M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Miss Wilding is home sick today.” The Greenville High School principal so reminded me of the man who’d held the post at my high school that I wondered if there was a factory somewhere mass-producing them. “I can give you her home phone number, but you’ll have to get her parents’ permission to interrogate her.”

  Crowley kept his cool. “Miss Wilding isn’t a suspect, but she may be able to help us in the investigation of a serious crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  I said, “How about her girlfriends?” All high school girls had girlfriends. “Maybe one of them could help us?”

  “I wouldn’t know—”

  “Her homeroom teacher would.”

  “I can’t ask—”

  Crowley interrupted. “You wouldn’t want to be seen as impeding a police investigation.”

  “Ah…No.”

  “Good.” Crowley waited.

  The principal finally picked up his phone. “Barbara, go and send Miss Amberly to the office. And keep an eye on her class until she returns.”

  When Miss Amberly arrived, Crowley thanked the principal for his cooperation, and for the use of his office for our interviews.

  Miss Amberly was quite concerned about the police interest in her students; Crowley immediately set her at ease. Miss Wilding was under no suspicion herself, but was friends with a student from another school who was recently injured in a serious accident. “We’re hoping, since Miss Wilding is absent today, that one of her girlfriends might have information that would help us.”

  Miss Amberly gave a relieved sigh. “That would be Stephanie.”

  “She’s here today?”

  “I’ll ask Barbara to locate her and send her in.”

  Stephanie was a nervous brunette, dressed a la mode. When Crowley asked her to have a seat, she looked as if she expected to be shot. “What’s this about?”

  “You’re a friend of Beth Wilding?” he asked.

  “Ye-es.” Her eyes darted from Crowley to me and back.

  “You know Jimmy Fahey?”

  She relaxed slightly. “Is this about Jimmy’s accident?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Beth told me.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Just that he crashed his car and broke his leg and he couldn’t call her because he’s in the hospital in traction. Is he gonna be all right?”

  “He’ll live.”

  Stephanie relaxed a little more.

  “You know anybody who’d want to hurt Fahey?”

  Her eyes widened. “It wasn’t an accident?”

  “We’re looking into that.”

  “The goons!”

  Crowley waited; she elaborated, then said, “You think they ran him off the road?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  So she told us.

  Crowley had Barbara pull the football players out of class one at a time so they wouldn’t have a chance to confer on an alibi. Individually, they told us they’d been together the Sunday night before Jimmy’s crash, watching a game on TV. Under pressure, they admitted to getting too wasted to drive home. They’d spent the night together and showed up hungover at school the next day. Their coach confirmed the hangovers.

  About Jimmy Fahey, the three bullies agreed: He was a fast-talking asshole who fought dirty and had given them trouble on several occasions. The last time they’d seen him, he’d gotten them ticketed for speeding.

  “How does that work?” Crowley asked the kid who got the ticket.

  “He got us to chase him, then lured us into a speed trap.”

  “He didn’t get caught?”

  “Nah. I think he was in cahoots with the cop. He went around a curve and pulled over, so we got nailed.”

  “What makes you think he wasn’t just lucky?”

  “’Cause the cop was real nasty—like he was pissed at us. But we never saw him before, so he must’ve been a friend of Fahey’s getting us back for giving him grief.”

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “Give him grief?”

  “Never really got the chance.”

  “You didn’t beat him up at the Dairy Queen?”

  “Before we could touch him, the manager came after us with a baseball bat.”

  “What was the name of the cop that gave you the ticket?”

  The kid shrugged.

  “You still got the ticket?”

  “Nah—went to court on it already.”

  “And?”

  “I got supervision. But it cost me a hundred bucks.”

  “What department was this cop with?”

  “Sheriff’s police.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Mean.”

  Crowley threw a look at me and asked him, “Who works on your car?”

  The kid looked annoyed. “What’s this about?”

  “Just a question.”

  “I take it to Marv’s Garage. On Western.”

  I asked, “You change your own oil?”

  He gave me a withering look, “Why would I?”

  I shrugged. “Some guys like to.”

  “Grease monkeys.”

  I asked him a few more questions. His answers made it clear that putting gas in his tank was an intellectual challenge. Crowley thanked him for his help and told him he could go.

  “What do you think?” Crowley asked me when we were back on the road.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d put money on Sinter being the sheriff’s cop who issued that ticket.”

  “You think he figured out that Jimmy suckered those guys into the speed trap?”

  “Ah huh. And I’ll bet he works on his own brakes.”

  Jimmy

  I still saw Ma every day in the hospital, but being there, I realized how much I missed John and Steve and Beth. Especially Beth. But it had an upside.

  Finn came by every day with my homework—which he helped me with, and we’d shoot the shit. I’d missed that during the summer.

  He caught me up on things at school, and how he and Ali were doing.

  I told him I planned to marry Beth.

  And we tried to figure out why my brakes failed.

  “Maybe someone cut your brake line.”

  “I think the cops would’ve noticed. They’re usually all over that kind of thing when there’s an accident.”

  “You ask John about it?”

