Yellow Medicine

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “I owe you one.”

  He whispered, “Don’t be so sure. I’ve got more to say on the ride home.”

  Goddamnit. More lectures. I’d rather they brought out the paddle and got it over with.

  ELEVEN

  Long story short—everyone was pissed at me.

  At least they decided to not tell Heather’s parents about me trying to sleep with their little girl. In fact, a search of the room showed that Heather had really fallen for Ian, that it wasn’t just some fling. She probably didn’t even know about Drew. As far as she was concerned, Ian was all hers. God, made me feel pretty slimy.

  These genius cops figured out rather quickly that I wasn’t a killer. Not anymore, anyway. Not college kids. The rest of their questioning was aimed at learning if I was incompetent or insubordinate or both or neither or a plain old sociopath. Luckily I knew how to foil the tests on that end. Know thyself, you know?

  By the time Graham and I left, it was nearly dark. I was told they still hadn’t found the kids, had little to go on, hoping that might open me up. Fuck that. The head in the river, the Polaroids stashed away safely in my enormous front yard. Those were my “Go Directly to Jail, Don’t Pass Go, Get Ass Raped by Someone You Beat Up Last Month” cards. I wanted them ripped to shreds and in the wind, but not until I figured out what was going on.

  Graham asked a Marshall PD officer to follow behind in my cruiser so he could have a chat with me. By the time we reached Cottonwood, he still hadn’t said a word.

  I tried, “I’m glad you were there today. Thanks.”

  “I don’t know why I agreed to this. Jesus, when Ginny said you could get into trouble now and then, I had no idea.” He stared straight ahead, hands at nine and three on the wheel. “Dig some and there are incidents referred to, but the paperwork is all lost. Katrina, they say. The stuff after the hurricane is mired in confidentiality. After today, though, I think I understand why my sister cut you loose.”

  “I don’t understand.” He’s slitting your throat.

  “Listen, I mean, we obviously like you. Charming guy, Billy. Southern accent and hospitality. Gets things done. Nice to my kids. But he doesn’t like procedure.”

  “I’m right here. No need to pretend I’m not.”

  A quick turn of his head, right back to the road. “Then there’s that. You’ve got a way to make us feel guilty when we’re suspicious. Like you never got out of fourth grade.”

  The radio babbled, and I also took to staring at the road, the flat dull fields on either side, stretching for miles until you hit a lonely patch of trees or a barn. It reminded me that I didn’t have many places to hide up here.

  “So tell me,” Graham said. “How often do you use your badge to get in a girl’s pants?”

  “Nothing happened, okay? Nothing was going to happen. I was just trying to scare her.” I didn’t believe my own lie.

  “Any of that going on while you were married?”

  I didn’t want to answer. Wanted to punch him in the mouth. Instead, I said, “No, never.”

  He shook his head. “You knew a crime had been committed and you sat on it because of some girl?”

  “I went with my gut. I didn’t want to get thrown off the case.”

  “Case? You’re my deputy, not a detective. You need to learn some discipline.”

  No way I was going to strike back at that one. “Yes sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir.”

  More quiet with radio bleeps interrupting. Without the job, I would have no other choice. If I hadn’t signed up for Gulfport PD when I was twenty, I probably would’ve been one of the meth cookers I rousted daily.

  *

  See, it wasn’t my upbringing, or at least not what you’d expect. My adolescence was spent in the upper-middle class, on track for college with “B”s and occasionally “A”s (English) and “D”s (Math). I liked classic rock and heavy metal, liked sci-fi comics and movies. My friends were the nerds in junior high who changed almost overnight around age fifteen and discovered that the girls who smoked and wore black were more interesting than the cheerleaders we had lusted after. Typical story. My dad was an electrician. My mom was an elementary school teacher. And holy shit I was bored.

  When I was sixteen, one of my friends figured out who was selling the pot. So we moved up from diet pills and allergy medicines. We tried E. We thought the rockers on heroin were creative geniuses. And one of us got hooked on crystal meth.

