Safer

by Sean Doolittle

  Why had Van and Roger been “beefing” over Darius Calvin? My thoughts ran back to my father’s take on marriage. Those little cracks you couldn’t see until they opened up. Had cracks formed between Roger and his old partner?

  Was there a way to slip into one? Pry it open a little?

  All I knew was that I couldn’t take on Roger Mallory alone. I needed volunteers for the resistance, and it would be one hell of a coup if Van Stockman turned out to be my first recruit.

  I canceled my classes for the day and drove to Stockman’s yellow brick duplex near Expedition Park. I parked beneath a hanging willow, walked up the stone path, and knocked on the door marked with Stockman’s address.

  A middle- aged woman in a sweatshirt and jeans answered. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” I said. “Mrs. Stockman?”

  She dried her chapped hands on a dish towel and eyed me. “I’m Valerie Stockman. What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see Van.” I’d planned my lie on the way over. A variation on a page from the Maya Lamb play-book. “I’m with the Des Moines Register. We’re doing a feature story on the Safer Places Organization?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. She smiled. “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry to barge in like this. I should have called ahead.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Is your husband at home?”

  She looked confused.

  “Mr. Stockman,” I said. “I know he works nights, thought it might be best to try him during the afternoon.”

  “You’re talking about Van, right?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should call and schedule a—”

  Valerie laughed and opened the door. “You really do need help with your story.”

  “I do?”

  “Van’s my brother,” she said. “He lives on the other side. Come on in.”

  “Oh.” I pretended to look embarrassed, but honestly, I didn’t need to pretend very hard. Apparently I hadn’t done my homework so well after all. “Sorry again. I can go across.”

  “Never mind, we connect in the middle. I’ll go on over and tell him you’re here.” She led me through the entry into a small living room, where an old man sat in a recliner, dressed in pajamas, watching a game show on the television. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

  “Oh, thanks, no. I’m fine.”

  “Well, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get Van. Dad, this is…What was your name?”

  I threw out the first name that popped into my head. “Ben Holland.”

  “Ben Holland, Dad. He’s doing a story on Roger.”

  The old man grimaced, never lifting his gaze from the television screen. Valerie rolled her eyes, swiped a hand at him, and gave me an apologetic look. He’s stubborn. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  She disappeared around a corner and down the adjoining hall. In her absence, awkward silence slowly enveloped the living room. The old man—Clair Mallory’s father, I presumed— appeared to be swimming in his pajamas. He had a clear tube taped under his nose. The tubing trailed across his afghan to an oxygen tank on the floor beside the chair. The table next to him was crowded with medicine bottles and used tissues.

  On another table, I saw a portable nebulizer machine similar to the one I’d had as a kid, right up until I’d outgrown my asthma at the age of twelve. I saw a blue bulb syringe like I’d seen Trish Firth use on the twins’ noses when they had colds.

  There were other items I couldn’t name. They all looked medical. The room had the sour, musty smell of age and illness.

  “Afternoon, sir.” I nodded politely. “How are you?”

  He coughed. It was a horrid, gurgling sound deep in his chest. It seemed to start slowly, gathering momentum until finally seizing him in a fit. By the end he’d nearly doubled over in the chair. As the afghan shifted, I saw blue veins and pale white ankles and what looked like a Foley bag propped on the leg rest of the recliner between his slippered feet. He spat into a tissue, looked at the result, scowled, and tossed the tissue onto the table with the others.

  “Dying,” he said, without looking at me. “How the hell are you?”

  I stood mute.

  “Take a picture,” he said. “You can look at it later.”

  I looked away quickly, embarrassed, moving my gaze around the room. Curio cabinet in the corner. Pendulum clock above the television. A replica of a familiar painting over the couch: Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, face turned up toward a beam from the heavens, disciples asleep in the background. My parents had a smaller version of the same portrait in their guest bedroom.

  Somewhere in the house, I heard voices, followed by footfalls that sounded heavier coming back than Valerie Stockman’s had sounded going away.

  In a moment, she reappeared in the living room. “Ben,” she said. “This is my brother, Van.”

  A man filled the doorway behind her. He was built like a pile of sandbags, somewhere in his late forties, with a full mustache, razored salt- and- pepper hair, and dark, watchful eyes. Dressed in a nylon flight jacket, he looked very much like an off- duty cop, or possibly the defensive line coach for the university football program. Seeing him, I had the distinct feeling that I’d met him before, though I couldn’t think where or why.

  “Sergeant Stockman,” I said, already anxious to dispense with this reporter ruse. I didn’t know how Maya Lamb managed to do this for a living. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just in town doing a—”

  “Sure, Val filled me in.” He smiled, crossing the floor in three strides and offering his hand. “No bother at all, Ben. Roger’s family, happy to help.”

  “You look like you’re on your way somewhere.”

  “Work,” he said. “But I got ten or fifteen I can spare. Nice little coffee shop down the street. Care to follow?”

  “That sounds great,” I said.

  He stepped over to the recliner, bent down, and kissed the old man on top of his head. “Take it easy, Pop.”

