Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  But then Bill the Lawyer stepped back in and knew what was going on and the threats flew—“Could throw the whole case out because of—” “That’s bullshit and you know it!” “What part of ‘no more questions’ didn’t you understand?” “I was just talking to the man! Jesus, his wife was killed. Can’t I tell the guy I’m sorry?”

  On and on, or at least it felt that way to Ferret, and he was too tired to really tune in. Then one of the cops said something about the “phone tip” and the lawyer was all like, “we’re not going to talk about this anymore” and said unless Ferret was under arrest, blah blah blah.

  Pretty soon, Bill the Lawyer led Ferret outside into the blinding sun and sub-zero temps and said, “Let me give you a ride.”

  Ferret nodded, still blinking. “Can you take me to Walmart?”

  *

  On the way, Bill the Lawyer gave Ferret the rundown of what to do, what not to do. He had been kicked out of the man camp—violation of rules, supposedly—and the law firm would rent a room for him in a local hotel until he could find another place to stay.

  “Who hired you, anyway?”

  The lawyer said, “Unfortunately, your benefactor will have to remain anonymous at this time, as he or she has asked us to refrain from telling you.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

  “Was it my boss? Was it my in-laws?”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  They pulled into the Walmart parking lot, the lawyer driving up to the doors. “I need to run back to the station and see about getting your car out of impound. Can you stay put until I get back?”

  Ferret patted his pockets, wondering what had happened to his phone. His wallet, he still had that, but where was that goddamned phone? “Do you have my phone?”

  “Shit.” The lawyer sighed. “Okay, I’ll try to get your phone, too. But just stay here. I’ll find you. Don’t talk to any cops. Don’t talk to anyone you know. Just, I don’t know, buy what you need and wait for me by the bakery. Do you understand?”

  Ferret nodded.

  “Need to hear you say it.”

  “I get it. That’s fine. I really want to call my girl, you know.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see.” Same shit the cops had said. “Stay. Put.”

  Ferret got out of the car, and Bill the Lawyer drove away.

  *

  After a quick piss in the restroom, Ferret made a beeline for the sporting goods. The whole time he was pissing, the whole walk to the back in this crowded pit of a store, he wondered about the “phone tip”, someone finding Dee Dee and calling it in. Someone who knew where to find her, not just some accident. He was putting together jigsaw pieces. If Pancrazio did have something to do with it, it would make perfect sense for him to get Ferret a lawyer, inspire some loyalty. Almost like an apology. And which one of the goddamn fucks who worked for him would help out with dirty work such as this?

  Sporting Goods. He had a couple of credit cards in his wallet, hoped they hadn’t been frozen. Had his bankcard, same hope there. Cash? Eighty bucks, maybe. That was enough. He wasn’t looking for the highest quality. All he needed was one good cheap oversized golf club. A driver. They were all lined up, pristine, useless until May, June, long goddamned time. They were even on sale, begging to be bought so the new models could replace them. He picked up a PowerMax, usually one-twenty, now only seventy-nine. He counted his cash again—eighty-six, to be exact, and gave the driver a couple of practice swings. Good enough for his game, anyway.

  Ferret also thought that the cops weren’t going to let him out of their sights so easily. So fuck the expensive club. He put it back, grabbed a Pinemeadow for forty, and went over to men’s clothing, looking for a new jacket.

  The one he chose, something the younger worms showed up in, real fluffy and shiny, like they’d seen on TV, ski commercials, shit like that. It wasn’t a jacket the cops would recognize like the one he had on now, one Pancrazy had given him, just another old company jacket turned dingy with oil and snow smeared together.

  He left it in the dressing room, checked out with his new coat, already wearing it, and his new golf club, the cashier joking, “Guess playing in weather like this keeps you out of sand traps.” Ferret smiled and told her, “If it goes in a water hazard, I can skate right to it and use a hockey stick.”

  He got a few bucks change back, walked right past the bakery and out the front door. Fuck Bill the Lawyer. Ferret had some other shit to do first.

  *

  Maybe they had kicked him out of the man camp, but this time of day, he knew all the places he could slip inside with barely a whisper. Easy, man. Not like this was a high-value target or anything. It was just a bunch of pre-fab trailers where dirty, exhausted roughnecks slept between shifts. How many people here actually knew he’d been kicked out? Not the guys in the back of the Walmart parking lot he caught a ride back with. They were more than happy to let him squeeze into the back of the quad cab.

