M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Rhiann

  When I woke up, I couldn’t remember, right away, how I’d gotten home. Then—John! He’d come to the hospital to check on Jimmy and rescued me from Rory.

  Jimmy! I grabbed the phone. The nurse on duty told me Jimmy was fine—having breakfast as we spoke.

  I dressed quickly. Levi’s and Reeboks, a T-shirt and my crumpled linen jacket. Comfortable clothes. Comfortable shoes. I went downstairs to microwave some coffee but didn’t have to. There was a tap on the back door as soon as I came into the kitchen.

  I opened the door to John, holding two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “I saw your lights go on,” he said. “I thought you might need some caffeine.”

  I stood aside to let him enter. “You must be my guardian angel.”

  “Just a fellow addict.” He put the mugs on the island, sliding one toward me. “I didn’t know what you like in it.”

  I got out milk and sugar, which he declined. I added milk to my mug, returned the bottle to the fridge. Holding the door open I asked, “Can I fix you something? Ham and eggs? Or oatmeal?”

  “Thanks, but I ate an hour ago. But you have something.”

  I sighed and stared in but couldn’t recall what I was looking for. Breakfast. Nothing looked anywhere near appealing. Reason told me to make a choice. I grabbed a couple of individually wrapped sticks of string cheese. “These’ll do.”

  He didn’t comment on my choice. He said, “I’ll take you back whenever you’re ready.”

  “Will it be a problem if you’re late for work?”

  He shook his head. “One of the perks of being boss.”

  I slipped the cheese into my jacket pocket and picked up the coffee mug. “I’m ready.”

  He opened the door for me. I felt my pocket as I walked out—keys and wallet were there. The door locks automatically when you pull it shut—which he did.

  He’d backed his Jeep into my drive so the passenger side faced the kitchen door. Now he stepped around me to open the car door. He closed it when I was in.

  He drove fast, but carefully, not taking chances, not speeding enough to draw the law.

  “You drive like Mickey,” I told him.

  “Is that good?”

  “He was a great driver, very careful.”

  He accepted the compliment with a nod.

  “Would you—” I said. “Could you teach Jimmy to drive like that? When he’s better.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  We went on in silence. I was too strung out and stressed to make conversation; he apparently didn’t feel the need to talk.

  I recalled that when I was very young Steve and Billy and Smoke and I would go on hikes or hang out at the swimming hole, not speaking for hours. None of us ever had a problem with it.

  When John stopped in front of the hospital, he handed me a business card with just his name and phone number. “Call me if you need anything,” he said.

  “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “You’d probably do the same for me.”

  I watched him drive away—he didn’t look back—but I had his number in my hand.

  John

  I was surprised when Frank Farmer stopped by the shop a few days after Jimmy’s accident. I knew he was sweet on Rhiann and saw me as a dangerous rival—closer to her age, and a threat because of my record.

  I’ve found the best way to deal with hostile people is to pretend that we’ve never met and have no preconceptions about one another. So I said, “What can I do for you Mr. Farmer?”

  “I wonder if you’d do a favor?”

  I raised my eyebrows and waited.

  “Not for me. For Rhiann Fahey.”

  “Name it.”

  He gave me a look that said, “It figures.” I waited.

  “The sheriff called me ’cause he knows she’s still tied up at the hospital. They’re done with Jimmy’s car and pretty much want it outta there. You got a tow truck and you’d know where to take it till Rhiann’s ready to deal with it.”

  “Certainly. I could bring it here.” I pointed to a back corner of the shop. “We’ll throw a tarp over it and leave it until Jimmy recovers.”

  He nodded. “I’ll call the sheriff and tell ’em to expect you.” He seemed to want to say something else, but he didn’t.

  I watched him get in his car and drive away, then went to get the truck.

  When I got to the sheriff’s impound, the deputy at the counter told me I’d have to wait.

  “How long?”

  “Don’t know. Some insurance adjustor’s comin’ to look at it. Can’t take it till he’s done.”

  “Where is he?”

  The deputy shrugged. “Called a half hour ago. Said he was on his way. Didn’t say where from.”

  I thanked my stars that I had a competent crew back at the garage and asked the deputy if he’d like me to bring him anything from Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “Coffee’d be nice.”

  I nodded.

  By the time I returned with two coffees and a dozen doughnuts, the insurance adjustor had arrived. He was middle-aged and overweight. His suit was rumpled, his tie stained. He climbed out of his Buick dragging an old leather briefcase bulging with papers.

  I handed the deputy his coffee and dropped sugar packets and creamer on the counter next to the doughnut box.

  The adjustor’s lack of preparation confirmed the bad first impression he’d made—no flashlight or camera. He waddled over to the deputy and said, “You got a light?”

  From his expression, the deputy’s assessment of the guy was similar to mine. He got up and threw a switch on the wall behind him, turning on the overheads.

  I followed as the insurance adjustor pulled a police report from his briefcase and dragged himself over to the remains of Jimmy’s car.

  The front end was caved in where it’d hit the guard rail. A tie rod was broken, and the right front wheel stuck out at a sickening angle.

