Prodigal Blues

by Gary A Braunbeck

  I released the breath I'd forgotten I was holding.

  Okay.

  Uncle Herb the-worrier-who-remembers-everything would know where they'd gone—and if it wasn't right on the tip of his tongue, odds are he was the type of guy who saved paperwork. Worriers usually are. I myself have still have some receipts for vinyl record albums I bought in the late 70s. Don't ask me why.

  Beth brought my onion rings and a Pepsi refill. "You look like you're feeling a bit better."

  "I am, I think. Let me ask you something I'll bet you can answer: does Uncle Herb tend to keep fairly accurate paperwork?"

  She burst out laughing, covered her mouth, then took a deep breath. "Sorry. It's just… asking if Uncle Herb keeps accurate paperwork's a little like asking the Andretti family if they know where to find a car's gas tank."

  "So that would be a yes?"

  "That would be a yes. Uncle Herb's got enough files stashed around this place to build the world's biggest bonfire. Larry and me spent I-don't-know how long getting all that stuff entered into the computer, but Uncle Herb still insists on keeping the papers themselves." She leaned closer. "Between us—and please don't let on I told you this—I think computer's scare him a little. I know he doesn't trust them. Says they make everything a little too easy for a person. He don't trust anything that goes too easy. He prefers the forms and the legwork."

  "Sounds like he's a cautious man."

  "He's a worrier, like I said. And a worrier's just a cautious man with way too many backup plans, if you ask me."

  "I'll remember that—and I won't tell Uncle Herb that you let on about his cyberphobia."

  "His what?"

  "Fear of computers or anything related to them. Cyberphobia."

  "That's what it's called?"

  "Yep."

  "Huh. I never knew that." Then she smiled, slowly, with great mischief. "Now I got something to call him that'll confuse him."

  "Or make him worry that he needs to see a doctor fast."

  We looked at each other and laughed, right up until a loud, metallic crash from somewhere back in the kitchen made Beth close her eyes for a moment, wincing, then open just her right eye and shudder. "That would be my less-than-coordinated husband bringing in supplies—or what's left of them by now. Be right back." She disappeared through the swinging doors, still laughing. I wondered if anything ever made her genuinely angry.

  Judging from the way her laughter grew louder, then was joined by her husband's, even money said no.

  I tore into the onion rings—which were delicious, and surprisingly light—and was just finishing off the Pepsi refill when a stocky, white-haired man of perhaps sixty-five with rugged features came through the doors wiping off his hands on a towel. He reminded me of Burt Lancaster in Atlantic City, except that this man had no moustache.

  "I swear on Lawrence Welk's bubbly grave that that nephew of mine would drop a consonant if you super-glued it to his hand. Don't get me wrong, I love 'im, but physical prowess is not that boy's strong point." He slammed open a cooler door and pulled out a bottle of beer. "We got a set of delivery doors, right, that're wide enough you could drive a small car straight through them and not bump either of the side mirrors—they give a body a wide berth, is what I'm saying—yet Jim Thorpe back there manages to walk sideways into one of them and drop the handle of the supply cart right onto a box of brand new pots and pans, then trip over his own two feet and fall ass-first into the grease barrel." He popped the cap of bottle. "That requires some serious skill." He took a couple of swallows from the beer, wiped his forearm across his mouth, then slapped the bottle onto the bar and said, "And you are?"

  "Uncle Herb, I take it?"

  "No, Uncle Herb would be me, and since today is one of my good days and I remember who I am, I guess that means we're talking about you, so once again I ask: and you are?"

  I pulled out the badge and said, "Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."

  Uncle Herb looked at the badge, then at my face. "Well, I'll be damned. A genuine U.S. Marshal, right here in my own place of business. Nice badge."

  "Thanks," I said, putting the wallet back in my pocket.

  "You know," said Uncle Herb, "it's a real shame they don't let you guys keep them badges after you retire."

  "I always thought so."

