Chapter Fifteen
As I pull into the driving range parking lot, I smile. Not only is the Cadillac CT5—belonging to the man who shook hands with Chuckie—still here, the space next to it is empty.
I park there and get out, casually looking around to make sure I’m alone. No one else is around. I attach our second-to-last tracking bug to the Caddy’s undercarriage. Maybe this guy has nothing to do with the paper in the envelope, but best to be prepared in case he does. I then take a picture of the sedan’s license plate and send it to Jar, with the message:
The guy who shook with Chuckie.
I head over to the store and go inside.
The retail space isn’t particularly large, about thirty square meters (325 square feet, give or take). More than half the floor space is taken up by three circular clothing racks—one filled with golf shirts, one with golf pants, and the last light jackets. In a corner is a display of bags, and along the back wall are the shelves I saw before, on them balls and tees and other golf paraphernalia.
At the west end is the counter, behind which stands the same guy I saw Chuckie talking to. When I look his way, he says, “Good Morning. Welcome.”
“Morning.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“Just looking at the moment.”
“Cool. I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
I check out the rack of shirts first, and browse through enough of them to confirm that none have pockets where the note could have been placed.
The pants rack is next. While these definitely have pockets, each pair of slacks is hung with the pocket openings pointed at the floor. I doubt Chuckie would risk his paper falling out by accident.
The jackets, on the other hand, are prime suspects. I spend more time there, slowly working my way around them as if I’m seriously considering buying one. The rack turns, allowing me to remain on the side opposite the service counter. There’s no need for me to worry, though. The clerk’s attention is focused on the golf tournament playing on one of the four TVs mounted throughout the room on the walls.
The jackets are a bust and I move on to the golf bags. It would be easy enough for Chuckie to have dropped the envelope into one of them, but they’re all empty. I scan the room, and see nowhere else the note could have been left without the clerk potentially noticing it.
I head over to the counter. When I near, the clerk peels his gaze from the TV and says, “Find something?”
“A lot of things, but I’m going to have to pass today,” I say with a smile. “I have a question. I’m new in town. Used to do some golfing at my old place.”
“Where’s that?”
“Northern California.”
“Whoa. A Cali guy.”
I smirk. “You know, no one calls it Cali out there.”
“Really? I thought everyone did.”
“Sorry.”
“Huh. So, um, what brings you to Mercy?”
“What brings anyone anywhere?”
“Work?”
“Got it in one.” Before he can ask me what I do, I say, “I’m wondering how much it costs to use the range.”
He points at a sign at the other end of the counter.
½ Basket $3
1 Basket $6
2 Baskets $10
3 Baskets $12 Best Deal!
The BEST DEAL! part is in red ink.
“Ah, I should have looked around before I asked,” I say.
“A lot of people miss it.”
“I don’t see a sign about clubs. Do you rent them?”
“Don’t have any?”
“I do, but haven’t shipped them out yet. Wasn’t sure I’d have the opportunity to use them here. Now I’m regretting it.”
“Hold on,” he says, then disappears through an open doorway into a room behind the counter. When he returns, he’s holding a golf bag with several clubs in it, both woods and irons. “We do rent them, but seeing as you’re new here and this is your first time at Mercy Driving Range—this is your first time here, right?”
“Yeah, first time.”
He lifts the bag over the counter, and I help him set it on the floor by my side.
“You can use these for free today.”
“Seriously? That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Still going to have to charge you for the balls, though.”
“Of course. I’ll take, um, three baskets, I guess.”
“That’ll be twelve dollars.”
After I pay, he says, “You can use tee box number seven. Paul will bring you your baskets.” He grabs a microphone from under the counter, turns it on, and says into it, “Number seven, three fulls.”
The range has twelve tee boxes, all but three of which are being used. Wooden signs with the appropriate numbers are posted behind each tee box, box number one being closest to the store and the rest moving west from there. Cadillac Guy is in box number four. There’s another man in box six, but no one in box number five between them.
As I make my way to my spot, the guy I saw bringing Chuckie balls—Paul, I assume—jogs toward me, carrying a bucket.
“Morning, morning,” he says as he reaches me.
He has the weathered face of someone who’s spent a good portion of his life outside so it’s hard to put an exact age on him. I’d say somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, though he could be younger. Like the majority of the people in this town, he’s white.
“Morning,” I say, and nod at the basket. “Those for me?”
“Yes, sir. Is here all right?” He hovers the basket over a spot at the edge of the box.
“Yeah, that should be fine.”
He sets it down with a smile. “When you’re ready for your next one, just give me a shout and I’ll bring it over. I’m Paul, by the way.”
“I’m Matthew.”
He starts to extend a hand, then pulls it back and seems to notice my face mask for the first time. “Sorry.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his own mask. After he puts it on, he taps the side of his head. “I keep forgetting that. I need to remember. Sorry, sorry.”
