From there he’d been escorted into the school, into the principal’s office, then the nurse’s office, where Violet was seated next to the librarian, playing a game on an iPad. The office had an examination bed, like the one in most doctor’s offices, and Ferret sat on that, crinkly paper and all. The cops asked him if he was okay. A couple of uniformed officers, strictly professional. The librarian said he would take Violet for a snack. Ferret didn’t like that, didn’t want her to go, and started to stand. That was the first time the cops laid a hand on him. Grabbed his arm, squeezed, dared him quietly. “Sir? Sir. Listen to me, sir.”
Ferret turned to him. Hard stone cop face. Guy was, what, same age as Ferret? Even younger? Those eyes. Ferret figuring it out like a cold water dive, that quick. Ferret wanted so bad to kick. Boot-stomp. He didn’t care if it made him look guilty. He just wanted the look in that cop’s eyes gone. He didn’t want anyone to ever look at him like that again.
It was only Violet crying that broke the hold, her running back to her dad, and Ferret standing as she slammed into his shins, held on. The other cop said, “We can wait a few more minutes.” They left him and Violet alone, door open, cop standing there listening. Didn’t want him “coaching” her or anything like that.
Maybe he should have kept fighting, asking questions, demanding that they do something to find her. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get past her phone, her wallet, this morning in the shower. She would never leave Violet like that. Had she taken her pills? Had the anxiety sneaked up from behind and taken her like that? That fast? Where would she go? What had she been wearing? He didn’t know, he’d left first. Did she leave Violet’s cereal milk out on the table or had she set the bowl in the sink? It was about half and half depending on what sort of day Violet was having—bubbly or stubborn. Had he ever looked at her phone? Didn’t he trust her too much for that? He never checked her messages or texts. He wasn’t that jealous. He felt loved, he felt safe, he felt like they were in it together. Should he have been checking? Should he have grown a green streak? What didn’t he know about her life? What was she keeping from him? What else was she keeping from him? He had enough questions already. He didn’t need the cops asking him anymore.
A little later, the librarian popped in again—right, he didn’t have a class to teach. Made sense. The librarian asked if there was someone who could look after Violet while Ferret went to the station to “help” the police.
Blink.
The station. But that didn’t register quite yet.
Blink blink.
Dee Dee’s parents. He would have to make that call. He would have to make it right now. The librarian volunteered to help, but Ferret was thinking about that fucking call. He did not want to touch that phone.
WINTER
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Something he’d never thought about in Oklahoma, not really. Up here, the ground froze. Froze, like, not even a back hoe could break it. Russell had come to think the whole business was invincible, indestructible, but when the biggest tools of the trade are sand and water, he guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised.
He’d made his way back to the Bakken after some time back home. A few weeks to relax and recover. No need for a doctor to tell him it was the flu. He’d told everyone else that’s what it was and got on with it. It was probably more like an ulcer and severe haunting. But even Stevie’s ghost had receded at night, a little more each dream until he had apologized enough, so he hoped. That was the thing about hauntings—to really scare you, there needed to be an element of surprise. Same ghost every night, that was something else. That was comforting.
He didn’t know which would be worse—the ghost appearing again, or someone finding the girl’s body. There were nights he’d spent on the tile floor in the bathroom of whatever friend had let him spend the night on the couch, emptying himself to the point of dehydration, de-beer-ation, ha ha, swearing he’d call it in the next morning. The girl, the Fiesta, Pancrazy, all of it. The only thing that stopped him was he didn’t want Hunter swept up in it. He’d left his buddy high and dry, only a couple to calls to let him know he needed a vacation. Leaving Hunter on his own for anything was never a great idea, so it just went to show how far Russell had fallen. So he kept his mouth shut, apologized for the mess in each bathroom, and got back on the road. Plenty of cash in his pocket. Traded in the car for a used Impala with a rattling transmission and made his way back to North Dakota, slowly, making the most of every interstate exit chain bar and chain hotel, figuring that by the time he was back in Williston, he would know if he wanted to be there or not.