  Without looking away from the television, the old man reached out with one tremor- stricken hand and patted his son on the wrist.

  “And stop giving Val so much shit. Take your goddamned meds when she says. Hear?”

  The old man grunted.

  Van Stockman rolled his eyes in much the same way his sister had a few moments earlier. “Follow me.”

  I turned to Valerie Stockman. “Thanks for your help.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  I followed her brother out the door, down the steps, and across the yard to a big, gleaming Dodge Ram pickup sitting in the driveway on the other side of the duplex. He was chuckling to himself by the time we got there.

  “Listen,” I said.

  “Des Moines.” He turned to look at me, shaking his head. “You’re not all that fuckin’ smart for a college professor, are you?”

  I don’t remember how I responded to that. I suppose I stood there looking not all that smart.

  “Don’t remember me, do you?” He had a cold smile.

  I was certainly trying.

  Van Stockman went on shaking his head. But something changed in his eyes. I thought back to another thing Darius Calvin had told me. Dude gave me this look, shrank my nuts. In that moment, looking at Van Stockman, I believed that I understood what Darius had been talking about.

  “Watch your step,” Stockman said. “Professor.”

  With that, he walked around the tailgate, got into his truck, and left me standing there.

  Later that night, I sat up in bed. Sara stirred beside me. Voice thick with sleep, she said, “What’s the matter?”

  “A mustache.”

  “What?”

  “He has a mustache.”

  She yawned, patted me on the leg, turned over. “You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

  I knew I couldn’t be dreaming, because I hadn’t been to sleep yet. My alarm clock read 3 a.m.; it had ta
ken me that long to realize why Sergeant Van Stockman had seemed so familiar to me earlier that afternoon.

  It wasn’t because I’d seen his face in Roger’s family photos, or in the newspaper articles I’d retrieved from the Telegram. I’d seen him in person before. Right here in our house. The night we moved in.

  In the darkness of our bedroom, I pictured the burly cop who’d carried my golf club out the front door. He’d nodded to us as he left. I’d only seen him for a moment, but now that I’d placed him, I found that I could call his image up from memory—as it seemed I could so many details regarding that night—with high clarity.

  Middle- aged. Clean- shaven. Same thick face, same pocked cheeks, same watchful eyes.

  In my mind, I transferred his face to a sketch pad and scribbled a mustache on him.

  Safer Places one, resistance zip.

  35.

  WHILE I’VE BEEN TALKING, The Firehouse has filled up with people. Maya Lamb and I have finished our beers and ordered a second round.

  I’m kicking myself under the table, knowing I’ve gone too far. I only intended to warm her up with Roger’s video cameras and my adventures this morning at the Loess Point Mall. I didn’t mean to bring up Van Stockman, and I definitely didn’t mean to get into the whole concept of Darius Calvin. At least not yet. But I got caught up in my own story, and now here we are.

  “You’re kidding,” she says. “Right?”

  I shrug. “Wish I were.”

  When she drops her eyes, I realize that she doesn’t believe a word of this. I’m not sure that I would if I were sitting on her side of the table.

  Then she looks up and says, “We need to bushwhack this dirtball schoolteacher before the lawyers get to him.” She produces a notepad and a pen as if from the air. “Brand, you said. Timothy? That’s his name?”

  “Hold on,” I say, holding up my hands, surprised at her response. “Wait a minute. We had a deal. Remember?”

  Maya does her best to pantomime the appearance of patience. But she’s practically vibrating in place on her side of the booth. She says, “Paul, listen. Let me tell you what’s going to happen.”

  “I help you, and you help me,” I say. “Right? You gave me your word.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m—”

  “How does ‘bushwhacking’ Timothy Brand help me, exactly?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to—”

  “I’ll be lucky if my attorney doesn’t quit when he hears I’ve been talking to you in the first place.”

  “Just listen to me for a minute. Will you hear me out?”

  I stop talking. Drink my beer.

  “Actually,” she says, “answer me something first. You say that Roger Mallory told you he wanted you to move out of the neighborhood. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I laughed at him.”

  “Right. Now take this teacher, Brand. Mr. B, the McNally girl called him?” She opens her hands for comparison: me on the one hand, Mr. B on the other. “Brittany gets in over her head with some scumbag schoolteacher who likes to take pictures. She’s scared to tell her folks, so she goes to Roger Mallory for help. Roger Mallory decides to protect her from shame and scandal, spare her the scarlet letter.”

  I toast her ongoing facility with the lit references. I’ll bet she was that one kid who always showed up for class early and sat in front.

  “So Mallory pays the schoolteacher the same kind of visit he paid you. How do you guess that went?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”

  “And Timothy Brand, apparently, is no longer a history teacher at Bluffs View Middle. Me?” She sips her beer. “I’d guess that Mallory must have put the fear of God into him.”

  “I’m still not following your argument.”

  “It’s a no- brainer,” she says. “Timothy Brand suddenly quits his job and leaves town? If that’s the deal he made with Roger Mallory to keep himself out of trouble, why would he come clean now?”