  Not me. Fucking needles? I’d had enough of that when I was a kid with chronic bronchitis. Pretty soon the guy was skipping classes, then weeks, and then he came around asking for money. Guy looked scabby and pale. When I told him I was broke, I watched from the front window as he broke into my mom’s car and took the CD player.

  That wasn’t what made me want to be a cop. I thought it was kind of cool to watch this guy steal something. Thought it was cool to lie about it, tell my folks I had my headphones on and didn’t hear a thing. By the time I was seventeen, I’d learned to shoplift CDs, porn mags, snacks, and single bottles of beer.

  Too many stolen bottles one night, and I got pinched for drunk driving. I took a punch at the cop and he waylaid me. Here’s what got me on the thin blue line—he kicked me when I was down. When I looked up at him, my insides racing to come out of my throat, he had this grin on his face. Not angry, not breaking a sweat. His balls were made of iron. He lifted me by my arm, nearly pulling it out of its socket, and said, “Son of a bitch, I love my job.”

  Later, while waiting for my mom to come straighten me out, the guy sat beside me on the bench, gave me a Coke. “You don’t ever try to hit a cop. Let’s say you succeeded, right? Maybe you punch me out, take my gun, handcuffs, whatever. Maybe you kill me, maybe not. But then,” he pointed around the room, “every cop in this building, and out on the street, and in every other town in this whole blessed country, will make your life miserable. I mean never let you forget. Might as well be dogshit.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fuck fair. We tell you what’s fair.”

  I never stole again. I started watching old Miami Vice episodes my dad had taped which my mom kept after he died. I started working out and reading about hand-to-hand combat. I didn’t tell my friends. I didn’t tell my mom. I just…changed.

  If you want respect from the badasses and psychos, become a cop. Then that’s who your colleagues are.

  *

  After a few minutes, Graham said, “The college girl.” He fought a grin. “Tell me about her.”

  “She was one of those arty types, pretending to be a hippie. Really raw, sensual. I thought we had a vibe going. Man, I felt so old when I realized…” Trailed off and stared at empty fields we passed. “Why did you want to know?”

  He defeated the grin. “I love my wife. But sometimes, you know. It’s nothing.” He left unsaid Don’t tell Ginny.

  “We wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t.”

  “Just not on duty.”

  “Am I on duty? Back to work?”

  A long sigh. “We can't put you out there right now. I'm taking you home.”

  Ten seconds before, I'd thought all was forgiven. Fuck. “What're you saying?”

  He gave me his full attention this time as we passed the huge casino sign, the road widening to four lanes. “Look, I'm begging you. Take a couple of sick days. Whatever. But I don't want you leaving your house until we've figured out what's what.”

  I gave him a little laugh. Why not? At least I wasn't fired. “Guess I can finally unpack.”

  TWELVE

  Four acres felt like a jail cell that day. But at least I had some cellmates. Assistant Chief George Tordsen showed up with a rack of ribs and some barbecue sauce. As usual, his hair was a perfect helmet, and his jeans were creased. Cowboy boots had seen wear-and-tear, but were pretty damned clean. His flannel shirt, ironed. Definitely not like me—I wore a pair of jeans until I couldn’t stand the smell.

  When he spoke, it was the soundtrack of Minne
sota, heavy on the vowels. “I heard you’ve been grounded. So I thought you deserved a reprieve.”

  “I’m a baaaaad boy.”

  “Stupid, too.”

  “Admit it. You’ve been sent out here to babysit.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t know you considered yourself a baby.”

  Even with snow on the ground, we fired up the grill and tossed some Cajun sausages on with the ribs—I’d had them shipped up on dry ice. Damn glad that New Orleans was getting back on its feet so I could spend my paycheck on the flavors these people were clueless about. While the smoke drifted, the wind stoking it hard, I stood on the bank of the river and stared at the slow-moving dark water.

  Nate showed up not long after, out of uniform and carrying a twelve pack of Leinenkugel Dopplebock, a fine brew out of neighboring Wisconsin. He came right out and said it. “Sheriff’s orders.”

