Smiley

by Ezell, Michael

  “Good point.”

  They marched single-file back up to the rest stop. Treading in the tracks of LaSalle’s size fifteens reminded Garrett of following his old man around the lake on a fishing trip, his little wader boots splunching into the deeper prints left by Dad’s.

  Why the hell was Dad so convinced the girl vanished instead of just leaving with another trucker? Was she supposed to stay here? Did he expect to see her again? Shit, was he in love with her?

  LaSalle drove them to City Hall and Garrett actually got the printed property maps with no hassle whatsoever. He still saw Sue Ingles on the phone, whispering away while sneaking glances at Garrett and LaSalle.

  On the way back to Garrett’s, they drove by Nadine’s house. Garrett saw a stooped old lady wearing a winter coat over a robe standing on Nadine’s lawn, staring at the house.

  “That’s weird. Would you mind pulling over for a second?” Garrett said.

  “Sure, what’s up?” LaSalle pulled over in front of Nadine’s.

  “Gimme a minute here, maybe nothing.”

  Garrett got out and saw the old woman’s face relax when she saw him. “Mrs. Shotwell, what on earth are you doing out here in this cold?”

  She grabbed Garrett’s arm with clawed fingers. “Chief, I’m worried about Nadine. I can’t find her anywhere. I called her to go to Bingo down at the Elks this afternoon, but she didn’t answer. We have each other’s keys in case of emergency, so I walked across the street and let myself in, you know, in case she’d fallen or something.”

  “Of course,” Garrett said.

  “But she wasn’t in there. It felt... cold and lonely in there.”

  Doesn’t it always? Garrett thought.

  “Did you check her garage for her car?”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Shotwell looked confused. “I guess I forgot about that. You don’t suppose she went without me, do you?”

  Garrett trekked through the snow to the side of Nadine’s garage. The old detached style from another age, with windows on both sides. He peeked in a window and saw a Schwinn bicycle made just after World War II rusting away in there. Its flat tires looked like they’d taken root in the concrete.

  But no crappy Lincoln. Only a big oil spot a few feet away from the front wall.

  He came back to Mrs. Shotwell. “She’s probably out at Burton’s ministering to the girls. You know Nadine. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

  Mrs. Shotwell didn’t look to be buying today. “You come see what’s in her kitchen and tell me something’s not wrong.”

  Nadine’s open front door suddenly filled Garrett with dread. Or he might have been on the edge of a panic attack. He needed to get his scrip refilled.

  “Please, Chief.”

  “Technically, Mrs. Shotwell, I’m not the Chief anymore. You should probably call Shirley down in Dispatch.”

  “And what, have them send out that fool Whit Abercrombie?” She put a hand on his arm again. Thin skin, blue veins, and bones. Like Mom’s hand in the hospital.

  “There may be some folks around here who like Robert Lee’s family more than the truth. But to my mind, you were the smartest darn Chief of Police we ever had. Your daddy included. No offense, but I taught him in Sunday school, God rest his soul.”

  Garrett grinned. “I guess I could walk into the kitchen, if you came with me.”

  “Thank you.” She shuffled off and Garrett gave LaSalle the “one second” sign before he followed her. The house was creepy enough when Nadine was in it, but empty, it felt like being in a haunted house at the carnival, waiting for someone to jump out at you. Four generations of Pearsons had taken a whack at building additions to the joint and sometimes hallways came to an abrupt end and you had to turn around and come back.

  Unless you had a guide like Mrs. Shotwell. She stood to one side, her coat grasped shut in modesty, while Garrett looked around the spacious kitchen. He saw a pie in a strange looking tin atop the stove.

  “What kind of pan is that?”

  “It’s called a Holzit pie tin, made for cooking berry pies. The little well around the edge catches anything that bubbles over. They don’t make those anymore, you know. My granddaughter sold two of mine on the eBay for thirty-five dollars each. Can you imagine? I bought them for a dollar apiece.”

  Garrett gave her a guilty glance and ran his finger through the filling in the little trough. He tasted it. “We definitely have a cherry pie. What’s wrong with that?”

