by Doc Macomber
“Looks like I got this one!” Colefield scooped up the girl’s knit cap lying on the ground where it had fallen off and hustled toward his pickup with Detective Redden a step behind.
“Stay with the mom!” Colefield shouted to Costa as he spun out of the lot.
* * *
On the narrow twisting road up ahead, Colefield spotted the tailgate of the 4 X 4 barreling through the blind turns. The truck was heading to the south side of the island. Colefield ground gears trying to close the gap.
“Damnit! They’re losing us! This tub go any faster?” Detective Redden braced his hand against the dash staring out the windshield as pavement whizzed by.
“It’s past its prime, but it can still haul ass.”
“Prove it.”
“Do you think the girl went willingly?” Colefield asked
“Hard to know. Would you choose to go with your drunken dad who may have killed your stepbrother, or prefer to identify his mutilated remains and then go into the foster care system?”
“I should have disabled the car.” Colefield wagged his head in disgust.
Colefield struggled to make out the 4 X 4 as it swerved back and forth through a series of tight corners. As the teen’s head turned to look out the rear window, the man grabbed a fist-full of her hair and pulled her back around.
A sharp bend in the road appeared, flanked by tall trees. Colefield couldn’t see beyond the corner. The speedometer was still climbing when he hit the brakes. A large group of cyclists suddenly appeared around the bend, peddling in the center of his lane. The 4 X 4 had blazed by them, causing several to swerve in all directions. One rider careened into a ditch and crashed head over heels. He cranked the wheel hard veering onto the opposite shoulder to miss the others by mere inches. He kept his focus on the speedometer and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, leaving the screaming cyclists in the dust.
Several turns later they came upon a large open field off to the north with rows of rotten pumpkins as far as you could see. There was a shortcut across the field and in its day, the old pickup would have traversed it without any trouble. So when the 4 X 4 veered off the paved road into the muddy field Colefield followed.
“Hold on!” he shouted as they bounced up and down on the springy seat as the truck swerved off the road in hot pursuit.
The old pickup truck followed the same deep ruts but didn’t have enough clearance to avoid the smashed pumpkins. It began sinking into the soft dirt, losing precious time. The tires sank deeper and deeper until the truck’s axles packed with mud became anchors. The motor overheated.
He floored it, as the front end plowed the earth and nosedived into a hollow crevice that turned out to be an irrigation ditch covered in flattened corn stalks.
Colefield’s chest slammed against the steering wheel so hard that something cracked. Redden banged his shoulder against the door leaving a dent behind. He let out a cry and clutched his shoulder, wincing in pain.
Colefield gasped a few shallow breaths and then shut off the ignition switch. He looked across the cab at the detective.
Redden just shook his head.
Colefield climbed out to survey the damage.
Wheels were buried in mud up to the frame. He limped over to the front of the truck and glanced underneath. The steering mechanism had snapped. A piece of broken tie rod hung down from the undercarriage.
Detective Redden looked ashen as he climbed out and clutched his shoulder. He hobbled over to Colefield and stared off toward the field where the 4 X 4 had rejoined the road and disappeared from sight.
Redden was pushing buttons on his cell phone with his good arm. “We lost them, Costa. They are headed East on Reeder Road.”
Colefield was pissed. A hissing sound underneath the hood increased as steam began to roll out and fill the sky. A radiator hose, he figured. He started to pop the hood open and immediately gave up when the pain in his ribs made him involuntarily clutch himself.
“I caved in my ribs and my truck.”
“I can beat that,” Detective Redden said. “I think my shoulder’s broken.”
Chapter 9
The men slogged through the ruined pumpkin patch toward the main road as the sun nudged out from behind the clouds.
The whole area smelled like pumpkin pie.
“You married, Redden?”
“Was? You?”
“No. Kids?”
“Two. Boy and girl. Eight and ten. You?”
“No.”
