Dad?
The boar dropped its head, thoroughly uninterested, and Birdie, now realizing the full extent of her lunacy, sprung forward to shoo them deeper into the thicket. As they dispersed, Birdie noticed a big wire trap on the other side of the clearing. It was about six feet long and rusted a deep brick red, anchored to the ground with chains at each corner and wrapped around the tree to keep the hogs from ripping it away.
Inside: a large paper-brown lump, like a heap of clothes. Her stomach twisted, her face fell cold. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought it before now. She could find Bradley dead. What had Bradley last been wearing? He had a dun-colored jacket, didn’t he? But it was summer! She searched her memory for Bradley’s clothes and walked closer, the slow crunch of her footsteps pounding in her ears. No, no, no, no, no, no. She stopped and squinted. She stepped and pop! A branch cracked beneath her feet.
All at once, the trap shook—a big, violent lurch. A fawn. It was barely able to stand upright but flung the trap in panicked rap-rap-raps and banged against the top of the cage, its back bloodied and shredded. Birdie rushed forward, her feet weaving through boobytraps of thicket vines and branches, then flattened her body to the side of the cage. The fawn slammed itself against the metal, eyes wild, all fear. She grabbed the top of the gate and yanked as hard as she could, the metal jabbing into her ribs as she lifted, but it was rusted and wouldn’t slide up. Another hard yank and the fawn scrambled out. It sprinted into the woods as the gate slammed down in a tinny clang! clang! that sent the birds and squirrels scattering like a riot and sound echoing through the woods.
Birdie, breathless, leaned against a tree and stared at the trap. She didn’t remember one being there. Who had put it there? Had Bradley put a trap there? Mayhill? Then the thought hit her. The dead man had put it there. But she couldn’t fathom why he had put it on her property and in her woods. What exactly had he run across when he did? She wondered if the trap was the last thing the dead man had touched.
Do not go in the woods. God, she was an idiot! All of the juices of Birdie’s rebellion dried up right then, and she ran through the thicket and back to the house, the limbs tearing at her jeans like claws.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Birdie!” Mayhill yelled.
While Birdie was off in the woods, Mayhill pounded on the door of her house. He would be modest, he told himself on the break-neck drive over, after he ran the Datsun off the road. He would calmly state the facts and commence the investigation, but he would have to rein in his excitement. He had followed the Datsun right to where they were probably working, hadn’t he? CRACKED THE CASE! Though he couldn’t be sure given the dizzying terrain of the backwoods, he guessed the body had been about a mile from where he followed the truck through the trees.
Mayhill caught his reflection in the door window. He was covered in mud, all rough and tumble, Gus McCrae. Beneath a cut oozing yellow and red, his eye was swelling. Mayhill was a little fat, of course, but for the first time in a while, his outsides matched his inside vision of himself.
“Birdie!” He knocked hard again and then let himself in. Pat Sajak trotted behind him, his claws clicking on the concrete floor, and then sniffed around the kitchen, intrigued by an improbable amount of watermelon rinds hanging out of the garbage can.
The recliner swallowed Onie like a mud pit, while a blonde local newscaster stated calmly at fighter jet decibels that, “It’s gonna be hot out there today, folks!” Mayhill wondered if Onie was not just depressed but going deaf too.
“Onie,” Mayhill hollered over the television, and walked up behind her. “It’s Randall! Where’s Birdie?”
“Randall.” She smiled at him. Then, upon seeing the gash on his forehead, she frowned. She reached her hand toward his face, and he patted it away. “It’s going to be hot today!” She gestured to the perky blonde woman on the screen.
“September in Texas? Damn near psychic!” He picked up the television remote and clicked it off. “May I?”
“What happened to your eye?” she asked.
“I fell.” Mayhill tried to hide his disappointment of having to talk with Onie. He loved her but didn’t understand what was happening to her, and like most things he didn’t understand, he wanted to stay at a distance.
Pat Sajak emerged from the kitchen, sniffed at Onie’s feet, then jumped onto her lap.
“You don’t know where Birdie is?” he asked. “Not safe, you being here by yourself. Birdie needs to be with you.”
Onie petted the dog, seemingly happy to have an animal in her lap. She looked longingly at the blank screen.
“I’m serious here.” He paused, suddenly unsure how to talk about the situation in her emotionally-fragile state. “It’s just better with Birdie here. I need to make sure Birdie’s looking after you if I’m not.”
“What’s Birdie going to do? Have you seen her shoot?”
“Fair enough, fair enough,” he said. “Has anybody been around here? You talk with anybody strange lately?”
“Other than you?”
“Ha ha. I need you to cooperate, Onie,” Mayhill said, though he found the joke to be an encouraging sign of her mental state. “You talk with any strangers, I mean. Anybody knocked on the door you don’t know? Any trappers…hog hunters…wanting work here?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Onie said. “Not recently.”
“The county send anybody out?” Mayhill asked. “I know they’ve hired a few trappers, trying to put a dent in the problem.”
Silence. She looked intently at Pat Sajak, as if waiting on the dog to answer Mayhill’s question. “Some wars are unwinnable,” she sighed. “Pyrrhic victory at best.” She sounded somewhat like her old self.
