Goofy Foot

by David Daniel

  Of course, maybe it was just goofy foot.

  There was no one in the motel office, so I went around to the small house in back. The rain had stopped. I glanced at the dog pen and saw that Gruff was gone. After a minute of my knocking, Fran Albright came to the door looking puzzled. “Hi,” she said.

  “Is your father here?”

  “I don’t know where he is. I just got home a while ago.” She glanced past me. “Is it still raining?”

  “It stopped.”

  “He went out this afternoon. I’m a little surprised he’s still out.” I was, too, given his fear of spy satellites and phantom helicopters. Fran was looking closely at me, her brow knit. “Is something wrong, Mr. Rasmussen?”

  Wrong? Things were as wrong as they could be. People were dead, and I’d helped some of them get that way. Time wasn’t on my side, and now I was entertaining wiggy notions of how her father’s idea of a grand conspiracy might in fact have a basis right here in this town. I stepped nearer to her there in the door, wanting to form some intimacy between us. “Fran … did you know that your sister was pregnant when she drowned?”

  She blinked several times. “What?”

  “It was in the autopsy report. Three months.”

  “But that’s … impossible. She … she …” Fran broke off, gaping at me from her doorstep. “You’ve actually seen this report?”

  “Yes. Your parents must have seen it, too.”

  “My God. She never … They …”

  She was reeling with the revelations, unable to pick up a cohesive thread. I let out a breath, not sure what else to say. The tiny housekeeping cottages in back were as dark as ever, obscured by the jungle of sumac growing around them. “Do you have any idea where your father is?”

  She shook her head blankly. She stepped outside and moved closer to me, as if feeling a sudden need for companionship. I was reluctant to leave her. I lifted my chin in the direction of the cottages, just to shift the subject. “How long since those have been used?”

  She squinted toward the units, as if she’d lost track of their existence. “Years and years. Dad let them go while I was living in Colorado. Too much upkeep and not much demand.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got to go. Will you be okay?”

  “Years ago, it was the way families traveled. Rent a little place for a week, and move in. This time of year, folks would sit in front and talk—there was no air-conditioning, just the sea air. Kids played in the yard because it was safe, there was no traffic … it was nice,” she said quietly, and for a moment I wished with all my might that the world could be rolled back to that simpler time. But it couldn’t. I started for the Blazer.

  “Ginny and I would play flashlight tag with the kids, and blind-man’s bluff,” Fran went on in a quickened voice, moving with me. “Now people on vacation want conveniences, and children play at video arcades. These places are totally forgotten, like those games we played as kids.”

  I had the Blazer’s door open and was about to get in, but I stopped. “I thought your father got this place much later?”

  “Dad was a schoolteacher when we were little, but summers he and Mom managed the motel for Mr. Rand. Dad bought it only later, after—” She broke off.

  “After your sister drowned.”

  She looked at me quizzically, which was probably the way I was looking at her. I looked again at the cottages. “Do you have a flashlight?” I said. “I seem to have lost mine.”

  Together we walked back toward the cottages. What had been the parking area was just crumbled paving, the pine needles and gravel making soft sounds under our feet. A sway-backed picnic table stood rotting nearby. There were nine cottages, arranged in a semicircle in a grove of sumac and second-growth pines that dripped with the recent rain. The last two cottages were almost completely overrun with honeysuckle. “Forgotten” was what Fran had called them, as Van Owen had called the road out here. It seemed as if Standish’s collective memory was faulty; it had forgotten a lot.

  The cottages had once been white with green shutters, but time had painted everything in shades of gray, and now the night added dark tones. The roofs sagged with the load of years. Shutters hung crookedly on rusted hinges. I could see bird nests in the broken window screens. There were padlocks on the doors. Stepping forward through a surf of damp leaves, I shone the light into the first building and saw only emptiness. I glanced toward the other cottages.

  “What is it, Mr. Rasmussen?” Fran Albright asked at my back, her voice with a little underlay of tension now. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

  Was it history? Explanations? Understanding? I didn’t know. Honeysuckle gave its fragrance to the wet air.