  “I assume he’ll be subpoenaed.”

  “What makes you think he’ll tell anyone the truth?”

  “He’ll have to. According to Rachel McNally—”

  “You mean the girl who told you a story because you bought her a four- hundred- dollar iPod? That Rachel McNally?”

  “Wait a minute…”

  “Do you have anything that backs up her little story? Any corroborating sources?” She raises her eyebrows. She shakes her head. I didn’t think so. “What you’ve got are the statements of a thirteen- year- old girl whom you bribed to talk to you. And then you’ve got another thirteen- year- old girl who’s already named you as the photographer.”

  For all I know, she’s absolutely right about all of this. But I still feel like I’ve put my foot in a bucket of trouble.

  “Anyway,” Maya says, “you don’t even need the schoolteacher for your case anymore. Brit Seward’s tattoo clears you on that front. You couldn’t have taken the pictures if you weren’t here.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So your attorney?” She points at my chest. “I promise you, he’s only thinking about what was actually found on your computer at this point. The schoolteacher has nothing to do with that. So what do you care?”

  “If Mr. B’s got no reason to tell the truth, he’s certainly not going to talk to a reporter.”

  “You’d be surprised how far you can get with people,” she tells me, “if you can trip them up on camera.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I got you talking on camera, didn’t I?”

  I suppose I can’t argue that.

  Maya senses my frustration and eases up on the full- court press. “Look, I gave you my word. Believe it or not, I’m one of those strange little people who still thinks that counts for something.” She fiddles with her sodden beer coaster a moment. “How about this? Let’s make it a bet.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Call your lawyer. See if he’s found Timothy Brand yet.”

  “First tell me—”

  “Just call him.”

  What the hell. I pull out the cell phone Douglas Bennett gave me. The Firehouse has gotten busier since I first arrived; all around us, people are talking and laughing and toasting the holidays. I slide out of the booth, walk to a quieter spot, and dial Bennett’s direct line.

  “Paul,” he says. “Where are you?”

  “Any word on Timothy Brand?”

  “Debbie’s working on it,” he says. “I just got off the phone with the county attorney. What the hell is this I hear about you buying Rachel McNally an iPod?”

  I hang up and walk back to the booth.

  Maya Lamb says, “Well?”

  “They’re all over it.”

  “Okay, then. Are you game?”

  “Tell me the bet first.”

  “If your attorney’s office finds Timothy Brand before I can, I’ll back off. Otherwise, first come, first served.”

  I think about the terms. Debbie the Intern has almost a five-hour head start. She’s been working on this all afternoon. Anyway, Maya Lamb is right. At this point, Mr. B isn’t my stay- out- of- jail card.

  “Fine,” I tell her. “If it makes you happy, call it a bet. I’m going to the bathroom.”

  I go. When I return to our booth in the alcove, Maya Lamb is talking on her cell phone. Her laptop computer is sitting on the table in front of her. She sees me coming, finishes her conversation, and snaps the phone shut. Then she closes her laptop, puts it back into her bag, and climbs out of the booth.

  “Got him,” she says.

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  Maya Lamb grins. “Want to come along and supervise?”

  36.

  SOMEHOW, within one hour’s time, Maya Lamb has managed to locate Timothy Brand, determine that he’s answering his home telephone, and finagle from her news station a Ford Explorer, a set of long- range Motorola walkie- talkies, and a cameraman named Jo
sh. It’s a little bit fascinating to observe her at work.

  “Timothy Brand,” she says over the walkie- talkie. I can hear Blondie blaring in the background. “Gonna getcha getcha getcha.”

  I’m following the Explorer in my car. I key my radio. It’s almost like being back on the old neighborhood patrol. “You realize it’ll be midnight before we get there.”

  Beep. Crackle. Maya says, “My boy Josh drives fast. Better keep up.”

  Monday afternoon rush- hour traffic thins quickly on the edge of town. Forty minutes south, we approach the Flying J truck stop where Douglas Bennett and I met Darius Calvin just two nights ago. This time, instead of taking the off- ramp, I follow Maya and Josh through the interchange, onto I-80, heading east.

  Maya’s research blitz has tracked Timothy Brand to a rental house in Iowa City, on the opposite side of the state. It’s a five- hour drive—more or less the same drive Sara and I made five months ago, traveling the other direction. We’d stayed the night at a Holiday Inn off the Interstate. Our last stop on our way to Clark Falls.

  Maya Lamb, Josh the camera guy, and I manage to make the whole trip without stopping or being pulled over by the state patrol. It’s half past ten by the time we arrive in town. My back feels stiff, kidneys crunched. I’d probably be asleep at the wheel if I didn’t need a bathroom so badly.

  Maya’s voice comes over the radio. “Josh needs to pee. There’s a Kwik Star up ahead.”

  I key the button. “Right behind you.”

  Beep. Crackle. “Emphasis on Kwik.”

  10:45 p.m.

  We pull to the curb on a quiet residential street on the east side of town. Timothy Brand’s house is conspicuous by virtue of being the only house on the block not outlined in holiday lights.