Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  People don’t take their time to search kitchens because people just assume it’s full of kitchen stuff. It’s not really where anyone thinks to hide things, which is why it’s the perfect place to hide things. Ferret got on his knees and went to work in the kitchenette. It was filthy on the floor, black dirt and grease, his jeans sliding around in it. He pulled out pots and pans that needed a better cleaning. Sticky. There were spiders on webs up in the corners. He pulled a small dollar-store flashlight from his back pocket and took a closer look. Bits of food on the shelves. A wet spot on the back, a leak from the sink, covered with mildew. It wasn’t anyone’s “home”, not really. Just a place to sleep and shit.

  What sort of evidence would he need, anyway? Rooting around, scaring off spiders, getting his clothes filthy. What was he really looking for? A piece of her clothing? Photographs? What else? Fucking shoes? A pair of socks? Some pubic hair in a sandwich bag? Think think think. Videotapes? No, too old-fashioned even for Pancrazy. A knife? A used condom? A cast iron skillet with hair and skin on it?

  He dropped it on top of the other pots and bumped his head against the sink trying to get distance from it. Jesus. He never cleaned that thing? He never got rid of it?

  It’s not her hair. It’s not her skin. It’s not her blood. He knew that, you know, logically, but still, where there was one pretty-much-murder weapon, then...

  See, what he ended up finding chilled him even more than the blizzard could. Hidden away between dusty casserole dishes that had never been used, it looked like. A stack of photographs. Instant ones, old Polaroids, because who in the fuck would develop shots like this?

  Men. Soldiers, sort of. They carried AK-47s. They wore similar jackets, but the rest of their clothing was mixed up. Smiles. Rubble. Victims being held up, blood drained from their faces, or in some cases, no face at all. A pile of dead men, a few men posing beside them, one pantomiming like he was fucking the gas-swollen ass of one of them. Then more disturbing, hands clasping women’s bruised faces, making them look at the camera. Blood around their mouths, teeth missing, cum on their lips. Bloodied eyes. And beside them, their rapists, smiling wide, or a slick penis held against the women’s cheeks, eyes, noses, lips. And of course, of course, one of the rapists was Pancrazio.

  Most of the photos had writing on them, but Ferret had no idea what it was. Little marks and shit over the letters. Still, he swore that the chicken scratch on the white band beneath Pancrazio’s grinning face, cheek to cheek with a teenage girl drained of all emotion, was Blagoje.

  Jesus.

  He sat there several minutes, forgetting where he was and why he was in a hurry. But then the cold got to him, his fingers going numb, and he took the Polaroids featuring Pancrazy or Blagoje or whoever the fuck and put the rest back between the casserole dishes. He tried to stack the pots and pans and the sickening cast iron skillet back in the order they’d been in. Gave up and just shoved them in any old way. He stood, grease on his jeans and shoes and hands, and went over to the light switch, hit it a few times with his elbow until it dropped. Darkness except for the light coming in from the snow. And Pancrazio’s headlights.

  “Shit!” He ducked, but figured it was too late. Peeked his head up to look out the window. Pancrazio’s car, idling. How long had he been there? He kept looking through the gap in the blinds, but couldn’t tell if Pancrazio was staring back or not. The glare was too bright.

  And just like that, the lights died and Ferret blinked flashes of blue and green and ducked again. Think, man, think. Window. Back window. Or, wait, the bedroom. The bedroom window. Flimsy, small, but Ferret wasn’t a big guy. He could do this. He duck-walked to the bedroom and got in just as he heard the car door shut. Goddamned dark in here. There wasn’t a window, was there? Motherfuck, of course not. No, he’d seen it. He’d seen it from outside. It’s covered up. He’s got some sort heavy curtains or some shit.

  Ferret felt around—going to hit something, going to make some noise, hurry, Pancrazy’s at the door. Hit the edge of the bed. Yes, over the bed. He hopped up, made a grab, and got some curtains. He found the edge of the curtains and thank God there was light again and snow and a window that he slid open—no, it was stuck. Push, push, push! Fuck! He got it wide enough, popped out the screen with his hands and dove out head first. Got caught at the waist, wiggled on through and fell to the ground. Still hurt, even with five inches of snow on top.

