The Weight of Night

by Christine Carbo

  The moonless night blanketed us. The sky was clear with the curtain of smoke from the forest fires drawn to the side, at least for now. Stars filled the infinite dome above—brilliant and ubiquitous. Without the heat of the sun, a legion of scents surrounded us. I could smell the complexities of the farmland soil and dried grain from the barn for the horses. The scent of tubers growing ready for fall harvest surrounded us, as if the soil claimed the air for a ceremony to celebrate the coming release of its vegetation.

  When we reached the carport, Ken and I lifted our lights like protective swords, sweeping them over both vehicles. Red taillights glinted in our beams. The one closer to us was an old green Ford, and the other, on the outer side, was a dark Chevy.

  “There she is,” Walt said.

  “If you could stay put with your dogs here, that would be great.”

  “Okay then,” he said, calling them—Cocoa and Guinness—by his side. “Stay. Sit,” he said firmly and they obeyed, whining slightly as if they knew something was up.

  I didn’t say anything. Neither did Ken. We just walked to the Chevy, continuing to slide our cones of light over it as we went closer. It fit the color description, but most of them we’d checked so far had. That’s why we were honing in on them in the first place: the color, the time frame, and the make. Ken and I parted as we came up to it, each taking a side until we met in the front and illuminated the bumper. I steadied my beam in the right-hand corner, held it there as I kneeled down and looked more closely at the sticker. CFAC #127/Permit.

  I could feel the blood rush to every part of my body. I looked at Ken for a second, kneeling beside me, his broad nose catching the glow from the flashlight, his aftershave still present, then looked back at the bumper. Every sound out in the night made me tremble and spooled me into a tight knot. An owl who-who’d in the distance and I could hear the Labradors leave Walt’s side and scurry around out in the field beside us.

  “Jackpot,” Ken said softly, almost like a breath, and I felt a shiver go up my spine.

  “Jackpot,” I whispered back. “Let’s call this in.” I stood up and continued to inspect the truck without touching it. “You comfortable inspecting that barn if he agrees while I ask him some more questions?”

  “I am,” Ken said.

  “When you get inside, go ahead and call Ali. We can’t be sure if it’s the actual truck that took the boy since the witness wasn’t one hundred percent positive in the first place, but it’s a huge lead. If he allows us to search, we’re going to need all hands on deck—the county, KPD.” I was referring to the Kalispell Police Department. “We’re going to need to comb every inch of this place, and we’re also going to need forensics here ASAP to look at this truck,” I whispered.

  Ken nodded vigorously. “And if he hears me make the calls?”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be with him. He’s not going anywhere.” Walt Tuckman wasn’t setting off any alarm bells with me, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to watch him like a hawk until the others arrived.

  We backed away, trying to not create any more shoe prints than we already had and made a large arc back to where Walt stood.

  “Mr. Tuckman,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind if my partner here looks around your barn while I ask you a few more questions.”

  “My barn? But what on earth for? What are you looking for?”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” I pressed.

  “Yes. Definitely. I don’t mind. I just don’t understand, is all.”

  I gave Ken a firm nod to go ahead, and he headed straight for the dark looming structure, with less apprehension than I thought he might display, his light brushing back and forth over the road and the dry grass as he walked. Each step crunching on the gravel sounded precise and loud in the quiet, still night.

  “Mr. Tuckman, when was the last time you drove the Chevy?”

  “It’s been a long time. As you can see, I’ve got my own.” He waved at his. The dogs followed Ken to the barn entrance, and Walt whistled for them to come back. “I don’t need it much. Just when I haul something messy and don’t want to dirty my own truck bed.”

  “How long?”

  “Let me think. Two and a half months ago, in early June. I had to haul some gravel for a friend.”

  “Anyone else have access to this truck?”

  “Sure. That’s the point. That’s why we keep it around and keep it registered. My farmhands all have access to the keys for all our vehicles. They use them as they need. I trust them and they always put the key back, keep ’em filled with gas.”

  “And where are the keys kept?”

  “In the barn.”

  “And how many farmhands do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “Okay, Mr. Tuckman. We’re going to need to get those names from you. Additionally, we’re going to need your permission to search your truck, and maybe your place. Will you give us that?”

  “Search my place? What do you mean?”

  “For starters, your Chevy truck and your barn. We need to dust your truck for prints. We may need to move it to a forensics garage to check it out under different lighting and to run some more tests.”

  Walt’s forehead stayed wrinkled in confusion as he listened to me.

  “We need to understand if your father’s truck was, indeed, involved in the crime we’re working on. We may need to search more, your other buildings and your house. We may need to see your whole farm—all the buildings, the entire property. Is that going to be a problem, sir?”

  Walt didn’t answer me at first. I could see he was trying to wrap his head around it all.

  “Because if you say no, we’ll more than likely do it anyway, but with a search warrant.”

  “No, no, of course, we want to help. Have at it. Anna and I have nothing to hide, and I highly doubt that truck is the one you’re thinking it is, whatever you think it may have been involved in.”

