by Strand, Jeff
"Don't think that just because you've got a guest, I'm going to let you get away with that kind of language," Malcolm said, though he was kind of laughing as he said it.
I rolled the dice. I'd rolled a small straight on the first try, but I already had both my small and large straights. "Fiddlesticks!"
We played seven games. At first I thought Rachel and Malcolm just really, really enjoyed playing Yahtzee, but the wins were evenly distributed between Rachel and I until the last game, which Malcolm won. Then he said that he was tired and done for the night, and I understood that he couldn't quit until he had a victory.
As Malcolm lay asleep on the couch, Rachel and I watched a riveting half-hour infomercial on television. I'm not being sarcastic. I'm not saying that either of us believed that it was quality entertainment, but the audience's nearly orgasmic enthusiasm for this amazing breakthrough in frying pan technology was legitimately riveting to view.
When it ended, I checked my watch. 1:00 AM. "I should go," I said.
"Thank you for another good day."
"Thank you. I'll stop by tomorrow."
I drove back to the cabin feeling good. This had been a genuinely enjoyable day. I was glad that Chuck had banished me from polite society for a while. When I returned to Florida, I'd be more relaxed and perhaps less inclined to frighten the neighborhood kids.
I felt somewhat less relaxed upon seeing that Chuck's cabin was engulfed in flames.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Not much later, the cabin was completely wiped out. A couple of firemen sprayed water on the smoldering remains, while I spent quality time with Sheriff Baker. He was in his mid-thirties, slightly overweight, and though he conducted himself in an entirely professional manner I got the sense that this was a fun change in his routine.
Upon seeing the inferno, I'd been in an absolute panic for a couple of minutes, but then Ignatz came running up to me, barking away, and I was able to downgrade to a moderate panic.
"You a smoker?" Sheriff Baker asked.
"No."
Baker wrote that down. "Do you recall leaving the stove on?"
"I didn't use it all day."
"Could be faulty wiring. Could be rats."
"Rats?"
"You know. Rats chewing on the wiring."
"Oh."
Sheriff Baker shrugged. "Probably just one of those things. Your agent, Chuck, I've drank with him a few times, he's a smart guy. He knows the importance of insurance."
"Yeah, he's covered."
"He's not gonna be happy, though."
"No," I said. "I don't think he will be. Are we done? I should probably get that call over with."
"Oh, go right ahead. I wouldn't want to interrupt that. I'm sure I'll have more questions, and I'll probably need you to come down to the station and give me an official statement tomorrow. You'll be around, right?"
"Yeah," I said. I took out my wallet and gave him a business card. "Here."
Sheriff Baker chuckled as he looked at the card. "Zep the Beetle. I love that guy."
"Thanks."
"Maybe you can do a strip where Zep's house burns down."
"Gotta take inspiration where you can get it."
I realized Malcolm was coming toward me. He looked about as unhappy as it was physically possible for a human being to look. Oh, yeah. This was going to be an ugly conversation.
Malcolm walked right up to me, getting in my face. "You stay away from my daughter."
I gestured to the cabin rubble. "Why? Because of this? I have no idea how it happened."
"Well, I do."
"So what are you saying? It was arson?"
"I'm saying for you to stay away from her."
Malcolm turned and began to leave.
"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa! If you think people are burning down cabins over this, I need more information!" I didn't say this loud enough for Baker or the firemen to hear, but I was sure that Malcolm heard. He hesitated for a split second, then ignored me and continued walking.
I hurried after him and grabbed his shoulder. Malcolm spun around, looking just a tad homicidal.
"Don't touch me."
"Who do you think it was?" I asked. "Her boyfriend?"
"Don't be stupid."
"How does that make me stupid? You're worried about him coming back, right?"
"No, I am not worried about some maniac coming back for vengeance. It's not about that. I love my daughter, and I like you, but the shitty reality is that some people in this town don't approve of the kind of thing you're doing."
"I'm not doing anything!"
"If they're coming after you, they could come after her next. I won't have Rachel's life put in danger. Stay away."
"Hey, if you know who did this, you need to tell the sheriff."
"I don't know who did it."
Malcolm walked away. I let him go.
As much as I wanted to check on Rachel, I knew that it was a bad idea. I felt like I could smooth things over with Malcolm once he calmed down, but if I went straight back to see his daughter against his will, he'd kick my ass, call the cops to get me arrested for trespassing, and I'd never be welcome there again. Rachel could take care of herself even without her overprotective dad keeping watch. She'd be fine.
I found a motel that allowed dogs. From the condition of the carpet and wallpaper, it also allowed Tasmanian devils. Ignatz went from stain to stain, sniffing away, but at least the room wasn't on fire. Tomorrow I'd have to buy new clothes and other essentials.
I called Chuck. He did not like to be disturbed after 10:00 PM, and he also probably did not like to be disturbed to be told that his cabin had burned to the ground, so this was going to be a highly unpleasant call. I'd rather have waited until tomorrow, but I didn't want him to hear about it from somebody else.
"Chuck? Hi. Jason."
Chuck asked me if I knew what time it was. I assured him that, yes, I did. I apologized for waking him. He accepted my apology and asked what was wrong.
