Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  "Finish your breakfast, Beaver. I'll get it," he said, carrying his plate to the sink on the way to the phone. He plucked the receiver from its cradle, tucking it between his ear and his shoulder as he rinsed his plate. "Hello?"

  I wasn't paying much attention, focusing on scooping up the last bit of ham and gooey cheese, until Hank's plate rattled in the sink. I looked up and saw he'd gone as pale as milk. The water was still running, but he'd turned his back to the sink, leaning up against the counter. His hand curled around the phone, knuckles white.

  The bottom of my stomach fell away, leaving me feeling hollow and nauseous at the same time. Something was wrong, something bad. I could see it in the strained expression in Hank's eyes, and the hard lines around his mouth.

  "Oh, Lord have mercy! Yeah, Jethro. We'll be down shortly. Keep Fargo away from there, okay?" he said, looking up and meeting my eyes. He let his hand fall to his side, still clutching the phone.

  "What is it? What's wrong?" I asked. I was out of my seat, my fork still in my hand, although I didn't remember standing up. I could feel ice begin to chill the blood in my veins, knowing just from Hank's expression that something terrible had happened. It wasn't Fargo or Jethro -- I knew that much from his half of the conversation, but still, whatever it was, it was bad.

  "They found Ashley, Beaver."

  A wave of relief washed over me. It warmed my icy blood and made me feel a little dizzy, and I sank back into my chair. "Oh, well, good. Hope he spills his guts and they lock him away for a good, long time. Where do they have him? Down at the police station? Didn't think they'd ever arrest anybody, after the way the cops acted when we filed the report."

  Hank looked at the phone dangling in his hand, which began beeping with that annoying sound that told you it was still off the receiver, and hung it up. "No... Beaver, Ashley's dead." Hank sighed and pulled out a chair, collapsing into it as if his legs had given way. He sunk his fingers into his hair, resting his forehead on his palms.

  I sat across from him, unable to understand. His words were like those puzzle scrambles in the Sunday paper, sounds bouncing around inside my skull like jumbled letters, not making much sense. "What? What do you mean, dead?"

  His eyes locked with mine. "What you do think I mean? Dead is dead, Beaver. They found his body in the woods over near Crow Lake. A couple of kids stumbled across it. Jethro says they think he's been there a good, long while."

  "Oh, Lord," I breathed, all the air whooshing out of my lungs. I remembered thinking how I wanted Ashley dead for his part in Fargo's beating. I hadn't really meant it, of course, but now I felt as if I'd wished it on him. Guilt settled over me in a thick, heavy blanket, black and oppressive. "Guess he never really left town, huh?"

  "No, I don't expect he did. Not in the way we thought, anyway."

  "Where's Fargo?"

  "Jethro and Skeeter are keeping him at Jethro's place. We'd best get going, Hank. I told Jethro we'd come over and fetch Fargo home."

  I nodded, but didn't move. "I wanted him dead, Hank," I whispered.

  "We all did, but that was just us talking out of our asses, Beaver. We were angry, but we didn't mean it. Not really, and we sure as shit didn't kill him."

  "Think somebody else did? Maybe he had an accident, or..."

  "You really believe that?" Hank's voice was tight; I could see the vein in his temple throbbing under thin skin. When his eyes met mine, there was pain in them.

  I took a minute, trying to force myself to believe it, to make it ring true, but I couldn't. "No. Reckon not."

  "Me, either." Hank lowered his head again, and suddenly he seemed to crumble right in front of my eyes, like a sand sculpture in an earthquake. "Jesus, Beaver, this is all my fault! If I hadn't been so angry at Bellows, so fucking stupid to suggest opening our own bar, none of this would've happened! Fargo, the peacock, and now, poor Ashley..."

