“That sounds more far-fetched than the first idea.”
“What I told Beckett,” he said. “But you got to admit, these are desperate times. A lot of these old guys are watching their fortunes disappear. They’re watching their fathers’ fortunes disappear. And now they got to think about what they’re leaving behind for their kids and grandkids or whatever. A lot of them are just egotistical assholes, too, and willing to do almost anything not to lose the game. So I guess you never know.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “You’d think a thing like that would be hard to keep a lid on. They might get lucky for a while, but eventually something would go wrong. Even if they kept the dose super light, someone would notice. They’d give someone a heart attack, or guys would start tearing out their own eyeballs down there. You never know how someone’s going to react to amphetamine use.”
Pelzer said, “I’m not saying it’s perfect. I ain’t even saying I bought it, though knowing what I know about Roy Galligan I wouldn’t automatically rule it out. I’m just saying it’s what Mays was starting to believe.”
“What about Beckett?”
“I think he just wanted off the roller coaster,” Pelzer said. “Mays was one of these guys gets hold of something, he hangs on like a pit bull. I admit, this wasn’t my favorite guy, but you had to admire that in him anyway. He led with his dick a lot, but he was a pro and completely unafraid to be hated. Impressive shit for a puffer.”
“So Beckett felt like he was just along for the ride?”
“More or less, yeah. I mean, the guy’s a fucking shutterbug. It’s not even really his thing. Galligan gets busted, he’s there popping his flash in the old man’s face, then it’s his thing. Until then, he’s just someone for Mays to bounce ideas off.”
“Mays’s Dr. Watson,” I said. I still didn’t like it, but it made a kind of sense. And it might explain Beckett’s disappearance. He thought he was just a tagalong to catch stray bullets, he might have made a break for it. And that was to say nothing of his relationship with his wife. Or his kid in Johnston City. Add it up, he might feel like he was running away from a world of headaches. The bastard.
I said, “Okay. So who killed Luster? I’m thinking we’re down to Galligan. Mays starts working Galligan. Galligan starts feeling heat and starts working back on Mays.”
Pelzer nodded. “At which point, Beckett is beginning to feel like the only whore in camp on payday. Repeatedly fucked. He goes to his father-in-law, Luster, and asks for help. The old man sends him packing—this is not his favorite relative—but then starts digging on his own. Maybe at a certain point he goes to Galligan and starts making accusations.”
“I hate to say it,” I said, “but it’s not completely far-fetched. At least that part. No one ever mentioned any of this to me. Luster included.”
“Yeah, but why would he? See, he gets you looking for Beckett. He’s got Galligan sweating it out on the other side. Dead body in the coal mine, private eye looking for his missing son-in-law. There’s no reason to tell you more than he did, because if he tells you too much and things go south then he’s got to decide whether to pay you off or pop you.”
“Nice.”
“These ain’t nice people, Slim.”
I said, “So what’s the story on the picture?”
“The picture?”
“The picture of Jim Hart. You were taking it from Mays’s house when I introduced you to Betsy.”
Pelzer leaned back in his chair and showed me his teeth. He sucked on his can some more, but it was mostly empty sound now, very little liquid. He was really pounding them.
“I don’t know as I like that,” he said. “You bringing that up over and over.”
“I don’t know as I care,” I said.
He smiled some more and said, “You looking to start something?”
“Not really. But I’m okay with it if you are. I guess we’re one to one, so maybe we need that tiebreaker. Other hand, I don’t think there’s a reason for this to turn confrontational, if you don’t want it to.”
He thought about that some. Maybe he wanted it to, maybe he didn’t. His face had this way of eating his expressions and making him hard to get a read on. At last, he sighed and got up and went into the house. I took the 9000S out of my pocket and put it on the table next to my beer. After a moment, Pelzer came back out with a fresh can. None for me. He sat down and took a long pull and put his beer down in front of him and only then noticed the pistol.
“Goddamn it, I asked you not to bring one of those,” he said.
“And then neglected to pat me down before you let me in,” I said. “Damn, man, how long have you been in security work? ’Cause to me that’s an easy one.”
He actually looked a little ashamed.
“What can I say? I’m an earthmover. Sometimes I let things slide. Sometimes I forget to do things, but you need a door opened I’m your guy.” He took a long drink. It must have been about half the can. He wiped his mouth with his arm and belched loudly and said, “So what now? You shoot me?”
“Hell, no. I just wanted you to know where we stand,” I said. “Now about Jim Hart.”
I could see his wheels turning, and not quickly, either. He could let me shove him around on his own patio deck or he could get shot. It wasn’t clear which one he was going to choose. After another moment’s reflection, he let it go.
He said, “You ever heard of steganography?”
“Some kind of dinosaur?”
“Cute. No. It’s a process of hiding pictures inside of pictures. Like in spy books or whatever.”
“Like microdots?”
“Yeah, like that, but with lots of detail. Way I understand it, you can hide all kinds of things inside a simple photograph.”
