I had come home.
It only took me a moment to find the spot. A tiny stream still trickled through the low, gray boulders and fragile strands of water moss spider-webbed among small multi-colored rocks. I lingered there for a while, trying to sense her presence. All I could recall was the scent of her perfume, the way she brushed her long, dark hair, and then scattering her gray ashes over a row of blooming red roses while Daddy Danny sobbed helplessly. I could not remember my mother's face.
Rest easy, Katherine, I thought. I wish I had known you. I got to my feet and kept walking.
My chest tightened as the old, boarded-up buildings came into view; then the corral, the long metal watering trough, the barn. Old wagon wheels and rusted fragments of farm appliances littered the yard. The house was ruined now; the white had faded to something beyond color. The boards had splintered at all edges, and even the nails had begun to crumble. The well was bone dry, the bucket just a few slats bonded by bits of orange metal.
I paused on the porch, heart hammering in my chest. I could hear Danny Bell's voice as if echoing down a tunnel: God damn it boy, what are you, stupid or something? I told you not to touch that. Shut up or I'll really give you something to cry about . . .
The door was nailed into place. I raised my left leg and kicked; kicked again. After three tries the wood gave way and I stepped into the house. I was astonished at how small the living room was, now that I was fully-grown. I sneezed in the dust and the gloom.
When I was in school I studied a variety of different therapeutic techniques, some more effective than others. Gestalt therapy works wonders. It allows the client to project their unresolved feelings for someone onto an empty chair. I decided to use the house itself.
"Hello Danny," I said, feeling foolish. "How's it going?"
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I reached for painful memories, activated them: Saw a scared, scrawny kid in a torn, striped tee shirt and jeans circling me in the dirt. His name was Willie Chambers, and his small hands were balled into fists, knuckles bruised and bloodied. Willie's eye was swollen shut and he was crying. Snot was running from his flattened nose. Daddy Danny and some friends were cheering and laughing, enjoying the contest. Danny seemed pleased and proud. Put him down, boy. He's a goner now, sure enough. I closed the gap and landed a right cross. Willie fell and curled up, trying to protect himself. Pay up, pay up, Danny called. I told you he could do it.
I felt sick to my stomach. I opened my eyes, looked at the house and tried to believe it was a living thing. "Why, Danny? Why did you make me fight those kids for money?"
The answer came. To teach you.
"Teach me what, for Christ's sake?"
We were seventeen, maybe eighteen years old and they sent us out into the bush, right into the tall green grass, all by our lonesome . . . What I "heard" was an pastiche of a dozen drunken, paranoid speeches I had endured over the years; it rambled like Danny had rambled . . . I killed other boys, in close with a knife. I broke their necks with my bare hands. It screwed me up, kid. And what did I do it for?
"I don't know, Danny. I went into the service to find out, but didn't learn anything I didn't already know."
My uncle fought the Krauts in a war that people said was a GOOD war. He got to stand up for something he believed in. They called him a hero for what he did, and they called me a baby killer.
"That wasn't fair," I said, so softly I almost didn't hear myself speaking. My chest ached.
I thought I was shaping you, boy, making you tough enough to be a man in this world. I wanted you to be able to fight the demons when they come.
"I'm fighting demons now, Danny. You got that right."
So what, boy? I fought 'em in the fucking mud and then in my nightmares. They followed me all the way to Nevada. You think I meant to lose my goddamned ranch to Lowell Palmer? I fought him too.
"I know."
I did the best I could.
"I know that too."
Yeah, but you never looked up to me. You always had a mouth on you, Mick. I got no respect. I tried to help you grow some balls, that's all. Maybe keep you from being afraid of a little hard work.
"I never ran from the work."
There's evil out there, boy. It was for your own good . . .
"Yeah, you poor bastard," I whispered," I'll bet you really believed that. You thought it was for my own good." A full catharsis followed. I tasted tears. "Did you ever manage to love me Danny, even just a little?"