That was three weeks ago. He had showed up downtown right before they closed the roads. Snow blowing sideways for ten straight hours. Nine below zero. That was a sign right there. Welcome to the Ninth Circle of Hell, Russ.
Pancrazy had already told him, come back and beg, you get your job back. Russell had waited until he was far, far away before calling the man, especially after him banging on his door like that. The ghost was far less scary. But okay, apologies, amends, promises not to rat out the bossman, that was good. Still, he’d put out a few feelers for another job. He wanted to drive. Not meth, but oil. He wanted behind the wheel. He wanted to sit up high and listen to Outlaw Country radio and drink coffee and let the heater roar. He was supposed to meet with a couple of fellows later in the week. Until then, here he was, a fleece-lined hood over his hardhat, feeling thick in three layers, no four. He was in four fucking layers of clothes. And he was still cold.
Back in the man camp, a different room this time. He was surprised to find out Ferret was there, too. But then he found out why. Oh, shit, like, shit. His wife, still missing, no traces, two months later, and how was he just hearing about this? Christ, man.
And then, his best friend. Something felt wrong coming back here, waiting a couple of days before giving Hunter a call, but it felt to Russell like he’d been re-born, not Jesus-like, but Buddha and shit, and so calling “Bad Russell” was like reaching into a past life. It was going to be hard, sitting and talking and drinking like nothing had happened. But how could he talk about it? How could he discuss feelings and ghosts and reincarnation with a man who still thought wrestling was real?
Russell had wanted to meet at the Teacher’s Lounge, but Bad Russell insisted on The Tuxedo. Insisted. Really. The conversation:
“Get a couple beers at the Lounge?”
“Fuck the Lounge. The Tux. Gotta be the Tux.”
“I don’t want to look at pussy tonight.”
“The Tux or else, man.”
He had to admit to himself the one thing he’d always tried never to admit: he was afraid of Hunter. Like, Russell could take him in a fight and outthink him and outsmart him, sure enough, but he was still scared of the motherfucker.
“Fine, the Tux.”
*
Only the most popular girls had stuck around for winter, the ones with the most rules about not touching and not acting like an asshole, because they made these idiots want to be better men. Regardless of the sort of low-down, dirty, fetish porn these guys jacked to by themselves, in public they would never admit to loving anything more than big fake tits and your standard Playboy-airbrushed bodies. The girls were dancing to Nickelback. They were twerking, sort of. White girl twerking that white boys dig.
They sat at a table off to the left of the stage, crowded in by empty tables—the owners hadn’t bothered to take out the extras they’d shoved in for summer and fall. The floor was muck. Slush. Puddles. A couple of dryers running hard, aimed at the front and back entrances, industrial rugs trying to soak up the mush, but shit, there was so much of it. Wet boots, wet tile, the waitresses wearing Uggs with short-shorts to keep from slipping. The industrial-strength heater was as loud as the stereo, drying out the air above the waist while they all stomped around in slurpy shit.
And damned if Hunter didn’t know every one of these girls. Everyone in the club, it seemed. And not in a “just for tips” sort of w
ay, but really friendly, real conversation. They’d come over, he’d ask about their kids. About what they did for Christmas. One girl, he pointed her out to Russell, she was a Jew. New York Jew. “How about that? You should hear what they do for Christmas. Totally cool, man.” And then some girls wanted selfies with him for their Facebook pages. They brought him drinks without him having to order, and some microwaved wings, too. Hunter rocked this place.
Russell leaned back in his chair, hands in his jeans, tired as fuck. He’d been on one beer for the last twenty minutes. Hunter had had four. He was hyped up, man. Tweaking again? Quick look at his fingers. But they were always dirty here. How about his face? No, it wouldn’t have worked on him that fast.
“Dude,” Hunter said, slapping his buddy on the knee. “You shaved.”
Fingers to his face, couldn’t help it. “Yeah, but kept the ’stache. I got itchy.”
“You must be freezing, man. Goddamn, should’ve waited until spring.”