"Um," I said, "remember that whole thing with the kid and the broken arm?"
"Yes."
"I may have trumped it."
"You son of a bitch! What did you do? Did you kill somebody this time? Goddamn it, Jason, do I need to chain you to the wall to keep you out of trouble? What did you do? What Jason Tray mess do I need to clean up now?"
"Is Sarah with you?"
"Of course Sarah's with me! She's my wife and it's two in the morning! What the hell do you think?"
"You know what, put Sarah on, and I'll tell her and let her tell you."
"Tell me what you did, Jason."
"I didn't do anything. But your cabin burned down."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a long story, but that's the basic gist of it," I said. "You can go back to sleep now."
"Was anybody hurt?"
"No."
"Is your dog okay?"
"Yes."
"Did they at least get the pinball machine out?"
"No."
"You son of a bitch! I'm driving over there tomorrow. We'll have lunch. Worst lunch you've ever had."
I was tempted to make a joke about making sure we ate in a public place with plenty of witnesses, but, no, Chuck was not in a humor appreciation mood. "All right."
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight, Chuck."
* * *
Chuck and I sat across from each other in a booth in a very small restaurant. I poked occasionally at my salad while Chuck silently wolfed down his monster hamburger. The tension was thicker than the grease. This was going to be a "keep quiet, keep your head down, and let Chuck chew you out until he can chew no more" situation. It wasn't as if I knocked over a candle or I'd been juggling flaming torches or something, but I wouldn't be making any excuses. The only thing he would get from me was an apology.
"I'm—"
"Don't talk to me yet," Chuck told me through a mouthful of burger.
"I just—"
"Silence!"
&n
bsp; I was silent. Chuck finished his burger, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned across the table toward me.
"You are the worst human being who has ever lived," Chuck informed me.
"I'm sorry."
"You know Hitler? I like Hitler more than I like you, and I'm a Jew."
"I think you're being melodramatic."
"I sent you up here to keep you out of trouble. If I'd known that you were going to burn down my cabin I would have set you loose on a little kid arm-breaking rampage instead."
"I don't know what to tell you, except that I'm truly sorry. I have no idea how it happened."
"I know exactly how it happened. I let a dumb-ass stay there."
"It could've been worse," I said.
"Everything could be worse. Hitler could have killed seven million Jews instead of six."
"That's really in poor taste."
"You know those licensing agreements you turned down, like the one for that shitty tasting mint-flavored cereal? We're going to re-evaluate."
"Okay, fine. Whatever it takes to get you to call off the gypsy curse, or the hit men, or whatever horrible pox you've placed upon me."
Chuck glared at me. "Oh, when I place a pox on you, you'll know it. When are you going home?"
"I thought I might stay here a while longer."
"Why would you stay here? To rebuild my cabin?"
"It's not right what he's doing to that girl. You don't keep somebody hidden away like that."
"It's none of your business. Call Social Services if you're so concerned."
"She's twenty-three."
"Exactly. She's an adult. She doesn't need you going on some noble quest to rescue her."
I didn't respond to that.
"Answer me this," Chuck said. "Are you doing this because you care about her, or because you're a stubborn son of a bitch?"
"Both."
"Well, you're going to do whatever you want, regardless of any advice that a smart person gives you, so just be careful."
"I will."
I hesitated for a moment, not sure if I should share my theory with him. But I needed to share it with someone.
"I think there was vigilante justice."
"What?"
"I don't think the boyfriend got away. I think they caught him."
"What makes you say that?"
"A feeling, talking to her father. And he made a comment about not being worried that the boyfriend would return for revenge."
"Good Scooby Doo work. Go the hell home."
"I'm staying here."
Chuck sighed. "Well, I'm not your father. Thank God. Try not to burn down your motel."
"I'll do my best."
* * *
Since it was Saturday, Malcolm probably wouldn't be at work. It still felt too soon to show up on his property, so I decided to do a bit of investigative work. As a kid, I'd wanted to be a spy, and though that choice was based on fast cars, neat gadgets, and getting to kill hundreds of bad guys, I could relive the fantasies of my youth in a tiny way by chatting with the guy at the bait shop.
I walked into the shop. The same white-bearded cashier from before was behind the counter. My career as an amateur sleuth was off to a good start.
"Well, hello," he said, greeting me with a smile. "Talk around town is that you've been mingling with our local legend."
I strode right over to the counter, attempting to look no-nonsense and perhaps even a bit menacing.
"I know what happened that night," I told him. "I know that you helped murder Brandon Keaton."
We stared at each other for a long moment.
"That's just a wild guess, right?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, caught. "I figured, what's it gonna hurt?"
The cashier nodded. "What do you know about it?"
"Almost nothing."
"Of course not. We handle our own business here."
"I'm sure you do. I'll give you a hundred dollars to tell me what happened."
"I wasn't there."
"But you know what they did, right?"
"There are a few versions of the story."
"Which one do you believe?"
The cashier didn't respond. I took out my wallet and removed five twenty-dollar bills. I set them on the counter. The cashier looked at them, somewhat longingly, then pushed them back to me.
