The More They Disappear

by Jesse Donaldson

  * * *

  Harlan drove the beat-down county roads inland past trailers and tobacco fields, past crumbling stone fences and Amish homesteads. The Amish had started moving down from Ohio a few years back to buy up eyesore farms. Lew had called them “backwoods motherfuckers,” but Harlan liked to watch the Amish work, liked that they used the old-time methods and cared enough to paint their weather-beaten homes. The wipers made loud, futile whipping noises against the rain, and Harlan could barely see the road ahead but he didn’t need to. He knew the county like a map etched into the backs of his hands.

  In the hills south of Marathon, the cruiser planed across the slickwater ponds that formed in the dales. Harlan wished he could drive his pickup on the job. The tight steering and touchy brakes of the county’s Impalas put a man on edge. His truck wasn’t sleek but steadfast. Growing up, Harlan’s daddy had preached the values of the Ford Motor Company, claimed he’d rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy, and though Harlan didn’t care much for his daddy’s opinions, that one he’d adopted as his own.

  He crossed the county line and parked on the muddy-rut road of a tobacco farm cut clean of its burley. He probably should have been out with the other deputies breaking down ex-cons or looking over Lew’s case files, doing something more hands-on, but he needed time to think. Lew always hated that about Harlan; what Harlan called prudence, Lew called dawdling. Lew, whose cruiser was a mess. Beneath the driver-side window tobacco stains from misdirected spits splotched the vinyl. Harlan cleaned them with rainwater and the bandanna from his pocket. Under the driver’s seat he found a plastic bag from Walmart and a half-empty bottle of bourbon, which he poured onto the soggy ground. He used the bag for trash, picking up crumb-filled packages of chips, Styrofoam cups stained with coffee, tins of Skoal. Among the maps in the doorside compartment, he picked out loose change from the sticky remains of soda. The cruiser’s filth spoke to Lew’s various faults. He drank too much, dipped too much, ate too much. Even though he was good at his job, good at telling his deputies where they needed to be and when, the rest of Lew’s life was a mess. He rarely took days off and he spent those drinking in the office, looking for someone willing to shoot the shit.

  In the glove box Harlan found a cell phone among a mess of candy wrappers and used napkins. He didn’t recall ever seeing Lew with a cell phone, had never used one himself. The first time Harlan ever saw someone on a cell, he mistook the man for a lunatic, though more and more he’d seen people walking down the street and talking into their hands. Harlan couldn’t understand the desire. There wasn’t one person he’d like to talk to so bad it couldn’t wait.

  He dialed the number for the sheriff’s department but nothing happened. Then he examined the keypad and pressed the green button—green for go—and the phone started to ring. When Holly answered, her voice surprised him, the way it rose out of a thin, staticky air, and Harlan, as if caught in a prank, pressed all manner of buttons to hang up. In between the pings, he could hear Holly cursing, and at some point, he stopped trying to end the call and said hello.

  “Harlan,” Holly said. “Is that you? What the hell?”

  Harlan could barely hear her. “I found this cellular phone in Lew’s cruiser,” he shouted. “Do you know if it’s his?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But you don’t need to yell about it. Maybe he confiscated it off someone.”

  Harlan lowered his voice. “You think you could get me the phone records?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Okay.” Harlan looked at the phone. “I don’t know how you hang this thing up, so why don’t you do that on your end.”

  “Gladly,” Holly said and the line went dead.

  * * *

  Lewis took his mother’s feather-boned fingers into his own and returned them to her lap. “Let’s not listen to the radio,” he said. Like most people who knew Mabel Mattock, Lewis thought her a touch odd. He’d been close with his mother as a child but over time adopted his father’s attitude toward her—mild embarrassment coupled with condescension. His father’s loud talk, his sheer size, had lured Lewis away. It was a split he recognized in his own family, the way he favored Ginny and Sophie favored Stella. As soon as the girls had started to form personalities, it seemed like sides were taken for a lifelong tug-of-war. When his mother reached for the stereo a second time, Lewis wondered if it was an early sign of dementia. She was a decade older than his father and frailer; Lewis never once thought his dad would be the first to go.