“I didn’t know if I was coming back.”
“Of course you were.” Another slapped knee. “We still haven’t figured out what’s next.”
“So, how about it? What do you think is next?”
“I was waiting for you to tell me.”
The next girl on stage—blonde, average height, weight, and “Photograph” by Def Leppard. Hunter be-bopped a little, pointed at the stage and said, “Pauline. She’s the best.”
But it didn’t feel like it used to. Hunter was acting like himself. Acting. Like, he knew how far to take the dumb Okie bullshit, but he was hiding something. Maybe only Russell could tell. Or worse, maybe it had been that way for a long time, and Russell was only now figuring it out. Scared him even more.
“When are you going back to Pancrazy?”
Russell shrugged. “Keep a secret?”
“Dude, it’s me.” Be-bopping, be-bopping. Definitely tweaking.
He leaned forward, hovering over his beer bottle. “I think I’m getting a new job. Different operation. I don’t feel like, you know, going back to that shit.”
“For real?”
Shrug again. What’s with the shrugs? “I like driving. I want to drive. I’ve been driving all over for like a month now, and I love it. I need it.”
“I can go with you. I can ride along, be your relief driver.”
No, you fucking well won’t. “I can ask, but I don’t think it works that way.”
Hunter grinned nice and wide. “I’m just messing with you. I’m right where I need to be. Seriously, it’s all good. We can still hang out in town. Goddamn, son, I’ve missed you, man!”
Hunter’s leg was going ninety to nothing. The whole table was shaking. Russell grabbed his bottle so it wouldn’t foam over.
“Listen, bud.” Russell took a swig first. This wasn’t the sort of question you ever wanted to ask anyway. “You okay?”
“I’ve only had a couple.”
“No, I mean...are you okay? Like really okay? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
The song ended, and there was some hands clapping, sure, but only Hunter gave Pauline the applause and whistles he obviously thought she deserved. Half out of his chair. “Bunch a losers, man. She’s the best, motherfuckers.” The applause grew a little louder. She smiled in his direction as she picked up a couple of pieces of clothing, held them over her bare tits. He waved at her to come over to the table, join them, but she motioned backstage and mouthed, “In a minute.”
“You’ll like her.” Hunter sat again. All rapid-fire with his leg again. “She’s not a real stripper. She’s just taking the semester off. You’ll really like her, man.”
“You and her got a thing?”
“Maybe so, maybe so. It’s early, but maybe.”
Russell shook his head. “Seriously, what’s going on? How can I help?”
“I think...” He sighed. That look, it was weird. Like, Hunter felt bad for Russell. Why would he look at him like that? “I think that new job sounds great. Don’t let anyone get in your way.”
“That means a lot. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t give this place another thought.”
“The Tux?”
Another wide grin. “Aw, see? You’re a joker.”
Pauline had made her way from backstage, some sweat lines ruining her thick make-up. She wore baggy sweatpants, Uggs, and a Tux T-shirt, of course. She wore plastic-rimmed glasses, which didn’t match the type of dancing Russell had just seen onstage at all. She looked a lot smaller than she had up there, too. Hunter stood and gave her a hug. She held on longer than Russell would have expected. He introduced her. They shook hands. She sat while Hunter called over a server from the bar. She propped her boots on the edge of Russell’s chair, tucked her hands between her knees, and leaned towards Hunter. Thought she said something like, “We can tell him?” or “He’s the one we tell?” but whatever it was, Hunter gave her a little head shake and pursed lips.
“Wasn’t she great?”
Pauline. Shy, wasn’t she? “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. What you do takes talent. You’ve got it.”
She bit her lip and grinned to stop him from keeping it up. He laid his arm across the back of her chair, not quite touching her. The DJ announced the next girl and the house lights dimmed, only a bit. Most of the announcement was fuzzy and too fast, but Russell heard the name “Barbarella!” and then Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” and then a girl in a red pageboy wig stomped up in latex, latex, latex.
