Bad Man

by Dathan Auerbach

  “Only reason I paid them any mind at all was because they ran off when my truck come up behind them. I slowed down and looked, to make sure everything was okay. And the dark-haired boy waved at me from the bush before the other one pulled his hand down.”

  “How’d you come to call Clint first?”

  Jacob reached into his back pocket and then unfolded the piece of paper he retrieved. “This was the boy I saw, the one who waved at me.” He tapped his bruised nail against Eric’s picture.

  “Can I see that?” Duchaine asked, sliding the paper from between Jacob’s fingers.

  “Then they slipped farther in.”

  “You didn’t go after them?” Clint asked.

  “Nosir. All due respect, men like us”—he gestured at both their bellies—“have stronger suits than running through tight spaces. I was sure I’d never catch ’em, and I figured by the time I got back to my truck and headed down the way, they’d have even more of a head start.”

  “Where did you get this?” Duchaine rattled the paper gently. Jacob nodded to Ben.

  The four men trampled through the woods. Only Clint was shouting Eric’s name with any regularity, but if he noticed that fact, he didn’t bring it up. Jacob didn’t say anything at all and moved with the gait of a man who had walked into something he hadn’t intended and didn’t truly understand. James Duchaine’s steps were as level as his stare, gliding from man to man, only dipping now and again to study the flyer he held pinched in his fingers like a failing boy’s report card.

  Ben just walked. His mind should have been aflame, but even when he tried to stoke it, nothing stirred. So he stopped trying. Maybe he knew. It sure felt like he did. Every time he looked at Duchaine, he thought he could feel that something was coming, and he thought he could feel that he wasn’t ready for it at all. But he walked on, keeping pace with Duchaine even as Clint and Jacob outpaced them and took to new trajectories.

  “Ya know, Jacob and your good friend Marty have lived across from each other for a long, long time. Don’t you think it’s interesting? That Marty says he seen Eric, and now his buddy neighbor says the same thing?”

  “Not really, I don’t. I talk to Jacob near every time I’m on that street.”

  “We been out here for a while now,” Duchaine said. He got close enough that Ben could smell his sweat and asked with an almost playful tone, “What have you been up to?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Duchaine didn’t respond, not right away. It was a few minutes before he spoke again. “Had a case with this guy. This was years and years ago, before you was born. Wife turned up dead one day. In the home. Door kicked in. Stabbed. Blood all over the place. He’s covered. I mean, it’s all over him. He’d moved the body around, tryin CPR, before he’d called for help.

  “You see that kinda thing a lot. People forgetting themselves when something like that happens. Normal. All normal stuff in a situation like that.

  “He was super cooperative. I mean coming down to the station anytime we needed. Answered all our questions. Seemed genuinely distraught. Just sad, you follow? And it was real. You could tell. It was real, and I mean everyone felt for this guy. Nice guy. Just helpful and friendly as could be given the tidal wave of shit that had washed over him.

  “Only the thing was he did it. It’s a long story, but he did it. The neighbors had a camera fixed on their driveway, but it caught this guy’s too.”

  Ahead, Clint swam and clawed through brush, hollering for his little boy. Other voices penetrated the branches weakly, like they had fallen from the clouds and lost all their power on the descent.

  “I watched the tape with him, with our guy. I watched him watch himself storm up to his own front door and kick it to pieces. Played it for him three times, and all he kept saying was ‘That ain’t me. That ain’t me.’

  “And he was tellin the truth, at least as far as his mind could handle. He really did believe what he was sayin, what he’d been sayin all along. Only it weren’t the truth.”

  “Okay?” Ben said impatiently when Duchaine didn’t continue.

  “You got any thoughts at all on that story?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ben spat. He quickened his pace, trying to catch up with his wandering father.

  “Lead the way, Ben.”

  Ben turned back and hollered, “If I knew where he was, then we wouldn’t be out here lookin for him, would we?”

  “See, I think right here’s exactly where we’d be.”

