kind of confusing because Max had been Marci’s mistake, not hers, but somehow it applied. At that moment came another memory, this one of Marci herself: I’d like a do-over on that decision—let’s leave it there. Here was an opportunity so rare in life: a do-over—in this case to make Marci’s life right, which maybe made no logical sense and yet still felt right. LeAnne twisted her shoulder away and Max’s hand slid off her.
“Marci had her leg blown off in an IED explosion,” she said. “Then in the hospital she threw a clot in her lung and drowned in her own blood. That is what happened to Marci.”
Something changed in Max’s eyes. Was it the temperature going down? Or actually heating way up? LeAnne didn’t know. Max smiled a very small smile, kind of boyish. “I asked and you told me,” he said. “Thank you.”
LeAnne nodded.
“She didn’t deserve it,” Max said.
“We can agree on that.”
“A positive note,” Max said. He glanced around. “Are we out of here?”
LeAnne didn’t see why not. The clearing showed no signs of recent human presence other than Max’s cigarette butt and was hemmed in everywhere except for the entry point. “Let’s go, Goody.”
Goody trotted over, licking her muzzle. They made their way out of the clearing and back down, Max first, cigarette dangling from his lips, his movements quick and sure.
“I’m parked thataway,” Max said, pointing north on the logging road. He held out his hand. LeAnne shook it—an enormous hand, warmer than hers, demonstrating just a hint of its squeezing strength for a split second. She fell for one of those macho men. And who could blame her?
Max started walking north. LeAnne watched him, and after he’d gone twenty yards or so, she called, “Max?”
He stopped and faced her.
“Did she have any enemies?” LeAnne said.
He shaded his eyes with his hand, as though warding off a glare, even though the clouds above were dark and thick. “Excuse me?”
“Mia. Was she being bullied, maybe, or anything like that?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Max said, lowering his hand. “What do I know about her life? I got cut out.”
“Poor you,” said LeAnne.
Max gave her a long look. Then he turned and walked away. LeAnne headed in the other direction. When she reached her car, she looked back. He was gone. She gazed across the swamp and saw the Day-Glo dots, now a little closer.
LeAnne drove back down former logging road N31, Goody sitting up and panting on the passenger seat, and swung west on the state highway, headed back into Bellville. She’d gone about half a mile when blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror and Sheriff Cosgrove pulled her over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The sheriff came to the side of the car. Was it possible he was the bearer of good news? LeAnne slid down the window. He hunched down, peered inside like some run-of-the-mill cop looking for run-of-the-mill drugs or some other stupid shit.
“That dog under control?” he said.
She’d forgotten about his bushy mustache, how it wriggled around like a hairy crawler when he spoke, capturing all her attention and nauseating her at the same time. “What the hell?” she said. “That’s why you pulled me over? To check on the dog? What about Mia?”
“What about her?” said Cosgrove.
“Have you found her, for Christ sake?”
“No. Have you?”
“Have I? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Step out of the car, please.”
Goody was panting harder now, drool trickling off her tongue.
“Why?” LeAnne said. “I wasn’t speeding.”
“Step out of the car.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“That depends. Step out of the car. Don’t make this difficult.”
LeAnne grabbed the wheel with both hands. “Arresting me for what?”
Cosgrove gazed down at her, not speaking, but his mustache still seemed to be wriggling around. She was going to puke unless she stood up right away. LeAnne opened the door and got out, quickly closing the door in case Goody had a mind to follow. But Goody stayed where she was, still panting. If she was having any thoughts, they were elsewhere.
LeAnne took a deep breath, felt a little better. She took a good look at Cosgrove, a medium-built man maybe two inches taller than she was, with a soft middle. “What do you want?”
“What the law wants,” Cosgrove said, “is any information you may be concealing on the whereabouts of the child.”
“Are you insane?”
Cosgrove’s face reddened, but his voice stayed calm, maybe in a slightly exaggerated way. “How about starting with your own whereabouts, specifically on the night of the funeral, meaning the ninth of this month.”
&nb
sp; LeAnne laughed in his face. “I’m a suspect? You’re insane or stupid or both. Why would I do anything to harm Mia?”
“I’m not suggesting you intended to harm her. And I don’t know anything about your motivation firsthand. But this morning I spoke to someone who does.”
