by D. K. Greene
Jones pushes herself off the clapboard siding and rises to her full height. She tilts her head. “Like what?”
“Like you’re auditioning for the part of Carmen Sandiego in some Dick Tracy crossover special.” Peter follows her as she makes her way to the tattered black sedan parked nearby.
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns on her heeled boots. “Not many people take female agents seriously. As long as they treat me like some errand girl, I’ll dress however I please.”
Peter’s eyes widen as he takes in her resolute gaze. “Noted,” he comments as Dougy trots over, puffing the last drags of his cigarette in a hurry. Peter tries to avoid his smoky exhale when he reaches the car, but the wind shifts and it blows into his face. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this, Dougy.”
“You’re not second guessing this now, are you? Remember, Peter. It’s for the families.” Dougy fishes through his pockets for his keys. Special Agent Jones pulls the small key chain from her jacket and clicks the button that unlocks the doors. “Ah, right. You’re driving,” the inspector says to his partner as she slides into the driver’s seat.
Dougy turns back to Peter. “One day, when this is through, people will call you a hero.”
Peter grunts as doubt grabs hold and gets in the back seat. He doesn’t know if the job of digging up bodies will ever be through. He does know the closure he feels when he drives up to see his mom’s headstone, though. Even if he can’t get his father to give up more people than Carol, at least he can offer her family an end to their quest to find out what’s happened to her.
Dougy eases himself into the front passenger seat. Next to Special Agent Jones, the inspector looks like an old horse ready to be put out to pasture. Peter supposes that’s what he is.
“Let’s go,” Inspector Douglas huffs as he fights with his seatbelt.
The old unmarked car pulls into traffic and soon they’re driving west on Highway 26, heading toward the coast. The steel colored clouds above are ominous. Inspector Douglas turns on the radio. The announcer tells them there’s a threat of thunderstorms headed their way. Dougy curses under his breath. He’d told Peter over the phone that the search crew had tried to reschedule, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to convince the prison warden to let Ollie out for another day.
Peter squeezes the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb to strangle the twinge of tension under his skin. The inspector and his special agent have to know Ollie is playing them. If he’d really wanted to give Carol up, he would have drawn a map.
But there was no way Oliver would let them collect his prize without him.
Jones turns the wheel, and they pull off the highway near Brown’s Camp. She works the car slowly down a jackknifed trail, just wide enough for the car’s mirrors to clear the shrubs. They round a bend near a mud-filled glade and Peter glimpses a nondescript panel van and two cop cars parked in the thick grass.
Special Agent Jones parks at an angle, cutting off the narrow entrance to the clearing so no innocent passersby can follow them in.
“Is everyone ready?” Inspector Douglas calls out as he extracts himself from the vehicle.
Neither Peter nor the agent answer. Peter isn’t sure what’s on Jones’s mind, but he’s busy wondering where all the people are. He steps out into the silent air, filled with dread. The car doors sound too loud as they latch shut. Has his dad escaped? Peter’s breath quickens as he imagines coming around the side of the parked vehicles to find pieces of officers’ bodies strewn across the forest floor. Acid bubbles up his throat as he imagines their entrails hung in the low tree branches like Christmas ornaments.
He holds himself in a one-man hug as he follows his entourage around the bumper of the last car.
No one is dead. Instead, the marshals and troopers huddle in a semi-circle a few yards into the tree line, laughing. The thick forest muffles the sound of their conversation. Peter’s ears ring as a sensation of relief floods his senses.
Everyone in the circle holds lit cigarettes, even Oliver. They almost look like buddies ready for a hunting trip, aside from the alternating blue and red flash of police lights and PRISONER printed in bold letters across Ollie’s back.
“Get off your asses, boys. This isn’t an ice cream social,” Special Agent Jones says in a harsh tone. The officers look up like they’re expecting to see their mothers shaming them. They duck their heads in embarrassment.
Inspector Douglas grins, seeming to enjoy the moment. “Let’s get to it, fellas.”