  “I didn’t think to. But I will.”

  John

  When I went to answer the bell the next night, I didn’t recognize the guy standing with his back to the door. He had on a cowboy hat, denim jacket, and jeans. The truck idling in the driveway was equally unfamiliar—a middle-aged black Ford F-250 with a loaded gun rack. Fairly common in a town surrounded by farms. Thinking it might be someone lost, I opened the door.

  Deputy Sinter turned and aimed his revolver at me. “I got a warrant.”

  I said nothing.

  He gestured for me to back up, and I retreated to my living room. Sinter followed, finger on the trigger. Bad technique, especially since his hand was shaking. He smelled of beer. He kicked the door closed behind him and looked around, turned his head to glance at the uncurtained windows flanking the entry.

  “What do you want, Sinter?”

  “You. Dead.”

  I waited.

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  “What would make you think that?”

  “I saw you leave with her last week.”

  “She left her car at work. I gave her a ride home and back to the hospital.”

  I saw him think about that. He studied the room, then focused on the door in the east wall. “What’s in there?”

  “My office.”

  He gestured at it with the gun. “Get in there. Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  I went toward the office, though it
made my hair stand up to turn my back on him. As soon as I turned the knob, he shoved me—hard.

  I hit the door with my hands and face; it flew inward. I went down on hands and knees. Sinter landed a steel-toed boot on the back of my thigh. I rolled away. He followed, holstering his gun. He held his arms high for balance and landed kicks on my ribs and back.

  He stopped suddenly.

  His eyes stretched wide. His jaw sagged. His head swiveled as he took in the framed pictures on the walls—the last thing I wanted him to see.

  I took the opportunity to scramble to my feet.

  I could have taken his gun away, but disarming him would be a mortal insult. I wasn’t prepared to kill him and I would have had to.

  He must have studied the pictures a full minute. His face went white, then red. He came at me with his fists balled, his jaw clenched.

  I blocked his worst blows, stopped the others with my fore-arms, ribs, and shoulders. He used me like a heavy bag, giving himself a proper workout.

  I took it, waiting for his rage to fade, or for him to wear himself out.

  I’d absorbed worse blows from far more murderous men.

  Rhiann

  I knew something bad was going to happen when I saw Rory Sinter’s truck pull into John Devlin’s drive. Rory’s personal truck. Rory got out and went to the front door. He was wearing civilian clothes.

  Instinct told me to call the cops, but what cops? Rory was the police in this neighborhood, and the sheriff had made it plain that he’d believe Rory. I went to where I’d put Mickey’s gun.

  The .38 was loaded—it wouldn’t do much good in an emergency otherwise. I broke it open and checked the cylinder anyway. Then, with the gun down at my side, I hurried over to John’s.

  The front door was closed. I prayed it was unlocked. I listened before I touched the knob. No angry voices. I turned it; the door swung inward. I entered cautiously. The room was clean, attractively furnished, unoccupied.

  But beyond a half-open door, there were sounds of the violence I’d expected. Sounds I remembered well from childhood, of fists striking flesh. A voice I recognized as Rory’s was too angry to be understood, his snarl was like a dog’s fighting. I ran across and slipped through the doorway.

  The room I entered was obviously an office, with phone and computer on a polished wood desk, a matching credenza with fax machine and printer, filing cabinets. I took a shooter’s stance, pointing Mickey’s revolver at Rory.

  He was standing in front of John, one fist clenched on John’s shirt, the other aimed at John’s face.

  John was backed up to the desk, wearing a poker face and blood smears where Rory’d hit him. His hands hung at his sides.

  I pulled the hammer back.

  Rory heard the sound and paled. He glanced at me; he didn’t let John go. “Your precious ex-con, here, is a fuckin’ nut job!” He hitched his free thumb toward the wall behind him. “You two deserve each other.”

  Keeping the gun on him, I glanced around the room. The walls were covered with framed pictures—drawings and photos. Of me. Scary.

  But one thing at a time, I told myself. Rory first.

  I said, “Rory, get out. Now!”

  He let go of John’s shirt and sidled toward the door. “Happy to.”

  I kept the gun on him. “Rory, if you don’t leave us alone, I’m going to announce in church on Sunday that you’ve been bothering me.”

  “And who’d believe that?”

  “Your wife for one.”

  He stopped in the doorway. “Don’t worry. You couldn’t get me to arrest you if you were doin’ ninety in a school zone.” He looked at John. “But you better watch out.”

  John said nothing. Rory left. I kept the gun leveled at the doorway until we heard the front door slam and Rory’s truck pull away. Then I let my gun hand drop to my side. John stayed where he was. I studied the room.

  There must’ve been a hundred pictures. Pictures of me alone. Pictures of me watching Mickey and Jimmy. Pictures of me at home, and coming out of church. In my car. At work. At Jimmy’s games at school. Even a picture taken at Mickey’s funeral.

  I turned around and pointed the gun at John. “What the hell is this about?”

  He seemed more sad than scared.

  “I love you, Rhiann. I’ve always loved you.”