  I reached out and grabbed his hands with both of mine, pulling them away from his face, holding them tight. I forgot my own guilt, worry for Hank pushing it aside instantly. I didn't like his color, or way his hands started shaking. "You listen to me, Hank. None of this is your fault! None of it, hear? Don't be taking on Bellows' sins as your own. Ashley got himself mixed up with those assholes, and if they're the ones who did this to him, then it's on their heads, not yours."

  Hank shook his head. "If it wasn't for Outland, Ashley never would've come down here, never would've--"

  "Don't, Hank," I said forcefully, squeezing his hands. "Please don't. I won't have you taking this on yourself. This ain't your fault. It ain't mine, or Fargo's, or Jethro's. Besides, we're jumping to conclusions, here. Maybe what happened to Ashley didn't have anything to do with us or Bellows. Let's go and see what we can find out, okay?"

  Hank blinked up at me, and I could see I hadn't changed his mind one bit, but he nodded anyway and pulled his hands away from mine, standing up. "Told Jethro to keep Fargo there, not to let him go near the scene, or the morgue, or wherever..."

  "I know. I heard," I said. I stood and pulled Hank into my arms, holding him, taking as much comfort from him as he took from me, although neither of us had much to give the other right then. I felt like we were two fragile playing cards leaning against each other in a strong wind, trying to stay upright, neither one of us strong enough to support the other for long.

  "There's just so much beating a man can take before he falls," Hank whispered. He rested his head on my shoulder, his arms around my waist. "I'm just about there, Beaver. I feel like every time we manage to get our feet under us again, something swats us back down. Don't know how much more of this shit I can stand."

  "Yeah, I know, hon. I know. Me, too." Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was thinking Ashley's death spelled the end of Outland, although I didn't want to talk about it, not then. Later, after we'd seen to Fargo and Jethro, and found out as much as we could about Ashley's death, I knew me and Hank were going to have to have a good, long, heart-to-heart about it, though. "Come on. We'd best get going. They're waiting on us."

  ***

  The clouds choking the sky were dark and beginning to piss fat drops as we stood on the road just outside the yellow police tape stretching across the tree line at Crow Lake. Beyond the flimsy barricade, authorities were poking through the leaves and roots, looking for God-knows-what-all. Clues, I reckoned, although after so much time passing, I didn't know what they hoped to find. If Ashley died shortly after Fargo's beating, as we suspected, more than enough time had passed for weather and critters to obliterate footprints and the like. I thought I spotted Sergeant Smith and the Captain among the other uniforms, but I couldn't be sure.

  Fargo wanted to come, had demanded it. We all tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted, saying he needed to see for himself. I guess he was looking for what folks call "closure." Or maybe he was secretly hoping against hope that the body they'd found wasn't Ashley's, although the rest of us knew it couldn't be anyone else -- Jethro's friend on the ambulance corps who'd called with the news said the cops found identification on the body proving it was Ashley Wills.

  They'd taken Ashley's body away before we got there, for which I was grateful. Fargo was a mess, caught up in the same guilt me and Hank were dealing with, plus some, and I know he was remembering how much he'd cared for the boy, and how Ashley had betrayed him. I was sincerely thankful he didn't have to watch them cart Ashley out of the forest in a body bag. I figured it was best if Fargo remembered Ashley as he was the last time Fargo saw him. Even so, Fargo's face looked gray in the murky light.

  "Excuse me." A rough voice called our attention away from the men crisscrossing between the trees with flashlights. We turned as a single unit, finding ourselves facing a man dressed in a light gray jacket with a gold badge pinned to the lapel. His voice sounded as if he'd been gargling rocks. "Detective Foster Loughman, Haggerty County Sheriff's Office. The officers back there," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "said one of you was Fargo Green."

  "That's me,
" Fargo said. He looked toward me and Hank then back at Loughman.

  "I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind. We can talk over by the squad cars, or go back to the station if you like, since it's starting to rain out here."

  "Just a minute," I said, putting out a hand to stop Fargo. "What's this all about, Detective? Fargo didn't have nothing to do with this."

