The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  “Haven’t seen him. Heard he’s huntin’ or somethin’.”

  “What about before he went hunting?” I asked. “You know what he was up to?”

  “Got no clue.”

  “You don’t know if he and Victor had a falling-out of some sort?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t know that.”

  “You know Leslie Boone?”

  He nodded.

  “You runnin’ to her lately.”

  “Nah, man. I’m not runnin’ shit.”

  “Look.” I sat back and folded my arms across my chest. “I told you that I don’t care about the makin’ or the runnin’, I just want to know about Victor. If I were going to get you for that, I’d have a tape recorder on you as we speak.”

  “Probably got one behind that glass.”

  “See that camera”—I pointed to the corner of the room—“you see some kind of light to indicate that that thing’s on?”

  Stimpy didn’t respond.

  “There’s no light on, ’cause I told ’em I didn’t want to tape ya. I just want information on Victor Lance, that’s all. And the more you cooperate, the quicker you get out of here so you can go make as many mistakes as you want in that little entrepreneurial world of yours.”

  “You going to give me some kind of immunity?”

  “Depends on what you got for me?”

  “Leslie’s trying real hard to get out of the shit. Last I saw her, she said no, thanks, that she didn’t go through the dry heaves, the shakes, and hallucinations for nothing. Said she’d even had a seizure and it scared her shitless.”

  “Was Victor a runner?”

  “Hell no.” Stimpy laughed. “If he was a runner and not just a user, he might have had a pot to piss in. Victor was broke. I don’t think he could even buy a tank of gas near the end there.”

  “So he got into trouble with you for not paying up?”

  “God, no. He usually came up with something. He wasn’t perfect, but Jesus, no one killed the guy over that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “So why were you pickin’ a fight with Daniel Nelson?”

  Stimpy shrugged, one corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile.

  I eyed him, rubbing my chin. I could see it in that one corner of his mouth in his minuscule grin, and although it was small, it held the answer to my question. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard his crazy laugh to accompany it. He was messing with Daniel Nelson just because he could, because he was the type to mess with anyone in the quest to make himself feel bigger and better than he is. “I’m going to leave Monty here with you so he can go over all the details again.”

  “What fuckin’ details?”

  “About where you were on the Thursday and Friday before Victor Lance turned up dead?”

  “What about immunity from any drug busts?”

  I chuckled. “I couldn’t do that if I tried, you know that. Besides, you gave me shit. Not one useful bit of information to help me find Victor’s murderer.”

  • • •

  Monty ran Stimpy through it for another hour and a half, rechecking his whereabouts and driving him absolutely berserk, this time with the little green light on the camera flashing its presence over and over.

  I watched part of it from behind the two-way and left, making Officer Pontiff view the rest for Monty’s safety. I went to see Daniel off and to tell him that I thought it’d be a good idea if he got out of the area, maybe found himself a place to rent in Kalispell, and got away from some of the knuckleheads in town. He smiled at me, thanked me, but said that Columbia Falls was where he grew up, where his mother and father grew up, and he intended to stay.

  I thought about the folks in the area, even Joe and Elena and now Heather, and the Sheltons, who could look back at the procession of farm families, aluminum-plant workers, and logging families with a haze of nostalgia—who could commit themselves to the endless routine knowing that prosperity would be small and that the pinkish-orange sunsets peeking under the cloud cover and illuminating the golden wheat were payment for all their hard work.

  “I hear ya,” I said. “Your loyalty is commendable.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He gently touched the shiner on his left eye with his pinky finger.

  “Sorry you had to run into him. If it’s any consolation, the police might be getting closer to his little ring.”

  “That’d be good.”

  “You watched Victor go to shit on that stuff?”

  “I did. Don’t get me wrong. Victor always had personal problems, but the drugs made it so much worse, and he got on them before he had a chance to grow up.”

  “You ever meet Leslie?”

  “Just once or twice. At a bar or two.”

  “Your impressions?”

  “That she was a nice enough girl but screwed up like him. I heard, though, that she was trying to stay clean.” He shrugged. “Good for her, especially since she’s got a son.”

  “I know when we talked before, you said that you could imagine a lot of folks hating Victor, but that you didn’t know of anyone in particular that would want him dead enough to do it. Do you still feel that way?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Even that prick in there.” He motioned to the department to our backs. “I don’t think he did it.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Just the way he was teasin’ me, saying that it was too bad I didn’t hang out with Victor more often, that maybe I could’ve kept him alive. So I said to him: ‘Why? You would’ve been afraid of me when you went to take him out?’ He looked surprised at first. Then laughed, as if he hadn’t considered that. Then he said, ‘Nah, man, ’cause maybe he would’ve stayed a Goody Two-shoes like you.’ ”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m naïve, but I didn’t get the feeling that he’d done it, not ’cause of what he said—I know he wouldn’t think twice about lying—but the look of surprise in his eyes when he realized that I’d thought he’d done it.”

