Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  An oil truck passing the opposite way pounded them with bad wind that send the truck skidding towards the shoulder, dirt and snow from the road spattering all over the windshield, the wipers not able to keep up. As long as Hunter could keep it on the road, they’d be fine. Pauline gasped and dug into him a little closer and tighter. He gave her a squeeze and said, “Relax, I’ve got this. You know I do.”

  After the glass cleared and Hunter found what was left of the white line on the edge of the asphalt, Pauline eased up and rubbed her neck. She said, “Drop me back at the Tux? I’m meeting someone there.”

  “Like, a friend? One of the dancers?”

  “Yeah. Just a friend.”

  “She could come out with us if you’re not tired. We could go clubbing.”

  “It’s been a long one. Maybe we can call it a day? I’m real sleepy.”

  So he dropped her off without asking a bunch of questions, because a gentleman would not ask questions. He would act like a gentleman and she would be won over by that.

  Still, though, it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to park around the corner with his lights off and watch who she left with. And sure enough, that friend sure enough looked like a dude. A dude who sure enough looked like a younger, more-muscly oil worker helping her into a Jeep. Hunter clinched his eyes closed real tight and massaged his temples and repeated to himself, “She’s not yours yet. She’s not yours yet. She’s not yours yet. Fuck.”

  Too bad that the next day, that douchebag slipped on the ice outside his trailer when he tried to get into his Jeep and go to work. Broke both legs and a lot of bones in his right foot. Too, too bad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ferret asked, “What do you think he’ll do now?”

  He and Slow Bear sat in an old black Toyota Supra the cop borrowed from a cousin, a block down from The Tux, watching Bad Russell watch his “date” as she took off with another man. Slow Bear had already told Ferret what would happen. They’d been waiting there for nearly an hour.

  Slow Bear said, “I think he’s going to bust that guy up.”

  “Should we stop him?”

  “You joking?”

  The Jeep pulled away. They watched the brake lights disappear. Hard to see with the snow turning to sludge on the heated windshield, the wipers building up an ice dam with every pass. Slow Bear kept squirting pink melting fluid over it, but it just kept piling thicker.

  The big-ass truck Bad Russell was driving didn’t immediately follow. Ferret knew that truck. It was the Baptist’s truck. Glen Ramsey. Jesus. How the hell—

  “I’m telling you,” Slow Bear said, “There’s nothing to it. I’ve had an eye on him for months. On all of you. Just wish I’d kept an eye on Dee Dee for you.”

  Ferret shook his head. “Not your fault.” So he hoped.

  “Everyone says he was on the job site that morning.”

  “But...maybe we just thought he was.”

  “Didn’t you see him yourself?”

  “I don’t know what I saw.”

  Slow Bear sighed. “Don’t tell the police that.”

  Ramsey’s truck started up, and Slow Bear waited until it was about to take a corner to roll out, catch up.

  “You still want to follow?”

  Ferret shrugged. “Yeah.” His heart wasn’t much in it. He had come to Slow Bear, finger-pointing Bad Russell, saying he’d either done the kidnapping—he still wouldn’t say she was dead, but was out there, somewhere, a prisoner—or knew who had. Slow Bear shot him down easily, minute by minute this whole evening of skulking around on the man’s tail. No way he could’ve done it. No one else who made sense doing it.

  They made the turn, could barely see Bad Russell’s taillights. He’d really gunned it. Quiet in the car for a few minutes. Ferret was getting close to calling it off. It had been a shot in the dark anyway. If Ferret was going to punish anyone tonight, well, guess it would be himself. Again.

  Then Slow Bear said, “I’m kinda surprised you wanted to see me about this.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me count the ways. First, you know I’m dirty. Just as dirty as you, so maybe in all of your questioning from the police, all your desperation to find your wife, understandably, some names pop out.”

  “Never happened.”

  “Hear me out, okay? That was just number one. Number two, also understanding that I’m dirty, even if I was involved with this shit, you would never know. I’d have killed you before you figured that out. And thirdly, maybe I’ll still kill you because the more desperate you get, the more likely those names will pop out of your mouth.” A grin on his face the whole time.