Silence, except for a slight breeze that whimpered at the broken windowpanes. I wiped my eyes, looked around. Nothing moved, no one spoke. It was over. I couldn't say whether or not it done me any good. I waved at the house and left again. For some reason, I had to turn and say goodbye.
"So long, Danny. I'll see you around."
One lone cow was moaning again and a swarm of flies had found a pile of horse droppings near the steps. It was perhaps an hour later, but Will Palmer was still snoozing on his porch. He opened one eye as if he'd half expected me to return.
"Back so soon, Callahan? I thought you'd had enough of my persona."
I stepped onto the porch, my anger tightly controlled. "Persona. That was the Greek word for 'mask.' Did you know that?"
"Yes. Now tell me, how did that make you feel?"
"Oh, knock it off, asshole," I said. "Now you're starting to bore me."
Will Palmer stiffened. "You're on my property, mister."
"Go ahead, be a fool. I've got all day." I dragged a chair across the wooden porch, allowed the legs to scrape in an irritating way. I flipped it around backwards, straddled it with my legs. You want to see evil Danny? Check this kid out.
"What do you want, asshole?"
"Well, let's start with how grief-stricken and upset you are about the death of your beloved sister Sandy."
"Am I not performing to your satisfaction?"
"Let's just say getting stoned doesn't strike me as very . . . respectful."
"Well, that struck me as a crude attempt at psychological intimidation. Frankly, I think you can do better."
"You're right, I probably can. We got off to a bad start." I relaxed my face and body. "Can you tell me why you're being so defensive? I'd really like to know."
Palmer took the bait. "Perhaps you'll relate to this. I am the only young man around these parts to have gone to a prestigious college, Mr. Callahan. Have you read Camus? I am disreputable simply because I do not behave the way others think I should. I guard my emotional responses and disdain relationships. I comport myself differently than my fellows, and this has not made me popular."
"The ego defends itself."
"What?"
I stayed light. "I'm a therapist, remember?"
"Oh, that's right. Or you were before you reinvented yourself as an obnoxious lackey of the media."
"Touché." After a time, I pretended to remember something: "By the way, I know you saw your sister talking to me at the park."
"Half sister. And your point is . . . ?"
I shrugged. He's relaxed. Hit him. I dropped my voice to a whisper. "I'll be straight with you. The point is that your soul is ugly as a bag of assholes. I think you and Bobby Sewell are two of a kind. Beyond that, I don't rightly know, but rest assured I'll be working on it."
Palmer grew flustered. "Fuck you."
"Tart retort, quite pithy."
His face reddened. "Callahan, I damn well don't like you. So remind me why I should be talking to you in the first place."
"You saw me talking with Sandy in the park."
"So?"
"So you want to know what she said to me. That's why you were smoking weed. You had to get a little faded first. Not because you're curious, but because you're scared."
He hid his reaction pretty well, but the mask slipped a bit. "Afraid of what?"
"Of me, because you know I haven't made my mind up yet. Because I might decide to talk to the authorities about what Sandy told me."
And then, ha
ving played my hand for the moment, I sat back. Waited. Silence can be a therapist's best friend, when it is properly employed. A flat, even countenance devoid of emotion; no sound present but the rushing of blood and the beating of the heart. Such an experience allows intense emotions to surface, some of which can surprise.
Palmer sagged in his chair, seemed to weaken. "It wasn't my fault."
What wasn't your fault? I continued to bluff, defying a counter-transference that gave me a sudden and nearly overpowering urge to yawn. Depression oozed from this handsome man/child, making the atmosphere bleak and cloying.
"You know what?" he said defiantly, "it's none of your fucking business."
"Look, Will, Sandy made it my business." What the hell are we talking about?
Will got up, paced the porch. "You can't know what it's like living with my esteemed father. He who knows everything, who is always right, a man who wants to wring every goddamned thing he can out of life every single day he lives it. We couldn't defecate without his permission."