  We drank some beer, cursed the wind, traded stories. They were careful not to mention my woes the rest of the afternoon. I pretended not to notice. How could I think of anything else? I appreciated what they were doing—those ribs were damn good—but when I scratched a little more I understood they weren’t really on my side. Sympathetic, friendly, yet more like prison guards than allies.

  Everyone was pissed at me, but since they didn’t know the whole story, they were pissed at me on my terms. That gave me breathing room. And if the powers-that-be thought I was going to sit in my crib like a good little toddler, wouldn’t they be surprised.

  We sat in my living room after the food, flipped around the satellite TV until we found some drag racing, and I was surprised when Tordsen said, “Do you have any plans for your next move here?”

  Didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, just thinking that maybe you’ve messed up pretty badly. What are you going to do to make it right?”

  “Sit tight, wait it out.” Hoped I sounded sincere. Every word was a lie.

  Tordsen was smarter than that. “It might take you a while before we can put you out on patrol again, but I’m not saying it won’t happen. You understand? All is not lost for you yet.”

  I hung my head, thinking of how a sinner felt at the altar. I needed that look. He was handing out good advice and I knew it. A smarter man who was concerned about his career would’ve taken heed. Me, I felt there was more at stake than just my job.

  Still hangdog, stirring in a little bit of remorse, I said, “Do you think I could have the rest of the evening alone? I…you know…want to call my kids. It’s been a while.”

  They were on their feet in a minute. Handshakes all around. I wrapped up some of the ribs and sausage for Nate, saved him from another night of frozen pizza. Tordsen shook my hand on his way out the door.

  “Billy, think about what I said, okay? It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

  As he climbed into his truck, I thought, Maybe one day I’ll be just like you, George—careful and spotless. But only because the undertaker cleaned me up nice.

  *

  It didn’t take long to figure out what the next step should be. I dialed Layla, said, “I’m going to get online, so if the phone’s busy, that’s why.” Nobody had broadband out on the river.

  “What about your cell?”

  “Aw, shit. I probably left it in the cruiser.” It was on my bedside table.

  “What do you need online? Can’t it wait?”

  “None of your business, honey. Unless you feel like stripping for me.”

  “Oh, come on, Billy.” She gave up after that.

  I wet down the grill flames and tromped back to the house in my steel-toed CAT boots to arm up and go find Tracy Vis, the son of a bitch who’d gotten Ian involved in the first place. Right before I left, I turned on my old PC and fired up the Internet and navigated to a porn site dedicated to goth girls. Might as well keep up the illusion—God knows they can track all that shit nowadays.

  Locked the door, checked to see that the shotgun and .357 were loaded and ready, the carried them out to the big red truck. Would’ve slipped the hunting knife in my belt but the big bad Asians had it. They’d cut off the girl’s head with it, I was painfully certain. Reminded me of those hostage tapes from Iraq and Afghanistan. Thinking of that got me in the zone. Ready, set…

  *

  Going after Vis would be a piece of cake. He’d probably cave quickly and I could run down the Asians before the night was over. All I had to do was find him at his granddad’s farm house north of town, which he’d inherited but let go to hell, or at one of his three labs. The wind pushed me into the left lane and I nearly rammed head-on into a black Suburban that wailed on the horn until I shook myself and jerked back into line. Verging on a fishtail. Held it, slowed, braked, and pulled off on the shoulder. Forehead on the steering wheel.

  If Ian died, I could count out ever being with Drew. I could count out the job. I could turn again to too much red wine and a bullet in the revolver, playing Spin the Chambers until I won. Last time I tried that, I’d already lost twice when Ginny called, this about a day or two before I got the Minnesota job.

  “I worry about you,” she said. “If only, you know. It’s not about me anymore. I’d probably stick with you if not for the kids.”

  “Maybe you should have told me before we had any.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  I gave her a drunk laugh and said, “Shit, you don’t play fair at all, you bitch. You hand me loaded dice and a stacked deck and I play along. Are you just calling to rub it in?”

  She didn’t speak for a while, and I was about to apologize when she cut in. “It’s not about love. I can’t help love. Whatever else it’s about, I wanted to tell you. Don’t give up on me yet.”

