Drift

by Jon McGoran

  Pruitt’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at me, but then he nodded. “Yeah, all right.” He turned back to me again. “But I’ve still got my eye on you.”

  * * *

  Stan’s boss, Munschak, showed up just ahead of the TV crews. He was short and intense, in his mid-thirties, and looked like the kind of bureaucrat who could really annoy a guy like Bowers. While the state police loaded up the seizure, Munschak went to work on setting up a press conference. Pruitt wandered closer to him, as if taking mental notes on how it should be done.

  “Don’t you think a press conference is a little premature?” I asked Stan.

  He shrugged. “It’s a big-ass bust, and Munschak’s been catching a lot of grief about how those meth houses caught us totally by surprise.”

  I smiled and waved him off. “Okay, whatever, but the guy that gave them the van is still out there. We need to wrap him up before he catches wind of this and takes cover.”

  Stan nodded. “He’s a local, right? What was his name?”

  “Dwight Cooney.”

  “Dwight Cooney?” Pruitt said, walking up behind us. He screwed up his face. “Are you shitting me? Dwight Cooney is a dumbass, that’s for sure, but he ain’t involved in anything like this. You got to be kidding me.”

  Stan listened to Pruitt. Then he turned back to me and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Dwight Cooney,” I repeated emphatically. “It was definitely him.”

  Pruitt shook his head. “Aw, this is horse shit.”

  “Chief Pruitt,” Stan said evenly, “Detective Carrick gave us solid information and put himself in some jeopardy to do it. If he says it was this Dwight Cooney, then I have to take him seriously. And if it wasn’t, I’m sure Mr. Cooney will understand.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, Mr. Cooney did not understand.

  His front door was open when we got there, and Cooney was sitting at his kitchen table, like he was waiting for us.

  There was a small bullet hole in his temple, and even from a distance, I could see powder burns around it. There was no exit wound. It was a small caliber gun, fired at close range, so the bullet could bounce around in that thick skull for a good long while, making sure everything was nice and scrambled.

  His eyes were glassy and his face slack—actually not much different from every other time I’d seen him.

  Pruitt walked up and stooped over to give the bullet hole a close look. I was impressed he’d come with us. I could tell he was dying to hang out for the press conference.

  “Aw, shit,” Pruitt said, straightening up and giving me a look like it was my fault.

  I went outside after that, leaning against my car and staying out of the way and minding my unofficial capacity while the professionals did their work. Eventually, Stan came out with an evidence envelope and pulled out a clear plastic sleeve with a piece of loose-leaf paper covered with uneven columns of dates and amounts—big, lopsided characters written in red felt-tip marker. “Pruitt says he’s seen Cooney’s writing and this looks like it.”

  He noticed the damage to my car. “How’d that happen?”

  “Long story.”

  He nodded and slid the paper back into the envelope. “Anyway, I know you’re in a delicate spot at work, but I want you to know, I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that you made this bust happen.”

  I shook my head. “No, Stan, that’s fine.” Part of it was modesty, part concern about aggravating things back home, but mostly, it was because all I could think about was going home and getting some rest.

  34

  When I saw Nola waiting in the darkness on my porch, I thought the cool hands of a beautiful woman would go a long way toward soothing my pain. But then I saw the look on her face, and I wondered if the worst beating of the day was yet to come.

  Before she could get started, though, she looked at my face and her expression softened. “Jesus, Doyle,” she said, as she reached up to touch the lump on my forehead. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.” I was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what to tell her about the bust. I decided on not much. “I just helped out a friend of mine at DEA with a bust.”

  She took a step back and pursed her lips, torn between sympathy and disapproval. “Are you supposed to be doing that when you’re suspended?”

  The way she enunciated it, I could tell she was still trying to decide what difference that made.

  “Not technically, no.”

  I sat down next to her on the swing and told her the story of what had happened with Dwayne Rowan. The day my mother died. I put a lot into it, made it quite a story, even made her laugh once or twice. By the time I got to the part about my mother dying, I could see the concern on her face. It wasn’t until I finished that I realized my eyes were wet, and I turned away to wipe them.

  “Oh,” she said, after a few quiet moments.

  “Yeah. It was a tough situation, but it was a stupid thing to do.”

  “But they got the bad guy, right?”

  I gave her a sideways look. “Who are you, Dirty Harry all of a sudden?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just … No.”

  I smiled. “It’s tricky when you get into it sometimes.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  She had turned to face me, her bare feet up on the swing. She slid one of them under my thigh, a little bit of physical contact as a peace offering. “I didn’t know where you’d gone today. I was worried about you.”

  I smiled. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.” Talk about worry reminded me that I’d asked Moose to keep an eye on her. I looked around, but there was no sign of him. “So where is Moose, anyway?”

  “Moose? I don’t know. I think he went to Carl’s.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Carl. Moose swears he’s Mr. Healthy Natural.”

  “He is. He’s pretty hardcore about it, too.”

  “He’s a junkie.”

  “Carl? No, he isn’t.… Really?”

  “He’s got all the signs.”

