Nothing Stays Buried

by P. J. Tracy

  Walt was standing at the edge of his cornfield, where the runoff ditch butted right up to the June-young leafy stalks, and for a long time he watched, waiting. Eventually, the lion appeared, as he always did, and Walt felt the quick thump of his heart. The creature was enormous, his massive paws flattening the strip of quack grass the herbicide had missed. He moved to his usual place and settled into the dirt to bask in the sun. It was so damn wrong, this huge African lion with that big shaggy mane lying in the middle of a Minnesota cornfield, but by now, Walt was getting used to it.

  “Hello, lion,” he said, and the lion chuffed his customary greeting.

  “I had company yesterday. They’re going to find out what happened to Marla.”

  The lion chuffed again.

  The beast appeared every spring, as certain as the first croaking of the peepers near the lake and the sparrows chirping in the cottonwoods. In a strange way, the lion was spring to Walt, but he was also the death of his son, the passing of his wife a year later, and now the disappearance of Marla.

  “’Course they may not be able to. No one else has. But I got a feeling. What do you think about that?”

  Funny thing about how that lion turned his head to look at you and blinked real slow, like he knew just what you were saying. He was a polite beast, when it came to that. You asked him a question, he gave you his attention and then chuffed his answer. Except this time. This time he didn’t chuff at all. He lifted his big head, closed his eyes, and roared.

  A few minutes later, the big cat’s head and ears perked up to full alert, his body tensed, and he hightailed it back to the woods. He’d heard the car coming down the road, too. The animal was smart enough to stay far away from humans—the people at the game preserve over in West Grant had been trying to recapture this fella for over five years with no luck. But for some reason, he tolerated Walt’s presence. Walt didn’t know what that meant, but as long as he didn’t eat him or any of his cows, the lion was more than welcome to roam free on his land.

  Walt was a little surprised when he got back to the house and saw Jacob, not the Monkeewrench crew, settled on the porch glider, waiting for him. “Good day to you, Sheriff.”

  “Don’t know why you keep calling me sheriff. For Christ’s sake, Walt, what happened to Jacob?”

  “Jacob grew up is what happened. Got a badge and a title and you got every right to wear both.”

  “I used to ride on your shoulders all over this damn farm while you fed me cookies.”

  “Mary fed you cookies. I just hauled you around until you got too heavy. I heard a car and figured you were the Monkeewrench folks.”

  “That’s why I’m here. They wanted you to know they’d be here a little later than planned, probably around four or five. They had some last-minute details to handle on another case they’re working before they left the city. They tried calling to let you know, but you never answer the phone and you don’t have voice mail. Or email.”

  “I hate all that damn nonsense. It’s just useless noise.”

  “You’re going to have to move into this century pretty soon.”

  “Don’t know why. I’m not going to be here that long.”

  “Bullshit. You’re going to outlive all of us.”

  “I surely hope not. I just want to live long enough to see Marla come home one way or the other, and you to get a date. Damn, boy, you’re climbing the thirties tree pretty near to the top and you never even had a sweetheart. I had it in mind to carry your kids on my shoulders one of these days.”

  Jacob looked away. “I always had my eye on Marla. You know that. We just couldn’t figure out the right time to be together, I guess.” He slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “I’d best get back to business, just wanted to give you a courtesy call.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Give me a jingle as soon as Monkeewrench gets here so I can bring over all the files they need to start their work. You’re going to have a lot of company for a couple days.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. This house has been too damn empty lately.”

  Walt watched Jacob’s cruiser roll slowly away down the dirt driveway, tiny rooster tails of dust pluming from the rear wheels. He wondered how different things would be now if Jacob and Marla hadn’t waited for the right time to be together.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Walt only knew how to cook one thing—a ground beef hot dish with noodles and mushrooms and canned cream soup thinned with a little milk. Mary had taught him how to make it in her final days, when she could barely lift her arms anymore.

  Fry the meat and onions before you add anything else, then drain off the fat. Add some dillweed at the end. Some sour cream, too. It’s not a company dish, but it’ll keep you fed after I’m gone.

  Maybe it wasn’t a company dish, but Walt liked it, and he hoped his guests would, too. As he browned the hamburger and onions in a skillet just like Mary had told him to do, he heard a large vehicle coming up his road. He peeked out the gingham curtains at the kitchen window and saw a haze of dust rising in the distance, so he killed the burner and walked outside.

  The scorching daytime sun had mellowed a little as evening approached, but it was still hot and humid enough to wither every living thing. Even his sturdy cows were sheltering in the shade of the loafing shed instead of grazing, staying close to the water tank.

  He pulled out a kerchief and mopped his brow while he waited for the vehicle to crest the hill, and when it did, his jaw sagged in amazement. If he hadn’t been expecting Monkeewrench, he would have thought he was looking at a mirage.

  Harley was behind the wheel of one of those souped-up monster buses like the ones famous rock bands toured in. He and Walt Junior had seen such a thing driving up to the Cities once, but he certainly hadn’t been expecting Monkeewrench to arrive in one.