"Bad form to take bribes," he said.
"Your conscience will heal."
"Can't do it. I won't stop you from buying a hundred dollars' worth of bait, though."
"I really don't want a hundred dollars' worth of worms."
"You could share them with friends."
"Let's pretend that I bought the worms and then reverse-shoplifted them back into the cooler."
The cashier nodded and scooped up the cash. He folded the bills, shoved them into his pocket, then cleared his throat.
"They caught Brandon Keaton the same night," he said. "He didn't go to jail."
"Who caught him?"
"People invested in making sure he didn't get away with it. That's all I can tell you."
"That's all I need."
CHAPTER EIGHT
I started to walk up onto Malcolm's porch, then hesitated. This most definitely fell into the category of "butting into somebody else's business." I didn't have a problem with doing that, but before I confronted Malcolm, I decided that I should talk to Rachel. If she wanted me to leave the family alone, I'd leave them alone.
I walked over to the shed and noticed that there was a great big shiny brass fucking padlock on the door. Malcolm had locked his own daughter in the shed. What kind of messed up crap was that? She was his daughter, but was this even legal? Wasn't it technically kidnapping?
Very gently, I knocked on the door.
"Yes?" Rachel asked.
"It's me."
"Hi, Jason."
"Did you know that you're locked in there?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want me to go get a pair of bolt cutters?"
"He's trying to keep me safe."
"You don't keep people safe by locking them away. Did he tell you that somebody burned my agent's cabin down?"
"Yes."
"If anything, he's putting you in danger. If they tried to do the same thing to your place, you'd be trapped in here. You wouldn't be able to get out."
"Dad's watching. I'm sure he's watching you right now."
It occurred to me that, yes, the back of my head was probably visible in a riflescope right now. This realization did not give me a cheerful feeling. I took a deep breath. As long as I didn't start trying to break windows or kick the door down, Malcolm most likely would not fire a bullet into my skull.
"This isn't right," I said. "It's kidnapping. I could have the sheriff come over right now and force him to let you out."
"Please don't."
"Rachel..."
"I shouldn't have gone out. It's my fault."
"That's ridiculous. You can't possibly believe that."
Rachel didn't answer.
"Look," I said, "if you really want me to let this drop, I'll drive back home and you never have to see me again. Is that what you want?"
"Stop being a drama queen."
"I think this is worthy of a little drama."
"You're talking like we're star-crossed lovers."
"I can't help but feel that maybe you aren't understanding that your father has locked you in there. There's a padlock on the door. It's a weird, freaky situation. I know you're not a world traveler, but surely you've got to realize that when a dad locks his daughter in her tiny little house, it's not how things usually work."
"I'm not normal. You saw me, right?"
"You were the victim of an awful crime."
"What do you want me to do? Go out and get a job as a fashion model?"
"There's a pretty big middle ground between 'hidden from society' and 'fashion model.'"
"I guess so."
"I'd rather not be friends through a door. If
you're done hanging out with me, that's your choice and I'll respect it. But what I'd like you to do is say, 'No, Jason, I enjoy your company. Please go tell my dad what an insane idea this is.'"
"He won't care what you say."
"I think I can persuade him. I don't want to rush you into a decision, but I'm also starting to get worried about his trigger finger. I should probably wrap this up."
She didn't answer.
"Rachel?"
Nothing.
"You still there?"
"Yes, I'm still here," she finally said. I couldn't actually hear her sigh through the door, but the silence felt like it contained a sigh. "Okay. Talk to him if you want. It won't work, but if it'll make you feel better, that's fine."
"Thank you," I said. "I apologize from distracting you from reading my books."
"They're really funny."
I walked up onto Malcolm's front porch and knocked on the door. When he answered, he didn't look at all surprised to see me, and I assumed he'd been watching me through a window, but he still said, "Are you kidding me?"
"I think we should talk."
"Leave my family alone."
"I know what you did to Brandon Keaton. I'm not judging you for it—I would've been right there cheering you on."
"Go away or I'm calling the sheriff."
"You won't call anybody. I'm staying here until you talk to me."
Malcolm slammed the door. I sat down on his rocking chair, prepared to wait him out and call his bluff.
Ten minutes later, the sheriff's car pulled into the driveway. Damn. I stood up as Sheriff Baker got out of the car.
"Don't you have a cabin to rebuild?" he asked me.
"I just want to talk to him."
Sheriff Baker walked onto the front porch. "Now, you know I can't have this kind of thing going on in my town. You're trespassing, and I need you to leave."
"He's got Rachel locked in the shed."
"A man has a right to protect his daughter."
"Protect his daughter by locking her up? That's sick."
"Well, I'll note your objection."
"Sir, I'm not a superstar mega-celebrity, but I have an audience. I have media contacts."
Baker stiffened. "I hope to God that I didn't just hear an attempt to blackmail me."
"No. You heard an extremely formal invitation to chat. Look, I'm not trying to create problems or dig up prior events, but there's a very sweet girl named Rachel who's going through life as a freak named Blister, and it's not fair. I'm just trying to be her friend."