Worse Angels

by Laird Barron

  “This is a personal question—how was the marriage? Any problems? Tension?”

  She didn’t hesitate. The disapproving mother-in-law in her pounced.

  “The marriage was crumbling. You could detect a chill in the air at family dinners.”

  “At least you had family dinners,” I said. “Is it possible there was another person in the picture?”

  “Another man? Was Linda cheating, you mean?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  She gave this some thought.

  “Linda never established any significant relationships here. Sean hung around with colleagues at the Jeffers site. From what I understand, he had some of them over to his house for dinner and the like. My husband and I met two or three in passing. No one sticks out in my memory. Well, there was one fellow . . . A tad rough around the edges. Leather jacket and pomade brute. Sean introduced him as D and was eager that we not exchange more than pleasantries.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Did Sean have reason to fear you meeting his pals?”

  “My son was protective of his acquaintances. He dated Linda for six months before he disclosed the fact to us.”

  “Why is that?” I said.

  “Disappointment. One too many so-called friends betrayed him in his youth. Typical kid drama. He was actually popular. However, every child will experience failed relationships. His were sources of shame. He tired of explaining why this boy or that girl was no longer around the house. By his high school years, it was like prying teeth to get anything personal out of him.”

  “No mother-daughter chitchat between you and Linda?”

  June Pruitt laughed.

  “Dear God, no. We . . . didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “Socially? Politically?”

  “Anything. That’s why I seldom visited their home. I wasn’t exactly unwelcome, but she kept the red carpet in storage. Easier to let them come to us when they felt social.”

  If someone had stuck a gun to my head and made me guess, I would’ve laid money on Sean and Linda’s childless marriage as a bone of contention between widow and mother. Women of a certain age and persuasion want those grandchildren.

  “What drew them together? What did she see in your son?”

  “That’s a hell of a question.”

  “He had difficulty holding down a job, right?” I said. “Linda’s a highly trained, motivated woman. An unequal pairing.”

  June Pruitt’s expression wasn’t pleasant. She didn’t tell me to jump into a lake, though.

  “Were you ever young, Mr. Coleridge?” Her tone indicated she thought I’d rolled out of the womb a certified jerk. “They were different people in college. Sean had big dreams. The passion of a dreamer can be heady as ambrosia. She recognized his potential, an innate brilliance he inherited from his father. It inspired her own creativity. Linda made the mistake many women do; she decided she could ‘fix’ him. She should’ve accepted him and left it at that.”

  “Did she enjoy relocating to western New York? Heck of a transition.”

  “She didn’t hate it. Ringing endorsement, eh? The state is gorgeous. And Sean was getting good pay, for once.”

  “Long way from California,” I said. “Cold winters. Hicks.”

  “Linda worked from home and traveled when necessary. She wasn’t trapped. Have you ever visited Healdsburg? It’s quaint. Her property is surrounded by hills and woods. A drier, sunnier version of the hills that border this area.”

  “You don’t buy suicide based on Sean’s chronic depression. Fine. Let’s consider the possibility there were additional variables. Did you notice changes in his behavior?”

  “He was buttoned down around me and his father, so my insight is admittedly limited in certain regards. He didn’t handle stress well. The last year, he became scattered, forgetful. His handwriting, which had been fairly neat up through college, degraded. Something weighed on his mind. A bad marriage would account for certain aspects. But I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding an illness or trouble at work.”

  I closed my notebook.

  “Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

  “Sorry for my loss, et cetera?”

  “Et cetera, et cetera.” There were moments I wished that in addition to closing my notebook with finality I had a hat to grab, because hats are often kept near a door.

  “What will you do next?” she said.

