by CJ Birch
“The council has been trying to get it demolished, but a couple of months ago it was named a historical landmark.”
“So what do kids do at this Maverty house?”
“The usual. Drink, do drugs…have sex.”
“How many times a month do you bust this place up?”
Elle sighed. “I don’t bust it up. I have patrols come by on weekends, make sure no one’s doing anything too stupid.”
“Makes you sound like a babysitter.”
Elle laughed. It echoed throughout the cruiser, joining the wind. Her shield dropped for a moment. “I guess that’s a really good description of what I do.”
Robin watched the dying embers of her laugh fade. She liked it. It made her more alive somehow. She’d have to remember to be funny more often.
Elle turned the cruiser into a drive obscured by trees on both sides. Only someone familiar with the road would know it was there. Branches scraped at the sides of the car and dug into the paint as if hoping for a souvenir. The car rocked from side to side, a jarring, rough effect on the passengers inside. Robin’s head almost hit the ceiling of the cab as they came to the bottom of a steep hill. When they rounded the last bend in the drive, a tall dilapidated Victorian in a small clearing was visible. Its original color had eroded over time. The porch leaned into the earth and forest around it, bucking where a large tree root had pushed through. A shiny silver BMW coupe parked in the drive made an incongruous scene next to the decay.
A young woman sat on the steps, hugging her knees to her chest. Mascara trails ran down her cheeks. Her stringy blond hair was tucked behind her ears. She appeared tiny next to the forest and house as she rocked back and forth, staring into the distance.
“Stay. You can observe from here.” Elle exited the cruiser.
Robin raised her hands in surrender. “You’re the boss.”
Elle snorted, mentally girding herself against the battles she was sure would be fought with Robin Oakes in the coming days.
Elle approached the girl as one would a spooked horse. She’d taken her jacket off in the car, throwing it over her discarded hat. Her hands were loose at her sides. “Tanya?” Her voice was calm, sure. She knelt down and placed her hands on Tanya’s knees. Tanya jerked away from her. As if noticing Elle for the first time, Tanya looked down at her. Elle kept her hands still, reassuring.
“I got a call about screaming. Were you in an argument with someone?” Elle peered around Tanya toward the front door. “Are they still here?” She turned to look at the BMW behind her. “Was the car here before you arrived?” Seeing the Beemer worried her most of all.
Tanya broke into a sob, her shoulders rolling forward as she crumpled into Elle. Tanya shook her head. “I waited.” She gulped in a lungful of air. “I don’t like to go in by myself.” Another sob as she burrowed into Elle’s shoulder, leaving black smudges on her epaulette. “But they didn’t come. So I went in to see if maybe they were already inside.” She muffled the last bit.
Elle stroked Tanya’s hair, making soothing noises, letting her cry it out. Several minutes passed. Cicadas chirped in the trees surrounding the house. That and the low mewling from Tanya were the only noises. Elle moved to sit beside Tanya on the steps, enclosing her in her arms. She rocked her back and forth, like her mother used to when she was young.
Tanya raised her head. “Why didn’t they come?”
“Who, honey?”
Tanya shook her head. “I shouldn’t have gone in.” She hugged her knees in tighter. Her breath was shaky, but she had stopped crying.
“Feel up to moving?” Elle asked.
Tanya nodded.
“Okay.” Elle helped Tanya to her feet. “Let’s get you home.” She guided Tanya to the cruiser and set her in the back seat.
Robin had turned in her seat to get a better view. Her remark about babysitting, having taken root in her mind, now sprouted branches.
“I’m going to take a quick look around,” Elle said to Robin.
“I’ll go with you.” She was undeterred by the look Elle gave her. “Come on, I’m as curious as you.”
Elle shook her head. “I want you to stay with Tanya. If it’s nothing serious, maybe I’ll let you look around when I come back out.”
Robin eyed Tanya. What she thought of this idea and of Tanya was not lost on Elle.