I didn't want him to wind down, needled again. "You mean pity the poor little rich kid?"
"Fuck you," Palmer spat. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
"Try me. Maybe I'll surprise you."
"No camera, no recording device?"
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you."
"You'll have to," I said, and winked lewdly. "Unlike a lot of other folks around here, I'm not taking my clothes off for you."
Will Palmer snorted. "You know what? If you're going to do something, go ahead and do it. My father is God in this county, and you can't prove a thing."
"Not yet."
"Callahan, why do you even give a shit?"
I was honest. "I keep wondering about that myself. The only thing I can come up with is that she asked for my help." He doesn't get it. In fact, he seems amused. "I wasn't there for her, and I can't let that happen again."
"Give me a break, Callahan."
He's fighting down some intense emotion, has a facial tic. Why? "Maybe it doesn't make sense, but I prefer it to the alternative. Feeling like you feel."
"Huh?"
Will Palmer was depressed, narcissistic, and possibly a sociopath. That meant there was nothing inside of him but fear and driving need. Oh, I think I understand you now, little boy.
I bored in, speaking loudly at first, taunting him: "You couldn't sleep last night, could you Will? You know something is really wrong with you, but you don't know what. You tried smoking some dope, drank some booze, took some pills. You tossed around sweating and thinking and worrying about getting caught. If you're lucky you finally passed out somewhere during the night."
"Go away." His hands twitched, his teeth clenched. I'm getting to him.
I raised the intensity but lowered the volume. "Now you're sick to your stomach, you're shaking like a leaf, and your eyes burn. What was it Sartre said? That hell is other people? Well, you hate us, you hate yourself, and you hate your so-called life . . . you just don't have the guts to end it."
"Go away, Callahan." His voice was thick with emotion.
"You know that I can see right through you, see every disgusting little thought and habit you have. And you think I'm judging you for them, so you want me dead. You hate me because you can't stand it when somebody sees through you."
"Fuck you, man." He's going to break. Keep pushing and he'll break.
"Will, fuck your father. I already tried using everybody and not giving a shit. I tried being like you. It damned near killed me."
"Let me tell you something, Callahan . . ."
"WILSON!"
An old man's voice, coming from somewhere up on the second story. Damn it, damn it. The spell was shattered. Will Palmer flinched. "Yes, Father?"
"Who the hell are you talking to, you idiot?"
My stomach curdled at the tone of the old man's snarl, but Will gathered strength from it. He stood up. "It's some hick from town, Father. He wanted to offer his condolences."
"Well get rid of him, boy," Lowell Palmer spat. "I'm trying to rest."
The slender young man grinned at me. His arrogance once again as firm as a second skin. "Hey, you heard him."
I got to my feet. "Funny, it's hard not to figure Sewell and his bunch this, but I think you know something, too. I haven't decided what I'm going to do, but I'm going to do something. Sandy asked me for help, and the fact that she's dead doesn't change anything."
"Get lost," Will Palmer said. He hawked phlegm, spat at my feet. "Don't let the gate hit you in the ass on the way out."
"Right."
I started the car, allowed Will Palmer a few seconds of satisfaction. Then I rolled the window down. "One last thing," I said, pleasantly. "Of course you knew Sandy was pregnant, right?"
Palmer went ashen. His hands fell to his sides. He sat down heavily.
"Of course they'll do an autopsy down in Elko. I just wonder what they'll find when they check for the DNA of the father. You got any idea, Will?"
"Get the fuck off our property," Will Palmer said.
"Relax, cowboy. I'm gone."
I drove away slowly, got some air into my lungs and swallowed.
Man, what a sick puppy.
I started out the back way; towards the rear gate and the exit onto 93. The dirt road went past the grain silo and the three empty mobile homes. Between two of them were some large metal containers, as well as several bales of hay in random formations. Some of the bales had archery targets stapled to one side.
Twelve
Sunday Morning, 11:39 AM
"Check this out," Jerry said. We were in the motel office. He had multi-colored wires trailing everywhere and an old printer was grinding out pages.
