Dale laughed.
“You should write about the gold. Even though it ain’t true, it would make for a helluva story. Private detective searches for lost gold from an old plane crash. Hell, even I might read that book.”
“Really?” I asked.
Dale took another swig from the growler and nodded his head along to the beat.
“Nah, probably not.”
* * *
As the sun dipped and the shadows grew long, Dale and I finished off the growlers while listening to songs by Tesla, Helix, and Kix. After Dale left, I took my spot at the kitchen table and logged in to Facebook. I pulled up Laura’s account. She’d unfriended me and all of her posts were hidden. All I could see was her profile picture. The image showed her standing next to Greg. They were on their patio by their backyard pool, holding red cups filled with rum and pineapple juice. I knew what was in the cups because I’d made the drinks. I’d also taken the picture. It had only been last summer, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.
I dug out a beer from the back of the fridge and then just for the hell of it searched Facebook for Dale Johnson. Several accounts came up, but I recognized Dale’s face immediately. I clicked on the picture and was surprised to find his account wasn’t private. Most people in law enforcement are very careful when it comes to social media, but Dale’s account was an open book. He obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about him.
I scrolled through Dale’s timeline. Most of his posts were about the Carolina Panthers and Tennessee Volunteers. A few were short rants about the Second Amendment and stand-your-ground laws. There were several links to Fox News stories and some unflattering reviews of local breweries. I clicked on the PHOTOS tab. One picture showed Dale standing on the deck of what looked to be a pontoon boat floating in the middle of a lake. Dale held a fishing pole in one hand and a can of Boojum Hop Fiend IPA in the other. His face was sunburned, and I guessed the flesh underneath his wraparound sunglasses was pale as the belly of a catfish.
The next picture was similar to the first, but in this one a woman stood next to Dale. She was small and thin, although anyone standing next to Dale would appear that way. She had short blonde hair and wore cutoff denim shorts and a bikini top. She was less bosomy than I would have expected, and she was beautiful in an innocent, Applebee’s-waitress kind of way.
I looked at the date of the photo—July 2016. Carla, I thought. Dale’s ex-wife. In the time I’d known Dale, he’d loved bragging about his success with women, but when it came to Carla he would say, “It just didn’t work out.” As if that could reasonably explain the end of a marriage. I wondered how they’d met and how they’d fallen in love. I was more curious about how they’d fallen out of it. Was he unfaithful? Was she? Did he miss her? Did she miss him? Did she ever consider giving it another shot? Or was she content to say, “It just didn’t work out”?
7
The next morning I shook off the cobwebs, made some coffee, and checked my email. I deleted the usual spam, comforted by the knowledge that I didn’t need erectile dysfunction pills from some fly-by-night pharmacy in India. Getting an erection had never been my problem. Getting someone else interested in it was the real dilemma.
I clicked open a new email from Perry, hoping he had some news on Greg’s condition and how the investigation was proceeding. I’d done my best not to obsess over the identity of who’d shot me and what I’d do to them once I did find out. I was certain it was someone in the department, another dirty cop working in tandem with Greg who’d cleaned all the drugs and cash out of that storage unit before calling in the good cops and EMTs. I just hoped whoever it was didn’t feel the need to hunt me down and put another bullet in me.
Davis,
I stopped by MUSC yesterday afternoon, Greg is stable but unresponsive. Laura is with him. She’s strong, she’ll be okay. But don’t contact her until I give the word.
IA’s on the investigation now. I’ll let you know how things proceed. We’ll get through this. Now keep your head down and finish that book.
Perry
Stable but unresponsive. My condition had always been the opposite of that: unstable but responsive. I wondered if that was an official medical term.
I was glad to know Internal Affairs was now on the case. Perry had said he’d get to the bottom of what Greg was involved with, and I wondered how deep down or high up the trail would lead. As long as the police were convinced I had nothing to do with Greg’s side hustle, I didn’t have much to worry about. Now, if Greg died, things might change. Perry would then face a moral decision: arrest the man he knew had beaten Greg in that storage unit or continue to keep quiet and protect his friend. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
I also hoped the IA investigation would speed things up. It had been weeks since the shooting, and I was starting to feel like a sitting duck. The last thing I needed was to look over the deck and see a gray Audi pulling up the driveway. If that happened, I wouldn’t even be able to call for help. I’d just have to email Dale and hope he’d see it before the cabin became a murder scene.
I shook off that thought and sent Perry an email saying that if he needed to get away and clear his head for a couple of days, I knew the perfect spot. I included directions to the cabin and said the invitation was open and to show up whenever. I didn’t fill him in on the book’s progress, mainly because there was no progress to report. Hopefully I would at least have an outline when and if he did come up for a visit.
I closed the laptop, took a pill, and drove up to the parkway. When I pulled into the Graveyard Fields parking area, I saw the BMW. It was the only vehicle in the lot. I stopped behind it and read all the bumper stickers again, reminding myself that I needed to visit Long Branch Brewery.
