by Carey Lewis
It was Detective Whitmore dealing with Cesar. A guy in his fifties, set in his ways, tuft of white hair going around the sides and back of his head, those hard as nails blue eyes boring holes through him.
“You know we call the Marshals now,” Whitmore told him, elbows up on the interrogation table, leaned forward.
Cesar tried to look small across from him, shoulders slumped, hands in his lap. “For Randy?”
What he wanted to say was he didn’t kill his wife, make a joke about that Harrison Ford movie where he’s saying a one armed man killed his old lady. Tommy Lee Jones tells him he don’t care then good old Ford jumps from that sewage tunnel into something. A river? He couldn’t remember.
“He jumps bail that’s who we call. They handle fugitives.”
“I just thought the boy might be hungry, decide to give him a treat.”
“Bubs Barbecue Pit.”
“You can ask them. I didn’t see no one named Bub though.”
Whitmore didn’t like that one, the joke, obviously not in the mood. “Got picked up with twenty pounds, goes missing, you’re going to tell me you had nothing to do with that?”
“You racial profiling me?”
“His granny’s going to have to put up the entire amount we don’t find him. Lose her house probably.”
“Breaks my heart Randy doing that to her.”
“Uh-huh,” Whitmore said, then stood up, headed for the door. “You mind sticking around? Marshals going to want a word with you.”
“Anything I can do to help,” Cesar said with a smile.
The Marshals never came, so after six hours, they cut Cesar loose. He thought they would tell him to stay available, don’t go too far, but they didn’t. Cesar figured they didn’t watch too much TV up here.
Now he was sitting on his sofa with knife slashes in it, explaining everything to Hector while they drank beer. Hector liked to keep his head shaved, discovered he liked the look while he was in Kirkland Correctional over in Columbia, the city not the country. That’s also where he got his prison muscle and tats, mainly that big one across his chest that said ‘vacquero,’ which meant ‘cowboy’ in Spanish.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that one again. It’s been awhile,” Hector said.
“I remember liking it. Don’t remember who killed Ford’s old lady though. Remember she was hot. Fuck this.” Cesar left the room and came back with a laptop and Roxie following him.
“The way I’m seeing it,” Hector said, “we going to have to fight one of them. How sure are you it was Motley?”
“Who else going to know?” Cesar typed something on the laptop.
“Who’s more dangerous?”
Cesar didn’t say anything, concentrating on clicking things on the computer. Then he said, “Downloading that motherfucker right now,” and put the laptop on the floor. Roxie leaned forward a bit, thinking it was an invitation to get pet.
“What I’m saying is we go after Motley.”
“Who’s he working for though?” Cesar asked.
“Skinhead Aryan race piece of shit? He ain’t working for nobody. He the one tipped those fuckers off in Raleigh I’ll tell you that right now.”
Cesar thought it over, watching the blue bar on his laptop crawl forward as the download progressed. “Cubans have the long term.”
“You take out Motley what you need them for?”
Hector had a point. Cesar needed the Cubans to keep Motley and his skinheads off him and his business. Without Motley there was no need for them. “We don’t have the muscle. We need somewhere growing our shit can’t be touched.”
“That’s long term. Right now we need forty grand.”
They were quiet for a moment until the laptop dinged. Cesar picked it up off the floor and attached it to the big screen LED TV in the corner, by far the nicest thing in the room. He started the movie then took a seat back on the couch.
Tommy Lee Jones had Harrison Ford stuck in that tunnel, the part Cesar was waiting for, when the dogs started barking. He looked over at the door and saw Huey through the screen, standing there, looking in. “Where you been? Been calling all day.”
Cesar waved him in. The dogs ran outside when Huey opened the door, looking at the TV, trying to guess the movie. Watched Harrison Ford jump out of the tunnel.
“How’d things work out with Randy?” Huey asked.
“Didn’t. Where you been?”
“You ever watch that show Gray’s Ghosts? Comes on about three in the morning.”
“That the show they fake the hauntings?”
“Yeah, was driving them around. They’re looking at a barn that’s haunted.”
“No shit?” Hector asked.
“You remember ol’ man Dwight?” Huey felt his pocket buzz against his leg. He dug out his phone and looked at the screen. “Just left the guy he’s already telling me to come back tomorrow.”
“He looks full of himself on the TV,” Cesar said.
“He’s pretty cool. Likes to get high. The broad? She’s better looking in real life.”
“No shit huh?”
“Starting to get at that age,” Hector said, “the looks going to go. One day she wake up, she’s hot. Next day she look at the mirror, she’s old. You watch.”
“They fake that shit don’t they?” Cesar asked.
“I asked. He tells me you ask you already believe it’s real. They’re looking at ol’ Dwight’s place. Say he built a bunker under the barn and died in there, never left.”
Cesar got a thought.
“Didn’t know anyone around here built bunkers,” Hector said.
“That’s because they hidden,” Cesar said, looking at Hector. “No one knows they’re there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“IT’S NOT THE WORST PLACE we’ve stayed in,” Deacon told Brooke. She was sitting on the old wooden swing on the wraparound porch, her knees tucked beside her, reading a book, sipping a cup of coffee.
