Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  “I think those two might be the same thing.”

  I wasn’t sitting around while Fisher worked cyber patrol. Like Baba O’Riley, I was better out in the fields. Except I couldn’t reach out to Joanne, because she was dead. Keith Mortenson had disappeared from this mortal coil, too. I’d already called Wyoming, if that’s where I was calling, and left a message after the beep, even though nothing had prompted me to do so. With no one having returned my call, my theory started to feel marooned between speculative fiction and Fantasy Island. The longer I thought about it, the more I empathized with Tattoo, jumping up and down trying to flag invisible planes. I had to make my move. Vin Biscoglio wasn’t returning to my kitchen anytime soon. I’d been a tool used to set a plan in motion. Even if I didn’t grasp all the particular parts, I knew the next step would be getting the boy.

  Meaning I had to find Phillip Crowder first. There was only one way to do that, and with the courts about to intervene, it had to be tonight. I knew neither she—nor her husband—were going to be happy to see me.

  Showing up on someone’s doorstep unannounced is rude but it has its advantages. A phone call wasn’t softening the blow. From what Alison told me last night at the Blue Carousel, the odds of Mr. Rodgers taking a swing at me were pretty high. That’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes. There’s a reason why I was divorced.

  Alison answered the door. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. She didn’t seem particularly delighted either, more like worn down, broken, resigned. I had that effect on people. She left the door open.

  The appeal of a house owes as much to an owner’s individual tastes and decorative choices as it does any architectural layout. “You have a good eye for interior design.” I doubted Richard’s contribution to the cause. The nautical-themed artwork—wall hangings, stitching on sailor pillows, tapestries, paintings of harpoons, steamers, colonial advice typeset in tiny frames—tied the rooms together, all very New England.

  “What are you doing here, Jay?”

  “Is your husband home?”

  “He went back out.”

  “For how long?”

  “He went . . . back out.” She stressed those last two words. “That’s what they call it when an alcoholic falls off the wagon, relapses. Throws away twenty years of sobriety because he wants to act like a jealous lunatic.”

  I liked this woman and her warm, cozy home. Very much. Outside it was cold, dark, and snowy. This kitchen was clean and smelled nice, like orange blossoms and lavender water. Wasn’t a thing out of place. Not a single dirty dish. Not one unwashed mug or spoon. My truck, on the other hand, was filthy and smelled bad. Like old cheese and sad. But I wanted back in that stinky truck, back on treacherous roads in a blizzard, far from the pleasant company of this pretty woman. Because I knew nothing about this conversation was going to work out in my favor.

  Alison walked into the kitchen and sat at the island in the middle, hands around a steaming cup of tea. She didn’t look at me. I had the chance to slip out, and considering the mess I’d just stepped in, I knew I probably should. But I needed to talk to her if I hoped to get to this kid before his dad did. That was, if Ethan hadn’t snatched him up already. I followed her to the island.

  “Want to tell me what happened?” I braced for the blame. I hadn’t done anything, really, other than my job, and if the stress of this situation had gotten to Richard, how was it my fault he’d gone on a bender?

  “Your sheriff called. Richard answered the phone.”

  This was my fault. In my rush to establish an alibi, I’d blown hers. Even if I had warned Turley to leave her alone. Goddamn cops. I sat down to accept my sentence. But she granted an undeserved pardon.

  “Things were falling apart before you got here. We were already fighting. Richard and I have very different visions for Rewrite. A lot of the practices you find questionable? I do, too. And if I’m being honest, I used you, your involvement and coming around, as an excuse to address that. It was convenient. And lousy of me. One of those shitty things you do when you’re married.”

  “I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “No, Jay, I don’t imagine you would.”

  I didn’t want to ask what she meant by that because I already had a good idea.

  “But Richard was the one who decided to go back out. That was his choice. I didn’t open that bottle for him. And neither did you. We got sober together. Met in rehab, actually. A long time ago. Wasn’t always smooth sailing, but we stuck it out. Addicts substitute. Drug for a drug. Drug for a person. Person for a person. What I told you last night, about drawing lines and establishing boundaries, that was as much for my benefit as it was yours.” She stood up and walked to the kitchen sink, cleaning her teacup on the spot.

