Smiley

by Ezell, Michael

  “I can. He taught me how to tie a fishing fly,” Garrett said.

  “He’s really amazing. I told him he should open an online store or something. The little crib is made from young spruce branches he wove together in this beautiful pattern. He could sell those by the dozen.”

  Garrett tasted metal in the cold air. “Woven branches?”

  “Yeah. You got a second? I’ll show it to you.”

  ***

  Smiley pulled Nadine’s car off a wide spot in the road. He’d only gone about a half mile behind the Heideman property line. He would have taken the car farther, but his knees were not in the mood for a longer walk back.

  He got out and listened to the night. Probably looked like a damn fool standing out here wearing a shower cap and dishwashing gloves. But the Hunter doesn’t care what the animal thinks about his camouflage. He only cares that it hides him.

  He pocketed the rubber gloves and cap and put on his beanie and fleece-lined gloves. He started the long hike back home, leaving the car open to the elements. Like someone ditched it in a hurry. He knew enough about modern forensics to feel good about the amount of Bradley’s blood in the car. The rest he would leave up to dumbass Whit Abercrombie. Even he could put together a puzzle if you showed him how all the pieces went together.

  He cut across the back of the Heideman place. From this distance, the lights in the windows looked like fireflies had landed on frozen blades of grass. Knowing Angela wouldn’t have to worry about that piece of shit laying a strap to her gave Smiley a glow in his stomach.

  The temperature was dropping by the minute. Forecast said there would be new snow tonight, and most of tomorrow. By the time anyone found Nadine’s car, it would be a little island of evidence in an otherwise pristine world.

  ***

  Garrett stared at the blinking cursor in the search box.

  He’d begged off dinner with LaSalle so he could stay home and think. Not only about LaSalle’s case, but about a lot of things.

  He had the old picture of his dad and Smiley on the kitchen table next to his laptop. Grinning like kings with their two hookers. Over the last couple of hours, he’d scavenged a dozen other pictures from albums in his dad’s closet, as well as the family album his mother kept in a cabinet.

  In one photo, Lamar Evans and Smiley Carmichael knelt next to an eight-point buck. Smiley’s rifle lay across its antlers. Early ‘60s, both with crewcuts.

  In the next, Tuffy Baylor, the old Chief of Police, pinned a badge to his dad’s uniform as Smiley and Mom looked on. Smiley beamed the biggest damn smile in the world.

  There were others, from their younger days, along with Mom when they were in high school together. The one that stood out the most was from the ‘70s, given the sideburns his dad sported. His patrol car was cocked across a street diagonally, blocking traffic. A large black bear lay at his feet. Standing near the bear’s head was Jebediah “Smiley” Carmichael. The bear had a silver dart in its hide and Smiley held an air rifle in his right hand.

  Garrett tapped the laptop keys and “ketamine” appeared in the Google box.

  He found numerous links to the dangers of using ketamine recreationally, including warning young girls that it can leave you completely vulnerable and unable to call for help.

  Garrett had exactly zero ketamine busts in his police career. Not a big problem in LA, the Kingdom of Crack.

  Party drugs weren’t really what he was looking for. He didn’t think someone gave Florida girl and Bradley a spiked drink at a party. He amended his search to “ketamine on animals.”

  He had plenty of links to choose from. He hit “images” and saw dozens of thumbnails of downed animals with various teams of humans around them. Some of the people held air rifles.

  17

  Mrs. Shotwell seemed surprised to see Garrett at her front door. He had a container of coffee and sweet rolls from May’s Diner.

  “Morning, Mrs. Shotwell. Would you mind if I talked to you for a few minutes?”

  While she fussed about in the kitchen, making sure he understood it was highly unusual for a guest to bring all the makings for a social call, Garrett strolled around her living room.

  At either end of a plastic-covered couch probably sealed when the Beatles were cool, she had two amazing reverse-painted glass lamps, each featuring a tulip field in a country she’d never visited. The antique pickers who came through small places like Artemis would fight each other gladiator style for these two pieces, probably made before even Mrs. Shotwell was born.

