Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

by C. J. Box

  I simply wasn’t hardwired for ranch work. I fixed fence, branded, docked, vaccinated, fed hay out of wagons and pickups to starving cattle in the winter. But it just didn’t take. I was never surly or disrespectful toward my dad and his occupation, just disinterested. He gave up on me early on as a future ranch foreman or competent hand. My mother withheld affection except for unexpected and oddly inappropriate moments. I remember once when I was walking down the dirt road to the school bus stop, and I realized she was running after me. I stopped and ducked, covering my head with my arms, expecting a beating and wondering what I’d done wrong. Instead, she smothered me in her arms, kissed the top of my head, said with tears in her eyes, Oh, you’re my world, you’re my everything my wonderful, wonderful boy. She was still kissing and hugging me when the bus pulled up filled with hooting rural kids hanging out of the windows. When I got home that night I asked her what had come over her, and she went pale and looked back at me with wide-eyed horror for bringing it up in front of my father. Only now do I understand the depth of parental love she revealed to me. I feel it myself when I look at Angelina and know that no matter what happens, I’ll love her.

  I used to take refuge in the theory that my mother secretly cheered for me to get away. Now that I have, I’m not so sure I was right about her secret wishes. Instead, I think she saw me as her surrogate for rebellion against her husband and her life in general. Not to say she was mean—she wasn’t. But she was born with a dark cloud over her head that got darker as she aged. I’ve reconciled myself to that.

  The only place we lasted more than two years was on the HS Bar between Townsend and Helena. The owner, whom I only met once, was a millionaire investor who lived in Connecticut. He was blustery, fast-talking, and abrasive. He showed up on the ranch in cowboy clothes that were inspired by Bonanza and looked more like a costume than real clothing. I didn’t like him—he called me “Jake” instead of Jack—but due to his poor health, a bitter divorce, and problems with the SEC, we didn’t see or hear much from him. Therefore, my dad said he was the best owner he’d ever worked for, and he got along with him. They saw “eye to eye,” my dad said, meaning the owner never spoke to him. During those years, I took the bus into Helena High. I was a Bengal. On the way to town we picked up Cody Hoyt in East Helena, which was on the wrong side of the tracks. Cody and I became great friends. Later, we met Brian Eastman and the three of us clicked, probably because none of us really belonged to any other established group. Brian’s father was a Presbyterian minister in Helena.

  We hunted, fished, hiked, and chased girls together. Even early on, it was obvious Brian was destined for great things. All of the girls loved Brian. He was their best friend and confidant. Cody and I met girls through Brian because none of them ever seemed good enough for him. At least, that’s what we thought at the time.

  After high school, Brian and I went off to college. Brian to the University of Denver on a scholarship. I went to Montana State in Bozeman on financial aid and student loans that would hang over my head for ten years. When I took my twenty-year-old pickup to Bozeman, I knew I would never return to the HS Bar or what ever ranch my parents were managing. Cody stayed around Helena and worked both construction and on ranches, pulling a six-month stint on the HS Bar working for my dad. He told me later that working for my dad convinced him to enroll in the police academy so he’d never have to work for such a mean old son of a bitch for the rest of his life.

  I waited until Melissa and I were engaged before introducing her to my parents so as not to scare her off. My dad took a long look at her, turned to my mom, said, “She’s too good for him.” Melissa’s parents, who lived in Billings at the time and were not yet divorced, felt the same way. With those hot winds of confidence filling our sails, we drove to Las Vegas with Brian and Cody in Brian’s car, littering the highways with empty beer cans all the way to Nevada. While nursing screaming hangovers, my friends served as best men and witness to the wedding that took place at Chapel of the Dunes in Glitter Gulch.