“Oh, Pyrrhic, for sure!” Mayhill was impatient. “Listen. Tommy Jones. You know who that is? Fella’s a hog trapper. Been in the area evidently…worked with Van. You used to feed all those men on Van’s crew, remember that? I thought you’d know him. Jimmy said he’s been on the news. You watch the news, right? Before Wheel of Fortune?”
“Why was he on the news?” Onie asked. The dog repositioned and dug his head into the crease of her elbow.
“Oh, hell, I dunno. Something about his wife. They couldn’t prove it. I don’t watch the news, but you do!” He pointed to the dark screen. “Remember? It’s gonna be hot out there today!”
She patted Pat Sajak, entirely disinterested in their talk. It annoyed Mayhill, her lack of focus, her lack of presence, as if she were hovering six feet above the conversation. Here he’d spent his entire life fighting to make everything better for everyone, and Onie—she wasn’t even trying. All her fire gone. He desperately wished for Birdie to come in.
“Tommy Jones, Onie.” He leaned down closer to her, as if trying to entice a snake out of a basket. “Worked with Van. I need you to think. Just focus.”
In that moment, looking at her cool, distant eyes, he did worry about her sanity. Perhaps she wasn’t just depressed. Perhaps she was losing her mind. What an odd expression—losing her mind—as if Onie’s mind had flown away like a baby bird, and she, the mother bird, tried desperately to catch it. Or was her mind losing her, trying like mad to hold onto her spirit? Perhaps her spirit was too big and fiery to need something as useless as thinking anymore.
“Whose dog is this?” Onie asked suddenly. Pat Sajak’s long brown body was now curled up like a snail in the fold of her thighs.
Mayhill’s heart sank. Had she not remembered him come in? Had she not remembered petting him for the last five minutes?
“That’s my dog, Onie,” he said carefully. His voice was firmly at a jackass octave, trying not to condescend. “Good boy, that one.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not your dog.”
It sounded accusatory, her fire temporarily returned. All at once, Mayhill was back in her high school English class, Onie demanding that he explain the symbolism of the Gatsby green light. Impossible goals, Mrs. Woods! It symbolize
s impossible goals!
“Onie,” he chuckled nervously. “That is my dog. His name is Pat Sajak. Just like on the screen. I know we all hold Mr. Sajak in high regard around here.”
“No, he is not.”
“He is!” Mayhill said. “He is my dog.”
“That’s not your dog.”
But Mayhill saw what was happening. She was stuck in a loop. Something turned in his stomach. And though he never backed down from a fight—his wounded eye proof, split like a tomato too long on the vine—this war was unwinnable. He’d just be fighting hogs. Pyrrhic victories and whatnot.
“All right, Onie.”
Mayhill clicked his mouth at Pat Sajak, who then looked up at Onie. She shrugged, and the dog extracted himself from the nirvana of her lap. “When Birdie comes around, I need to talk to her. It’s real important. Could you have her call me?” Though he wasn’t sure now she would remember.
“Not your dog,” she said again, and then a few more times.
Mayhill clenched Pat to his chest and walked quickly to the door. He stood on the front porch with his slandered dog and tried to piece together what had happened. The entire conversation had rattled him, thrown him off his game. He had planned to be modest.
For a second, the worst thought settled on him, like shrikes on barbed wire. He had gratitude—no, relief—that Van was dead. At least he didn’t have to see what was happening to Onie.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Back at Mayhill’s house, the phone rang. It had been months since his phone had rung, and he jumped to his feet as if the sound were an intruder to be dealt with.
“Tommy Jones,” a tiny female voice said from the other end.
“Who is this?”
“Tommy Joooones.” The voice was a frantic whisper. Goddamn Gabby Grayson. “You want a guy who’s missing? There’s a guy who’s missing.”
“I keep hearing about—”
“He missed parole,” Gabby said. “Parole officer got a warrant out for him now.”
“When was he supposed to report?”
“Two days ago,” she said.
“And they already got a warrant?”
“Because it’s Tommy Jones.”
“For missing one meeting?” Mayhill asked.
“It’s like O.J. missing one meeting.”
“I know you aren’t comparing The Juice—”
“You have been living under a rock.”
Mayhill pictured Gabby on the other end, winding the cord and cocking her head at the curiosity that was him. He put the phone in the crook of his neck and popped another Dr Pepper to help him think.
“Look,” Gabby said. “I can’t catch you up right now. For goodness sake, turn on the television. Read a newspaper! Ask these ‘friends’ of yours. But I just wanted—”
“Did he have a tattoo?” Mayhill asked quickly, the Dr Pepper kicking in.
“Tommy Jones? I dunno…” Gabby said. “The news only shows his face. He does not have a tattoo on his face.”
“Can you check? This is real important. And don’t worry, it’s public record. I know that’s real important to you.”
“Don’t be nasty, Randy. Why do you need to know if Tommy Jones has a tattoo?”
“Please, Gabby.”
