by Jon McGoran
There was no sign of cars. The parking area was between the house and the fence, so a car would have been destroyed for sure. But there was no sign of burnt or melted tires, no outline where it had scorched the earth.
As I drove back toward home, I called Stan Bowers.
“What’s shaking, Carrick?”
“Just checked out that other meth lab, the one on Maple Lane.”
“Why you doing that?”
“I’m bored, okay?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Fucking mess, right? I don’t know if these assholes don’t know what they’re doing, or they’re onto something new, or what.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t look like the standard setup. I mean, both places went up so hot there was hardly anything left to investigate, but we didn’t find much in the way of the cough medicine. Each place, it was like they only had a few bottles of Vicks, as far as we could tell. Maybe they’re using something else, or maybe the stuff they had just totally incinerated, or that was as much as they could get a hold of. They had all the beakers and shit, and a boatload of acetone. Way more than usual.”
“So that’s why the places went up like they did.”
“I guess. Not much in the way of explosions, either. I mean, usually, these places go up, they go boom. Not these two. There may have been some minor stuff, pop, pop, but nothing that threw out debris, and nothing that blew the fire out. Both places, by the time the fire department got there, they were almost burned completely out, nothing left to burn.”
“Were there any cars there?”
“Cars?”
“Yeah. At the Maple Lane place, the fence is all melted, fifteen feet away, but there’s no sign of any cars, damaged or otherwise. And I don’t remember seeing signs of any cars at the Burberry place, either.”
He grunted, thinking. “I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing any, but that’s not what I was looking for. Maybe someone got away.”
“Well, that’s what I’m thinking. Or maybe the places were torched.”
“Hard to tell, as careless as these knuckleheads are.”
“Hey, you know a guy named George Arnett?”
“Arnett? Doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”
“Just some asshole from Kensington. How about the ice-cream man? Ralph Ritchie busted him.”
“Mr. Softee. Yeah, I remember him. Why?”
“I’ve seen both of them this week, right here in Dunston.”
“No shit. You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. Ran the plates on Arnett.”
Stan sighed. “Well, that’s what I’m saying. It ain’t Rockwell’s America out here anymore. Getting as bad as the city.”
“Crazy stuff.”
“Doyle, I’ve seen more crazy shit out here these last six months than the last two years working out of Philly.”
* * *
Not two minutes later, I saw a little craziness myself: Just outside of town, Mr. Softee coming out of the mini-mart carrying two bulging plastic shopping bags.
He was with two other guys. One looked like Fabio, but skinny. The other one had creepy gray eyes and a face full of hardware. The guy who took me down in the alley behind Branson’s.
Anger flared hot inside me, and even though it was tempered by a cold dose of justifiable trepidation, I felt a strong urge to try my luck with him again, maybe a little more cautiously this time. Instead I turned away and watched in my mirror.
Softee was snickering about something and looking in one of the shopping bags as the three of them walked up to the black Saab. Fabio got in behind the wheel. Softee swaggered up to the front passenger side door. Gray eyes stopped a few steps away and stared until Softee looked back and jumped, scurrying over to the back door and getting in the car in a hurry. Like he was scared.
I had to smile, thinking, I hear you, dude.
As I watched in the rearview, the Saab pulled out. I tried to be slick, waiting until the Saab took the first left before I pulled out after it. I had to turn around in a hurry, and my tires sang a little as I took the left, but soon the Saab was back in front of me and I slowed down, keeping a couple of blocks between us. Tailing wasn’t my strongest suit, and I was worried they’d spot me on those long stretches of road farther outside of town, but after half a mile, they turned onto a small block of tiny bungalows. I pulled over just on the other side of the next hill, sixty yards away, and watched as Mr. Softee, Fabio, and Prince Charming got out of the Saab and walked up to a tiny, one-story place with vinyl blinds in all the windows and a new-looking white Ford Econoline van in the driveway. The three of them slipped through the front door, and before it closed behind them, a head popped out and looked up and down the street.
Dwight Cooney.
As I was sitting there pondering that relationship, my phone started playing “Watching the Detectives.”
“What’ve you got for me?” I asked.
“You know, I think the magic has gone from our relationship.”
“Don’t be like that. You know I love you.”
“Softee’s name is Derek Roberts. He had a bunch of priors, but when Ralph popped him, he got five years for possession with intent and resisting. He seemed to be moving up in the world.”
“That was five years ago?”
“Three years. Roberts got out last March.”
“Interesting. Any connection to Arnett?”
“They’re both assholes. And yes, they’re known associates.”
“Hmm. Got another one for you.”
“Wait, when does this suspension of yours start, anyway?”
“Guy’s name is Dwight Cooney.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re relentless.”
“That’s part of what makes me so good.”
“It’s part of what makes you a pain in the ass.”
“Dwight Cooney.” I spelled it out. “You got it?”
He sighed loudly. “All right, hold on a second. I’m at my computer right now.” I could hear him tapping at his keyboard. “Okay, Dwight Cooney … 1255 Mill Road?”