  Now, sunset at the camp, he didn’t bother with the front door, didn’t need to take off his work boots and coat. He gripped his new golf club right near the head and made his way around to the unit where Bad Russell slept. If he was here, great. If not, Ferret would wait for him in the dark. It was getting done tonight. Answers. Fucking answers. Dee Dee’s face, drained of life. She wouldn’t open her eyes, not even for Ferret. For no one. Ever again.

  He didn’t bother with his key card. They could track shit like that. He took the steps to the center door, pounded a few times. Waited a minute. Pounded again. A black guy in boxer-briefs and a week’s worth of beard opened up, pissy-looking. “Shit, man.”

  “Just flat out lost my key.”

  “Get the fuck in here. Fucking cold.”

  “I hear you.” Ferret stepped inside, hugged himself. “And I’m from Alabama.”

  “San Diego.” The guy closed the door. Grinned. “Don’t know if they told you, but you won’t be playing golf until May, son.”

  “Still got to practice my swing. Need something to do.”

  “You even got enough room to swing?”

  “If I hold my tongue right, I do.”

  The guy laughed, headed back to the bathroom, probably where he was heading before. “Crazy white boy.”

  Once he was gone, Ferret stopped smiling—it had hurt to do so—and walked down the hallway to Bad Russell’s room. Not Hunter. BAD Russell. BAD BAD BAD. BAD MAN. Lying sack of shit. Redneck, inbred, hick, stalking son-of-a-whore. He gave the club a spin in his hand, like Tiger Woods did after a good drive. Few and far between lately. But Ferret was feeling, you know, if not good, then at least determined, motherfucker.

  This door. This one right here. He’d been here before. He never wanted to see it again after this. Ferret knocked. A light knock. Did his best Good Russell. “Hunter? You up?”

  Maybe there was a noise on the other side. Hard to tell.

  Another knock. Even lighter this time. “Buddy? You okay?”

  “Give me a sec.”

  Bad Russell.

  Ferret slid his hand halfway down the shaft of the driver.

  Wait for it. Wait.

  Bad Russell opened the door, naked except for thick socks, hair matted, filthy, face filthy, chest filthy, and his eyes went wide and he tried to shut it again but Ferret kicked it open and Bad Russell fell onto the floor and held his hands over his head. Burnt foil went flying. A bunch of disposable lighters on his bedside table. Ferret swung the club—the shaft hit his forearms and bounced, whooshed. Ferret aimed lower. The man’s legs curled up like a baby’s. Ferret went to town on Bad Russell’s right knee. Three hard fucking swings.

  “You piece of shit, you’re the phone tip! Say it! You knew where she was this whole fucking time!”

  “Stop! Fuck! Stop! Jesus! Stop!”

  Another blow. “Say it! Pancrazy did it! You knew!” Another blow.

  “I didn’t! I didn’t know! I didn’t do it! Please! Stop! Stop!”

>   Another blow. “Fucking stalked my wife! You fucking knew! Say it! You motherfuckin—” Another blow. Another. Another. “Say it!”

  “Stttttt—” Bad Russell tried to grab his pulped up knee, busted up kneecap, all sorts of tore up swelled up fucked up, but every time he tried, another blow. Another. Crying. Motherfucker was crying. “Gene! Handy! Gene Handy! Gene Handy!”

  From behind Ferret, someone slipped their arms under his, braced him, dragged him back from Bad Russell. “Enough! Goddamn!”

  Slow Bear. The Indian had him good. Good Russell swooped in underneath, knelt by Bad Russell’s side. “Shit man, shit. He didn’t do it, okay? He didn’t do it! Grab me a fucking towel! Somebody!”

  Ferret came back down from the hate high and realized every fucking piece of shit roughneck was crowded around the door, watching. Someone tossed in a damp towel, and Russell went to work wrapping it around Bad Russell’s leg, already the size of an anaconda that swallowed a pig.

  “Let me go.”

  “Drop the club.”

  “Let me go!”

  Slow Bear vise-gripped him. “Drop it!”

