Graveyard Fields
Page 7
But as I sat there warming my ass, I couldn’t help but wonder if whoever opened that storage unit door and shot me had had their own go at Greg after I was unconscious. Maybe they’d done the real damage that had put him into a coma. Maybe I was only partly to blame. I doubted it, but the thought offered a small amount of comfort, and I needed comfort wherever I could find it.
As I was putting my phone back in my pocket, I heard laughing coming from the other side of the parking lot. I looked out the driver’s side window and saw the blonde and the redhead standing next to a green Jeep Wrangler. They talked for a minute, then hugged. Then the redhead climbed in the Jeep and took off on 276 toward Waynesville. The blonde walked over to her vehicle, a brown, vintage Mercedes sedan. She got in the car, buckled her seat belt, and pulled out of the parking lot, turning in the same direction as her friend. On the back of her car, a LONG BRANCH BREWERY bumper sticker was barely legible in the fading light.
11
I awoke the next morning to the sound of a police siren. It was so loud, I thought it was coming from under my bed. I reached toward the nightstand for my phone and knocked over an empty beer glass in the process. The time on my phone read 8:49. I lay still for a few seconds, waiting for the siren to grow softer as it chased whatever trouble it was after. But the sound didn’t relent. I crawled out of bed and walked through the house to the sliding door that led out to the deck. Looking through the glass, I could see rain coming down in sheets, billions of drops reflecting blue slivers of light. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, I opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. The rain felt like tiny little ice picks bouncing off my back and shoulders. I leaned over the railing and saw Dale’s patrol car in the clearing below, lights flashing, siren going full steam. Suddenly the siren stopped and the driver’s window lowered a few inches. Dale pressed his fat cheeks and mouth into the crack. It looked like a squid trying to squeeze through a mail slot.
“Get your ass down here,” he yelled. “And bring those fucking keys.”
I limped back into the house and pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweat shirt, and sneakers. I grabbed the keys from the kitchen table and went out the back door and down around to Dale’s patrol car. By the time I hauled myself into the passenger seat, I was soaking wet. Dale didn’t seem to notice—he was too busy playing air guitar to the song blasting on the stereo: “Wild Side” by Mötley Crüe.
“I saw them back in ’87 in Knoxville,” he yelled over the music. “Tommy Lee had that floating drum kit that came out over the crowd. That was badass.”
Apparently there was no emergency.
“Why did you blare the siren instead of just coming up to get me?”
“What?” Dale said.
I reached over and turned down the volume.
“Why did you blare the siren instead of coming up to get me?”
Dale gave me a confused look. “Because it’s raining.”
I shook my head. “What do you want?”
“That couple called the station about them keys this morning,” Dale said. “They’s gonna stop in to claim ’em this afternoon. So hand ’em over.”
“How do you know the keys even belong to them?”
“I don’t know that they do, but it don’t matter. I told you they’re probably collecting ’em for their buddy. They’re just fucking keys, for crying out loud.”
For me those keys were a welcome distraction, and I was reluctant to give them up. They kept me from obsessing over all sorts of uncomfortable scenarios, such as comatose brothers-in-law, mystery gunmen, pissed-off sisters, and blank pages.
I clicked the stereo off and faced Dale.
“Don’t give that couple these keys,” I said.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because these keys don’t belong to them. And because they lied to me about being at Graveyard Fields.”
Dale laughed. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“I asked Terry if that couple mentioned Cordell’s name when they came in asking if anyone had turned in a set of keys. They didn’t.”
Dale shrugged.
“So?”
“Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
“No. They don’t need to give the man’s name. Either someone turned in some keys or they didn’t.”
“Look,” I said. “That old BMW is registered to Lester Cordell. Right?”
Dale didn’t bother to respond.
“This,” I said, holding up the key that unlocked the BMW, “opens his car. This is his property, so let him come get it.”
“For fuck’s sakes, Davis, you gotta let this shit go. That hippie’s just up there camping. Let his buddies collect his keys for him. Man’s probably too stoned to find his car, much less his fucking keys.”
“You really think he’s up there camping?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe the car’s broke down. Did you think of that possibility? Wouldn’t surprise me if that piece a shit just gave up the ghost and that hippie abandoned it up there. He’s probably back at his house soaking in a tub full of patchouli.”
“Let’s drive up there right now and see if the car is still parked.”
Dale looked at me like I’d just offered him a hand job.
“Are you out of your mind? It’s pouring rain—that means it’s gonna be foggy as shit up on the parkway. Drag your own ass up there if you want, but I ain’t going.”
“All right then, let’s make a deal. Let me hold on to the keys for a couple more hours. I’ll go up to Graveyard Fields and see if the BMW is still there. If it is, I’ll bring the keys to the department and that couple can pick them up.”
“And if the car is gone? Then what?”
I turned my head and watched the rain bounce off the hood of the patrol car. I didn’t know what I’d do if the BMW was gone. It wouldn’t prove anything other than that someone had been able to drive it away.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll bring in the keys either way.”