Colefield scraped his heel over the edge of the asphalt while he stared off into the distance. Across the open field barely in view sat a decrepit house. Abandoned and long in need of repair, the once bright azure paint had faded and peeled. Colefield’s childhood home hadn’t been occupied in years. Built after the Second World War, the wooden structure was a cheaper version of colonials you find back East or even down South. He’d never liked the house. It had been built with second-grade lumber. Always bitter cold in winter, sizzling hot in the summer and connected to too many disturbing memories. Over the years, he had carefully encapsulated his childhood recollections to exclude this house that languished by the road. His mother had loved it, and she never blamed him for causing them to leave.
“What are you looking at?” Detective Redden raised his good arm above his head as a test, and then attempted to do the same with the other. He elevated it slightly before he stopped, grimacing in pain.
“Just getting my bearings,” Colefield said. “Hand me your cell a minute. I wanna give Costa some more information.”
“While you’re at it, tell her to come get us.”
Colefield took the cell from Redden and called Costa. When she answered he said: “If the officers can’t locate them on Reeder, tell them to search near Cunningham Slough. If it hasn’t changed, there’s a dirt road. They may try using it. Oh, we’re on foot and need a ride.” After a long pause he just said “Fine.”
He passed the cell back to Redden, shaking his head. “Let’s start walking.”
“You’re shitting me … really?”
“The mother barfed all over the car. A dozen cyclists are getting patched up by the locals from the bar, and everyone has decided to file police reports against us for reckless driving and assault.”
The men started walking along the shoulder of the road. Colefield studied the detective holding his body at a funny angle. “How’s the shoulder?”
The detective smirked. “Nothing a handful of Vicoden and few cold beers won’t cure. What about you, tough guy? How are the ribs?”
“Only hurts when I breathe.”
Just then, a John Deere tractor rumbled up from behind. It began to veer clear of the men. Colefield jumped out into the center lane and waved the driver over to the side of the road. The tractor slowed down, stopping along the shoulder, its big diesel engine idling down to a purr.
“We sure could use a lift!”
The farmer studied him for a moment. “Was that your truck back in the pumpkin patch?”
Colefield nodded, looking embarrassed. “We sort of ran aground.”
The young man in overalls laughed. “Never heard that one before. Can your friend climb aboard? He looks pretty banged up.”
“Hell, he’s John Wayne.”
But Detective Redden was having a hard time keeping a straight face as Colefield boosted him up onto the hard fender. He slumped down and let out a deep sigh.
Colefield limped around to the opposite side of the tractor and hoisted himself up onto the fender fighting back the sharp pain in his side.
“Where to?”
“Bert’s Tavern.”
The tractor jostled along and it seemed to take forever to crawl down the rough road. Every little speck of gravel that the big tires rolled over caused him agony.
To get his mind off it, he struck up a conversation with the farmer.
“Sure,” the young man was saying, “I heard of Scarbough. Who hasn’t? His grandfather was one of the original founders of
the island. Came over from Ireland as a poor boy and made millions in the shipyards. Willed it all to the son when he died.”
“When was that?”
“I guess Scarbough would have been twenty when the dad died.”
“What’d he do with the inheritance?”
“What land he didn’t inherit he purchased when prices were still affordable.”
“What do you know about his son, Dave?”
“Son’s been in and out of jail more times than I can count. I don’t know if they still have much to do with each other. His dad tried to disown him a few years back after the son divorced his first wife. I don’t think he stuck to his guns because the son remarried a few years later and I heard they had patched things up. I guess Scarbough gets along fine with the new daughter-in-law. He got two grandkids out of the first marriage and I think he’d like to have more. But I’m not sure if it’s meant to be. That’s about all I know. They live over on the eastside of the island somewhere.”
Detective Redden seemed to snap out of his pain and craned his neck around. “What’d he do time for?”
“Assault. Man’s got a temper. Add alcohol, you get fireworks.”
“We witnessed some of those about an hour ago,” Redden said.
“What about the daughter-in-law?” Colefield asked.
“Can’t say I know much about her. But people talk.”