  “Wow.”

  “I have my doubts about Moose, too.”

  “Oh, come on. Now you’re being ridiculous. What do you think, everybody out here is doing heroin?”

  I had just seen enough heroin to keep every resident of Dunston stoned for the next six months, but I shrugged, letting her know she didn’t have to believe it but I still had my doubts. I decided to change the subject. “What did you do with the rest of your day?”

  She looked down. “Spent a lot of the day making awkward explanations to disappointed clients, or former clients. I called my insurance company, inventoried what was left. Read up on gasoline spills and organic certification.”

  “And?”

  She shrugged and shook her head. “It’s not a death sentence, but it’s not good. Soil excavation, testing, bringing in new organic soil.” She sighed.

  “What about you, with your MCS? Is the gasoline an issue with that?”

  She shrugged again. “I’ve never had a reaction to gasoline before, and I feel okay, considering, so it’s probably okay. But something like this happens, you never know.”

  “Did you check the other corn?”

  “There was no other corn. That was all of it.”

  “No, I mean next door. The corn on the other side of that fence.”

  She stiffened and sat up. “No, I didn’t even think about it. Should we—”

  I shook my head and put my hand on her knee. “It’s gone.”

  “All of it?”

  “As far as I could see, yeah.”

  “Wow.” She frowned. “Seems like a bit of a coincidence.”

  “That’s what I thought when I went to check it out.”

  We were quiet for a moment after that.

  She looked like she was about to say more when a pair of headlights swept across us. We both turned to see Moose pulli
ng into the driveway in Frank’s pickup truck. His tires ground into the gravel on the side of the road as he misjudged the turn.

  “Moose is home,” she said, standing up and straightening her shirt in a way that made it look like we had been up to more than we had.

  “Yay,” I said.

  She bent over and kissed the top of my head. “You look exhausted, and you’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, the funeral.”

  The funeral was tomorrow. “Right.” I hadn’t forgotten about the funeral, but I had let it sneak up on me.

  “Get some sleep, Doyle Carrick,” she said, skipping down the steps as Moose opened the car door.

  With the dome light on, I could see he was having trouble getting it together enough to get out.

  “Good night, Moose,” she said, as she walked past him.

  “What?” he said from inside the truck. “Oh. Hi, Nola. Good night.”

  I watched as she walked across the road and into her house. One by one, her lights went on then off: living room, hallway, bathroom, bedroom.

  Finally, Moose got out of the car. He seemed to be moving in slow motion as he shuffled up the steps. I didn’t say a word, sitting in the darkness, listening to him grunting and breathing loudly as he got to the front door and fumbled for his keys.

  When he saw me out of the corner of his eye, the keys squirted out of his hands and up into the air. I caught them as they came down.

  “Jesus,” he said, slumping against the door. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “What, did you think I was some goon come to rough you up?”

  “Hey, that shit could happen.” His voice was thick and slow.

  “I know. That’s why I asked you to keep an eye on Nola.”

  “She didn’t want me to keep an eye on her.”

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t ask her first.” I tossed him the keys. “I asked you to do one thing, and you messed it up. Nice job.”

  “Jesus, you sound like my dad. But even he’s not such an asshole.” He sighed loudly and tried the keys again, but dropped them.

  “Look at you. You’re a mess.”

  “What? I had a couple drinks.”

  “You’re drunk out of your mind. Or is it something other than booze?”

  In the dark, I could see the little rat bastard roll his eyes at me as he tried to unlock the door. “What are you talking about?”

  I didn’t tell him it wasn’t locked. “I’m talking about you and your little junkie friend Squirrel. You’re a little too stoned for just a few drinks. So what are you on?”

  “What are you on?”

  “Goddamn it, Moose—”

  “Look,” he said, cutting me off as he finally opened the door. “I’d be happy to have this conversation with you in the morning.” At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. He was in no shape to be saying “this conversation.” “But right now, I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  I sat on the porch and seethed for another five minutes, then went inside to watch coverage of the press conference on the Channel Sixteen eleven o’clock news.

  It all looked very impressive. A conference room at the DEA’s field office in Allentown, a folding table piled high with stacks of one-kilo bags of white powder, a few secured with red tape, the rest all sealed with yellow tape. Lined up across a tarp on the floor in front of the table was the arsenal of weapons confiscated at the scene: half a dozen automatic rifles and the same number of handguns. It occurred to me as I watched that just a few hours earlier most of those guns had been firing at me.

  Munschak was master of ceremonies, praising Police Chief Pruitt’s cooperation and saying with a straight face that this was the kind of positive outcome that occurs when local and federal authorities act together. He outlined a version of how the bust had taken place, referencing an anonymous tip. Afterward, he took questions from the press, mostly about weights and street values, which he declined to specify, since the haul had not all been tested yet.

  The reporter did a quick “back-to-you,” and I was just about to turn off the TV when they cut to aerial footage of the crime scene earlier that day. There I was, right in the thick of it, talking to Stan Bowers with an assault weapon over my shoulder. A medic came over and wiped some blood off my forehead, but I heroically waved him away.