“That’s the house I’m looking at.”
“Yeah, he’s an asshole, too. Maybe they met at a chapter meeting. A couple for assault, a couple for possession, drunk and disorderly. Auto theft. Hasn’t done much real time, mostly fines and probation.”
“Well, he just let Roberts and two other guys into his house. If Roberts is on parole, they’re both violating something, right?”
“I guess so.” Danny sounded bored, like he was stifling a yawn.
“They’re definitely up to something.”
“Yeah, maybe, Doyle. But you’re not, remember?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re leaving it alone. You’re on suspension. If you think something is going on, it’s not your job, because you’re not on the job. You need to tell local law enforcement, then leave it alone.”
“Local law enforcement is a joke around here. Maybe I should go to DEA.”
Danny sighed. “Look, if you really think you have something, you can call DEA, but you know you’re supposed to go through local first. You know that. Especially if all you really have is a parole violation.”
He was right, but I didn’t like the way he was telling me. Before I could say something obnoxious, though, Chief Pruitt drove by, giving me a good eyeballing.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
I knew it was pointless, but I drove after Pruitt anyway, sinking low in my seat as I drove back past Cooney’s house. I caught up with him a couple of blocks away. I don’t know if he saw it was me or if he knew something was up, but he coasted over onto the side of the road. As I pulled up behind him, he put his lights on, a little less discreet than I had hoped.
I could see his shades, watching me in the wing mirror as I walked up to the side of the car.
“And how can I help you?” he asked.
“Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” I said, exhausting the entirety of
my butt-kissing capacity. “But you’ve got a convicted drug dealer violating his parole by associating with another convicted felon, Dwight Cooney, inside Cooney’s house.”
“Is that right?”
“Saw it with my own eyes, less than ten minutes ago. They’re still there as we speak.”
“Well, I think you’re supposed to be suspended from duty, and this ain’t your jurisdiction anyway, so I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, wandering around spying on the citizens of this fair town. I also think you got some kind of hard-on for Dwight ever since he kicked your ass at Branson’s.”
He smiled and I knew he was trying to goad me into doing something I’d regret. I wanted to slap those shades off his face, and he seemed to read my mind, jutting his face farther out the car window to give me a cleaner shot. I decided to say something clever instead, but I was too angry to come up with anything.
Pruitt sighed and shook his head. “Look, son, why don’t you just go on back to your daddy’s house. Or better yet, go on back where you came from.”
24
I somehow managed to get back into my car and drive off without saying or doing anything irresponsible. Pruitt was a dick, but I couldn’t decide if it was incompetence or if he was corrupt.
If there was some kind of meth racket out there, paying someone off is a pretty standard budget item. And if Nola was being harassed over her refusal to sell, a deal like that would have more than enough money at stake to invest in local law enforcement.
I was still lost in thought, impartially adjudicating The People v. Chief Pruitt, when I noticed a big GMC pickup pulling up close behind me. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see the driver. He was driving like Cooney, but I wondered if maybe that was just how people drove out here. I pulled ahead a little bit, and the pickup did, too, staying right on me. As I watched in my rearview, another truck pulled out from behind him, into the other lane. It was an older truck, a rust-colored Chevy, and pretty beat up. I smiled as it started to pass the GMC.
I slowed to let the Chevy pass me, but when it pulled up alongside me, it slowed down to match my speed and veered away then came back hard, slamming into the side of my car. I swerved and shimmied, the car listing as the right wheels slid off the road.
That car was by far the sweetest one I’d ever owned, and I winced at the sound of metal trim clattering on the road, crunching under the tires of the truck behind me.
My tires slid farther down the incline, and I gunned the engine, kicking up a spray of gravel and dirt as I tried to get back onto the road. My wheels were just starting to get traction when the Chevy hit me again and I slid off the road completely. The car tipped up for a second, the passenger side almost touching the bottom of the ditch, then it dropped back down onto all four wheels.
The airbags didn’t deploy, but a stream of some of my choicest language did. I stood on the accelerator, trying to grind my way out of the ditch, but it was useless. By the time I clambered up the side of the ditch, the two trucks were gone. Instead I saw Pruitt’s cruiser coasting up with his lights on.
He let his siren whoop once. I guess he figured he paid for the damn thing, might as well use it. He pulled up alongside me, craning his neck to look down at the car. He let out a snorting laugh. “What’d you do now?”
“Some of your fine, upstanding citizens ran me off the road.”
“Really?” Pruitt looked amused. “Another imaginary friend, running you off the road?”
“Two pickups. A new GMC, I think it was green, and an old, beat-up Chevy. Rust-colored.”
Pruitt made a big deal about looking up and down the road. “Any witnesses?”
I didn’t say anything.
Pruitt got out of his cruiser. “You know, I’ve seen the way you drive. I think what happened was, you muffed it and ended up in the ditch without any help at all.”
“What? I’m telling you—”
“And then I have to wonder if there’s a reason you’re driving like that.”
