Smiley

by Ezell, Michael

  After she left, they took him to a temporary holding cell for about an hour, and then bussed him over to the courthouse with fourteen other prisoners.

  Cuffed together in a line, they shuffled into the courthouse holding area. Over here the walls were painted gray. Garrett imagined the paint was once been destined for the hull of a battleship. Since they were minimum-security prisoners, they all got lumped into a giant communal cell with one metal toilet behind a narrow cinderblock outcropping.

  One of the first inmates in, Garrett sat on a bench against the far wall, closest to the bars. Once they had everyone settled, the deputies went back to the intake desk. Garrett tried to relax as much as he could, but he didn’t close his eyes. Most of these guys already knew he was a cop, so he’d rather not “slip and fall” in the cell while the deputies weren’t around.

  A muscular white dude stepped in front of him. The hieroglyphics of the West Virginia State Prison system were tattooed across his exposed neck and forearms. A lot of his size was prison muscle, but Garrett could see the guy had been big his whole life. He stood careless and unaware, flatfooted. No one had probably challenged him since he was a kid, so why would some lanky asshole who used to be a cop start now?

  “Hey, piggy,” the big guy said. “You’re in my seat.”

  “Drop it. We’re here for arraignment. I’m not gonna be denied bail because some peckerwood had a hard-on to show everyone what a man he is,” Garrett said.

  “Oh, is that right?” The man leaned down, his thick trapezius muscles bunching, leading Garrett’s eye to the base of his neck. Garrett subtly shifted his feet, gathering his power base.

  “I got a hard-on for something else, and you’re gonna find out when we ride back to County tonight,” the big guy said.

  No red tide rising. No anger. This decision came calm and cold, just like when he was in uniform working a beat. He needed to eliminate a threat. Garrett erupted off the bench and brought his right arm around in a brutal arc at the same time. He slammed the heel of his right hand into the vagus nerve on the side of the thick tattooed neck.

  The big man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, his mass of muscle smacking the concrete floor like a beached fish. His arms locked straight and his back arched, not uncommon for someone who’s been knocked out.

  No one else in the cell moved, so Garrett took his seat again.

  A deputy came fast-walking down the hall to check on the noise, saw the dude out cold on the floor and immediately got on his radio.

  “Okay, what the fuck happened?” The deputy said.

  There were fifteen people in the cell. Not one of them said a word.

  Finally, an older Latino guy with a thick white mustache spoke up. He had tattoos older than the big guy Garrett knocked out. “I think the excitement of seeing Judge Dodd got to the peckerwood, Deputy. He just passed out cold.”

  “Uh huh,” the deputy said.

  They bundled the groggy peckerwood off to the infirmary and segregated the merry little band of prisoners into smaller holding cells by race. Sure, that made Garrett feel much safer.

  There didn’t seem to be any complaints about his choice of seat in the new cell, though.

  One by one, the prisoners were led into an elevator and taken up to the courtroom of Judge Llewellyn P. Dodd, the oldest sitting judge in West Virginia. By the time it was Garrett’s turn, everyone had been to lunch. (Garrett and his cellmates had bologna sandwiches and water.) Judge Dodd looked like he needed a nap on the sofa, and Whit Abercrombie sat at the Prosecutor’s table dabbing at a spot of mustard on his tie.

  Garrett entered a plea of Not Guilty and the matters moved to whether or not he would be granted bail. Judge Dodd tilted his head to use the bottom half of his bifocals. “Chief—Uh, Mr. Evans, I am wary of granting you bail. Chief Abercrombie tells me not only are you aggressive toward local law enforcement, but you have repeatedly attempted to interfere with his investigation.”

  “Investigation? This idiot is being led by the nose to a place he wants to go anyway. That’s no investigation,” Garrett said.

  “Young man, if you can’t control yourself, I will hold you in Contempt of Court,” Judge Dodd said.

  “I apologize, Your Honor. I don’t have contempt for this court. Just for fools in general.”

