Where I Can See You

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Hud hurried to her. Any fear that he had about being shot by the unseen shooter fell away, although it didn’t entirely disappear. Even on his home turf, he didn’t feel safe. The worst things that had ever happened to him had happened inside the shop. Fearing your mother would never return as a kid—and being right about it—was far worse than being shot at or smacked around with an oar as an adult. Worse. Much worse.

  “What are you doing here?” Hud said, stopping before Goldie.

  She looked like she had been run through a wringer. Her clothes were torn and dirty, and her face was the same. A trickle of blood had dried on the corner of her bottom lip, and her right eye was starting to puff up and bruise. “I had nowhere else to go,” she whispered, then jumped into Hud’s arms and held him as tight as she could.

  Thunder boomed again, closer, and the rain fell hard and suddenly turned to hail. Ice pebbles bounced off the ground and slapped at the back of Hud’s head. “We need to get you inside.”

  Goldie nodded, pushed a strand of her matted blonde hair from in front of her eye. “I was hoping you would say that.”

  Hud pulled himself out of her embrace, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. She smelled of cigarette smoke, mud, and a distant perfume that had been applied hours ago; sweet, exotic, tropical. Whatever had happened to her hadn’t been pleasant. He would have been self-conscious about his own hygienic state, being covered in swamp muck and sweat, but that seemed like the last thing he should be worried about.

  They both pushed inside the door as a great gust of wind riled up and kicked even more hail at them. It felt like buckshot. Hud slammed the door behind him. “Looks like we made it just in time,” he said.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” Goldie said. She started to shiver.

  Hud took her into his arms, an act he could have never hoped for as a teenager and could hardly believe now, even after their brief encounter outside the bar. “There’s been a lot going on. What happened to you?”

  Goldie closed her eyes and held them that way for a long second. It was as if she was trying to hold back tears, keep from breaking down completely. “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  There were no lights on inside the shop. Most of the shelves were bare. Cobwebs had begun to form, to take over the room in a slow, methodical progression of certain decay. Mustiness and neglect had a comforting smell all their own; it was home. Dim light seeped from under the curtain that separated the back of the house. Before Hud could say or do anything else, Goldie angled her face up, brushed her lips across his, and said, “We have some unfinished business to attend to.”

  A trail of clothes led to Hud’s bedroom. The storm raged and pushed at the outside of the house trying to get in, trying to threaten the moment, but nothing could do that. The roof could have come off and Hud wouldn’t have noticed. He gladly finished what he’d started at the hotel, ravaged Goldie’s body up and down, in and out, and started all over again. They didn’t talk other than to offer a direction here or give a demand there. Moans of pleasure and accomplishment filled the room. Time washed away in a sea of sweat and desire. Every teenage fantasy Hud had ever imagined starring Goldie Flowers was fulfilled, along with more direct, primal adult acts that nearly led into uncharted territory. Goldie didn’t object to any move, any position. She showed him a part of herself very few women ever had. All she wanted was more, and Hud was happy to give her all she could take.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, they raided the few groceries Hud had stocked in the refrigerator and returned to the bed to replenish themselves. Rain gently pattered against the window, and the wind had retreated into a breeze. It barely blew the sign out by the road. Hud could hear it creak back and forth as he had the night before and for years in his childhood. It was a comforting clock without hands or judgment.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Hud said, taking a bite of a ham sandwich.

  “I thought I just told you everything you needed to know.” Goldie’s voice echoed in the small room.

  “You haven’t told me anything,” he said.

  Goldie sighed, lowered her head. She was propped up against the headboard, a sheet pulled up over her breasts, her legs covered, too, but her feet stuck out at the end of the bed. Her face had long been washed of tears and blood, but her hair had fallen straight, matted with exertion and the previous day’s activity. “I got into a fight with Tom.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “My husband.”

  “Nice,” Hud said. He leaned over and put the sandwich on the nightstand. His appetite vanished. “You could have told me.”

  “Soon to be ex-husband. Number three if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good. You don’t seem the type to give a shit about things like that.”

  “I like to know who I’m going to piss off, that’s about it. I’m looking over my shoulder every two seconds the way it is.”

  She let the sheet fall away, reached over him to the nightstand and grabbed his pack of cigarettes and the lighter. Her nipples brushed his chest, sending a zap of fresh energy straight to his crotch. She lingered there a moment longer than she would have if she’d really wanted a cigarette. “You mind?”

  “Help yourself.” Hud paused, watched Goldie light a cigarette, and admired the perfection of her body all over again. What he wouldn’t have given to have seen her naked at sixteen. “So this soon-to-be ex-husband and you got into a tussle. What about? Did you call the police?”

  “I’m not filing charges. That’ll just make things worse.”

  “Should you have a restraining order?”

  “Paper won’t stop a guy like Tom if he sets out to hurt me in a bad way. Besides, I’m worth more to him alive than I am dead. I’m not afraid of him. He won’t hurt me. He just likes to play rough, be the tough guy, you know? He just got carried away. He’ll calm down and come to his senses. He always does.”