Elle unclipped a small Maglite from her belt. The underbrush crunched beneath her feet as she approached the front door. She turned before she entered. “I mean it. Stay.” If she’d had the guts, she would have handcuffed her to the cruiser. She didn’t trust Robin Oakes to stay put. She looked like the sort that felt rules didn’t apply to them.
She would never forget the smell of it. The odor was engrained into her senses the way blueberry pie reminded her of summer and hot chocolate of winter. The scent of the Maverty house would always remind her of him. Decades of abandonment had imparted the house with its own distinct aroma. A mixture of decay, mold, stale beer, marijuana, and a hint of nature reclaiming its territory. As Elle entered, there was something else, something new she couldn’t place.
She panned the flashlight across the foyer. The downstairs was dark even in the day. The little light that did filter in came from scattered cracks in the boarded-up windows. Upstairs was a different story. A storm had ripped part of the roof off, leaving several of the rooms full of light and open to the elements. Mounds of dirt huddled in corners, composted from fallen foliage. The battered furniture lay in a funk, preparing to return to base elements as if in purgatory.
Elle stepped over a few strewn beer cans toward the kitchen. She searched the ground for anything out of the ordinary, which was made harder by the nature of the place. She moved with purpose, scanning each surface, then continuing to the next room.
Not much had changed since high school. The same furniture, a little worse off than she’d last seen. She recognized the wingback chair he always sat in. Its position had changed and there were a few more holes and burn marks, but it still stood like a throne. It was occupied by a different quarterback. Different name, same attitude. There had been a time when Elle had spent most weekends and evenings here with Jessie and their crew, wrapped in teenage fantasies. Before the accident.
Her light passed over something in the far corner of what had once been the living room. Like the light through the slats in the window, Elle’s stomach flickered. The new smell was finally identified. She stepped over a fallen rafter to get a clearer view. The distinct shape of a man lay face up near the far wall.
The beam from Elle’s flashlight worked its way up the torso, then stopped, wavering at the head. Elle choked back a sob. Her flashlight dropped to the floor with a clank, rolling under some refuse. Her hand flew to her mouth to hold in the bile.
She’d seen his face, that face. His mouth was twisted in its final expression. Her eyes snapped shut. But like a bright light, the image was fused to the back of her lids. His soft gray eyes, unblinking. Their last image was of the wilted ceiling above.
“I heard you scre— Holy shit!” Robin stumbled, her heels, sinking into the soft floor of the Maverty house.
“Out! Get out,” Elle said, her voice faltering. She pointed at the door behind Robin. As she followed Robin outside she removed a pair of handcuffs from her belt. She placed one around Robin’s wrist and clicked the other end to the crumbling porch railing. Elle tripped down the stairs, running for the edge of the glade. She only made it to the side of the porch before she bent forward and threw up on a patch of dandelions. She straightened, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and swallowed a steady gulp of air. Tears escaped her tightly shut eyes. Some from panic, others anger. Acutely aware that she had an audience, Elle rubbed at her eyes, as if to erase her embarrassment. “Don’t touch anything,” she said. She stomped away, leaving Robin cuffed to the rail.
Chapter Four
A myriad of cleaning bottles—mostly empty—huddled together, clogging what little space was left under the sin
k. Stan fumbled with the wrench and pliers, unscrewing a slip nut connecting the trap to the adapter. His uniform shirt was draped over the back of a kitchen chair. A pair of baby blue slippers padded back and forth at Stan’s feet.
“Did you find it yet?” asked the soft, feminine voice.
“Not yet, Ma. Hand me the bowl on the counter?”
An old wrinkled hand appeared under the sink. It shook from the weight of the glass bowl and old age. Stan placed the bowl on his stomach and removed the trap. A few inches of discolored water landed in the bowl. He upended the trap into his hand, catching the modest diamond engagement ring that fell out. It sparkled as the light refracted through the prism. There were days when he wished she’d lose it some place he couldn’t get to. Maybe then she would move on.
