by Todd Morgan
I turned the computer so he could see the screen. It was my favorite montage of his and his secretary going in and out of the Chickasaw Falls Inn.
He opened his mouth to speak and I held out my hand to stop him. “Before you claim these pictures are doctored, remember you are talking to the one who took them. So skip that part about it not being you.”
Jenks crunched on a piece of leftover ice. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do you want to make this go away?”
“Too late for that.”
“I’ll pay whatever you want,” he pleaded. “Within reason.”
I shook my head. “Cynthia’s lawyer already has copies of these pictures. And our little chat.”
“Cynthia has a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Aw hell.” He rubbed his face with both hands. Pete dropped off the drinks, and for once, left without speaking. “What does she want?”
“What does she want? She wants a divorce, Melvin.”
“A divorce? I can’t get a divorce!”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Jenks knocked back half of his drink. I sipped my coke. Something was missing. Oh yeah, the rum.
“What’s this all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are we here, Camp? What’s the point?”
“Well, part of it is to show that you came to meet a young lady you found on a dating website.”
“And the other part?”
I leaned forward, speaking so only he could hear me. Building rapport. “Cynthia has no desire to destroy you publicly. Which is what would happen if you went to trial. Community like this, they’re not much for scandal. I doubt the bank would go for it much, either.”
“I love my wife.”
I didn’t answer. The pictures spoke for themselves.
“I’m going to lose my wife, my family, my career. For nothing.”
“Wife definitely. Family and career are up to you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sure Cynthia would be willing to give you liberal visitation with the kids. You can be a part of their lives, watch junior grow into a man. The affair doesn’t have to come out.”
“Black mail, then.”
“Maybe,” I answered honestly. “It’s all legal.”
“What do I do?”
I folded my hands. “Cynthia’s lawyer will call you tomorrow. If I were you, I would listen to what he has to say.”
Still in disbelief, Jenks said, “I’m getting a divorce.”
***
Unfortunately, my big date didn’t run as long as I had hoped. Felicia and Orrin were coming out of my house as I was pulling in. I was preparing to take the coward’s way out and enter through the garage as they went down the front walk. Felicia called out to me. “Beason.”
Shit.
I stepped into the drizzle. Orrin gave me a nod of the head and climbed into the passenger seat of the sedan. Felicia was walking towards me. “Have a nice visit, mom?”
Her face contorted. “Thank you for allowing me to see my granddaughter.” There was definitely something in her voice and it was definitely not gratitude.
“You’re welcome.”
“I hope you won’t make us wait this long next time.”
I felt my back stiffen. “All you have to do,” I said, “is call.”
“Uh huh.” She shook out a cigarette and her lighter flared in the darkness. I knew she was about to turn sixty, but looked closer to seventy, deep lines in her face, her hair an unbelievable chestnut pile high on top.
“I hope you didn’t smoke around my daughter.”
“No, I didn’t.” Venom now clear in her voice. “Although it never caused Stella any problems.”
“If you say so.”
She took a deep drag, squinting her eyes from the smoke. “Have you heard from her?” The hard voice had gone soft, tinged with hope.
“Who?”
“Stella. My daughter? You remember her, right?” she said. “Your wife?”
I shook my head. “Not in four years.”
“I know—a mother knows—that something awful has happened to her. There is no way she would have gone all this time without calling me. At least a letter or a postcard.”
I shrugged.
“Aren’t you the least bit worried? You were married for five years. I know you were gone for most of that time, but you had to have some feelings for her.”
Zing!
“Good night, Felicia.”
***
“How did that go?”
Erin gave me a look.
“Daddy!” Sarah came running at the sound of my voice, her curls bouncing, face alive. Blondie remained on the couch, giving me her soulful eyes, wondering why I had abandoned her.
I scooped up my daughter, planting a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. “Hey, baby.”
“MeeMaw and PeePaw came over.”
“Yeah? Have a good visit?”
She pushed back from me and held my face in her tiny hands. “You’re scratchy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Daddy needs a shave.” I hadn’t been able to stand in front of the mirror since Sunday.
Seriously, Sarah said, “Why don’t you let me see MeeMaw?”
That cold feeling washed over me. “Who said I didn’t?”
“MeeMaw.”
“Your MeeMaw is confused. She knows all she has to do is call.”
Sarah frowned. “Not what she says.”
“She made a mistake, baby.”
“When can I go for a sleepover?”
“We’ll see.” I set her back down on the hardwood floor. “Time for a bath.”
“Bubbles?”
“Sure, honey.” I kicked her gently in the butt. “Let’s go.”
“Yea!” She tore through the den and up the stairs. Blondie jumped down and chased after her. Anything good for the girl was usually good for the dog, though there was no way I letting her take a bubble bath.
“Was it that bad?”
Erin rolled her eyes.
