Shoot the Moon

by Billie Letts

  “In the winter he was always out knocking on doors, promoting a revival or a new Bible study class. Praying with folks who were going through a bad time.

  “Summers he’d show up at those same doors with a mess of okra or onions when we had extra. Tomatoes, corn. Whatever the drought didn’t kill.” Amax grinned. “Farming in Oklahoma might be a bigger test of faith than preaching.

  “So he’d go by her trailer now and then. One of us would usually go with him. My mom, sometimes my sisters.”

  “Did you ever go?”

  “Couple of times. Mostly I stayed busy trying to become the next Jim Brown.”

  “I was going to top Nolan Ryan in the record books.” Mark smiled. “Just didn’t have a curveball. Or much of a fastball, either.”

  They were quiet then, Mark sipping his beer, Amax peeling the label from his bottle.

  “Hey, Streak.” The voice belonged to a tall, heavyset man passing the table.

  “How you doing, Darrell,” Amax said.

  When the man joined a woman at the bar, Mark said, “Streak?”

  “A name I picked up in another lifetime. I played ball at OU, then spent a couple of years with the Chargers. Punt returner. But I tore up a knee, so I came home, got a job coaching at the high school.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “That they’d hire the son of a killer, or that I’d want to come back here?”

  “Well, I—”

  “This is Oklahoma. Sooner country. They don’t care who you are as long as you can give them what they want. And that’s a winner.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. I was part of it. But that’s not why I came back.” He took a swallow of beer, then stared at the lights of a jukebox. “I had some crazy idea that I could uncover the truth. Clear my dad’s name.

  “So I spent the next five, six years chasing dead ends. My wife finally made me stop. She thought I was going over the edge. But I think she’ll see things in a different light now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because of you.”

  “You think my showing up is going to make much of a difference?”

  “It might. See, I’ve always believed that whoever killed your mama lives here.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Whoever did it knew my dad, knew how to get hold of his knife. And if the killer’s still here, still alive, he’s not going to be real happy when he hears Nicky Jack Harjo has turned up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The domino boys could have been the first to spread the news that a man claiming to be Nick Harjo had been plucked from the pool hall and carted off to jail. After all, they’d been witness to the scene, heard most of what was said, and watched O Boy take the man away.

  The only problem was that two of the boys didn’t quite get the story straight. And the two who did, didn’t tell it.

  Lonnie, his hearing aid low on battery power, had been able to follow most of the conversation about the dog bites on the fella’s arm. But when Teeve whispered Nick’s true identity to the sheriff, Lonnie had mistaken the name Harjo for Cujo, causing him—a longtime Stephen King fan—to conclude that the stranger had been attacked by a rabid dog.

  Ron John O’Reily, still in the early stages of dementia, told quite a different tale. Though he knew what he’d heard when he heard it, by the time he reached the Quik Trip to buy a tin of snuff, his excitement was surpassed only by his confusion. Nevertheless, he was the center of attention when he announced to one clerk and five customers that he had seen Nick Nolte in the pool hall not more than an hour ago.

  The Standingdeer brothers, Jackson and Johnny, were afflicted with neither hearing problems nor memory loss but were quiet, solitary bachelors who shared both an isolated cabin and their belief that talk led to trouble. Johnny, the least talkative of the two, occasionally went through entire days without speaking except to bid in the domino games. So after they left Teeve’s Place, they went home, ate a supper of fry bread and beans, then watched the Cardinals game on TV, unaware that a lot of folks in town were penning up their dogs while even more were scouring the streets hoping to spot Nick Nolte.

  But the fear of rabies and the search for a movie star would soon give way to the real story: Nicky Jack Harjo had returned from the grave.

  That news was passed by a phone call from Olene Turner, a dispatcher in the sheriff’s office, to Amax Dawson. Olene had been in love with Amax since she was sixteen, when he’d taken her to their junior prom. And though she’d been married and divorced three times in the past twenty-two years, her feelings for her high school sweetheart had never changed.

  Amax, after spending time with Mark in the motel bar, had taken the story home to his wife, then called his sister, Zoe, who arrived at his house within minutes. They talked until mid-night, but before Zoe left, they agreed to keep the news inside the family, at least for a while.

  At home, Zoe waited for her husband, Foster, to come in from his Saturday night poker game. Foster, himself not a Dawson, did not feel bound by the family agreement, so he felt no sense of betrayal when, the next morning, he whispered the news to his best friend, Jolly Strange, just after services ended at the AME Church.

  Jolly and Foster, best friends since childhood, worked together at the plastic factory, but Jolly was also self-employed. He owned and operated a one-man business called Strange Lawncare, and on this particular Sunday he was doing Martha Duchamp’s place.

  Martha, bleary-eyed and shaky, poured herself an eye-opener of Jack Daniel’s when she heard Jolly fire up his mower in her front yard. By the time he finished, she’d knocked back three more.