His father had died over seventeen years ago when Stan was only seven. There wasn’t much he could remember about his father. Sometimes he would wake with the fading sounds of yelling and stomping, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer in his nostrils.
He knew from friends and family that his dad was a drunk. The kind who got meaner the more he drank. He’d seen that kind of mean firsthand. Early on he’d accompanied Elle on a call. This was before Sheriff Bailey had died. He was all excited to be part of something that made a difference. They’d shown up to a noise complaint at a residence a little outside of town. It was in one of the newer complexes. The trees in front of the brick houses hadn’t matured beyond the two trainers holding them in place.
Before going in Elle had turned to him and said, “Remember, whatever happens, whatever the husband says, stay calm. He’ll bark a lot, but that’s about it. I’ve been on a lot of these types of calls. You want to deescalate the situation. Watch what I do. Knowing procedure is one thing, but actually being on a call and seeing it in real life is another thing entirely.”
Stan nodded, not exactly sure what she meant but eager to show he could follow instructions.
When the door opened to a small woman, eyes red, cheeks blotchy, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Then the door whipped open wider and a tall, slim man in his late forties swayed into view. When he registered that there were two deputies standing on his front porch he turned to his wife. “Great, you called the cops. Real smooth, Diane. Now all the neighbors will have an after-dinner show.” He stepped forward and yelled out into the front yard, “Come on, guys! Pull out some chairs, bring some drinks!”
“I didn’t call anyone.” His wife took a step back as she spoke.
“Sir, we got a call that there was a crash followed by shouting. We came to make sure everything was okay.” Elle kept her hands loose by her side, her legs apart, sturdy, cautious.
The husband leaned forward, his eyes dropping to breast height. “I remember you. You’ve been here before.” He smiled then. “Want to come in for a drink?” His eyes hadn’t left her chest.
Elle ignored this and instead motioned behind the husband. “May I come in?” The husband bowed and swept his hand forward in a mocking formality.
Stan nodded at Elle and led Diane down the steps from the front porch to the driveway. He made sure to keep within sight of Elle.
“Is everything all right?” Stan asked.
Diane folded her arms across her chest. She too hadn’t taken her eyes off Elle and her husband. “Everything’s fine. He gets like this sometimes.” She looked down at her feet. They were bare and contrasted against the dark asphalt of the drive. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Diane pushed a few rocks toward the grass with her toes. She didn’t look up at Stan when she spoke. “We were watching the game, having a few drinks.”
Stan didn’t hear what Elle asked but the response was loud enough to pull his attention. “We were just having a little bit of fun. It’s Saturday.” He shouted this last bit into the yard.
Stan stepped around the corner.
Elle raised her hands, placating. “Sir, we’re not here to stop any fun. We’re only here out of concern. There was a crash. People were worried someone may be hurt,”
“Of course we’re okay. It was just the TV.”
“If it was the TV, I would suggest you lower the volume.”
The husband rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then gazed back at Elle, his eyes glassy. “The TV fell over. It crashed because,” he pointed at Diane, “some people are a little bit clumsy. Aren’t they?”
Stan stood there watching the entire exchange waiting for a clue as to what he was supposed to be doing. He hoped that standing there feeling stupid and lost would qualify as calm.
“I didn’t touch the TV. The bracket must have come loose,” Diane said to Stan.
The husband stepped out onto the porch and looked to Stan. “Do you believe this? She thinks a bracket came loose on its own. Don’t ever get married, kid. It’s not worth it.” He leaned forward. “They beg you to marry them and you think it’s going to be all fucking and lingerie, but trust me, kid, it’s more like bitching and granny panties.” He laughed and hiccupped.
“I’d ask, sir, that you keep a civil tongue when speaking to us.” Elle edged forward enough to block Stan off, so the husband would know he should be dealing with her. Stan’s blood was pounding through his body like a high-speed train. He pulled Diane farther down the driveway from the scene. Elle had been right. This wasn’t anything like when he’d been at the academy.