  I went and got the big Maglite and creeper from my truck.

  The adjustor stood in front of the car and made notes on his clipboard. When he finally looked up from his report, he turned to the deputy. “Says here there was no skid marks leading up to the crash site. Kid didn’t even try to brake. You know if they tested him for booze?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about nothin’,” the deputy said. “Not my department.”

  There was a stain on the inside of the left front wheel that looked to me like brake fluid. When I pointed it out to the insurance guy he said, “Even if it is brake fluid, so what? Brake lines break during accidents.”

  On the opposite side from the point of contact?

  “Mind if I take a closer look?”

  “Knock yourself out. I’m done.”

  I dropped onto my creeper and slid under the wreck.

  The impact had pushed the front end back into the motor, bending the frame and mangling just about everything forward of the front axle. But I could still see the brake drums, and the tool marks where someone had loosened the brake line.

  I scooted out from under the car and called the insurance guy over. “Look at this,” I said. “Someone sabotaged the brakes.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. You seen as many wrecks as I have, you could tell the difference between a bad crash and sabotage.”

  The deputy came out from behind his counter to look. He shrugged. “Don’t see nothin’. ‘Vestigatin’ officer didn’t neither.”

  I counted to ten.

  The insurance guy shoved his clipboard into his briefcase and walked out.

  The deputy shrugged and went back to his coffee and doughnuts.

  I said, “Do you have a phone that I could use?”

  He turned his phone around and pushed it across the counter.

  I called the state police. They transferred me twice before connecting me to “a detective or accident investigator.”

  “Crowley.”

  “This is John Devlin, a friend of the Fahey family.�
�

  “Yeah. And?”

  “Mickey Fahey’s family. The officer killed last March?”

  “What’s up, Mr. Devlin?”

  “Mickey’s son, Jimmy, was recently injured in a serious accident. I have reason to believe his brakes were tampered with. It happened in county jurisdiction, but they don’t seem to be interested in looking into the matter.”

  “You a detective or insurance investigator?”

  “No. I’m a mechanic.”

  “So you’d recognize when brakes’ve been messed with.”

  “I would.”

  “Well, Mr. Devlin, I’m not in a position to come—Where did you say this car is located?”

  “In the county impound garage.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t get over there today. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “They want it out of here today. I noticed the brake problem when I came to tow it away.”

  “Chance you could tow it over here?”

  “Give me the address.”

  It had been years since I thought about the pileup that sent me to prison and the other guy to the morgue. It was a crash, not an accident. We were drag racing, and we’d both been drinking. Drinking and bragging in a little podunk roadhouse. It was late and raining, but we agreed to settle the question of who had the best nerves and better car out on the street.

  Half a dozen equally inebriated barflies staggered out after us to witness the event. Fortunately for me, the bartender wasn’t a race fan. He called the local law before we even got our engines started. He saved my life.

  When my partner in criminal stupidity rolled his car into mine, he was killed instantly. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

  I was. Still, I would’ve bled to death if the sheriff hadn’t arrived immediately after the crash and stanched the flow. Somewhere between the scene and the hospital, the paramedics poured enough fluids into me to bring my BAC down to 0.09. So the sheriff didn’t charge me with DUI, just reckless homicide.

  Crowley tore himself away from whatever he was doing long enough to come out into the state police garage and show me where to drop Jimmy’s car. I waited for him to look it over. He stopped his cursory examination to ask me a question:

  “If this does turn out to be something, do you really want some smart-ass defense lawyer asking you under oath if you hung around and tried to influence the investigator?”

  “Point taken.”

  Three hours later I was back at work when Davey called out, “John, phone.”

  I picked up. “John Devlin.”

  Crowley’s voice answered: “I checked up on you, Mr. Devlin. You’re something of an expert on car crashes.” He waited.

  I didn’t answer.

  “But,” he went on, “you kept your nose clean the last fifteen years.”

  It hadn’t been fifteen years since I got out of prison—he must have talked to someone at Stateville.

  “And you’ve got a good rep as a mechanic. So I looked real carefully at young Fahey’s car. And I agree with you. The brakes were messed with. The fun part’s gonna be provin’ it. And findin’ who’d want to kill a seventeen-year-old kid.”

  Rhiann

  A few days after they moved Jimmy out of the ICU, Steve and I were in the hall outside his room, waiting for the orderly to bring him back from X-ray. Sheriff Linden got out of the elevator and approached me.

  “Got to ask your son a few questions,” he told me, “about the crash.”

  I told him where he could find Jimmy—lying on a gurney in the hall, waiting his turn at the machine. The sheriff started away, then stopped and held out an unmarked evidence envelope. “Might as well give this to you.”

  I took it. “What?”

  “Your son’s effects. Don’t need ’em for evidence. He didn’t have any alcohol in his blood, so he’s not bein’ charged with anything. Best if you take ’em home for safekeeping.” He tipped his hat and stalked off toward the X-ray department.

  I looked in the envelope, found Jimmy’s wallet, some change, and the Swiss army knife. I took it out and stared at it.

  “How did Jimmy get Smoke’s old knife?” Steve asked, taking the knife.