  Mrs. Shotwell looked at him like she regretted the thing she said about his intelligence. “Look at the can of lard there. It’s brand new, and with that much missing there’s no way she made just one pie.”

  “How do you know it’s brand new?”

  One bony finger tapped a torn piece of brown paper.

  Lard. The first ingredient on a shopping list.

  Written across the top of the list in a flowing feminine hand and underlined twice: Cherry Surprise.

  “That pie is ice cold. Nadine would not have left it out all night uncovered. And I don’t see another pie in the refrigerator or anywhere else,” Mrs. Shotwell said.

  It dawned on Garrett. Maybe he could live up to her expectations after all. “She took a pie to someone. Last night.”

  ***

  Smiley took Nadine apart like a prize hog. He used his sharp, heavy knife at the joints, the hacksaw on the stubborn parts.

  This he did in the side room. The special room wasn’t for wrinkled old bags like Nadine. He carried the parts down a narrow passage lit with small electric bulbs powered by car batteries. Thick timbers supported the dirt walls and ceiling running under his barn. Over the years, his meticulous nature made him add sheetrock to all the walls to make it seem more homey.

  He took a left and came to a pit with a trapdoor over it. He tossed Nadine’s pieces in there with the last girl’s feet and insides. He picked up the bag of lime beside the pit and shook in a goodly amount. The smell made him wrinkle his nose. It would get worse before it got better. He closed the trap door and made sure the rubber seal was tight all the way around.

  The underground hide needed air shafts, and although they came up in hidden areas of the barn, the last thing he needed right now was for Misty and Angela to smell something weird coming from the barn.

  He stood in the dim light and looked at the last intersection of his tunnel system. He decided he wouldn’t go to them tonight. To punish himself for lousing up Bradley’s killing. If he hadn’t been covered in blood, he wouldn’t have had to kill Nadine.

  The Hunter wanted to see his trophies, though. Deserved to see them.

  Smiley went down the last short hall to his trophy room. Camouflage netting draped the sheetrock walls in there like ancient tapestries. He turned off the main lights and flipped a separate switch. Ten red bulbs in dangling fixtures bathed the trophy room in murder light.

  The only personal thing Papa ever shared with him was his love of taxidermy. He taught Smiley, and even seemed proud of him for a while. Then for some reason he stopped buying the supplies and beat the living shit out of Smiley for asking about it.

  Later, Smiley would understand. It was jealousy.

  Papa knew the mechanics of taking care of a hide, or a bird’s feathers. He knew how to create the body form to hold those hides. The thing he lacked was an artistic flair for it.

  Papa couldn’t capture the animal at its brightest, most brilliant state. That state of adrenalized flight before the hunter’s shotgun booms, the wary stance of the Whitetail as it picks up the hunter’s scent.

  Smiley did have a flair for it. Practically a dad-gummed artist at it. Everyone who ever asked him to mount an animal said as much. His trophies were vibrant and beautiful.

  They all knelt with their backs to Smiley, their various wounds marking their identities to him better than their faces ever could. Some were missing hands, some feet.

  Since building this room, he’d mounted seven he was satisfied with. Only the most beautiful made the cut. The las
t girl’s skin was still in process, but she’d make number eight. Her body form was almost finished and it pissed him off that he’d have to deal with other things over the next few days instead of working on his latest piece.

  He ran his fingers through the green hair of the one closest to him. He’d had thoughts of changing the color to something more pleasing, but he couldn’t bring himself to alter the way she’d been the most lovely, when she was strapped into the antique dentist’s chair.

  He kept a straight-back chair from Ma’s dining set against the front wall of the trophy room. He sat there now, like a king receiving his subjects. They still knelt with their backs to him, as it should be.

  He turned out the lights and sat in the dark with his trophies. The Hunter was behind them and they couldn’t see him, as always.

  16

  “I want to know what the hell you thought you were doing posing as a police officer and entering the home of a citizen of this town,” Whit Abercrombie said. His cheeks had high red splotches and a dribble of juice from his dip stained the corner of his mouth.