I wave off the apology. “We’re all trying to remember.”
“Yeah, I guess we are. Well, um, have at it.” He gestures at the range and turns back toward the shed attached to the rear of the store, where I’m guessing the range balls are kept.
Before he leaves, I say, “Hey, Paul?”
He turns back around.
“I’ve been known to have a bit of a hook. Any way I can move over there?” I gesture to box five. It’s the only one that’s open between me and the east end of the range. “Better chance of me keeping the balls where they can be found.”
He laughs. “Totally get it. Sure, go ahead. I’ll let Mr. Murphy know.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He flashes a smile and moves back toward my basket to pick it up.
“That’s okay. I got it.”
As I grab the basket, he says, “I don’t mind carrying it for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I hoist the strap of the golf bag over my shoulder.
For a few seconds, he seems unsure about what to do. Finally he nods, says, “Thanks,” and heads back to the hut.
I set my bag up at box five, pull out the 3 wood, and put a ball on the rubber tee sticking up from the mat of artificial grass. I twist my torso a few times, stretching, and take several practice swings.
The only golf I’ve ever played was back in college with some buddies from the dorms. I was, to put it kindly, not good, but I did learn how to hit a ball. And in the years since, I have on rare occasions gone to places just like this to take some swings. It’s not a bad way to blow off pent-up energy.
But the last time was probably over two years ago, so it’s not a shock that my first ball travels farther vertically than it does horizontally.
I step back and take a few more practice swings. As I do, I glance at Cadillac Guy. He’s about halfway
through his basket. Given how long he’s been here, it must be his fourth or fifth. He clearly knows what he’s doing. His swing is smooth, and his balls are routinely flying well past the two-hundred-yard marker.
I move up to my ball again, and try to remember the lessons my friends taught me. This time I do better, and the ball almost reaches the marker at one hundred and sixty yards.
I watch Cadillac Guy take another swing. He must come out here several times a week.
He watches his ball sail down the range. After it lands, he glances over his shoulder and catches me looking at him.
“Sorry,” I say. I’m not. This is exactly what I wanted to happen. “It’s just…you really know what you’re doing.”
He smirks. “Years of practice.” It’s a humble brag. He’s good and he knows it, and he wants everyone else to know it, too.
“That’s what people tell me.” I step up and prepare to take another shot.
Cadillac Guy grabs a ball from his basket and puts it on his tee, but I can sense him glancing in my direction.
I pull back my club and let it swing. This ball would have bettered my last by at least ten yards if it didn’t take a left hook halfway into its flight.
“You’re taking your eye off the ball,” Cadillac Guy says.
“Am I?”
“Among other things.”
I laugh. “Maybe I should just give up.”
“If it’s that easy to do, then maybe you should.”
“Nah. As bad as I am, I love it too much.”
“Then don’t take your eye off the ball.”
For the next several minutes we take our swings in silence. He’s right. I was taking my eye off the ball. My shots are flying much straighter now and I’m actually enjoying myself.
When Cadillac Guy reaches the last few balls in his basket, Paul runs over and says, “Another, Mr. Lyman?”
Without looking at him, Cadillac Guy—Lyman—pulls out a ball and says, “No more.”
“Got it,” Paul says and jogs away.
I get off five more shots before Lyman finishes his basket. With nothing left to hit, he shoves his club into his bag, wipes his hands on a towel hanging from the strap, and pulls out a bottle of water, which he drinks halfway down in a single swig.
As he starts to pull his bag over his shoulder, I say, “Thanks for the tip.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Hey, can I ask—where do you play around here?”
He looks at me, eyes narrowing, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You not from around here?”
“Just moved. This is the first chance I’ve had to get out and swing a club. I’m Matthew, by the way.”
He takes a beat before saying, “Robert.”
“Nice to meet you, Robert.”
He returns the sentiment with a nod, then says, “The county course is the closest. It’s across the river, south of town. But if you want to play something more challenging, Finch Lake is the place. It’s about fifty miles west. You can google it.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Another nod and he’s off without a goodbye, as if I should feel lucky that he thought me worthy enough to speak to at all.
Chuckie’s friend is another asshole? Shocking. Shocking, I say.
I pull out my phone to text Jar his name. Only there’s a message from her waiting for me. She’s already learned his name from his car’s license plate.
To think I wasted all that charm on him when I could have just been concentrating on my form.
I hit my way through the two additional baskets I paid for, and then I head back.
It’s Sunday evening, and the Prices’ normally silent dinnertime is anything but.
The moment Kate sets the main course on the table, Chuckie snarls, his head twisting to the side as if he’s smelled something bad.
“What the hell is that?” he asks.
“Butter chicken,” Kate replies.
“Butter chicken?” He’s apparently never heard the words used together before.
“Is-is there something wrong with it?” She looks at the serving dish, truly confused.
