A Living Grave

by Robert E. Dunn

  Fortune and personal failings, God’s gamble with every life.

  As I was coming back to myself, back from the brown void to the dark road, I thought I had come through. The day that had thumbed its nose at me was passing. I was whole and sober. There was a man who would be waiting for me and I was ready to put my mark on the win column. I could have if I’d been able to go straight to Nelson.

  Headlights appeared behind me. Appeared, because they came around a bend and I noticed them for the first time. There was no saying how long they had been following.

  Following.

  I didn’t know how, but I knew it. I knew it like I knew the desire for whiskey.

  I drove and I watched. Proving to myself with each careful matching of pace and distance that I was being tracked. It didn’t make me afraid, simply wary. And it made me want to drink. It wouldn’t be the bikers because a single car was not their style. It could be Figorelli or one of his goons, but that kind of criminal doesn’t usually get personal with cops. Most likely it was Reach.

  I drove some more, working things through my head and only vaguely aware of running my finger over the scar around my left eye. No conclusions. No chance I was taking whoever it was to Nelson’s house, either. More than I wanted answers or conclusions, I wanted to drink. Recognizing the desire in myself always made me ashamed. Not because I wanted to drink, but because I wanted to drink to be drunk. Drinking turned me into a different person. Before I take the first sip I always believe that person will be happy or at least not feel as bad as I do. I’m always wrong but that never changes the belief.

  The car behind me was an excuse. I took the long way but I headed for Shep’s bar.

  Fortunada spun her wheel. My phone rang. It was a number and area code I didn’t know. I should have let it go to voice mail, but I picked up. On the other end was a drunken voice that asked, “Lieutenant Williams?”

  Every hair on my spine stood on end and I felt cold. “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “It is you.” The voice sounded surprised.

  “Who are you?” I used my command voice.

  “Why won’t you let me have my life?”

  “What?”

  “It was a long time ago,” the voice said and I knew. “Why do I have to keep paying?”

  “Ahrens,” I said.

  “I want my life back,” said Michael Ahrens, the man who had cut a slice of skin out of me to take a prize of pubic hair. He was also the same man that shoved his fist and cadet ring inside me.

  “I want my life back too,” I said. “All of it.”

  He was crying; blubbering, really. In the background I could hear the noise of a public place, probably a bar. I had been drunk-dialed by one of the men that raped and left me for dead ten years ago.

  “Make it stop,” he pleaded.

  I had imagined something like this a million times. All those times it felt good. In truth it felt something much less. People have always said revenge is best served cold, but this was not my revenge. The taste for it was gone; all the savory flavor I had anticipated, frigid and bland. I’m not the kind for a cold revenge, I realized. If I were to have it and have any feeling about it, the act would have to come while my blood was still hot.

  “I can’t make it stop,” I told him. “I’m not doing it.”

  “You’re lying,” he yelled through the phone. In my mind I saw patrons of the bar stop what they were doing and stare at him like in a movie. “You’re lying,” he yelled again. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Live with it,” I said and closed the connection.

  It had been a day of rolling peaks and troughs, high waves that I usually smooth out with a few drinks. One would think the sound of drunkenness in Ahrens’s voice would push that aside. I didn’t want to be like him in any way. Even so, I couldn’t help wondering how many times I had been that drunk and that desperate.

  The car followed me to the liquor store. After that I stopped noticing it.

  Chapter 15

  That night I didn’t go back to Nelson’s place. I didn’t go to the houseboat, either. I went home to Iraq. Isn’t it funny how all the things you run hardest from are always waiting for you at the bottom of the bottle you reach for like life itself?

  I went to Iraq but drove, once again, to the place where I had found Angela. The silence and the pain of the place drew me. The sense that nothing was over made me want to stay.

  Nothing is ever over.

  Down in the valley, at the lake level, cool air settled. Night mist formed on the upper layers of air, making wispy clouds that spread over the land. In places it could be as if you were a giant with your feet on the ground and your head in clouds. Driving with your window open, each layer licked across you as you followed the hills down toward the water. Where I was sitting I could see mist that formed on a ridge, white and ghost like in the moonlight. As it cooled it flowed over the edge and into the deeper valley where I was. It was just like dust in eddies flowing over a wall.

  She was right. I hated thinking that. The therapist was saying the same things my father was saying. I was afraid and for some reason I couldn’t walk away from the moment that put the fear into me.

  But I can drink.

  I did drink. That night, though, I didn’t cry. I sat in the darkness, under a hot, starry sky watching mist creep in on silent feet, but I was seeing only cold dust and dirty daylight.

  Watching colors bleed.

  I didn’t cry. I was looking my pain in the face and I wouldn’t let it see me cry.

  The whiskey that I had picked up was cheap but good enough. I never saw the car drive up. One moment I was alone, the next, lights washed over me glaring like an accusation. Between them and me stepped Major John Reach.

  He opened the truck door and I didn’t quite fall out.

  “You’re a disgrace,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” was my answer.

  “A cop, drunk and driving. A cop with a history. They’ll take your badge.”

