I wanted to tell him he was wrong about me. I wanted to shout that the last thing I wanted was to drink when my father was dead. It would have been a shameful lie and we both knew it. I wanted a drink more then than I ever had.
“Daddy’s dead,” I told him as if it explained everything. Maybe it did.
“I know.” Clare nodded in the semidarkness of the morning gloom. “And he was proud of you as a man could be. Proudest when you set the whiskey aside. You don’t want to pick it up today.”
“I need it, Clare.”
“I know you think that. But let’s get past today and decide. What do you think?”
“I think—” I was empty. There were no words. No feelings. I had thought for an instant, there weren’t even any tears. I was wrong.
I cried, I blubbered in loss and grief and God bless ’em, Clare Bolin got me to bed without being drunk. If it wasn’t such a horrifyingly pathetic moment for me, I would have been amazed at what he did next. Without looking or even making me much aware of the process, he reached under the blanket with a pocketknife and cut my bloody dress off me.
As he carried the rag away, I think I said, “Goodnight, Daddy.” I’m not sure.
When I woke after a couple of hours the sky had cleared into a cold blue that had an ominous weight. A confusion of winds crossed the lake constantly shifting direction and falling still before coming back in heavy, wave-whipping gusts. The dock and houseboat undulated on the churn.
I don’t recall getting dressed, but when I stepped back into the shop I was ready for work. At least my clothes were. I’m pretty sure my face reflected the way I felt. That much was easy to read in Clare’s face when I walked in.
“You want some breakfast?” he asked, without moving from the table. He knew the answer.
I shook my head anyway. “Have you been here all night?”
He held up a book. Not one of my uncle’s, it was one of the trashy, sexy things by Drury Jamison I like to read, but don’t want anyone to know about.
“Where’d you get that?”
Clare pointed to the minnow tank. “It was by the bait well. I think that black fella was reading it.”
“His name is Damon.”
I must have had an edge to my correction because Clare said, “I was describing him, not judging him.”
“I know.” And I hoped he heard the apology in my voice. It was the best I was going to give. “Where is he?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Since this morning or . . .”
“Not since I got here last night,” He filled in. “Is it a problem?”
“I doubt it.” I shook my head as much to clear it as anything. My thoughts seemed as if they were being telegraphed on bad wires.
There was an electronic chirping from his pocket and Clare put down his book to pull out his phone. When the connection was made, he looked right at me and said, “No need. She’s already awake.” Then he disconnected.
“My uncle?”
“Your boss.” Clare put his phone away but didn’t pick the book back up. He looked like he was waiting for something.
I figured I knew what it was. “Is your brother part of this?”
The bob of his head and the look down at his fingers told me I was right on target with his expectations.
“No,” he answered quietly. “But that’s me believin’, not me knowing.”
I nodded, understanding. There was not a more honest man alive than Clare Bolin, despite his politics and bootlegger past. I had wanted to believe the same about his brother but that had gotten harder every day.
“I’ll be honest, Clare. I don’t know what to believe. But there are a hell of a lot of questions.”
“You’ll have to ask him. And I know you will.”
Again, I nodded. I didn’t want to put him in the middle of something he really had nothing to do with. But that’s pretty much the nature of family, isn’t it?
“Thanks for last night.” It was an awkward change of subject, but the best I had.
“Glad to do it.” He hit me with a sad, little smile that said more than his words. Regret, obligation, friendship, and concern, were all wrapped up in his face. It was a good look. “Are you still wanting a drink?”
“With every beat of my heart.”
We talked a little more and we sat without talking even longer until Sheriff Benson’s boots clomped up the walkway to the shop door. We followed his footsteps and could even see him through the door panes but he didn’t come in right away. Never a good sign. Chuck paused with a hand on the knob and looked out over the lake like he was wishing he was someplace else. I imagine he was.
When he opened the door, his hat was in his hand. It was his we-need-to-talk look.
“You can’t be bringing any worse news than I’ve already had, Sheriff. Just put it out there,” I told him.
He did. “We can’t find Billy.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. It struck me at that moment, how denial almost always starts with a question.
“You said, Aton Gagarin was shot by Dewey Boone.”
“Yes.”
“And that, after your father passed, you didn’t see Billy.”
“I lost track of things. It was . . . I don’t know what happened. Honestly, I can’t say how much I remember after Daddy died and I woke here.”
“But Billy was gone?”
“Billy was gone, I know that. So was Gagarin. The Russian had to have gotten up and tried to run.”
“But you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. My father died and I can’t even say how long it was till I looked up again. The EMTs were there. Whilomina was crying. I looked—Billy was just gone.”
“Did you look for him?”
I realized as soon as he asked the question, I hadn’t. And I should have. A fresh knot of guilt wadded up and stuck in my throat.
“It’s not your fault.” Chuck made it a statement of fact. A hard truth that didn’t leave room in his estimation for equivocation. “No one would have done any different or better than you did in the situation. And Billy was not your responsibility.”
It was good of him. It was the right thing to say and the right way to say it. That doesn’t mean that I believed it.