  Ferret shook his head. “I can’t find her if I’m in jail.”

  “And what if she’s dead? What if they find her dead?”

  Ready to bolt. Ferret grabbed the door handle. “Go fuck yourself. Motherfucker.”

  They were still rolling. Ferret swung the door open. Slow Bear stopped. Ferret had one foot out the door when Slow Bear said, “Wait.”

  The snow stung Ferret’s cheeks and eyes and he crouched, still one foot in the car, and shouted, “No, you wait, you piece of shit—”

  But Slow Bear was already rifling through the glove compartment, pulled out a revolver. Ferret jumped back, slipping, falling back onto his ass, staring back into the car. Slow Bear pushed himself across the seat, leaning out, holding the gun handle first. “Take it. Be careful. Don’t shoot him with it, though. Use it to make him talk.”

  Ferret covered his mouth. Just all too much, man. Coughed. Sniffed.

  “Come on, take it.”

  Ferret wiped his hand down over his stubble and shook his head. “I can’t take that to camp.”

  “Stick it in your car until you need it. Just, before someone sees us, would you?”

  It took him a long moment. Ass hurting, legs hurting. But he finally pushed himself off the sidewalk and got back into the car. Once settled with the door closed, stomping his boots to get the slush off, he took the revolver from Slow Bear and let it rest in the palm of his hand. It was an S&W thirty-eight, hammerless, stainless steel with black rubber grips, molded. Snubnose.

  “It’s full and ready to go. Pull the trigger. Not now, but, you know. Only if you need to.”

  Ferret kept staring. He’d fired plenty of guns—shotguns, hunting rifles, pistols, like, twenty-twos or pellets. Stopped going deer hunting about the same time his band started getting gigs.

  “Would you not point that at me? And hold it right?” He started up again. The truck was long gone.

  Ferret shoved the revolver into his coat pocket. If he got caught with that...

  “And don’t go thinking it’s like, point and shoot. No. Get close. Too close, he’ll grab it. Not close enough, you’ll miss.”

  “Thanks.” It came out mostly sigh. Then, “She’s not dead. Don’t ever say that again.”

  Slow Bear nodded. It didn’t sound like Ferret believed it himself. “Sorry about that. I’m sure you’re right. Pretty sure.”

  *

  Slow Bear dropped Ferret back at the man camp and drove away. Ferret detoured to his car before heading inside without the gun. He stopped off at his locker to trade his work boots for a pair of slippers he’d picked up for nine bucks at Walmart. He hung his coat on the hook opposite the one for his helmet. A pair of three-day jeans he would wear a fourth and fifth were heaped at the bottom.

  He peeked into the theater room—six rows of nice leather recliner chairs, two each side, and the space between littered with hard plastic cafeteria chairs—but saw it was mostly full with guys matching MMA fights. He wasn’t in the mood. He sometimes liked to sit in there late at night, just him and the blue screen. But not tonight.

  He passed the pool tables, foosball table, saw a few guys in the cafeteria, lights blazing as always. Some off-duty men snacking on microwave shit while messing with their phones. Near the back, one guy sat with both hands around a cup of coffee, his face hovering over it, just enjoying the
heat, maybe.

  Ferret hadn’t talked to him in quite a while. Not even sure if he should. But, shit, it had to be done. He started over.

  Good Russell didn’t look up until Ferret was at his table. Tight grin, chin nod. Ferret sat across from him without being asked. Waited, hands in his pockets.

  Good Russell said, “I’m sorry, man. I heard, and I’m sorry. Wish I would’ve known.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, man, I’m really sorry.” Finally took a sip. “You’re sure there’s no chance she just, like, left? No offense.”

  “She didn’t just leave. She’s got a daughter. We. We’ve got a daughter.”

  “I just meant...yeah, I bet lots of people say that. Trying to help.”

  “Well, it doesn’t.”

  Good Russell nodded. “They think you did it.”

  “I don’t care what they think.”

  “You think it was Hunter.”