  “You want my badge?” I asked. “You can have it if you’re man enough to take it.” I grinned the challenge at him. “I don’t think you can handle a real badge, though. It comes with responsibilities.”

  “You’re a good example of that.”

  “You don’t deserve to carry any kind of badge.”

  “You want to talk about deserving? I bet I wouldn’t be the first to say that you deserved—”

  I never heard the end of that thought. Not in Reach’s words. I heard something else. It was probably not what he was going to say. It could have been a case of my whiskey putting words in his mouth. We’ll never know. Things got fast and hazy after that.

  First contact was a slap and a lot more than that. My hand was open but it didn’t strike his face. The palm smacked hard against his ear. The impact and air pressure stunned, then disoriented him. Reach dropped to one knee with a hand held to the side of his face. I’m sure he thought it was over. What sane person would continue the assault?

  What sane person would have started it?

  He was vulnerable. I took advantage. With my hand on the back of his head I pulled him forward at the same time I kicked my knee up. His nose broke and gushed. I watched the blood spray, fanning out in the harsh beams of his headlights. It fell red. It splashed brown and fading into the dirt and gravel.

  I put my foot on his throat and I added weight. It may or may not have been John Reach I was seeing myself kill. I don’t remember and I don’t think he’d say. I know I talked to him.

  Someone.

  I said a lot of things that I can’t recall. The only part I do remember after I put my boot on his neck was pouring out what was left in my bottle all over his face and body. That is a clear memory because I recall thinking how lucky it was that I bought two bottles.

  I must have let him go because I know I watched him drive away—fast, with me yelling behind him, “You better go find a cop.”

  After that I remember the sound of the empty bott
le breaking. It wasn’t loud because I had thrown it a long way. Then I heard the tiny snip sound of the tax seal breaking as I opened the other bottle.

  At that point I wasn’t a cop anymore. I had thrown that away just like everything else. If I hadn’t been who I was—If I hadn’t gotten that call—If I hadn’t gotten drunk—If Reach hadn’t goaded me—If—If—If—If the goddess of fortune had a kind bone in her skinny body—I slept in the truck and dreamed of my therapist in perfect heels spinning the great wheel of chance and looking at me with that smug smile that said it was all my fault.

  When I woke, I drank. Then I slept again. It must have happened several times because the bottle kept getting lower.

  Twice in one night a car seemed to appear from nowhere. That time there were no lights in my face, though. It was parked close. I could clearly hear the ticking of the engine as it cooled. It was Billy’s car. He didn’t get out. I imagined him in there sucking his soda as I drained my bottle.

  We all have our crutches.

  At another time either the car went away again or I did. Either way it was gone from sight or notice, leaving a vacancy behind that was more real than the thing itself. The moon shifted and stars cycled in their slow path, shining flakes of diamond dust that told me that everything was like everything else. Still, I drank without crying.

  When the car returned it was no longer Billy’s cruiser. It was a Humvee. Idling hot with all doors open, it waited. Scoured olive with hulking, deep tread tires that were blacker than drunken confessions, it was the only thing in the world with daylight on it. Everything else was under the blanket of night.

  Just as sure as I knew the whiskey had brought it, I knew I could go to the Humvee, get inside, and return to the moment in which it always waited for me. In the vehicle and the moment it represented, there would be a young man inside with kind eyes and hands that were embarrassed by my body always willing to fight for my life.

  He always waits.

  Without my noticing, the Humvee became a county cruiser again. Billy Blevins was standing beside my open window looking at me.

  He has kind eyes.

  I think he touched my face. I’m pretty sure he took away my bottle. That night, though, he didn’t say anything. At least he didn’t say anything that I heard.

  The next time I opened my eyes the night mist had melted away and the morning fog was just rising. On the eastern horizon the sky was pink. Happy and hopeful. It kind of ticked me off to see it. I was alone in the quiet world and the only evidence that I had not been alone the entire night was the absence of the bottle I had cradled so lovingly.

  Billy.

  He had done more for me than take my bottle. I found out later that Reach had indeed gone and found a cop. Deputy Calvin Walker didn’t like me much, but when Reach told his story—reeking of cheap whiskey—Calvin called Billy to see if he knew anything. Whatever Billy said made Reach sound more like a stalker than an Army investigator. Reach wasn’t arrested exactly. After a quick patch-up, he was given the choice of sleeping in the iron-bar hotel with or without an arrest on his record.

  I had my job and a hangover to celebrate.

  * * *

  We’re not a big enough department to have detectives work only one case at a time. I don’t guess any sheriff’s departments are. Luxury is not a big part of law enforcement. After I returned home and cleaned up, Darlene called to check that I was available for duty. She asked it like she knew a secret and didn’t want to upset me by being too direct. It made me wonder what exactly she knew.

  Who else knew?

  When I said I was on my way into the office she directed me to meet one of the rangers in the Mark Twain National Forest instead.