  I got my degree in journalism, which turned out to be practically worthless, and started as a reporter at the Billings Gazette. Mainly, I worked as an assistant in graphics making a dollar over minimum wage. We lived in a trailer out by MetraPark, within sight and smell of the livestock they brought in for auctions, sharing the place with two dogs who just showed up and stayed. Melissa landed better than I did, and went from assistant in reservations at a local hotel to assistant general manager to general manager within two years. When an opening came up at the Billings Convention and Visitor’s Bureau, she convinced me to apply and used her connections to talk me up. Her reputation was so good the CVB board assumed her husband might be worthwhile, so they hired me. After a few years, I did stints in Bozeman and Casper, Wyoming, learning the travel industry. I started to feel like my father, moving about from place to place.

  Brian stayed in Denver after graduation and was a highly successful real-estate developer who had quickly become prominent and high-profile within the community. He was also on the board of the Denver CVB, and suggested to Linda Van Gear, Vice President of Tourism, to hire me.

  So we moved to the big city.

  Cody bounced around in law enforcement from place to place as well, from small town to small town in Wyoming and Montana, then to Loveland, Colorado. His name began to pop up in the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News in newspaper articles in connection with several high-profile crimes, including the kidnapping, rape, and murder of a college coed by an illegal Mexican immigrant. The article in the News referred to him as a “relentless investigator.” He married and divorced twice. He eventually signed on with the Denver Police Department, and had recently been promoted to detective first class in the Criminal Investigations Division. Cody was the lead investigator who had arrested Aubrey Coates, the man known in the newspapers as the “Monster of Desolation Canyon.”

  We chose Denver like so many others. I meet very few people in Denver who are from Denver, or from Colorado. There is little sense of shared history or culture. Relationships and connections are as deep as the piddling South Platte River that trickles through the city.

  “YOU COULD PROBABLY SWEAR out some kind of vandalism complaint and I’m sure they know it,” Cody Hoyt said later that night. “It isn’t whether you’ve got reason to press charges, it’s whether you’ve got the guts to take them on and piss them off.”

  Cody came right over, as did Brian. Larry of LARRY’S 24/7 EMERGENCY PLUMBING was still upstairs.

  Cody still wore the same sweats he’d had on earlier that day, and he hadn’t shaved. He smelled of beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat, and he said he’d spent the evening watching the game at a cop bar near police headquarters on Cherokee Street after dropping off the drill earlier. As he grew older, Cody was looking more and more like his father, a notorious drinker and Vietnam War vet with a bulbous nose and kettle-sized potbelly who did odd jobs throughout the county from a ramshackle panel van. The semiautomatic pistol he had clipped to the waistband of his sweatpants gave me pause and created an air of seriousness and purpose our living room had been lacking, I thought.

  Brian, on the other hand, wore chinos, tasseled loafers with no socks, and an untucked pale blue dress shirt. His hair was receding and had been reduced to a tight swoosh high on his forehead. He had penetrating hazel eyes. He’d lost even more weight from when I’d seen him last and was beginning to resemble a hanger for his fine clothes.

  Melissa had asked if they wanted anything before settling down in a chair. Cody asked for a beer. Brian wanted ice water with “a little slice of lemon.”

  “I’m sure it was Luis,” I said. “He was in the bathroom a long time. I’m not sure Garrett didn’t put him up to it, though.”

  “Disgusting,” Brian said. “Animals.”

  “The ‘Sur-13’ tattoo you described,” Cody said, “that’s for Sureños 13—the local chapter of a nationwide gang. You see the gang graffiti all over the south side and downtown. We know all
about them—they deal most of the meth in Colorado. I’ll check out this Luis dude with the gang task force, see if they know him.”

  “Why would Luis be with Garrett,” I asked, “and vice versa? Stevie is a white kid, too.”

  Cody said, “We’re seeing it more and more. Rich white kids slumming with the Mexican gangsters. They want some of that power and cool to rub off on them. It’s just like white rappers, trying to be something they’re not. The Mexican gangs are the kings of Denver, just like every other city in the West and Southwest.”

  I asked, “What’s in it for the gangsters?”

  “Connections,” Cody said. “Access to schools and neighborhoods where there are plenty of kids with disposable income. Plus, Luis is probably smart. He knows Garrett’s dad is a federal judge. That connection could help him and his buddies somewhere down the road.”