  It took a second for Ferret to remember who that was. But he did. “You tell me.”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  Another quiet stretch. Another sip of coffee. This time, eyes on each other.

  Ferret said, “That’s it? Not going to tell me there’s no way? He’s all innocent at heart? Boy trapped in a man’s body?”

  “Like I said. I wasn’t here.”

  “So you’ve got no problem with me dealing with him.”

  “I didn’t say that. Go after him, I’m right behind you. You don’t want that.”

  “Now that I know, maybe I’ll deal with you first.”

  Good Russell spread his arms wide. “Go ahead.” A little loud. “You want to risk getting kicked out? Where else do you have to go?”

  “Stay out of this. This is your one and only warning, man. Pretend you’re still off on the road recuperating or whatever shit you told Pancrazy.”

  Ferret stood and stared down at Good Russell. Then said, “You know I’m not going to tell anybody about what we did. You know that, right?”

  Good Russell wrapped his hands around his mug again. “Sounds like a threat.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “I get it.” Another grin. “I really mean it, though. I’m sorry.”

  Ferret waited for another eye-to-eye dare. Something. Anything. But Good Russell kept his eyes down. Ferret said, “Good.”

  He walked out of the cafeteria and went back to his room. Three cold dark hours later, he was asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Valentine’s Day blizzard was so rough that the company called in a one-shift work stoppage overnight, so the night shift guys thought about heading off to Minot to see some wrestling. Like a suicide trip, Hunter thought. It took a shit ton to stop work on the Bakken. Like closed interstates. Like, complete whiteout. But like one of the roughnecks told Hunter at the Tuxedo, eating scrambled eggs, toast, and a beer while watching the girls slither around to some ambient mood music, “Ain’t nothing a six-pack and some squinting can’t cure.”

  But Hunter had other things on his mind. As soon as Pauline got off work—she was still pissed at him, said he didn’t have to hurt the guy, whatever—they needed to hurry. Letting it play out naturally was taking too long. With a blizzard like this and another expected within the next week, if they sat on their asses any longer, it would be goddamned May before anyone would find her. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Pauline walked out from the backstage door, eyes on her phone, only looking up long enough to say, “I’m ready” before ignoring Hunter again. No fair, man. He’d put in all this time, and he’d been a real nice guy, and they shared this secret, and still she was a bitch. Maybe if she’d told him outright, you know. Like, I’m seeing other guys, that would be better. Not okay, not really. But better. Honesty, right? Back in his room, eyes closed and this little bitch on all fours (in his mind) and looking over her shoulder (in his mind) saying, “I’ll fuck anyone I want. How are you going to stop me?” (and that was when he came, not in his mind.) Bitch bitch bitch.

  Today he needed her, though. Nothing he could do about that clumsy jackass this morning, breaking his hip, then Pauline running outside, confirming what he had feared. I mean, he drove them all to the hospital and left his ass there, didn’t he? Got her to work on time, since she switched a shift with Jenn, didn’t he? So fine. He held the door open for her and said, “After you, m’lady,” and even opened the door of Ramsey’s truck for her. Not even a “thanks.”

  After he cranked up, they waited for the engine to warm, waited for the wipers to take care of the snow that had built up on the windshield. Hunter asked, “You checked on him this morning?”

  A sigh. “I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m not asking about you and him, just if they—”

  “No, I haven’t. I probably won’t. I don’t know. It’s none of your business.”

  He counted to ten, the first five slowly then a race to nine, ten. “Listen. Please. I don’t care if you fuck him. Fucking is fucking, I get that.” No, I don’t, but if it helps... “But just be honest with me. We’ll be fine if you’re just—”

  “I’ll get out right now, I swear. I’ll call the cops right now. See?” Pauline flashed the screen of her phone at him. “Got a shortcut to nine-one-one right here.”

  So he’d been wrong. This wasn’t the one for him after all. Just another stripper who used guys to get what she needed, or, in this case, protect her from the sleazy guys so she could go out and fuck other sleazy guys once Hunter had gone home. He got it. He nodded. Pulled his lips tight. Shifted into drive. “Off we go.”