  Mabel settled on a song with screeching guitars and a loud singer, something like Van Halen or AC/DC, and turned the volume up until the floorboards rumbled. Then she opened the window and took big breaths of damp air.

  “Mom,” Lewis said, as he turned the volume down. “It’s cold outside.”

  She turned to him and said, “How are you really doing, Lewis?” Her questions always sounded like accusations.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “I don’t know how I’m doing,” she replied, not that he’d asked. “I’m sad and shocked. That’s what I’m supposed to be. But I’m also … at peace.”

  Lewis pulled in front of the Baker Family Funeral Home and parked. “You’re probably just confused,” he said. He walked around the Explorer to help her down, but his mother didn’t move.

  “I don’t feel like doing this,” she said.

  Ezra Baker watched them from the front step, smoking a cigarette. Lewis raised a hand hello. “You don’t have to do anything. I can handle it.”

  “Just make sure he gets a fancy casket,” she said. “Your father liked fancy things.”

  “You’re okay here?”

  “Leave the keys. I’ll listen to the stereo.”

  Lewis didn’t particularly feel like planning a funeral either, but these sorts of tasks were his responsibility now. He took the sheriff’s uniform from the backseat. Olive piping ran down beige pants and there was a matching olive tie. The starched shirt stood stiff on a hanger to which Lewis had tied a plastic bag of insignias and a badge. It was a uniform he respected but had never worn. His father wasn’t keen on the idea of Lewis becoming a deputy. “It’s not a line of work that suits you,” he’d told Lewis after he graduated with a two-year degree. That was always the way with his father. Lew Mattock never thought anyone as capable as himself, especially not his son. No matter what Lewis achieved—a college degree, his own business, a wife and kids—it never seemed to make his father proud.

  When he reached the top step of the funeral home, Ezra Baker tendered a limp, sweaty hand and muted condolences. Inside the vases of fresh flowers failed to mask the smell of bleach and the plush carpet swallowed Lewis’s steps. Through an open arch, he could see a coffin. “We have a service later,” Ezra explained before closing the room off with heavy drapes. “I see you chose the uniform.”

  “I doubt Dad even owned Sunday clothes,” Lewis replied, handing over the hanger. “There’s a specific location for each honor, so if you need help—”

  “If we have questions, we’ll ask.” Ezra fingered the metal pins through the plastic. “But we should be fine.”

  Lewis shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Why don’t we go into my office and discuss the details.” Ezra put one of his clammy hands to Lewis’s shoulder but Lewis drew back. He didn’t care about the details. And he didn’t want to spend another minute in the presence of Ezra Baker’s practiced solemnity.

  “There’re a lot things I need to get done,” Lewis said. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Of course. This won’t take long.”

  “Just make sure he has a nice casket.”

  “I can show you a catalogue—”

  Lewis shook his head. “No need. Just pick a nice one. He already has a plot at the cemetery.”

  “We should discuss a few matters at least,” Ezra said. “A pastor? A budget?”

  Lewis took out his checkbook. “What’s suitable?”

  “I really—�
��

  “A couple thousand to start?”

  Ezra straightened his thin tie. Its black had turned purplish from too many washings. “Three would suffice.”

  Lewis scribbled the check and handed it over.

  “If you change your mind and want to help—”

  “I won’t.”

  “And you don’t have a family pastor?”

  “No,” Lewis said. “Anyone is fine. Really, Ezra, I have to go.”

  Ezra followed him out and lit another cigarette on the porch, drew the smoke deep into his lungs and out his nose. Death. It was a good business. The sort that thrives when things go wrong.

  * * *

  Harlan put the car in drive and crossed back into Finley County. When he reached the sheriff’s department, he found his office empty save a rectangular desk and bare shelves. Holly had moved everything into the sheriff’s office proper, though photos of Lew still hung on the wall and Lew’s belongings were scattered about. On the desk a mug filled with Harlan’s favorite pencils sat beside neat stacks of files. There were Post-it notes on everything. One pile of papers was marked, “Things for you to sign.” Another, “Things for you to ignore.” Four banker’s boxes in front of the desk said, “Lew’s case history” and a note on the desk itself said, “Harlan’s desk.” The filing cabinet was locked and Holly had written, “Couldn’t find the key” on a pink Post-it. When Harlan asked about it, she said, “I don’t know, but that cabinet’s not exactly Fort Knox.”