  “On that, we are in agreement,” Judge Dodd said. He shuffled some papers and read a document. “If I were to grant bail, there is also the matter of a Temporary Restraining Order that has been filed with the Court. You are to remain at least one hundred yards away from the property and person of Jebediah Carmichael. You need to understand, Mr. Evans, if you are out on bail and violate a restraining order you will be remanded into the custody of the Sheriff’s Department to be held without bail until your preliminary hearing.”

  “Your Honor, I have no desire to go anywhere near Mr. Carmichael,” Garrett said.

  Judge Dodd picked up a big file and thumbed through it. He found what he was looking for and grew very serious. “It has also come to the court’s attention that you are pending a psychiatric evaluation. That, coupled with your erratic behavior and your assault on a police officer, has given the Court reason to authorize the Artemis Police Department to temporarily seize all firearms in your home.”

  Garrett glanced at Whit and wanted to leap over the partition and choke the smugness right out of him. Instead, he faced Judge Dodd. “That’s fine, Your Honor. But I’ll be filing a motion to get them back, of course, so I’d appreciate it if the Artemis PD wouldn’t melt them down anytime soon.”

  “The guns would not be destroyed without a court order. Understood, Chief Abercrombie?” Judge Dodd said.

  Whit stood up. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Judge Dodd sagged in his robes, really showing his age. “Mister Evans, I understand you’ve been down a long, hard road the last year. I knew your father, and he is missed by this Court, and by me personally. I am inclined to take into account your record of service, both here and in California as I consider your bail situation.”

  A small glimmer of hope...

  “I hereby grant bail in the amount of five thousand dollars.”

  The gavel fell on any objections.

  It took three hours for the bail bondsman to get all the paperwork in order and deduct the fee from Garrett’s debit account. Gates clashed and crashed and he was released into the sharp winter air in his ripped coat with his personal property in a plastic bag. He called a taxi to take him all the way back to Artemis. Tracy would have picked him up without complaint, but he didn’t want her driving through the snow.

  The driver tried to make small talk at the beginning, but after he got a good look at Garrett in the mirror, he stopped. They rode for forty-five minutes in silence, thoughts slipping through Garrett’s mind as fast as the white stripes on the road flashed by. He didn’t know what LaSalle saw in the barn. Something, for sure. Else he wouldn’t have gone back on the sly.

  The queasy image of Smiley winking when he mentioned Tracy rolled Garrett’s stomach, threatening to give up the County’s bologna sandwich. A panicky chest-tightening compulsion made him want to drive straight out to Smiley’s and simply call him out. In reality, if he shot Smiley in his smile then he’d die in prison. Probably not of old age, given he was an ex-cop.

  The taxi stopped outside the dark house. It reminded him of high school, pulling up out front in Mike Anderson’s Fairlane, drunk as hell and hoping his parents were asleep.

  He didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

  There was enough cash in his plastic baggie of belongings to pay the driver and give him a middling tip. He could only offer a shrug by way of apology.

  Inside the house, he wandered from room to room, turning on all the lights. For some reason, it made him feel better. He called Tracy and told her he’d pick up groceries for lunch tomorrow. She wanted him to come over, but he declined. Gave her a lame excuse about needing to clean up the mess Whit’s team left behind.

 
; And then he drank.

  At some point, he gathered up the pictures and other odds and ends on the kitchen table and put them back in The Box. A hint of the sweet odor of lighter fluid remained. The dried stains of it were spread across the cardboard.

  Whit and the boys left The Box and its contents, but took his dad’s maps and copied reports, LaSalle’s flier, and all the faxed reports LaSalle ordered from other agencies. Son of a bitch had a locksmith drill Dad’s gun safe when Garrett would’ve gladly given up the combination. It stood open and empty. They even took the boxes of ammo.

  Kneeling, Garrett checked the false bottom. They hadn’t found that, at least. He had put the pictures of Danielle Ortega’s time back there, not really knowing what else to do with them.

