by Bill Cameron
“How long have you known that guy?”
“What guy?” Myra smoked as he drove, burning a quarter of her cigarette with each frantic drag. Big Ed opened his window, but that did little to clear the air.
“The insect.”
“He doesn’t like being called an insect.”
“But he is okay with being called the Flea.”
“That’s different.”
“I am wondering why Hiram was so quick to trust him.”
“He’s cool. Don’t sweat it.” She smirked through smoke. “Robot man.”
The Caddy wanted to pull left; he decided to stop talking and put both hands on the wheel. He took the most direct route he knew back to the girl’s place, retracing his path east on Burnside, then 60th south alongside the park. He intended to drive right into the neighborhood. They had no time to dick around. Big Ed didn’t know kids, but he figured if it was old enough to talk, it was old enough to know what its house looked like. Neighbors might recognize the little bastard, or at least realize a piss dribbler that age had no business roaming the streets alone. Fact was, the kid could end up back home again any minute.
Right before the big park reservoir, traffic came to a dead halt. Big Ed saw a helicopter hovering low enough to make out the NewsChannel 8 logo. He tried skirting the jam by turning down some nameless side street, hit another backup within a couple of blocks. But he was close now. His fingers drummed the steering wheel as the cars crept forward, enough to allow him to turn onto the Bronstein’s narrow street. He made it a couple more blocks and managed to get across Hawthorne before everything stopped for good. Ahead, a crowd had gathered. Dressed in everything from winter parkas to bathrobes, they stood indiscriminately in the street, on the sidewalks, on lawns below the chopper.
Big Ed killed the engine. Myra sat up and tossed her butt out the window. “Christ, there’s cops everywhere.”
Shit. He only mouthed the word, larynx still in his pouch. He palmed the keys and got out.
“Where the hell you going?”
Last thing he needed was a load of freak-out from Myra, but as he absorbed the scene before him he realized he could use her help. He leaned against the hood of the car and pressed the larynx to his throat. “We have to learn what is going on.”
She popped open her door and stuck her head up, one foot on pavement, one inside the car. “Are you fucking crazy? No way we get the brat away from all those cops.”
He closed his eyes and breathed. “They do not have him.”
“What are you talking about? Of course they got him.”
“No.” He moved away from the car. “They do not.”
She slammed her door and slinked after him. Alarm twisted her bony, acned face. He’d seen his share of tweaker paranoia, and he had no patience for it right now.
“I need you to pull your shit together.”
“My shit is fine. You’re the idiot about to walk into a jail cell.”
“Myra—”
“How could they not have him?” She waved wildly down the street. “Cops are fucking everywhere—”
“If they had him, the street would be quiet.”
She opened her mouth, but the retort died on her lips. She surveyed the street before them, the traffic, the gathered onlookers, the patrol cars. Slowly, understanding seeped into the desiccated meatloaf she used for a brain. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
“So where is he?”
“I do not know yet.”
“What fucking good does that do us—”
“Myra, calm the fuck down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Now I need you to go find out what is going on.”
Now she shrank away from him. “I ain’t going up there.” Her hands slapped an arrhythmic beat against her thighs.
“It has to be you. You can blend in.” Of that, he was uncertain, but he knew he would stand out like spotlight in a mine shaft. “I cannot.” People always noticed the man who talked with a machine.
“I ain’t talking to no police.”
Big Ed massaged the bridge of his nose, larynx tucked in his palm. He wondered where Hiram was, if George the Flea was taking care of him or robbing him blind and leaving his body in a Dumpster. “Of course you will not speak to the police.” Even a probie would recognize a raging meth addict. “Just join the crowd up there. There will be talk, and lots of rumors. I need you to listen.”
“I don’t know ...”
“Myra, it has to be you. Walk up there and see what you can find out. You may not have to even talk to anyone if you keep your ears open.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Wait for you, and try to figure out how we find the boy.”
Her lips pulled back from her yellow teeth and she folded her arms across her chest. He could tell she was retreating into herself. No idea how long it had been since she last used, but he could see the incipient signs of withdrawal. Her eyes darted from side to side from inside deep hollows, evidence of an oncoming crash if she didn’t get fixed soon. The paranoia was a bonus.
“Myra. Think of the money. You can swim in crystal once we are finished.”
She threw him a dark look and pulled her tatty quilted coat tight around herself, moved hesitantly up the street. Big Ed watched until she neared the crowd. Then he got back into the car. People would be less likely to give him a second look if he was just a guy stuck in the traffic jam, same as anyone else.
More police arrived on the scene. He had to start the car and edge to the side to allow a couple of patrol cars past. Cops set up barricades, pushed onlookers back. Suits gathered in clusters, uniformed brass in the mix. All very stern. Something big was going on, something that wasn’t a missing boy. He found himself entertaining his own paranoid uncertainty. What if it wasn’t about the kid? What if it was about a pair of pre-dawn home invaders? If so, sitting landlocked in a Caddy a block or two away from the crime scene was the last place he wanted to be.