  "It's procedure. We know Mr. Wills was spending a great deal of time with Mr. Green. I just have a few questions for him." Loughman's face was granite, without the slightest hint of emotion. I began to get a really bad feeling about his motives.

  "Maybe we should get him a lawyer, Beaver," Hank interjected. I felt his hand thump against my hip, letting me know Hank really meant "need to get him a lawyer" and not just "should" get him one.

  "Not necessary. This is just an informal conversation, that's all," Loughman said. "There's no need to make it anymore unpleasant than it has to be."

  "Then you can ask him what you want to know right here," I said, taking a step closer to Fargo.

  Loughman frowned, eyeing me closely. "Are you his father?"

  "Closest thing he's got to it," I replied, returning Loughman's glare with one of my own. I admit I was being a little belligerent, but I didn't like the detective's tone, and definitely didn't want him toting Fargo off anywhere.

  "He's over twenty-one, isn't he?"

  "I reckon. Still don't want him answering a bunch of questions without either me or a lawyer there to protect his interests," I said. I thought it sounded good -- hell, me and Hank watched enough C.S.I. and Law & Order to know you didn't go flapping your gums to a detective without a lawyer, or at least without witnesses.

  Loughman smirked at me. "He's not under arrest. I just want to ask him a few questions."

  "Well, go ahead and ask then," I retorted. I folded my arms across my chest, and caught Hank and Jethro doing the same out of the corner of my eye. A united front, I thought, biting back a smile.

  Loughman rolled his eyes, but took out a notebook and faced Fargo. "This okay with you, Mr. Green?"

  I thought he sounded sarcastic, but Fargo didn't notice. He just hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and nodded.

  "What's your current address, Mr. Green?" Loughman wrote in his notebook as Fargo rattled off our address.

  "What can you tell me about your relationship with Ashley Wills?" Loughman asked. He touched the tip of his pen to the paper, and looked at Fargo, as if ready to jot down every word that dribbled past Fargo's lips.

  "Well, first off, he was an asshole," Fargo said. His eyes grew stormy, pain and anger flashing in them. "Secondly, he was a liar, too."

  We knew why Fargo felt that way about Ashley, of course, but either Loughman hadn't read the police reports, or perhaps wanted to act as if he didn't know anything, because he cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "Odd thing to say about a fella we just found dead. Want to tell me why you disliked him so much?"

  "Sure. Bastard gave me up to the people who near beat me to death, that's why."

  "You were attacked?" Loughman asked next, and I got the feeling the startled look on his face wasn't faked. His eyes widened just a hair, flicking from Fargo's face to mine and then on to Hank and Jethro before returning to Fargo again.

  "Yes, sir. Near killed me. Got me a busted jaw and ribs, and internal bleeding," Fargo replied. "Had to have emergency surgery or I would've died. They had my jaw wired shut, too. Just had it taken out last week."

  "And Mr. Wills attacked you?"

  "No, but he told Jethro and Beaver who did, and they told me." Fargo looked toward us, and Jethro and I nodded like a pair of those bobblehead dolls you see on car dashboards.

  "That's right," I said. "Ashley told me himself at the hospital the night Fargo was beaten. Said he took a hundred dollars from Sanford Matthews to hand Fargo over to them, and he stood there and watched them beat Fargo. Thought Fargo was dead, and only called for help after Matthews left, and Ashley realized Fargo was still alive."

  "Sanford Matthews... that spelled with two tees?" Loughman asked, scribbling furiously on his notepad. "Your names," he said, jabbing his pen first at Jethro, then at Hank and me. "One at a time."

  "Listen, Detective Loughman, all this is in the report we filed after Fargo's beating," I said. "Can't you get the information from there?"

  Loughman looked distinctly uncomfortable, his head snapping toward me. "What report? I wasn't told there were any on file involving Mr. Green and Mr. Wills. I was only told that Mr. Green and Mr. Wills were... friends, that it was common knowledge in town."

