I said, “No. I’m not in disguise. What you see is what you get.”
I didn’t care what she made of that. Jolene had nothing more for me, and it appeared that the Smithville Police had nothing either. There was one person I had to see before I could really go fishing.
Chapter Seven
I got lucky and tried the bar that was closest to the entrance to Pioneer Park. It had been a week since that day in the park and I was hoping that James Herndon hadn’t been in the seat I now found him in since that day. He looked like he might have been. Blurry-eyed and slumped in a booth, he appeared to be having trouble focusing on the beer in front of him. When I had entered the front of Rolly’s Roundup, a man behind the bar (who might have been Rolly himself although he looked more like a doppelganger of Dewey’s Sloppy Joe) sensed my purpose and just nodded in Herndon’s direction and went back to polishing glasses.
Jimmy Herndon appeared in no shape to complain so I slid into his booth and waited for his eyes to settle and focus on me. Once he acknowledged me he was surprisingly friendly, or at least not immediately resolved to kick my ass and throw me out of Rolly’s fine establishment.
He looked at me with a resigned expression and said, “Reporter or cop?”
I appreciated his question. I had been there myself. I said, “Neither. I don’t want to add to your burdens Mr. Herndon, but my name is Ben Cain and I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes.” Against my better instincts I added, “Maybe buy you a drink?”
He looked me over a bit and then said, “Sure… I got nothing to do, and all day to do it.” I gave Rolly, or “Tiny,” or whatever the nod and he gave me the look that meant that he would get around to it when he was damn good and ready.
Herndon said, “Not being a cop or a reporter, I can’t imagine what you could want with me… unless you work for my wife’s attorney?”
“No, I’m not working for anybody. Mr. Herndon, it’s a little hard to explain but I’m probably one of the few people in this town that knows what you’re going through.”
He grunted and said, “Not likely.”
Rolly delivered two beers and I gulped a portion of mine and tried to tell James Herndon how I came to be in Smithville with a missing child, an absent wife, and a pocketful of beer money with an inclination to spend it… exactly like him.
He simply said, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
Herndon was dressed for work: paint splotched overalls with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a plaid flannel shirt covering strong suntanned arms. Clearly, Smithville Signs spent more time working on outdoor advertising than exit signs and “watch your step” placards.
Catching my eyes Herndon said, “I know what you’re thinking. Desperate father; should be at work or at home or down at the cop shop kicking ass and taking names instead of sitting here swilling beer all day long. Well, I’ll tell ya’… I’ve done all that and I’ve got no home worth going to and they don’t want me at work until I get my shit together and the cops, the cops don’t want to see my face again because I’ve been camped there for days and every time they look at me it just reminds them of how absolutely clueless they are. Sound about right?”
There was nothing I could say.
Herndon took a swallow and said, “What can you do?”
There was no point in splitting hairs. “Find him. Kill him.”
There was no one else in the bar and yet Herndon looked around as if we’d be in jeopardy if the local clientele overheard. He said, “They’ve already warned me off that. That Sargeant Craig is worried that I’m going to start suspecting my neighbors and blow one of them away if they say the wrong word. Mr. Cain, they’re telling me to hold on to the hope that Josh is just missing but I’ve seen the statistics. Are you telling me that I shouldn’t have hope?”
“Like you said: you’ve seen the statistics. Mr. Herndon, I can’t tell you what to do. All I want from you is a picture, a movie if you will… I want you to describe everything leading up to Josh’s disappearance and I want you to leave nothing out. I think the man that took him chose him before he acted, I think he planned it carefully, and I think he was motivated by the way Josh looked.”
Herndon’s face drained. I hurriedly said, “No, no… I don’t think there’s a sexual element. By his “looks” I mean this man is driven by… an image. An illusion. Here…”
I placed the photos of both Lucas and Josh side-by-side and watched Herndon’s eyes escalate.
“How? Wha…” He closed his eyes and massaged the cleft in his temple. “Do the cops here know that our boys look so similar?”