“Well, I’m telling you the reason, and if you look at the side of my car—”
“There’s no need to get belligerent, Mr. Carrick. Can I see your license and registration, please?”
He smiled sweetly, and again I had the distinct impression he was trying to provoke me, trying to piss me off in front of his dash-mounted camera. It seemed a bit of a coincidence, Pruitt arriving on the scene so quickly, and again I wondered, but I took out my wallet and handed him my license. “The registration is in the car. Would you like me to get it?”
He took the license out of my hand, but didn’t look at it. “Actually, I’d like you to stand with your feet together and your arms at your sides.”
His efforts to piss me off were working, but so were my efforts to contain my anger—proof I didn’t need anger management training.
“Now put your arms straight out to your sides, and then touch your index fingers to your nose.”
I could feel my eye twitching, and I thought about touching my fingers to his nose instead, but I took a deep breath and complied.
As I did, a black Saab came around the bend and drove slowly past us. I couldn’t see everyone inside, but I could see Derek Roberts looking at me through the driver’s window. Our eyes met, and his unibrow furrowed. Then he turned and looked straight ahead as he drove away.
By the time Pruitt got to the part where he said he was letting me off with a warning, a tow truck had arrived and my anger had cooled. I still couldn’t tell whether Pruitt was an asshole for hire or just an asshole, but either way, he had it in for me. And the feeling was mutual.
25
The car was crumpled all along the driver side, and the right fender was dented, but it was riding fine. I was riding a little rougher. There was a lingering soreness on the side of my head from Dwight Cooney, and compounded by the overall pummeling from getting run off the road, I was hurting. Maybe I was a little more attached to that car than I wanted to admit, or maybe it was one thing too many to pretend to ignore, but seeing it all beat to hell made me feel sadder than it should have.
When I got home and saw Nola sitting on my porch, I felt better. She was wearing denim shorts and a gray Cornell hoodie over the same pale blue T-shirt from the first time I saw her, at Branson’s. I wondered if the effect that T-shirt had on me would ever wear off.
She got to her feet when I pulled up. “Your car!” she said when I got out. “What happened to it?”
I didn’t want to go into it, but I told her anyway. “Someone ran me off the road.”
“What?”
“Two of them. One flanked me, the other was behind me. Pushed me off the road, into a ditch. How did it go with the caterers?”
“They were upset but understanding. They’re going to get back to me next week.” She pointed at my car. “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Positive. Hit me more than once.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe it was a message. I didn’t tell her about my tussle behind Branson’s.
“Are you okay?”
“A little sore, but I’m fine. The best part was when Pruitt shows up, and I tell him what happened. Asshole gave me a twenty-minute drunk test.”
“He thought you were drunk?”
“He knew I wasn’t drunk.”
“He really doesn’t like you, does he?”
I decided it would be best if I kept my suspicions about Pruitt’s motives to myself. “No, I guess he doesn’t.”
She leaned over and cupped my cheek. “That’s okay. I like you.”
I couldn’t tell if she was messing with me, but her hand felt nice on my cheek. “You ready to go?” I asked.
“I guess. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yup.”
“You’re sure your car is okay?”
“It’s fine,” I said, opening the door. “Just a little body work, that’s all.”
She had a picnic basket, and she put it behind her se
at. “I brought lunch, for later.”
“Great.”
I could feel her staring at me as we drove off. The Siberian elm loomed darkly over the landscape, and sensing she was about to ask again what had happened, I tilted my head toward it. “Kind of imposing, isn’t it?”
“And totally invasive,” she said, launching into a detailed explanation of how the elms spread and why it’s a problem, and probably some other things.
After Meade’s Christmas Tree Farm, the right-hand side of Bayberry Road was punctuated with a couple of roads, an antique shop, and a church with a tall white spire. The left-hand side was a green wall for a quarter mile before it angled back from the road to make way for a few houses, continuing uninterrupted behind them.
“That’s the Gilbert farm,” Nola said as we passed the first farm. “They sold the land to a developer two years ago, but kept the house. She’s a schoolteacher, and he got a job at the Home Depot up in Saint Clair. The developer sold the land, and it’s changed hands at least twice since then.”
Over the next half mile, she repeated the same story three times, but with different names and different post-agricultural professions. Across the street from one of the plots was a farmhouse that looked abandoned.
“That’s the old Denby farm,” she said. “Otis Denby died six years ago, left behind a big stack of taxes. None of his kids wants anything to do with the place.”
As we drove on, the road curved, revealing another sagging farmhouse. A U-Haul truck was parked in the driveway, the back doors open. As I slowed to a stop, a sweaty figure came out the front of the house, staggering a bit under two big boxes. He put them in the back of the truck and slid them in as far as his arms would reach. As he straightened up, wiping an arm across his sweaty forehead, he spotted us getting out of the car and his eyes narrowed, his face bitter in a way that made me think there weren’t many people he would have been happy to see.
He coughed against the back of his arm and then spat in the dirt. “Can I help you?”