I pulled out and drove over to Mount Pisgah. There were a few cars in the ranger station parking lot, including a blue Land Rover Discovery. It was the same vehicle I’d seen parked at Graveyard Fields a couple of days earlier. I got out of the Mercedes and stared at the Land Rover for a moment. The cargo box on its roof was made of thick black plastic, rounded in the back and sloped in the front like a wedge. It looked like an aerodynamic coffin.
When I walked into the station, Ranger Terry was standing behind the counter. He was talking to a young couple and didn’t notice me when I entered and limped over to the beverage cooler. The couple looked to be in their mid to late twenties. The man was dressed in skinny black jeans and a red-and-green-checked flannel shirt. The woman had shoulder-length black hair and wore an oversized gray sweat shirt over leggings, or maybe they were yoga pants—I’m not sure I know the difference. I watched them for a moment. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was pretty obvious by the couple’s body language that they weren’t very happy with what Terry was saying. After another minute the couple turned and stormed out.
I ran over to the counter and threw two dollar bills in front of Terry. He noticed the Diet Coke and said, “Hey, there’s tax.” I barely heard him because I was already halfway out the door.
I limped out to the parking lot and saw the couple climbing into the Land Rover. They stared at me through the windshield as I approached their vehicle. When I stopped by the driver’s side door, the man started the engine and rolled down the window.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I noticed your vehicle parked at Graveyard Fields a couple days ago. I’m wondering if you happened to see anyone camped out along the trails.”
The man stared at me for a few seconds before speaking. “That wasn’t us.”
His answer took me by surprise. Of course, the beer and pills had frayed the edges of my memory, but how many blue Land Rovers topped with cargo boxes could there be?
“That’s strange,” I said. “I could swear this is the same vehicle.”
The man shook his head, and the window rolled up with a soft purr.
I felt a bit of my temper come to life and gave the window a few raps with my knuckles.
The man swallowed hard and lowered the windo
w.
“So, do you come up to the parkway often?” I asked. “I’m looking for some trails to hike. Especially around Cold Mountain.”
The man glanced down toward my bad leg. He’d obviously noticed me limping across the parking lot and was probably wondering why someone in my condition was interested in hiking.
“We’re not familiar with this area,” he said.
The woman leaned over the vehicle’s center console toward the open window.
“We’re just riding through,” she said. “We’re going to have a picnic.”
The man shot her a look, then turned to me and said, “Why are you interested in Cold Mountain?”
“I’m actually writing a book about it. I’m up here doing some research.”
“There’s already a book about Cold Mountain,” the woman said.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that one. But this is nonfiction. It’s about the plane that crashed there in the forties.”
The man straightened up. I looked over his shoulder and noticed a large Yeti cooler sitting on the back seat.
“You don’t happen to have any beer in that cooler, do you?”
The woman’s eyes lit up, and she turned and reached back over her seat. She opened the cooler’s lid and pulled out a dripping-wet bottle.
“We sure do,” she said. “We make this ourselves.” The woman handed me the bottle, and I studied the three letters written in bold type across the label.
“P.U.B.,” I said. “What does that stand for?
“Pucker Up Brewery,” the woman said. “We brew sour beers.”
I thanked them for the beer and watched as they pulled out of the parking lot and turned east toward Asheville. I didn’t think they were going to enjoy their picnic very much—their beer was already warm.
I walked back into the ranger station to give Terry what I owed him in tax. When I approached the counter, he looked up, and I noticed a hint of recognition on his face.
“Hey,” he said. “I wish I had known that was you. That young couple was asking if anyone had turned in a set of keys.”
8
I climbed in the Mercedes and headed back toward the cabin. I passed the turnoff and drove another few minutes to El Bacaratos, my sweet spot for cell phone coverage.
“Hey,” I said, when Dale picked up. “I was just at the ranger station, and …”
“Hold on,” Dale said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. Terry’s already called me.”
“So you know they didn’t leave a name or number, right? Told Terry they’d call the sheriff’s office themselves.”
“Yep.”
“Well, have they?”
“What?”
“Called!”
Dale snorted.
“Beats the shit out of me—I’m out on patrol. Some of us work for a living, dickhead.”
“They didn’t tell me their names, but the woman said they brew beer at someplace called Pucker Up Brewery. Ever heard of it?”
“Nope. It ain’t around here or I’d know it.”
“What were they doing up there? Why did they ask Terry about the keys?”
Dale snorted again. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but whatever they were doing is none of your fucking business.”
I could hear Dale spit in the background and wondered if he kept a supply of empty Mountain Dew bottles in the trunk of his patrol car.
“But they lied to me about how long they’d been up on the parkway. They said they were just passing through, but we saw their car at Graveyard Fields two days ago.”
“Look, Davis, they ain’t under no obligation to tell you their shit. You’re some weird, half-crippled, hungover dude who approached them in a parking lot. I’m surprised they talked to you at all.”
“You don’t think any of this is strange?”
“Yeah, I do. I think you’re fucking strange. Why are you so bent out of shape about this? If you put this much energy into writing that book, you’d be finished in a week.”
“I guess I’m just bored.”
“Yeah, this is a good place to get bored. Carla used to say, if you have only one year left to live, move to Cruso, because every day there is like a fucking eternity.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Carla was right. Cruso was like another dimension, unbound to the rules of time and space.
