Damaged Goods

by Heather Sharfeddin

  He now wished for the confidence he’d felt when he made that declaration. But disturbing signs to the contrary had begun to surface long before the accident. The crowd at his weekly auctions had shifted. Word about his practices had spread, and a younger, edgier group had begun to appear on Tuesday nights, standing alongside the farmers seeking used tractors and haybines. These newcomers carried an inner-city toughness.

  This, in fact, had been his most pressing business concern in those past few months. He’d stood in the parking lot one evening before a sale, talking with a local man, when a large group of twentysomethings roared up in a 1970s Lincoln Continental with a refitted muffler. They blared their horn at another group nearby, then raucously poured from the car, red bandannas pulled tightly over their heads. Helen Cooper and her elderly mother, two women who sold antiques and collectibles in Hillsboro and had been attending Hershel’s sales for several years, sat apprehensively behind the dashboard of their Toyota Tercel. They conversed quietly, their eyes crisscrossing the parking lot to the building and back. Then Helen started the engine and pulled away.

  The man Hershel was talking with scanned the newcomers, and said pointedly, “You can’t afford to lose good business. Can you, Swift?”

  “Depends on what you consider good business,” Hershel said, and walked away. No one told Hershel Swift how to run his business. The money he made on the sale of firearms was significant. But in private he’d begun to puzzle over the situation.

  The narrow lane into the migrant camp was rutted and overgrown. Tree branches scraped the sides of Hershel’s truck, and he tried to remember if he’d ever driven all the way back to where Carl lived. He had fuzzy impressions of dropping Carl off at the highway where this road emerged, unnamed, from the brambles.

  The camp was farther back into the woods than Hershel had imagined, but suddenly he came into a small parking lot with a handful of battered cars. He pulled in next to a late-seventies Pinto and sat with the engine idling. Which of the tiny, dilapidated buildings was Carl’s? Doors cracked open, but only briefly, as suspicious faces peered out before disappearing again. A light, steady rain misted the scene, feeding the green fungus that crept up the exterior walls of the dozen or so run-down cabins. A wet rooster stood on the picnic table in the center of the yard, as if guarding the place against intruders. Hershel looked from one identical hut to the next, finally noticing the satellite dishes. Carl wouldn’t pay for television; that he was sure of. He struggled with the urge to simply assume that the man no longer wanted employment or he would show up for work. Call it good. Hire someone else. But, as much as Hershel gravitated toward saying “To hell with him,” he didn’t believe that was the case. Carl had been too consistent, too loyal, especially through these tumultuous past few months. And Hershel had decided that afternoon as he searched his papers that he would set aside his pride and ask Carl about all these things. Ask him directly—what he knew about the guns, about Albert Darling. About all of it.

  Hershel had the eerie sense that eyes were on him as he stood in the yard, a foreboding in his belly. He yearned for a six-shooter. The place felt deserted in the way Old West movie sets do as the loner rides into town. He glanced between the two shacks without satellite dishes, sitting directly across from each other. Exactly the same in every way, down to the rotting T1-11 siding. He chose the one on the right, which was backed up to a blackberry thicket protecting the muddy river beyond. He knocked twice, and as he waited he mulled over the declaration made by Albert Darling’s girlfriend. He simply couldn’t get it out of his mind. We figured you killed him.

  Just then the door opened and a short round woman peered up at him. She looked frightened. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m, uh, looking for Carl Abernathy. Do you know him?”

  She stared suspiciously, as if trying to decide whether to answer.

  “I’m Hershel Swift. He works for me.”

  Her eyes widened. “He’s at your business. Where he works.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  She crossed herself and mumbled something in Spanish that Hershel didn’t understand.

  “Can you tell me which cabin is his?”

  She pointed at the one across the yard. “But he’s not there. He tells me that he goes to stay at your business, where he works.”

  Hershel looked at Carl’s cabin, wondering if the man had been in the upstairs apartment all the while. And why he wouldn’t have come down to see to business. Something was wrong.

  “He’s not here,” she said. Her face was creased with worry, and she watched him expectantly. Finally, she asked, “He is not there?”

  “I didn’t see him. I just came from there.”

  She sucked air audibly through the gap in her front teeth.

  Hershel dug in his shirt pocket for a business card and handed it to her. “Here’s my number.”

  She studied it.

  “If you see him, would you tell him to call me?” He realized it was silly to give her the card; for all he knew she didn’t have a phone. Carl knew how to reach him. But maybe she would call if she heard something.

  “Yes, I will tell him.”

  Hershel thought of Carl’s battered face, and suspected that there were things she knew but wasn’t saying. He walked across the wet yard, past the rooster that was eyeing him with malice, and knocked loudly on Carl’s door, but there was no answer. The woman didn’t go inside, but watched. Hershel tried the knob; the place was locked. He wondered if he should ask her about the fight. He didn’t know this woman. He had no idea how well Carl did, either. The interchange felt odd and unresolved, and she remained in the doorway, holding his business card as he turned his truck around and pulled out.