  I imagined when the moon was out, the light’s reflection on her fair skin must be heavenly. But there was no moon out tonight. Just the darkness of an uncertain world.

  She kept her back to me. Maybe it was easier that way. “For a long time, we were each other’s drug. And believe it or not that worked for a while. Richard and I filled each other’s empty parts. I think that’s why we started Rewrite together, some unspoken belief that if we were always chasing a dream, we’d forever feed the high. But the road eventually ends. It always does. One way or the other.”

  I didn’t know enough about addiction to offer advice, but I did know enough as a man to shut up and listen, which Alison clearly needed someone to do.

  “That’s the hard part about getting straight. The part no one tells you about. They try. But you can’t hear it. Even after twenty years I couldn’t hear it. All the problems that made you pick up in the first place are still there. They don’t leave. You find other ways to fill the hole. Some healthy, like exercise, meetings, community. Some less so. But it’s Band-Aids on a broken leg.”

  When Alison turned around, her eyes were rimmed with tears, and the suffering warred inside me, too. She took a step toward me, and I her, and in that moment I knew she would do anything to alleviate the pain. I could be that temporary fix. I wanted to be that reprieve, however fleeting, desperate, or wrong. And it was the last thing either of us needed right now.

  So we both waited for the moment to pass.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t come here to listen to me complain about my marriage?”

  There was no way to ease into what I needed.

  “Has Phillip gone home?”

  “We received the injunction today. Tomorrow morning.”

  “I need to see him, Alison. I don’t think I’ll get the chance once his father has custody. I have some questions only he can answer. You have to trust me.”

  “Answer me something.”

  I waited.

  “These questions, do they help Phillip? I mean, if you get the answers you want, everything comes your way, best-case scenario, will his life be any better off?”

  I wanted to lie. “Maybe.”

  “The Carlson Sugarhouse. Stuberville. Off the 3. Before the 16.”

  I made to go, but Alison caught my arm, turned me around.

  “Now here’s where I’ll tell you not to head out to the sugar-house, that my husband may very well be there, waiting for you. He expects you to come. He knows you won’t quit, and he hates to lose. Especially to someone like you. When he drinks, he becomes a different man. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that man, but it didn’t take more than a few minutes to remind me what that man is like. He is not a good man. That trailer those boys took you to? There’s a hunting rifle under the desk. There is one at every sugarhouse. When I spoke to him on the phone, he was running hard, feeling indignant and righteous. That’s a potent combination for a man like Richard. It’s been a long time. I know what he’ll do if he sees you. He’ll kill you, and he’ll be one hundred percent within his rights. You’ll be trespassing on private property. If you have something concrete, go to your sheriff friend. Do this the right way. Otherwise this ends bad for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY
-FOUR

  IT WAS LATE and the skies had opened up, dumping snow by the bucketful. Stuberville wasn’t like Ashton, or even Middlesex. There were no plows to ground out here. Thankfully I didn’t have to go over the mountain and deal with pulling over and strapping on the chains, but that was about all I had to be thankful for. The terrain up here was steep and gnarled, rife with thicket, winding hills, and deep, dark wilderness. Without benefit of the occasional mailbox reflection, I enjoyed three-second lead-time of my headlights. Even if I’d wanted to take Alison’s warning to heart and call Turley, I had no evidence to trade. Death certificates and winter coats didn’t add up to squat. This wasn’t Ashton’s jurisdiction anyway. There was no crime being committed, other than the one I was guilty of, and for what? I wasn’t working for Ethan Crowder or Vin Biscoglio, and now that Tom had woken up, I wasn’t trying to clear my name. Was I as pigheaded as my wife said I was? Was I as bad as Richard, simply hating to lose? Lose what? I had nothing left.

  I had my boy, a state over with his new, better dad. I had a nephew I barely knew. I didn’t have a death wish like my brother. I wasn’t looking to make some grand, dramatic statement and go out in a blaze. But I didn’t turn around either.