“What kind of talk?”
“I shouldn’t say. My wife told me once, but asked me not to spread it around.”
“Spread what around?”
“Rumors mostly.”
“This conversation ends with us,” Colefield said. “What kind of rumors?”
“Oh, hell – the wife can’t have any more kids because she had a miscarriage that went south, if you get my drift.”
The man paused and glanced back at them. “So who were you chasing across Fred’s Pumpkin Patch?”
“Who said anything about a chase?” Detective Redden blurted out.
“Well, I know Fred – the farmer’s field you mowed down – and he don’t take too kindly to people tearing up his fields.”
Wonder if he shoots at them? Colefield mused.
“Tell him I’ll pay for any damage.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Colefield looked at Detective Redden who rolled his eyes. Even with one good arm Redden struggled to hang on. His mind seemed rooted elsewhere.
It was time to change the subject. “So what do the islanders think happened to the little boy found dead out in the field yesterday?”
“It’s weird, if you ask me. Hunters are pretty respectful in these parts. The game wardens keep an eye on things. Some of them think it was just a freak accident. Either of you hunters?”
Redden shook his head.
Colefield nodded. “I’ve spooked a few Ruffed Grouse over the years. You?”
“Grew up hunting. If you’ve done much of it, you know how easy it is to get turned around. You think somebody is in one spot and then you find out they aren’t. My theory, someone shot the kid and didn’t even know it. Once they see the news and figure it out – they’ll come forward.”
Up ahead, the road veered and the tavern came into view. Colefield considered the man’s theory as the tractor pulled into the tavern’s chaotic parking lot.
“You can let us off here,” Colefield told the driver.
“Looks like a few cyclists ran aground today as well.” The farmer laughed as he pointed out bent and twisted bicycles perched on bike racks. Costa was handing out her business card to a man covered in road rash.
The men climbed down and shook off the rough ride. The young man smiled and looked at Colefield. “If you need a tow or any repair work I do that on the side. I’ve got a large shop at the back of my farm. I’d be happy to take a look at your old rig. Otherwise, the town of Renton is about the closest place to find a garage on Saturday. You’d better hurry though cuz it closes at noon.”
Noon! Jill! Colefield felt an old familiar detachment grab hold as soon as the thought left his mind. “Thanks,” Colefield said. “Yeah, if you’ve got the time today, I’d appreciate a tow.” Colefield reached into his pocket and handed the key to the driver.
The man put the key in his pocket. “Know if you bent an axle?”
“I don’t think so. But look it over, will you? Something’s busted under there.”
“You in a hurry to get it back? Might take me a week or so.”
“That’s fair enough. Just do whatever it takes.”
He figured by the time he had it towed into the city and rounded up parts, he’d be time and money ahead to leave it in the farmer’s capable hands. In the meantime, he could borrow Montgomery’s old shit box on wheels.
Colefield pulled out his wallet and gave the man one of his business cards with his contact information.
The man glanced at it and let out a chuckle. “River Patrol, eh? Guess you weren’t kiddin’ when you said you ‘ran aground’.”
“Let me put your number in my phone.” Colefield began patting his pockets. After a moment his face registered a weary resignation. The damned thing was gone. He was pretty sure it had been lost in the bar encounter. Sighing, he pulled out his notepad.
After the exchange, Colefield, thanked the farmer for the lift and the old tractor drove off as Costa made her way over. Detective Redden had staggered toward the sedan. When they wandered up Redden was glaring down at the flat tire. He braced himself on the trunk as his shoulder spasmed. “Will you give me a hand, Colefield?”
“Sure. In a second. I’ll be right back. Somewhere inside that tavern there’s a cell phone with my name on it.”
“Then I’d better come with you.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Costa stepped up. “Stay with the Mother of the Year and I’ll provide backup for Butterfingers here.”