This wasn’t what Russell had wanted tonight. Jesus, this was exactly what he hadn’t wanted. He had even practiced in the rearview mirror of the truck on the way over. Like a break-up. Not a break-up. But like one. “Maybe we need some time...shit...maybe...you’re doing good out here. You don’t need me around. Yeah, okay. You don’t need me around...might get a promotion now.” It sounded fine until he got here, and then, rerunning it in his head, it sounded fucking stupid. So now, the stripper, the dry air, Hunter acting like the tables had turned, he couldn’t say any of it. He reached into his coat pocket, found the pill he was looking for, and palmed it. He didn’t want to take it in front of them.
“I’ve got to hit the head. Be right back.”
“Breaking the seal,” Hunter said.
Just grinned and laughed and said “That’s right.” He stood, beer bottle in the same hand as the pill, now pinched between thumb and index. He made it look like he was scratching his nose before he took a big gulp and slammed it down. “Get me another. Be right back.”
*
Before taking a piss, Russell cupped some water from the sink and drank it. The anti-anxiety pills were bitter, and the beer sure enough didn’t help. He’d gotten the pills from an old girlfriend in Oklahoma who happened to wake up during one of Russell’s late-night pukes. She made him some coffee at two forty-five in the morning and then handed over a nearly full bottle of something, label peeled off. Helped soften the edges without knocking him out. First time in a long time that he had taken a drug to maintain normality rather than fuck with it.
It seemed to be working. Maybe took three a day, just to be sure, but at least he wasn’t up in the night puking, shaking, sweating. Not as often.
Couple of other guys in the restroom, so he waited for them to leave before stepping up to the urinal. The heater had dried out the whole room, whooshing in waves. The slush on the floor had gone white and chalky. The newspaper ads above the urinal were crinkling up. They were months old, anyway. Phone numbers faded from whatever color they had been to a yellow that made them nearly invisible.
He unzipped and pulled it out and started a stream, feeling tense, like he had to tell his body Come on, do it. Just do it already. It was always a fight now, never automatic. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Hunter, man, Hunter dating a stripper. And she didn’t even realize she was being dated. Still, they actually felt friendly, much more than he could say for the usual Hunter catches. Too young. The ones who use
d him, hung on for money or convenience. She wasn’t one of those. But they were still hiding something.
Full stop. Come on, piss. Come on. Think about something boring.
Hunter was a terrible liar anyway.
Hunter had lied to Ferret. He was sure enough hot on “Missus Ferret,” as he had called her. Hunter liked to watch her.
And how much longer would it take to connect the dots? Hunter. Ferret’s wife. Seriously, why hadn’t it been Russell’s first thought? Full stop again. A couple drops leaked out and ran over his knuckles, goddamn it. He still had to go, bad. But there it was.
Hunter. Ferret’s wife. And now this stripper with a secret.
Jesus.
The door banged open. Of course it did. Right at that moment. Russell let out a huff and peeked over his shoulder. Of course it was Hunter. Of course it was.
Banged right on over to the urinals and clapped Russell on the shoulder and said, “Power on, man. Break the dam.”
Hunter unzipped at the urinal right next to him. Russell tried to remember if he’d always done that or not. Supposed to be a buffer zone. But then again, Russell had never had problems pissing before, either.
“What do you think of her?”
“Hm?”
“What do you think of Pauline? Did you see her ass? Carved from marble.”
The stream froze up. He was done but he wasn’t done. Damn it. “She’s cool.”
“She’s smart, too. So far so good.”
Russell zipped up. Shook his wet fingers. Got some on his zipper, too. “Shit.” Someone else banged into the bathroom. Russell flinched. Hunter wasn’t paying attention, just kept on—
“—Because I flat out asked her, are you friendzoning me? That’s cool if you are, but if not, it would be nice to know that, too. And she said maybe not. Maybe not friendzoning me. We’ll see. We will, my friend.”
Russell got out of the other guy’s way. No, not one guy, but two. The first took the urinal one over like he was supposed to, and the guy behind him waited instead of going for the open one, like a normal guy would.
Worm Page 20