Something in my brain started buzzing. A hazy memory from the other day.
“Wait a minute. Beckett had a book about it in his room at Mays’s place. Stega-whatever.”
Pelzer nodded. “Steganography. That’s right. Guy hated computers. Almost had a phobia about them, though I think maybe part of it was put on. You know, the old-school artist bit. Doesn’t want anything getting between him and his vision or whatever. Anyway, Beckett didn’t want to keep evidence against Galligan on a machine, and he didn’t. Least ways, not on any machine I can find. But he leaves his wife—or gets tossed out—and he doesn’t take anything with him, except that photograph.”
“You’re thinking there’s something encoded on it.”
“I’m thinking it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”
“Okay,” I said, “but what?”
“No idea. Best guess, numbers. Money or tonnage or whatever, but numbers. If they started zooming upward around the time Mays thought they would, it might go a ways toward proving their theory. Or maybe it’s a photograph. Like a picture hidden inside a picture, something incriminating. Long story short, I need that photograph and I need it yesterday.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to give it to him, but there wasn’t any reason to further provoke him.
“I’ll get it to you, and we can get it looked at together. Maybe the university photo lab?”
“You say so.”
“Okay,” I said. “I got to tell you, though, I’ve been around and around with this whole clue business, and everyone I talk to says that mysteries don’t get solved when the detective discovers a microdot on an autographed picture of a quarterback.”
“Not usually, I guess. But you never know. For example, Mays was found with a notepad in his mouth.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, I know you know. But I bet you didn’t know this: Pad was blank, almost blank. There were two words written on it. Buddy with the sheriffs gave me the scoop.”
“What two words?”
He smiled a little. I’d put him back on his heels a while back, but now he was feeling more in charge. He had a superior streak in him. He didn’t like being out of the driver’s seat, and when he was back in it, he enjoyed it with
the subtlety of a bull in a stable of virgin cows. He said, “Funny thing. You seen Galligan lately?”
“I’ve seen Galligan lately.”
“Yeah, well, then you’ve seen that blond hair. Had it when he was a boy, and the vain little shit’s been dying it blond ever since he hit his silver years. It looks ridiculous, but that’s what he does. Behind his back, his guys call him Yellow Boy.”
“And that’s what was written on the pad?”
Pelzer said, “Yup. That’s what was written on the pad. Yellow Boy.”
PART THREE
YELLOW BOY
TWELVE
My father came in and sat at the table. He was forty but looked ten years older; I was twelve but felt ten years younger. After months of quiet tension, the old house at Indian Vale had lapsed into a different kind of quiet, the dull exhaustion of a final, sorrowful resignation. It was like the sound of nothing that fills your ears when you sink to the bottom of a lake. He looked across the table at me, then took off his wristwatch and started fiddling with the stem, as he often did when he was choosing his words.
“This is only good-bye for now,” he said at last. “Your mother and I have a few things yet to work out, grownup things, but I won’t be around for a few days.”
“Okay.”
“It’s for the best,” he said. Somewhere along the line, he’d become a man who told you how to feel instead of asking how you felt or trying to convince you of anything. He just told you, and whether or not you agreed, in his mind that was what it would be until he changed his mind again. “I’ll need you to look after your sisters.”
“I’ll look after them,” I said. “All of them. Mom included. Someone has to.”
“You taking a tone with me?”
“Yup.”
He put the watch back on his wrist and tied the little buckle.
“I’m still big enough to knock you out of that chair.”
I shrugged. He was.
He drummed the table with his fingers, blew out a breath. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” he said.
“Not really,” I said, but then I asked him some things anyway. “You’ll be staying with Cheezie?”
“For a few days, maybe. Maybe a few days longer than that. Then I’m not sure. I’ve got options.”
“And I can reach you there? At his place?”
“For a few days, yes.”
I said, “You’ve left us some money?”
He took out his wallet, pulled out some bills, and put them on the table between us. I didn’t move to touch them.
“There’s more upstairs on the dresser, and I gave your mother a little, too. You think I’d abandon you like that? Leave you penniless?”
I said, “I think you’ll do whatever it is you decide to do.”
We sat there a moment. After what seemed a long time, he stood and pushed his chair back neatly under the table and walked to the door and slipped into his coat. It was fall and the air was cool. He opened the door, then stopped and looked back halfway over his shoulder, in my direction but not at me.
“I won’t say I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Then he was gone. I didn’t see him again for nearly three years.
I separated myself from Pelzer. That wasn’t easy—he wanted to tag along—but I promised to call later that evening, and we shook hands and went our separate ways without further damage. There was one more place Beckett might be, at least one more place that I could think of, and I meant to check it before the day was out.
First, though, I rang Peggy. I caught her at home and in bed.
“Still in your jammies?”