  While Jolly waited at the kitchen door for Martha to retrieve her cash from the sock hidden in her freezer, he told her the story he’d heard from Foster Arnett, who’d heard it from his wife, who’d heard it from her brother, who’d been told by Olene Turner.

  As soon as Jolly drove away, Martha poured herself a tumbler of bourbon, being it was past noon, and got on the phone.

  The story, on the loose now, raced through the community like an unbridled child. Rumors climbed over backyard fences, skipped from street to street, romped down the aisles of Wal-Mart, tumbled through the Laundromat and cartwheeled through the park.

  And like carriers of a virus, those who heard passed it on to others, causing an epidemic of gossip to spread from neighbor to neighbor, child to parent, doctor to patient, friend to friend.

  Later, no one would give much thought to the path the news had traveled, but more than a few would be amazed at the speed with which the story sprinted past the city limits, jumped the river, galloped over eight counties and dashed across the state line.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mark answered on the first ring, a call that jerked him from sleep.

  “Good morning.” The man’s voice on the other end of the line, vaguely familiar, had a homogenized quality, stripped of accent, polished. “This is Arthur McFadden. I saw you yesterday at the radio station, but we weren’t introduced.”

  Mark, never at his best before his first cup of coffee, mumbled a less-than-enthusiastic response.

  “If you have time, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “When?”

  “I’m downstairs now.”

  “Here? In the motel?”

  “I go to early mass. St. Andrew’s is just a block away, so . . .”

  “I’ll need a few minutes,” Mark said.

  “Fine. I’ll be on the patio.”

  Mark pulled on the same clothes he’d worn the day before, reminding himself that he still had to make his way to Wal-Mart.

  Arthur McFadden stood, offering his hand when Mark, squinting against the sunlight reflected off a small swimming pool, joined him at a table shaded by a faded umbrella.

  “Sorry for barging into your day at this hour,” he said as soon as Mark took a chair. “Coffee?” He offered a carafe.

  “Thank
s.”

  As Arthur filled a cup, he said, “I’m afraid I might have seemed brusque yesterday when you came to Kyle’s office.”

  Mark sipped his coffee but made no response.

  “I suppose my behavior was prompted, in part, by surprise. You’re not the sort Kyle usually gives audience to.”

  “And what sort is that?”

  “Aging hippies. Bizarre musicians with green hair and dirty fingernails. Drug dealers. Anyone looking to make a score.” Arthur curled his lips in what was intended to be a smile. “Prevailing parlance, I believe.” He inhaled deeply, held the breath for a moment, then said, “So. What did you think of my stepson?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I don’t suppose I have to tell you that he’s a troubled man.”

  “I wasn’t with him long enough to make that kind of judgment.”

  “But you must admit that he’s hardly in control of his emotions.”

  “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Let me come right to the point, then,” he said as he stubbed out a cigar in the ashtray. “What is your business with Kyle?”

  Mark guessed that Arthur’s tone—demanding, superior and authoritative—found in his stepson a soft and vulnerable target.

  “It’s really a private matter.”

  “I rather thought you’d say that. Under other circumstances, I might agree. But in Kyle’s case, his business is my business.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “Kyle is unstable. Manic-depressive. Alcoholic, addict since he was sixteen, seventeen. In and out of rehab, jail. Tens of thousands of dollars wasted, but . . .”

  Mark could almost see dollar signs flashing in Arthur’s eyes.

  “In 1980, I was appointed by the court as his legal guardian, an arrangement of his mother’s choosing, not mine. Because of her decision, I am responsible for Kyle. I trust that explains my interest in your dealings with him.”

  Mark helped himself to more coffee, less for the caffeine than to buy time as he decided how to play this.

  “I’m an attorney, trying to settle an estate that leaves a piece of property to—”

  “No, sir. You are not. You’re here either because you’re an impostor or because you actually believe yourself to be Nick Harjo.”

  “You mind telling me where you heard that?”

  “The news is all over town. Nothing remains secret in DeClare for long.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “But my purpose in seeing you this morning is not to attempt to determine your identity.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Kyle said you were questioning him about Gaylene. I want to know why.”

  “I thought he might have some idea about who fathered her child.”

  “He denied knowing who that was, didn’t he?”

  “He expressed strong feelings for her, but he said their relationship was platonic.”

  “Well, Kyle doesn’t have much of a grasp on the past.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Drugs have provided him the unique ability to rewrite history, and in doing so, he’s made Gaylene a saint. He’s probably convinced himself her conception was immaculate.”

  “So you’re saying they were lovers?”

  “I would have no way of knowing that, but she obviously had more in common with Mary Magdalene than with the Virgin Mary.”

  “You knew Gaylene well?”

  “No, not especially. I gave her a job at the station when she was a senior in high school, but that proved to be a mistake on my part.”

  “Why?”

  “Gaylene was lazy. Totally without ambition. And she wasn’t particularly bright.”

  “That’s odd. No one else I’ve talked to made those kinds of observations about her.”

  “Then maybe she didn’t work for them. But I’ll give her this: She was shrewd and beautiful. A combination that makes men like Kyle easy prey. Kyle had access to money. His mother is quite wealthy. So when I found out he and Gaylene had established a relationship, I had to let her go.”