I closed the door and dropped onto the well-worn couch. "What?"
"That dude Mex is an ex-felon named Jose Rodriguez, originally from the El Paso area. He did three years for burglary. He's auditioned for a couple more stretches, but nothing stuck. I've printed out his rap sheet and some background."
"The other one?"
"Donald Ray Wilson, a/k/a Wild Man, a/k/a Donnie Wilson, a/k/a Donny Boy. Born and raised in Nevada. He's got a substantial juvenile record, which the state has sealed, but I got into it anyway."
"You're a genius."
"Donald Ray was raised by an alcoholic mother who was a prostitute, mean as a snake. She ran some funky whorehouse down Jackpot way. The state records I hacked say she beat the shit out of kid, claimed he fell down all the time. Donald probably would have been a dick anyway. He had a couple of busts for drug possession, but walked by milking that troubled childhood. Judge let him off with a promise to sober up and rehabilitate himself."
"I do believe the boy has a ways to go."
"No shit, he never showed up for rehab. He had an assault beef in Colorado, then skipped bail. The Colorado cops don't seem all that sorry he's down here in Nevada."
I heard a beeping sound. The largest television monitor lit up. "Don't tell me you . . . ?"
Jerry grinned. "Sure did." He pointed a small camera in my direction. His fingers flew over buttons on the console. An image coalesced from colored blobs, an older male with silver hair and a thin smile. Technology amazes me. Only a few hours had passed, and Jerry already had Hal video-conferencing into the motel office via a 21-inch monitor.
"Hello, Hal. Nice to see you."
"It's good to see you too, Mick." His lips moved, yet the top half of his head remained frozen. The effect was disconcerting, like a bad CNN report from Afghanistan. "I have something for you."
Jerry grew excited. "Stuff about Palmer already?"
"I knew that name sounded familiar," Hal said. His distinguished features rippled slightly as the image changed again. His resonant baritone sounded a bit tinny and muffled. "Lowell Palmer is a real schmuck. He was an investment banker too. Out of Chicago, I believe, maybe originally over at the Board of Trade. Then briefly in New York City at around the time I made my residence there."
; "And?"
"The point is, I seem to remember Mr. Palmer running afoul of the authorities, much as I did myself eons ago. Of course, yours truly could at least blame the dreaded disease of alcoholism for said inappropriate and maladaptive behavior. In Wilson Palmer's case, I believe he was merely your garden variety thief."
"Oh, this is so cool," Jerry said. He bounced up and down in his chair. His voice broke on the last syllable. Hal peered into the European monitor and squinted.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That wasn't me, Hal. That was our hacker buddy."
"Oh. Callahan, for a moment I thought your voice was revisiting puberty."
"So this is where you learned to be a dick," Jerry said. Hal laughed out loud. The sound reached us two seconds before his face changed. Jerry shrugged and mumbled something about having strained his pixels.
"Hal, go on about Palmer," I said.
"He used to pull the pump-and-dump," Hal said. "This was perhaps forty years ago, long before the high-speed Internet version. One had to have a certain gift back then. You had to build a little penny stock very slowly and carefully and lure only the very best people. You used one person's capitol to pump up the stock, hyped it as it rose higher, and then offered it to yet another and another as a so-called hot tip. Every putz involved thought he was in on a sweet little slice of insider trading. Spread a bit of carefully placed gossip, add some good old-fashioned bullshit, and presto. Your stock, which was of course entirely worthless to begin with, has now been successfully pumped."
"And the dump part is self-evident."
"Sure. You take the money and run," Hal said. "You see that was the portion of the scam that required such exquisite timing in those days. As soon as you had reached a truly insupportable level of face value, you would suddenly, and without warning to the others, dump all of your shares in a matter of hours. The stock would crash without explanation, and you would be gone with a profit."
Jerry laughed. "That must have pissed off a lot of people."
Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 9