  Pictures of Master Sergeant Raymond Shotwell held the place of honor on the mantle, his Air Force cap set at a rakish angle. He lived through Korea and Viet Nam, and died three years ago in his sleep about twenty steps away from where Garrett stood.

  “Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Shotwell came back in with the rolls on a proper tray and the coffee in cups. Garrett added a splash of cream and some sugar to his. Mrs. Shotwell appeared haggard and her hand shook when she tried to use the cream. Garrett gently took it and helped her get the mix right.

  “I don’t know what to do with myself,” she said. “I just know something terrible has become of Nadine. If they haven’t found her by now.”

  “You don’t know that. The State Troopers find drivers who’ve been stranded in their cars for days. She probably skidded off the road somewhere. They’re out looking today, I know. I heard the chatter on my scanner,” Garrett said.

  “Only the good Lord knows where she is.”

  The good Lord and at least one other person, Garrett thought but didn’t say.

  “You came to ask me something?” She took a bite of sweet roll and nodded approval.

  “Before my dad passed, he spent some time looking into the disappearances of a few girls. Girls who worked at the truck stop,” Garrett said.

  “You mean the whores,” she said around the sweet roll.

  Garrett’s eyebrows must have twitched upward, giving him away.

  “Oh, I don’t mean to be an old bitty. I know Nadine likes to minister to them, but the plain truth is those women are whores who choose to sell themselves.”

  “I dealt with my share of them in California. Over time I found out most of them were scared and desperate, or hooked on some crap that controlled them in a way you’d have to see to believe,” Garrett said.

  “I suppose. I know your daddy also felt sorry for them. He didn’t brook any trouble, but he didn’t go out of his way to run ‘em out of town, either.”

  “That’s kind of what I wanted to ask you about. This is a little embarrassing. You were around here when guys like my dad and Smiley were young. Did they ever, you know, with the truck stop girls?”

  Mrs. Shotwell surprised him by cackling so hard she nearly spit out her teeth.

  “Your daddy and Smiley? Oh, my stars. Neither one of those boys could speak to a girl. Rachel Milner kissed your dad on the cheek when they were in my Sunday School class. He ran out the door so fast he banged his head on a corner and saw birdies for a week.”

  Garrett grinned, thinking of the self-confident giant as a shy little boy.

  “Far as I know, neither of them dated anyone until your dad finally worked up the nerve to ask your momma to the Prom.”

  “They’ve been friends a long time, Dad and Smiley,” Garrett said.

  Mrs. Shotwell sipped her coffee. “May’s Diner sure makes a good cup. Yup, your daddy and Smiley were always joined at the hip. I think it hurt Smiley’s feelings some when old Tuffy Baylor chose your dad but not him.”

  “Smiley wanted to be a cop?” Garrett said.

  “Oh, yes. As bad as your daddy wanted it, and then some. But you know, Tuffy could never let it pass that Smiley went into the Army to avoid some trouble.”

  “Seriously? Smiley Carmichael?” Garrett had never heard so much as a whisper about it.

  Mrs. Shotwell side-eyed a praying Jesus on her wall. A twin to Nadine’s, minus nicotine stains, and Garrett suspected they bought them at the same f
lea market. “I suppose the good Lord will forgive me. If it’s the truth, it ain’t gossip.”

  She leaned across the coffee table anyway, like she was whispering across the back fence to her neighbor. “A young girl, I won’t say her name, said she saw Smiley peeking in her window one night. He was about to turn eighteen and she was thirteen. And he, uh, well, I don’t want to say. He was busy with himself.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Garrett said.

  “No, sir. His pa fell out of the hayloft and broke his worthless neck earlier that year, and Smiley had been workin’ like a madman to keep the note current on their place. Some say it was the strain of it all made him act that-a-way,” Mrs. Shotwell said.

  “What did Smiley do for work in those days?” Garrett said.

  “Anything you could name. Build fences, carpentry, clean out animal pens. He even made a bit of money from mounting animals for some local hunters. Yes, sir. That Smiley was a hard worker. A hard worker.”

  Garrett knew sometimes in country logic, being a hard worker outweighed an awful lot of personal shortcomings.