  He took them out to the old man’s barbecue pit and sprayed lighter fluid again. This time he didn’t hesitate to light it. The images of the girl who disappeared into the West Virginia night curled around the edges and slowly turned black. As they burned, Garrett held the last picture from the packet and looked at it. The one of his dad laughing, pulling up his pants. Not the greatest photo to remember him by. He put the picture in his back pocket and used the barbecue tongs to stir the burning pile. He kept at it until the photos were nothing but ash and memories.

  Back inside, he went into his dad’s office and closed the door. He sat behind the desk and gripped the sides like a sailor riding out bad seas. His head thumped against the blotter and he knew he’d gone over the edge of drunk and slipped right into the special phase of intoxication where time skips now and again, with hitching black spots in between.

  He tried to straighten up and found himself gazing into the eyes of Master Sergeant Lamar Evans, US Army. One of those military portraits with the soft edges from the old days. His mother hung it on the wall after Dad remodeled the room. She always loved the photo. The old military cap at a rakish angle, his dark eyes offset by a jaunty grin.

  There was maybe a little skippety-skip in time and then Garrett had the left hand bottom drawer open. He pulled out a bunch of manila folders with tax papers in them and revealed the wooden presentation case beneath. A little bigger than a cigar box, highly polished dark brown wood with a thick swirl of black running through it, and a tarnished brass plate on the front. Garrett focused by closing one eye and read the words engraved there.

  To:Top Evans

  From:The “Bad Boys” of B Squadron

  For service with honor!

  The tiny clasp holding the box closed took a little prying. It hadn’t been opened in years.

  Inside, nestled in red velvet lining custom shaped for it, lay a highly polished blue steel Smith and Wesson Military and Police Model .38 Special. Not exactly a cannon, but he’d take it.

  There were six ceremonial bullets recessed into the velvet. If everything went well, he’d only need one.

  24

  In the "Chips and Snack Nuts" aisle, the .38 tried to slip down his pant leg. It had been a couple of days since he ate anything more substantial than a County Jail bologna sandwich and his waistband had gotten a little loose. Delroy’s Grocery was a pretty laid back place, but something about a .38 skittering across the tiles tended to set people on edge.

  Garrett waited for a harried mother to drag her two kids out of the aisle, each clutching a bag of chips she said they couldn’t have. Then he pulled the gun around tight against his hipbone and cinched his belt another notch. He didn’t really remember making a conscious decision to carry it, but it felt like a good idea now that he was out here in the open.

  He made his way to the meat section and picked out a couple of steaks. The spot between his shoulder blades twitched. He knew eyes followed him, quiet conversations were held after he passed. Gossip travels faster than lightning in a small town, and there was no taller lightning rod in Artemis right now than Garrett Evans.

  He’d accused Smiley Carmichael of being involved in Nadine’s death, some said to cover for his new black friend who turned out to be the real killer. There were even whispers about Garrett being under a psychiatrist’s care when he got hired as Chief of Police.

  At the checkout line, no one spoke a word, except when Sally Reeves said, “That’ll be forty-six twenty-seven.”

  He drove to Tracy’s house gripping the wheel like a tightrope walker who just slipped off the line. Heavy snow fell like volcanic ash, thick and straight down. By the time he got to Tracy’s, his neck muscles were bunched like springs under a heavy load.

  He made up his mind he would get through their greeting with stoic resolve.

  When she opened the door, he dropped the groceries and crushed her against his chest. They stood there, her inside and him outside, until someone could talk without breaking.

  “Are you... I won’t say it. I’m just glad you’re here,” Tracy said. They picked up the groceries and closed the door against the killing winter.

  She skinned the potatoes and he seasoned the steaks to give his hands something to do. They talked about LaSalle because they couldn’t ignore it. Garrett laid out the old rap sheet Whit showed him, a real thing, and therefore part of who LaSalle was, good or bad. That’s the way the big fella would’ve put it himself.

  “You think he was a killer?” Tracy said.

  “I think he was a tough customer who grew up on the streets. I told myself he wasn't here to track down the last guy to see his girl alive and whack him. It helped me stay involved, you know? But in the end, if I had a daughter some slimebag killed and I knew a guy...”

