by Chris Offutt
“Nice television set,” Mick said. “You do anything else to the place?”
“Took down the pictures in the hall. I always thought it was weird, her putting all the family photos in the one part of the house that got no light.”
Mick stood and glanced down the hallway. Despite the dimness, he could see a series of pale imprints where the pictures had hung for years. The wallpaper had yellowed around them. It was like looking at a gallery of ghosts.
He went through the kitchen to the side door. Linda followed.
“Something I need to tell you,” she said.
Mick nodded, assuming it was about Peggy.
“I got a phone call,” she said. “Said he was a garrison adjutant, whatever that is.”
“Assistant to the commander.”
“He wanted to know if I’d seen you. I told him you were in Germany. Hadn’t been around here since winter.”
“Good,” he said.
“You in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t see you committing any crime.”
“My leave is up. That makes me AWOL.”
“Because you’re helping me?”
“No,” he said. “It’s Peggy, not you.”
He left and Linda carried his empty glass to the kitchen. Her brother had always been secretive, but never toward family. His reticence about Peggy worried her. Linda could think of only one reason he was distraught and living at the cabin. She didn’t want to consider the ramifications for their marriage.
Chapter Twelve
The car reeked of rancid fast food. Grease marks smeared the dashboard, and the steering wheel was slippery. Since noon Vernon and his partner had been parked on a scrap of earth at the bottom of a hill, the car obscured by a line of pines. They’d checked two other houses to confirm that their target was not staying with family. Now they were out in the damn woods. Vernon didn’t like it. He was a city man. He liked streetlights, billboards, and pavement. Traffic exhaust was better than the stink of dirt wafting in the window. He needed better footwear than leather loafers and translucent socks. He craved conversation.
Previously Vernon partnered with a man who talked compulsively, expressing opinions on women, guns, sports, TV sets, automobiles, movies, and clothing. His adamantly delivered statements changed rapidly, contradicting themselves within minutes, each new one voiced with the same passion as the last. Vernon never had to talk. For nine hours on an interstate drive, his former partner had once debated which was better—Arby’s, McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, or KFC. The guy essentially argued with himself, pointing out attributes and flaws until reaching a five-way draw. Vernon had grunted in agreement. Two minutes later the guy cursed and said he’d forgotten all about Chipotle!
His new partner, Freddie, rarely spoke, communicating with single words such as “smokes,” or “piss,” or “food.” Mainly he twirled a pocketknife like a miniature baton between his fingers. Vernon began wondering if his silence meant he might snap any minute and gut him like a hog right there in the car seat. That led to speculating which side of the car was safest. Sitting behind the steering wheel offered more protection. At the very least Freddie would require a more precise aim of the blade. Vernon had taken to leaning forward, practically hunched over the steering wheel. His lower back ached. Worse, he was starting to feel foolish. He was cold and bored, and to top it off he had a silent seatmate.
“What do we know about this guy?” Vernon said.
Freddie stared through the window for a few minutes.
“Drunk,” he finally said.
“Not living with his wife,” Vernon said. “That might mean something.”
Freddie shrugged. Great, Vernon thought.
From outside came a fierce sound of rattling leaves. Vernon’s hand instinctively moved to his pistol. He considered what he knew about bears—don’t shoot them in the head, the bullet will bounce off. Run downhill because bears can’t. If cornered, climb a tree that’s too fragile for the bear but how would he know which tree couldn’t hold a bear? The noise became louder as the bear got closer. He considered rolling the window up then decided he needed it open to shoot. Freddie shifted beside him, staring out the window, knife in one hand, gun in the other. The sound was very near, a fearsome clatter like a series of detonations as the animal approached. Vernon withdrew his pistol, his heart beating hard, his vision scanning the trees. A squirrel scampered through the dead leaves of the forest floor then jumped to a young hickory. The noise stopped. Both men tucked their weapons away.
“Look, man,” Vernon said. “Last guy I worked with, he ran his mouth nonstop. Drove me crazy but at least it filled time. You and me, we need to talk. No sense getting jittery over a squirrel.”
“That guy,” Freddie said. “Tall and skinny but slow moving? Went by Cool Dick?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s dead.”
“On the job?”
“I heard it was over a woman. Only guy I worked with was him.”
“Same here,” Vernon said. “They must have put him with quiet guys. Smart. But now we’re partnered up. We got to talk. I’m hearing bears over here.”
“He ever go on about fast food?”
“For hours, dude.”
“Same here,” Freddie said. “One thing he said stuck with me.”
“What’s that?”
“You never hear of Italian fast food.”
“Fazoli’s.”
“Italian, yes. Fast, no. You have to wait.”
“What’s the cutoff for fast?” Vernon said. “Two minutes? Three?”
“If it has a drive-thru.”
“Good point.”
Vernon leaned away from the steering wheel, satisfied that his new partner had no intention to stab him. The work bred paranoia, a kind of emotional collateral damage that it was best to acknowledge and ignore. He watched the dirt road, hoping the target showed up before dark. The woods scared him at night. He figured that was why so many movies were about scary stuff in the woods—witches, haunted houses, ghosts, and monsters.
“You like movies?” he said.