The husband looked confused for a second, wondering what he’d said that was so offensive. Then his face brightened. “Oh, you mean the word ‘fucking’?” He laughed, a raucous sound that echoed into the night. “Is ‘bitch’ okay to use? I bet you hear that word a lot.” Stan’s whole mouth had gone dry. He found it was hard to swallow. Elle stood still as stone, her hands still loose, the pink in her cheeks the only sign that she’d registered what he said.
She was about to say something when the husband cut her off, leaning in and whispering, “I bet you like hearing that word. Am I right? You like a man who can take control.” Stan stepped away from Diane and began walking toward the front porch, but Elle put a hand up to stop him.
“Sir, I’m going to repeat to you what I said last time. There are only two ways this can go. You can choose to be polite, calm down, and you’ll be able to end your Saturday night at home. Or you can be combative and disrespectful and end your Saturday night in the basement cell at the sheriff’s office. Your choice.”
“My choice? No, sweetheart. I never had a choice.” He stepped closer to Elle, his eyelids starting to droop. The smile on his face was meant to be enticing, but instead he appeared menacing.
Elle took a step back, now out on the porch, just as Stan moved forward. He didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. “Elle?”
“Oh, I get it now. You’re getting a little pump action in the back of the cruiser, huh, kid? She pulls over and tells you how she likes it down there, huh? That it? A little fish snack during your shift?”
Before he’d even realized he’d done it, Stan’s baton was out of his belt. He had it halfway toward the husband’s foul mouth when Elle’s hand blocked it. He could hear the sickening crack as the hard plastic hit her ulna. With her other hand, she grabbed his baton and stepped in front of him, a wall between him and the husband.
“Which way is this going to go?” she asked the husband. Her stare was hard, her jaw clenched against the pain in her arm.
After a bit more chest puffing, the husband backed down. Stan followed Elle back to the cruiser. He hadn’t known her very long, but he could tell she was furious with him. As they drove away, both silent, Stan wondered how many times deputies had come to his parents’ house and relived that scene.
A couple blocks from the house, Elle pulled over and turned to Stan. “Carrick, I’m going to give you some good advice right now, so I want you to listen. You are going to come across hundreds of encounters like that. Their number one goal is to goad you into getting angry. They want a reaction.
Guys like that are plain mean. They need to tear you down so they don’t feel so small anymore. It’s why he treats his wife like crap. Because if she’s crap, he must be a saint for putting up with her. And unless she presses charges, we can’t do anything about verbal abuse except make it worse for her. It’s her word against his. If he were the hitting kind that would be different, but there are no marks. I’ve stopped her at the market a couple times and asked, but she won’t leave him. So when you come up against guys like that, you need to pretend you’re watching a TV show. You need to pretend it’s not happening to you. Whatever it takes to make it impersonal. If they get a reaction out of you and you do something stupid like tonight, they can press charges against you. Then you’re fired and facing a civil suit.”
Stan looked out at the night, at all the houses along the street with lights glowing behind curtains. “How do you do it? Make it not personal?” For the first time, Stan realized how much people hid from each other. He’d wanted to hit that guy. He’d wanted to see what happened when a baton connected with a skull. Not because what the guy said was true but because he couldn’t understand how someone could be that vile.
Elle shrugged. “I pretend I know the next part of the story. That he’s going to get what’s coming to him. Everyone’s different. You have to figure out what works for you.”
“Are there records? I mean of domestic abuse calls?”
Elle nodded. “Yep, there’s always dispatch records. But if we pull in either of the parties, there’s a record at the station.”
“How far back do they go?”
Elle sighed. “I’m not exactly sure why you’re asking, Carrick, but I can guess and I think you should just let it go.”
He nodded, sucking in air. He was trying so hard not to cry in front of her, worried she would think him weak, worried she might tell Neil or Bailey.
What hurt the most whenever he thought about that night was that Diane stayed with him. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was what his mom’s life had been like. It made him glad his dad had died. He just wished she’d move on.