A Field of Red

by Greg Enslen

  Chastity walked to the stairs and went up. The girls were finally sleeping, by the sound of it. The little Mexican one almost never shut up, whining on and on in Spanish, and Chastity had gotten tired of yelling at her. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and listened but didn’t hear anything.

  She and George shared one of the four bedrooms, and Chastity went into their room and locked the door behind her. She pulled the drawer open on the tall bureau—all of the furniture was old and had come with the house in the foreclosure—and put the skirt and sewing kit away.

  Someone started crying quietly in the next room, but she shook her head and ignored it.

  Chastity caught sight of herself in the floor-length mirror on the back of the door. She’d insisted George put one in when she’d moved in. Slowly, she stripped off her clothes, letting them drop to the old brown hardwood floors. She watched in the mirror as she ran a hand down her body, admiring the curves and the flat stomach. The rise of her breasts, as she breathed slowly in and out.

  She knew she was beautiful.

  The looks she got whenever men were around only confirmed what she already knew—and what her mom had said, over and over. It had started at fourteen—her mom had still been alive and had clucked appreciatively at the catcalls that started to come whenever Chastity was out in public.

  “That’s your ticket, honey,” she’d said, one of the last things Chastity remembered her mom saying. “Them boys are gonna pay your way, if you let ‘em.”

  Chastity smiled at the memory and dug back into the top drawer, getting out her other kit. She rolled it out on the bed and sat down next to it. Needle, spoon, lighter. A vial of white chunks of crack cocaine. She didn’t know where George got the stuff, and didn’t care. But he could touch her all he wanted, day and night, as long as the stuff kept coming.

  She spooned out a chunk and crushed it in the spoon and melted it into a liquid with the lighter, then shot up. The warmth flowed into her, a sharp fire that burned through her veins and skin and hair and right into her soul. Chastity lay back on the bed, enjoying the ride, letting it burn through her. She loved the feel of sheets against her, when she was high. No clothes. They were too rough against her warm, tingling skin.

  The sounds of crying, coming from the next room, faded away into the silent inferno that engulfed her.

  26

  Frank slowly walked the five blocks to the school, scouring the bushes, sidewalks, and gutters as he went, but he found nothing out of the ordinary.

  This case was getting odder by the moment.

  First, no one saw the actual snatch. In a town this small, someone had to see something or know something. People talked, and in a town like this, everyone was somebody’s cousin or ex-wife or boss.

  And Frank knew that half the town could logically be suspects in the kidnapping case. Nick Martin’s cost-cutting zeal had apparently pissed off a lot of people. But how many of them were angry enough to take a kid and hold them for money? Planning a kidnapping took months of work and a whole other level of zeal. It seemed like a stretch for someone pissed off about getting let go from a job.

  And then there was the whole mess with the ransom drop and ensuing getaway. Bad planning and setup of the scene. Horrible perimeter control, allowing the kidnappers to take back streets and alleys to get away. And the electronic trackers, easily found and removed.

  Added together, it gave Frank half a mind to suspect Chief King or one of his cops of involvement. But if the Chief were somehow in on it, he’d be an idiot to bring in outside help.

  As Frank walked the five blocks up Hyatt, he tried to organize all of the facts in the case in his head. There were a lot of details to track.

  Hyatt was a nice street, one of the nicer he’d seen in town. The houses were large and spread out on the west side, closer together on the east. Plenty of houses and doorways and windows.

  He got to Broadway and turned. The location where they found the water bottle was thirty feet up on the right. Frank turned to look back at the Martin house. He could clearly see the long driveway, and, from this corner, he could see the crime scene as well. The Chief was right. It was hard to believe no one saw anything.

  He wished he had an iPod or some way to listen to music. It helped him think.

  Frank started off again, walking slowly up Broadway, looking at the bushes and trees and driveway and houses that lined both sides of the wide street.

  He saw Chief King up ahead, waiting for him in front of the school, but Frank did not hurry. After a minute of careful searching, he came to the location of the water bottle, marked with a fading chalk circle in one gutter. Other than the chalk circle, there was nothing to indicate anything had happened here.

  “Anything?” the Chief asked, walking over.

  Frank shook his head. “There’s a clear line of site from the corner to the Martin house, and a clear line of site from here to the school,” he said, pointing at the massive elementary school, just a hundred yards away.

  The Chief nodded.

  “Like I said. This case is weird.”

  27

  “What?” George asked.

  Chastity, bleary eyed and angry, was standing too close behind him, trying to listen in on the call.

  The boss was on the other end.

  “Look, the other guy is wrapping things up,” the boss was saying. “He’s getting me the money tomorrow, but you have to stay until Saturday, before HarvestFest. Everyone in town will be busy until then. After that, we can wrap this up. I just need another three days. Let things quiet down. Just keep the girls quiet—”

  Chastity, behind him, cursed loudly and stormed off.

  George nodded, although no one could see him.