  I hung up on her, but she had saved me. I put the gun down and went to bed. Give up on her? I did that the moment she mentioned divorce. Every touchy-feely thing she had said afterwards didn’t stop her from delivering those papers. Fuck that double-speak bullshit. She saved me because I decided not to give up on me. I wanted to fuck more women and screw over anyone who ever doubted me again.

  When facing the unwinnable a second time, odds are there won’t be another escape hatch.

  A speeding semi hauling tractor parts shook the truck and scared me silly. I gripped ten and two on the wheel until my fingers ached, then pulled back onto the Highway.

  *

  I found Vis at the second lab. The sun had already set after two strikeouts at his house and a lab outside of Olivia, a small town to the east. This other one was damn near the South Dakota border, about fifty miles west of Pale Falls, so I was sure my “on the internet” ruse had run out of juice. The deputies were out looking for me, I supposed, but quietly. Graham wasn’t going to put it on the airwaves. All I had to do was stay away from my colleagues until I called in and made up some excuse—just wanted to get away from it all and go fishing. Or whoring. Yeah, the second one made more sense.

  And if I delivered good intel from Vis, all might be forgiven.

  The place had once been a hunter’s hideout, a double-wide trailer that had been nicely furnished although a little dusty the first time Vis had shown it to me. Apparently the owner died and had never told his wife about it because he’d been using it as a love nest to fuck his wife’s twin sister. Damn thing had furniture, flat-screen TV, DVD, queen-sized bed. After a season of meth-cooking, all of that except the mattress and the TV were gone, replaced by beakers, coils, hotplates, plastic jugs of foul-smelling chemicals, empty Sudafed boxes, and dirty syringes.

  I pulled up with my lights off, parked a quarter-mile down the trail and walked, revolver leading the way. The only sounds were wind and the light crunch of my feet on brittle dead leaves and ice, some patches still solid enough that I slid across the top. Vis’s car, a Ford Probe that had been repainted canary yellow, was cold, engine off for quite a while. The trailer was filthy with piles of dirty snow still covering most of the vinyl siding that bordered the bottom edge. The wooden stai
rs to the front door had been replaced by a stepladder. Lights burned from somewhere inside. I wasn’t close enough to tell from which room. I had told Vis that first time to install motion sensor lights, but it looked like he hadn’t taken the advice. Dumb boy. Good boy.

  So why sneak up on him? After all, he was in my pocket, right? I thought if he had helped the Asians find ways to get to me, then being scared shitless by me was the proper antidote. Quiet steps around the trailer to get a feel for who was inside, where they were. No one in the front room, dark through the cloudy window. The room was empty, the TV was gone. Vis had hit bottom again.

  Around back, the light shone yellow through the kitchen windows. I heard scuffling but no voices. He was here alone, I guessed. He didn’t know how to cook the stuff, so I didn’t know what business he was up to, unless he’d learned. I cringed, thinking this joint might explode at any moment. Better to take him now than wait for it.

  The back door looked like it hadn’t been used since the hunter had descended to scout out some bucks while his sister-in-law slept off the sex. The stacked gray bricks didn’t look steady, but I just needed them to hold for one strong motion.

  Crouched. Climbed. Twisted the knob. It wasn’t locked. Figured. Still possible that I’d need to shoulder it. Counted to three.

  Banged hard into something right inside, banged again, crashing a makeshift table to the floor, sawhorses scattering left and right. Glass shattered, bottles emptied, and the thought flashed too late—It’s probably more dangerous now than when you thought he was cooking. Vis was too stunned to grab the rifle in the corner near the door to the back hallway. He stood over the sink, upending a bottle. The air was poison, acidic. Smelled like piss and dead animals. His thick jacket was bleached spotty all over the front. His toboggan cap leaked out strands of his mullet that hadn’t been washed for weeks, and the beard was patchy, full of white. One glove was missing a ring finger. The finger was a scary white and blue.

  I stuck my gun in his face. “Not one move. Got it?”

  He hummed affirmative and then sucked in breath. Said, “Shit, Billy, don’t freak out on me.”