Oliver looks at the newcomers with a relaxed smile. “Ah, Inspector Douglas. It’s been a long time.”
The inspector’s expression shifts. His face blushes red and his shoulders tense visibly under his jacket. He almost looks like he might punch Ollie in the throat in response to the warm welcome. “It has,” he says in a gruff tone.
Peter’s dad looks at Special Agent Jones with an even wider grin. “And you, miss, are looking lovelier than ever. Did you bring any lemon bars with you? Maybe you could make me some tea...”
Jones looks over at Peter with a frown. Her expression brings him back to their earlier conversation about her clothes. “See what I mean?”
Before Peter can respond, Ollie is clearing his throat loudly to direct everyone’s attention. He gazes into the woods. “Maybe you’ll let me and my boy walk off a little way so we can talk? I think it’ll help jog my memory a bit if I feel like we’re bonding.”
Dougy wraps his ham-hock hand around Peter’s shoulder. He steps in close and whispers, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you’re afraid of being alone with him, we’ll sure understand.”
“It’s your turn to call the shots,” Special Agent Jones says. She pushes the brim of her hat up so he can see more of her face. She looks anxious. “From here on out, you’re in charge.”
“Okay,” Peter says with a quick nod. He can feel the goosebumps on his arms rubbing the inner sleeve of his coarse sweater.
Inspector Douglas frowns, looking almost fatherly. “If he says or does anything that makes you uneasy, raise your hand. Your hand goes up, and the officers will come get you quick as a flash.”
Peter gestures his understanding, then shuffles through the dense layer of wet leaves toward his dad. He looks at the old man and lifts a palm, gesturing at the rough-cut trail. “Let’s walk.”
Ollie looks as giddy as a kid on Halloween with a pillowcase full of candy. He’d probably skip down the trail if it weren’t for the ankle cuffs. Peter follows the elder man into the woods.
“Isn’t this nice?” Oliver comments several minutes later. They’re well out of earshot of the officers. Sure they can’t hear him, he reminisces. “We used to hike when you were little. Remember? Nothing beats all those summers camping under the stars. S’mores filled our stomachs and scary stories filled our heads.”
Ollie looks at Peter with a wide grin and crinkled eyes. “You were quite the little fire starter, too. Seemed like all you needed were two wet sticks and ten minutes to get a fire roaring.”
Peter gives a curt dip of his chin. Camping in the woods would have been some of his favorite childhood memories, had he ever cared to remember them. “I don’t think about being a kid much.”
Shaking his head, Oliver says, “All that media attention, I know. It put such a negative spin on things for you.”
Stopping mid-stride, Peter stares at his father in disbelief. “You killed people, Dad. That’s what put a negative spin on things.”
A wave of Ollie’s hand dismisses the idea. “What I did in my spare time wouldn’t have affected our family had the reporters stayed out of it. I took excellent care of you and your mother. You know that.”
“You mean you took care of us until you killed Mom.” Peter intends the words to cut like a knife. Satisfaction bubbles deep inside him when his father winces.
“Yes. Well, I pray to God every day that I could take that back. Life without her is...” Oliver’s brea
th catches in his throat. “Hard.”
“I’m sure Carol’s family feels the same way.” Peter looks over the sea of brambles and fern beside the trail and wonders which tree has spent decades protecting her.
“No one can feel alive until someone they love dies.”
Peter crosses his arms over his chest and grimaces. “Do you seriously believe the shit that comes out of your mouth?”
“I do, Hen.” Ollie’s expression is severe. “I didn’t understand the impact my work had until I lost your mother. All those years, I thought I was saving the souls of people who came to me needing to find truth. Only later did I discover I’d spread a thread of faith through all the people who knew them.”
“All the people who hoped they were still alive,” Peter corrects.
“Yes,” Oliver agrees.