  Cranking gears up the hillside, I found no starlight, GPS, or celestial providence. After a while, I wasn’t sure I had the right town anymore, my route a map I’d committed to memory in the flats. With the witches of November howling, the snow and ice piled fast. Every turn reckless, I risked rollover. When I saw the sign for Carlson Sugarbush, a minor miracle, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Or that might’ve been my lungs catching up to the pack of Marlboros I’d inhaled.

  The Carlson Sugarbush wasn’t as big as the Prasch place. Less flash but more intimate. There wasn’t any room for subterfuge, no tall trees in which to conceal cameras lining the driveway. This farm didn’t cater to tourists, and there were no signs inviting the public to play pilgrim. Carlson was a regular, small working sugarbush. There were no cars in the parking lot, which granted my presence conspicuous cover. An American flag rippled proud atop a long pole in front of a tinderbox.

  On my way in, I’d seen the outline of a large barn, the mill in which to produce the sugar, rising above the tree line on the horizon, miles away. Now in the valley, I no longer saw that barn, tormented by the knowledge of how far I had to go.

  Tin buckets dangled from maple trunks, traps waiting for the extraction of spring. The sweet aroma of boiled sap saturated the air, drifting beyond hill and dale, cutting through the clean scent of freshly falling snow. The smell permanently steeped into the oxygen like fry grease into a waffle house apron.

  I hadn’t put my tire iron back, leaving little else in my truck to use as a weapon. What difference did it make? Nothing stops a bullet. I wasn’t totally unprepared. I grabbed the biggest flathead I had from the toolbox. Stuck it in my back pocket for the quick draw. I also had a little flashlight, even if the dim shine didn’t offer much more guidance than my cell across the foggy moor.

  If Richard Rodgers lie in wait, he was flying blind, too. The heavy snowfall came down harder, swirling faster. Assuming the dorms were on-site—I’d only glimpsed the barn—I had to hope they were nearby. I wasn’t lasting long in this weather. Stepping over fallen branches, crackling bramble and kindling underfoot, I headed deeper into the woods, trying to ignore Alison’s question—was this really about helping Phillip? Or was I trying to prove a point?

  Maples, red, sugar, black, dotted the brae, obscured by dense snowfall. Following this little light of mine, I forged my own path, into parts unknown. The wet ground had already penetrated my work boots, soaking through two pairs of socks. Alison told me Phillip worked this farm but didn’t mention where to actually find him. More than once, I entertained notions of a setup, saying Richard had gone back out a ruse to get me on their property, provide probable cause to rid themselves of a pain in their ass. An early sign of hypothermia: delusional thought.

  I trekked forever though sticky powder, climbing over felled logs and kicking through bramble and dead thorn bush. I stumbled, tripped on the slippery, shaky ground, which graded lower and lower, sucking me farther into the valley. Even with gloves, my hands were tender and raw. Grasping for tiny trees and limber branches, hoping for bend but not break, the meat of my palms shredded in the relentless search for higher ground. I had to pull myself back up.

  At the top of the hill, I passed a footbridge. A babbling brook raced below the ice, cold waters gurgling through fissures. The sugarhouse poked above the ridge, big square thing outlined against the black. I heard footsteps behind me, and spun one-eighty, screwdriver brandished, the Wild West’s lamest gunslinger. I saw nothing but felt eyes studying my every move, like a wild animal tracking me, the slow, precise menace of the hunt. I holstered my weapon. Doubt I’d puncture the first layer of black bear fat.

  When I turned back toward the barn, I saw a light flicker behind it. Maybe a hundred yards past the sugarhouse, up another hill. This had to be the dorms. I stuck the flashlight in my pocket, hands retreating into sleeves, bloody palms better served bunching my coat at the neck to stave off frostbite. I lowered my shoulders, bulling forward into slanting winds, fixed on the lighthouse in the squall.

  Fighting uphill, I wasn’t blazing any trail, and I had to stop and curl my body backwards, wait for the gales to break before I plowed on.