  “His mom passed when he was young, too. That had to be hard. And to lose her like that. I can’t imagine my mom falling and cracking her head open right in front of me,” Garrett said.

  Mrs. Shotwell said, “It was probably a mercy compared to what he might have watched her go through.” She seemed surprised she even said it. She stood and busied herself cleaning up.

  “Wait, what does that mean?” Garrett said.

  She stopped with her back to him. “Sometimes I get lonely for company and I talk too much. Old wounds are best left alone once they’ve scabbed over.”

  “Mrs. Shotwell, you’ve known me for a long time. Am I one to run around town talking?” Garrett said.

  She whispered it so quiet he had to learn forward.

  “She had the syphilis.”

  “What? How did she—Was his old man running around with the truck stop girls back then? And they could cure it by that time, so she should’ve been okay,” Garrett said.

  “They couldn’t go to the doctor. At least, that’s the way they saw it,” Mrs. Shotwell said.

  “Why?”

  “Not many as know this, but... Smiley’s pa was strapped for cash in those days. It was public record they’d lose the place before long. And then, they started to pay down the overdue note. Slowly but surely, until they’d caught up,” she said.

  “How did they get the extra money? That wasn’t even a working farm anymore.”

  She stayed quiet so long, he didn’t think she was going to tell him. She even appeared to consult the Savior on the wall again.

  “You can’t repeat this, Garrett Evans.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “It wasn’t Smiley’s pa at the truck stop. It was his ma. He had her selling her tail to pay down the note and it come back on both of ‘em. She brought it home to him. By the time he finally decided his pride was gonna kill him and seen a doctor, she was dead, and that foul disease had eaten away his nose.”

  She shuffled into the kitchen and Garrett carried the tray in behind her. He wrapped the leftover rolls in foil and put them in her refrigerator over her protests. His phone rang and he started to let it go to voicemail, but when he saw the number, he picked it up.

  “Shirley?”

  Her voice was hushed. “I’m calling you on my personal cell, so I can’t talk long. Lyle just called in on the radio. He found Nadine’s car on an access road out behind the Heideman place. Garrett...there’s blood in the trunk.”

  ***

  Smiley rolled up on the gaggle of Artemis officers with what he hoped was an uncertain look on his face. He didn’t really practice those in the mirror.

  They stood at the rear of Nadine’s car, looking in the open trunk. Whit Abercrombie, Lyle Hampton, and Dougie Armstead. In his stupid uniform, Whit looked like a Boy Scout who forgot all his knots. With the open snow-covered fields, the lines of barbed wire fence on both sides, and the lone car they surrounded, they looked to Smiley like one of Tracy’s paintings. Except he had created this particular work of art.

  Shutting down the County pickup, Smiley got out and approached Nadine’s car.

  “Howdy, Whit. Don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help but hear on my scanner. Thought you might need a tracker to check the fields for ya,” Smiley said.

  “It’s okay, Smiley. I’d sure appreciate the help. Boy, that’s a nice shiner,” Whit said.

  “Yup. Fell down my front steps like a dad-gum five-year-old.”

  Whit turned back to the trunk. He looked a little green.

  “It sounded bad on the radio. Is it Nadine?” Smiley said. The sorrowful face, that one he had practiced before. Living to his age in a small town, you had to expect to attend a certain number of funerals.

  “It doesn’t look good. Awful lot of blood in the trunk. Have a look,” Whit said.

  The youngest cop, Lyle something-or-other, looked at Whit like he just invited Smiley to kick him in the balls. Smiley ignored it and approached Nadine’s trunk. The coppery smell of congealed blood made his fingertips tingle. It felt like seeing it all for the first time again, here in front of these idiots.

  “Yes, sir. That’s an awful lot of blood. Poor old Nadine,” Smiley said.

  And there were the red empty eyeglass frames. Smiley hated to leave those behind, but he wanted Whit’s dumb ass to jump to all the right conclusions. Smiley straightened like something had just occurred to him. “You don’t suppose... Nah, I’m sorry, you fellas do the police work. I don’t mean to put my redneck opinions in there.”

  “What are you thinkin’?” Whit said.

  “I loved Nadine dearly, but you know what a busybody she was. What if she run across whoever killed ol’ Bradley and torched the Heideman’s barn?”