“Lord! Have! Mercy!” She stabbed the computer keys. “And the only reason I’m telling you anything is—”
“Public record. Yes, yes. I’m the public. I understand comp—”
“Star. Right hand.” Gabby stopped typing. “Looks like Tommy Jones has a…blue star on his…right hand.”
Mayhill was silent.
“Randy?”
“Yes, I’m here,” he said.
“Did you hear me? Yes, Tommy Jones has a tattoo. Are you okay?” Gabby asked. He could feel her looking at him through the phone. “What is this about? You call up—”
“You sure about that? You sure this Tommy Jones person has a star on his hand?”
“Blue star. Right hand. Says so right—”
“White guy? Dark hair?”
“Caucasian male. Dark brown hair. Forty years old,” she said. “You’re acting odd, Randy. Downright peculiar.”
Mayhill paced his tiny kitchen back and forth. He was silent, though he breathed like a bear into the phone. Tommy Jones was the dead man on the fence, but who was the boy driving his truck?
“But I did help, didn’t I?” Gabby sounded perky, pleased with herself.
“No, not at all,” he said. He tried to swallow the joy that threatened to explode in his chest. “You did not help even one iota.”
She laughed quietly on the other end, and Mayhill imagined angels singing, a whole little football team of them storming through the phone line to bring the good tidings of Gabby’s giggle to his ears.
“I’m sorry I was gruff yesterday,” she said with remorse. “I mean, I know you love veterans. I never should have implied otherwise.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “They’re what our country is built upon.”
“Of course they are,” Gabby said. “And don’t you have something additional that you need to say to me?”
“And…I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you for a year. Then I call back asking for favors.”
“And got mad when I didn’t do your favors?”
“And got mad when you didn’t do my favors,” Mayhill sighed.
“What about that? What about getting mad at me?” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Mayhill said, his smile as big as watermelon slices. “I’m sorry for all of those things.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Weed?” Birdie whispered. She looked tiny sitting on Mayhill’s couch, yet the house seemed much too small all of a sudden with another person in it. Not sure where to stand, he leaned against the second gun safe, and Birdie stared bewilderedly at him, her eyebrows hovering like helicopters above her eyes. “Weed?”
“I’m sure of it!” Mayhill was high off of Dr Pepper and Gabby Grayson’s voice, his emotions a powder keg.
“And the guy…” Birdie said.
“The dead guy!”
“The dead guy has something to do with that?”
Mayhill’s face wrinkled into revulsion, a full-on contortion that was beyond his control when asked any question with an obvious answer. He looked away toward his dog, who sat beside Birdie on the couch, and took control of his face again, because, logically, Birdie did not deserve such an inconsiderate, albeit totally appropriate reaction. Birdie was not stupid, having the high-priced genes of Van and Onie, yet such a question had just fallen from her mouth without a hint of sarcasm. “Yes…” he said slowly. “I would think the dead guy has something to do with an illegal marijuana operation near here.”
“And Bradley’s involved,” Birdie said.
“Doesn’t look good.”
Pat Sajak stretched, turned a circle, and then repositioned closer to Birdie. “She’s in your spot, ain’t she, Pat?”
Which she was, but Birdie only rolled her eyes.
“Dale said Bradley works for him sometimes.” Mayhill paced. “But he ain’t working on Dale’s trailer or anywhere around his place, I can tell you that.” A flush of concern came over him as he said the words. Bradley was dim, but looking to Dale for your livelihood was the saddest thing he’d heard of since lacing cigars with embalming fluid. The desperation! He thought of Bradley’s mother, the off-brand CHIPS, and shook his head. “Boy doesn’t have much.”
If Birdie shared Mayhill’s newfound humanism, her face didn’t show it. She took in all of the information with a stoicism he had only seen in movie mob bosses and Tom Landry, a cool calculation of seeing ten steps in the future. Van had had the same expression, and it made Mayhill nervous.
Birdie walked out onto the porch, and Mayhill and Pat Sajak followed, the heat blasting them like a firewall as they left the air-conditioning. Birdie stood, arms akimbo, and looked out toward the tree line.
“He’s doing it near here?” she asked. “Where we saw the man?”
“It’s smart, if you think about it.” Mayhill looked at the wall of trees off in the distance. “I mean, doing the same thing again. Not like the law will keep checking the same place over and over. Not after a big bust like that.” He picked a fleck of dried mud off his arm and was surprised at himself for giving Dale credit for anything. “And he doesn’t need irrigation 'cause it’s been so wet. Wettest summer in decades. No pipes. Risk is minimal.”
“He’s on my land, isn’t he?” Birdie posed it as more of a statement than a question. Mayhill was unprepared for the vitriol in her voice, and he shook his head, suddenly uneasy.
“It’s just a theory, Birdie. I think it’s a good one, but nothing has been—”
“But it would make sense, you said. It’d be smart. And the guy—”
“The dead guy could still be a hunting accident. I’m just talking out loud. Brainstorming. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire kinda thing.” He didn’t know how much he should tell her. “There’s some kid driving like a maniac back there…keep passing him on the—”
“Dale didn’t think I’d find out because I don’t do anything with all this land…don’t do anything except just sit around and watch Matlock with Onie! Gah!” She kicked the front porch post.
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