  Garrett considered Whit like he had a second head. “I made sure to remind Mrs. Shotwell I wasn’t the Chief anymore. But more importantly...that’s what you’re taking away from this? I come to you with information about a series of missing girls and now you have someone in town missing, and all you can worry about is your damn job title.”

  They sat in Garrett’s old office. His dad’s old office. The disco-era furniture had vanished, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It had been replaced with some split-rail log cabin shit that made Garrett wonder if Whit had a coonskin cap in his desk drawer.

  Whit leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “You have gone off the deep end, son. A series of missing girls? People go missing all the time, and over the years it’ll add up to a lot of folks. And I don’t believe you of all people can’t understand a hooker leaving town without saying goodbye doesn’t amount to some conspiracy to kidnap women.”

  “What about Nadine?”

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s been known to drive clear into the next county, handing out bibles and offerin’ up Greyhound tickets all the way,” Whit said. “You were in there. See any signs of foul play?”

  “No.”

  “Door was locked when Mrs. Shotwell came over?” Whit said.

  “Yes.”

  “I know I’m not a big city LAPD cop, but an old lady tellin’ me a pie is cold doesn’t add up to a mystery,” Whit said. He worked his dip to the other side of his lip. He was one of those guys who’d been dipping so long he swallowed the juice with no problem.

  Garrett’s stomach lurched thinking about it. “I really wish you’d get off the ‘big-city’ thing, Whit. All I did was put a training program in place when I took over. I wasn’t calling anyone stupid, I was trying to keep you guys alive out there.”

  “Worked out pretty good for ol’ Tom Poston.”

  In Los Angeles, Garrett had gotten into Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu pretty heavy for a few years. He had a flash of catching Whit in an arm lock and popping his elbow. Instead, he stood to leave. “Okay, Whit. You stay here and keep your head in the sand. It’s something you’re good at.”

  Whit launched himself around the desk and got in Garrett’s face.

  “Let me tell you something, smartass. You and your darkie friend will stand the fuck down inside my city limits, you got that? You are not a police officer anymore, and I don’t give a damn about his New York ID. You wanna talk to whores at the truck stop, you go right ahead. But you keep your shit out of this town.”

  “Am I talking to the Chief of Police, or a grown man who just got in my face?” Garrett said. The words came out nice and even, without emotion. A bad sign Whit didn’t read correctly.

  “Oh, you’re talkin’ to a man in your face, son,” Whit said.

  “Good.”

  Garrett grabbed Whit by one sleeve and the lapel of his stupid Chief’s uniform and shifted the heavier man’s balance onto his left foot. Garrett spun him toward the desk and stepped on the toe of Whit’s shoe at the same time. Whit landed on his ass and the wad of dip popped out of his mouth, winding up on his lap.

  Garrett was standing over him too quick for any response.

  “Don’t ever threaten me, Whit. And this is the last time I’ll tell you I don’t need a badge or investigator’s license to look for a missing girl.”

  “Get out of here, you son of a bitch. Right now.” Whit got to his feet and Garrett stood there long enough to let him know. Then he walked out.

  He picked up LaSalle in the lobby without a word. Garrett took big strides and shoved open the front doors. Once outside, he said, “Shit!”

  “How’d it go?” LaSalle said. With that grin.

  “Great,” Garrett said. “We talked, we sprayed the walls with testosterone, I got us banned for life.”

  “Banned? From what?”

  “Everything, I think.”

  ***

  Back at the motel, Garrett parted ways with LaSalle. He had something personal he had to do and he wanted to go alone. LaSalle understood. Garrett stopped at the store and bought a card. He took out cash with his purchase. He sat in the Mustang with the heater cranked up while he signed the card, stuffed the money inside, and sealed the envelope.

  He drove out to the Heideman place, not knowing what he’d say there.

  Angela stayed inside, but he saw her pale face hovering behind the kitchen window like an interested ghost. Misty came out on the front porch to talk to him, which meant her mother was already drunk, maybe even passed out in the living room.