  One more thing. Goddamn it, he had to hurry. The screen. He picked it up and shook off the snow and hopped a few times until he got it back in place, not secure, but just enough for a first glance. Wind would blow it off later. It didn’t matter. He needed to buy a few minutes to get the hell out of there.

  Flat out run.

  Flat out of breath.

  He turned his head.

  The lights were on in the trailer. A man’s shadow blocking some of it, the partially open blinds bent near the top. Pancrazy watching him go.

  He kept running. Had to get to the Explorer. Had to get it back to Gene Handy. Those photos. He had to get drunk again, was what he really had to do, to get the images of Dee Dee being raped by Pancrazy, brutalized like the women in those photos, out of his mind.

  He had to get back to the man camp, to his car in the parking lot, and get the gun Slow Bear had given him.

  Most of all, he had to get rid of the notion that his wife was still alive. When he got in the Explorer and cranked up, he let out a wail and pounded his fists on the roof until he had no more air in his lungs. Let the sadist son-of-a-bitch watch him through the windows. That motherfucker had no idea what he had coming to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It took a few hours, and Hunter needed a few breaks to keep from succumbing to frostbite, his hands and feet already dangerously close, but he finally came back to the truck and told Pauline, “That’s all.”

  Pauline, sleepy from the heater and the fumes, yawned first. “Did you find her?”

  He caught his breath, nodded. Threw the shovel and pick ax into the truck bed and climbed into the cab. He had been sweating under the heavy coat and three layers of clothing, and as that melted onto his skin again he felt hot and wet. He coughed. He wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with pneumonia the next day.

  “Where is she?”

  Hunter didn’t want to talk about it. He hadn’t been prepared to find Mrs. Ferret like that, for fuck’s sake. The darkness of her skin after months in the snow. The tortured, wide-open scream as her jaw muscles had drawn up, her mouth filled with snow and ice. Her shirt was ripped to ribbons, frozen holes on her face and neck where prairie dogs and deer had taken bites. Nothing about her looked like the woman he had known and admired.

  Once she had been uncovered, lovingly, gingerly, he pulled a phone from his pocket. At first he had thought of using the one from the asshole who’d gone home with Pauline the night before. That would be sweet justice, him trying to explain how his phone had been found beside the body of a missing woman. Especially after the same phone had been used to call in a tip. It would’ve been sweet, sweet, sweet. But no, too easy to connect the dots back to him. Not what he wanted at all. Instead, the phone was a random pickpocket job from one of the drunk roughnecks at the Tux. He made damn sure it was someone he didn’t know from the drill site, or from past fights, or from dealing meth. It was a newcomer. Guy wouldn’t even see it coming. He was probably so new he hadn’t even heard about Dee Dee yet. Perfect.

  First, he took a photo. Then he posted it to the police bulletin board where they’d been collecting tips. He typed out a vague enough but good enough location. Then he called nine-one-one and told the operator he had found the missing woman, and that they should probably get a trace on his phone. Just as the operator started trying to keep him on the line, give her some more info, he dropped the phone onto Dee Dee’s body and walked away. He hoped the cops were smart enough to figure out the rest.

  Back at the truck, he’d caught his breath and held back tears and pulled out of the field, g
oing forward as fast as he could until they finally came to a county road, paved, cleared of snow. Pauline said, “I thought you were going to, like, bring her back with us.”

  “That wouldn’t be good for us.”

  “Good, I was scared.”

  “I’m not stupid, darlin’. I’m sorry you think I am, but I told you, we were going to get out of this okay.”

  She nodded. She held her chin down on her chest, barely able to look at him.

  Then she said, “Can we get some crystal now?”

  Hunter slumped. He said, “I’m done with you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, here, take this back to your boyfriend.” He fished the asshole’s phone from his jacket pocket. “The guy who killed her, he doesn’t know about you. You’d be already dead if he did. So I’m the only one who knows you know.”