She said, “Jammies and a robe and some slippers from college. Even found an old teddy bear, and I’ve nearly hugged the stuffing out of him. I feel like I’ve had the wind ripped right out of me.” She sounded like it, too. Her voice was hollow and kinda weak, like she’d been fighting a crud and the crud was finally getting her down. “I’ve slept something like fourteen straight hours now, and I still don’t feel like I can get out of bed.”
“Sleep fourteen more if you have to,” I said. “Maybe I can come by with some food later.”
“If you’re able,” she said. “Bring Anci, too, if she’ll come.”
“Of course she’ll come.”
“I feel silly,” she said, but she sounded more sad than silly. “Acting this way. I imagined I was tougher.”
“You’re plenty tough.”
“I don’t know. Few minutes before it happened, there I was, fighting zombies and bragging about what a big girl I am. Now look at me.”
“Everybody has a line,” I said. “I’m betting that a lot of people’s involve flying lead.”
She was quiet for a moment, and, not being able to see her face, I couldn’t tell how she was registering that. Then she said, “You killed a man last night.”
“Mostly on accident,” I said. “But just between us, I’m not overly upset about how it shook out. I guess he might have tuckered out and decided he’d had enough. Maybe he’d have put down his guns and taken up a life of good deeds for orphans and war widows, but usually bad men don’t go in that direction. Once you have someone in that position, on his knees and at your mercy, chances are he’s eventually going to come back at you. Might not be the next day or the next month even, but he’ll do it. If only because he can’t live with the fact that you had him dead to rights like that and let him off the hook.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I know there’s plenty of evil in the world. I know you can’t always hold its hand and give it a hanky for its tears. I’m just not sure violence is the best way to solve problems.”
“It’s surely not, but sometimes it’s the only way we’ve got lying around.”
“And someone taught you that, Slim.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I also can’t help thinking how much this looks like you obsessively searching for someone else’s runaway spouse instead of your own.”
“That’s an even lower blow.”
“Okay, I’ll cop to that one. And I’m sorry. Could be I’m not being fair. But you can maybe see how this looks from the outside.”
“I can maybe see it,” I said, “but I think you’re drawing the wrong conclusion.”
“I’m in good company then. Sugar, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Whatever you have to do to get away from this thing, do it.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Meantime, hang in there.”
“I’m not sure I can,” she said, and for the first time I wasn’t so sure she was wrong.
I still needed to find Guy Beckett, though. Someone had killed Dwayne Mays and Matt Luster. And someone had either killed Beckett or chased him away, whether Jump Down or Roy Galligan or both. They’d done it for money or for jobs and the survival of their way of life, or all of that rolled up in a giant ball. But only Beckett would be able to answer my questions and put the whole thing to bed.
I stopped in at the Herrin library and used one of the computers to search for Carla Shepherd, the other woman Susan had mentioned a day or so ago. Found her on a public list of donors for some environmental project or other, and gave myself a private eye gold star for it, too. She was listed as living in Pomona, a tiny place deep inside the Shawnee National Forest, some forty minutes south of the Crab Orchard Lake and preserve. On my way back through town I stopped in at the school, hoping to catch Anci for lunch, maybe talk her into a slice of pizza and an orange soda, but when I roared up I instead found her standing around outside the school with a bunch of other kids.
Anci said, “There you are.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “They decided you were unteachable.”
“Maybe after you get done playing around at mystery-solving,” she said, “you can go into comedy. I bet you’d go far.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Really, though, what gives?”
“I told you earlier.
It’s a half-day today. Teachers’ conferences, and you’re up.”
“You told me all this?”
“I sure did. You don’t remember, do you?”
“I do.” I didn’t. “When’s my appointment?”
“This morning. Right now. I even texted you a reminder,” she said. “Now shoo. I’ll wait here for you.”
She waited. I went to park the bike. I checked my phone and, sure enough, there was her reminder. I went inside the school and found Anci’s classroom. It was regulation: There was an American flag and a blackboard. There were books piled on a long table beneath a bank of windows and some computers. There was a decorated bulletin board with some student papers pinned to it, some class project about the environment, and I was briefly reminded of the Friends of Crab Orchard. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. The teacher was waiting for me with a smile on her face you wouldn’t break your brain to imagine as impatient. She couldn’t have been older than twenty or twenty-one, still just a kid herself, but you could tell she was used to dealing with young bullheads and their ilk, and she took charge immediately and forced me to sit in that little desk. They always make you sit in that thing. I don’t know why, but I figure they must have a whole college course about making adult people sit in that tiny desk.
We shook hands, and she smiled a bit more warmly and called me by my given name. I told her to please call me Slim; that other name was what they called my father.
She said, “Well, you can relax . . .”
“I’m relaxed.”
She ignored me and pressed on.
“I’ve got nothing but praise. Your daughter is an amazing young woman.”
“Ain’t she, though?”
“And smart.”
“She’s a clever little monkey, all right. Sometimes a little too much so. It’s vexatious. Example: I’m told she’s been talking lately about becoming a lawyer.”
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