by Chris Fabry
Walker looked away in thought. “Yeah, that was the summer before 9/11.”
“And the next year toward the end of June, you were at a bar, the Dew Drop.”
“Sheriff, I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve been in a lot of bars over the years, so it might be a little hard to pinpoint.”
“You were in that bar the night that baby girl disappeared. You remember that?”
Walker cocked his head slightly. “The lady whose kid went missing?”
“That’s the one.”
He laughed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“I saw they found the car in the reservoir.”
Preston nodded and looked at him.
Walker crossed his arms, his elbows sticking out like the ends of matchsticks. “Well, I don’t know what I can do for you.”
Preston studied his hands. “Somebody came to us and told us about a conversation you had.”
“Who?”
“Not important. They said you were talking not long after the child went missing.” He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and fished for a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he held it a little farther away, almost a full arm’s length. “‘I think somebody stole that little girl and dropped her in some lake. They’ll never find that girl.’ That’s what you said.”
Walker’s arms tensed and his face creased like a dried apple. “I never said anything of the sort. How would I know where that little girl went? Whoever told you that is lying through their teeth.”
“She seemed pretty sure of herself.”
“She? It was a woman?” He shot up from his chair and put his hands on the table. “Then you might want to check her story out. Maybe she’s the one who nabbed that kid.” He walked to the rear of the room, near the refrigerator, turning his back and running a hand through his hair. “I swear, Sheriff, I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I did not have anything to do with that girl’s death.”
Preston stared at the back of Walker’s head.
Then Walker turned, a look of surprise and horror on his crimson face. He looked like a trapped animal in a cage. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know if she’s dead or not. But I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“So you know more than you’re telling me. Is that what you’re saying?”
Walker paced, his shoelaces flopping as he walked. The ends of his jeans were nothing but loose strands. “Look, when I get drunk, I can say a lot of things. I’ve been in fights I don’t even remember. Maybe a long time ago I was trying to figure it out like everybody else and I said something like that. I don’t know.”
“Why would you choose to mention the part about the bottom of the lake?”
“Sheriff, that wasn’t me. That was the Jack Daniel’s talking. I was just guessing, probably, if that’s what I said. People have opinions about stuff all the time, and they don’t get arrested for it.”
Preston looked at the paper again and waited. Just sat there. Like a pause in a musical score meant to bring out the longing for completion. Clouds had gathered outside and the room darkened.
Preston finally spoke. “She also said you knew that lady’s car was at the bottom of a lake. Not that you thought it was there, but you knew it.”
“That’s not true. How would I know where that car was? I was sitting in the back of that bar having a couple brews.”
“So you admit you were at the Dew Drop that night.”
“No, I don’t admit that. I’m just saying whoever told you this could have been some woman I was trying to impress in a bar.”
“You didn’t say this at a bar, Gray. You were stone sober.” He folded the paper and stuffed it back in his pocket. “A relative of yours reached out to us. Told us about the conversation. She thought it—”
“Relative?”
“—might help us. At first she said—”
“Who?”
“—she didn’t think anything about it, but when the car came up so did the memory of the—”
“Who told you that?” Walker shouted.
“—conversation.”
“What lying skank told you that?”
“Just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. Some lowlife is trying to pin this on me, and I want to know who it is.”
The door opened slightly and Preston waved Mike away. He leaned forward and looked up at Walker. The man’s face was tight, the pockmarks drawn and quartered.
“I swear, Sheriff, you need to tell me who told you that because they’re lying to you.”
“It was your mother, Gray.”
Walker’s eyes became dead pools. His shoulders slumped, and he fell into the chair as if a bullet had just crashed through his brain. Preston had seen men felled by gunfire before. An old boy who had abused his wife and daughter holed up in a hog pen with a shotgun. It was clear he didn’t want to come out alive. And he didn’t. He’d fallen among the hogs, just dropped like a stone after a well-placed shot. Walker acted the same.
“My mother?” he said, whining.
For a moment, Preston thought he could see into his life, the neglect and fear. She was a big woman with a face every bit as hard as Gray’s. The woman had to be brutal, both in her words and actions. He could tell that by the way she talked about him during the interview. Preston actually felt a bit of pity for the guy, knowing what he’d come from.
“Did she just call you up and tell you that?” he said.
“She did. She asked to come down and we sat right here and she told us everything. I don’t see any reason for a mother to lie to me, do you?”
His face betrayed him, a searching, lifeless stare into the void.
“There’s something else. Another piece of the puzzle.”
Walker shook his head, as if the dam of his life couldn’t take another word.
There was a commotion outside in the hall, some yelling. Preston excused himself and opened the door to find Mike standing in the middle of the hall, blocking Mae Edwards. Her husband, Leason, was behind her, nervously following.