“There was something . . .”
“About Billy?” he prodded when I faded.
“I don’t know.”
He waited as I tried to work through memories, timelines, and my personal subterfuge. I didn’t want to admit it, but decided that I had to.
“After . . .” I began, then didn’t want to say again after what. “After. The EMTs were there, other officers had arrived. I went back out to the lobby because I didn’t want to let him go. I remember telling myself, I should stay with Whilomina. But I was only thinking about Daddy.”
“You don’t have to make any excuses,” the sheriff reassured.
“I saw Givens out there. He was standing over Dewey’s body.”
“Did he see you?”
I shrugged. “He must have.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
I shook my head. “There were a lot of people around. I didn’t see anyone who I recognized as a part of the investigation.”
“Well . . . I’m not sure what we can do with it, but I believe it answers one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“There was no weapon with Dewey’s body.”
“Givens took it.” I accused with certainty.
“I can’t say why, but it’d be my bet.”
“I know why.”
Sheriff Benson didn’t look surprised. He did reach into the ancient cooler Uncle Orson used to keep sodas on ice. He pulled out one of Clare’s homebrew root beers, then sat like he was ready for a story.
“Dewey was using an M9. Your basic military sidearm. I got a good look at it when I kicked it out of his reach. Givens and Keene are either investigating or facilitating the smuggling of military weapons. I’d bet Dewey was using a pistol that would rai
se a lot of questions if we had it.”
“Yeah, well, there’re going to be questions.” The sheriff took a long pull from the bottle then sat it down with a loud thunk. “And neither of us is going to like them or the people asking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I shook my head and looked from Chuck to Clare and back. “Not to me.”
“Congresswoman Whilomina Tindall.”
I waited.
“Congresswoman,” he repeated. “She was involved in a shooting and the man she claims to be engaged to was killed. That’s news and it complicates everything.”
“She and my father were getting married. There was no claim about it.”
“Maybe,” he nodded. “But I get the picture that it was, if not secret, at least not well known.”
“So?” I raised my hands, palms up.
“Just more grist for the mill, honey.”
“And . . . you want me to stay out of the mill.”
“Want’s got nothing to do with what I have to do.”
“Suspended?”
“Vacation.” He took another drink of the root beer. “If you come in and make an issue out of it, the desk. But you are no longer involved in investigating anything to do with, the Boones, the girl—”
“Her name is Sartaña.”
“Yes. Sartaña. Or any other part of this cluster-fuck we got going on here.”
“What about Billy?”
“We’ll find him.”
“You’re damn right we will.” I pronounced it like a judge’s sentence, final and righteous.
“You’re on leave right now, Hurricane.” The sheriff told me. “Don’t make me come back here and take your badge and weapon.”
I read that as don’t get caught.
Five minutes later Chuck Benson was gone. He went hesitantly back into a world of trouble that, I felt sure, existed because of me.
When the hard thump of the sheriff’s boots disappeared from the bones of the dock, Clare finally broke his silence. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to set fires until everyone is in the light.”
* * *
Gagarin’s warehouse was crawling with cops when I got there. Not just because it was of potential investigatory interest. Mostly the extra officers were there to handle the pressure of media. There were live trucks from Springfield, reporters and cameramen from the big news channels and networks. Pushed off to the side, I noticed Riley Yates watching the scene and scribbling in his little reporter’s notebook with a stubby, chewed pencil. When he saw me his eyes got wide and he shook his head like he was trying to tell me something. Too late I understood he was trying to tell me not to be there.
Almost like a switch had been flipped, I was recognized. Every camera turned in my direction and a dozen people shouted my name. There were a mixture of deputies and even city cops on loan from Branson holding them behind a line of yellow tape.
I rushed past without looking and headed for the warehouse door. Sheriff Benson wasn’t there. I was glad of that. Our officer-in-charge was Ambrose Houseman. He was an old-school cop, almost as close as the sheriff to retirement, but good at his job. He wasn’t happy to see me.
“What’re you doing here, Hurricane?”
“You know what I’m doing here.” I answered just as gruffly. “Did the sheriff tell you to keep me out?”
“He told me to have you dragged out in cuffs when you showed up. Not if, but when. You’re not exactly unpredictable.”
“So? Are you going to do it?”
“You saw the reporters. What kind of idiot would I be to throw blood into that water?”
I pointed to the open door at the back of the room. The same space I’d asked Gagarin about. “Then let me in there without making it hard for all of us.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Billy is my friend.”
Houseman laughed but didn’t sound amused. “You know why he’s Billy? Not William. Not Deputy Blevins. Not any of the dozen other ways people could refer to him.”
I shook my head.
“Because Billy Blevins is everyone’s friend. You’re not nearly as special as you think you are, Hurricane. If I, or even the sheriff was gone, people might be sad, but they’d go on. If you were to suddenly disappear, a lot of folks might just give a breath of relief. But Billy— hell, losing him would be goddamned tragic. So don’t be thinking your personal shit is gonna carry any weight here.”