  He picked up the folder of witness statements Frank took following the murder. Frank’s apathy for the task was apparent in his chicken-scrawl writing, and Harlan could make out little more than the names, but the more he read, the more he was reminded of how close Lew kept the kingmakers of Marathon. And it wasn’t just local politicians. There were heavy hitters from the state Democratic Party—men and women who decided which candidates to back in the primary—and, since Finley was longtime Democrat country, pretty much decided who would run things. There were a few lines from Lewis Mattock about pulling his father off the grill, a few from Josephine about nothing being out of the ordinary that day. Little else. Harlan put down Frank’s notes and started in on Lew’s case history, earmarking repeat offenders and files that caught his eye.

  In the desk’s top drawer, he found Lew’s flask and had a taste. Lew had hidden his drinking when Harlan started as a deputy—it was the sort of thing you smelled on his breath and pretended didn’t exist—but over time Lew tired of the charade. For years Harlan had envied Lew’s position, his swagger and easy talk, but aside from a grate-covered window that looked onto a patch of dirt, Lew’s office wasn’t much different from Harlan’s old one. It wasn’t even Lew’s anymore. Soon someone would come along and scratch his name off the wire-hatched glass, ship his belongings home to his family.

  Harlan opened his new window and lit a smoke, started taking down Lew’s photos and plaques one by one. There was Lew and his son holding a gigantic catfish. Lew shaking hands with the governor. Lew brandishing his service weapon. A collection of MATTOCK FOR SHERIFF signs leaned against the wall and Harlan lifted one up to study it. Lew’s last name was in white over a blue background. A large red star anchored the top left corner. Lew had a flair for the patriotic; he liked to pepper his speeches with phrases by Lincoln and Jefferson—bits of wisdom borrowed from inspirational quote books. Harlan carried the sign to his desk, cigarette dangling from his lips, and started drawing his own campaign logo. At first he just copied Lew’s, but Harlan’s last name didn’t have the same weight as Mattock. “Dupee for Sheriff” wouldn’t work. Even as an adult Harlan was embarrassed by the name—its strange French pronunciation, its damning link to the men who’d come before him. His first name was better, taken from a great-uncle who’d been named after the county where he was born, but even that didn’t have the same ring as Mattock. Harlan decided on his full name, started sketching pictures around it. A flag. A line of stars. A badge. None of them seemed right and he settled for simplicity—HARLAN DUPEE FOR SHERIFF—no ornament. He liked the way the black ink looked against the background of his yellow pad.

  As he admired his work, Holly barged in and said, “No smoking in the office.”

  “I thought I was in charge,” Harlan replied.

  “Sheriffs have rules, too,” she said. “Snuff it.”

  Harlan pushed the butt through the window grate and put up his hands like an innocent. “I thought I’d go grab a bite to eat. You want anything?”

  “Clean air would be nice.”

  * * *

  His mother asked Lewis to drop her off at her house. The thought of leaving her alone made him feel guilty—it was Lewis’s responsibility to comfort her—but then again his mother didn’t seem to need much comforting, and Lewis didn’t know what to make of that. His father hadn’t exactly treated his mother well; there were reasons Mabel Mattock might not be heartbroken over her husband’s death, but it would have been easier if she just came out and said so, if she didn’t just sit there like some enlightened nun while the world teetered around her.

  He parked in the driveway of his childhood home and killed the engine. The house sat matter-of-factly at the end of a cul-de-sac, the street’s other houses a straight-line procession leading up to it. The lot was double-sized but the house itself, unremarkable—vinyl siding, small windows, a taped-over doorbell. Two dogwoods that had never learned to flower leaned at an angle in the yard and the shrubs that bordered the front were scraggly and thin.

  “Let me help you,” Lewis said, opening his door.