  Kyrellis suffered a hard little knot at his core. Something he wanted to reach in and yank out, or massage until it relaxed and let go the tendons that ran up through his neck. He stacked the photos into piles, pulling down the ones he’d decorated his bedroom mirror with and returning them to their metal coffin. He still hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours and his mind had begun to play tricks on him.

  He reasoned that a sheriff could probably trace his call. He considered that Castor could find and kill him. Perhaps he’d been foolish and underestimated the kind of man this was—a man who could beat a child, then bind her up like that and take pictures. Why wouldn’t someone capable of that also be a killer? And where were the other girls? He had the ominous feeling they lay in shallow graves along scenic Wyoming back roads.

  He calmed himself in his greenhouse. A new rose with a spectacular saffron hue had finally come into bloom.

  It was for the roses. Even as he loved them, he knew that his obsession had led him to this. Things never turn out the way one imagines they will. He’d set out to hybridize fungus-resistant roses. It would make him a millionaire. But he could not have foreseen the myriad obstacles. He could not have fathomed the true cost. A hundred thousand for this. Two hundred thousand for that. And not many willing to loan him the money, with his poor track record. For roses. To possess something of beauty.

  It was Monday, and he wanted to go down to Swift’s to see what would be in tomorrow’s sale. In so many piles of junk, hidden in the bottom of a box, or the back of a drawer, there might be something wonderful. Something rare. Beautiful. Winona Freehauf, the antiques dealer with the reserved seat next to his, once bought a battered old leather suitcase for seven dollars. Once she got it home, she found sixty five-dollar silver certificates from the 1950s carefully sewn into the lining. The bunch was worth more than a thousand dollars. It was that sort of intoxicating possibility that he and his fellow auction junkies craved. They were no better than gambling addicts, except that they always had something to show for their efforts.

  The decadent aroma of chocolate cake permeated the house, giving it a warm and welcoming feel. She’d given up looking for Hershel’s secrets when she found the box of cake mix in the cupboard, but not a single damning clue. Silvie wandered from
room to room, imagining that the place was hers. It was so much like the home she had dreamed of owning when she was younger, and it was as though she just now recognized it.

  Hershel’s furniture was expensive. Nicer than she would have picked out, with its rich wood grains and delicate details. His sofa was shaped like a kidney bean and had carved feet with leaves and scrolls. Another dark band of wood ran the length of the backrest, with a scallop shell carved at its pinnacle. There was a matching chair, both in burgundy velvet. And the table between them was of the same dark wood but simpler in design, and topped with white marble. It looked elegantly old. Not like the trash her father had hauled home and called antique. His were musty, sagging copies of these sophisticated pieces. As she studied the intricate detail of the carving, she understood that what she’d thought of as good furniture had, in fact, been clumsy imitations. The revelation made her see herself as uneducated and backward. But the fact that she understood her backwardness also gave her a powerful new sense of direction. She could remake her life. She could become anybody she wanted, now that she was almost free of Jacob.

  She would return the photos. She might scratch the faces off first, though. But then what would happen to the other girls? She didn’t recognize them, and she’d spent her first night after leaving Wyoming in a roadside Motel 6, studying those little faces. It was the discovery of these girls that had propelled her into a frenzy of terror and a hasty run for it. Where were those girls now? Silvie believed they were dead. No different from the photos of missing people flashed on the evening news. Only to discover weeks, months, sometimes years later, that they had been murdered. Would she rob grieving families of some sense of closure when Jacob Castor finally died and was revealed for what he really was?

  The chaos in her mind had finally crystallized into a hard nugget of honest recognition. She didn’t fear running from Jacob the way she feared staying with him. The images of these girls had only reinforced what she subconsciously understood. Jacob Castor would eventually be finished with her. She was now fourteen years older than she was when they first met. She was no longer a little girl. No longer able to pretend to giggle and play, or wear her hair up in purple bows. And, while she wanted more than anything to live as the woman she’d grown into, she still painted her nails cotton-candy pink. She would eventually fail to interest him, and he wasn’t the kind of man who would have his castoff lover fawned over by another man.

  21

  When Hershel found Silvie standing in the kitchen, frosting a chocolate layer cake, all concern about Carl’s whereabouts evaporated. Who knew where the man was, whether he’d be back tomorrow, preparing for the sale. He’d wasted the afternoon, having gone looking for him. Carl was probably hanging out with friends somewhere and couldn’t get a ride back to Scholls.

  Silvie, though, was beautiful.

  He suspected that she didn’t even know it. She flashed an embarrassed smile his way when he looked over her shoulder at the confection she’d created.

  “Thought you might like something sweet,” she said.

  Stay forever, he thought. Stay forever.

  “Somebody named Marilyn Stromm called. She said she can’t make it tomorrow. She pinched a nerve in her back.”

  “Damn.”

  “She was vaccinating sheep,” Silvie added. “Said she got one by the hind legs and it kicked the crap out of her.”

  “Bet that hurt,” Hershel said, peeling off his jacket. He didn’t know that Marilyn, who had worked for him for more than five years, even raised sheep. Didn’t know or had forgotten? No, he never knew. Hershel was coming to understand that forgotten things had a vague presence, like an oily sheen on the surface of his mind. There, but slippery and elusive. Unknown things were simply that: unknown.