I explained my boozy conversation with Sargeant Craig. Herndon just looked as if he had lost his last ounce of strength. He finally said, “It’s even worse than I thought. My wife, Suzy, is sitting at her sister’s; sure that it’s all some mistake, some kind of hoax. If she saw these photos… well, she’d have the same thoughts I’m having now.” His eyes were misted but I saw him steel himself and he said:
“They think it’s you at first… you know?”
I did.
*
My wife and I had to do something. Once we had called the police and every neighbor and acquaintance that we could think of, I got down the picture book that we had assembled for Jeanie’s parents and pulled out the 6x4 photos of Lucas. How I had the presence of mind to do this, I don’t know. Another Ben Cain was at work that morning… dragging down the box with the photo book because the authorities were going to need a photo and the photo book was the only place where we had multiple shots of Lucas. I had originally cursed Jackson Elementary’s schoolbook photo day because my son put up such a fuss over the neat, clean shirt and tie that Jeanie had insisted he wear (Dad, I’ll be the only one dressed this dopey!); seeing the rectangular pictures then I irrationally thanked the middle school for scheduling the shoot when they did. I was not thinking clearly.
To this day I don’t understand why Lieutenant Perez was one of the first responders. Normally, one or two patrolmen would answer the call and try to discern the facts: Was there a nearby friend he usually hangs out with? Did he have a paper-route? Perhaps a forgotten book at a friend’s? Church?
Perez barely took five minutes to look around our house before he stared at me and said: “Has there recently been any kind of conflict in the home? A fight? Maybe he forgot to do some chore and he was denied his allowance? Maybe grounded?”
We were all seated on the matching floral sofa and love-seat, grouped around the wide glass coffee table with the photos of Lucas splayed out before us. Perez had brought another officer with him; one of lower rank and obviously as cowed by Perez’s demeanor as I was. I don’t remember his name but he sat silent; casting sad eyes at Jeanie and making a show of taking down everything Perez and I said in a small, wire-bound notepad.
I said, “Lucas is not like other boys…” Perez’s eyes said: sure, Buddy. “…he wouldn’t have strayed from the playground. It’s only two blocks away. He knows that’s why we allow him to go there.” I could barely raise my eyes to catch Jeanie’s. “That’s the rule. We have a promise: the playground and back. Nowhere else.” I couldn’t catch my breath.
Jeanie, squeezing a handkerchief so tightly that I thought she would tear it, mumbled, “Nowhere else. No matter what.”
Perez and the other cop were exchanging looks that sent chills up my spine. My God! They think We did it.
My paralysis broke.
“Look,” I said, heat migrating up my collar, “It’s only been a short time. Get out there – get out there now! Put up one of those road-blocks or whatever it-is-you-do. He can’t have gone far. You can catch him. Every second you waste around here asking me if my son is playing hooky or running around with a friend puts him farther away from us!”
Perez just stared at me. The other cop quietly said, “Sir, we have a standard procedure we…”
I broke. I leapt to my feet.
“Get out! Get out now!
” Jeanie shrank back into the couch, her eyes wide. “I know how the god-damn procedure goes! For the love of God, get out of here and go find my boy!” I fell back into my seat, only vaguely aware that spittle had flown from my lips and my chest was heaving up and down.
They think it’s you at first… you know?
Chapter Eight
Viewed through the dirty crust over the Quik-stop’s windowed door the phone pole looked like gray, weathered rope. Even in larger cities like Austin, phone poles are expected to be occasionally struck, or bumped into, and so it was no surprise that some mildly inebriated patron of Jolene’s place-of-business had purchased an unneeded six-pack and sculpted the pole a decidedly five degrees off of straight-up-and-down. In spite of the list, James Herndon had placed a bold black-and-white 8x10 piece of paper vertically correct and Jolene and I stared at a photo I had seen before: Josh Herndon, eight years old, a small dash of freckles and impossibly perfect blond hair; smiling for the camera in his freshly bleached Smithville Sluggers jersey.
Under the photo, so like the one I carry in the same shirt pocket where I keep my new temporary habit, cigarettes, are the sentences that keep this little town tense and fearful:
MISSING.
Josh Herndon. Eight years Old. Blond Hair. Blue Eyes.