  *

  Pauline had remembered to tag the spot on GPS where she’d watched the man drive a couple of days after she’d watched him take Missus Ferret from the school parking lot. Not that it was forceful or anything. Missus Ferret parked and got out, then reached back in for her purse, but someone was waving from a nearby truck, still running. She left her purse in the car and went over to the driver’s window, spoke to him for about a minute. Not that Pauline could hear any of it. She was parked pretty far away because Hunter had never said anything about listening, just watching the woman. Said he couldn’t do it twenty-four-seven, so he paid her for a little help. Why? Why did he want her to follow this woman? Wasn’t that kind of creepy?

  “I worried about her,” he’d said. “She’s married to a friend of mine.”

  “You’re following your friend’s wife?”

  He’d shrugged. “He’s not the brightest guy. Just looking out for him.”

  Seemed Pauline had bought that well enough, or at least had stopped asking questions because he’d handed her a wad of tens and fives and a baggie of crank. And that worked well enough for a handful of days, a weekend. She’d call him and give him the details, boring as they were. Sometimes the conversation swerved into other stuff, like music or gossip about the girls at the Tux or video games, because she was into PS4, and then they met every now and then at the Tux and he’d buy her some drinks. They started goofing around, smoking rocks, messing around, and, yeah, it was fun to kiss and grope, but she’d made sure to tell him every time that, like, they were just having fun. Hunter thought that meant it was okay. Maybe it didn’t make sense to him—how could they just be friends if she was, you know, yeah? But now he was thinking back on it, and if that was how the girls were these days, shit, what was a nice guy to do?

  But she was here with him today, and that meant something. Once it was out in the open, he wondered if she’d distance herself more, or cling tighter. It’s not like she could lie and tell the police Hunter had killed the woman. She could, but come on, she knew better. What he needed to do was get her out in the cold, let her see the woman’s body in the clear light of day.

  They pulled onto the shoulder of the road, snow slamming into the right side of the truck, blocking out the passenger window almost immediately.

  Pauline scooted forward, hands on the dash. “There was a road here. But it was
further up.”

  “Dirt road?”

  “Gravel.”

  Hunter would have to guess. The truck could handle the snow on a road, but a dive into a ditch would fuck things up pretty good. He rolled forward, slowly, looking for tire tracks, or a clear patch, settled snow. No windbreaks nearby either, just open land. What had the killer been thinking when he left her here?

  “How far away were you when you stopped?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “Look at it out here. He could’ve seen you.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “Shut up shut up shut up!” Hands over her ears.

  What was this shit? Jesus. “I’m sorry, okay? But, I’m just saying...”

  Pauline was shivering. Looking at her lap. “You’re scaring me.”

  “He doesn’t have any reason to pay attention to you if there were other cars around. Were you alone?”

  “There were some trucks out, sugar beet trucks. I remember that.”

  “Okay. Stop shaking. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

  He put his hand on her thigh and gave it a squeeze. He felt her tense, so he pulled away, rolled the truck a little farther along. Finally saw what he was looking for—the faded white line on the road, not quite covered all the way, curved off to the right. “I think it’s here.”

  Crossed his fingers in his mind and tucked his tongue into his cheek. Pulled off slowly, and the tires stayed level, and soon he was on the road all the way, no trouble, and he sped up again. Pauline pulled her legs up under her, balled up as tight as she could. Whatever. Hunter was starting to worry. Maybe she hadn’t gotten close enough after all. Maybe the killer had seen her acting suspicious and moved the body. Maybe this was a waste of time.

  But, no, it wasn’t fair. Not to Ferret, not to Missus Ferret, not to their daughter. He shouldn’t have waited this long, no he shouldn’t have. He should’ve told Russell, and Russell would’ve known what to do. Unless Russell was in on it, too. Then it would be Hunter’s turn to disappear. Jesus, this was hard. It had taken him weeks to finally come up with this plan, and only now was he realizing how much he hadn’t thought about. He wasn’t good at thinking long term. He wasn’t good at playing chess. He wasn’t even good at poker.