“It stinks.”
“Those are just the spices. It’s Indian. From India. I got the recipe from Angie. I thought we could try it out.”
“What the hell, Kate? You seriously expect me to eat some messed up chicken from a Third World country?”
“I’m sorry. I-I can make something else.”
She reaches for the dish but Chuckie waves her arms away. “And wait another hour? I’m hungry now.” He pokes the casserole with his fork. “I’ll force this crap down. But I don’t want to see this again. Ever. Understand?”
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I was just trying something new.”
Emphasizing each word, he says, “Do you understand?”
“Yes. We won’t have it again.”
“We’d better not.” He serves a helping onto his plate, scoops some onto his fork, and lifts it toward his mouth.
“It smells good to me,” Sawyer says, his voice just above a whisper. “Can I have some?”
Chuckie whips his head around, the bite still on his fork. “What did you say?”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Kate says quickly.
“The hell he didn’t.”
“He’s only talking about himself, not you. It’s all right.” It’s clear she’s spent years trying to maintain the peace. You can both read it on her face and hear it in her voice.
“You think I don’t know when something smells bad?” Chuckie asks Sawyer.
“I don’t understand,” Sawyer says.
“You implied I was wrong. Am I?”
Sawyer stares at his dad for a moment, then looks at his mom. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Kate says. “It’s just a misunder—”
Chuckie’s eyes shift to his wife. “Oh, so you’re saying I don’t understand my own son, is that it?”
Sawyer sniffles, water gathering in his eyes. “Please don’t yell.”
“This is my house,” Chuckie says. “I’ll yell if I want to.”
The boy can no longer hold back the tears.
“Stop that,” Chuckie said. “Stop that right now.”
This only serves to make Sawyer cry harder. Kate gets out of her seat to comfort him.
Glaring at her, Chuckie says, “Don’t you coddle—”
“Leave him alone!” Evan cuts him off.
Chuckie shoots his gaze to his oldest son. “What did you say?”
From the fear on Evan’s face, I have a feeling standing up to his father is not something he does often, but he doesn’t back down. “I said leave him alone.”
Chuckie stares at him, anger intensifying, but he says nothing.
Evan endures this for about ten seconds before blurting out, “I think it smells good, too.”
His father’s eyes move to the side for a moment, then narrow back on Evan. “Did you finish the yardwork today?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah. I finished.”
“You mowed and swept?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You emptied the bag?”
“I always empty the bag.”
“You watered the plants?”
“Of course.”
“Good, good,” Chuckie says, nodding. “What about the gutters?”
“The gutters?”
“Did you clean them out?”
“You didn’t say anything—”
“Cleaning the gutters is part of cleaning the yard.”
“S-s-since when?”
“So, you’re saying you didn’t clean them.”
“You never told—”
“Grounded. Two weeks.”
“For what?”
“If I were you, I’d stop talking now.”
“But—”
“Evan,” Kate says, the look on her face pleading with
him to be quiet.
“And since you like…” Chuckie looks at his wife. “What did you call this? Butternut chicken?”
A pause, before a hesitant whisper: “Butter chicken.”
Chuckie turns back to Evan. “Since you like butter chicken so much, you can eat it all.” He pushes the serving dish toward Evan and dumps his own helping back into it.
“Charles, no,” Kate says. “That’s too much. It’ll make him—”
Her husband quiets her with a hard glance, then swivels his attention back to Evan. “Every last bit. And don’t even try to get up before you finish.” He looks back at Kate. “On second thought, I will have something else. I assume there’s steak left from the other day. Make me a sandwich and bring me a beer.” When she doesn’t leave right away, he says. “Now.”
Kate reluctantly leaves the room.
I wonder if there was a time when she would have stood up to her husband, or was her childhood also abusive and the ability to stand up for herself beaten out of her before she became an adult? Whatever the case, it’s clear she’s learned to operate from a position of accommodation rather than confrontation. It’s probably a method that calms the beast more times than not.
Today is a not day. And I’m sure her only desire is to get her boys through the evening without things escalating.
When I was growing up, there were a few times when my parents didn’t see eye to eye. I can even remember when a disagreement became a little heated once, but I have never witnessed one of them disrespecting the other. Kate faces this prospect day after day.
It’s easy for an outsider like me to wonder why she hasn’t taken her boys and left Chuckie long ago. One of the possibilities that comes to mind is that his reign of terror was not present at the start of their relationship, and that the abuse grew slowly over time. So now she’s clinging to what little hope she still has that their life together will one day return to the way it used to be. It’s a common theme, isn’t it?
As for the boys, their pain and hurt and anger must be off the charts. I wouldn’t doubt that Evan has more than once considered running away. Few would fault him for worrying only about himself in a situation like this. But I’m sure what’s kept him from doing so is his desire to shield his brother from the worst of their father’s ire.
Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Page 19