  I came upon the modest, ramshackle dormitory, which reminded me of 1930 dustbowl photographs and sharecropper quarters. The only thing missing was the old-timer playing harmonica on the front steps without shoes. I liked Alison, but seeing where Rewrite housed their impoverished flock, I had a tough time buying earnest mission statements. Like a megachurch preacher begging for 10 percent of the welfare check while he bathes in champagne fountains. I’d seen how the Rodgers lived.

  Tried the front door. Locked. Went around to the side and had better luck.

  The dorm was as cold inside as it was out. Rodents and other woodland critters scurried beneath boards. Even if his mom sent him here, Phillip only had to find a pay phone, escape a collect call away. There were no chain-linked fences topped with barbed wire walling anyone in. Unless Malcolm and Leone had been telling the truth and Phillip Crowder didn’t want to leave.

  I pulled my flashlight. Slickers hung from pegs in a narrow mudroom, boots stashed beneath a bench, wood plank floor sloshed with dirty slush. In the next room, six cots lined against the wall like a youth hostel. I swept the flashlight over the space, which was no warmer than the entranceway. One of the boys shot up. Delicate, doe-eyed and trembling.

  “Where’s Phillip?” I said.

  Another boy stirred. He was bigger, older, with arms chiseled from the hard life. “The fuck, man? I’m trying to sleep.”

  I didn’t answer. He pulled the covers over his head.

  The first boy pointed at an empty cot. Blankets tousled, sheets ripped to the floor, as if exit had been expedited.

  “Where is he?”

  “Someone came and got him.”

  “Fuck, I’m trying to sleep!”

  “Who took him? Was it Richard? Do you know who Richard is?”

  “Mr. Rodgers. But it wasn’t him.”

  “Did Phillip go on his own? Did he seem scared?”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  I spun around, screwdriver out. “Man, if you don’t pull those covers back over your head and go to sleep, I swear to God I’m stabbing you in the fucking neck.”

  “This man came by, said to grab his things, that they were leaving. I never seen him before. Phillip grabbed his bag, and they left out the side door.” He pointed the opposite way I’d come.

  “How long ago?”

  “Five, ten minutes?”

  By now more boys had woken up, bitching about the noise. Someone muttered “mutherfucker,” but I tried not to take it personally.

  I crossed the floor. Door wide open. Panning my flickering flashlight over snowy ground, I saw the footprints, two sets, b
acktracking toward the sugarhouse. Couldn’t have gotten far. I slapped the head of my flashlight, hoping for a sharper shaft.

  The footprints stopped at the barn door, ajar and rocking with the wind. I aimed my light up the dusty ground, along creaking beams. A pair of giant tanks, steam stack top hats with vacuum gauges, split the difference. Vents rose past the crisscrossing walkways to the roof, where castoff released during the boil. This time of year, the traps remained closed.

  Weaving past wheelbarrows and ladders, cords of split logs piled beside wood-burning stoves, I kept my searchlight roving over machines, scouring beneath stairs along the perimeter, settling on a table, a workstation in the corner. For a moment, I thought I’d hit the mother lode. Blocks of cash stacked high. What kind of illicit operation had I stumbled upon? I reached out for the money, only to discover wax-dipped cheddar cheese blocks, organized and labeled for shipment.

  I caught a shadow twitch out of the corner of my eye, and swung the flashlight around. Two figures huddled behind an evaporator.

  “Who are you?” a man called out, the voice so meek and apprehensive I stopped worrying about being shot.

  “My name is Jay Porter. I’m looking for Phillip.”

  Footsteps shuffled out of the dust. I recognized Phillip from the pictures online. Older now, he sported the same shaggy yellow cut. The man with him was the bigger surprise. Keith Mortenson.

  Took a moment for him to recognize me, too.

  “You’re that junkman? From Thanksgiving?”

  I could see his brain twisting up. What fates had conspired to bring us together in the middle of this forest, surrounded by vats of maple syrup and stacks of cheese? I didn’t have an answer to that one myself.

  “Are you okay, Phillip?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course he’s okay!” Keith Mortenson snapped. “You think I’d hurt him?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I’ve been trying very hard to find him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated. A man named Vin Biscoglio wanted to hire me—”