  Ferret, nose-flared like a bull, dropped it, but would kick like wild thunder if anyone tried to beat him down now. Every muscle in him, tight and ready to spring. “I swear, if you think—”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  Ferret turned and got in Slow Bear’s face. Had to shout over Bad Russell’s screams. “He knows who did! He knew where she was!”

  “I know, but he was afraid, alright?” Slow Bear sniffed, tried to catch his breath. “He told you who did it.”

  “Like fuck.”

  “He did. It was Gene Handy, alright? Gene Handy took your wife and killed her. Gene Fucking Handy.”

  “Like fuck, I said!”

  Bad Russell cried out, “But he did, I swear, I fucking swear, man, I swear, I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry, man!”

  Ferret’s face felt like it would split, all the heat and blood in it. Jesus. “Fuck you.”

  Slow Bear slapped Ferret. Big dose of sober. “Calm down. We need to get out of here.”

  Good Russell said, “This is fucked up. Goddamn, we need an ambulance.”

  “No time. Get him up, get him moving.”

  “Are you out of you goddamned—”

  “Fuck that, I’m good. Let’s go.” Bad Russell gripped Bad Russell’s shirt hard. “Just get me out of here, I’ll tell Ferret everything. I swear.”

  “You can’t...I can’t even...Jesus.”

  Bad Russell reached out for the golf club. Couldn’t reach. “Give me that fucking club.”

  “Jesus, Hunter.”

  “It’s a crutch. I can lean on it. Let’s go, man, hurry.”

  Slow Bear had Ferret by the elbow. Turned to the wall of men blocking the door. The black guy who had let Ferret in stared in hard over the heads of a few other men. “Shit, I let that motherfucker in. It’s payback time.”

  All those motherfuckers in the hall agreed. The grumbling grew louder.

  Slow Bear pulled his pistol from the small of his back, straight-armed it. “Get back. You’re not touching him. I’ve got it under control.”

  “Like fuck. You’ve got one gun.”

  Chanting. Stomping, Hands slapping walls and doors. “ONE. GUN. ONE. GUN. ONE. GUN.”

  Slow Bear aimed over their heads and shot into the hallway, high on the wall. But every one of those sons-of-bitches dropped, shrunk, cowered. Slow Bear said, “Self-defense.”

  He started out of the room. The men on the ground hunched and crawled away on either side of him. Good and Bad Russell followed up, Good Russell holding most of his friend’s weight while Bad Russell fought to keep his left foot from touching the ground, hobbling with the head of a driver in his armpit. Slow, seething through his teeth. Someone handed Good Russell a bathrobe, said, “Here, cover him up.”

  That started a few calls up and down the hall: “Gonna be okay, Hunter.” “Be alright, man.” “Kick his ass, Hunter!” Then the clapping started. Backslapping as Bad Russell made his way down the hall, now clinching the bathrobe across his chest with his free hand.

  The men followed the four down the hallway, hissing at the Indian cop and Ferret, cheering on the Russells, until they got to the door and stepped out. Right at the door, an honest to fuck Reservation Police SUV, engine still running. Ferret realized—they had come to get Bad Russell. Ferret being here, just a coincidence. Slow Bear pushed Ferret along down the stairs, told him, “You couldn’t wait half an hour? You had to pull this shit now?”

  “Were you going to tell me at all?”

  “We just needed, shit, just an hour more. Just, shit, man.” He dragged Ferret around to the passenger side, opened the front door, and nearly threw him at the opening. “You should’ve let me handle it. There’s a plan.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “Handy. We’re going to get Handy. I wanted him down before we told you. I didn’t want you anywhere near this.”

  The Russells piled into the backseat, Hunter groaning his ass off.

  Ferret said, “You didn’t want me to kill anybody.”

  “But you nearly fucking did. Get in the truck.” Slow Bear jogged around to the driver’s side, but there were more cars showing up at the unit now. Some from private security, some from the Sheriff’s office. Lights going, no sirens.

  Slow Bear didn’t wait to see what they wanted. In the driver’s seat, no seatbelt, turned on the lights and sirens and slammed the car into gear, pedal to the floor. Squawks all over the radio, demanding he stop in that low-key cop radio voice, like, “compel you to stop.” Compel. Slow Bear reached down, flicked the radio off. “Fuck that.”