  The second cottage was the same as the first, and the third, too. In the next cottage, the light beam roved across old mattresses stacked on their sides like vertical slices of moldy bread, the striped ticking had split open in places, stuffing protruding. Farther in was the suggestion of stored furniture: dim angles and bulky shapes. The door was dry-rotted, and the hasp and lock were rusted. The screws pulled out as I applied pressure to the panel, and the door rawked open. I looked over my shoulder at Fran Albright. For a beat of edgy silence, our eyes met; then I pushed the door wider and stepped inside. She stayed with me.

  Motes of dust drifted in the flashlight beam, and an odor of mildew filled my nostrils. A strand of sticky web stretched against my cheek, then snapped. I brushed it aside and stepped farther in, pushing past the image of some jaunty Jolly Roger of a spider hurrying down the broken strand, eager to sink fangs into whatever had invaded its fine and private place. Beyond the stacked mattresses, the beam found a rounded contour that gleamed dully. It was the corner of an old steel bed frame. I sidestepped nearer and saw an old gray blanket, humped with folds and wrinkles. As I reached for it, my scalp gave an odd, premonitory tingle. I lifted a corner.

  Beside me, Fran Albright drew a sharp breath and clapped her hands to her cheeks. Then I saw it, too. Under the old blanket, tied with a faded red bandanna, was a dark mass of what could have been hair. Fran’s eyes were wide, agleam in the faint peripheral glow of the flashlight. Motioning her to stay back, I drew the blanket all the way off.

  She screamed. She cupped her hands over her mouth, as if to cut it off, but it came anyway, a shrill cry ending in a strangled gasp. “Oh my God!” She turned, bumped into one of the mattresses, sending up a plume of dust, and fled.

  Her screams had sliced across my nerves like a serrated knife. I wanted to go, too, but I stepped closer to the old bed and shone the light. I felt as if I was studying one of those projective images, where you sometimes have to look and look before you finally see the dual image of a young woman and an old hag. I saw it now, a body—actually, skeletal remains. Most of the flesh was gone. The clothing had fared somewhat better, as had the hair, and I judged from these that the body was that of a girl. She was hunched in an almost fetal posture, as if she’d wanted to give herself comfort. I forced myself to squat by the mattress and look more closely.

  The remains had been here a long while. Exposed to heat and cold and time, they had become mummified. What was left had a dark, sinewy texture, shiny like old greased leather. The fingers were claws. I saw no sign of jewelry or a handbag or other personal effects. I scanned the surrounding area, quickly looking for anything that might help me make sense of what we’d found. Then I turned and went outside to Fran Albright.

  She clutched her hands before her as if she were about to pray. Seeing me, she gave an odd little laugh, then she moaned. “Oh, my God, don’t let this be happening. Oh, please, God, no.” She seemed to be on the brink of hysteria.

  I put an arm around her. She bucked, as if she wanted to run, but she didn’t. After a moment, she pushed her face against my chest, and I held her. When she’d steadied a bit, she stepped back. “What … what is that?” she asked, her voice throbbing. “It’s not the …”

  “No. I think it’s a runaway girl who vanished years ago. A
hitchhiker.” I didn’t go into details. That would be for the ME and the police to establish. I took Fran Albright’s hand, which was cold as death, and led her farther away.

  It wasn’t the same mild summer night we’d left. The pine trees were menacing shapes, dark and spiky, that crowded near. Something foul had erased the honeysuckle sweetness. Wet brambles clawed at our clothing, and the silence was spooky with threat.

  “Does … does my father know it’s here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. But I was pretty sure I did. I led her back to her house and we went inside. “Where does your father keep his guns?”