  He took another sip of his beer. "What's a U.S. Marshal do when he retires, anyway? I mean, how does a guy like that get away from it all once he's got time?"

  "I'm quite a few years away from retirement, so I haven't given it much thought."

  "That's a shame," he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "Because I got a feeling your career's about to come to an abrupt end." He flipped open the wallet to show me a gold badge exactly like the one I'd shown him. "When I said that about not being able to keep your badge after retirement, I lied."

  "I get that now." I rubbed my eyes. "Oh, shit…."

  Uncle Herb replaced his wallet, then leaned on the bar toward me. "You probably can't see them too well from here, Mr. Tommy Lee Jones—by the way, I thought you deserved your Oscar for that movie, but damn if you don't look a thing in real life like you did up on that screen—anyway, you can't see 'em from here, but a couple of those pool players back there are State Police. Andy and Barney—yes, those are their real names and no, I wouldn't make Mayberry or Floyd the barber jokes around them if I was you. They come in here every night right after their shift finishes and play a couple of games. Says it helps them relax, and trust me, Andy and Barney are a couple of real tense guys. Now, unless you can give me one goddamned good reason why I shouldn't call them over here and have your ass arrested right here and now, then your day's about to have a crimp put into it. You got any idea what the penalty is for impersonating a Federal officer?—don't bother answering that, it wasn't a real question." He finished off his beer, opened another one. "I usually take about five minutes to finish off my second beer, son. You got until then to convince me that you shouldn't spend the next forty years of your life in prison being ass-candy for a big cranky guy named Bubba." He lifted the bottle to his lips. "Clock's running."

  I said the first thing that came into my mind. "I found John and Ellen Matthews' son."

  Uncle Herb paused with the bottle almost to his mouth. "Christopher?" He lowered the bottle. "You telling me that you found Christopher Matthews?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He nodded, then sipped his beer. "You want a refill on that Pepsi or maybe something stronger? I'm buying."

  "That's awfully nice of you, considering."

  "Considering that you're still in spitting range of being Bubba's pillow-biter? Not all that nice." He handed me a beer. "The cap twists off but I like to pop 'em. Seems more macho, the way Hemingway'd do it, if you ask me. Ever read Hemingway? Man could make a semicolon seem like it had an overload of testosterone." He found a stool behind the bar and pulled it up to sit directly across from me. "What's your real name?"

  "Mark."

  "Got a last name or are you one of them one-name wonders like Madonna and Prince?"

  "I've got a last name. I'd rather not tell you what it is."

  He stared at me for several seconds, then said: "All right, I'll let you keep it to yourself for the moment, but understand: I've got a Bulldog .44 within easy reach, you try to dart on me, Mark No-Last-Name-For-The-Moment and I will not hesitate to shoot you in the back of the leg."

  "I believe you."

  "Fine. I'm guessing from that addition to your nose and all them other decorations on your face—not to mention the blood on your shirt that you think that jacket's covering up—that you haven't had the best couple of days."

  "No, sir, I haven't." And I proceeded to tell him about what had happened since yesterday. I was about a third of the way through it when he said, "Indiana."

  "What?"

  He slapped the bar with his open hand. "Son-of-a-bitch! I must be getting old—any other time I'd've made the connection toot-sweet in a s
econd flat. You're the guy who brought them two kids into the Dupont emergency room, aren't you? The diabetic girl and that little colored boy with his face all scarred up."

  My stomach and throat tried changing places. "You've heard something about Arnold and Rebecca?"

  "Is that what their names are? News reports didn't say."

  I reached out and grabbed his forearm. "Is the girl all right? Did the reports say—?"

  "Easy there, son." He pulled my hand from his arm. "The girl's fine. She's still listed in guarded condition, but the news says she's gonna be just fine."

  "What about their families? Did the reports say whether or not—?"

  "Last I heard, the families had been located and were on their way to get 'em—but keep in mind, this was the late news last night; for all I know, their families might've already gotten them and be on their ways back home. The kids ain't saying who it was that brought them to the hospital, though a security guard there claims it was a U.S. Marshal. Kids won't give him up. But you can be they've been talking all about the guy who abducted them… Grendel?"