  “Something else,” I said. “The remote control for the television is missing. They must have taken it when I got them the drinks.”

  “That was nice of you,” Cody said sarcastically.

  “We were nice to them because we didn’t want to start out as adversaries,” Melissa said. “We hoped they’d see reason once they met us and saw the home we’ve established for Angelina …”

  Brian and Cody nodded sympathetically.

  Cody glanced down at his notes, said, “So did Garrett say anything you could consider threatening?”

  “No.”

  “But he indicated you better be nice to him or he wouldn’t sign the papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Melissa, did you hear that exchange?” Cody asked.

  “No.”

  He turned back to me. “So it’s your word against his.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t just what they said, it was how they acted. Like they were sharing a big joke being here. They kept looking at each other like they’d burst out laughing anytime.”

  “It was really uncomfortable,” Melissa said. “Garrett stares at me like I’m a piece of meat.”

  That agitated Brian, who leaned forward and gripped his knees with his hands. He was protective of Melissa and had been since our marriage. We were, he said, his surrogate family since he’d never have one of his own. He and Melissa talked on the telephone every few days. Long, aimless conversations punctuated by her laughter and her mock-outraged cries of “Brian!” when he said something catty or off-color. He had been there for her after the miscarriages, and he had a rapport with her I sometimes envied. She was still amazed that in all of those years growing up I hadn’t realized he was gay, since she’d known the first time she met him. He was, Melissa said, her best friend. Brian’s partner was an architect named Barry. They’d been together for several years and lived in a hip loft apartment in the heart of the city. Barry was hard to get to know, I thought. I found him stiff and standoffish, but he hit it off with Melissa right away. I didn’t see Barry much.

  Melissa once told me she always suspected Cody was conflicted in his feelings toward his old friend since Brian had become so successful—and more flamboyant in his personal life. I shrugged it off and attributed Cody’s attitude to the cynicism so many cops held toward businessmen. Cody had grown up reciting the Honoré de Balzac line (even though he didn’t know it was Honoré de Balzac), “Behind every great fortune there is a crime.” I think he believed it. And he probably attributed it to both John Moreland and Brian.

  Brian looked at me with anger. “Why did you just let them in?”

  “I thought maybe Garrett wanted to talk,” I said. “I hoped he’d offer to sign away custody. But he never even mentioned it until I brought it up.”

  “You can’t prove they took the remote, though,” Cody said.

  “I know I had it when the game started,” I said. “I went to the kitchen while they were here, and that’s when I assume they took it.”

  “Why would they want a remote control they can’t use?” Cody asked.

  “A trophy,” Brian said. “It’s symbolic. It’s like they are taking control away from you. Is anything else missing?”

  Melissa and I looked around the living room. It was possible something else was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I still had the lingering feeling from our meeting earlier in the day that our house was unfamiliar to me.

  Melissa’s eyes paused on the mantel, and I saw the blood drain from her face. She quickly got up and went to the fireplace.

  “The photo of Angelina and me in the hospital,” she said.

  “Garrett was looking at that earlier today,” I said. “I saw him.”

  “Maybe he wanted a photo of his daughter,” Brian said.

  “His birth daughter,” I corrected. Melissa was sensitive to terms.

  “Or maybe,” Cody said, “he wanted a photo of Melissa.”

  The thought made me clench my fists.

  Larry the plumber cleared his throat while he came down the stairs. He was shaking his head and smiling. “All fixed,” he said. “Happens all the time when you’ve got toddlers.”

  Melissa and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  “I should start a museum collection of the things I’ve found in toilets,” Larry said, standing on the landing and finishing up his invoice on a clipboard. “Barbie dolls, socks, shoes. One kid tried to flush a whole apple because he didn’t want his mom to know he didn’t eat it. Problem is, the only people interested in what we find in toilets is other plumbers.”

  “We don’t have a toddler,” Melissa said.