  “We’ll see, Mr. Tuckman, and we’ll let you know, but in the meantime, we need you to stay put.”

  • • •

  When the others began to arrive at—or, I should say, descend upon—the place, a pale light had started to fan over the mountains. I say “descend” because of the sheer numbers pulling up the drive: Flathead County, Park Police, Kalispell Police Department vehicles. I figured Ali wanted to cover every inch of the place, and excitement reared up in me when I thought of the possibility of finding Jeremy.

  Ali and Herman pulled up in their discreet, dark SUVs—Tara still with Herman from working on their list of registrants. I showed the agents the barn and the truck; Ken showed some of the county guys the main house. Ken had not seen anything unusual or suspicious in the strawberry barn. Walt cooperated on everything, drawing us a map of the entire farm, indicating where all the outbuildings were located. Morning light was quickly spreading as well as a blanket of dark clouds. I lifted my nose to the air and caught the sweet, pungent scent of ozone, signaling that a storm might be on its way, its downdrafts pushing the sharp smells from higher altitudes toward us. After such a long dry spell, the odors were stronger than ever.

  “What have you got so far?” Ali asked.

  “Six people, including Walt, his wife, his two twentysomething kids, and two farmhands. The owner, Richard Tuckman, is ruled out because he had a stroke several months ago and is in a home. The son says he can’t walk, drive, or even talk.”

  “You know I’m going to want verification on that.”

  “Yep. Will do.” I had already made a note in my pad to do so.

  “Where are the kids? They live here?”

  “No, off to college. Both of them stayed for jobs and summer school.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The son, Mitch, is in Bozeman at MSU and is working at a hotel this summer. The daughter, Hunter, is out at a university in Portland. She’s taking summer
classes. Neither have been home in a month. I think we can rule them out for now.”

  “Hunter?” Ali rolled her eyes. “Why can’t people pick names anymore that don’t confuse everyone about what gender they are?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t see why Hunter can’t be a girl’s name.”

  Ali waved her hand between us to brush the thought away like an annoying fly. “Okay, so that leaves four people. The Tuckmans and the two farmhands. You have names and info?”

  “I do,” I said, already handing her the sheet of paper. She held my eyes for a second, then took it and studied it. “Good work, you two. Good work finding this truck.”

  “All just part of the job,” I said, “but thank you.” I was surprised at her sudden kindness. I recalled when she’d worried about the Coreys inside the motel and wanted me to stay with them until a victim’s specialist or a chaplain arrived. It occurred to me that her brusqueness was only a wall, an armor for obvious reasons: to live or work without a shield in this world, especially in this business, was like being an open, exposed wound. To live without protection meant you had to absorb the world as it really was, and for some, that was too difficult. But Ali Paige had a sweetness under it all that trickled up and out every now and again like a spring seep.

  “So here’s how we’re going to work this,” she said. “Herman and I are going to question Walt again while the farm gets searched and that truck gets processed. Since your man has given us permission to search, we can move quickly, which is a huge relief. It moves him down the suspect list a tiny bit, but still, Herman and I are going to make sure no stone is left unturned, no candy box left unopened. So, what I need from you and Ken now,” she continued, “is to find the farmhands as quickly as you can. Find out if they have alibis for the morning and afternoon Jeremy went missing.” She looked to the eastern mountains and frowned. “And for shit’s sake, if it decides to rain today of all days when it hasn’t rained in months, I’m going to lose it.”

  • • •

  “She already is pissed all the time, so it doesn’t really matter,” Ken said as we hopped in the car.

  “But this time, I have to agree with her. As badly as we need the rain, we don’t need it on this farm on this day.”

  We hit a convenience store off the highway to get coffee and whatever we could find for breakfast. Ken grabbed a plastic-wrapped cinnamon muffin, some beef jerky, a purple-colored Gatorade, and a fresh pack of chewing gum. I plucked a banana from a basket sitting near the cash register, some OJ, a granola bar, and some microwavable egg sandwich wrapped in plastic that looked entirely indigestible.

  We went back to the car, the sky turning steelier and large clouds still knotting above the eastern mountains. The wind had begun to pick up, and in spite of having stayed up all night, a part of me felt giddy and excited—like a frisky horse that senses a weather change—for the huge downpour we’d been awaiting to help extinguish the fires. But a bigger part of me wanted it to stay dry to preserve any evidence the teams might discover at the farm. One more day, I thought, or at least a few more hours if it helped us find Jeremy.

  “I hate to miss my morning routine,” Ken said, twisting the plastic top off his bottle.

  I knew he was referring to the one hundred push-ups and the two hundred sit-ups he did each morning before coming to work. Ken looked down and flexed one of his biceps, which reminded me of Popeye. “How can you even think about that after pulling an all-nighter?”

  “Have to,” he said. “Keeps me sane.”