That was a revelation to me. A shameful one. I’d seen Billy only as he related to me. Almost at the moment I began to see him as more than some backstory to my own life, he becomes a casualty. But that wasn’t the time for another of my staring into the brown wind moments. It wasn’t time to make anything about me.
I did it anyway.
“Look, Houseman.” I touched the scar at the edge of my eye then jerked my hand away. I’d been about to tell him how nasty it was going to get if I didn’t get into that room. And how only I could find Billy. But that was ego and bullshit. Anger was not the way to make anyone see it my way.
“Houseman,” I said again. “You’re right. Right about Billy and you’re right about me. But you don’t know it all. I’m not here because of some righteous anger and revenge thing.”
He looked justifiably skeptical.
“Not entirely.” I looked at the floor. The truth is a hard thing. When I brought my face up to look right at Houseman, I decided—truth at all costs. “I’m here because Billy kissed me.”
Houseman looked like I had just opened my shirt and asked if he liked girls. Then he looked like he was going to curse.
“That may be hard to believe. It was hard for me to believe too. But I want him to do it again. I want a chance. And you’re right, it’s still about me. Just not the way you thought.”
“That’s the thing about you, Hurricane. I never know if you’re a master manipulative bitch, or a normal, everyday one.”
“If you figure it out let me know. I really need to see what’s back there.”
“No you don’t,” he said. “And for the record, it’s not about the investigation. It’s about you.”
I didn’t understand until I walked into the room. Houseman had stopped at the door and called the techs and deputies out. When it was clear he’d gestured for me to go ahead and said, “You know the drill. Don’t touch. And don’t say I wasn’t trying to do you a favor.”
I’d already visualized the room as a kind of dormitory. Beds and chains for the girls taken from Peru. Without really thinking it through, I had already chalked up a much-needed win fantasizing happy families brought back together. Perhaps I’d even allowed myself to think Billy, or at least the information to find him, would be inside.
It was a shock. And nothing even remotely expected.
The room smelled of death, blood, and old fish. It was set up with four tables. All of them had hoses leading to a drain in the floor. Drain was more of a hope than a fact. The holes of the iron grate were rusted and clogged with the offal of innumerable slaughters. Everywhere flies were buzzing and maggots were wriggling on the stained concrete under each table.
In the back of the room was a bank of glass-fronted refrigerators like you would see in any grocery store. The difference was the contents. These were stacked with dead animals. On one shelf I saw the heads of two bald eagles hanging from brown paper wrappings. On another was an alligator snapping turtle the size of a manhole cover. There were the severed heads of deer, bighorn sheep, and an elk along with un-butchered wolves. Among it all were fish and canisters of what I instantly assumed was caviar.
As gruesome as the refrigerator inventory was, it was behind glass and separated from us. The wall to the right was populated with the finished products. Stuffed birds, eagles, falcons, even a whooping crane. All endangered species. I peeked into bins standing under the birds. In one was a collection of bear paws in another was a pile of individual claws. Ther
e were also drawers that I imagined were full of other body parts. I didn’t open them but one was labeled DEER PENIS.
“Poaching for traditional Chinese medicine?” I asked Houseman.
He didn’t answer.
“And the rest of it—” I peered into a misted refrigerator door. “It’s like Hannibal Lecter’s taxidermy shop,” I said, brushing flies away from my face. “This is what he was hiding?”
“Hurricane,” Houseman said too gently. “This isn’t what you’re here to see. Turn around.”
I turned.
At the front of the room, in the far corner I hadn’t even glanced at, the walls were red with broad spatters of blood. Someone had been beaten there and badly. The spray was splashed in places from impact and rooster tailed in others, slung from fast-moving fists. Centered in the corner was a metal chair, hanging with bloody shreds of duct tape. Draped over the back, wet and pasted to the metal, was the red satin shirt with the cow skulls.
I don’t know how long I’d stood there staring at the shirt and the blood. And I have no idea how much longer I would have remained there, transfixed by the image and the feeling that I had brought another person into my own particular darkness. Houseman broke the spell when he appeared beside me. He didn’t touch me but he stood close—support if I needed it. He was a gentleman even if I refused to be a lady.
“In my experience,” he started carefully, “something like this happens for one of three reasons. Somebody wants something that the victim won’t give up easy. To send a message. Or for sport.”
He waited a long, quiet moment waiting for me to say something. I wanted to. Everything felt frozen. If I took the breath to speak, my chest would have cracked.
“Now . . . I wouldn’t put it past some people to take things out on a cop, just because. But I don’t get that here. I hate to ask it, and forgive me, Hurricane—are you getting a message from this?”
Chapter 14
It was a message all right. And it was to me. Problem was, I couldn’t read it. I didn’t know what Gagarin wanted or even if it was from him exactly. There were too many spoons in the stew. I did know where to go to stir the pot though.
The circus outside the tents of the Starry Night Traveling Salvation Show made the melee outside the warehouse look like a warm-up act. There were satellite trucks crowding every bit of grass and cars lining the roadway in. The sheriff was here and he didn’t look very happy to see me pulling up with my emergency strobes flashing.
A Particular Darkness Page 20