  “You don’t?” Larry said, looking up. “That’s strange.”

  Then he saw Harry and he laughed. “Next to toddlers, it’s the Labradors who drop things in toilets.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “Your remote control,” Larry said. “It was wedged down in there and it’s ruined, I’m afraid. Unless you want me to clean it off and try to get it working again.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  “It’s still a mess up there,” Larry said, handing me the bill. I tried not to gasp when I saw the amount—nearly $400.

  “You pay dearly for twenty-four/seven emergency calls,” Larry said, trying to sound breezy, “especially on game night after I’ve had a few cold Coors and gone to bed early.”

  As Larry left the house and climbed into his panel van in the driveway, Brian said, “The symbolism continues. He took your control and he and his buddy flushed it down the toilet and crapped on it. Exactly what kind of kid are you dealing with?”

  CODY SAID, “LET’S COME up with a plan.”

  We were up until two in the morning. It took an hour for the four of us to strip the rugs and hose them down outside and to clean the bathroom floor. Brian wore a bandana over his nose and mouth, but we could hear him saying, over and over, “Animals.” Before we started cleaning, Brian took photos of the mess with his digital camera and put the camera in his pocket.

  Brian thought we needed a new attorney since I’d fired Dearborn. We needed a bulldog, Brian said, someone who would “go after the Morelands and drop a nuclear bomb on them.”

  “We can’t afford someone like that,” I said. “We’re strapped as it is with the house, the adoption. We don’t have Melissa’s income anymore.”

  “I was wondering if that would come up,” she said more heatedly than I could have anticipated.

  Before I could explain myself, she said, “We can sell the house. I can go back to work. I’ve gotten calls from Marriott and Radisson …”

  “I’ll help you out,” offered Brian. “Don’t worry about money. In fact, let me be your advocate in this whole mess.”

  He leaned forward, his voice dropped an octave. His business voice. “Since I’ve been in Denver I’ve met a hell of a lot of people, and a bunch of them owe me favors. It’s a big city, yes, and it’s growing like crazy, but that’s at the margins. At its core it’s still a small town run by a cabal of old-timers, developers, and politicians. There are levers of power, and I know how to work them. I’ve been doing it
for years. I know city councilmen and media people, and you know I’m familiar with the mayor’s inner circle. If word gets out I’m fronting for you, this changes your problem into an issue. That’s the last thing the powers that be want.”

  “Thank you, Brian,” Melissa said, her eyes glistening with tears.

  I didn’t know what to say. No one in my life had ever said the words Don’t worry about money.

  “No,” Cody said. “I don’t think it’s the best plan. Even with a loan and a new attorney …”

  “I never said ‘loan,’ ” Brian said sharply to Cody.

  “…you’re still up against Judge John Moreland,” Cody continued, dismissing Brian just as curtly. “Moreland is a judge, and he’s connected in more ways than you can know. He can hire teams of lawyers to tie you up and drain you for years. Plus, any judge would determine he could provide real well for the baby while you two get deeper and deeper in debt.”

  “It’s just not right,” Brian said through clenched teeth.

  “No, it ain’t,” Cody said, not without sympathy. “But the fact is Garrett didn’t sign away custody, right? He may be a thieving, humping little scumbag, but he has the law on his side. And lots of luck finding a good lawyer who wants to take on a sitting judge. Particularly this sitting judge.”

  Melissa sighed, sat back. Her eyes were rimmed with red. There was a set to her mouth that indicated she was fighting back tears. “It’s so unfair. We don’t deserve this. We did everything right. I’ll fight them to my last breath,” she said, almost spitting the words out. “I’ll do anything, say anything, to keep my daughter. If I need to act like I’m flirting with Garrett—I will.”

  I winced.

  “Somehow,” she said, “we’ve got to convince him to sign the papers. I can’t believe he has any interest at all in Angelina. He doesn’t want to be a father although I can’t figure out what his game is. Maybe he’s just using this situation to intimidate us.”