Dale shook his head. “You’d do just about anything to not write that book, wouldn’t you?”
“Is it a deal?”
Dale looked toward the cabin, then back at me. “How many growlers of that IPA you got left?”
“Seven.”
“Put three in the trunk. And drop off them keys before noon.”
12
By the time I pulled into the Graveyard Fields parking lot, the fog was beginning to lift and I could just make out the gray, wiry trees that dotted the meadow. I sat there for about half an hour watching the sun slowly wipe away the haze like a washcloth over a fogged-up mirror. I wished there were something that could do that to my brain.
I looked over at the BMW, then to the key ring sitting in the cup holder between the seats. I wondered where Cordell was and why the hipster couple had lied to me. I thought for a minute but couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation. I wasn’t surprised. I’d never been a good detective. Never a good cop, for that matter. Maybe I’d never had the chance. My police career had ended before it really ever got started, and my private detective business didn’t involve intricate mysteries. People didn’t hire me to solve murders or find their missing kids; they hired me to lurk in the shadows and watch cheaters. I was the guy you called if you thought your spouse was stepping out on you. For a hundred bucks an hour I’d follow some man to a cheap motel or apartment complex. Then I’d wait in my car and point my telephoto lens at whatever door the man happened to knock on. When a woman answered, I’d start shooting. I didn’t need shots of the man and the woman in the throes of passion; I just needed a picture or two of them standing together in a doorway at a place the man couldn’t reasonably explain being at. I would print out the photos and hand them over to my client, whose attorney would use them to negotiate a settlement.
Spurned women were my biggest clients. Right behind them were companies looking for insurance fraud. The HR department would get in touch with me and give me the information on an employee
who had been injured at work and was collecting disability. My job was to make sure the employee wasn’t milking the system. I would track them down and sit out in front of their house and monitor their comings and goings. Sometimes I’d see them hobble out on crutches and walk down their front path to the mailbox. I’d see people delivering covered casserole dishes to them and home health care workers arriving to help them with their physical therapy program. I’d watch for a couple of days and then call their employer and tell them I was satisfied that the person in question was legitimately injured.
But other times I would catch a fraud. I’d photographed one man who was collecting disability for a back injury riding a Jet Ski down the Ashley River. Another man, this one claiming shoulder pain, played golf for three days straight. I photographed him high-fiving his playing partners on the eighteenth green of the Coosaw Creek Country Club. My favorite was a woman who was collecting disability due to “blunt force trauma.” A box had fallen on her in the warehouse where she worked, and she’d complained of whiplash and neck pain. One afternoon I followed her to the executive airport and photographed her climbing into a prop engine plane with a parachute strapped to her back. I didn’t hang around to see whether or not she landed safely.
It was easy work and didn’t require much cognitive power. It didn’t require much physical power either. I rarely had to get out of my car. I’d just sit there with my camera, a couple of books, and an insulated growler of beer and wait for the right shot. A hundred-dollar-an-hour voyeur—not a bad gig.
But occasionally I would have to confront someone. That’s when things could get dicey. Because of my quick temper, I’ve always tried my best to avoid confrontation. That’s why I left the police department a little more than a month after my training ended. I was afraid one of those Charleston frat boys who wore pink shorts and popped-collared polos would give me some lip about a ticket and bait me into smacking the entitlement out of him.
When I left the force, my friend Perry had suggested I see a psychiatrist to try to wrap my head around the whole temper thing. I took his advice and left my one and only appointment with a prescription for a ninety-day supply of Xanax, no refills. The pills didn’t abolish my temper, but they did lower its ceiling. Confrontations that could cause me to lose my shit and lash out at someone became merely uncomfortable situations. The psychiatrist had told me the pills were just a temporary tourniquet and that I could learn to control my temper through months or maybe years of cognitive behavioral therapy. That road didn’t interest me. After that first prescription ran out, I called Dr. Landry. I’d been numb ever since.
But the pills weren’t one hundred percent effective. Even with them I could still lose it if pushed hard enough, like with Greg. But most of the time I was cool. I knew the pills were a crutch, but they kept me where I needed to be. I’d rather be slow and foggy than locked and loaded. I was much safer that way. So were those around me.
* * *
When the sun had erased the last bit of fog, a Volvo station wagon pulled into the parking lot. I watched as an older couple got out of the vehicle and pulled two walking sticks from the back seat. They both wore large-brimmed hats and carried water bottles strapped to their waists. A leisurely morning hike, I thought. Must be nice to be able to walk some sort of distance. I rubbed my leg and considered the fact that I hadn’t walked all that much when it worked properly. I’ve always been real good at taking things for granted.