  “I, uh, wanted to give you my condolences,” Garrett said. He handed her the card. “You can open it later.”

  She felt the weight of it. “You don’t have to do that, Chief— Uh, Mister Evans.”

  “Garrett, Misty. It’s just Garrett. I’m not doing anything, okay? I get it. I’ve seen people struggle, and it’s not always with money. At least with that, I can help a little.”

  Misty’s face developed seam lines and sort of fell apart. She didn’t even have the energy to sob, she just leaned against Garrett’s chest and cried in silence. He put an awkward arm around her. She’d had a crush on him when she was in seventh grade and he was a mighty Senior. They swung apart for a decade or so, but neither broke the pull of Artemis, and like two breakaway meteors, they slammed together again over the charred hulk of a barn and a nasty death.

  “Everybody thinks I’m trash,” Misty said, her voice muffled against his coat.

  “No. You made a bad choice in men. Nobody’s going to hold it against you.”

  Misty wiped her eyes and stared at the ruined barn. “They won’t even tell me when they’ll release his body.”

  “I might be able to find out for you. No promises, but it shouldn’t be too hard. Why don’t you go inside where it’s warm and give me a few minutes?”

  “Okay. Thank you so much. Garrett.”

  She went back inside and Garrett fired up the Mustang. He sat in his warm cave and dialed the number for the County Coroner. “Coroner’s office.” A detached female voice, hollow like she was in a tiled room.

  “Uh, yes, this is Chief...Abercrombie over in Artemis. Do ya’ll have any idea when the body from the barn fire will be released to his loved ones?”

  “You mean the meth lab fire? It’ll be a few more days, Chief. The autopsy hasn’t been completed yet. I mean, we just got the blood tox report back this morning. I know it’s hard for them, but they’ll have to wait.”

  “Sure, sure. They understand the process. Like you say, it’s a hard thing,” Garrett said.

  “I’ll tell you, it’s no wonder the dummy blew up his lab. These guys don’t know when to separate partying from their work.”

  Garrett said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a meth cook who could stay out of the product while they cook.”

  “Oh, sure. But this guy was partying hard, Special K.”

  “Sp
ecial K?” Garrett said.

  “Ketamine, but some users call it Special K,” the woman said.

  Garrett turned off the car and sat in silence.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. How much was in his system?”

  “Enough to make him screw up his mixture, that’s for damn sure. Sorry, Chief, but I have a lot of paperwork to finish. We’ll call you with the autopsy results.”

  “Thanks. Bye.” Garrett disconnected. He got out and went back to Misty’s door. Fresh tears were in her eyes when she answered.

  “Sorry, but the coroner says it’ll be a few more days. They still have to do an autopsy.”

  “Okay. Thanks for asking,” Misty said.

  “Sorry I couldn’t do more. Can I ask you a personal question about Bradley? I don’t want to, you know, make this any harder.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “I know he did speed, obviously. But did he party with other stuff, heroin, coke, ketamine?”

  “Keta-what? And no, he never did heroin or coke. Not that I know of.”

  Angela ran up behind Misty. “Hi, Chief Evans. See my new dolly? Her name is Anastasia and Aunt Carol got her for me, on account of something bad happened to Bradley and she wanted me to feel better.”

  “She didn’t tell you that,” Misty said.

  “I know. But I’m smart,” Angela said.

  Misty and Garrett smiled at each other.

  “Smarter than me, for sure,” Garrett said.

  “It’s time for Anastasia’s nap now, so she has to say goodnight,” Angela said. She stood there, waiting...

  “Oh. Goodnight, Anastasia,” Misty said.

  “Yeah, of course, goodnight,” Garrett said.

  Angela disappeared with her doll, leaving Misty and Garrett alone on the porch.

  “She loves putting those dolls to bed. You should see the fancy little doll crib Smiley made for her,” Misty said.

  “He really loves that girl. He used to babysit you, too, didn’t he?” Garrett said.

  “Yeah. I remember being scared the first time my mom dropped me off, but he turned out to be like a grandfather to me. He taught me how to tie my shoes, can you believe it?”