  Ferret knew where they were headed. All the Indian cop had to do was make it back to the Rez, give them some breathing room.

  Good Russell reached over the back of the seat and slapped the cap off Ferret’s head. “The fuck were you thinking! This is, shit, they’re never going to fix this leg. Holy shit!”

  Bad Russell shushed him and said, “No, man, no, it’s all me. I should’ve...I really should’ve...” The tears started, and Ferret couldn’t tell if they were from the pain or from the heart. “Shit. Pancrazy was worried someone would mess with your wife. She was a really nice lady. I really liked her. He wanted me to keep an eye on her after you get driving for him. I swear.”

  “So you followed her around? Freaked her out? Scared the shit out of us, you jackass.”

  “I followed her because you had to work. I followed her to make sure nobody tried nothing. And when she caught on, I had a friend follow her, too.”

  “That’s great. That’s just fucking great.”

  Slow Bear said, “Listen. It wasn’t a man. It was a stripper. College girl. Seriously, listen.”

  Ferret turned in his seat. The deputies were far behind, lights twinkling miles back. He looked at Bad Russell—bad leg propped on Good Russell’s knee. Jesus, it was gruesome. He couldn’t look right at it.

  Bad Russell said, “Pauline, she saw the whole thing. Gene Handy showed up, called her over, probably said you’d been hurt, and that’s why she left everything and went with him.”

  “She went with him?”

  Bad Russell nodded. Grunted. Held his breath. Let it out again. “God, my God, oh fuck. I’m so sorry. I deserved it.”

  “You didn’t tell Pancrazy? You didn’t tell anybody?”

  “It was Gene Handy! I didn’t know what to do, man. That fucker....Jesus.”

  “You could’ve told somebody.”

  “He’s too slippery. I didn’t want him to find out. And and and Pauline, and and, maybe he saw her? She followed him. And then when the snow started, he took her out to the fields...what was I supposed to do?”

  Ferret wanted to finish the job on him. Gunshot. Clean, simple. Motherfucker didn’t deserve to live. “You were. Supposed. To save. My wife. You cowardly. Bitch.”

  Bad Russell dropped his gaze. “I deserve that, I
do.”

  Ferret turned to face the darkness ahead of them again, the headlights barely showing shit. “All it would’ve took...” Ferret felt drained. Going fast. “You could’ve saved her. She was right there. You could’ve...” Sigh.

  Quiet except for Slow Bear’s siren and the engine going hard.

  Slow Bear said, “I didn’t know. I found out yesterday.”

  Ferret nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Honest, man. These fucking guys...”

  Bad Russell said, “I was going to. But, I had to keep Pauline safe. I thought she liked me.”

  Ferret shook his head. “Fuck Pauline. You let my wife die.”

  “I swear, it was Gene Handy—”

  “He was my friend! Why the fuck would he kill Dee Dee? What the fuck! He even went with me when the school called.” It made him sick to his stomach, Gene Handy having already done the deed, but driving him out to the school anyway, standing by him all this time...telling him it was Pancrazio. Telling him to look for proof in Pancrazio’s house. “Shit.”

  “It’s all about the money.” Good Russell this time. “Pancrazio trusted you. You could get closer than Handy could. Then you quit when your wife got here—”

  “Enough. I got it. Alright? I got it.” The quiet settled again. Then Ferret broke down, big gasping sobs. Like something was squeezing his heart, burning his lungs. “Oh god...oh god...oh god.”

  Nothing else needed to be said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Pancrazio had set up three more space heaters in his RV, bringing the total to seven, and yet it still wasn’t enough. He was beginning to think that it wasn’t really cold in the homeland after all. It was that each one of them carried his own cold, one that no heat could thaw.

  But here he sat, surrounded by electric heaters, his skin dry, itchy, and yet he was still sweating. Nothing could thaw him, though. He wondered if a tanning bed would help. He wondered if retiring to Florida would help. But that would be the worst irony, him in a bathing suit on a roasting beach, still shivering. No, it had to be here. It had to be North Dakota. If he was going to Hell anyway, he might as well do it on his own terms. Free.