  “Hey! Lieutenant!” Ben stopped. “We’re out here because Jacob called. Because he seen him!”

  “Right. He seen whatever it was he thought he seen. Then he called your house.”

  “Fuck this,” Ben said.

  “Five years,” Duchaine said, holding up splayed fingers. “Count ’em. Five years of takin your calls. Takin other people’s calls about you. Drivin to houses that you thought was ‘strange.’ Because that’s my job. Because I want to find your brother. Not for you. For him.

  “And from the very start, from the very first goddamn day, you been yelling in my ear about all the different places I should look.”

  “Because you ain’t done nothin! I been tryin to help and you ain’t done a goddamn thing! You laughed right in my face when I told you what Marty said.”

  “Ben, you stir up a god-awful lot in me, but not once has it ever been laughter. I have never—never—laughed at you. I think all this is about as far away from funny as it gets.” Duchaine paused to collect himself. “You killed Bob Prewitt. You killed Bob Prewitt, and then not even a year later you tell me about some trailer home that has too many locks on it. And then there’s a school bus with a route you think is weird. And I let it go and let it go, because I knew that eventually it would unspool and we’d find our way to the end. But then Marty fucked with you a little, and you almost killed him too.”

  “That ain’t what happened!”

  “You don’t see it that way, but you ain’t the only one who’s lookin at it. I’m lookin too, Ben. And what I see is someone who knows what all this is. Take away all the bullshit with the flyers and the logo. Take away all the games you play with yourself, and you know exactly where that boy is at. Because he’s in the same goddamn place where you left him five years ago, and so help me God, you’re gonna tell me where that is.”

  A wave rippled through Ben’s body. “You think I killed him?” He muttered it so softly, it was almost for himself. Ben pivoted and looked into the trees, searching for his father, wanting his help while also hoping that he was nowhere near enough to hear that Ben needed it. “You think it was me?” Ben asked with a trembling voice.

  “You don’t think that he sees it?” Duchaine asked quietly, nodding toward Clint as he approached. “Doesn’t see you? Because he does. Sees you draggin your brother through that store, yanking on his arm. Every time he looks at you I’d bet.”

  There was a sinking in Ben’s stomach. No, that wasn’t right. It was an absolute bottoming out.

  “You mad at me? Cuz they seen what you done? They asked for a copy of the surveillance tape. Ain’t no one persecutin you, Ben. Ain’t no one responsible for what’s goin on here but you.”

  “Hey!” Clint shouted at the two men. “What the hell are you just standin there for? Where you goin?” Clint asked as his son stepped heavily past him.

  Ben turned and pointed behind his father. “Somewhere else. He ain’t here to help. He ain’t here to do nothin at all, except to fuck with me.”

  Clint grabbed Ben’s arm as Ben moved to leave. “Hey. Ben. You need to calm it down, okay?”

  “He thinks I know where Eric’s at. I ain’t gonna listen to his bullshit.”

  “Now hold on just a minute—” Clint tried.

  “I ain’t the one tellin tales here, Ben,” Duchaine said, rattling the flyer.

  �
��I ain’t fixin to apologize to you for that.”

  “Me? No.” Duchaine chuckled. “You oughta apologize to your daddy. We got someone to answer that number twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five—”

  “And what a big help that was.”

  “Figure if your folks wasn’t there when Jacob called. What then?”

  “But they was,” Ben said sharply. “They was there, and now we’re out here lookin. All of us, ’cept for you, because you’re too busy makin shit up and fuckin with me.”

  “We all gotta stay busy with somethin, though.” Duchaine squeezed the flyer and shook it. “Ain’t that right?” Duchaine held Ben’s gaze; it felt like he was unpacking Ben’s mind, rifling through his thoughts with unwelcome fingers.

  “I know what you’re doin. I ain’t gonna admit to somethin I didn’t do. I wish I knew half as much as you think. Hell”—Ben faced Duchaine squarely—“I wish it was me, so you could finally close a goddamn case.