  Three minutes later, my cell phone started ringing. Danny Tennison. I almost didn’t answer it, but I figured it could be the last friendly voice I heard for a long time.

  “So, what are you, moonlighting out there?”

  “Look, I was driving along, minding my own business when I saw them switch off on the van, so I called Stan Bowers.”

  “You just happened to have an assault weapon with you?”

  “No, I picked that up at the scene.”

  “Because…”

  I sighed. “Because I had already emptied my gun. I know. Jesus, Danny, I’m screwed.”

  “Probably so.”

  “Maybe no one else saw it.” As soon as I said it, another call came in.

  “I saw it on two channels in Philly. I imagine it was on the others, too.”

  The incoming call was the Philadelphia police. I didn’t click over.

  Danny laughed. “If you need to take that call, I can hold.”

  “No, that’s okay. I have a feeling they’ll call back.”

  “Probably a good bet. I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow. Try to get a good night’s sleep, okay? I don’t want to have to listen to Laura the whole way home going on about how you look like shit.”

  “I love you, too.”

  35

  McClintock, the funeral director, called at nine to remind me the car would arrive at ten. I’d been up since five—not due to any virtue or industry, but because what little sleep I was getting was not of the fun variety.

  By the time I’d gotten to bed, I’d stiffened up enough that it hurt just to toss and turn, but I had enough on my mind that I tossed and turned anyway. And my mind was twitching and fidgeting even more than my body, between the ache and sadness over losing my mom and Frank, stress over what was waiting for me back in Philly, and a nagging suspicion that the case that just wrapped up hadn’t wrapped up at all.

  I hadn’t forgotten about Frank’s funeral, but maybe I kind of tried to, sinking my teeth into a case I shouldn’t have been involved in to take my mind off the things I didn’t want to think about. And now that the case was supposed to be over, my brain kept insisting there was something else to it. I had to wonder if I just didn’t want to let it go.

  But there was still George Arnett’s friend with the piercings, the guy who cleaned my clock. He wasn’t any of the bodies at Crooked Creek Farm, so unless he was sitting in a trailer behind his mother’s house with a bullet in his head, he was probably still running around out there. Hell, he was probably the one who did Dwight Cooney. And even apart from that, I had a sense that something else was going on, that this bust was not the end of it.

  When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed about kids eating ice-cream cones with crack in it, and monster stalks of corn that were bloated and sickly. There was also a dream from when I was a kid. It was the one where I come home, and there’s no one there, just the faintest scent of smoke. When I was a kid it scared the crap out of me. I hadn’t had it in a while. As I’ve gotten older, a strange nostalgia sometimes accompanied it, memories of my mom coming into my room to make sure I was okay, stroking my forehead and making me smile, lying with me until I went back to sleep. No matter how long it took.

  There may have been plenty of terrible things out there in the real world, but the things that scared me the most, the horrible figments of my own imagination, were powerless in the presence of my mom. It was a feeling of absolute safety and security. This time, though, when it woke me up, that nostalgic feeling was followed by the aching awareness that she was gone.

  That’s when I got up and started drinking c
offee.

  After McClintock’s call, I gave Moose’s open bedroom door a loud, coplike bang. He awoke with a start, and immediately grabbed his head with both hands.

  “Car’s coming at ten o’clock,” I said, a little bit louder than necessary.

  He groaned.

  I put on my suit, went downstairs and called Nola to see if she wanted to ride in the car. She didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message.

  Moose came downstairs forty minutes later, showered and wearing a suit but looking rough. The suit looked like he had bought it before he finished growing, but I gave him credit for having one. What really looked like crap was his face: pale and drawn with dark rings under his eyes.

  He put on a pair of wraparound sunglasses, and sat quietly on the sofa until the car showed up.

  McClintock was sitting up front with the driver. Moose and I got in the back and looked out our respective windows.

  The service was in the little church with the white steeple, the one we had seen from Hawk Mountain. Having seen the view from the mountaintop, I could picture where the church was in relation to the house and the rest of the town.

  Nola was standing outside the church when we got there. Her hair was up and she had on a plain black dress and heels, a string of pearls, and a little bit of makeup. She gave me a tight smile and patted me on the shoulder. “I saw the news,” she said, her hand coming up to touch the bruise on the side of my face. “That was a bigger deal than you let on. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’m okay.” The events of the last few days had taken my mind off Frank and my mom. Now I felt like I was back inside that bubble.

  McClintock had every detail under control. He led me to the bottom of the steps and stood with me while I accepted condolences from the two dozen people who showed up. Most of them were older, friends of my mom and Frank. A lot of them looked vaguely familiar, either from decades earlier, or from my mom’s funeral. There weren’t as many as showed up then, and I wondered at first if she was that much more popular than Frank. She had a lot of friends from volunteering at the library. But many of the attendees forwarded regrets from spouses or friends who were under the weather. Maybe they had the same thing as Pruitt’s absentees. I wondered if he would call them sissies, too.