“I know.”
“Nice of you to do it when you’re not going to be here.”
“I do what I can.”
Erin shook her head. “How you ended up in that family is beyond me.”
“I used to drink a lot.”
“Used to?”
Chapter Nine
I had fought it as long as I could. I stood naked with a damp towel wrapped around my waist, the steam clinging to the mirror. I shook the can, sprayed the cream on my hand and rubbed it on my face. I dragged the razor across my cheek, along my jaw and under my neck, the thick beard peeling away under the sharp blade. I ran the water hot and cleaned off the remnants of foam, poured out a liberal helping of aftershave and splashed it on my face. In the field, aftershave had been a luxury I couldn’t afford. Then again, so had hot water.
The face stared back at me. The face of a man who had coveted his neighbor’s wife, who had committed adultery. Light brown hair cut short, blue eyes, a nose on the crooked side. Nothing to write home about, yet it had never sent children running and screaming. Except for brown children in brown villages of mud huts, surrounded by rock and sand on the other side of the world. I told myself it was because of the rifle I carried, the helmet I wore, the patches on my uniform. But I knew it was more than that. More than the fact that I was hunting their fathers and brothers, their uncles and their cousins, that I had shot and stabbed and called in explosions on their homes. Those children had run out of fear of me, of the darkness within that I had been forced to call out in order to survive. The darkness I now attempted to push back down. Yet, once that genie was out of the bottle, he didn’t want to go back in. The children had been right to run.
Blondie began going nuts downstairs, not her I see a squirrel bark, but the Somebody is here warning. I pulled back the curtains. Steven was walking across my lawn. I hurried down, grabbing Blondie by
the collar and hustling her out the back. Erin had left a little earlier, Sarah was on the couch watching Dora the Explorer.
“What is it, daddy?”
“Nothing, honey.” Still in only the towel, I opened the front door. Steven stood on the stoop. His eyes settled on my chest, gaping at the spider web of scars.
“What happened to you?”
***
She lay in my arms, her head on my chest, both of us slowly recovering our breath, that deep satisfied feeling spreading across us. She ran her hand softly over the trail of white scars.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Was it a gunshot?”
“Not there. Shrapnel.”
“Shrapnel? Like from a grenade?”
“Like from a rocket launcher.”
“How did it not kill you?”
“The body armor. It wasn’t a direct hit,” I said. “Plus, I’m tougher than the average bear.”
“Uh huh.” She traced a scar lower on my side, broader, above the hip. “What about this one? Is it from the rocket?”
“No. Knife.”
“It’s bigger.”
“Yes.”
“I would have thought a rocket would do more damage than a blade.”
“Depends on how it is used.”
“I guess.” Amber propped herself up on an elbow. “You’ve lived an interesting life.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
***
“I cut myself shaving. Steven, what do you want?”
He handed me a piece of notebook paper. His handwriting was flawless, neat, in cursive. Something you didn’t see much anymore. “List of her friends and family.”
“Thanks. I’ll get right on it.”
“Anything yet?”
“She’s not in a hospital.”
“That’s a good thing. Right?”
“Yeah.”
Chapter Ten
I came into Gadsden on Highway 431, turning left before I got to the river and went over the bridge and followed Broad Street into downtown. My brother and I used to make the half hour drive once a month or so. Friday night, cruising Broad, drinking beer, hollering at the girls, getting into fights. The girls were hit or miss, but you could always count on the fights. I should’ve married one of those Gadsden girls.
Broad turned into Forest Avenue and I drove by the new jail built to house illegal immigrants. I followed the directions I had been given, turning left at the light onto Twelfth Street and was in Alabama City. Once the home of cotton mills and industry, the neighborhood was middle class and going in the wrong direction. Boarded up homes long ago abandoned sat next to clapboard houses and brick ranches. I took a side street and halfway down the block found what I was looking for.
Wide front porch, white paint not fresh, yet far from peeling, carefully trimmed hedges. The yard was small and a five year old Chevy sedan sat in the driveway. I left the Jeep on the street, punching the fob to lock it. The porch creaked beneath my weight. I knocked.
Stirring from inside and the door opened. “Mrs. Hogan?”
“Yes?”
“Beason Camp. I called earlier.”
Gene Hogan was long and lean, like her daughter. In jeans and a cream sweater, her white hair was piled on top of her head. “Of course. Please, come in, Mr. Camp.”
The front room had a floral patterned couch along one wall facing an entertainment center, a battered recliner in the corner. I could see the kitchen on the far side, closed doors on the other—presumably to bedrooms.
“Can I get you anything? Sweet tea? I can make coffee if you like.”
Never turn down sweet tea from an elderly Alabama woman. “Tea would be great.”