  “I told you everything, even when I knew you didn’t care, and it don’t fuckin matter! Marty told you right where Eric was and you missed him! Just like you miss everything. That’s why there’s fifteen fuckin posters on that board!”

  “Ben?” Clint cut in. He wasn’t staring into the forest anymore, wasn’t pouring his baby boy’s name into the trees. His father was just staring at him, stealing occasional glances at James Duchaine. “What’re you talking about, Ben?”

  Ben could feel the color leave his face and a kind of warm numbness take its place. Duchaine looked at Ben silently for a while, as if giving him the opportunity to answer the question, but Ben could only watch like a spectator of his own life.

  “Few months ago,” Duchaine began, “Ben here calls the station and says that one of his friends—Marty—said he seen Eric several months before that. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you, Clint.”

  “What the hell’s he talkin about, Ben?” Clint’s fingers squeezed Ben’s arm like a vise. “Ben!”

  “He said he saw him. Marty said he seen him in the woods near our house.”

  “When?”

  “A few months ago. I called him”—Ben pointed at Duchaine without looking—“and he said it never happened, said he never got any call from nobody about nothin. So I made the flyers. So I could look.” Ben’s voice was brittle.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. We could’ve been looking. It could have been me that seen him if I was out looking for him.”

  “But you weren’t!” Ben yelled. “You weren’t looking for him. I was. Before and after Marty. I couldn’t say nothin to you. To her. You act like you woulda been right there with me, but that ain’t how it is, and you know it! I didn’t know what to do. Marty said he seen him! Duchaine said he was a liar!”

  “I talked to him,” Duchaine said to Ben. “Talked to his tweaker mom too. Took his whole story down. Shoot, I asked everyone in the precinct, and not a one of ’em said that they ever got a call about your brother.”

  “You don’t keep that kinda shit from me, Ben!”

  “You seen what happened when I gave Deidra back the toy! What she was like!”

  “What toy is that?” Duchaine asked.

  “Please.” Ben’s lip was shaking as much as his voice. “Please, can we talk about all the things I done wrong later?”

  The look on his father’s face made Ben want to bury himself deep in the earth.

  “You can keep pretendin that this is all because of me. Walk beside me the whole time if you want to. Just so long as we’re walkin. Please, can we just look for him?”

  “What else?” Clint snapped. “What else is there? He’s got every pair of eyes on the payroll lookin for Eric. What else?”

  Ben’s uneasy gaze moved from Duchaine to Clint. Deep wrinkles crawled from the corners of his father’s narrowed eyes. Horrified anticipation boiled in his expression, growing more palpable with every second that his son lingered in silence. Ben’s fists bulged in his pants pockets. Deep in the trees, his brother’s name bounced against the sky.

  “Go home,” Clint ordered.

  “He needs to stay,” Duchaine said curtly. “Clint—”

  “You gonna arrest him, Jimmy? Go home.”

  “I wanna help, Pa.”

  “I don’t want you out here.”

  “Pa, I—”

  “Now, Ben!”

  49

  Neither man spoke as the truck sped down the road. Once or twice Clint smacked his palm against the steering wheel. Ben rested the side of his forehead against the cool glass. The store was a blur to Ben’s right, and then suddenly everything was still when Clint stopped the car in the grass in front of his home.

  “I can help,” Ben said.

  His father didn’t reply. Ben slammed the side of his fist against the plastic trim of the truck’s door, then flung it open and stepped outside. Clint reversed out of the yard right after Ben shut the door.

  Ben climbed the steps to his porch, his eyes fixed on the door, expecting Deidra to come running out, but she didn’t. And when Ben entered the house, he could see why.

  It looked like there had been a burglary. Magazines and picture frames were scattered on the floor. In the kitchen, every drawer and cabinet was open, some with their contents spilled onto the tile beneath. A trash bag lay shredded near the refrigerator, coffee grounds and old food smeared into the grout. Somewhere in the house, Ben could hear a rummaging, like a raccoon scrambling through a dumpster.