The couple headed across the parking lot over to where the steps led down to the trail. They were walking slowly and holding hands, the same way my parents used to. I’d never liked holding hands with a woman. It always made me feel like I was in high school. But my parents held hands everywhere they went. I’d written a couple of lines about that in the eulogy I was to deliver at their funeral. They held hands to show the world they were one. It wasn’t a very good line, but I remembered being proud of it at the time. I’d imagined standing behind the church altar and reciting those words while everyone wept.
But I never said them. The night before the funeral I chased four pills with eight pints of beer. I didn’t wake up until three the next afternoon. By that time my parents were already in the ground. Laura called me that evening to tell me that the funeral was beautiful. Then she told me to go away. After that call I swallowed four more pills and drank eight more pints. I’d hoped what made me an asshole would make me forget I was an asshole.
It was a fine morning to be sentimental. For a good hour I looked out over the spiny trees covering Graveyard Fields and thought about the past. I thought about Laura and Greg, wondering if I had hurt them both beyond repair. I thought about my parents and Sarah and how Perry had been so kind to me both during and after my time on the force. I thought about all the people I cared about and all the people I’d let down. The lists were almost identical.
I shook off the nostalgia, grabbed the keys from the center console, and cycled through them for what must have been the hundredth time. Good detectives connect dots—Perry had told me that years ago. Good detectives draw lines between what seem like unrelated and insignificant pieces of information, then step back and analyze the picture. Every clue is a dot, and once you connect the right dots in the right order, the solution appears. That’s how good detectives solve a case. Perry would know; he was one of the best.
But what dots did I have? A couple dozen keys. A locked trunk. Two hipsters who’d lied about how long they’d been on the parkway. Were these clues? Not according to Dale, and he was the law enforcement officer. I was creating a mystery where there wasn’t one. I needed to forget about the keys and find another distraction.
* * *
I pulled out of the parking lot and headed north toward Mount Pisgah and the ranger station. When I walked in, Joanne was standing behind the counter drinking a cup of coffee.
“Do you remember me?” I asked. “I was in here a couple days ago with Deputy Johnson.”
Joanne chuckled. “Dale Johnson. How’d you get tangled up with him?”
“I’m renting his cabin for the winter, and he seems to think that makes us best friends.”
Joanne rolled her eyes. “Lucky you.”
I shrugged. “He’s kinda like a hangnail. The more you pick at him, the longer he sticks around.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“I’m curious about something,” I said. “Have you ever heard about gold being found on Cold Mountain? I’m working on a book about the bomber crash, and a couple of people have mentioned gold being found near the crash site.”
Joanne laughed.
“These mountains are full of stories,” she said. “The ghost at Devil’s Courthouse. The headless body found at Frying Pan Gap. The teenage lovers who threw themselves off Looking Glass Falls. I’ve heard them all, and none of them are true.”
“So you don’t believe there was gold on that plane when it crashed?”
Joanne laughed again, and I started to feel like a fool.
“Look, after that plane went down, the Army and a bunch of local volunteers scoured that crash site. I don’t think there was any gold on that plane, but if there was, it was found a long time ago.”
“Do people ever come in here and ask about it?”
“Once in a while, but it’s really more of a local rumor the old-timers talk about. Heck, most people who come in here asking about Cold Mountain don’t even know that a plane crashed up there. They’re more interested in the book or the movie. They want to know if I met Jude Law or Nicole Kidman. It makes their heads spin when I tell them the movie was filmed in Romania.”
* * *
I left the ranger station and drove down to El Bacaratos to call Dale. I wanted to get back to the deck as soon as possible and hoped I could convince him to save me a trip into town. As soon as he picked up, I knew the answer was going to be no.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m at El Bacaratos. Drive up here and I’ll give you the keys.”
I really didn’t want to drive all the way into town, but a deal was a deal.
“Perk up, little camper,” Dale said. “Don’t be all sore because you have to hand over them keys.”
I didn’t respond.
“I tell you what,” Dale said. “Let’s go to Long Branch tonight. I wanna talk to that sweet thing who owns the place. Pick me up at seven.”
“When did I become your Uber?”
“What? I don’t speak Spanish, dipshit. Now get them keys to the station.”
13
The Haywood County Sheriff’s Department was located just off Main Street in the middle of downtown Waynesville. The street was a half-mile-long strip flanked by restaurants, real estate offices, and a disturbingly high number of stores selling cinnamon brooms and enamel mugs. Waynesville was a tourist town, and proudly so. But it was mid-November and the sidewalks were practically empty. I guessed things would pick up closer to Thanksgiving, which was only a few days away. I didn’t know how the stores stayed in business during these cold winter months. I would just have to add that to the long list of things I didn’t know.
I pulled into the sheriff’s department parking lot and found an empty spot marked VISITOR. I walked through the department’s front door and entered a small lobby, where the top of a gray bouffant hovered near the far side of a tall counter.
“How can I help you?” the bouffant’s owner said as I approached.
“I’m looking for Dale Johnson.”
“He’s on patrol at the moment. Is there something I can assist you with?”