  “How are you worth more to him alive?”

  Goldie exhaled a chest full of smoke. “Daddy still gives me a monthly allowance. If I die, that ends. He doesn’t work, so he’d be cut off wouldn’t he?”

  “Tom doesn’t seem real bright.”

  “I have bad taste in men.”

  “Thanks.” Hud hesitated, dug into his memory for a contradiction that had made him wince. “I thought you and your father were on the outs. You said so, and so did he in one way or another. Why would he still give you money?”

  Goldie stared at Hud for a long second, looked him up and down, then reached across him again and stubbed out the cigarette. “I really don’t want to talk about Daddy right now.” She exhaled the last bit of smoke from her lungs and stopped halfway back to her spot. She kissed Hud’s chest, trailed to his navel, and didn’t stop until his half-erect cock was fully in her mouth.

  He closed his eyes, distracted enough from the conversation not to pursue it any further. For the moment. He had questions. He knew he would go back to it. Just. Not. Now.

  They continued on much like they had before, only with fewer words, and a harder, more direct way of satisfying each other. Spent, they fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sun began to rise. When Hud woke up, Goldie was gone. It was almost as if it all had been a dream—or a nightmare—it was too early to tell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The previous day’s storm had been ushered in by a cold front, and the remnants of it remained long after the last drop of rain had hit the ground. In a matter of hours, the temperature plunged thirty degrees and promised the first true taste of the winter to come. A healthy layer of frost had formed on the windshield of Gee’s car, a ten-year-old green Chevrolet sedan. The interior smelled ancient, like a locked-up tomb. Hud didn’t know how long it had been since the car had been driven. He was surprised and relieved when it started right up.

  There was no avoiding his destination. He drove straight to the county police station so he could confront Burke
on his own terms, though it had crossed his mind to try and find Goldie first. He still had some questions that needed to be answered. She hadn’t even bothered to give him the number to her cell phone, and he hadn’t asked. He’d been focused on her . . . presence.

  Hud walked into the building as confidently as he could. He had showered, put on a fresh set of work clothes, and readied himself for the day as if everything was normal. But he knew better. If Burke didn’t have intentions of firing him he would be surprised. He shrugged at the thought. Gee’s house was paid for, and she’d left behind a little money. Not that he wanted to live there, or reopen the shop, but he wasn’t going to starve to death, nor was he going to be homeless. Burke could do whatever he wanted to. No matter what happened, Hud was going to be a cop whether there was a badge in his wallet or not.

  It was early, and the interior of the building was eerily silent. He’d entered through the back door, avoiding the press and media trucks parked out front. At least his security key, a plain white credit-card-shaped piece of plastic, was still active. That was a good sign.

  Burke was sitting in his office, staring at a flickering screen on his computer. “That was a hell of a stunt you pulled yesterday.”

  Hud had stopped at the door, then glanced up and down the empty hall. It felt as if they were the only two people in the building. “It didn’t turn out like I planned.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “You have every right to be pissed at me.”

  “I have every right to fire you.” Burke’s voice was calm, even. It was unsettling.

  “I expected that.”

  “I didn’t say I was firing you. I said I had every right to.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  Burke stood up and faced Hud. He looked like he hadn’t had any sleep in two days, and he probably hadn’t. Puffy bags protruded under his bloodshot eyes, and his white shirt, which was normally starched heavily and stiff, just like him, was wrinkled and limp. His blue and white striped tie bore more than one coffee stain, and his cologne had worn off long ago. Hud had to remind himself to proceed with caution.

  “You created a big shit storm, you know that?” Burke said. “And if it wouldn’t create an even bigger one, I would fire you.”

  Hud said nothing for a long moment, let Burke’s words hang in the air.

  “Well,” Burke bristled, “don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Hud nodded. “Leo Sherman’s death is my fault.”

  Burke’s right eyebrow raised, then fell back in place. “I wasn’t expecting that. Explain.”

  “I showed up at the boat company at the wrong time. I sat and waited until Deputy Moran and Charlie Sandburg went out on a dock. I assumed that he was showing her where the reported boat was stolen from, but I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “Leo Sherman was getting ready to turn himself in, but Sandberg said I may have spooked him. If I would have let things play out, CO Sherman would still be alive, and hopefully we’d know that he wasn’t Pam Sizemore’s or his wife’s killer.”

  “We don’t know that he wasn’t, just because he’s dead.”

  “You’re not serious?” Hud said, then bit his lip before he called the chief stupid or something else he’d regret.

  “I am serious. How do you know that Sherman was going to turn himself in? That’s not in Moran’s report.”

  “Charlie Sandburg told me, the guy who’s running the boat company these days.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is. We’re trying to find him to ask him a few questions of our own.”

  “What do you mean ‘find him?’”

  “Nobody’s seen Charlie Sandburg since yesterday. There’s no sign of him anywhere.”

