by M. G. Herron
“I’m not always ‘jabbering on’ about her. I just happen to think she’s got some interesting ideas.” Honestly, I was surprised Gonzalez remembered. Marsha Marshall ran a paranormal investigations blog I first discovered a few years back. Her theories were wild, but they made for entertaining reading. It would have been unlikely for her to show her face, though, since no one knew her real identity.
“You’ve always loved conspiracy theories,” Gonzalez said. “What I’m saying is that this isn’t some close encounter of the third kind. There’s no ship. No meteorite. For all I know, this hole was made by explosives. I mean, look at all that ash.”
“Any witnesses to corroborate that theory?”
Gonzalez took a deep, patient breath. “A few people in that neighborhood”—she pointed at a trailer park across the field beyond the crater—“said they heard a loud noise right before the electricity went out. Their power had been going off and on last night. They assumed it was just another outage, maybe a transformer popping or whatever.”
“Are power outages, in your experience, usually accompanied by explosions?”
“Not that I know of. Probably not.” She shrugged and dug a tablet out of her pocket, consulting her notes. “And, for the record, they didn’t say explosion—that was my idea. They said ‘boom,’ ‘crash,’ ‘loud noise,’ stuff like that. Again, though, they could have heard a transformer overloading and popping. I’m hoping the power company’s people will be able to answer that. I’m waiting for them to get back to me.”
As I stood next to Sheila in front of the crater, my gut had me convinced that something else had happened here. But what could have caused this? And how was Kovak involved?
She didn’t have to be a psychic to know what I was thinking. Gonzalez said, “I put out an APB for Kovak. Every officer, on duty or off, is on the lookout for him.”
“No sign of him yet?”
Her face scrunched up like as she wrestled with the decision. She finally sighed. “I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to get hurt. We got one report, may have been Kovak, maybe not. An officer patrolling the east side saw a man fitting Kovak’s description harassing a couple of young women just a few hours ago. The officer stopped his car but by the time he’d reached them, the man had bolted—fast enough, apparently, that the officer wasn’t able to pursue.”
“So he’s quick. Doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”
“When the officer talked to the young women, they told him that the man looked like some kind drug addict. Dark circles under his eyes, saggy cheeks, track marks on his arms. That sort of thing.”
“Kovak didn’t have any drug charges on his record.”
“That’s what’s weird. He doesn’t have much of a record at all before the DWI charge. I called and asked his boss at the power company about it. She told me that Kovak was a drinker. However, she strongly disagreed when I suggested the idea that he was a drug addict. Didn’t have any recollection of track marks or anything like that.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. “Something stinks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What are you going to do about the… er, ditch?”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“So why are you still here?”
She made an exasperated noise in her throat. “Because it doesn’t make any sense.”
We stood in silence for another minute, then I said, “Tell me the cause of death when you find out, okay?”
“No way. I told you what I told the reporters—more, even. That’s it. You’re on your own after this.”
“Come on, Sheila. We’re just talking. No one can get mad about that.”
“No. I’m serious, Andy. I won’t do it. It’s against department policy. You’ll get me fired.”
“You can’t get fired. Your dad was the chief of police.”
“Was being the operative word. Sorry, I can’t help you.”
I nodded. I expected this, but somehow, it was still disappointing. “I guess all those lectures on ‘personal responsibility’ ol’ Chief Gonzalez used to give us sank into your thick skull after all.”
Sheila chuckled and shook her head. Her phone buzzed. She turned away to read the message, and then began to type out a long response.
I took the moment to peer out over the crater again. Crime scene investigators were placing plastic baggies of samples into cases and stowing their camera gear. The two uniforms Sheila kept from hassling me looked bored. They slouched together, twenty yards to my right with their backs to the crater, watching the trees and the road.
To my left, a quarter turn around the crater on the opposite side of the police, I noticed two other detectives I hadn’t seen until now. They also stood gaping down into the hole, conversing quietly with each other. They wore matching gray suits. One was a dark-skinned woman with her hair tied up into several small knots, evenly distributed over her head. Each knot faded from black at her scalp to crimson at the tip—an expensive dye job for a detective. The second, a barrel-chested male, appeared to be an albino. His neck was thick like a bull; his face and hands as pale as snow, and his white-blond hair was braided close to his scalp in rows that hung down to the middle of his back.
They were talking under their breath for a moment. I couldn’t hear them, but I was a half-decent lip reader. I’d learned some of the nuances after my father lost his hearing. There was also a lot you could infer from body language alone. The woman turned her shoulders slightly away from the man. She was upset. The man was arguing a counterpoint, appealing to her. He brought a fist into his hand, decisively. She shook her head. I watched their lips closely but couldn’t make out any words. If I wasn’t mistaken, they weren’t speaking English. The woman said something, to which the man responded by muttering angrily.
Simultaneously, they both snapped their heads around and locked eyes on me, as if noticing me for the first time. Their stare was so intense that I swallowed a gasp. Something about the way they moved made my skin crawl. It was lizard-like, poised and dangerous.
