The Upright Man

by Michael Marshall

  “Honestly, it just didn’t occur to me. I was very sick when she was in the station.”

  “Shoot.” Henrickson stood with his hands on his hips and looked the other way for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Okay, my friend. Should have put it together myself. And, yes, I can get that it would have been cooler to get there ourselves. But we’re not getting there, are we.”

  “Jim, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. But I think what we’re going to do now is walk back to the car and go get us some reinforcements. If this woman can take us there, it’s going to save us a whole lot of time, and time is of the essence.”

  Henrickson took out the map once more, and consulted his compass. “We’ll cut straight over there,” he said. “Sense of direction is all very well. But let’s go back the quick route, shall we?”

  He strode off back the way they’d come, and Tom followed.

  IT TOOK THEM A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR TO GET back to the trailhead, aided by a route that was more direct and largely downhill. By the time he stepped back over the log boundary of the lot, Tom knew something had changed. He was no longer leading, he was following. That wasn’t the way things should be. If necessary, he’d have to do something to change it.

  Henrickson backed out onto the road and went a couple of miles back toward Sheffer. He stopped at a roadside latte hut and asked a few questions while getting the flask refilled. When he got back in the car, he winked.

  “Think we found what we’re looking for,” he said. “Few miles round up the other side. Development called Cascade Falls. Never took off. But there’s one inhabitant for sure. The stoner back there thinks the woman’s name is Anders.”

  “That’s it,” Tom said. “Patrice Anders. She’s the one.”

  “Hallelujah. We’re back in business, my friend.”

  It took nearly half an hour to take the road back over the highway, go north, and then turn off into the mountains. The road soon began to narrow, like a stream followed back up to an insignificant source. Put in by the developer, it did nothing more than provide a way to get up to the land they’d been trying to sell. Soon there were thick trees on either side.

  “Surely is the road less traveled,” Henrickson said cheerfully.

  Tom was watching out of the window, wondering what would make someone come and live in a place like this. Every now and then you saw a sign nailed to one of the trees nearest to the road. You could buy a piece of this, and come and live here. And then do what?

  Eventually Henrickson pulled over and killed the engine. Just ahead on the left-hand side of the road was a gate. The name Anders was visible on a flat piece of wood nailed to it.

  They got out, unlatched the gate, and walked down a track that wandered through the trees. After about two hundred yards they saw a small building up ahead. By the time they reached it, Tom was wondering if they were in the right place after all. The place looked small and cold and empty despite the light on over the door.

  “Not much of a house,” he said. It looked like more of a cabin with a porch, just a square log building with a carport on one side. The entrance to the house was under there, looking back up the track: a door with the number “2” burned in at waist height. There were four small glass panels in the upper half, the view of the interior obscured by a thick curtain.

  Henrickson knocked. “Compact, that’s for damned sure.”

  When, after a few moments, there was no answer, he knocked again. Tom meanwhile drifted up a little rise in front of the house. There was another small cabin twenty yards away in the trees, but it was dark and a little overgrown. When he walked a little farther he could make out the faint glint of a small icy pond, also presumably on the property. At the far side was a line of trees, apart from . . .

  He walked a little farther and thought he could make out another cabin around the other side. He thought about calling out to Henrickson, but then, for some reason, didn’t. Instead he walked back.

  Henrickson was knocking for the fourth time. “No one’s home,” he said. “She’s probably back in Sheffer enjoying the bright lights and big-city ambience. Which is kind of a pain. However . . .” He looked at his watch. “Time is moving on. You say she said the place you were was a good walk out from her property. Maybe we’re not going to make it there and back today anyhow.”

  He stood back from the door and walked over to one of two small windows on the next side. This too was curtained, but with thinner material. Tom looked through it with him, but couldn’t make out much of the insides.

  “We’re done for the day,” Henrickson decided. “We’ll head ourselves to town and kick back. See if we can get hold of this woman’s phone number, so we can do things properly tomorrow. For now, I’m as hungry as a bear. No offense.”

  They peered back through the window a final time, and then set off back up the track toward the gate.

  It wasn’t until they were back in the car, and the noise of its departure had drifted down through the trees, that the curtain at the front door moved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN SHE WAS SURE THE MEN HAD GONE, PATRICE unlocked the door and stepped outside. She stood awhile, listening carefully, but heard only what she always heard on her property: nothing at all. She didn’t count the wind in fall, or the birds in spring, or the busy insects in summer. They weren’t noises.

  Tracks in the snow showed the men had walked down the drive and then right around the cabin. She realized that it also suggested that one of them had . . .

  She followed the shuffling marks that led up over the small ridge and down toward the lake. They stopped after a few yards. Patrice saw that, unless the man had been very unobservant, he should have been able to spot the other small building on the far side. Yet she had not heard him call out, or mention it to the other man. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. He could simply have been cold or bored or hungry. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There was nothing in that cabin except tools and damp and the memory of an unexpected bout of lovemaking that had swept her and Bill along with it one winter night when they were supposed to be patching up the roof.