“You make it sound like you did them a favor. But some of them find out their loved ones are dead, don’t they? Mutilated. Sewn up with all the glitz and glamour of side-show freaks. Or dumped in the woods, like Carol.” Peter gestures at the damp forest around them. “I’m pretty sure that overshadows any misguided prayers, Dad.”
Ollie walks a few paces, his focus on nothing but the path in front of him. Peter is sure his father remembers exactly where he buried the woman, but he won’t look in any direction that might give her away. He turns around, gazing at Peter with the earnestness of a televised evangelical preacher.
“All you have to do is show someone a grain of hope exists, and they’ll hold on to that speck for the rest of their lives. No matter what else comes along the way, they still have it.”
Peter’s about to yell at him for being such a twisted, jacked-up psychopath when thunder crashes overhead. Rain falls through the canopy in golf ball sized globes, and both father and son trot back up the trail to the search team. They can hardly hear one another talk over the roar of water cascading through the forest.
Jones points to the vehicles. Dougy nods and sloshes through the quickly softening mud toward the car. Peter meets them there, and the three of them duck inside. The sound of the rain changes as they close the car doors. Instead of the rushing sound of water over leaves, the interior of the vehicle sounds like fists pounding a steel drum.
They’re drenched. The downpour slaps against the windshield so heavy, they can’t see, even when Jones turns the wipers on.
“Did he give anything up?” Dougy turns in his seat to look at Peter while his partner presses the gas lightly, trying to get the car moving without sliding sloppily over the side of the trail.
Peter looks away from the inspector, back through the rear windshield at the van climbing the ascent behind them. The glare of its headlights is the only thing he can make out through the downpour. “Only that he thinks he’s a stellar parent.”
Inspector Douglas grunts as he faces the front of the car again. He pulls out his phone and punches in some numbers. Cupping the cell phone in his bear-paw grip, he waits a moment then says, “He didn’t give her up. Field trip’s over. Take him home and tell Warden Hazel he’s been a bad boy.”
Dougy hangs up and tosses the phone in a cupholder. Jones misjudges the slip of the mud where it meets the asphalt of the highway. They pitch forward as she readjusts the acceleration.
No one speaks for half an hour as they drive east on the highway. Suddenly, a hard laugh escapes the inspector with a violent snort that competes with the pounding rain.
“Oliver Roberts. Father of the year, I’m sure.”
Ten
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Charles?” Peter leans against the gray three-quarter height wall of his boss’s cubicle. Charles has his back to him and the only acknowledgement he gives that he heard the question is a single index finger held in the air. It’s the universal engineer signal for shut up and wait.
Peter does, watching the clock dangling off the side of the ceiling support over the next row of cubicles. He clears his throat a few minutes later.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were still here.” Charles spins around in his fifty-seven-point ergonomic office chair, and Peter catches a glimpse of what was holding him up. Several sets of curved scissors and some fancy paper are strewn across the backside of Charles’s desk. Glue drips from the lid of an open container. Peter does his best not to smile as his boss shoves photos of his dog under the pile.
“Do you mind if we find a conference room?” Peter swallows hard. Charles isn’t easy to pin down. When you finally have his attention, the squirrelly middle-aged man transforms into a conversational escape artist.
Charles looks at the clock. “I have a meeting in twelve minutes. You have me for ten.”
They walk across the cubicle-filled floor until they find a small glass-walled room that isn’t in use. Charles flips the sign on the door to In Session and plops down in the chair at the head of the table. Peter takes a seat beside him.
“Eight minutes,” Charles announces as he taps his wrist where a watch would be.
“Sure.” Peter fidgets in his chair. Asking his boss for anything sets his anxiety off, and today is no exception. “I have some personal stuff going on and I think it would be easier to take care of if I took time off.”
“What kind of stuff, Pete?” Charles looks confused, as if he can’t believe Peter exists outside the office.
“Family things.” Peter clams up, unwilling to say more.
Charles looks at a clock hung conveniently in view of the conference room. “You’ve never mentioned a family before. Seems convenient you have one now that you want to skip work.”