“Hey, Sheil,” I said, “do you know those two?” When she ignored me, I turned and tapped her on the arm.
Sheila looked up from her phone. “What?”
I thumbed back toward the pair. Sheila wrinkled her brow in confusion.
Turning back to look, I found that the pair had vanished. Gone. I turned, scanning the woods, but didn’t spot them anywhere. They’d disappeared without a trace.
What the hell?
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she said.
“Pretty sure I saw two.”
She reached out and put a hand on my arm, and for the briefest moment, the old affection was there between us again. I saw the genuine concern in her eyes, concern for my well-being, and realized I felt the same way about her. Not love. I just cared that she was healthy and safe, plain and simple.
“What?”
I couldn’t explain what I’d just seen—or what I thought I’d seen, since the two weren’t there anymore. I shook my head and changed the subject. “Nevermind. Can I walk down into the crater?”
“Andy! No. My captain would have my head if I let you down there.” She jerked her chin toward the two uniformed officers, who were watching me again.
The moment between us had passed. She was back to being the tough, confident woman I’d always admired. Even I knew when not to press my luck.
“Okay, no problem,” I said. “But photos are okay?”
She bobbed her head noncommittally but didn’t outright refuse, so I walked to the edge of the crater and crouched down to snap a few quick photos with my phone. My memory was good, but I was as human as the next man, and if something occurred to me later I wanted to have a visual on hand for reference.
Across the field, the blazing orange sun slouched toward to the horizon. The heat was still unbearable. I reached up and wiped a layer of sweat from my forehead as I gazed out over the crater, wondering what happened betwee
n Cameron Kovak and Dale Edwards last night to cause the sudden death of one and the just-as-sudden disappearance of the other. Accidentally killing your coworker in an argument would certainly be enough to spook a guy, especially if he’d had a court hearing the next day. So where did Kovak go? I needed to keep moving, keep searching for information.
Bending down, I scooped up a handful of the ash that coated the crater like a light film of dirty snow. It left black soot marks on my skin when I rubbed it between my fingers. I reached down for another handful, then held it up and let it fall. The dry powder caught a breeze and was whisked away.
Finally, I stood back up. Sheila had her arms crossed, watching me.
Time to take the hint.
“I better get going,” I said. “Still have to visit the missus and see if she has any idea where Kovak might be hunkering down.”
“Be kind to her. She’s had a rough day.”
“I’ll play nice. Thanks, Sheila.”
“Hey,” she called as I turned to go. “If you find any leads on Kovak… don’t tell me. I can’t have the department thinking that we’re working together on this. Got it?”
The Captain really must have been cracking the whip on her.
“Okay. But when I do locate Kovak—and I will find him—you’ll be the first to know… Well, maybe the second. I’ll tell Alek first, so I can get paid.” I winked at her, hoping that remark sounded less desperate to her than it did to me.
Gonzalez shook her head. That sharp little smile was there again. “Good luck.”
“Have fun,” I responded.
Then, together, we both said, “Don’t die.”
I laughed at the inside joke. It was something we used to say to each other before kicking off a competition in the old days. This wasn’t that, but the familiar nature of the ritual saying helped to keep the churning anxiety I felt—about finding Kovak, about climbing out of the deep hole of my debts—at bay.
I waved as I backed away.
It was a short walk through the woods back to my truck. I once again smacked at the mosquitoes feasting on my exposed forearms as I climbed in the cab and fired up the engine. The sky now glowed a soft purple through the windshield, with wispy cirrus clouds streaking like jet trails. I didn’t have much light left.
The A/C blasted while the truck warmed up. I sat and let the cool air dry the sweat on my neck and face. The dashboard reading said the external temperature had dipped below a hundred, which I took as a positive sign.
I plugged an address from the bail paperwork into the GPS on my phone. It wasn’t far. If I left now, I would still arrive at Mrs. Kovak’s house at a respectable hour.
4
Finding Cameron Kovak’s home nestled in a nice neighborhood with orderly picket fences surprised me. The ranch-style houses lining these streets were small, single-story affairs, but plenty spacious. Mid-sized cars and clean trucks were parked in driveways and along the curb. A wide sidewalk wound through the neighborhood, shaded by trees, and the street lamps glowed softly, illuminating house numbers in the fading twilight. My black truck, with dents and scrapes along the side, probably seemed a little dumpy by comparison, but not so much that I drew undue attention.
Parking on the street a few doors down from where the GPS said the Kovaks lived, I killed the engine and took a moment to observe. A middle-aged man in the next house down was stowing his sprinkler and winding a garden hose after watering his plants. A couple with a dog strolled the sidewalk circuit. An old lady across the street peered through her living room window, probably thinking (wrongly) that those sheer curtains concealed her snooping face.
In the Kovak’s driveway, two boys were shooting hoops. The file Alek gave me said that Kovak had a nine-year-old son. I figured one of these boys was the son, and the other was a friend from the neighborhood keeping him company on a difficult day.