She smiled. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
I didn’t sit. Alone, I wandered around the room looking at the pictures that covered every space. There were several of Mr. and Mrs. Hogan, younger and growing older, but most were of a pair of girls, separated by three or four years. Blond, smiling, with braces and then perfect teeth. Babies and elementary school. Softball uniforms, dance outfits and pompoms. Two huge graduation portraits hung above the couch.
She returned with a glass slightly smaller than a gallon jug and handed it to me. I sipped. A little piece of heaven. “I had no idea Amber was an athlete.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, ma’am. She is my neighbor.”
She nodded. Knowing or polite, I couldn’t tell. “She played it all when she was little. Soccer, basketball, but she stuck with softball when she hit high school. She and her father used to play catch for hours after he got home from work. How well do you know her?”
Tough question. Carnally? I went with, “We were friends. When did you find out she was missing?”
“When the police called.”
“Steven didn’t tell you?”
“No.” She frowned. There was something there, but before I could pursue it, she said, “I already knew something was wrong.”
“You did? How?”
Mrs. Hogan sat on one end of the couch and I took the other. “How often do you talk to your mother?”
“Not often enough.”
“That’s the way it is with boys—at least from what I’ve heard. Mothers and their daughters are different.”
“How often did you talk to Amber?”
“Once a day. At least.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Sunday. Sunday morning.”
I sat the glass on the end table. “Nothing since then?”
“No.”
“What did you talk about Sunday?”
“The usual.” She shrugged. “The weather, her job, her sister.”
“Where do you think she went?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think she could have left Steven?”
“I hope so. I’ve been praying for it for years. I never did like that boy.”
“No?”
She shook her head. She had large, dangling, silver earrings that shook with her. “He is loud and obnoxious. And unfaithful.” Mrs. Hogan gave me a look. “We never discussed it, but I know the marriage is on the rocks.”
“Did Amber ever indicate where she might go?”
“Amber will always have a home here,” she said. “But I expect she would have moved in with her sister.”
“Have you talked to her?”
A small smile. “Every day.”
“And she hasn’t heard from Amber?”
“Not since Sunday.”
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
“Maybe you should, though, I doubt she knows anything I don’t. The three of us have always been close.”
“Sometimes siblings share things they won’t tell anybody else,” I said. “I know I’ve told my brother and sister things I would never tell my mother.”
“Perhaps.” She reached into her end table, produced a pad and pen and scribbled some notes on it. “Her number, address, and directions.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Not that I can think of.”
I gave her my card. “If you think of anything. Anything at all.”
She walked me to the door. “Are you going to find my daughter, Mr. Camp?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She examined me closely. “Amber was right.”
“About what?”
“About you. There is something different about you. I cannot tell if it is good or bad.”
“Neither can I.” I broke eye contact and looked out at the street. A scrawny black cat had climbed onto the roof of my Jeep. “What do you think happened to her?”
Mrs. Hogan shuddered and closed the door.
***
I went down Rainbow Drive into Rainbow City, turned onto Highway 77, went over another bridge and found myself in Southside. The bedroom community had gone through some big changes since we had come down for a high school
basketball tournament. There were now two stop lights. The highway had been widened, a few new stores, and the high school looked to be closed, probably a new one built somewhere else. I turned at the tiny city hall and found the new one. This neighborhood was solid middle class and moving up, brick ranches mostly, large, well-kept yard. I left the Jeep on the street. No sidewalks—not even curbs. The home was a brick split-level, a bird bath in the front lawn. The door opened as I climbed the steps to the porch.
“You must be Beason.” Her hair was shorter than in the pictures, strong lines, green eyes. She was in a t-shirt and grey sweats.
“Yes, ma’am. You must be Madison.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled and gave me a mock salute. She had a very nice smile. She held out her hand and followed me down the short foyer. Hardwood floors, a scattering of pictures and prints on the wall. She indicated I should sit on the black leather couch and I complied. “Momma told me you were looking for Amber.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She cocked a carefully shaped eyebrow. “We’re on a first name basis, Beason. You can drop the ma’am.”
“Okay.” Her resemblance to Amber was unmistakable. Same body type, same blond hair, same spark in the green eyes. “You and Amber could be sisters.”
She laughed. Not a polite, ladylike laugh, but a sincere guffaw. “She told me you were funny.”
“I’m a big hit at amateur night at the comedy club.”
“Chickasaw Falls has a comedy club?”
“No.”
“You’re not as big as I thought you would be.”
“No?”
“Amber always liked her men big.”
“I’ve got big feet.”
“And I know what that means.”
“Big socks?”
Another laugh. “Right.”
“Do you know where your sister is?”
A shake of the short, blond hair. “No idea.”
“You don’t seem concerned with her disappearance.”
“I’m not.” Madison took the remote from the coffee table and the big screen television went silent. “Momma is the worrying kind.”