  “I’m still scared, though.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before fucking this new boy, laughing at me behind my back. And then the one time I need you to help me, so I wouldn’t freeze to death out there, you threaten me with cops?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “It’s a long walk back from here. Don’t you think? Would you be up for that?”

  He slowed and pulled to the shoulder. Pauline shuffled and freaked. She braced her arms, one on the dash and one on the back of the seat. “No, Hunter, please, let’s just go back to the Tux and talk about it.”

  “I mean, you were never going to fuck me, right?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I...you can’t make a girl like you. It takes time.”

  “Didn’t take time for that guy last night. Only your second date, right?”

  “Jesus, Hunter, that’s not fair. You and me are friends. You can’t be this way.”

  He was thinking of Mrs. Ferret’s face. The scream. Not a real scream, but he could’ve sworn he’d heard it echoing in the snow. “If you hurry, hypothermia won’t set in.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  “Jesus, Hunter, okay, anything. Anything you want. I was going to let you anyway. I mean it. I like you, but I wasn’t ready. I just wasn’t ready. But I’ll do it. Come on.”

  She moved her hand to his thigh, rubbed awkwardly.

  He wondered how the bastard had gotten Dee Dee to go with him. Something about Ferret, about how Ferret had been hurt, some bullshit. It was the only thing he could think. And when she figured out it was all a sham, how had he shut her up? Threats? Knocked her out? She had still been wearing her clothes, so he didn’t think the killer had raped her. She hadn’t stayed alive long. He’d known she had to die right from the start.

  Pauline had scooted closer, moved her hand to the zipper of his coat, trying to zip it down.

  Hunter brushed her away, pulled out into the road again. “Fuck you. We’re done. I’ll drop you off.”

  “Hunter, really.”

  “Just shut up.”

  “I really do like you, though.”

  She liked free meth. Hunter shook his head. “I said shut up, alright?”

  She did.

  He felt like an idiot. Played again. He wasn’t like the fucker who killed Dee Dee. He wasn’t a bad man deep down. Pauline had played her part. What had he expected? But he wasn’t going to let her think he was heartbroken, some shit like that. Got to stay strong.

  He shook his head and sniffed back a sneeze. His eyes watered. Sixteen more miles to drive.

  *

  Hunter dropped her off in front of the Tux. She slammed the truck door and stomped off into the club. And, hard to believe, Hunter drove away. Just like that. Maybe they’d had it out. Slow Bear couldn’t tell. But he knew that they’d gone out of town and been gone a good long time. He needed to talk to this girl.

  Slow Bear was about to climb out of the Supra when the girl poked her head out of the door, looked down the street after Hunter’s truck. Coast was clear. She started up the sidewalk towards Slow Bear’s car. Shit. Can’t let her get away. Not now.

  So as she got closer, he reached over the seat and rolled down the passenger window. Old-fashioned spinner. “Excuse me, miss, hey, miss.” Her name, remember her name, the other stripper told you. “Pauline! Hey, Pauline!”

  She held her coat tight and turned, wide-eyed. She didn’t stop walking. He had to do something. She wouldn’t know the difference, young kid like her. Jesus. He flipped open his reservation police shield. “Police. Can we talk?”

  She froze. “Hello?”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Here, take it.”

  He hefted the shield, and after another long moment of frozen glancing all up and down, she stepped closer to the car. Reached out, took the shield, and cupped it in her hands, close to her face.

  “Can we talk about where you and Hunter just came back from? It’s really important.”

  She looked up at him, eyes now going cloudy, lips trembling.

  “It’s okay. So...get in and we’ll have a chat. That’s all.”

  She started nodding. Nodding. Nodding. But then she opened the door, eased into the passenger seat, and went to full-on bawling.