  I looked back at the pictures. “How long…?”

  “Since the first time I saw you.”

  “When was that?”

  “The day I put the frog down your dress.”

  I could feel my face slacken with disbelief. The gun sagged floorward. “Smoke?

  “Impossible!” I added, reaiming the gun. “Smoke’s dead.” I pulled back the hammer. “Did you kill him?”

  He looked surprised, then thoughtful, then sad again. “I guess in a way I did.”

  I was shaking with rage, which must have been obvious.

  He held his hands up, fingers spread, and said, “Figuratively. Only figuratively.”

  As if to set me at ease, he backed up, folding his arms across his chest. He parked his butt against the edge of the desk. The action was reassuring enough to make me relax a tiny bit.

  “Smoke died,” he said, “the day of Amy Johnson’s funeral.”

  Smoke had been a pallbearer, solemn in his black suit, carefully ignoring the father seated—half-lit—in the front church pew, then in the front row at the cemetery.

  As they lowered the casket, Smoke was stone-faced. Mourners shuffled past, tossing their handsful of dirt onto the coffin, reciting their platitudes, or, when even clichés failed, hugging the family members. Steve and Billy and I waited till the end, hoping to take Smoke someplace quiet and safe.

  When I hugged him, Smoke almost smiled. He’d wiped away my tears—shed for him. I hadn’t known his mother.

  I’d moved on to let the others offer comfort, when his old man staggered up. He clapped Smoke on the back and said, “Well, it’s just you and me, kid.”

  I could see Smoke fight to control himself. He turned his back on his father and told me, “See you later.” Then he stalked away across the graveyard. His old man swayed drunkenly, staring after him.

  “What’s with Smoke?” Billy’d asked me later. He looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform. Home on bereavement leave, though Amy Johnson hadn’t been his kin.

  “He’s hurting,” Steve said. “Let him be.”

  I kept the gun steady. “Who the hell are you?”

  He didn’t answer. I moved toward him until the muzzle of the gun came up against his chest. He didn’t seem to care, or even notice, really. I tried to imagine this man without a beard, with a crew cut and a few more pounds on his frame. I tried to imagine him going on eighteen and cocky. The resemblances were there, when you knew what to look for, but something was missing.

  “If you’re Smoke, tell me what you swore to me before you left town.” He’d said, “I’ll die before I tell anyone about us. I swear.”

  “I never told anyone. I’ve always kept my promises.”

  It had been a point of honor with Smoke. He’d rarely committed to anyone or anything, but if he did, he kept his word.

  He’d never told me he’d come back to me.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I told you that. I would’ve killed my old man if I stayed.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with? Or come back for me?”

  “I had no education, no skills, no job.” He’d told me that, too. “I thought if we married, in ten or fifteen years I’d be my father, taking my failure out on you.”

  I shook my head and let the gun drop to my side. “That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe. Seventeen-year-olds don’t have much truck with logic. I did return, eventually, but you were married and expecting—Billy’s kid. I came back again for Billy’s memorial. You were with Mickey. I could see he was crazy about you and he really cared about the kid. It seemed better for everyone if I just left it there. No need to raise old ghosts.”
/>   Jimmy was two by then, and I’d resigned myself to Billy’s loss. I took a step back. If only…

  But Billy had pleaded his case on bended knee.

  Mickey’d made it plain that he adored me and that he worshipped my son.

  Smoke had braved my father’s wrath to climb in through my bedroom window.

  This shade of Smoke only waited. I felt bereaved again.

  He said, “Rhiann, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  I looked around. The stalkerlike obsession seemed, suddenly, more pathetic than threatening. “You’re right,” I said. “You did manage to kill Smoke. He never would have apologized.”

  “He should have.”

  He didn’t move as I cradled the gun in the crook of my arm and walked out of the room.

  John

  After Rhiann walked out of my life, I closed up the house and drove to my studio. I got out charcoal and the four-foot-by-four-foot newsprint pad and began to fill the pages. I tore each sheet off as it was filled and threw it aside. I didn’t stop until I ran out of paper.

  I was spent, too. I gathered up the sheets and stuffed them in the trash. Then I passed out on the cot I keep in the studio for all-nighters.

  Rhiann

  When Smoke left, I hadn’t grieved. I’d accepted that he had his reasons and I’d just assumed that he’d return for me. Until I found that I was pregnant, I didn’t even worry.

  But weeks passed, and I began to show. Billy guessed and asked me to marry him. I loved Billy almost as much as I loved Smoke. And I hadn’t heard from Smoke—or even anything about him. So I told Billy yes.

  I thought of Smoke fondly. He’d left me with a gift. But as time went on, I thought of him less often. And after I married Mickey, not at all.

  Now memories of Smoke filled my head. I locked my door and put Mickey’s gun away. And I cried myself to sleep.

  I slept fitfully, dreaming I was losing Mickey again.

  I woke full of curiosity. And anger.

  What could’ve made Smoke change so much I didn’t know him? All the passion and humor and fun had drained out of him, leaving only a depressing sadness.