“Is he back there, Sheriff?” Mae shouted.
“For the love of pete,” Preston said, striding toward her.
“I tried to keep her out, Sheriff,” Mike said.
Preston edged in front of him and came face-to-face with Mae. She had the look of a determined bulldog.
“I saw it on the news. Has he confessed?”
Preston looked at Leason. “Get your wife out of here.” Then to Mae, “Turn around and go home.”
Leason turned and reached for his car keys, but Mae grabbed his arm. “Has he told you where she is? Has he told you what he did with her?”
Preston caught sight of a video camera coming through the front door, and he pushed Mike forward. A light came on and bathed them in white. “Take care of that, would you?”
Mike held up a hand in front of the camera. It was a scene played over and over the next few news cycles. A man in a uniform pushing the cameraman backward, the sheriff trying to calm a grieving and inconsolable grandmother. It was human interest squared, all happening in a small town setting that could be Anywhere, America.
“Mae, the best thing you can do for your granddaughter is go home. Leason, bring the car around back.”
This time Mae let Leason go and the camera lights flashed again.
“Did he do it?” Mae said, her lips trembling. “Is he the one who took her?”
“Mae, I don’t know. Now let me do my job. You know I’ll be the first to call if I find anything. Why don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not that and you know it.” She talked as the sheriff led her toward the back door, past the interrogation room. “I’m the only one in this town, the only one in my family that’s ever held out any speck of hope. And if he knows where she is . . .”
Preston showed her through the door as the car pulled up. He tried to shield her from the cameras and questions of trailing reporters. She got in and Leason
tried to back up, but Preston pecked on the window and pointed to the alley. The cameras turned toward him when the car left.
Preston smiled and turned to go inside, but the door was locked. He banged on it and cupped his hand around the window, but Mike was still in front.
He walked around the building, the gaggle of mics and cameras following him like babies behind a mother duck. Inside, he frowned at Mike, who Preston knew had to be feeling at fault. He hurried back to the interrogation room, and as soon as he opened the door, he knew the commotion was just beginning. The room was empty and the window was open.
14
They drove in silence in the RV, with June Bug in the passenger side and John staring straight ahead. He pulled into the parking lot where there was a laundry and a pizza restaurant and just sat there taking up two spaces.
“I can’t believe you did that,” John said. “I can’t believe you disobeyed me and stowed away.”
“I got the idea from you,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember the story you told? the one about your mother leaving and you went out in the backseat and covered up so you could go with her?”
John looked out the windshield at the pay phone by the convenience store. He rifled through the change in the cup holder, grabbing as many quarters and dimes as he could.
“Aren’t we going to the old lady’s house?”
“It’s not a house,” John said, slamming the door and walking across the lot to a grassy area between the buildings.
June Bug followed, trying her best to keep up. “If she doesn’t live in a house, where does she live? An RV?”
“No. Go back to the RV. I need to talk to Sheila alone.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
He reached the phone and glanced at the convenience store across the lot. “Try in there. And watch for traffic.”
She ran across the lot and inside. She disappeared into the store, then came back to the front to talk with the woman at the cash register who was chewing gum like a cow chews its cud. The woman handed her a key, then said something to June Bug. She pointed toward the window, and the woman looked outside. John waved at her, and June Bug did her potty dance. That’s what he had called it when she was younger. She’d dance down the aisle in the RV and he knew it was time, like a dog walking in circles or clawing at the back door.
“Hello?” Sheila said.
He hesitated. “It’s John. She’s with me.”
A huge sigh on the other end. “Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t. I had no idea she was here until a couple of hours ago. I’ve been trying to call you. She hid in her bed and stayed there.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not ly—”
“I mean it, John. I can take the truth. But I won’t take another man lying to me, especially about something as important as this.” Her voice trembled with pent-up emotion.
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Are you her father? Answer that. Are you really her father?”
John paused. “No.”
“Then you’ve been lying to me all along. Don’t you see?”
“I never told you I was her father.”
“She thinks you are. You’re lying to her every day. That’s even worse. And you posed as her father. I can’t believe you’d do this. I don’t know what’s happened or what brought you to this, but I can’t be part of it.”
“I understand. And I wouldn’t ask you to be part of it. Just listen to me for a minute.”
Sobs on the other end. The worst sound in the world, a woman crying. All because of him. He wanted to hang up the phone. He wanted to get June Bug and leave. This woman had invited them into her life; he hadn’t pushed his way in.
But she was right. He had misled her. He had misled everyone they had met the past seven years. This was why he didn’t get entangled with other people. He just stood there, leaning against the phone, listening to the woman’s cries.
Sheila finally spoke through her tears. “What does it say about a little girl when she chooses to hide away in an RV instead of staying with someone who loves her company? I’d have treated her like a princess.”