“It’s not the worst coffee either if you can get around the cat hair.”
“Just touch it with your finger, sticks to it,” Deacon said, sitting beside her, staring out at the woods in the distance. He took a sip of his own coffee and tried to get the small hair off his tongue. He fell silent as Brooke went back to her reading.
“Always figured we’d settle down in a place like this. Big ranch style with nothing around.”
“Dodged a bullet then,” she said, not looking up.
“Thought you liked the idea.”
“It was just the idea I liked.”
The door flung open, the spring in the door screeching as Martina came flying out wearing a pant suit covered in cat hair. “You believe this shit? What kind of woman has thirty cats?”
“I don’t think she has thirty.”
“No, she has thirty. I counted the little motherfuckers.” She swiped at her dark suit, trying to get the hair off.
“I got one of those lint rollers in my bag you can use,” Brooke said.
“How many you got? Going to take one a cat.”
“Should be good for two cats.”
“Got seven goddamn people using two bathrooms, fucking Rodney taking a shit for a half hour,” Martina said as she opened the door, the spring screeching behind her as she went inside. “Let me know when that fat motherfucker gets here with my car.”
“Big city girl,” Brooke said, going back to her book.
“So what’s the worst place you think we stayed in?”
Brooke put the book down on her chest, looked at Deacon, slight smile on her face.
“What?” he asked, even though he knew he was getting ‘the look’ because he was interrupting her reading.
“Worst place we stayed at? That place in Nevada where we came up with the show.”
“That wasn’t so bad.”
“Had a glory hole in the wall Deke.”
“No.”
“Someone tried using it.”
Deacon smiled, looking at her. She held his gaze, th
e smile still in the corner of her mouth. He said “You gave me that look because you’re trying to read.”
She nodded, the smile growing slightly.
“You think I only want to talk to you when you’re doing something.”
The smile grew. “Got ten years experience to back it up.”
“I don’t remember the glory hole.”
“It was there.”
“You use it?”
“Fuck you,” she said, a playful look on her face, mock surprise. She went back to her book.
He took another sip of coffee, staring at the long, hard dirt drive that curled away from the house, going up the tiny hill to the road. He said, “I don’t remember things like that.”
“I know.”
He looked over at her, saw she was into her book again, a romance novel that for some reason always bugged him. All those years they made him question how good he was at being a husband if she had to escape into those stories. Part of him thought she was looking for something he wasn’t giving her. He knew it was a stupid way to think but he couldn’t help himself.
She dropped the book, looking at him. He forgot he was staring at her. “What?” she asked.
He shook his head, moved his gaze out to the road again, and watched the birds fly over to perch themselves on the power lines.
They were different, but that’s what he thought made them a good team. She liked to remember the details, the things he didn’t pay attention to. He remembered the way he felt at the time - dirt poor but happy, chasing UFO’s for a TV show no one watched. The excitement they felt together of an unknown future. Not caring they didn’t have anything because they had each other.
In that motel room, on the stained, dirty sheets, smoking a joint after they finished making love. Looking up at the ceiling and seeing a circular brown stain. One of them, he couldn’t remember which, said it moved. It was good weed.
Started joking about the motel being haunted, having fun with who the spirit could be - a down on his luck trucker, a guy hanging himself because he had to stay there, it went on. Eventually the idea came around that that’s what their show should be, not trying to find aliens. But they were under contract for another two years. They came up with the idea that ghosts were actually aliens, it’s why we can’t explain them. Pitched the idea to Dave at Spooky TV and he gave them Martina Boivin. Martina gave them a crew and direction. That’s when they had a real show.
Deacon was happy, just the two of them running around the country with a camcorder. Somewhere along the way, Brooke decided it wasn’t enough for her anymore. Somewhere along the way, Dave and Martina sat them down, told them some of these houses they were looking at had to be haunted, whether it be green spacemen or real live ghosts, exact words. Find a haunted house or have your show canceled.
The black Lincoln Town Car turned off the street and came down the dirt drive, a trail of dust kicked up behind it, bringing Deacon out of his memories. Brooke looked up, put the book down on the swing and straightened herself. He watched the car pull up in front of the house and shut off, Huey getting out of the driver’s side, a mean looking Hispanic man getting out of the passenger side.
“What’s he doing here?” Brooke asked.
“I called him. Thought maybe he’d like to see a haunted house.”
“Looks like his friend does too.”
“No harm in it.”
She looked at him, shaking her head and smiling. “Deacon Gray, the guy everyone has to like.”
SHE DIDN’T LIKE THE LOOK of the Mexican. With his gold capped tooth off to the side, putting on a smile she knew was fake. He was wearing dark pants with a white button down shirt, black stripes going from his shoulders to his waist. She was about to go inside but decided to wait for some reason. Watched Huey and his friend walk toward the porch, introduced his friend as Cesar. Cesar putting on a show, letting Deacon know he was a fan.
He was coming over to Brooke, reaching his hand out and smiling. Something about it creeped her out. She took his hand and was surprised to feel it was oily, like he just moisturized. Then Martina came out, the wooden door slapping behind her as she went to the middle of the porch looking around, said, “Where’s the fat one with my SUV? And who the fuck is this?”