  Harley pulled to a stop by the house and opened his window. “Hey, Walt. Sorry we’re late.”

  “No apology in order. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your regular work. You sure you can spare the time right now?”

  “We’ve got everything covered.”

  Walt took a step closer and peered inside. The skinny Roadrunner fellow was riding shotgun, and sitting upright on the console between the two front seats was Charlie, who wriggled his butt and gave a soft woof in greeting.

  “Hey, there, Charlie boy. You want to take a run?”

  Charlie’s answer was much louder than his greeting.

  Harley chuckled and opened the hydraulic door of the Chariot. Charlie very carefully traversed Roadrunner’s lap before he lit out and tore around the front of the RV to personally acknowledge Walt by licking his hands, then rolling around in the grass by his feet. “You’ve got some kind of magic, Walt. That dog loved you from the second he met you.”

  “Let’s just say the feeling is mutual.” Walt stooped to pick up a stick, threw it into the yard, and watched Charlie bound after it like a puppy. “Where are the women?”

  “In the back, finishing up some things. Is there someplace relatively flat where we can park this thing?”

  “You bet. Up there next to the garage. I scraped it flat and laid some concrete for my own camper back in the day. There’s a power outlet there I ran from the barn. Takes a lot of volts to run the milkers, so it should be able to manage this rig.”

  “Thanks, Walt, but we won’t drain you. We’ve got an onboard generator that could execute a space launch.”

  “Well, then pull on up to the garage and get the crank for me and I’ll get busy leveling it for you.”

  Harley looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded his head in understanding. “This rig levels itself, Walt. No crank needed.”

  “No fooling. It levels itself, does it? Well, what will they think of next?”

  Annie was the first one out the door when the rig settled to a final stop by the garag
e, and the first one to regret it. She and hot weather had never been friends, she and the sun were virtual strangers, and here she was standing outside in the middle of both. Lord, what if she got a tan? How long did it take for such a terrible thing to happen?

  “Hello, Walt.”

  “Afternoon, ma’am. Glad to see you.”

  Grace followed her, regretting her wardrobe choice of black jeans and riding boots, but when she’d dressed, it had seemed like a necessary choice. There probably weren’t any people who’d want to cut her Achilles tendons out here, but there might be a few genuine snakes in the grass on a farm. “Hi, Walt.”

  “Ma’am.” Walt moved his hands from one set of his coverall pockets to another. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to tend to in the barn. Why don’t you get things settled here, then go on up to the house, get out of the sun and heat. I’ll let the sheriff know you’re here. He said he’ll bring everything you need.”

  Grace gave him a smile. “We’ll be up shortly, Walt. Thank you.” She watched as he walked away, and unbelievably, Charlie raced to his side and followed him into the barn.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Charlie so besotted,” Annie observed. “Do you think he might have been a farm dog?”

  “No way of knowing. I found him in the city, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No reason a dog can’t have secrets in his past, just like humans. Lord knows we all do.” She fanned her face. “Harley, Roadrunner, are you almost finished?”

  Roadrunner stuck his head out the door. “Couple minutes more.”

  “All right, then let’s get up to the house before I die of heatstroke.”

  Monkeewrench all climbed the three steps, crossed the porch, and entered through the front door; the screen door slapped against the frame behind them with a sound Grace had heard in an old movie. The living room they stepped into didn’t do anything to dispel the image.

  Faded rose sofa in the middle of a faded rose room with carpet so worn it looked like paths led from one doorway to another. There was a lot of other furniture jammed up against the walls like an audience watching the sofa, waiting for it to do something special—several mismatched chairs, a stack of old metal TV trays leaning against one another, a big round-drawered breakfront with rose-patterned china behind the glass hutch on top, and a row of family pictures marching across a yellowed lace runner draped over wood that held the scars of a family. An ancient window-mounted air conditioner labored loudly, dribbling condensation into a plastic tray.

  The whole room looked forlorn, as if it had been deserted by the occupants long ago, and had just been sitting here wearing out slowly, waiting for someone to come home.

  Grace wandered to the breakfront and examined the photographic chronology of a happy family of four, preserved in tarnished silver frames. As things stood now, Walt was the only one left.

  She heard him coming up onto the porch, stomping his feet on the bristly mat outside the door, slapping his feed mill cap against his thigh to get the dust off. Strange noises, Grace thought, totally unfamiliar to her. Funny how certain noises defined a place and a lifestyle.

  “Hotter than a scorched skillet out there,” he complained, then noticed Grace by the breakfront. “I see you found Mary’s art gallery. At least that’s what she called it. She was quite the shutterbug, taking pictures of this, that, and the other thing, but mostly the kids. Glad for it now.” He joined her and picked up a picture that showed two grinning blond children sitting in a canoe. “We used to take them to Wisconsin Dells every year when they were little. That’s Marla when she was eight and that’s Walt Junior, going on eleven. He doted on his little sister something fierce.”

  Grace didn’t hesitate before asking, “What happened to Walt Junior?”