  “Who is Marilyn Stromm?”

  “She’s my clerk. Does the auctions.”

  “Oh. Who’s going to be your clerk, then?

  “I’ll think about that after cake.”

  Silvie licked the frosting from the spatula. “How about me? What would I have to do?”

  Hershel sized her up. “Well, the clerk writes down every item that is sold, with the buyer’s number and the price.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I guess there’s a little more to it than that. You have to record the lot number. Helps if you can spell, but it’s not a requirement. But your writing has to be legible. That is a requirement. And you have to pay close attention. If you space out you miss stuff, and I can’t go back.”

  “I think I can do that, except maybe the spelling part.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Sure. South Store doesn’t need me until Thursday.” Silvie dropped the dirty dishes into the sink.

  “I’ll pay you,” he said.

  She scowled down at the dishes in her hands. Had he been wrong to offer?

  “You’ve done so much for me. I wouldn’t feel right about that,” she said.

  “I would’ve paid Marilyn; there’s no reason I wouldn’t pay you. And you’re helping me out hugely.”

  She shrugged noncommittally and began sudsing the dishes.

  After supper they settled on the sofa and found an old movie starring Jack Nicholson. She snuggled against his side as if she’d been made for him. He wanted it to last forever.

  “I called my mother,” she said. “I wanted you to know so you aren’t surprised by the phone bill.”

  “You don’t have to account for everything you do.”

  She was quiet, and he wished he could see her face.

  “But I’m glad you called. Is she okay?”

  “I guess.” Silvie twirled a lock of hair between her fingers, inspecting the ends. “I had to hang up when she begged me to tell her where I am. But … at least she knows I’m alive.”

  He squeezed her shoulder.

  “Jacob knows I’m okay, too, now.” She touched his hand lightly. “Do you think he can trace the call back here?”

  Hershel hadn’t thought of that. A sharp pain stabbed at his forehead. He’s got the technology, he thought. And the authority to request a trace.

  She pulled away to look at Hershel.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Oh my God. What have I done?”

  He pulled her in tight again. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. He’ll have to deal with me.” Hershel’s mind worked through the scenarios. How would he know who this man was if he saw him?

  “Hershel, I better go.”

  “Don’t be silly. Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. But he’ll find me here.”

  “Then he’ll find me, too.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Silvie, you’ve become very important to me. I will protect you.”

  She pressed her nose against his windpipe. “He’s a very dangerous man.”

  Hershel gave her his most reassuring smile. “There’s every chance that I am, too.”

  Kyrellis scanned the auction barn. It was packed with soon-to-be bidders previewing the offerings, picking through boxes, inspecting and appraising merchandise. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen this many people here. Stuart, one of Hershel’s floor men, cussed his way through the growing crowd, his eyes darting from side to side. He nodded curtly at Kyrellis as he passed.

  Hershel’s office door stood open, and he was on the phone, leaning over his desk. Kyrellis wandered past the girl in the concession stand, who was too busy rushing about pouring coffee and sodas, scooping popcorn into small paper sacks, and ringing up sales to notice him. A line of ten or so people waited patiently to place their orders.

  Kyrellis shut the door behind him, gaining Hershel’s attention.

  “Send anyone you’ve got. They just need to have strong backs and speak decent English.” When he hung up, he stared at Kyrellis.

  “Trouble?”

  “Can’t find Carl. Didn’t show up yesterday. No sign of him today. I need him. We’ve got the biggest crowd we’ve ever had tonight
, with all this architectural stuff. How does a man just go missing after years of consistency?”

  “No idea,” Kyrellis said. “He didn’t seem the reliable type, anyway. You’re probably better off.”

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “Our man, Jacob Castor …” He could tell by the look on Hershel’s face that the name was familiar. “He’s raising a million dollars for those pictures.”

  “You filthy son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll sell them to you for half that. To protect the girl, of course.”

  “You’re nothing but a predator.”

  “Welcome to the garden of predators, my friend.” Kyrellis sat in the chair opposite Hershel’s desk. He gazed sadly at his hands.

  Silvie took her place on the auctioneer’s stand, pulling the stool up to her new work space. She looked out over the crowd and her upper lip trembled. She’d had no idea all these people would be watching her. She opened the new package of pens sitting on the desk and studied the carbon-paper forms. They were long, narrow strips in quadruplicate: white, yellow, pink, with the cardboard copy on the bottom. Each form was laid out with spaces for ten items, encapsulating the things that Hershel had explained, with perforated lines for splitting them apart. She wondered how she’d know the lot number. Something to ask Hershel. She looked at the tiny clock pasted against the back of the podium, where only she and the auctioneer could see it. It was six-fifteen. Where was he? And where was Carl? She hadn’t seen him among the floor men or the other employees. But she’d seen the bully, who had looked her up and down, not even bothering to close his mouth.

  A red-haired girl appeared at Silvie’s elbow, tiny from that perch four feet above the floor.

  “This is for Hershel,” the girl said, handing up a paper cup of orange soda. “What are you drinking?”