“I don’t know why she came with me—”
“John, she’s just like the rest of us. She wants to know the truth.”
He smiled. “That’s exactly what she said to me.”
“Then why don’t you tell her? Why do you keep up with the lies? You’re not a freelance writer, are you?”
“No.”
“You’ve never sold an article in your life, have you?”
“It’s not that I haven’t tried . . .”
“Your writing about her is beautiful. It took my breath away. But that’s not who you are.”
Silence. Then he spoke again. “It’s complicated, Sheila. About June Bug. I didn’t want to hurt her. I thought I had a few more years, but I guess if she’s asking questions, it’s probably time. And with what’s going on back there . . .”
“Go to the authorities right now.”
He watched a semi pass. June Bug bounced to the front of the store and gave the key to the lady. The woman took it and hung it on a peg behind her. “I just wanted you to know she’s safe. I thought you two would be having fun together. When I saw her, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I knew you’d be worried.”
“Worried is not the word. I’ve been going crazy wondering who you are and what you’re doing with her.”
“I can promise you, I’ve never hurt her. I’ve always tried to be the best . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You’re not just lying to her. You’re lying to yourself. Where are you?”
“Arkansas. I’m meeting with an old friend.”
Sheila sobbed as if anything he said would make her cry. “Have you seen the news?”
“I saw a clip. Not a whole lot. Have you called the police?”
There it was. The only question he really had for her. Other than letting her know June Bug’s whereabouts, this was what he wanted to know.
“Is that why you really called?”
I swear, John thought, this woman picks up on everything. “No, scratch that. I don’t care whether you called them or not. I just wanted you to know she was all right. And I wouldn’t blame you for calling them if you have.”
She sighed. “I’ve picked up the phone about a hundred times. Every time I get this picture in my mind. I think of that little girl . . .”
June Bug ran up to him. “Is it her?”
He nodded.
“Can I talk to her?” Her face lit like a Christmas tree.
He put up a hand and mouthed, “Just wait.” Then to Sheila, “What picture do you get?”
It sounded like she was wiping her nose. “I see that little face as she rode her bike. And I see you watching her all the way.”
“You saw that?”
“On the video camera in the pharmacy. John, I’ve never seen a little girl so in love with her daddy, but that’s not what you are. And if you can’t bear to tell her the truth, then something needs to be done.”
“I think you’re right. Here, she wants to say something to you.”
John handed June Bug the phone, and she hopped with excitement. “Sheila.”
He couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation but he could imagine. June Bug said she had played a trick on them and not to worry, that she’d be back.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stay. I had to go with Daddy.”
There was a long pause and several yeahs, and June Bug finally said, “Okay. I will. Bye.” She handed him the phone and ran for the RV.
He held the phone and heard the soft sounds of Sheila crying. “I guess we’d better get going.”
“John?” It was a question that just hung there. A question that carried a thousand words rolled into one. Finally she said, “Are you going to keep running?”
“I’m not sure.”
“They’re holding a man. They think he had something to do with the disappearance.”
“Yeah, I gathered. Don’t worry. I’ll do what’s right. I promise.”
“All right,” Sheila said.
“Whatever happens,” he said, his voice strong and steady, “we both appreciated what you did. She’ll never forget it. And neither will I.”
He waited a moment. When he didn’t hear anything, he said, “Good-bye, Sheila.”
He placed the phone on the cradle and held it there for a moment before returning to the RV.
* * *
The building looked more like a castle on a hill than a nursing home. A Graceland for the aged. The security guard at the gate took their information and gave Johnson a pass. “There’s larger vehicle parking just to your right, sir,” the attendant said.
They parked and walked hand in hand toward the visitors’ entrance. June Bug was entranced by the bees hovering about the flowers, and she gasped at the building. “It looks like the house where the president lives.”
The doors opened and they were greeted by falling water against rocks. Fish swam in a decorative pool.
“Can I help you, sir?” a nicely dressed woman said.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Linderman.”
“You must be John. She’s expecting you in the garden. Right this way.”
They followed the woman through the glistening hallway. He’d expected that antiseptic, alcohol smell of the aged, but there was none of that. It was a natural flower-and-earth-and-water smell that squelched other odors.
They walked past the dining area being readied for breakfast the next morning. Crystal and napkins arranged to perfection. There was another sitting area by a fireplace, tucked away with a filled bookshelf.
Mrs. Linderman sat in a wheelchair in a garden area surrounded by roses and concrete benches. A huge American flag flapped lazily above her as she watched the orange and yellow sunset. She looked like some old general to John, tired of the fight and ready for one last ride.
She shifted in her chair and smiled through the wrinkles, reaching out her left hand. “I knew you’d come back. I just wondered if I’d be around when it happened.”