  “How did you know that?” Lyle said.

  The more someone annoyed Smiley, the more he usually smiled at them. Given the circumstances, he gave Lyle his second-best sorrowful frown.

  “Misty gave me the sad news. She told me they got the autopsy results last night. The Coroner says there’s a hole in Bradley’s heart?” Smiley said.

  “Yup. It’s a damn mess, the whole thing,” Whit said.

  “You ask me, a perfect heart shot sounds like a professional. Some drug enforcer, ya know? Maybe Bradley was sellin’ his wares in the wrong person’s market stall,” Smiley said.

  Whit paced toward the front of Nadine’s car, thinking and nodding his head. Smiley saw the exact moment when the idea became Whit’s own. Dumb people in power are like that.

  “I think you’re right. State Troopers have been getting a lot of meth traffic through the major highways. We got a bulletin said Mexican cartels were runnin’ dope all the way out here, cooking speed in fifty-five gallon drums on the back lots of people’s farms,” Whit said.

  Whit leaned into Nadine’s car and peered around like an officious owl.

  Exactly as Smiley left it, with the driver’s door open. Snow had blown onto half of the front seat, but he could still see the towel Nadine had folded on her passenger seat to hold the pie. Tiny electric fingers worked through Smiley’s scalp when he saw the round depression the pie pan left in the towel.

  Later, he’d stroke that very pie tin and remember his perfect thrust.

  ***

  By the time Garrett arrived at the access road, the Sheriff’s Department had units blocking it off. Whit requested help processing the scene. Two deputies Garrett didn’t recognize manned the checkpoint. He parked in front of one of their cars, his face awash with red and blue lights.

  Both deputies approached him when he stepped out.

  “Hey fellas, can you tell me if they found Nadine Pearson?”

  “You’re going to have to leave, sir,” the senior deputy said. A little gray at the temples, a little sag in the belly. Garrett figured he had about twenty years on.

  “Sure, sure, no problem. It’s just that I live in town and I’v
e known Nadine for a really long time.”

  “Look, I’ll level with you. The Artemis PD Chief told my sergeant if a guy driving a fancy blue Mustang tries to get in, we’re supposed to arrest him,” the deputy said.

  “Oh. So why tell me?” Garrett said.

  “Lyle Hampton went to high school with my nephew. He told me you’re the Chief who moved back from Los Angeles. Lamar Evans’s son.”

  “I am.”

  “Let’s call it professional courtesy, then. But you’ll have to leave. Sorry.”

  “No worries. I don’t want you guys to catch grief,” Garrett said. He went back to his car.

  “And no,” the deputy said, “they didn’t find her. Just her car. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it,” Garrett said. He revved the Mustang and backed away. His jaw clenched and his teeth ground like tectonic plates. Two years ago, he broke a molar during one of these sessions.

  “Calm and focused,” he lied.

  He drove out past the Heideman place. Shirley told him about Bradley’s autopsy. So at least one murder, and possibly two. There’d be nothing left for evidence in the burned out barn. The State HazMat team had responded when it was discovered to be a lab fire. They cleaned the place out, but good.

  Even so, he found the Mustang’s nose pointing down the gravel road to Misty’s house. He didn’t see her pickup out front, but he didn’t really want to talk to anybody. He parked, got out, and stood there next to his car.

  What next? And hurry it up, because it’s freaking cold.

  Garrett wandered around the barn site, kicking the odd piece of charred wood. He should have rousted Bradley, should have ridden him harder when he was Chief. Garrett knew the kid was dirty, it wouldn’t have taken much work to prove it. He let him slide because of Misty.

  Maybe if he had busted Bradley, the Heidemans’ barn would still be up and Bradley would still be alive. In jail, but alive.

  “Neither the barn nor the man is a loss.”

  Garrett spun toward the slurred voice. Misty’s mother, Emma Heideman, stood on the back porch. Despite the cold, she wore a slip showing her hairy legs. She fought to light a cigarette. There was no wind, she just couldn’t get her hand and her wobbling body in synch with each other. The lighter’s flame kept weaving a figure eight in front of the cigarette.