As the two opened the tavern door, the entire bar turned and stared. The bartender was messing with the TV. The picture was flickering on and off. The drunken crowd, which now included pissed off and entitled cyclists, was agitated. Head down, Colefield moved quickly to the back of the bar. At the back table the two rednecks looked pained to see him again. The stack of empties on their table had doubled. Colefield figured that if he did have another go at the men, their reaction time would be slowed by the alcohol. It just might give him an edge. But, as it turned out, the fight in them had played out. And really, he could have no more fought a man than hitchhike to Mars.
Over by the wall Colefield spotted something that resembled a cell phone in the corner. Out of spite he slowed as he passed by the men’s table and picked up the pieces. He held onto the broken mess figuring he could always throw it at anyone who got in his face.
At the door Costa asked, “You find it?”
“What’s left of it.”
They went back outside to the parking lot. Detective Redden seemed impressed by the hunk of crushed plastic that Colefield showed him. His smart phone was no longer smart. Instead, it was a pile of broken parts held together by wire threads made somewhere in China.
“Must be your karma today,” Redden said. “Everything you touch is going to shit.”
“You want to go back in and roust those two for busting up your phone?” Costa asked.
“I doubt anyone in there would sign on as a witness on my behalf.”
“Point taken,” Costa said. “I made the call to the Sheriff’s Office. Columbia County dispatch sent a deputy out to look for the 4 x 4. Apparently the slough is their jurisdiction. If you want I could drive us back out to the house?”
“Look, someone has to take Redden to get his shoulder looked at. Call dispatch again, see if they’ve heard anything from the deputy while I change the tire. If they have news, we’ll call an ambulance for Redden here, and you and I can head out, collect the girl, and have a nice long chat with the hubby. Oh, shit, wait. Anita still poses a problem. Hell – as much as I hate the idea, we’ll let them handle the girl and her
father for now. If Anita is still conscious, escort her downtown. Someone’s still got to ID the boy.”
He turned his attention to the detective. “Give me ten minutes to change the tire and then I’ll drive you to the ER.”
“You’re the boss.” Redden was in no condition to argue.
Zip – those were the odds he gave any patrolmen of finding that 4 x 4. There were a million places to hide. The 24,000 acres on the island were sprinkled with lakes and surrounded by water on all sides from which to make an escape. There were also dozens of abandoned houses and outbuildings. The guy was sure to know the cops would come looking.
“Let me have the key to the trunk,” Colefield said to Redden, “I’ll see if this government piece of shit has a spare.”
Not long after, Colefield parked the sedan in the emergency lot of Emanuel Hospital and helped Detective Redden inside. As they stood at the check-in desk, a sharp pain buckled his knees but he didn’t whimper. Indeed if his rib was broken there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. In the old days they used to wrap the ribs with an elastic bandage but that practice had been abandoned after someone sued the hospital over a broken rib puncturing a lung.
The Admitting Nurse jotted down the detective’s insurance information and then told the men to have a seat in the waiting room. Someone would be along shortly.
As the men sat down, Detective Redden pulled out his cell phone. “I’d better call the ex, break the news to her that I can’t take the kids for the weekend.”
“Need some privacy?”
Redden shook his head. “Hell – I’ve got a message.” Redden punched a few buttons and listened to the playback. He hung up and turned toward Colefield. “That was the Sheriff’s Department. No surprise, but the house was empty. No sign of the vehicle yet either. They’re searching the island, but they figure they’re long gone.”
“I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s still on that island somewhere.”
Colefield busied himself while Redden talked with his ex-wife. He checked out some of the other patients waiting to see a doctor. There was an Asian woman clutching her very pregnant belly. She looked both uncomfortable and worried. Fear in her eyes suggested that at any moment the baby would squirt out onto the linoleum. Opposite her sat a homeless guy. Rags for clothing. No shoes or socks, his lobster feet covered with open sores. Near him sat a young mother with a sick toddler with a loud barking cough. Back in the corner sat a retired couple, the husband gasping for breath as if the oxygen bottle at his feet was running on empty. A plastic tube ran from the bottle to a mask strapped to his face. He kept tugging on it.