“It’s my father,” Peter says, deflecting the put-down. His thumb-twitch starts up, and he wrings his hands together out of habit.
“Huh. Is it fatal?” A good boss would look sympathetic, but Charles appears more impatient than concerned.
“Well... it might be. I mean, it is for some people.” Peter evades his boss’s gaze.
“Didn’t you already take an extra day off this month?”
“I took a long lunch. For an appointment.” Peter holds in an exasperated sigh. “I need more than a couple hours for this, Charles. It’s my dad.”
“Take it up with H.R. then, I guess. If you can furnish proof he’s gonna kick it, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from leaving. But you’ve got to cross those I’s and dot those T’s. Know what I mean?”
Peter shrugs noncommittally. He knows exactly what Charles means. He doesn’t give two shits about what happens to Peter.
Charles starts to get up, then drops back in his seat. He points an accusing finger Peter’s way. “Make sure you get coverage for your shifts.”
Peter nods. Charles also means he has a quota to meet, and he won’t let some employee stand in the way of his quarterly bonus.
“Good meeting. I’ve got to run. Let me know how it all shakes out, Pete.” Charles slaps Peter on the shoulder like a football coach making friends with a water boy.
Staying seated, Peter watches his boss rush from the room. The glass door closes, muffling the sounds of the busy office outside. Charles stops to talk to someone seated in one of the three hundred cubicles on the floor. He grabs a sheaf of papers from a hand reaching over the grey partition, then ducks into another glass-walled conference room.
Peter leans over the table to reach the speakerphone. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and dials the number written on it.
“Human Resources, Susan speaking. How may I help?”
“Hi, Susan. This is Peter Wilson. Badge number UB-091308. I just found out my dad’s dying. My boss says I need to file paperwork to take some time off.”
“Mister Wilson, I am so sorry to hear that. Let me pull up your file... There you are. I’m e-mailing you the approval form for a leave of absence right now. Please hand it in to your supervisor before you take off for the day. You immediately qualify for three days of paid absence and can request up to an additional ten days without pay. How much time do you think you’ll need?”
; “I’m not sure, Susan. My dad has stage four cancer.” The lie rolls off Peter’s tongue with ease. He knows Ollie will draw out the body hunt as long as he can, and Peter doesn’t want to lose his job over a bunch of last-minute absences. He pushes out some false tears and hopes the sound of his crying makes it through the line. “The doctor called yesterday. He said Dad is in his last days. If we’re lucky, he’ll hold on for a couple months. But it’s not looking good, and he can’t afford long-term care. He needs me to be there for him.”
“Oh, I see.” The clacking of fingers on a keyboard fills Peter’s ear as the H.R. woman looks something up. “We do have an eight-week extended family leave option. If we combine it with your accrued vacation time, you could extend your absence out to about fourteen weeks. Only vacation hours are paid, though. Do you think you can make it that long financially?”
Peter rolls his eyes. Vacation hours aren’t the only thing he’s been hoarding all these years. He’s made a habit of living like an entry-level technician, though he earns nearly triple the salary. He could afford to take the rest of the year off if he wanted to. “If it takes that long for the cancer to take him, I’ll find a way. Please pull the paperwork together for the max time off for me.”
“I can have it in about twenty minutes,” Susan offers. “You’ll need to provide proof, of course, but as long as you have his doctor fax it in by the end of the week, we’ll be okay.
“Thank you, Susan.” Peter disconnects the call and leans back in the conference room chair. He’ll have to call Dougy later and ask if he’s got someone on his team who can write up whatever Susan needs. He looks across the static ocean of grey on grey outside. He knows his boss will be furious when he finds out how long he’ll be out. A twinge of guilt pricks at him.
A grunt fills Peter’s throat when he thinks about the things Charles said. It hadn’t been a compassionate response. It was a shining example of management caring more about shareholders than employees. Bonuses over health. Peter refused to favor being a cog in Ronix’s economic wheelhouse over becoming the hero Carol’s family needed.