  I made a rude noise, turned my head and spat. "I ain't surprised, not at all. An officer came to Fargo's hospital room the day after his surgery and took all the information. Then me, Hank, and Jethro went with Fargo to the station soon after he was released, and filed a formal report, but the officers there weren't too anxious to take it."

  "That's odd," Loughman said, looking annoyed. He closed his notebook and stuck it and his pen into his jacket pocket. "Well, it's probably just a mix-up somewhere in the files. I'll check back at the station and have the boys look for a copy of the report."

  "Yeah, well, don't be too surprised if they can't find one," I said. "Some folks don't want the people responsible found, if you get my meaning."

  "I'm sure that's not the case. When did this beating take place, by the way?" he asked.

  "A couple of months ago, and Ashley went missing a couple of weeks after. Fargo was still in the hospital then," I said.

  "Bet the coroner finds he's been dead just about that long, too," Hank added.

  I wanted to stomp on Hank's foot to keep him from yapping. Fargo might have an alibi, being in the hospital, but we didn't, and if the local cops could pin Ashley's murder on us, you can bet they'd try their damnedest to make it stick. I was uncomfortable with Hank saying anything that might make the detective think we knew more than we were saying. The look in Loughman's eyes told me that was exactly the case.

  "I'll be in touch as soon as I get that report, Mr. Green. Do us all a favor, and stay close to home for a while," Loughman said. "That goes for all of you." He ducked under the yellow caution tape, and headed toward the police who were scouring the area.

  "Shit, Hank!" I hissed the minute Loughman was out of earshot. "What were you thinking? You know Bellows has the local cops in his pocket. Give them anything, anything at all to go on, and they'll be braiding hangmen's nooses for us on their coffee breaks!"

  "It's true ain't it?" Hank said, although some of the color washed out of his face. "Besides, Loughman's not with the township police department -- he's a county detective. Maybe he'll be less inclined to sweep it under the rug."

  "You think he'll take our word for it against the local cops? Not a chance," Jethro said. "Maybe we should all think about getting us a lawyer. Things could get really bad from here on out, Beaver."

  "Things are already bad, Jethro. It's only a matter of how deep the shit pile we're standing in is going to get. Feels like its up to our hips already, and we'll likely be chewing on the stuff before too long. Come on, let's go back to our house," I said, starting for the truck.

  We'd taken about ten paces before we realized Fargo wasn't moving. I trotted back to where he was standing, staring out into the trees. "Fargo? You okay? We got to go, son."

  "Think if they killed me, they would've let Ashley alone?" he asked in a small voice. "I hated him, really hated him for doing what he done to me, but I didn't want him dead, Beaver."

  "None of us did, Fargo, and no, I don't think they would've let him be. He knew too much. Knew who they were, watched what they done to you. If Bellows and Matthews are the ones who killed him, I figure they planned to do it all along. Listen, we won't know what really happened to him until the coroner's done with the body, and we shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe we're wrong. Maybe something else happened."

  "They did it," he said, his voice flat and cold. "I know they did. Beat him,
probably. I was the test run. They got it right with Ashley."

  I knew in my gut he was right, and didn't bother to argue. We were both silent as I grabbed his arm and steered him toward the truck.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We closed Outland again the weekend the coroner released Ashley's body for burial. Hank tacked up a sign on the front door that read, "Closed for death in family." He said we should have respect for the dead even though Ashley sure as shit hadn't earned a drop of it while he'd been alive. I agreed with the "closed for death" part, but had a real problem with him adding "family" in there. Ashley was no relation of mine, blood or otherwise -- I hadn't forgotten what the little bastard had done to Fargo. Neither had anyone else, but Hank put it up there anyway.

  Ashley had relatives down in Alabama, a few odd aunts, uncles, and cousins, but nobody who cared to claim his body. It fell to us to give him a Christian burial, the very people he'd betrayed. We could've let the state take him, dump his ass in a pauper's grave somewhere, but Hank wouldn't hear of it.