  “Lost him some years ago. Farm accident. Got caught up in some equipment while we were baling straw. . . .” His voice trailed away as if he’d run out of breath. “Mary died a year later, almost to the day. The doctors would tell you the cancer took her, but I think she died from a broken heart, corny as that sounds.”

  Grace suddenly felt like a voyeur, witnessing an ongoing family tragedy that wasn’t meant to be seen by a stranger’s eyes. “That doesn’t sound corny at all. I’m so sorry, Walt.”

  “Thank you.” He gave her a sad smile, then turned to look at the others. “Anybody else want a cold one?” Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back carrying five frosty bottles with the necks stuck between his fingers, saying, “Here you go,” to each of them as he passed them out. “Lemonade for Grace, beer for everyone else.”

  Walt disappeared again, then returned with a big bowlful of water, which he set in front of an appreciative Charlie. He wagged his stub tail and started drinking noisily. “What happened to this fella’s tail?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace said. “I found him that way. Thanks for the water.”

  “He already thanked me, but you’re welcome all the same.” He settled into an old recliner and took a pull off his bottle. “The sheriff should be here within the hour. Not sure what all you can do with what he’s bringing you, but I appreciate you trying all the same. This may well be a fool’s errand, but I’ll never stop trying to find Marla until the day they plant me in the ground.” He took another drink of beer. “It’s the not knowing that kills you.”

  Grace watched pure agony distort Walt’s features. He didn’t seem remotely self-conscious about it, probably didn’t even know it was as plain as a Broadway marquee, playing out on his face for everyone to see.

  She had always possessed a deep empathy for people who were missing a loved one, especially a child, but now she was beginning to understand on a very personal level what that pain might be like, and it tore at her heart in a way nothing ever had before. She was, after all, a mother herself now. “We’ll do everything we can, Walt.”

  He met her eyes with his own piercing blue ones, then simply nodded and pushed up out of his recliner. “I’ll get to finishing dinner. We’ve got a little time to pass, so we might as well eat something.”

  “We weren’t expecting dinner, Walt,” Harley said.

  “On a farm, everybody gets fed. There’s plenty to go around, and it’s the least I can do. Tell you the truth, it’ll be nice to have some bodies around the table for a change.”

  “That’s nice of you. Is there something we can do to help you out?”

  “If you can run a can opener, then that’s a yes.”

  Harley smiled. “That’s right in my wheelhouse, Walt. I’m damn good at it, too.”

  Grace, Annie, and Roadrunner watched Harley trail Walt into the kitchen, then listened to the clanging of pans, the whir of a can opener, the muted conversation punctuated by an occasional chuckle. Happy sounds of everyday life in a house that had been in silent mourning for two months.

  Roadrunner had been fidgeting for a while, completely out of his realm. “I’m going to run out to the Chariot and check the sat link, make sure the computer is ready for input.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Annie said, repositioning herself on the floral sofa to get a little closer to the air conditioner. “And why don’t you bring back a couple of those salads Grace made.”

  Sheriff Emmet arrived just as Walt was bringing out a big dish of something brown with noodles. Grace didn’t know what it was, just that canned goods had been involved, but it had flecks of dillweed on the top, which she thought was a nice touch for a man who probably hadn’t spent a minute in the kitchen before his wife passed away.

  “Didn’t know we were having a dinner party, otherwise I would have brought a bottle of wine,” the sheriff jived Walt fondly.

  “I got beer, or something stronger if you’re in the mood.”

  “A cold beer would be just fine, Walt, thanks.” He turned his attention to Monkeewrench. “That’s quite a rig you’ve go
t parked outside.”

  Harley’s face took on the warm glow of a proud papa. “She’s a beaut, and you’ll get the full tour after dinner. That’s our mobile computer lab, and Walt said you were bringing everything we need to get started.”

  He patted his chest. “Digital case files are right here in my pocket. Looking forward to the tour.”

  Dinner was an experience unlike any Grace had ever had. It wasn’t a Michelin three-star meal by any stretch of the imagination, but it was just the kind of food that would refuel people who toiled hard outside all day and needed something substantial to fill the void when they came in for the night.

  The conversation was light and cordial, and the darkness in Walt seemed to disappear, at least temporarily. Circumstances had made him a lonely, desolate man, and this odd, impromptu gathering of strangers seemed to lift him up, and for that, Grace was happy. What made her unhappy was the strong likelihood that their work here wouldn’t yield good news, if it yielded any news at all.

  After dinner, Harley and Roadrunner took Sheriff Emmet out to the Chariot to upload all the data from Marla’s case, while Annie and Grace stayed behind to help Walt clean up. It felt wildly chauvinistic to assume the traditional female role that was largely an artifact from the past, but Grace thought the gesture felt right at this time and in this place.

  But Walt wasn’t having any of it. “I’ll take care of the dishes, don’t trouble yourselves. But if you don’t mind, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “As long as it’s not outside,” Annie said in her smooth voice, still tinged by a lingering Mississippi accent. “I can hear those mosquitoes just waiting to feast on me, and they’re hungry.”