  “Sure, boss,” George said. “I’ll make sure they’re good, but...um...what about our money? We’re taking the biggest risk, being here with the girls all the time. If the cops come—”

  “The cops won’t come,” George’s boss said on the other end of the line, cutting him off. “When was the last time they came, took you to jail, and burned down the crop?”

  George thought about it for a second.

  “Never?”

  “Right,” the man on the other end of the phone answered. There was a loud rumbling in the background. It sounded like he was driving. “Stay put, and your share will go up for the extra days. But you gotta keep that woman on a leash. She sounds ready to bust.”

  George agreed and hung up.

  Chastity was standing there, exasperated.

  “Well?”

  “That was the boss,” George said. He thought she knew that.

  “No shit. I know it was the boss,” she screeched at him. “Tell me what he said, Puddin’, or I swear to GOD I’m gonna get dressed and leave. I’ll just start walking,” she said, her arms crossed. “It’s not that far into Troy. I’ve walked it, plenty of times, when I ran out of smokes. Someone there will give me a ride to anywhere I want to go, believe me. I just want this whole thing to be over.”

  “It almost is over,” he said, smiling at her. “We’re going to get our money, plus extra. The boss said the other guy already paid him, and we’re getting paid Saturday. So we just need to watch them a couple more days—”

  “What?”

  George put his hands up.

  “But I liked your idea,” he said, trying to get her to calm down. “The excellent one where we pack and get ready? I’ll take care of the girls, and Sunday, Sunday we’ll leave. Even if they haven’t come up with the money, we’ll leave.”

  Chastity did the math in her head and slowly agreed.

  “OK,” Chastity said. “But we should get paid more—”

  “We’re gonna, for the extra days. The boss said.”

  Chastity nodded and then turned and left the kitchen, heading upstairs. She was completely naked again. George thought she looked tired and out of it. George knew she was high again; she always got high when she was stressed.

  28

 
The Chief drove them back to the police station.

  Frank wasn’t in the mood to talk. The conversation with Nick Martin had not helped, and the wife hadn’t even been there. He really needed to talk to her and asked the Chief to set something up.

  “Now what?” King asked, as they walked inside, avoiding the throng of reporters and their questions.

  Frank shook his head.

  “I’m not sure,” Frank said. “Frankly, I thought I’d go through the files quickly and pick out something you missed. Now, I’m not sure.”

  Inside, they went back into the meeting area in the middle of the large central room and joined the others who were waiting for the Chief to return to hold a status update. Frank listened to the other cops go through their reports—Chief King literally went around the table, letting each Sergeant and Detective and beat cop talk about the various aspects of the case they were handling. Frank listened and took notes, but half of his mind was trying to come up with options and angles.

  At the end of the meeting, King covered a few more procedural things and assigned a few promising leads to those involved in the case. Detective Barnes also reviewed a few new items that had come up in the investigation, but Frank didn’t think any of them sounded relevant. As the meeting broke up, Chief King invited Frank into his small office.

  “So, what do you think?” Chief King said, checking his email while they talked.

  Frank sat down heavily. “I don’t know. You guys are working it, covering all the bases and dotting all the ‘i’s’. There wasn’t anything wonky mentioned by anyone at the meeting, and I can’t think of anything you’ve missed.”

  Chief King looked at him.

  “You sound frustrated.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, nodding. “I guess I was hoping to come in here and wrap things up quickly. Maybe find a clue that you all had missed or something.”

  Chief King smiled. “Wanted to school us?”

  Frank smiled, looking up at King. “Maybe a little.”

  King steepled his hands together, looking like he was almost praying. Ben Stone used to do that, and said once that he liked to do it because he thought it made him look smarter, more studious. Frank wasn’t too sure.

  King looked directly at Frank.

  “It’s like I said. I’ve been here a long time, and we’ve had strange cases. A few cases we lost because we couldn’t get the evidence cleanly or in time. We mostly get OVIs and domestic violence, but we like to think we can handle these big cases, when they come along. But I’m stumped.”

  They sat in silence for a long time—Frank tried to not interrupt silence. It was often a forge for new ideas. People could be tentative with their opinions, and he’d learned to not talk over them.

  When it was clear that King was done talking, Frank spoke up.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. He thought about the two boxes of files, a couple of them stained red. “But I am going to go through all the files again tonight. Hopefully, I’ll find something.”

  Frank left, avoiding the reporters. They didn’t know who he was, and Frank wanted to keep it that way.

  He drove back to the hotel and carried the file boxes into the hotel. He was sweating up the stairs and set the boxes down on the bed. But he didn’t open them; he’d lied to King. He had no intention of going through the files again. He wanted a drink so badly his face was starting to hurt. The walk up Hyatt had been frustrating, and then sitting through that interminable meeting, all he could think about was the bottle of bourbon back in his hotel room.

  Once the TV was on and Frank had gotten three good sips of Bourbon in him, things started to calm down. He relaxed into it, feeling the alcohol warm him from the inside out, letting his troubles drift away like smoke.

  29

  Thursday morning, Chief King was waiting for him in the Vacation Inn parking lot. His head was killing him.

  “Morning,” King said.

  Frank nodded, grumbling. “Am I gonna get this kind of treatment every day?”