Deacon introduced her to Cesar, told him she was the producer of the show. Brooke watched Marty give a look to Deacon, not impressed he invited some locals again. “We going to have a chat about this,” Martina told him.
The Lincoln MKC turned off the road and came down the drive, pulling to a stop outside the house. Jeff got out and rushed up the steps to be met with Marty’s wrath. “That one mine?”
“No, I’m driving you where you need to go,” Jeff said.
“I said I needed my own car. You the one I talked to?”
“Yes.”
“Remember on the phone I said I’m going to need a ride from the airport and told you to leave the car?”
“Well—”
“It wasn’t a long conversation. I said about two things to you. Pick my ass up from the airport and give me a car. You telling me you don’t remember?”
Brooke saw Huey smiling at his boss getting a strip peeled off him.
When Jeff tried to answer, Martina interrupted him, saying she was going to make some phone calls, get this shit straightened out with someone who knew what they were doing. She went back into the house to get the others ready. A half hour after that, everyone was piling into the two vehicles, leaving Ma Bell alone on her porch with a tray of biscuits.
It was Brooke, Deacon, and Cesar crammed in the backseat, Rodney up front with Huey. Martina hadn’t finished expressing her dissatisfaction so she went with Jeff.
Deacon and Cesar made small talk in the back about the show, asking if they faked it to make the houses seem haunted. Deacon gave him his standard line of having to ask, you already believe it’s true nonsense.
The Town Car pulled through the white gate, cows over to their left, munching on grass, not caring about the car going down the hard packed dirt and gravel drive. Everywhere around here had a dirt road leading to the property. Saw a swing hanging from a tree in front of the old farm house, painted white but chipping away. The drive led to a giant red barn with white trim. Some farming equipment by John Deere over to the side Brooke didn’t know the use of. She guessed it was a tractor.
Huey turned the car off and they climbed out. Brooke looked at the house to see the family on the porch, waiting for them, resembling a Christmas card. The blond husband and wife standing arm in arm, the three blond children standing in front of them, ranging in age from seven, five, and three. Brooke thought the mother must be tired.
She put a smile on her face as she walked up and introduced herself. They seemed nice enough, normal, the Millers. They were welcoming but Brooke could see it on their faces - the worry, the fear they were struggling to contain. Deacon had a word or two with Huey and Cesar, then came over and went through the introductions again.
“So what we’re going to do,” Brooke said, “is interview you first. You tell us what’s been happening, things you’ve seen, that sort of thing. If you’re not comfortable with the cameras we can talk first, then turn them on when you’re okay.”
The family nodded, the husband, Ben, moving his wife closer.
“Then what we’d like to do is get a tour, show us the places you’ve had the experiences, any weird things that happened, where you’ve seen the occurrences,” she said, making sure not to come right out and say the words ‘spirits,’ or ‘ghosts,’ like Deacon taught her. People want to tell you things, so let them. Told her people are more likely to believe things they’re saying, not what they’re hearing. People tell you there’s a ghost, they believe there’s a ghost. You tell them it’s a ghost, they become skeptical.
Rodney brushed past the Millers with his little digital camera and went into the house. “It’s just his way,” Brooke said. Rodney was great at his job, but no tact to him. “The rest of our cre
w should be here in a couple minutes.”
“You want some coffee?” Ben asked.
“As long as there’s no cat hair in it,” Brooke said. She looked back to the Town Car, wondering what Huey and Cesar were doing. They were inching closer to the barn, trying to get a look inside.
HUEY WAS RIGHT, THE GUY did seem pretty cool for someone on TV. Had a way about him, made you feel comfortable. Like no one was beneath the guy, everyone on the same patch of land. Being Mexican in this state, that was something rare to come across.
The wife on the other hand… not saying much, giving him side-eye the whole time. That was the one he didn’t care for. Liked the black one though, her sassy attitude, tearing into Huey’s fat boss.
Deacon came off the porch and asked if they didn’t mind waiting around awhile while his wife went with the Children of the Corn family. Freaks. All with blond hair and blue eyes living on a farm. Shit, they made paintings of these people didn’t they?
“You ever see The Shining?” Cesar asked Deacon.
“Freaky looking kids aren’t they?” Deacon said, smiling, then turned and went in the house.
Cesar looked back to the barn, where this haunted bunker was he had other plans for.
“You’re too anxious,” Huey told him. “We’ll check it out soon enough.”
Huey. Thinking he was going to get a piece of all this when it was set up and running, like he had something to do with it. He was a white kid that liked to smoke dope, one of the only white kids cared to talk to Cesar. That was as far as his involvement went. He’d start trying to get on Cesar’s profits, he could see it coming. He’d be getting something else instead.
The SUV pulled up and the others got out, the short black lady still giving Jeff the death stare. Deacon and the fat black guy, Rodney, came out of the house, Deacon doing the talking. Rodney then talking to the muscular guy, telling him where to put the camera, where the natural light is coming from. The muscular guy, Dom, told Rodney to shove his natural light up his ass where he thinks it shines.