  It wasn’t a completely unusual assignment but ordinarily a deputy would get transport duty. Was I being treated gently today or was I being kept busy and out of the way? Maybe it was me being paranoid. I looked at myself in the truck’s mirror and decided that today was a good day to keep my head down and do what I was told.

  The national forest land was on the northeast corner of the county: As far as I could go and remain in the county. The rangers had caught a pot grower. I was to take custody of the prisoner and “coordinate.” That means sign papers and shake hands.

  I didn’t have any problem with a nice, long drive over there. Time to think.

  More time to think, I corrected myself, not sure if that was really a good idea.

  It was one of those days that started hot and took a quick drop into hell. Hot enough that even I rolled the windows up and ran the air conditioner full blast. Closed windows made me dread the drive back. The people we transport are not known for hygiene. At least they were mostly quiet. The people that like to act the badass also act the most childish when they’re caught. And they tend to hate any kind of authority so we worry more about being spit upon than having our ear chewed off.

  I was in for something different.

  My prisoner was a perfect example of life in the Ozarks. Almost all white and conservative, the region has a long history of frontier freedom. It’s a tradition that has attracted all kinds of people who like to be left alone. We get more than our share of end-of-the-world and coming-race-war militia types, building compounds and getting ready for their beloved Armageddon. At the same time, we get lots of live-off-the-land, worship-the-goddess wannabe hippies as well. The biggest problem with both of those kinds is that they don’t want to work for anyone, but everyone needs money. Almost invariably they turn to marijuana.

  Twenty some odd years ago—my prisoner wasn’t sure—his parents, John Light and Amber Wilson, parked a trailer on the edge of the Mark Twain National Forest. They stood under the trees and stars, clothed only in a few flowers and declared themselves married. John ran off after a few months leaving Amber to give birth to, and raise the son she named Moon. Moon Light.

  Moon grew marijuana on public land. He was usually careful about it but early that morning, probably about the time I was waking in my truck, he had walked into one of his crops and right into the hands of U.S. Forest Service Rangers.

  Moon told me the whole story as I was taking him to the county lockup. Three times I reminded him that anything he said to me could be used against him in his trial.

  “What’s it matter?” he asked. “They already got me.”

  “Sure,” I told him. “But there’s caught and there’s stupid. Don’t just hand them matches to burn you with.”

  “I guess you’re right, but I figured they’d catch me long before this. Heck, I been growing since I was ten. My daddy run off. Did I tell you that? He run off and I had to take care of Mama.”

  “Moon,” I all but shouted his name. “Every time you talk you dig your hole deeper. If you have to talk, do it about something other than your farming so I don’t have to testify.” He was a hard guy not to feel sorry for. In a way, he reminded me of a young Clarence Bolin. If Clare was ever that skinny and lonely for someone to talk to.

  “Okay,” he said. “But do you really think they’ll jail me? I mean, it was just a little pot.”

  “It was a lot of pot and it was a commercial operation on federal lands.” Moon’s mention of jail reminded me of my earlier discussion with Danny. “Do you know the difference between jail and prison, Moon?”

  He laughed, hard and loud, then said, “No. I don’t know that one. Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?”

  “What? Everyone knows—”

  “To show the possum that it can be done.”

  He laughed and at exactly that time I passed an opossum carcass lying in the middle of the road. I laughed right along with him. It was true: Opossums never seemed to make it across a road without being squashed.

  “Moon.” He was still laughing. This time I did shout, “Moon.” He stopped and looked up at my eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. “I wasn’t trying to tell you a joke. Jail is more of a short-term thing, usually a year or less in a county or city facility. Prison is the big time. R
eal bad guys and hard time with the kind of people that will knock your teeth out so they can rape your mouth. That’s what you’re looking at. I don’t think it’s the kind of place for you, okay?” He nodded at me and for the first time looked scared. “Stop telling me things about growing pot. Think of it like this: Every word is evidence and when they ask me I have to tell them the truth.”

  “It’s just pot,” he said quietly as if he was trying to convince himself. “It’s not like the meth.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You told me not to talk about things.” Moon’s gaze was turned down to the floor now. He looked like a chastened child.

  “I did say that. However, if it’s not your meth it’s important that you tell me.”

  He kept his head down and mumbled, but I could make out the words, “It’s not mine.” I waited for his need to talk to return but he kept staring at the floor. Probably he was seeing a future that he had never believed could happen to him.

  “It’s important, Moon. You need to tell me about the meth. This is the kind of thing that could help you.”

  “You mean snitch,” he said. It was an accusation for both of us.

  “Listen, you might think the people who make the meth are your friends—”

  Moon shook his head vigorously. “They are the bad guys.”

  “Bad guys talk about snitches. They call people names like that to try to control them. They try to make it sound like you owe them something, but you don’t. They would dime you in a second to help themselves. You need to help yourself now, Moon.”

  “How?” he asked, again looking into my reflection.

  I smiled at him. “Tell me this: What kind of people are cooking meth?”

  “The bikers.”

  That was what I wanted to hear. Truth be told, Moon probably would have answered all my questions there in the car. That would have helped me, but not him, and I really didn’t want to see what prison would do to him.