“Here’s what I think about that couple,” Dale said. “That’s probably their buddy with the BMW. Maybe they was asking about the keys because he realized he’d lost them. They’d been camping together, they go to leave, and he tells them to stop by the ranger station to see if anybody’s turned them in. Then you drag yourself over and start asking a bunch of questions and they tighten up. I don’t blame ’em. I wouldn’t tell you shit if I didn’t know you and you wandered over to my vehicle wanting to know where I’d been.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I said it anyway.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Damn straight I’m right. And if you’d given Terry them keys when you’s supposed to, then I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. But since Terry told them that I had the keys, and since you didn’t correct him on that shit while you’s up there, now I got another to-do on my list.”
* * *
I pulled out of El Bacaratos and headed back up the river toward the cabin. I thought about my conversation with Dale. I hated it when Dale was right, and in this case he probably was. I was concerning myself with things that were none of my concern. Dale’s dad Junebug was right too—doing that was a good way to get your ass handed to you. And I’d been handed my ass more times than I cared to remember.
I was a few miles from the cabin when I noticed a sheriff’s department patrol car sitting out in front of Cruso’s lone gas station. Out of instinct I checked my speedometer; I was doing forty-three in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. I had always driven fairly slow. My ex-girlfriend Sarah used to say I drove like a grandma on her way to a church social with a Crock-Pot full of collard greens on the passenger seat. The truth was, I was just safe. The Xanax slows down my reflexes, and when I’m behind the wheel, I take it nice and easy.
I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed the patrol car pull out behind me. The car accelerated, and in a few seconds it was so close behind me I thought it might touch my bumper. The lights flashed and the siren let out three quick squawks. Dale was such an asshole.
I pushed the Mercedes up to fifty-five, but the patrol car held its place as if I were towing it. I straightened up in my seat and placed my hands at ten and two on the wheel. If Dale wanted to screw around with me, I’d screw around with him in return. By the golf course the road stretched out into a half-mile passing zone. I took the Mercedes up to seventy-five and laughed at the thought of Dale cursing my name.
Halfway through the passing zone the patrol car swerved into the oncoming lane and pulled up next to me. I stared straight ahead and pressed a middle finger against the driver’s side window. When the patrol car’s horn blared, I looked over, ready to see Dale giving me the same one-finger salute. Instead I saw a deputy in aviator sunglasses staring at me with pure fury.
I slowed down and pulled over into a small parking area next to the river. The patrol car parked behind me, and I waited for the deputy to approach my vehicle. I guessed it would be a couple of minutes before he did. He would need to run my tag to identify the owner of the vehicle and check for any outstanding warrants. There’s a big difference between pulling over an idiot who’s speeding and an idiot who’s just knocked over a jewelry store or abducted a toddler. Looking in the rearview mirror, I tried to see what the deputy was doing, but the glare was so bright that the patrol car’s windshield looked like a sheet of ice. That was why I hadn’t been able to see who was driving when the car was chasing me. I had just assumed it was Dale. Like many of my assumptions, it had turned out to be dead wrong.
I was digging around in the center console for my registration card when I heard a tap on my window. The deputy
was young—I pegged him to be in his midtwenties. He sported a buzz cut and closely cropped goatee, and I was pretty certain his shirt sleeves covered biceps inked with tribal tattoos. Just based on his look, he struck me as the kind of guy who thought Road House was the pinnacle of American cinema.
I rolled down the window and immediately started in on my excuse.
“This is actually funny,” I said. “I thought you were Deputy Johnson; he and I are friends. He gives me hell about my slow driving, and I thought he was just busting my balls. That’s why I sped up instead of pulling over.”
Deputy Road House let me finish, then asked for my license and registration. When I handed them over, he put them in his shirt pocket and took two steps back.
“Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle,” he said. His voice was so clipped and brusque, it was as if his jaw were wired shut.
“Look, man, this is just a misunderstanding. If you’ll call Dale, he’ll vouch for me. I’m actually renting his cabin for the winter—it’s just up the road.”
“I said step out of the vehicle.”
I held up a finger to indicate I needed a moment, then grabbed my cell phone off the passenger seat. At this, the deputy took another step back and put his hand on his side arm. This guy was all business, and I felt my rubber band start to stretch. The last thing I needed was to get in a scuffle with a testosterone-fueled bully, but I’d ended up doing the last thing I needed to do more times than I could count.
I looked at my cell phone and wasn’t surprised to see the NO SERVICE icon illuminated. Without being able to call Dale, I figured I had no choice but to let Deputy Road House go through whatever motions he saw fit. I just hoped he didn’t stretch my rubber band too far.
I stepped out of the Mercedes and raised my hands to show I wasn’t a threat. The deputy wasn’t convinced and told me to turn around and face the vehicle. I didn’t like that sound of that, and I stared at my reflection in the lenses of his aviators as I considered whether or not to comply. From behind the deputy, I could hear the river flowing toward some unknown destination. It sounded like static coming from a faraway speaker.
Graveyard Fields Page 5