  “I saw him leave. He drove off in an old Jeep like nothing was the matter, though he was nervous. He knew there was trouble to be had for keeping Sherman around, but the killer kind of took that problem off the table by shooting the man.”

  “You let him go?” The volume of Burke’s voice spiked and he clenched his fingers together.

  “I had no reason to hold him.”

  “You could have held him for questioning. You don’t know what kind of information he could have provided us. He’s probably in Canada by now, hiding out in one of those fly-in fishing camps he advertises on his wall. Christ all mighty, what is it with you?”

  Hud stood his ground. “Sandburg said Sherman was concerned about a turf war going on between some locals and a faction out of Chicago. He thought this thing with Pam Sizemore started there.”

  “We’re following all of the leads we have. You know that.”

  “No, I’ve been out of touch for a little while. I need to get back up to speed; that is, if I’m still on the investigation.”

  “Everybody’s on this investigation. No one is off-duty until the son of a bitch pulling the trigger is either dead or locked up behind bars. This damn thing is starting to get national attention, damn it. We don’t need that here, and you know it.”

  “People are dying. That tends to get peoples’ attention.”

  Burke stepped forward so there was very little room between the two of them. “Don’t think for one second you’re going to get out of this scot-free. I’m on the hook for damage to a boat that you hijacked, and where in the hell is your vehicle? It needs to be accounted for.”

  “It’s at the boat company. Somebody put sand in the gas tank. I guess they didn’t want me to go anywhere.”

  “Another gift from Charlie Sandburg.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t think why he would do such a thing.”

  “Maybe so you wouldn’t be able to chase after him once you figured out all of the shootings were within range of the point just off the boat company.”

  “You think he’s the killer? What’s his motive?”

  “If I knew that I’d be holding a press conference right now instead of talking to you, wouldn’t I?”

  Hud could smell Burke’s last swig of coffee. It didn’t settle well with him, and he stepped back. “Are we done here?”

  “Sure,” Burke said. “For now. And just so you don’t do anything stupid, you’re riding with Sloane today.”

  “So, I’m on a short leash . . .”

  “You’re lucky you’re not flat on your ass. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  “I searched Gee’s room after the funeral for anything I could find that might give me some answers. I had to wait until she was dead to go in there.”

  “You were afraid of her?”

  “I respected her request for me not to look for something that wasn’t there.”

  “That’s like offering honey to a bear isn’t it?”

  “One of the reasons why I left, I guess. It was easier to stay away.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing. I turned the place upside down. I even ventured up into the attic and down into the crawlspace.”

  “And you don’t think you overlooked anything?”

  “It’s possible. Especially when you don’t know what in the hell you’re looking for.”

  “That must be frustrating for someone who’s made a life out of being a detective.”

  “I never claimed to be any good at it. I just said I can’t help myself.”

  All three detectives had their own offices but shared an open room for meetings and investigations. It was just outside of Burke’s office. The room was large, with three extra desks that didn’t belong to anyone, leftovers from more optimistic times. Now, they were just catchalls for stacks of papers, office supplies, and whatever else landed on them. It looked as if it had been ten years since the tops of the desks had seen the light of day. The back wall was usually bare, with the exception of some safety posters and the state flag, but now it was covered with pictures, maps, and reports, all related to the multiple murders.

  Sloane and Pete Lancet were standing with their backs to the door, facing the wall, studying it silently. Sloane,
who was dressed in a standard dark maroon pantsuit, glanced over her shoulder, let the look linger for a second longer than she should have after making eye contact with Hud, then turned back to the wall and said nothing. Lancet showed no interest in finding out who had just walked in. He either knew instinctively, or he didn’t care. Hud figured it was the latter. Nothing like being behind, the odd man out.

  He eased up next to Sloane and looked at the wall. Three pictures of the victims stared back at him. Pam Sizemore was barely recognizable. The picture looked like a class picture from high school. She had straight, shoulder-length hair, her eyes were vacant and her face thin and sunken in, even then. “She had a condition of some kind,” Moran had said in the cruiser before they had been shot at. That had been his last touch in the investigation. His last official touch, anyway.

  Both of the other detectives ignored his presence. Hud skimmed across the documents pegged to the board—it looked like cork, and there were various sizes of water stains behind the pictures and documents that made it look like a map, but it wasn’t. Hud was surprised it hadn’t crumbled to pieces. He stopped on Leo Sherman’s work picture, showing the man dressed in his green CO uniform, proud, square-jawed, hair trimmed in a military cut. There was no indication that he was involved in anything other than loving his job. Sherman’s involvement had always puzzled Hud, especially once his wife, Kaye, was found dead. Hud glanced at the picture of her. It was half of a formal sitting picture, as if she and Leo had gone to the JC Penney for a Christmas card shoot—just her, but you could see her husband’s shadow on the fake background. There wasn’t a hair out of place. She wore a new white sweater and a smile that couldn’t have been faked. Kaye Sherman looked happy and content, a stark contrast to Pam Sizemore.