Missing since May 4, 2013
If You Have Any Information Regarding This Missing Child Please Call 1-800-252-T-I-P-S
“I can’t sleep at nights,” said Jolene. We were temporarily alone. It was early in the morning and two sleep-deprived truck drivers and one lone farm worker on his way to “same shit-different day” had been the only customers in the building so far. I nursed my coffee and stared out the window at the poster.
“I can’t sleep and I’m afraid to turn off the lights at night. Isn’t that something? I know it’s stupid but there’s been many-a-night in the past where I didn’t even lock the doors. Christ!” Jolene snagged a Camel from a wrinkled pack on the counter. Lighting the cigarette, she squinted one eye to protect it from the smoke, flicked a stray piece of tobacco from her lip, looked at me and said, “Getting any of that fishing done?”
“Hmm? What?” I had sat up far too long crying and drinking with James Herndon down at Rolly’s Roundup and the hangover slowed my responses. I said, “Sorry – what’d you say?”
Jolene said, “Fishing, remember? You were either going fishing or going home. Got a relative that’s sick, right?”
I finally caught up. “Oh… oh, yeah. Still waiting to hear if her mother’s better.” I raked my hand over my face, “This heat! Makes me sleepy. Probably a good thing I’m not out on a boat right now – probably fall asleep and get burnt to a crisp!”
Jolene looked skeptical. “You brought a boat?”
I had forgotten my own cover story. Hurriedly I said, “No, no… I’m hitting them from the dock but a couple of old-timers offered to take me out…” I winked at her, “…show me their favorite ‘hot spots’.”
“Their favorite hot spots for boots and old tires…” Jolene said between clouds of cigarette smoke.
Returning her gaze to the poster outside the windows, she said, “How about you?”
Confused, I said, “What about me?”
Pointing the shriveled Camel in the direction of the door she said, “Sleeping at night? After this ‘thing,’ I mean. I mean… I’m just curious what an outsider, sorry…” The cigarette hand traced small arcs in the air, “…an out-of-towner thinks about something like this happening. It can’t be good. This isn’t exactly Mayberry RFD but we’re not used to something like this going on around here. People are upset… scared.”
What could I say? I took a pull of my coffee, feeling the rough Styrofoam against my lips and said, “I don’t know what to think. I keep expecting the police to show more presence on the street and maybe get some Boy Scouts out walking the woods. I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it?” I pointed at the daily paper, sleeping in a rack next to the cash register. “I don’t see much in there about it.”
Jolene extinguished her smoke. “And you probably won’t. We only got a few cops in this burg in the first place and they keep their lips pretty tight but I can tell you what they’re thinking. Buddy, every small town is alike. You can’t scratch your fanny in your own home without folks knowing which hand you used. The cops aren’t looking too hard in the rural areas ‘cuz they think the guy who took poor little Josh is a lot closer to home.” She elevated her eyebrows. “His home… you know what I mean?”
I did know. James Herndon was in for a long spell of suspicion from not only the cops, but from his neighbors, too.
Confirming my thoughts, Jolene said, “You think he done it? Or the wife?”
My coffee curdled in my mouth. I said, “The family? Christ no! They must be going out of their minds with worry.”
“Well, I don’t know them personally but I hear the hubby drinks…”
And so it would go. Suspicion, gossip, innuendo. Every good citizen of Smithville would go about his or her business; walk down the street, shop at Wal-Mart, put their separated trash out on the curb each Tuesday – while casting a hesitant eye over their shoulder at every foreign car, unknown person, and long-time neighbor.
Even at the coffee-drinking potential fisherman from out-of-town.
Jolene eyed me evenly and asked, “So how long ya staying?”
Not long. I was about to make up a lie when I heard the small bells above the front door jingle and a thin voice over my shoulder said, “Hello, Jolene… it’s a hot one today!”
“Hey, Arnie.”
“Arnie” was trying to maneuver a small box of packages through the door while avoiding knocking over the close-set display rack near Jolene’s counter. Rows of mints, gum, and peanuts were in jeopardy of flying off into the ozone. I looked out into the parking lot and was surprised to see a large, white step-van pulled up behind the pole that Josh Herndon’s poster sat on. I was so disconcerted by Jolene’s searching eyes that I hadn’t heard it drive up. Blazoned across the all-white van was the legend: Bono’s… Where taste is spelled… MMM Fresh!