  For the first time in a long time, Slow Bear felt like a real cop again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They met up at the same Arby’s where Slow Bear and Gene Hardy had first told him about Blagoje. Ferret came in, saw them at a booth in the back, and walked over. Before Gene Handy could tell him to order something—a jamocha shake, perhaps—Ferret took the photos from his pocket and slammed them onto the table. They fanned out nice and wide. Pancrazy and his victims. Bruises, broken teeth, cut lips, bloody noses.

  “So that’s that.”

  He started to walk away, but Gene Handy was already up, grabbing his arm. “Wait, wait, sit down. Just sit. I’m not going to ask you to do anything else.”

  “I’m going to go.”

  “Jesus, would you sit down?”

  Slow Bear said, “Just sit down, Finn. Come on.”

  Ferret hadn’t realized how tight he was holding himself. He sighed and let his shoulders relax, then slid in beside Slow Bear. Gene Handy sat down again and started gathering the photos, almost giddy as he flipped through. He passed them to Slow Bear, who kept stony.

  “You done good, my boy. You done good.”

  “A little too good,” Ferret said. “Almost like I was supposed to find them.”

  Gene Handy looked up. “Yeah, I had faith in you.”

  “No, I mean...never mind.”

  Slow Bear cleared his throat. The pics must have been getting to him. “I know what you mean. But I don’t...no, I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “Just saying.”

  Gene Handy held up a grimy one, Pancrazy forcing a kiss on a girl’s purple cheek. “This is what we need. All we’ve got to do is bag him, turn him over to the FBI, and show them these pictures. We collect, and let the suits decide if he’s the real deal. My gut has been saying he is all along, and now my gut is like, yeah, that’s the ticket, man.”

  Ferret had forgotten about the money. Fuck the money. “He came home before I could look for anything else.”

  “I don’t need anything else.”

  “I mean anything else about Dee Dee.”

  Slow Bear turned to Ferret. Squinted. “Jesus, now it’s Pancrazy?”

  Gene Handy said, “That’s my fault. Let’s put that on the back burner for now because this is big. Once he’s down for this shit, we’ll ask him about your wife.”

  The Indian cop shook his head. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “To keep me quiet.”

  “No, no, wait,” He held up a palm to stop Ferret, then said, “That’s crazy stupid, Gene. That’s just bullshit crazy stupid.”

  “Yeah? I haven’t heard any breakthroughs from you on this. Just a lot of ain’ts. What have you got?”

  Slow Bear couldn’t make his brain work. He spat out “Come on” an
d “Think about it” but couldn’t finish. He turned back to Ferret. “The way it works, we eliminate suspects. I’m telling you, Pancrazy is so far off base for this, just no way. I’ve got friends, regular cops, they’re shooting straight with me.”

  Gene Handy huffed, grinned. “You don’t have any friends.”

  Ferret bolted from the seat before Gene Handy could grab him again, stood back a good five feet and faced them. “You told me. You told me he did it. You told me.”

  Gene Handy held up the stack of photos. “And you found the motherlode.”

  “You used me. Jesus, you used me. Again.”

  Other customers were starting to pay attention. Even the kid wiping down tables. Ferret didn’t care. Fucking Gene Handy, taking what was left of him, scotch-taping him together for one last bit of use, flat out lying, man, lying. “I’m out of here.”

  Slow Bear couldn’t look at either one of them. Eyes on the table.

  Gene Handy could’ve gave a shit, but he didn’t. “Do you want in on this or not?”

  What can you say to that? What can anybody say to that? He didn’t say anything at all. He seethed a stupid-sounding “Fuck you” and walked out. Just like that. Just like that.

  *

  They were on him as soon as he pulled into the man camp parking lot, Ferret still driving the red Explorer, not sure what to do after that scene in Arby’s. Cops with flashlights, right at the entrance, telling him to roll down his window. A bright beam to the face, then, “Could you turn off your vehicle?”

  “What’s going on? I borrowed this truck.”

  “Sir, please. Turn it off and step out.”

  He thought he heard the other cop speak into his handset, “Looks like him. I think so.”

  Ferret glanced behind the cop to his own car in the lot, which was swarming with bored cops, a few plainclothes guys in thick coats. Good thing he’d moved the gun the day before.