But that didn’t fit. It had been a long time since he’d served, and even longer since Hiram put him through the state police academy at Monmouth. He’d forgotten more than he could remember, and hadn’t been a strong student to begin with. Still, he knew you didn’t stage a manhunt in a residential neighborhood by throwing up barricades at a half-block radius and then sitting tight.
He fidgeted. The crowd never stopped moving, interrupting his line-of-sight again and again. Myra could be anywhere. Mighta given up on the whole endeavor and ran off. Or, hell, she could even be in custody. He ran his hands over his head, flexed his fists. Breathed through his mouth to minimize the effect of Myra’s stench on his sinuses. It was a mistake, he decided, to send her. As the minutes ticked by, he grew increasingly convinced he should have scouted himself, taken a chance on making an impression. Hiram wondered aloud more than once why he wouldn’t at least give a goddamn turtleneck a try. Sure as hell woulda come in handy now. Even without something to cover his neck, if he didn’t try to speak to anyone, all he’d be was a guy with some scars on his neck. With everything else going on, no one would pay attention to him. But it was too late. Myra was up there, doing who knew the fuck what. To distract himself, he flipped on the radio and spun the tuner until he found a local talk station.
Caught a news report in progress.
Police in a stand-off near Mount Tabor ... a man holed up in his house with one or more guns ... Portland Police SERT team is at the scene ... negotiators attempting to defuse a tense situation.
He stared at the radio, willing it to give up more information. The man’s name, was it Bronstein maybe?
“Police haven’t released the name or names of persons involved.”
Christ. Had to be them.
He leaned forward, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Myra’s speakers were shot. The news sounded like it was being broadcast from the distant past. He heard sudden pops and crackles, or was that from outside? He couldn’t tell.
Onlook
ers gathered behind the barricades ... command unit established at the scene. They broke away for weather and traffic, commercials, then back again. Some indication the negotiator is making progress. When he looked up again, Myra was returning, strolling casually down the middle of the street.
He jumped out of the car. “What the hell did you find out?”
“Lookie who’s got his panties in a bunch.”
“Just tell me.”
Her grin revealed missing molars on both sides of her mouth.
“Myra, damn it—”
“Fine, fine.” She laughed and pointed up the street. “See that guy talking to the woman cop?”
“Lower your arm.”
“Jesus.” She snapped her hand back to her side. “Do you see him or not?”
Big Ed looked. An older man stood talking to a female officer, a woman of rank if the silver on her collar was any indication. The man had grey, uncombed hair, wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Unremarkable at this distance, though Ed thought there was something about his neck, a bruise perhaps. He stroked his own scar tissue. He felt himself calming down again.
“What about him?”
“He’s the kid’s babysitter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know what a babysitter is? Christ, Ed.”
“I know what a babysitter is. I just—”
“Yeah, it is weird. Some random old puke in charge of a little kid.” Myra licked her lips, didn’t seem to care for the taste. “I guess he’s the neighbor across the street. Someone was saying he watches the kid a lot.”
“Did they say where the boy is?”
“With Grandpa.” Myra laughed, gleeful. “You hear that? With fucking Grandpa.”
“Interesting.”
“Your robot tube took the word right outa my mouth.”
Ed nodded, indifferent to her swipe. If they were saying the boy was with his grandfather, it meant they didn’t know Hiram no longer had the boy. It also meant they weren’t sending up an alarm. The Bronsteins wanted to keep the morning’s events quiet, whatever was going on now. That could work in his favor, if he could only find the boy before the cops did.
“What about the man in the house? The one in the standoff. Is it Bronstein?”
“Fuck if I know. They shot him, whoever it was.” She pulled out her smokes, lipped one from the pack. “I thought you only cared about the kid.”
He rolled his eyes, but he knew he should be grateful for whatever he got out of Myra. And if they did shoot Bronstein, that could only help the plan. “You’re right. The boy is the focus.”
“So you got a plan, or what?”
He gazed at the grey-haired man. “We need to get out of this traffic.”
“Okay. We get outa traffic. Then what?”
The woman cop moved away, leaving the old guy alone in the street. Big Ed watched as he thrust his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The man was anxious. And able to get the ear of a senior officer in the middle of a crisis. Ex-cop, Big Ed was betting. A man who knew how to look for what was lost.
“Ed? A plan?”
“We follow the babysitter.”
Three Years, Three Months or So Before
A Long Way From Long Gone
Ellie awoke to the sound of water flowing over rocks. She lay on her side beneath a white sheet. From her pillow, she could see out a tall, open window onto a silver rolling creek rimmed with rust, the flowing water a dozen feet away. A sheer white curtain obscured then revealed the view, inflated by a breeze that smelled of metal and cut grass.
She turned onto her back. The room was small, with faded lemon wallpaper and dark woodwork. A chest of drawers stood against the opposite wall next to the door, and a tall wooden chair sat below a second window. The door was open, and from elsewhere in the house she could hear the sound of movement, a rattle of tools or utensils.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Footsteps tapped her way. After a moment, a tall, stooped older man appeared at the door. Klamath, she guessed, but with deep blue eyes that regarded her from within a face the color of old leather. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” His voice sounded calm yet rough, as if tempered by years of filterless cigarettes. He seemed unashamed by her naked body under the sheet. She folded her arms across her breasts. Maybe he had a wife, a daughter, someone else who’d put her into bed.