  “I can manage,” his mother replied. As she made her way to the house, Mabel’s stooped back straightened ever so slightly, and she waved before closing the front door. The street went silent. The house pressed flat as if Lewis was looking at a poster and not the real thing.

  He club-footed the gas and headed downtown. He needed a cup of coffee and could stand a gravy biscuit, but when he reached the diner, he saw that a table of his father’s buddies had gathered inside. If he walked in, a hush would fall over the place, and Lewis couldn’t bear the thought of more condolences. He watched Susie, the Korean woman who’d married a vet and saved the diner from being boarded up, set a bucket of beer at the table. The men would sit there all day, drinking coffee and beer and eating fatty food when it suited them. Some of them were so old they’d worked in the mills when cargo boats still tread up and down the river.

  When he was a kid, a different table of old-timers had regaled Lewis with tall tales about dinosaur fish in the river and Simon Kenton, who’d owned half the state and lost it all because he couldn’t read. It was as if the men had lived since the dawn of time. They talked about Daniel Boone like he was an old friend. But when Lewis repeated their stories, his father would chide him. “Don’t put stock in those fools,” Lew would say. “A man shouldn’t live in the past.”

  In that, at least, his father stayed true to his word. Lew Mattock always looked ahead. In high school Lewis had been a decent football player; he played both ways—linebacker and tight end—and during his junior season, he single-handedly won a game with a forced fumble and a last-second touchdown grab. He’d been given the game ball, a rousing cheer from the stands, and a headline in the newspaper, but what Lewis remembered most about that night wasn’t the adoration of strangers, it was the ride home with his father. Lew reminded him he’d missed a tackle at the end of the first half and dropped a pass on third down, that he could do better next time. “Never be content,” he’d said. They’d driven the rest of the way in silence, and when his mother cut out the newspaper article a few days later and suggested they get it framed, Lewis told her not to go to the trouble, to wait until he did something truly special.

  Knuckles rapped against the passenger-side window of the Explorer, and Lewis looked up to find the crooked face of Harlan Dupee staring back at him. Harlan removed his ball cap and brushed his stringy hair behind his ears as Lewis lowered the window.

  “I saw you
setting here,” Harlan said. “And I didn’t want to bother you but I felt I should tell you we’re all real broken up about what happened. Shocked. And we’re going to work around the clock until we figure out who did this.”

  Lewis nodded. He’d never minded Harlan but he’d never thought much of him either. Harlan had been a few years ahead in school, but he never stood out in any particular way, a loner then just as he was now. He looked older than his thirty-some years but then again he’d always somehow looked old. Harlan had only been promoted to chief deputy because his father wanted a patsy in the position. Lew had worried a capable second-in-command might campaign against him one day. Now that plan had backfired. It was Harlan who was left to find his dad’s killer. Harlan, who’d been cowering on the ground while Lewis pulled his dad from the grill.

  “You have any leads?” Lewis asked.

  Harlan looked down. “We’re coming at it from a couple angles. There’s evidence down at the crime lab and we’re checking in with people he arrested recently. That sort of thing.”

  Lewis changed the subject. “I came to get a cup of coffee,” he said. “But I don’t feel like dealing with those old liars.”

  “Wait here.” Harlan headed inside and came back a minute later with a Styrofoam cup and boatloads of cream and sugar. “I didn’t know how you take it,” he said.

  “I appreciate it,” Lewis replied.

  Harlan opened his mouth as if he had something more to say, then closed it.

  “I should be heading home,” Lewis said.

  Harlan put out his hand to shake before Lewis raised the window. “I’ll be by at some point to talk. Just standard investigation stuff.”

  “I don’t know how much help I can be. You were there, same as me.”

  “Like I said. Just standard procedure.” Harlan donned his cap. “Take care of yourself, Lewis.”

  Lewis watched Harlan head back into the diner, then headed home for a drink.

  * * *

  Jackson opened Mary Jane’s door just enough to poke his head in and say he was going to the country club for dinner. “Your mother seems to have left,” he said. “I don’t know where to, but I doubt it was the grocery store.”