  “What I usually do. Ask nice people rude questions and chase my own tail until something occurs to me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The comic store was the last shop standing in a plaza with FOR RENT signs in many of the windows. Devlin’s tastes were evolving, but he steadfastly loved the Flash, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern, so I nabbed the latest installment of each series. The shopkeeper kibitzed as he bagged my selections and talked me into buying a back issue annual of The Warlord, a lamentably discontinued series I’d adored in adolescence and then forgotten. The Warlord starred an improbably brawny man among men who gallivanted across a Hollow Earth landscape smiting his enemies with a sword and rescuing bikini-clad women from the clutches of evil. What was not to love for a twelve-year-old kid, right? And forty-something kids.

  Afterward, I sat in the car, skimming my itinerary, which included in-person interviews with locals who’d known Sean Pruitt. Although what I really wanted to do was ditch my obligations and spend the day reading comics.

  I backed out of the parking space and nearly traded paint with a pickup that whipped around the corner. The driver dynamited his brakes and was likely yelling obscenities before he flung his door open. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask if he was okay. The driver, an older red-faced hick in a denim jacket and cowboy boots, rushed me with the stated intent to send my “brown ass back to my own country in a box.” Less shocking so much as depressing. The righteous racism craze was sweeping the nation.

  As one might suspect, my thoughts jumped to the altercation I witnessed between the frat bros and the construction worker at the Kingston traffic light. The angel on my left shoulder encouraged me to reenact the melodrama, but with extra violence. My better angel reminded me of the emotional and legal consequences for resorting to casual brutality. Tough call. Not that I didn’t appreciate what my worse angel was laying down, but sort of like pushing aside that last piece of pie because it’s the honorable thing to do, I denied my base instincts to maul and maim and used an appropriate level of force. Mr. Denim’s punch glanced off my lowered head. Finger bones crunched. I kicked his legs out from under him and he thudded onto his back on the pavement. His breath whooshed. An expression of fear and comprehension surfaced, then was replaced by pain. It’s always bad to not realize you’re overmatched until after the fight is under way or, in his case, finished.

  A worse version of myself would’ve stomped him in the neck or slammed a heel into his sternum with all my considerable weight behind it. I stepped lightly on his armpit while seizing his wrist, then locked him into an armbar. I calmly requested that he lie still and cool off. He couldn’t catch his wind to argue. His buddy came around the passenger side brandishing a golf club. A third guy hovered on the periphery, less gung ho to enter the fracas. Another aging blue-collar patriot with a pomade-slick duck’s ass haircut and a leather jacket. I named him Slick.

  Golf Pro, white-haired, heavyset, and paunchy, didn’t repeat the driver’s kamikaze charge, choosing a cautious yet determined approach. His posture suggested he was no stranger to this routine. In addition to experiencing chagrin for doubting that salt-of-the-earth bigots might enjoy nine holes after a hard day in the mines, I marveled at how rapidly the incident had escalated.

  I yanked the unresisting Mr. Denim to his feet, caught his collar and belt, and slung him into Golf Pro, who quite understandably didn’t conceive what was happening until too late. A man doesn’t begin from the premise of administering a be
ating to some swarthy foreigner to having his two-hundred-pound buddy chucked at him by said swarthy foreigner. Mr. Denim’s boots lifted off as I launched him and their skulls collided with a satisfying thump. They lay in a tangle, unconscious. The third man, Slick, bolted.

  Vehicles rumbled past on the street. I expected the cops to zoom in at any second. When the fuzz didn’t swoop in to clap me in irons, I carried the dudes to their truck and stuffed them inside. I killed the engine and tossed the keys onto the hood. Golf Pro snored through a mashed nose. Mr. Denim’s eyes were glassy. A growing lump disfigured his forehead. Breathing sounded normal, if labored. They’d be fine. I advised Mr. Denim to relax for a few minutes and collect his shit. Once he felt okay to retrieve his keys, he’d be safe to proceed.

  I wished them many happy returns and briskly departed the scene.