Freddie shrugged.
“I do,” Vernon said. “My favorite are aliens from outer space.”
“Like E.T.?”
“No, dude. The kind that attack a spaceship. What kind do you like?”
“Rom-coms.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Women like them. If you try and like what women like, you get more women.”
Vernon regretted the subject. At least with Cool Dick he’d have a decent conversation about movies. He tried to think of something else to discuss.
Chapter Thirteen
Mick left his sister’s house and headed east. The sun lay above the hillside as if resting, tinging the western treetops with flame. He followed the blacktop deeper into the hills before turning onto a dirt lane and climbing a steep slope that was more rain gully than road. He made a sharp curve to a ridge that ended at a house surrounded by heavy woods. There was more sun here and he briefly pitied people who lived in the hollers where it was already night.
He waited in the truck and watched for dogs. People unaccustomed to visitors in an unknown vehicle were capable of greeting a stranger with a weapon. He drove a little closer and gunned the engine in case the old guy was going deaf. In grade school the janitor never talked much but was always present, stoking the big furnace with coal in winter, cleaning one classroom per day, repairing any problems with plumbing. He was kind and soft-spoken, and Mick figured he would be still. He’d noticed that men softened as they aged, whereas women tended to toughen up.
A male cardinal gave its cry to draw attention while the rust-colored female flew a low, straight line toward a blackberry thicket. She was trying to fool Mick by leading him away from her nest. The screen door opened and the janitor stepped onto the porch. Mick was surprised to see how small he was, not much over five feet tall. He stood at an angle to the edge of the porc
h with one hand out of sight behind his body. Mick figured he was armed. He rolled the truck window down and leaned out.
“Hidy, Mr. Tucker, I knowed you in grade school. I’m Mick Hardin. You got time to talk a minute?”
“Ain’t you got a boy looks a lot like you?”
“I am that boy.”
“Jimmy your daddy?”
“Yeah, and my granddaddy was Homer Jack.”
“All right, then.”
Tucker nodded and Mick left the truck. He walked to the edge of the oak steps and stopped. A breeze carried sassafras and Mick recalled his grandfather chewing its twigs like candy. The leaves were soft as suede.
“I’m here about that woman up on Choctaw.”
“You law?” Tucker said.
“No.”
“Kin to the dead woman?”
“No.”
“Ain’t no other reason for you to be up here.”
“My sister’s the sheriff.”
“I heard about her,” Tucker said. “Ain’t you in the army?”
“Iraq and Afghanistan. Syria till the withdrawal.”
“Infantry?”
“At first. Then Airborne. Lately CID.”
“Reckon you’ll re-up, time comes?”
“Maybe,” Mick said.
“I thought about it my ownself.”
“You served?”
“Korea. 108th Airborne.”
“Tough war.”
“Reckon they all are if you’re in it,” Tucker said. “Come up on the porch and set.”
Mick climbed the steps and sat in a wicker chair with holes in the back. The cushion was fluffy as a cat. Tucker took a rocking chair but didn’t rock. His eyes were different colors and Mick recalled his buddies talking about that in grade school. Somebody had said he was part goat.
“I’m not official,” Mick said. “Helping my sister is all. She said you found the body.”
“She looked a Turner.”
“She was. Married a Johnson.”
“Out of that bunch from Lower Lick Fork Creek that moved to town?”
“Might be,” Mick said. “I don’t know the family history.”
The air stilled and a distant dove moaned, the sound traveling through the trees. The house sat on a wedge of land at the end of the ridge, as isolated as his grandfather’s cabin, but a prettier spot. The grass stopped at the hillside, bordered by a row of iris and forsythia. Two yard oaks shaded the front and would allow winter sun to heat the porch.
“You remember what time you found her?” Mick said. “I’m trying to figure out when she died.”
“I was hunting sang.”
“Uh-huh.”
The old man was staring at him as if waiting for Mick to go on.
“Did you not have a watch on you?” Mick said.
“I was hunting sang.”
“Yes sir, I understand that.”
“It grows on eastern hillsides. Shady and cool.”
Tucker nodded. His face held an expression of expectation, and Mick recalled him being taciturn to the point of mysterious in grade school. Then he figured out what the old man meant.
“You were there early,” Mick said, “to see the plants good.”
“About a half hour after sunup. Any earlier and it’s too dark. Sun’s got to get high enough over the hill to hit the bottom of the slope. Wait too long and you can’t see them for the shade.”
Tucker was the same generation as Mick’s grandfather with all the complicated contradictions of the old culture deep in the hills. Forthright but not forthcoming. Honest but reticent. Watchful but friendly.
“I used to visit you in the boiler room at school,” Mick said.
“A few of you boys did.”
“It was peaceful in there.”
“What it was, was warm. You fellers came in there on cold days during lunch break.”
“You showed me how to whittle a belt balancer.”
The old man nodded, his eyes crinkling in a smile that never made it to his mouth.
“How’s your belt?” Tucker said.
“Balanced out.”
“You don’t want your belt getting curled up like a honey locust seed pod.”
“No sir,” Mick said. “That’s no damn good.”
“My wife is in the house.”