  I nodded. "Grendel."

  "So far they ain't made so much as a peep about this 'mystery man' who rescued them." He ran a hand through his hair. "How bad is the girl's face?"

  "Almost half of it's gone, and not all in one place, either." I rubbed my eyes. "Plus one of her breasts has been cut off." I looked at him. "Grendel made her cut it off, then cook it up and eat it. If you want to call any of your friends who're still with the Marshal's office or on the force or whatever and check on that, I promise you I'll sit right here and wait."

  His lower lip trembled. "He made her… cut it off and… and…?"

  "Yeah."

  He shook his head. "The news reports ain't saying the extent of the disfigurement on either of them, except some about the colored boy—Arnold? Says his face was deliberately scarred in patterns."

  "Ta Moko," I said. "It's a traditional method of facial scarring among ancient Maori warriors. To hide a boy's age and show his place amongst the hierarchy of the tribe."

  Uncle Herb wrote that down in pencil on the back of a bar ticket, then looked at me, considered something, and set out two more beers. "You want something more to eat than them rings? Beth could fix us up a couple of mean burgers."

  "You still buying?"

  "Why not? Can I see that driver's license of yours again?"

  "Then you'll know my last name."

  "I'm gonna trust you not to bolt when I step away from this bar, then you gotta trust me." He held out his hand. "Your license."

  I handed over the wallet; he did not open it; instead, he slid back the lid of the beer cooler, tossed it inside, then closed the lid. "I'll go put in our order, make a call or two."

  "I'll wait right here."

  "I believe you. How many burgers you want?"

  "Two. One for here, one for the road."

  "Sounds like you're assuming that Big Bad Bubba isn't still lurking in your future."

  I did not blink. "I like to assume the bright side whenever possible."

  He said nothing to that, only smiled, shook his head, and disappeared through the swinging doors.

  I sat there staring at the rings of condensation made by the beer bottles on the marble of the bar. I have no idea what I thought about, or for how long I sat there doing so; all I remember is that I was scared half out of mind, the rings kept spreading out toward each other, and that I really truly seriously didn't want to know anyone named Bubba or Brutus or even Bruce. Especially not Bubba. Bubba was a name you saw on Wanted posters in post office lobbies. And they were never smiling. Bubba the Unsmiling One. Meet Mark, your new cellmate. No thank you.

  "Who'd you get the badge from?"

  His voice startled me. I shuddered from my thoughts, cleared my throat, had to pause for a moment to remember what he'd just asked me, then said: "From them. They stole it from Grendel, who I guess got it from an actual U.S Marshal."

  Uncle Herb's face turned into a slab of granite. "That's the only way he could've gotten it. I've seen the phonies—some of them damned good and expensive phonies—and what you flashed there was the real thing."

  I took it out of the wallet and handed it to him. "Is there any way that badge can be traced back to the man who originally had it?"

  "You damned well better believe it. And if it turns out the guy's dead, they have ways of finding out the who and how of stuff like this. If the guy isn't dead, he'll soon enough wish he were." He looked at the badge, then blinked. "Silly me—I went and smudged it." He took the towel he'd used on his hands and began wiping off the badge, then winked at me as he slipped it into his shirt pocket. "But the two kids are gonna be fine. Seems to me you might be something of a hero, Mark."

  "So you got hold of someone…?"

  "Yeah. A friend of mine with the Indy State Police. He's damned curious how it is I know about Rebecca's breast when that information hasn't been released. He was also glad to know the term Ta Moko. Seems several of the guys have been trying to remember what that type of scarring is called."

  "But the kids are all right?"

  "They're both in real good shape, Mark. And their families are there with them."