  “All right.” I held out my hand for a shake, thinking that wasn’t much to go off. “Good luck to you. I’ll call you if we need anything else.”

  21

  MELISSA FINALLY BAILED Stimpy out, and we drove back to West Glacier, where Monty said he needed a break to go back to his place. I agreed that he did. An hour and a half going over a druggie’s whereabouts for two days would tire anyone. Fighting the profound exhaustion pulling at me from every angle, I called Walsh to see if Tom Hess had returned yet from his hunting trip and found that he hadn’t. I was beginning to wonder if he was on the run and not coming back at all.

  I drove back to the office, went in, and stared at Monty’s color-coded poster with the time line and alibis, which was growing more and more crowded with the addition of the Shelton grandkids. Then I began to make my own diagram, a type of flow chart with all the possible leads we’d come across so far. I’d been working it—circling items of interest and connecting lines between them, pressing too hard into the paper—for half an hour and my stomach began to ache from the numerous cups of coffee I’d drunk all day to keep me awake. I thought I’d better get a bite to eat and was just about to grab my coat when Ford came in.

  “You have a minute?” He looked even more severe than usual, with a grimness in his eyes that seemed to mean business.

  I motioned for him to have a seat.

  He grabbed a chair, sat down, and all went mouse-quiet. “I’m not sure where to start other than to just say it—that I know who you are.”

  I sat still.

  “I mean”—he steepled his fingers and continued before I responded—“I finally figured out why the Systead name rang a bell with me: 1987. Your father and you. Oldman Lake.”

  I glared at him now, something sour rising in my throat. I didn’t need this now, not ever, from this man. My mother wanted the satisfaction of his
recognition of her son. But now, before me, I didn’t want shit from him other than to leave me alone. His paltry remembrance of the recount of Oldman Lake, of what happened out there in the dead of that night all those years ago, was a sour pill for me to swallow at this stage of the game.

  “I’ve not spoken to Joe and Sean yet, but needless to say, that should I feel the need to do so, that they’d have to agree that there’s been some, shall we say”—he cleared his throat—“credibility lost here.”

  “How so?” I managed after taking a hard swallow.

  “How so?” He pulled his head back incredulously, tucking his chin. “I don’t believe you’re that stupid, Agent Systead. The obvious is that it compromises your ability to make sound judgments about a case that includes a grizzly bear that, because of your insistence, we’ve got cruelly caged while you continue to botch this case.”

  “Botch?” I could feel my anger rise with a vengeance, a geyser about to blow. I had a flash of me throwing him against the wall by the scruff of his collar, him dangling like a puppet under my grip. I stayed still and waited for him to answer.

  “From what I’m gathering, you’re not exactly making much leeway. You’re no closer to the killer now than you were a week ago.”

  “You have no idea how an investigation works.” Something dark and insatiable with sharp teeth seemed to grip at my chest. I almost felt the need to glance down at my sternum.

  Ford pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, then he did the worst thing he could do: he let his eyes fill with pity. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand what you must—”

  “You don’t understand shit.” I stood from the table so fast the chair flung back and fell over. I leaned over, my face before his. “This investigation is going just fine, and if you prevent me from completing what I’ve begun, I’ll . . .” I held back. My heartbeat—a mallet striking my ribs—arrested me. I actually didn’t know exactly what I wanted to say. What? That I’d beat the shit out of him—an old man? That I’d make his life hell? But it didn’t matter because a modicum of common sense lay somewhere inside of me, and I didn’t finish. I straightened myself up and backed away, my face hot with rage.

  Ford stared at me with a combination of disdain and anger, all the fake pity gone.

  “You’ve been here for a long time,” I said. “But you know, you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

  “Oh, I know quite a bit. You’d be surprised.”

  “Yeah, well, so do I and I know that your credibility is not at its highest either. That you’d like nothing more than for me to hurry up and whitewash this case—call it closed or unsolvable.” The thought of Ford forever staining my father’s death with a lie for the public and the park to make itself feel better, superior—as if there’s a tidy reason for every tragedy in this world—savagely bit into me with even more force.

  “Whitewash?” He pulled his chin in again, his eyes narrowed.

  “Just like you did in ’87. I’m well aware of how you lied to the press about my father.”

  “Lied.” He laughed. “What crazy ideas are you conjuring now? Listen, Systead, if I were you, I’d be very careful because you’re starting to sound, well, a little cuckoo.” He made imaginary circles with his pointer by his temple. “How in the hell would you know what you did or didn’t take to bed with you?” Ford continued. “You could have had candy bars in your pockets for all you know.”

  My breath caught. I stood silent before him. I stared back into his narrow eyes, waiting for him to give more information, not wanting more, but wanting it as if my life depended on it. “You have no clue what we found out there,” Ford added with contempt in his voice. “How could you? You were fourteen and totally clueless.”

  His words penetrated me to some deep place, and every ounce of vitality siphoned out of me. “Could have had?” I said. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Like I said—you were only fourteen.”