  “Smoke gave it to Billy the day he ran away to join the army.”

  “You saw him that day?” Steve sounded hurt, understandably. We were the Three Musketeers and D’Artagnan, and we three had gone on an adventure without him. He gave me back the knife and turned to the window to look out.

  I didn’t remind him he’d been grounded that week—for something Smoke talked him into.

  “Billy needed a ride to the bus station in Overlook because he knew his father would find out and stop him if he left from Greenville.”

  Steve turned around and leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms. “So he asked Smoke for a ride?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But Smoke hated the army. And the war—even before anyone ever heard of Vietnam. Why would he?”

  “He would’ve done anything for Billy.”

  Steve nodded.

  “I sneaked out,” I said. “And Smoke picked me up. Then we hooked up with Billy and drove to Denny’s to wait for the bus. Just before it came, Smoke pulled out his knife and handed it to Billy. ‘You need an army knife in the army, man,’ he said. ‘I’m never gonna join so you take it.’”

  Steve said, “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d’ve thought Smoke’d never part with that knife. Not after…” He turned back to the window and stared out.

  I hadn’t thought about Smoke in years…

  He’d never talked about his parents or invited any of us to his house. Steve told me that was because his father was a mean, crazy drunk, and running into Tommy Johnson was like meeting Max Caddy, or the Wolfman under a full moon. I didn’t believe it until the afternoon I met Smoke and Tommy coming out of the Pick’n Save. Smoke just nodded at me as if I were someone he knew slightly. Tommy ignored me. I was hurt but curious, so I watched them take their stuff out to their truck. One of the bags tore just as Tommy lifted it from the cart, sending cans flying in between the cars. Tommy began swearing like a soldier. At Smoke. Smoke got real quiet, started picking up the cans, fitting them into the untorn bags.

  I knew him well enough by then to realize that the madder he was the quieter he got. Obviously something more was going on than a few spilled groceries.

  Tommy didn’t help clean up the mess he’d made, just stowed the rest of the bags in the truck bed and gave the cart a shove. It slammed into a parked Cadillac. Tommy didn’t seem to notice. He got in the cab and yelled for Smoke to get in.

  Smoke grabbed the last two cans and scrambled into the cab before Tommy laid rubber pulling away.

  Smoke cut school for the next two weeks. When he finally showed up, he had the ghost of a shiner around his left eye. Steve asked him what happened.

  Smoke just grinned like he was letting us in on a secret. “I was trying to make it pop out—like a frog’s—an’ I guess I went too far.”

  That was all we ever got out of him, though Billy swore that Tommy hit him.

  The year we were in seventh grade, Steve and I went to Florida with our families over Christmas. Billy’s folks always took him somewhere cool—Acapulco or Italy—wherever. So we were all gone until just before school started, and none of us saw Smoke until after classes the first day.

  He almost blew his cool-guy image, he was so glad to see us, but he waited almost an hour to show us what he got for Christmas—a Swiss army knife. Billy’d gotten a .22 from his father, but Smoke’s knife was cooler—he’d carved a little frog on the handle. And—he was quick to point out—he could bring it to school.

  He’d only had it a week when we were ambushed by four high school bullies, who demanded our lunch money and anything else we might have that they could use. Steve and Billy and I were ready to give it up without a fight, but Smoke stepped between us and them and told them to go to hell.

  They forgot the rest o
f us and instantly zeroed in on Smoke, spreading out to surround him. We just stared.

  One of the thugs jumped Smoke from behind and tried to get a hand in his pocket. Smoke threw an elbow in his ribs; the thug screamed and folded up. Two of them grabbed Smoke and the third punched him twice in the stomach. Smoke doubled over, then threw himself sideways into the one on his right, kicking the guy to his left as he fell to the ground. The thug with the bruised ribs grabbed Smoke’s head; the first guy Smoke had knocked over grabbed Smoke’s right wrist with one hand and and tried to empty his pocket. He got hold of the Swiss army knife.

  Smoke went crazy. He head-butted the guy holding his head, and twisted around, breaking the second guy’s grip. Smoke grabbed his knife, then spun around in a circle on his back, kicking the ankles of the two guys still standing, and the head of the thug whose ribs he’d hammered.

  Before he could get up, though, the jerks regrouped. Staying just out of range, they took turns kicking Smoke, bloodying his nose.

  Billy and Steve and I were stunned. We were used to threats from older kids, but not outright brutality. We had no idea what to do.

  The blood made me crazy. I didn’t think; I just knew they would kill Smoke if someone didn’t help him. I jumped on the back of the nearest bully screaming, “Stop!” digging my nails into his face and neck. My scream must’ve woken Steve and Billy, because suddenly they were yelling and punching the high schoolers, too.

  Rage evened the odds. When the bullies found themselves on the receiving end, they made like the cowards they were and ran. We actually chased them half a block before coming to our senses.

  We stopped as abruptly as we’d started and, remembering Smoke, turned back. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, head down, bleeding all over.

  “Smoke! You all right?”

  He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve, then held up his knife and grinned. “At least they didn’t get this.”