“Sorry, Mr. Tucker. I won’t cuss no more. You see anybody else on Choctaw?”
“No.”
“Hear ary a car?”
“No.”
“If that’s your spot, I figure you check on the sang every now and again.”
Tucker stared at him. Time and age had drooped skin over the outside edges of each eyesocket, partially obscuring the irises. To reduce any perceived threat, Mick focused his left eye on Tucker’s right. It was a tactic of interrogation and he’d been surprised how well it worked. If the subject became confused or anxious, he switched focus—left eye to left eye—which worked as a kind of reset. Tucker wasn’t hiding anything, but was waiting for a question, the sign of a smart and patient man.
“Did you ever see anyone up on Choctaw other times?” Mick said.
“Yep.”
“You know who they were?”
“Yep.”
“Would you mind telling me who?”
“That woman and some younger feller.”
“Did you know him?”
“Just saw his back.”
“Remember what he looked like?”
“Dark-headed. Flannel shirt. Dungarees.”
“What about size?”
“Can’t rightly say. I was looking downhill at him.”
Mick nodded and stared off into the woods. A squirrel chittered from a tree, warning a blue jay that held its ground. The squirrel sprang away and the bird continued about its business.
“What do you think that squirrel’s up to?” Mick said.
“Getting acorns.”
“Him and that bird feuding over nuts?”
“They’re there every day,” Tucker said. “I tried to make a pet of one or the other. Ain’t had no luck. Squirrel’s too dumb for it. And the jaybird’s too smart.”
A rustle came from in the house, then a light thump and a cough. Tucker stood.
“My wife,” he said. “She’s poorly.”
“I thank you for your time.”
Mick rose and walked to his truck. He lifted his hand in farewell then drove off the hill, wondering where dogs and cats fit into Tucker’s animal philosophy. Dogs were loyal and cats were survivors. Mick figured he was a little of both. Otherwise there was no reason for him to stay in Kentucky and put his career at risk.
Chapter Fourteen
The air outside Vernon’s car was utterly black, no ambient illumination, no brightly lit signs, no streetlights or lurid neon inviting him to a tavern. What the fuck did these people do out here at night? Sleep? The sound of a vehicle came along the road, startling in the silence. He watched an old truck trundle by, headed up the hill. The air was too dark to match the driver’s face to the photograph, but the truck fit the description and who the hell else would be wandering around out here but the target?
Vernon waited five minutes then drove up the road with the headlights off. At the top of the hill he stopped.
“He might be tough,” Vernon said. “Army trained and all that.”
“Those guys are shit without somebody giving them orders. I’ll take the back door.”
“I want the back. I’m bored.”
“I called it,” Freddie said.
“You want to rock-paper-scissor it?”
“Fuck you. Bust that light out.”
Freddie left the car. Vernon used the barrel of his pistol to break the interior light. Red plastic chips fell to the dashboard. He pulled the key partway from the ignition, just far enough so the alarm wouldn’t beep, but still inserted for a quick getaway, a trick he’d learned years ago. He departed the vehicle and left the door open. Gun in hand he walked beside the road, staying in the deep shad
ows, unaware that the sound of his shoes and splay-footed urban strut gave his position away.
Mick had seen the car tucked behind the pines and wondered if his commanding officer had sent it. Such a move was unorthodox but the colonel was prone to playing loose. It was one of the reasons Mick liked working for him. Dispatching men to bring him home and avoid an AWOL charge was smart. Whoever they were, they couldn’t negotiate the darkness of the woods, raising a racket like a couple of children. Two men meant one would cover each door.
Mick went to their car and removed the key. He made a wide loop around the house, out the ridge, down a slope, then climbed it to approach the rear of the cabin. He moved silently and easily until he could see the man peering in the back door. The dumb son-of-a-bitch was using his cell phone as a flashlight. The other hand held a 9mm pistol. Mick moved closer. He breathed through his nose to avoid hearing the sound of his own breath in the miniature echo chamber of his mouth. Nothing existed, not the woods, the night, the cabin, or himself. The man was the focus. Mick held his breath as he moved directly behind him.
“Hey,” he said.
Startled, the man jumped and spun. Mick flung his right forearm at the man’s face, hitting him in the temple with the edge of his elbow. The man fell backward as if sawn off at the ankles. Mick caught him with both arms and eased him to the ground. He took the man’s cell phone, pistol, wallet, and pocketknife. Working swiftly, he cut several strands of Virginia creeper off the wall of the house and hog-tied the man. Then he sliced off a part of his shirt, stuffed it in his mouth and secured it with more vine. If the man was allergic, too bad, he shouldn’t be out in the woods.
The intruder at the front might have heard the noise and Mick listened intently for three minutes, hearing the persistent buzz of cicadas, a barred owl proclaiming its turf, and the auk-auk of a nighthawk. He entered the woods and circled the house. From the heavy shade of the old smokehouse he watched a man in a leather jacket attempting to hide behind an oak in the yard. The half-moon brightened the night enough to give the tree a dark shadow in the grass with the form of a man at the base. These were street-meat, junior tough guys with as much sense as God gave a goose. Mick could have taken them out with a slingshot.