  I exhaled, dropped my chin onto my chest, and started crying. "Oh, God… oh, you have… you have no idea how worried I was about them, that… that…"

  He patted my shoulder. "I understand. If it's any consolation, you did the exact right thing, considering the circumstances." He handed me some napkins so I could blow my nose (gingerly, and it still hurt like hell) and wipe my eyes, then tossed my still-unopened wallet back onto the bar. "All right, then. What happened after all of you left the motel room?"

  I filled him in on most of it—excepting the murder and what we had stashed in the trailer. While I spoke, Uncle Herb's eyes narrowed into slits, grew hard, then sad. As I was finishing, he polished off the rest of his beer, did not call Andy and Barney over, then pulled a pack of smokes out from behind their hiding place near the cash register. "Beth and Larry been lecturing me for years to quit these things. I know they're bad for you, but dammit, they taste good sometimes, you know? Especially right after hearing a story like yours." He lit up, offered me one, and I took it.

  We smoked in silence for a moment.

  "Are you going to have me arrested?"

  "I'd've done that by now if I was going to."

  "What are you going to do with me?"

  "I'm going to give you your burgers and let you leave here. I don't know your last name, so all I can give the State Police boys from Indiana is your description—by the way, lose the nose-splint as soon as you can."

  "Your friend's that curious how you came to know about Rebecca?"

  "He's downright perplexed. I hung up soon as I could, but it's not gonna take him too long to realize what's happened and get someone over here." A bell sounded from back in the kitchen. "Food's up. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mark No-Last-Name-To-Speak-Of?"

  "Yes—did you buy this place from John and Ellen Matthews?"

  "I bought it from the Matthews family, yes."

  "Then can you please, please tell me where I can find them?"

  He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, brushed something off his sleeve, then looked at me and said, "I certainly can."

  I walked toward the bus with a slip of paper in my hand. Written on it was an address which, according to Uncle Herb, wasn't all that far from where we were now. The rain was coming down a lot heavier, and rumbles of serious thunder were getting louder and closer. I pulled up the hood on my jacket and ran the rest of the way to the bus.

  Once inside, I pulled down the hood and handed Christopher a brown paper bag. "I got us some hamburgers. I figured maybe we ought to eat something."

  "Thanks," he said, taking the bag from me.

  I looked at him for a moment, then at the slip of paper in my hand. "Christopher—"

  "No fries?"

  "What?"

  He closed th
e bag and looked at me. "How can you order hamburgers and not get any fries?"

  "I'm… I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me."

  He sniffed the air around me. "Do I smell onion rings? Is onion rings what I'm smelling?"

  "I had some, yeah, but—fuck that, you need to—"

  "You need to calm down, Mark."

  "I'm… what're you talking about? I'm fine. Listen to me—"

  "I said calm down!"

  "Jesus Christ, will you shut up for a second and listen—?"

  He reached across the seat and zapped me in the neck with the Taser and that was it for me for a while…

  …until I opened my eyes to almost total darkness. My body was still thrumming from the Taser and movement came in slow degrees.

  I took in the entirety of the mess, then broke it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

  Disorder first: I was alone in the bus, which was still running.

  Disorder second: wherever we were, it was fairly enclosed, because I could smell the exhaust fumes growing stronger by the minute.

  Disorder third: if the scene illuminated by the headlights was for real and not some leftover images from a dream I didn't remember having, then we were parked deep inside a cave—

  —or the entrance to a mine.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I did not so much turn toward my door as I did flop in its general direction. Getting a solid grip on the handle was one of the supreme accomplishments of my life, because my arms and hands were still half-numbed, but I got a grip; I then lost it, got it back, and had the door opened before it occurred to me that my legs might not be up for walking or standing. By the time this did occur to me, I was already face-down on the soggy ground. I pushed myself up, reached into the bus, thought I had a grip on the lower part of the seat, and tried to pull myself up only to slip and fall once again.

  I'd grabbed the gun. I looked at it, cursed, then slipped into the back of my pants and grabbed the running board, managing to balance myself enough to stand with the aid of the door, which I clung to like a life preserver.