Arnie was wearing a very-white set of overalls and workman boots. I was surprised to see that, in spite of the dust in the parking lot, Arnie’s boots shone like new. Emblazoned on his right breast was a red oval with “Bono’s” imprinted in the center. Directly below it was red piping that said Arnie.
I threw my coffee cup into a wastebasket and hugged the beer coolers to give Arnie room to go about his business. The box he was carrying was filled to overflowing with assorted cookies, nuts, and candies. Jolene seemed to have forgotten her concern with me and addressed Arnie with something more than casual interest. I studied Arnie and didn’t see anything that might interest the lady but then hey, I’m a guy. Arnie was medium tall; I’d guess five-eight before he bent to service a low rack and he favored contorting his thin blond hair into a blunt-cut affair that brought to mind the Dutch Boy from the cans of paint my dad used to buy when my mother decided that he needed to upgrade the kitchen. He was reasonably attractive but he suffered from one of those long dimples in his chin that made shaving a pain. His boyish face, however, was glass-smooth. “Arnie” appeared to be a fit thirty-year-old with none of the adornments of the working man: no tattoos, garish rings, or “don’t mess with Texas” buttons; but my heart did a little hiccup because he did wear a beaded cloth “WWJD?” bracelet, just like my Lucas had. What would Jesus do? Apparently, Jesus would replace the out-of-date corn-nuts with fresher ones from the stockpile at Bono’s.
“I think we’re pretty good on the pistachios,” Jolene said, “But I bet we’re out of Junior Mints. Some kids have discovered we’re close to the Super Movie Eight and they’ve been filling their pockets with them before the shows.”
Arnie, from behind a rack of chips said, “Looks like you might have a bad stand here…” Arnie brought his box of goodies forward to the counter and produced some kind of invoice from a breast pocket. My eyes were still
distracted by the poster.
Unbidden, Jolene volunteered to me: “Arnie’s our Wednesday and Saturday delivery from Bono’s. Going on about five years now, isn’t that right Arnie?”
Arnie graced me with an especially toothy smile. “Yep.”
Recalling an earlier conversation with the beer guy, I said, “The corridor?”
Arnie must have thought that Jesus would be succinct. “Yep.”
Signing the invoice, Jolene flashed a flirtatious smile at Arnie and said, “This is Mr. Cain. He’s up our way fishing. Or trying to. He just happened to catch the tail end of what happened at the park.”
Arnie’s smile turned downward. He looked out the window at the poster and said to me, “Shameful. People are talking. People around here haven’t been exposed to anything like this – I expect it in the city, but this is horrible.” He turned towards me, “Are you from Austin?”
I nodded “yes,” conscious of my sweaty palms; a result of the heat, too much caffeine, and the look on the face of the poor boy in the poster.
Arnie nodded. “Me, too. I try to shield my girls from what’s going on in the city but you have to make sure they know what’s acceptable, what the rules are. I’ve got two beauties, Gabriella and Constance… Connie, and I don’t let them so much as sneeze without me knowing who, how, and why. You got any kids, Mr. Cain?”
Staring at the doppelganger of my son, I said, “No.”
“Too bad. You don’t know what you’re missing.” I wanted to scream but the Bono’s snack man smacked a hand on a nearby cooler and said, “Root beer, Jolene! Got to have one for the road!”
Arnie and Jolene were all smiles as Arnie selected a soda, threw Jolene a dollar, and headed out the door with his soda and box. Before the door fully closed on him, he leaned back a bit, eyed me quickly, and said, “Cain, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Hope you’re not marked like the original one.” The door closed and Arnie walked to his truck. I thought: What would Jesus do? Jesus wouldn’t creep-me-out in a backwater town on a scorching Texas day. Through the window I could tell that Arnie was whistling. He paused to look at the poster and then loaded his wares into the truck. Still smiling broadly, he climbed into the driver’s seat and finessed the box-like vehicle out of the dusty parking lot.
Candy from a Stranger Page 4