  In spite of the chaos, it didn’t look like anything had been taken. The TV was still there. The VCR.

  “Deidra?” Ben called, and the ruckus stopped.

  His stepmother appeared in the hallway, her face a puzzle of concern and tentative joy. “Did you find him?” Her voice trembled. “No one’s called or come by. Was he out there? Did you find him?”

  “They’re still looking…” Ben hesitated. “What happened?”

  “I can’t find him,” she whimpered. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Can’t find who?” Ben took a step forward.

  “Stampie. He’s gone. I put him in his room. I put him in there, but he isn’t there now. I went…” She flailed her hands as if she had burned them. “I went to get him so that…” Her mouth trembled. “He’s not there anymore. I searched all over.”

  Ben glanced past his stepmother, into his own open doorway.

  “Where’s Clint? Why aren’t you out there looking? Why are you back?”

  “They’re still out there lookin,” Ben said as he tried to squeeze past her.

  It looked like God had picked up the box that was Ben’s room and shaken it like a snow globe. Almost nothing was where it was supposed to be. His books. His clothes.

  “I thought you took it,” Deidra said.

  “It’s alright,” Ben muttered.

  It felt cold in the house now, though it might have just been something in Ben’s blood. His small suitcase lay lopsided, leaning against one of the supports of his bed, his childhood piled carelessly on the carpet.

  Through the walls, Ben could hear Deidra clawing and rummaging through everything they owned. How could she have lost that toy? Sitting on his bed, Ben tapped on his head as if it might shake an idea loose. He tried to think, but he didn’t have the resources. Every time he heard a thud or a rumble, he flinched with irritation. He could hear her crying now, then cursing herself.

  Ben was squeezing his head now, squeezing hard, just trying to get his breathing and thoughts to calm. Ben should be out there, not just sitting on his bed while his stepmom gutted the house. Instead, it was Duchaine walking side by side with Clint through those engulfing woods. What might he be saying? What stories might James Duchaine be telling?

  Ben wrapped his arms around his pillow, tossed it aside, and then struck his fist against the side of his head once. Twice. He wanted to scream. How co
uld she have lost that fucking toy?

  She wouldn’t have.

  The thought swept into Ben’s mind like a poison gas, suffocating every “but” and “what if” that tried to gain any ground at all. Because it was true. She wouldn’t have lost it. Not her favorite thing. Eric’s favorite thing. For the longest time, she wouldn’t even set it down, wouldn’t even let it out of her sight. She didn’t lose it.

  Deidra screamed and something crashed to the floor. Then she cursed and the ruckus continued.

  Ben kicked at his childhood. A dirty note. Rocks. A midnight movie ticket. Photographs and the remnants of photographs. A lifetime of mementos saved during happy times, knowing that happiness couldn’t last. He should have just put Stampie in here. No one would know that he’d found it. Then this wouldn’t be happening. Ben scattered the menagerie with heavy hands. Safe and sound and secret, where no one knew—

  “No…” Ben muttered. “No. Okay. Okay.” His hands spasmed as they combed through his life.

  A Micro Machine. A small plastic baseball hat. There was a ringing in his ears. His breath caught in his throat as he frantically shifted his valuables around like a child shuffling cards. “Please. Please,” Ben chanted.

  The note tore, a toy cracked, but Ben didn’t notice as he lowered himself to the ground and peered under his bed. “No. No.” An origami bird. A late confession. A silver quarter. A note in a locker, a moonchild Bible, a padlocked door, a golden boy. It was all there. Everything was there—every single thing—but not Marty’s lighter.

  There was a soreness in the back of his neck, one that crawled into his skull. Ben opened his mouth as if the pain were an insect that was trying to escape. His head was a crowded theater before the lights dimmed. Chattering. Snickering. With a wobble, he climbed to his feet. He felt dizzy.

  Marty knew about Stampie. Marty knew about everything.

  And now Marty’s most favorite thing in the whole world was gone.

  Cold hands gripped rough corners as Ben made his way to the front door.