  She walked down to the quarter-acre pond that marked the start of the wilderness section of her property. She sat on the bench that hugged the big tree a few yards back from its edge, and looked out across the icy water.

  “They’re coming,” she said, quietly. “What do I do?”

  He didn’t answer. He never did. He didn’t even know what she was talking about. But she always asked, just in case. Men like to feel involved.

  IN THE MONTHS AFTER BILL’S DEATH, PATRICE HAD found herself in a strange new world in which everything seemed to have been broken and put back together not quite right. She learned that a fridge looks cold if stocked only with what you need, unleavened by the unexpected that had caught your partner’s eye. She remembered that pieces of paper didn’t actually come with doodles, that envelopes, bills, and register receipts didn’t spontaneously develop sketches of trees or cats or boats. They looked odd without them. One of the hardest things she learned was that there no longer existed homes for some kinds of information. She could pass the time of day with the mailman, and she could chat in line at the market, but she couldn’t tell Ned his nose was weird, or turn to someone and sing the tune of some silly advertisement that made her smile. That’s the kind of thing makes people think the poor old bitch is going batty, such a sad story, something should be done. An event happened and then was gone, like a drop of rain falling onto hot asphalt. Nobody watching but her, a VCR that didn’t work.

  You got through a day and wondered what your reward was. It soon become evident the prize was you got to withstand tomorrow too. You got through it, hour by long hour, but at the end you looked up without much expectation. You had begun to understand the score. Sure enough: today’s prize was the same. Outwardly calm, but with a scream building like the sound of a long-forgotten steam engine in the back corner of a basement, you got through that tomorrow
too, and a flat hardpan of further tomorrows after that. You got through enough of them to realize you’d been had, that they aren’t tomorrows after all but the wretched stretch of an endless today. What can you do? Rebellion gets you nowhere. If you’re giving up smoking, and it all suddenly gets too much and you decide that the chance to not smoke tomorrow is not sufficient reward for having successfully not smoked today, then you can stomp furiously to the store and buy a pack and tear them open and make yourself feel happy and disappointed and defiant and guilty. No such triumphant failure exists with death. You can’t say “Screw this. Bring my husband back.” People realize this, dimly. They don’t put the world to the test because they understand that to finally articulate this demand, and have it denied, would drive them completely insane. They obliquely acquire the harsh intelligence that there’s no way out, that they can’t give up giving up, and go find the emergency packet of their loved one; can’t retrieve him or her from where they’ve been hidden all along, on top of a cupboard in the kitchen or behind the bath upstairs; can’t dust them off and run their fingers through their hair and kiss them gently on the lips to wake them and the world back to normality, as if the whole episode had been some bad dream or stupid idea.

  After a lifetime of unconsciously doing and thinking the right thing, Patrice found herself prey to the utmost political incorrectness. She looked at people clogging the lanes of the market, people who were old and cranky and a pain to be around. Six months before she would have asked herself what had made them so unhappy, if there was anything she could do to help. Now she just thought how unfair it was they were still alive. When she saw an appeal on television for a children’s hospital she asked herself why people went so misty-eyed over kids when they’d done so little for the world, when someone like Bill had had so much longer to become a part of other people’s lives. Hers, for example. And when someone tried to put an AIDS pin on her in the street over in Snohomish one afternoon, she snapped at the boy and pushed him aside. The boy—who was doe-eyed and good-looking—turned to his coworker, a strikingly pretty teenage girl fairly dripping with compassion, and made a remark.

  Patrice fixed him with a look. “Getting laid the caring way?”

  The boy flushed. By the time she got to the car Patrice was vermilion with self-dislike, but a voice inside was still jabbering.

  For a time, after a few months, it felt as if things were easing a little, as though she’d begun to get her head around the new regimen. It soon became clear, however, that this was merely the calm before the storm. She started to slip, badly. Days began to get harder, longer, almost impossible to bear.

  Then, one long December night in 2001 as she approached her first Christmas without him, something in her head burst. She owned a CD of his favorite tracks, chosen by him to be played at his funeral back down in Portland. Songs she’d loved with him, classical pieces she’d never heard but which he evidently held dear in that small part that was separate; that part of him that predated her and had now gone on without her. She hadn’t listened to it since the funeral. When it finished playing that day, that had been it: the end of newness, the end of forward progress, the end of the end of the end. That night she put it on for the second time, listened right through. She found a huge bottle of scotch Bill had left behind, and drank it all. She had never done anything remotely like it in her entire life.

  Midnight found her staggering in the trees outside, hair whipped by a cold gale, barefoot, and nearly insensible. She had talked and she had screamed and snarled and she had cried. Her throat was torn and dry. She had left the door to the house open, and it was thwacking in the wind, way behind her. She didn’t feel foolish. She felt like tearing out the eyes of everyone in the world. She felt like finding someone, anyone, and bashing their brains out with a rock. She was caught up in a whirling cloud of horror, and that night she knew she had cut through to the center of everything. The center, the truth, was this:

  Hell is being alive, and being alive is all there is.