“Someone who knows about my motivation? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“His name is . . .” Cosgrove took a notebook from the chest pocket of his shirt and flipped it open. “ . . . Machado. Dr. Ernest Machado, assistant director of psychiatric services at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.” He glanced up. “Ring a bell?”
LeAnne went lightheaded. For a moment or two, she lacked the strength to look anywhere but at his mustache, as though her vision was narrowing into one tiny circle, like an editing trick in a silent movie. She leaned over and vomited on the road.
The sheriff stepped back quickly, keeping his shoes clean. LeAnne reached out for the car, steadied herself against it.
“Dr. Machado says you left the hospital without authorization,” Cosgrove continued, voice strengthening, like momentum was now his. “Furthermore, that such authorization would not have been forthcoming on account of your mental state, which he described as . . .” He checked the notebook again and read from it. “ . . . severely unstable. Dr. Machado believes you and Marci Cummings formed a short-lived but intense and mentally—or is it mutually? Can’t read my own damn writing—destructive relationship and that when she died, you suffered a psychotic break.” He looked up. “Meaning you snapped. When I asked whether in your state of mind you might glom onto Marci’s daughter, the doc said it was entirely possible. Now comes some story from McCutcheon’s granddaughter about a scary-looking commando outside Mia’s window. So I ask you again—where were you on the night of the funeral?”
Scary-looking? Had he really said that? Or was it her imagination? LeAnne turned away from the car and peered at him, trying to make up her mind. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Where were you the night of the funeral?”
“Before that—about B.J.”
“Planning on attacking the credibility of a kid? See that all the time, but it’s still kind of low, if you ask me. B.J. McCutcheon says Mia told her she saw a commando outside her window the night of—”
“What kind of commando?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
The sheriff’s eyes shifted for a moment. Then his chin tilted up in an aggressive way. “Scary-looking.”
LeAnne punched Cosgrove in the mouth with all the strength she had. He staggered and almost went down, one hand going to his face, the other fumbling for his sidearm. LeAnne made a move for it, but the damaged version of her was too slow; so slow that this pudgy provincial lawman not only held on to his revolver, but also got in a pretty good backhand whack with the barrel, raking it across her bad side, a blow she didn’t see coming. Inside the car, Goody started bashing around and barking at top volume.
LeAnne’s head got strange inside, sort of molten. She went down on one knee, tried to steady herself but could not, and slumped to the ground. The chances of rising on her own anytime soon seemed pretty slim, but then, right through the ground, she felt the force of what Goody was doing in the car. LeAnne rose. She raised her hands. She made them into fists.
Cosgrove stepped back and pointed the revolver at her head. Blood seeped from his mouth, reddening the tips of his mustache. “Don’t force me to defend myself,” he said. The look in his eyes said the opposite.
“Meaning you’ll shoot me.”
“That I will,” Cosgrove said.
LeAnne came close to saying, Be my guest. But the car was actually rocking now. She glanced over at Goody—Goody beside herself—and said, “Easy, there,” much too quietly to be heard. Goody went still.
“Hands behind your head.” Cosgrove made a little motion with his weapon.
“No way,” LeAnne said. She kept her hands where they were, still squared for combat. He glared at her. She glared right back. The violent urge that had taken hold of her shrank down to something manageable. LeAnne lowered her hands. “I had nothing to do with Mia’s disappearance. I wasn’t even here that night.”
“Prove it.”
That was maddening. Prove it? How? Some details of her trip—like the gingerbread men with the mint-green eyes—were very clear, but there was no orderly arrangement, or even complete attendance, no matter how disorderly, of all the wheres and whens.
“Maybe you’ll think better in a cell,” Cosgrove said. “Nice and quiet. Meanwhile, you’re under arrest for assault against an officer of the law. I need you to turn around and place your hands on top of the vehicle.”
LeAnne stayed the way she was. Cosgrove spoke into the transmitter on his collar. Calling for backup? LeAnne wasn’t really listening; she was watching Goody. Goody was watching her. One of her paws rested on the red phone, sitting in the cup holder.
“What’s the point of making this difficult?” Cosgrove said. With the back of his free hand, he wiped the side of his mouth and saw the blood. His voice rose. “I’m taking you in, one way or another.”
LeAnne gazed at him and said nothing. Should she have been scared? She wondered about that. Had he bloodied her face, tit for tat? She didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her check. Siren sounds rose in the west, getting louder.