“Okay. My head hurts.” She felt a throbbing ache in her ribs as well, heat in her ankles, a siege of scrapes and scratches all over.
“You probably want your clothes. I washed everything and hung it outside. Should be dry by now.” He paused. “I couldn’t find your shoes, I’m afraid.”
An image of pounding rain like falling stones flashed behind her eyes. “It’s okay.” She ran a trembling hand over her face and tried to push the memory of the cornfield out of her mind. When she looked up again, his blue eyes were still fixed on her.
“You were something of a mess, soaked through and muddy. Bleeding too, from that cut on your head.” He dropped his gaze. “I couldn’t leave you in those wet clothes.”
“Thank you.” Her cracked lips hurt when she spoke.
“You’re Immanuel Kern’s older girl.”
She flinched at his recognition, but he offered her a reassuring smile. Aside from crow’s feet, the skin of his face was smooth. Saltand-pepper hair clung to his knobby scalp. His eyes seemed to almost glow against his dark skin. She’d seen him around the valley. “I should know you.”
“Name’s Pastor Sanders.”
“Oh.”
“I used to work for the senior Spaneker, back before Hiram took over and decided he ought to be the center of everything. These days I take care of my own acreage and pick up odd jobs when I can.” He slipped into the room and sat on the tall chair. “Word from Hiram is you ran off to Arizona and left his boy heartbroken and locked away in your house.”
She drew a sharp breath and looked through the window at a fringe of aspens on the far shore of the creek. “You talked to Hiram?”
“Not me. Couldn’t help but hear him going on at the Cup ‘n’ Saucer yesterday morning.” The Cup served as the gravitational center for valley men who’d spent their lives with their hands in the dirt. As one of the few lingering independent farmers, Hiram took every opportunity to stop by the diner and hold forth. “He said you run off with another man. You’re supposed to be long gone.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Not as crazy finding you half-drowned in the creek.” He tilted his head. “You get lost on your way to Arizona?”
She lowered her head mournfully. Lost was as a good a word as any for a woman who’d killed the scion of the Givern Valley Spanekers.
“How long have I been here?”
“I found you last night on my way back from town. Lucky thing too. Usually I take route 44, but I came back on the county road last night so I could check on my hay. I saw you half in-and-out of the water, maybe a quarter mile downstream from the railroad bridge. At first I thought you were dead.”
“When was the storm? The night before last?”
“Yeah, that would be right.”
Her eyes returned to the window. The sound of the stream might have comforted a previous Ellie. No more. She didn’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed. “Why am I here?” Westbank had no hospital, but the urgent care clinic would have been adequate for her injuries. She felt like she could walk, if gingerly.
He hesitated before answering. “The way Hiram was going on at the Cup, didn’t seem prudent to reach out to the Spanekers. After I got you back here, I went to see your daddy. He asked me to look after you.”
The view through the window went silvery and soft. Tears dripped onto her cheeks. Outside, the aspens fluttered through diffuse, watercolor light and the creek flowed, a quiet murmur of water over stone. The breeze breathed through the curtains; the air seemed to expand around her. “Miss? Miss, you okay?” Pastor Sanders voice mingled with the
sound of flowing water. “Don’t you worry. You’re safe, I promise.” She blinked, and her vision fell through mist into sapphire. A moment later, she found her voice.
“Why aren’t I with my father?”
“He said you’d be safer here. Seems to me you would be in a better position to understand why than me.”
She thought of the scissors gleaming orange in the sunset and acid rose in her throat. Pastor Sanders had given no indication he knew what had happened, though he guessed its gravity. But what about her father? Did he know about the scissors? He wanted to hide her, but was he aware of the act that had driven her off the railroad bridge in the storm? She hated to think he might know what she’d done, no matter the reason. And what of this man to whom he’d entrusted her? Her mother had always been the more pious of her parents, but did her father find assurance in the pastor’s vocation? If so, it was a faith Ellie didn’t share. Reverend Wilburn would have felt her up before turning her over to Hiram.
“So what kind of preacher are you anyway?”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m no preacher. Pastor is my name ... after my daddy.”
“Your father’s name was Pastor?”
“No, that was his job. Pastor Meeks, of the Little Liver Creek Methodist Church. A white man, though you might not guess it to look at me.”
Except for his eyes. “You weren’t named in honor of him.”
“In honor? No, not exactly.” He chuckled. “I think Pastor Meeks figured he had nothing to worry about from some Injun girl, but my mama was someone you crossed at your peril.”
“Must have made for interesting Sundays.”
“It might have, but Indians didn’t attend Little Liver Methodist. We had our own church, so my father didn’t have to fret me in the pews Sunday mornings.” He waved his hand. “All ancient history. The important thing now is for you to understand you’re safe here.”
She felt her breath catch in her throat, but after a moment her tension seemed to drain away. Pastor seemed to sense her sudden need to sleep. He smiled and slipped away.