  “But they continued to see each other.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “If Kyle is the father . . .”

  “He told you he wasn’t.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “Kyle’s quite upset. He was incoherent after you left the station yesterday and became unmanageable as the day wore on.”

  “I hate to hear that. Maybe if I talked to him again, I could—”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Why?”

  “I had Kyle transported to a facility late last night. He won’t be receiving visitors. Or phone calls.” Arthur checked his watch, then pushed back from the table. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  “I’m in no rush.”

  “But I am. Mass begins shortly.”

  “Before you go, let me ask you one question.”

  “I don’t have any answers for you. And neither does Kyle.”

  Mark watched Arthur walk away, his shoulders hunched like he was moving against a strong wind, a burden balanced precariously on his back.

  Following Hap’s directions, Mark turned right at the first road past a one-lane bridge, then at a red mailbox took a left onto a graveled driveway bordered by blue spruce and magnolias. The drive climbed to the top of a hill, ending in front of a two-story log house with a broad wraparound porch.

  As Mark was getting out of his car, Hap stepped through the front door and came to the porch steps to meet him.

  “Sorry to be late,” Mark said.

  “We don’t keep to a schedule around here, especially on Sunday. Slept late myself.”

  “I had the same idea, but Arthur McFadden paid me an early morning visit.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Kyle Leander. I had a conversation with him yesterday; McFadden sent him to rehab last night.”

  “Is there a connection?”

  “McFadden seems to think so.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Kyle seemed agitated all right, but I got the impression that’s not new. He’s a pretty tense guy.”

  “He’s been a mess since he was a boy, trundled from one institution to another.”

  “Yeah, so I was told. But I believe McFadden’s trying to make sure to keep me away from Kyle.”

  “Wonder why?”

  Just then a tall, angular man appeared in the doorway.

  “Mark, this is my partner, Matthew Donaldson.”

  “Hi there.” Matthew offered an open smile and handshake that could cause damage. “Hope you’re hungry. I’m fixing brunch.”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Just need a couple more minutes.”

  When Matthew went back inside, Mark said, “Does he know about me?”

  “He knows you’re a client from out of town. That’s all.”

  Mark nodded, but it was an absent gesture, his eyes following a hawk circling high overhead.

  “So, how are you doing, Mark?”

  “Oh, better than yesterday, I guess.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “The day’s young. Still plenty of time for your sheriff to haul me back to jail . . . or break into my room again.”

  “Well, I have my doubts about O Boy being behind that little stunt.”

  Mark looked puzzled.

  “If he wanted a copy of your birth certificate,” Hap said, “he could get one from the Department of Records. No reason for him to take it from you. No, I don’t think O Boy had a thing to do with it.”

  “Then who? Who else would want to see my damn birth certificate. Teeve? Ivy? Amax Dawson? No, I don’t think—”

  “Amax? How the hell did he find out?”

  “A friend who works in the sheriff’s office
gave him a call.”

  Hap shook his head. “Amax tried for years to clear Joe’s name, but he never got anywhere with it.”

  “He seems to think I’m proof that his father’s innocent.”

  “You’re proof that Joe wasn’t a child killer, but proving he didn’t kill Gaylene’s another matter. After all these years, he’ll—”

  They looked up when Matthew rapped on the window and motioned them inside. As they started for the door, Hap said, “Listen, I should have mentioned this earlier . . .”

  “What?”

  “Uh, Matthew’s cooking is . . . well, unusual.”

  “An adventure in eating, huh?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  The first floor of the house, open and spacious, dominated by a massive fieldstone fireplace, was furnished with worn leather couches, heavy oak tables and large canvases of western art. Timbered beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, Navajo rugs covered the floor.

  “Nice place,” Mark said.

  “Thanks. We enjoy it.”

  The kitchen, permeated with the smell of pumpkin, was bright, the walls hung with knotty pine cabinets. In the center of the room a table was set for two.

  “Are you sure you were planning on my joining you?” Mark asked.

  “Absolutely,” Matthew said. “I take lunch to the station every Sunday. I’ll eat there.”

  “Matthew’s a retired fireman,” Hap explained, “but he hangs out there more than he did when he was getting paid for it.”

  “I’ve heard firemen are great cooks,” Mark said, a comment that caused Hap to roll his eyes.

  “We’re not bad.” Matthew ladled a watery orange liquid into soup bowls, where bits of something gray and slick floated to the surface. “Pumpkin squid bisque,” he announced. “Enjoy.”

  Hoping to disguise his reluctance, Mark filled his soup spoon and brought it to his mouth, inhaling an unpleasant, vinegary odor. But with both Hap and Matthew watching him intently, he couldn’t think of any way out.

  His first and final taste of bisque, so bitter that his eyes teared, contained two chunks of squid that defied chewing as they swelled into rubbery globs, forcing him to swallow them whole.

  “What do you think?” Matthew asked.