  To kill herself would be to give in. Death’s gang is bigger and tougher than anyone else’s. Always has been, and always will be. Death’s the man, there’s no question, but she wasn’t going to be on his side. So who else? It was impossible to take God seriously anymore. She was sick of making excuses for the senile old shit, helping him out of his endless scrapes, patching and mending his appalling record of capriciousness. God was gone for her, but Death wasn’t getting her for a sunbeam either.

  Faced with this, she made a decision as she stood howling on the edge of a cold, cold lake, still swigging from the bottle of her dead husband’s drink. She wasn’t, in what she understood to be the popular parlance, going to be anyone’s bitch no more. She would owe no allegiance to anyone or anything. No person, no god, no idea, no truth, no promise. Nothing was worth it, nothing could be trusted. There had been Bill. Now there was nothing.

  But then two weeks later she had found something, something in the forest; or it had found her; and she changed her mind.

  THE SKY WAS DARK NOW, AND THE LAKE LOOKED like a sheet of black marble. It was cold. It was time to go back inside. She sat a little longer, however, because she loved this view and she feared things were about to change. She feared that though the men had gone, they would come back, and that she might be forced to defend the only thing she really cared about.

  So be it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WE HAD HOLED UP IN THE MORISA, A HUNK OF faded grandeur near the center of Fresno. The hotel looked like it had been built to withstand sustained bombing. We liked that about it. We arrived in town late the previous night and decided not to drive any farther. Until we had a plan, and somewhere in particular to go, we could be heading in one of many wrong directions. We went to the desk separately and booked rooms on different floors and went upstairs and went to sleep. Early the next day we walked out into the downtown. We walked and we walked but couldn’t work out where to go or what to do. There’s something very alienating about stores when you have no interest in shopping. Who are these people? What are they buying, and why? They seem no less weird and irrelevant than the boarded-up fronts or the graffiti-strewn alleyways between abandoned warehouses. Weirdly, I thought I saw some letters I recognized on a door down one of these, but closer inspection showed the second letter was a B, not an R. I think. I’m not sure. I was feeling pretty paranoid.

  Late morning had found us back in my hotel room. The room was not large and had not been decorated recently. I sat in the chair. She sat on the bed. We drank the coffee when it arrived.

  Nina was regretting leaving L.A. She wanted to go back. I wouldn’t let her. I understood that it felt like running away—it was running away. She had a job, too, even if she’d currently been asked not to do it. For her to be in this position because of a relationship to a man (and a relationship that was finished, moreover) was the kind of thing that would piss any woman off. Nina wasn’t just any woman, either. She had ire in depth. She was so furious at Zandt having lied to her that she wouldn’t turn her phone back on. I tried calling him, a few times, but never got anything more than the same old robotic voice telling me the phone was off. He could be anywhere in the country, doing God knows what—or in serious trouble. For all we knew, he could be dead.

  It wasn’t that either of us thought it was impossible that Zandt had killed Ferillo. We both knew that, during the initial search for his daughter, when he had still been on the force, he had privately cornered and killed the man he was convinced was responsible. The problem was that a further abduction had taken place after this event. We now had a name for that person—Stephen DeLong—and already knew he had been only one of several people abducting to order for the Straw Men, my brother being chief among them. The sudden arrival of a video file nailing John for DeLong’s murder—and which had evidently been held in reserve for a long time—proved they were after him, and willing to do a great deal to send big-time trouble his way. The question was whether the death of Fe
rillo was an example of this, or part of the cause.

  Nina had made two calls from the room’s landline. These had established that Ferillo had a restaurant called the Dining Room on Stark Street in Portland. Four years previously he had been arrested as part of a racketeering investigation down in L.A. and was close to going away for a long time. He’d walked, and gotten himself from there into the position of owning a vaunted eatery patronized by the great and the good of Northeast Oregon. From minor mob to wealthy restaurateur was a mighty bound, but said nothing about why Zandt might have decided to explode into his life—or why someone might choose to make it look that way.

  After the calls we sat in silence for a while. The coffee got slowly colder, but we kept drinking it anyway, until my stomach felt bitter and curdled. I had the window open wide and was staring out over battered buildings as an angry sky dropped persistent rain. It felt absurd not to be doing something, but I couldn’t think what it might be. We had no way of finding John, and no way of getting closer to the Ferillo investigation.

  Then suddenly a very dim light went off in my head. It flickered, sputtered out for a second, then came back a little stronger.

  “Call Monroe,” I said, slowly.

  “No way.”

  “See it from his point of view. He’s not an idiot. He knows something major happened to you at the end of last year. You get shot and Sarah Becker is back with her parents. But you tell him nothing, and now someone you’re intimately tied to is going around doing very bad things.”

  “Or looks like they are.”

  “Whatever. Even if Monroe didn’t have someone pushing him from behind, you’d be standing at the end of a long plank right now.”

  “What are you not saying?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked at me squarely. “What I mean is that there’s something in your voice that I don’t understand.”