  “Yes, I was,” I managed. “That’s definitely one piece of truth.” I stood for a second—stared down at him, my face hot, my knees going weak, my jaw clenched. “If you’ll excuse me,” I finally managed. “I’ve got work to do.” I strode out and left him to my diagram and my notes with one small, petty thought in my mind: that when I stood and knocked the chair over, he flinched.

  • • •

  I drove to Kalispell in the dark. I’d lost my temper with the super, and now I was furious with myself. I stood on Ma’s doorstep sometime well after dinner. She had already gotten ready for bed and was in a pale-blue bathrobe and slippers. She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me in.

  “Holy Mother of Mary,” she said once I was inside the front door. “You look ghastly. Haven’t you been eating?”

  “I’ve been eating. Just not sleeping.”

  “Well, good Lord, there’s help for that. Have you forgotten that your mother’s a pharmacist?”

  I shook my head.

  “What can I make you? Soup? I have some leftover chicken in the fridge. I could warm it up?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not really—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You need to eat.”

  I didn’t feel like anything, but I knew there was no getting away from her making me something. “Either sounds great.”

  “Sit down, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I took a seat in front of the gas fireplace, which she’d converted from a wood-burning insert about five years before to make life easier. Otherwise, the place was the same. After the incident, we stayed in the house Ma and Dad built together after moving to Montana until Kathryn left for college. Then Ma insisted that we needed a smaller place and that there were too many memories haunting the old house, not to mention how unbearable it became to drive every day by the neighbor who shot Tumble. So we moved smack into the center of Kalispell on the east side of its main drag, where sidewalks and maple and chestnut trees lined the streets. For me, it was a relief to leave the woods and the foothills.

  Ma hadn’t changed the place much over the years. The white mantel with the tall silver candlesticks in the center, the antique rocking chair my parents brought up from Florida, the nautical coffee table with the hinged flaps on each side were all remnants from my childhood. The same striped wallpaper was in the dining room, although she had had the kitchen and the living room repainted several times over the years. And I noticed that the area rug on the oak floor and the throw pillows on the couch looked new since my last visit.

  “Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming?” Ma called from the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, I know I should have. I just had a lot on my mind. Just kept driving and thinking.”

  “If I’d known, I’d have waited and had dinner with you—made you something good.”

  “No worries. I just thought I could use a visit.”

  She didn’t answer, and I could hear the pots rattling, the fridge opening and closing. She made some tea when I showed and brought out two cups that she set on the dining room table. Eventually, she brought me chicken and rice that she’d heated up and broccoli that she’d steamed fresh. When I told her that she shouldn’t have, she shushed me and told me to eat, so we sat together at the dining room table. I ate while she drank her tea, her hands folded neatly around the base of the cup. “So what’s going on with this investigation?”

  “Oh.” I sighed. “Answers just aren’t coming as quickly as they should.”

  “But you’re getting there?”

  “I think so. You read the paper about the grizzly?”

  She nodded.

  “What was your take on that?”

  She put her hand to her chest. “My take?”

  “Yeah? What was your first reaction?”

  “That you were doing what’s necessary to figure out this case. I mean, the bear ate part of the victim, right?�
��

  I nodded.

  “I figured you’re taking all necessary precautions by keeping him for a bit, studying him—getting DNA or whatever you do.”

  I chewed the broccoli, actually happy to eat something healthy.

  Ma studied me. “Is that Eugene Ford giving you a hard time?” Her voice was pointed.

  “Why do you keep thinking that? He doesn’t even remember who I am,” I lied.

  “I don’t mean that; he doesn’t need to know who you are to give you a hard time. Like I said, he’s just not a good guy in my book.”

  “Well, lots of people really like him.”

  “What’s the problem, then? Why do you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”

  I smiled. “Because I haven’t slept in a week.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Why haven’t you slept?”

  I finished chewing a piece of chicken, took a sip of tea. “I don’t know. It’s been weird being up there after all this time.”

  Ma looked at her hands, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I can imagine.”

  “Do you still have those old clippings?”

  “Of the incident?”

  I nodded.

  “I do.” She studied me. “You can see them if you’d like.”

  • • •

  After I ate, Ma poured more tea and we moved to the gas fire. She had gone into her bedroom for a bit and reappeared with a faded-blue pocket folder, then sat down beside me on the couch and set the folder on the table before us. It was soft and bent at the edges from years of being stuffed in a drawer. She opened it, and I could see a number of thin, yellowed clippings. I felt strange sitting with her as if we were simply going to go over some old high school basketball write-ups or something equally nostalgic. Only the fact that we were stone quiet gave us away.

  Of course, I’d seen the clippings before, when I was still in high school. I’d gone into her room and looked through her top drawer for no good reason, only that I knew she kept family pictures, school photos, our report cards, and other sentimental items in it. I was drawn to the drawer as if it held life’s answers and would go through it several times a year, but I never really could bring myself to read the clippings. I’d just quickly thumb through the folder and move on to other items—pictures of our family with Dad still in them.