  * * *

  ■■■

  While I was initially getting my feet wet in the Hudson Valley, local wiseguys regaled me with a campfire story. A split-level in a wooded neighborhood in Kingston once belonged to a fellow who operated on behalf of the mob; a numbers guy, but also a hitter if the occasion warranted. That nondescript home at the end of the ordinary street proved to be a house of horrors. Numbers Guy and his cronies killed numerous people there and minced them in the basement. Hookers, estranged girlfriends, mobsters, saps who’d pissed them off, et cetera. Numbers Guy ratted to the Feds on the regular, so this continued for years. The minute his usefulness diminished, cops broke down his door in a no-knock raid, expressed shock and consternation at the gruesome revelations, and sent him to the pen for a million years.

  Lionel and I once took an opportunity to roll past the murder house. The realtor kept the lawn tidy and the gutters clean in vain; nobody would touch the place with a ten-foot pole. It emanated a psychic stench that caused us to exchange a glance and motor into the sunset. We hadn’t spoken of it since, although the experience lingered.

  This is pertinent because my tour of Horseheads was characterized by a whiff of ineffable rottenness that came and went with the breeze. The sensation reminded me of that house of the dead, and more recently, the unpleasant vibes at the Jeffers collider site. A stark fact stared hard at me—the universe didn’t send me to coincidentally weird, inimical, fucked-up locations; nope, I was finally noticing how fucked up the universe and its various biomes are as a general rule.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Sean Pruitt’s therapist listened to my pitch for confidential information over the phone. I laid it on thick: Mysterious circumstances, a mother haunted by doubt, corrupt businesses, a possible cover-up, I only have a couple of easy questions, and so forth. Everything but Connie Chung’s why-don’t-you-whisper-it-to-me gambit. To no avail. The shrink apologized sincerely, performed the ritual disclaimer regarding patient-therapist privilege, and told me to go fly a kite, albeit more professionally.

  Elementary, middle, and high schools; I made the obligatory course of teachers and coaches who’d agree to an interview. Survey said, Sean was a decent student when he applied himself, and a solid if undistinguished athlete. Middling popular due to aloofness, a team player in academics and sports and that paid for a lot.

  Imperfect, yet no troublemaker. Exempting the occasional scuffle, truancy, or belligerent hormonal attitude, Sean was a relatively typical student. Teachers were unaware of the extent of his depression. Sean successfully kept his therapy and medication under wraps with the exception of the school counselor, who, predictably, wouldn’t divulge details. Adults are patently oblivious when it comes to the secret lives of children. Sean’s classmates might tell a different story were I to get them on the record.

  The officers at the Horseheads police station knew the Pruitts. An off-duty sergeant graciously came in to answer my questions. He was a craggy no-nonsense cop who’d been on the scene for a while. We sat in a spare office the size of a broom closet and talked. Yeah, he’d rousted little Sean for smoking a joint at the quarry with a bunch of other kids. Let him slide with a warning. Quiet, polite. Scored that last-second touchdown against Elmira. Damn shame how he went. Damned shame we lost that atom smasher project. Real money for this town. Damn, damn shame.

  Did the sergeant suspect anything amiss regarding Sean’s death? He said no, although he understood why the family might find it difficult to accept. The Redlick Group had steamrolled opposition to the Jeffers Project, helped the government ram through eminent domain, and brought in tons of outside labor. RG tactics divided opinion even during the prosperous early days; once the project cratered, everybody united in an angry front. People were eager to believe the worst, outlandish rumors, and that went double for those who were most hard-done, such as the Pruitts. Damned shame all the way around.

  Gonna tell ya, kid, the Redlicks have owned the heart of this town since they were stringing witches from trees. I’m old and I can level with you. This isn’t the same as other places. You be as careful as you can.

  The sergeant uttered his warning with a placid expression. May as well have said, Watch out for poison ivy if you wander off the trail. Don’t feed the ducks. He wished me good fortune and sent me packing nowhere closer to knowing anything one way or the other.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Wednesday afternoon, I bought lunch at a deli—a Monte Cristo and a large black coffee. The paper cup was blazoned with the shop’s horsehead logo. The horse’s eyes were X’d out, 1950s cartoon fashion. I ate my sandwich and drank my coffee at a table in a raised garden where everything was dead except for the pigeons who circled and sortied for crumbs. A larger predatory bird wheeled and wheeled, obscured by the moving scrim of clouds. It was a few degrees above freezing. Passersby wore hats, mufflers, and long coats.