  She led me to a cabinet in another room. The door was locked, but she got a key and opened it. John Carvalho had himself a regular little arsenal: several deer rifles, an assortment of handguns, even a powerful-looking hunting bow. The Colt Python that he had taken with him the last time was missing. In one of the drawers below, I found boxes of ammunition, including .38s, and I reloaded the Smith & Wesson. Wordlessly, she watched. When I’d stashed an extra handful of rounds in my pocket and put the box away, I said, “Your father has scanners, here and in his car. Does he monitor police radio traffic?”

  “Sometimes. He’s kind of … afraid of police.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got to leave for a while, Fran.” Her eyes went round with fright. “I’m going to try to prevent anything worse from happening,” I said, hearing the hollowness of my words. I considered taking her with me, but I knew it would only add risk that I couldn’t afford. “I don’t think you’re in danger, but I want you to telephone the police and get someone to come out here as soon as they can make it.”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  “It’s best if I don’t.”

  “Who should I talk to?”

  “Anyone you get. They’re dealing with other things right now, but be persistent. Tell them we may have found a girl who disappeared in town six years ago.”

  “That must’ve been when I was in Colorado. I don’t remember it.”

  “They will. Can you handle it?”

  She didn’t seem quite sure. I took her hands in both of mine and held them, trying to put some warmth in them. “Make the call, Fran,” I said gently. “I’ll wait.” She was motionless for a moment, uncomprehending, I feared, but then she nodded and went into the kitchen. I watched her move among the high stacks of old newspapers and magazines, as if she were fading into the past. I listened until I heard her speaking to the police, then I left and hurried toward the Blazer.

  40

  I tried to retrace the route that John Carvalho had driven in his heap two nights ago. I wasn’t sure of the way, but I felt I was on the right track, my instincts honed sharp by adrenaline, and before long I came upon the old barn set back from the road, and I drew in. Leaving the headlights on, I got out. Bats fluttered through the air above the tilted cupola. Ahead stood the boat on a cradle; with the wind moving in the high grass, it appeared to be underway in a rolling sea. In the glow of the headlights, I walked along the path and came to the sand road that led out to Shawmut Point. The cable was down and I could make out dry tire grooves in the damp sand, where a vehicle had recently passed.

  Back in the Blazer, I engaged the four-wheel drive and shut off the lights. Between the expanses of clearing night sky, sand, and ocean, there was enough visibility to maneuver by, and as I did, my mind’s eye kept panning back to the human remains lying in the cottage, scanning it for something I might have seen but not noticed. It was one of the cop skills I’d once possessed.

  Soon, ahead of me in the gloom, I could make out a row of houses, including one that Rand had owned, which would shortly be torn down to make way for the final phase of Point Pines. I tried for a moment to imagine this place as it must once have existed, pristine, with a margin of low trees and long stretches of dunes and empty beach. Off to one side was Carvalho’s old station wagon. It hadn’t needed a hidden kill switch to bring it to a halt. I could see that the wheels were sunk to the hubs in the soft sand. I got out and went over to the car. It was empty and unlocked. I opened it. The interior held the aromas of dog and the old man’s fear. I glanced around. I tried the glove box, but it was locked, or jammed. Using my key, I pried the edge down enough to get a hold and I yanked the lid open. Inside, among old maps and papers was a cell phone. I was surprised; it didn’t seem like technology Carvalho would trust. I pressed the power button, but it was dead. And now I was pretty sure why Paula Jensen’s calls to her daughter had never reached her. I slid the phone into my pocket.

  From beyond the row of houses, I could hear the sound of the surf rolling against the slope of outer beach. I was sick of the ocean. I wanted a desert, a barren land without people and problems. I approached the last house, which sat slightly apart from the others.

  It was like finally seeing a place that you’ve only heard about in stories. It was the scene of TJ’s and Red Dog’s dark night of decision, where they’d played an adult game with booze and a gun, and pushed friendship to its limit. And it was the scene of harsh discovery for Iva Rand, where betrayal had slapped her in the face. There were probably a host of other memories, fond ones, of family and closeness and fun, and some bad ones, too, but I didn’t know them. The house was unimpressive, in need of the TLC an occupying family would give it, but its family had moved on to other things and were scattered now, and the house was doomed to destruction to make way for bigger things. It was a small drab structure; the only splash of color was a cluster of old lobster buoys, which hung beside the door, like a corsage on a gray dress, though under starlight even they didn’t offer much. I was ten feet from it when the door opened.