  I pulled out the list of names. The farmhands both lived on this end of the valley: one in Columbia Falls and one near the minuscule town of Creston with its tree farm, auction center, and post office. We visited the Creston guy first—a Paul Stewart—since he was closer. He lived in a nondescript beige one-story house not far off the highway. He was a potbellied, brown-haired guy of about forty who wore muddy boots and old faded jeans. When we told him we needed to ask him a few questions, he told us he’d be happy to help but had to get off to work to get there by eight. When we told him work could wait and that the questions involved where he works, he invited us in and led us to the kitchen table. We took seats and he offered us some coffee.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re fine.” He looked like he lived alone with the kitchen bare of decorations or any color. No curtains or shades dressed the windows, and they weren’t picture windows, just average run-of-the-mill rectangular windows with dirty screens.

  “You sure? I always make extra and I only just turned it off, so it’s still hot. I try to make enough only for one cup, but it always tastes like crap that way. I find it tastes best when I brew at least four cups worth, and I never have that much, so I just end up wasting it.”

  “You’ve talked me into it,” I said. Ken said he’d have a little too, commenting that it did smell way better than the stale, watery cup we’d just picked up at the convenience store.

  He set the mugs of coffee in front of us and took a seat himself.

  “You live alone?”

  “Yeah, it’s better that way. Used to have a girlfriend, but she moved out about six months ago. Just didn’t work out.”

  I nodded that I understood. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Stewart. We need to ask you a few questions specifically about your whereabouts two days ago, on August 16—this Tuesday—from around ten a.m. and through the rest of the afternoon.”

  “My whereabouts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Please just answer for us.”

  “Two days ago”—he tilted his head to think for a second—“I was golfing. At Northern Pines with the guys. We had a ten thirty a.m. tee time.”

  “The guys? Can you give us their names and can they confirm that you were playing with them?”

  “Of course I can. What’s this about?”

  “How long did you play?”

  “Four to five hours, eighteen holes, like usual. Then we had some drinks in the club bar.”

  I tried to picture the guy in front of me playing a sport like golf because he certainly didn’t look like the type with his grubby clothes and muddy boots, but I knew that in Montana, golf was no New York or San Francisco country club sport. The valley was the perfect spot for sprawling gorgeous fairways, and all types of people loved to get out in their jeans, Carhartts, and coveralls to play among the mountains that encased the valley on all sides.

  He gave us the names of his golfing buddies, and I wrote them all down, handed the list to Ken, and nodded for him to go check it out. He excused himself and went out to the car.

  “How long have you worked for the Tuckmans?”

  “Few years now. Almost four.”

  “And you’re full-time?”

  “About thirty to over forty hours a week depending on the season. During spring, summer, and fall, I work a lot more, over full-time. On the off-season, not as much and I scrape other jobs together, but I still do maintenance for Walt in the winter too. Help feed and care for the horses, mend fence, plow snow, that kind of stuff.”

  “And do you have another job you’re working now?”

  “No, just at Walt’s. It’s pretty busy this time of the year.”

  “So, how do you have time to take the day off to golf ?”

  “There’s two of us. The other guy, Brady, he works a lot less than I do, and sometimes both of us have it off if it’s a Saturday or Sunday. Sometimes I get a weekday off if Brady is working, and sometimes we both work. It just depends on what’s going on and how much Walt needs us.”

  “And when did you work last?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And did you drive Walt’s trucks—the ones stored under the carport near the barn?”

  “No. I helped out in the field all day. Didn’t need the trucks. Haven’t needed them in a while. Why? Did someo
ne steal one of them?”

  I didn’t answer him, just kept asking questions. “How long’s a while?”

  “A week or so.”

  “So, you haven’t used either truck in a week?”

  “No, I haven’t. Just the tractor and test-drove the potato harvester to make sure all is okay for the coming harvest. Oh, wait—” He looked out his kitchen window. There was a scraping noise from a bushy tree limb blowing in the wind and hitting the side of the house. “Yes, I did. I used the Ford to move sprinklers the time before. We’ve been finishing up irrigation, getting the storages ready. We’ve got our last inspection by the university staff coming up later this month. So that was like three days ago.”

  “And you didn’t use the Chevy?”

  “No, I like the Ford better. Newer. I hardly ever use the Chevy unless Brady’s using the Ford and I have to haul something messy, like dirt or gravel, and that’s not all that often anymore because the Ford’s been broken in enough now that we’ve been using that to haul just about anything anyway.”

  “And when was the last time you did that?”

  “Few weeks ago, like I said. Went to the dump. I only used the Chevy because Brady was using the Ford for something, can’t remember what for.”

  “And where do you get the keys for these trucks?”

  “Walt keeps them in the barn, on an iron hook. We just grab them as we need them. We have a rule that we keep them filled up at least halfway, no less, so no one gets stuck with an empty tank when they go to use it.”

  “You use your own money for this?”

  “No, we have a gas card for the Cenex in Kalispell near the feed and farm place, so it works great for us when we need to go for supplies.”

  “Okay,” I said, jotting the information down, and then looked back at him. “Mr. Stewart, I want you to think really carefully about this: do you recall anything different or strange at all around the Tuckman farm lately, say in the past few days?”