If I had the extra manpower, I’d make someone stake out the house over the next few days to see if we could spot Kovak coming or going. Once, I had dreams of expanding the business that way, taking on extra people, maybe even hiring a bounty hunter-in-training. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond my control, Gunn Bounties was still a solo operation. My best play here was to take the direct approach and see if Kovak’s wife would give me a useful lead.
I made sure the glovebox was still locked with my gun inside, then opened the door. I wasn’t completely unarmed, mind you. The door kicking boots on my feet could do some serious damage, but they were less liable to frighten a person than the sight of a holstered weapon. I slammed the car door loudly enough to catch the boys’ attention and started toward the driveway. They stopped dribbling as they watched me approach, no doubt nervous at the sight of yet another stranger on this portentous day.
When I was close enough to toss up a three-pointer. I shouted, “Hey! Toss me the rock.”
The boys just stared at me for a tick before one of them shrugged and bounced the basketball my way. I took a quick jump shot and sank it, nothing but net. Back in my day, we’d have said, “swoosh!”
“Nice shot!” cried one of the boys. He looked like a miniature, scrawnier version of Cameron Kovak, with overly large ears and blond hair. Definitely the son.
“Your dad home?” I asked. The best way to get answers out of kids was to go straight to the point. Kids can sense when you’re being shady, but if you don’t try to bullshit them, you have a good chance of catching them off guard. Either way, subtlety wasn’t my strong suit.
“You know my dad?” little Kovak asked.
“By reputation.”
“Whatever that means,” the boy said as he tossed the ball back to me. It was nice to see the kids still played by the make-it, take-it rules. “Bet you can’t make that shot again.”
He was being playful, not disrespectful. It would be an insult not to accept the challenge.
“You’re on,” I said before stepping back and taking another jump shot. This one bounced off the rim and came sailing back in my direction.
“Rebound!” the boy yelled as he sprinted gamely after it.
I shuffled over to stop the ball, but it hit a divot in the driveway and bounced wide. As I turned to follow it, a blue sports car cut around the corner into the neighborhood and sped down the street. It was an electric vehicle, so it only gave off the slightest whine as it accelerated. Even worse, not being full dark yet, its headlights were off.
I took two steps after the ball, but once I saw the car, I began to put the brakes on; the boy, with my truck partially blocking his view and his eyes fixated on the basketball, did not. The ball hit the pavement and bounced again, heading across the street.
My body snapped into motion. With three bounding strides, I reached out and snagged the boy’s t-shirt. Cotton ripped, the boy screamed, but finally the seam held and I yanked him back out of the car’s path and into my arms. The basketball rolled into the grass across the street and a gust of wind swirled around us as the car zoomed past.
“Whoa!” the other boy shouted from up the driveway.
I exchanged a glance with mini-Kovak. The whites of his eyes shone around dilated pupils as he stared up at me, stunned until I finally untangled his shirt from my fingers and held him back at arm’s length.
“Sorry about your shirt, kid.”
“It’s… okay.” He was clearly shaken, but seemed to be recovering his wits. “Um, thanks. Whoever you are. Are you a policeman, too?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a police officer. But I am looking for your old man.”
“Is he in trouble?”
I squatted on my haunches, eye level with him. “What’s your name?”
“Darren.”
“Darren. I’m Anderson. I’m not a cop,” I said as I knelt down next to him, “but it’s my job to find your dad. He missed an appointment and it was a pretty important one.”
The kid nodded. His eyes were drawn to the carport as a door to the house swung open. I got the feeling that while he wasn’t ha
ppy about what happened with his dad, it wasn’t really his dad he was worried about.
“Darren!” called a woman from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Darren said, pulling away from me and jogging toward her. “This guy saved me.” I followed slowly behind him.
She sighed in relief and hugged the boy with one arm as she dried her hands on a towel.
“How many times do I need to tell you to look both ways before you cross the street? It’s dinner time. Go wash your hands.”
“Can Robbie stay for dinner?”
She smiled patiently. “Sure.”
The boys ran past her and disappeared into the house, leaving me face-to-face with a pregnant woman in her early thirties. She was attractive, but tired-looking. Her hair was colored red, though not recently, with split ends hanging near her shoulders. She wore sweatpants and had puffy eyes like she’d been crying.
“I already talked to the cops today,” she said in a clear, strong voice.
I adjusted my assessment. She may have been suffering, but she was definitely not fragile.
“Like I told your son, I’m not a cop. Name’s Anderson Gunn. I work with Alek Ludwig.”
Her face paled. She knew the name. Stepping outside and shutting the door behind her after telling the boys to set the table, she turned back to me and waited.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions about your husband, Mrs. Kovak?”
She spread her hands wide. “If you must. But I've got nothing to say that I didn’t already tell that pushy lady detective. Cam was a cheating bastard, and we had our differences, but he’s not a killer.”
I held my hands up, palms open, and tried not to smirk at the way she described Detective Gonzalez. Whether fair or not, she wouldn’t be the first to characterize Sheila that way.
“I’m not the police, Mrs. Kovak, I just find missing people. It’s not my job to pass judgment on his guilt or innocence—except when it comes to skipping bail. He’s not here, on the premises, is he?”