  Gruff lunged out, tugging John Carvalho, who held the dog on a chain leash. In his other hand was the Python. He was holding it up, peering over the barrel of it at me. I raised my hands, the way I had when old Vito had come into my office with the sawed-off. Had that been only a few days ago? It felt far longer. Carvalho stopped where he stood.

  He was a massive, humped presence in his old work clothes, his large dog taut on its leash. “I could’ve killed you at any point coming in here,” he said, his hoarse voice cracking.

  “You didn’t, and that’s good. It tells a lot.”

  I was near enough to see large loops of perspiration darkening the shirt fabric under his arms. His forehead was clenched in tight furrows. I was trying to read what went on behind them, there within the vortexes of his dread and paranoia. Was there sickness? The kind that would lead to the torture and murder of a child? I tried to void the image of the body in the cottage, though it didn’t want to go away. “I’m not here to hurt you,” I said. “Or anyone. Put the gun down.” I slid a glance at the dog, which stood rock-still, its eyes locked on me. I drew a slow breath and went nearer.

  “Stop!”

  From the other side of the low rise just beyond the house, the waves beat monotonously against the shore. “Let me take the girl,” I said.

  Carvalho’s small, dark eyes showed no comprehension.

  “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “She made a cell-phone call to her mother.” Still he didn’t move; so I applied whatever pressure a lie might bear. “I traced the call to here.”

  He shook his head firmly, and all of a sudden, I had my doubts. I even felt sympathy for him: his daughter had been taken from him, and it had cost him his wife. He’d been paid off with bad real estate and worse promises. “We can talk about this,” I said.

  “Why? You seem to have the answers.” His voice sounded on the verge of a wail.

  “I was slow in putting it together. I should’ve picked up on it when you first told me about the cameras at the nuke plant—that’s not your only fear about being out here, is it? You’ve worried Rand might be watching you. You didn’t want to be found out.”

  He hooked a thick forearm across his brow, mopping sweat.

  “Come on,” I said. “All this is negotiable.”


  “That’s the trouble with the world. Everything is. Sentences for criminals, tax rates for the superrich, even grades for students … it’s why I left teaching. Nothing’s clear or sure anymore.”

  “It never was, Mr. Carvalho. Some people have just tried to convince us it was. But it’s a lie.”

  “It’s how they want it to be,” he said with sweaty desperation. “I thought you were one of the smarter ones, who understood it. I tried to explain it to you.”

  I knew his riffs—eyes in the sky, Jews in Hollywood, Arabs running the gas pumps, alien encampments on the dark side of the moon … and an unholy high command pulling all the puppet strings. Or there was Rand, who owned Standish. They were simpler scenarios of the constant struggle of the good with the bad, courage with cowardice, all going on right inside our own selves. “Think,” I said. “You haven’t physically hurt anyone yet. Have you? Michelle Nickerson made a phone call last night. On this phone.” I drew out the cellular unit I’d taken from his car. Sweat was streaming from my brow.

  “You’re not making sense,” he mumbled.

  “Tell me about the girl in the cottage behind your motel. The hitchhiker.”

  His eyes widened for an instant. He heaved a breath and seemed to recoil at the idea of my having found out, or at something else churning inside him. “When did you …” His voice almost broke.

  “Just tonight,” I said. “Fran knows, too. The police have been called.”

  Now he did moan. “She … I—I didn’t hurt her. She walked into the office off the road one day. She’d been thumbing, she told me, and someone picked her up. The driver said he’d take her where she wanted to go, but instead he drove her to someplace and …” I could see his Adam’s apple bobble in his thick throat. “Then he … kicked her out of his car, in the woods. When she came to the motel, she was scared to death. I let her stay in the cabin.”