  He didn’t remember going to sleep at all. The bourbon had washed his night away. The last thing he remembered was watching Craig Ferguson. All he knew for sure this morning was that every drop of alcohol in his place was gone, even all the little mini-bottles from the mini bar.

  Frank had awakened in the same clothes he’d been wearing Wednesday night. He’d barely gotten changed and cleaned up after the call had come in that King was picking him up.

  “Nah, I just wanted to chat with you before we meet with the others,” King said as Frank got into the police cruiser. Frank was jealous—King’s car was spotless, with exactly zero pieces of ceiling fabric hanging down like tattered curtains. Frank glanced over, but the Taurus was still there—he guessed they didn’t have a lot of cars getting stolen around here.

  “Plus,” King continued, “there are more reporters at the station, and I need to make a press statement this morning. Find anything?” King asked, as he drove out of the hotel parking lot.

  Frank shook his head and then stopped immediately—it made his headache that much worse. He reached up and steadied himself with the dashboard.

  “I didn’t go through the files,” Frank said, barely shaking his head. “I was—after reading them all yesterday morning, I needed to just absorb for a while. I’ll sit down and go through them again this evening—can I borrow Peters? He’s handy.”

  King nodded, unhappy. “Sure.”

  They drove on in silence for a minute until King spoke up.

  “Look, Frank? Can I call you Frank?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Sure.”

  “I need you sober on this,” King said, staring at the road. A light rain fell, and leaves blew across the lanes and swirled around the wet gutters.

  Frank looked at him. “Look, I’m fine—I had a couple last night—”

  “I know what a drunk looks like,” King said quietly, pulling the car out onto Main. “My career has been full of high-functioning drunks—bosses, friends, coworkers. I don’t really give a shit what you do to yourself,” he said. “But for the duration of this case, no alcohol. None. Got it?”

  Frank didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t a fan of ultimatums, but the guy was taking a chance on him.

  “Okay,” Frank said quietly. The bumping of the car threatened to make him vomit. “I can do that. It won’t be easy—”

  King looked at him. “I’m serious. We’re already screwed on this case. But I can’t have you making it worse.”

  Frank nodded, already wondering how he would get through the next few days—assuming they closed the case soon. He could already feel his insides craving a drink. Now that he was thinking about it, he wanted one, even with the headache still pounding.

  “Okay, got it,” Frank said, unsure of what else to say. He felt like a kid in class, getting reprimanded. No one had spoken to Frank like that in a long time, maybe not since Trudy left. She’d ripped into him time and time again over the drinking, and his career, or what was left of it. But at the end, when they’d spoken that last time, all the anger was gone from her voice. There was only disappointment and regret.

  Somewhere along the line, she’d given up caring.

  “And I’ll go through the files again,” Frank said. “Today.”

  King nodded, as they crossed the highway into Cooper’s Mill. Frank saw banners on the lampposts advertising “HarvestFest 2011,” an event coming up downtown Saturday night. The banners whipped in the wind and rain. Fall was coming in earnest, Frank could see. They didn’t get a lot of “fall” down in Louisiana, but he’d seen more of it after moving to Alabama. But growing up, they’d never had falling leaves, or this cold rain that never seemed to let up. It had snowed a few times in his youthful winters, but only during the rare cold blast. But here, the rain was cold, and the raw wind didn’t help. He didn’t even want to imagine winter.

  “Does it ever stop raining?” Frank asked, rubbing his head. He was trying to use sheer willpower to m
ake his headache go away. But at least getting called on the carpet by Chief King had sobered him up a little, helped him focus.

  King looked over at him and smiled.

  “Yeah, it’s been wet lately. Played hell with the searches last week. Oh, and to your earlier question, ‘yes,’ Peters can help you out. He knows all the players and sat in on a bunch of the interviews.”

  “He’s a good kid,” Frank smiled. “And he knows where all the coffee is in town.”

  As they pulled up in front of the police station, Frank saw the group of reporters.

  “You do a lot of these?” Frank asked.

  “Not if I can avoid it,” King said, frowning. “They used to show up only when we called a press conference, but after that first ransom call came in, they’re here every day.”

  “Really?” Frank said, looking at King. “They can be a hassle, that’s for sure, but you can also turn them into a tool.”

  “What?” the Chief said, glancing at his watch as they crossed the wet parking lot. “I don’t have anything new to report anyway, so why bother? They just want to see us sweat.”

  Frank smiled. He had an idea, a sudden and glorious idea that cut through his brain fog like a knife.

  “Introduce me,” Frank said.

  The Chief stopped walking and looked at him.

  “What? Why? I thought you wanted a low profile.”

  “Normally, yeah,” Frank agreed. “But this is good—fan the flames. We’ve got nothing new to go on, and we could use a break,” he said, looking at the gathered crowd waiting for them in the lobby of the station. “Just say you’ve brought in an outside expert on kidnappings, and I’ll take a few questions.”

  Chief King looked skeptical, pulling his hat down to keep the rain out of his eyes. “You sure?”