“Here and now’s your one chance to make a deal,” Cosgrove said. “I’ll drop the assault charge. Just tell me where Mia is.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” LeAnne said. “But let’s keep that between us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I can prove I had nothing to do with Mia’s disappearance.”
“Out of the blue? What changed?”
“Sure, out of the blue. You win.” LeAnne waited, but not for long.
“Go on,” he said.
“I need to make one call.”
Cosgrove thought that over. LeAnne could feel him doing some sort of careerist arithmetic. He took out his own phone.
LeAnne shook her head. “Has to be my phone.” She pointed inside the car. He came closer, keeping the gun on her, and took a look. “In the cup holder,” she said.
He nodded. “You got a weapon in there, too?”
“No.”
“How are you planning on getting the phone without that animal jumping out and attacking me?” the sheriff said.
“Don’t call her an animal,” LeAnne said.
“Because I’ll shoot her if she does.”
Which would be your last act on earth. LeAnne opened the door, said, “Stay,” reached past Goody, took the phone, closed the door. Goody didn’t move once. LeAnne had the crazy thought that she was in control, not just of Goody—in fact, not of Goody—but of everything else. Cosgrove made another gesture with the gun, this one meaning make the call; he was like an orchestra conductor with a .38 instead of a baton. LeAnne was almost smiling when she hit the call back number.
“Good to hear from you,” Stallings said.
“You know where I was the night of the ninth.”
“Is that a statement or a question?”
“Both. Neither. Just tell me.”
“Mind saying why?”
“A sheriff here is asking.”
There was a silence. “And it would be good if you weren’t in his county that night?”
“Exactly.”
“Ninth of this month?”
“Yes. Let’s have it.”
Another silence. “Got an idea,” Stallings said. “I’ll come over there and tell him in person.”
“What are you talking about? I’ll put him on right now.”
“In person is always best, in my experience.”
“Then we’ll settle for second best. I can’t wait.”
“Can’t wait an hour?”
“An hour? You’re not in Kabul?”
Stallings clicked off.
Cosgrove checke
d his watch. “Fifty-eight minutes,” he said. By that time two more squad cars and an ambulance had joined them out on the state highway just west of the intersection of former logging road N31. The EMTs, the sheriff, and one of the cops stood in a little group by the Honda; LeAnne leaned against it; Deputy Lima stayed in his cruiser, his face trying on a series of unpleasant expressions. Champ sat beside him, eyes on Goody, who remained in the Honda, gazing right back at Champ.
Goody’s ears went up. A moment after that, LeAnne heard a faint whap whap coming out of the west. Then Champ’s ears rose. And finally the other humans heard it, too. A small dark green helicopter—a Kiowa, with its jutting lower jaw; LeAnne had ridden in them many times—came skimming over the treetops, banked, slowed, then landed on level ground by the roadside and shut down. Captain Stallings, dressed for some reason like a hot-shot pilot in a leather flight jacket over his blues—the actual pilot was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt—jumped down and approached. He had a bounce in his stride, like there was no containing his good mood.
“Hi there, everybody,” he said, giving LeAnne a quick nod. “My name’s Stallings, US Army Intelligence. Who’s in charge?”
The sheriff stepped forward.
“Sheriff Cosgrove?” Stallings said.
“That’s right.”
“How about we walk and talk a moment or two?” Stallings put his hand on Cosgrove’s back, herded him across the road, showed him ID and a document or two. LeAnne couldn’t hear what was being said, but could see that Stallings did most of the talking. Then came nods of agreement and the sheriff, the other cop, and the EMTs got into their vehicles, although they didn’t drive away. Stallings walked over to LeAnne. He looked at her bad side, cleaned up by the EMTs, and said, “Good God. They got rough?”
LeAnne waved that away with the back of her hand. “Did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“What you’re here for. To clear this up. You know where I was that night from the GPS.”
“Just west of San Jacinto, Nevada. You either slept in the car or paid cash for a room somewhere. I’ve actually got closed-circuit TV of you in a coffee shop at eight thirty-two that evening.” He took out his phone and showed her a still photo. A frontal shot, taken from above. She seemed to be talking to someone out of camera range, and she was in an angry mood; her ruined side actually came off as the saner of the two. But that wasn’t the point. The point was the time and date stamp in the top right corner.
The Right Side Page 24