  My phone buzzed. Dr. Alex Pruitt pleasantly surprised me with a text naming a place and time to meet; nearby and at once. He stressed the latter portion. We’d rendezvous within the hour or not at all.

  Hard to say whether this reversal was good news or one of those ill omens that cropped up with alarming frequency. I wanted to cover the bases with speed and efficiency, write my report, collect the balance due, and mosey on to the next case before the Redlick Group, Zircon Corp, or whoever decided to put the clamps on my activities. Despite a nagging suspicion that the official story didn’t hold water, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a surprise revelation opening another avenue of inquiry. Sometimes a mystery is wisely left alone, but I’m not one to heed that warning.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Vulture Bluff was the catchy name of my destination. Where there were heaps of dead horses, hungry vultures flocked.

  I drove to a gravel lot at the base of an evergreen butte five minutes outside of town. The lot was veiled by thick brush; cracks split across the farthest third of the cratered asphalt. Two other cars were parked—a midsize sedan, brown; and a blue softshell Volkswagen Beetle. A crimson and bronze 1950s Mercury Monterey turned partway into the lot, then reversed and kept going along the road.

  I climbed slippery wooden stairs through a tunnel of hemlock and mulberry and emerged into a broad clearing amid more hemlock, pine, and bur oak. An eight-foot-tall fence of warped planks encircled much of the field. From a high-altitude plane, the field might’ve appeared as a spearhead. Shaggy grass and unraked leaves contributed to the impression of dereliction.

  Nearer to me were painted stripes of a soccer infield bleaching into the pale grass. Toward the far side of the grounds, rotting wooden bleachers canted precipitously. A backstop twined with creeper vines sank into the sod, off-kilter and somehow post-apocalyptic. Scholars cheerfully posit the end of the world will entail clouds of ash, rusted empty towns, and radioactive deserts. I envision a black, endless forest and pregnant silence that elongates into centuries. Mankind’s bones lie scattered in mossy graves; home for the meek, scuttling inheritors of the earth.

  A man in an overcoat stood at the center of th
e field, smoking. He controlled a small dark schnauzer mix on a retractable leash in his left hand. The dog described an ever-widening circle, snout focused industriously upon the earth. The man was in his late sixties; medium built under the bulky coat. Wool newsboy cap and glasses.

  “This is Franz.” He reeled in the dog as I approached. His wedding band appeared to match June Pruitt’s. The dog cautiously snuffled my pants and shoes.

  “Franz Ferdinand?”

  “Boas.”

  “Ah, the other notorious Franz.” I patted the dog. He shied away.

  “Alex Pruitt. You’re Isaiah Coleridge.” The smoke from his cigarette blended with a pleasantly stark cologne.

  “I am.”

  Dr. Pruitt freelanced for several private organizations and traveled frequently overseas. He’d moiled in the dirt as a biologist, transitioned to an office job, and retired with every honor due an overachieving genius. His essays and papers were collected at Elmira College. I’d skimmed the plum examples. One essay snagged my whole attention—his harrowing account of an expedition to a mangrove delta in southern Bangladesh in the ’80s. Killer tigers, killer snakes, killer bees, killer everything in that gigantic saltwater swamp. The kind of place a warrior might go to seek a spectacularly gruesome death. It had certainly claimed the lives of woodcutters and poachers. In English, its name translated loosely to the Beautiful Forest, but was referred to by relatives of the aforementioned woodcutters and poachers as the Forest That Eats Men. Which is what Dr. Pruitt titled his essay. Drs. Howard Campbell and Toshi Ryoko, the now-infamous scientists who’d founded the expedition, went on to reap the glory while Dr. Alex Pruitt settled into a more humble and obscure role in the scheme of academia.