  “Heaven forbid anyone ever had to make the choice,” Tracy said. She tasted her garlic-mashed potatoes and nodded. “Let’s eat.”

  Over rare steaks she said, “So what now?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I have a restraining order.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “No,” Garrett said. He got up from the table and took his plate in the kitchen. He didn’t know why, he wasn’t close to done. He didn’t want to argue with her, to let all this shit tarnish their relationship like a brass fixture touched by too many people.

  She followed him. He knew she would.

  “Smiley can’t stay home forever,” she said. “With Whit and his boys eyeballing you, I make perfect sense. Next time he goes to work, I check Smiley’s place to see if I can find out what made LaSalle so hot to go back.”

  “Absolutely not,” Garrett said. “He’ll be on alert. He may have everyone else fooled, but he’s worried about me, I guarantee it. If he hasn’t already gotten rid of whatever LaSalle saw, he will soon. And I’m not going to risk you.”

  She started to argue, but he stopped her with a kiss.

  He pulled away and they both seemed shocked by the development.

  “Uh, sorry,” he said.

  “No, don’t apologize. You’re under a lot of stress, which makes people do things they normally wouldn’t—Oh, fuck it.”

  She grabbed him and kissed him back.

  ***

  Belly down, eyes to the glass. That’s how the Hunter liked it best.

  Smiley watched Garrett and Tracy, the two lovers framed by her kitchen window and the fence beams between them and his position in the east field. He knew Garrett would be here tonight. He couldn’t help himself. His world was crumbling around him and a man will grasp at a good woman during those times.

  They left the kitchen and Smiley saw the bedroom light come on behind the curtains. While the animals rutted, Smiley planned. He left his position and scouted out the area around Tracy’s front door. The Hunter may have been strong, but the damn bitter cold filled his knee joints with razor blades.

  He spotted a likely place, about thirty-five yards away. A patch of scrub oak, its branches heavy with snow. If he wore his white camouflage, she’d never see him.

  The bedroom light went out and Smiley retreated. Out past the dead garden, past the Ellsworth’s barn, moving into the woods and back to his quiet little snow machine. Once he got home, he’d need to practice his sad face.


  Damn shame, he’d say to those old coots outside Davis Hardware. Poor old Garrett went crazy and kilt himself. I just wish he didn’t take Tracy Ellsworth with him.

  ***

  Tracy put her chin on Garrett’s chest, which put her eyes level with the shiny .38 on her nightstand. “You sure you don’t want Daddy’s shotgun?”

  Garrett touched the coppery fire of her hair. “I’m sorry I put glue in your hair.”

  “I had to cut it out,” she said. “With my safety scissors.”

  “I know. I would’ve done it for you, if you would’ve stood still.”

  She pinched his chest and he howled.

  “Now we’re even,” she said. It was hard for her to maintain a smile for long. She went back to staring at the gun. “Seriously. He’s got that Magnum.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you’re shooting if you can’t hit the target. I know how to stay behind cover and move when I need to. I’ll be okay. You keep the shotgun here.”

  They lay like the big and little spoons, and he thought only of her, his mind calm and focused for the first time in months. Finally, she got up to go to the bathroom and when she came back, he had his pants on.

  “Going?”

  “I should,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “People will talk.”

  She snickered behind her hand, which got him going. She grabbed him and they rolled back into her warm, safe bed.

  ***

  He’d printed all his own fliers on Tracy’s computer. He loaded a stack of them onto the passenger seat of the Mustang. He’d left her nestled in the down comforter, all tousled hair and warm, sleepy kisses.

  Just after the first staff member opened the gates to the County Yards at six a.m., Garrett drove right in like he was supposed to be there. He parked and carried the stack of papers over to the shack where employees signed out their vehicles. He left the fliers, weighted with a rock, on the wooden shelf outside the dispatcher’s window.

  He thought about picking them up and stopping this nonsense before it got too crazy. Then he thought of LaSalle. If the tables were turned, and it was Garrett who went missing, he knew the big man would have been all over Smiley.