Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  “Drugs. That has to be where they make their meth.”

  “Yeah. So let’s not mess around here anymore.”

  Lindsay rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She looks at the third structure—the garage. “One quick peek, then we can go.” She shuttles off toward the building before I can protest.

  I climb into the truck and get it started, then glance in the rear-view mirror. There’s no one there, but the acid in my stomach churns anyway.

  Lindsay disappears around the backside of the garage. She comes around the front and shakes a padlock attached to the roll-up door. She then drops to her hands and knees and peeks through a crack under the garage door. She stands, wipes her hands on her jeans, and comes back to the truck.

  “Anything interesting?” I ask, turning the truck around.

  “Looks like a mechanic’s shop. There’s a small door on the backside with a big metal bar across it.”

  “Perfect. I need an oil change.”

  Lindsay glares at me without a trace of humor and gets in the truck. The gravel crunches under the tires as we leave the property, and soon we’re squelching through mud again. Between the thrumming pain in my shoulder and my cold, drenched sock, a hot shower and a bottle of beer sounds like the perfect remedy. I swerve to avoid a threatening puddle, and Lindsay gasps.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just surprised me.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out. With the meeting, I mean.”

  Lindsay shrugs. “There’ll be another one, I’m sure.”

  We come up to the paved road. I’m thankful we didn’t get stuck in the goop.

  “Wait,” Lindsay says. “Turn right.”

  “Why?”

  “Would you mind taking me to see Monica?”

  “On the reservation?”

  “Yeah. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. It’s just—”

  “No problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  I turn right and head toward the reservation. That hot shower will have to wait.

  14

  “Take a left up here,” Lindsay says.

  I turn onto the westward road just as the sun breaks out through the clouds. The white-hot sunlight contrasts with the iron-gray clouds and blinds me for a few seconds.

  “You okay?” Lindsay must have noticed my pained squint.

  “Yeah. Where to now?”

  “Park in the lot on the left. Monica’s in that building over there.” She points to a building the size of a typical restaurant.

  I park and lean out of the truck, forgetting that my shoulder is in no shape to be used for leverage. I grimace as sparks flare in the damaged joint. I suck in a breath and follow Lindsay toward the building.

  “Monica runs a behavioral health class.” She checks the time on her phone. “She should be out in a few minutes.”

  I nod and turn my attention to a group of teens playing basketball where a girl stands half a foot taller than all the boys. She grabs a rebound, dribbles through a series of defenders, and pulls up to sink a three-pointer. Elementary-aged kids play soccer on the field next to the parking lot. Squeals of delight emanate from the grassy area.

  The ball trickles over to me. I pop it up with my foot, bounce it on alternating knees a few times, drop it to my foot and stall it, holding it balanced on my shoelaces six inches above the ground. I haven’t handled a soccer ball in years, so I’m surprised that I’ve still got a decent touch. The kids ooh and ahh. I pop the ball up with a quick flick and kick it back to them. The smallest boy of the bunch collects the ball and stares at me, jaw wide open.

  I smile, and the boy runs back to his friends. “Did you see that?”

  “Come on, Messi,” Lindsay says with a smirk. She leads us to a door on the side of the building. Inside, several tribal members congregate in a reception area. Most of the men eye me for a moment before granting me a gentle nod. The women smile, some say hello.

  “In here,” Lindsay says.

  I follow her into a room lined with rows of chairs. A podium and a fold-out table sit at the front of the room where a woman in a maroon dress stacks papers on the table.

  “Monny!” Lindsay runs to her cousin, and they squeeze each other into a gravitational hug.

  “What are you doing here?” Monica asks.

  “I wanted to come see you.” Lindsay’s voice sounds different somehow.

  They hug again. When they pull apart, Monica looks at me, then back to Lindsay. “Is this Chad?” she whispers.

  I suspect I wasn’t meant to hear her.

  Lindsay waves me over. “Yeah, this is Chad.”

  “Nice to meet you, Monica. I’m so sorry to hear about Frank.”

  A sad smile comes over her face. She bows her head and says, “Thank you.”

  “How are your mom and dad handling it?” Lindsay asks.

  “Devastated. Dad actually came to the meeting tonight. I’m surprised you didn’t see him out in the hall.”

  Lindsay frowns. “Oh, I missed him. I’m glad he came, though.”

  Monica twists her lips and grabs Lindsay’s arm. “I’m happy to see you, Lin-Lin.”

  “Me too.” Lindsay reaches out and squeezes Monica’s hand.

  Monica asks about Kristin. Then they talk about people I don’t know, presumably other tribal members and family. Both sniffle and hold back tears, interrupted by the occasional shared giggle.

  My head vibrates with an oncoming headache. It’s probably from looking directly at the sun; my eyes still haven’t adjusted. At least my sock is mostly dry. If only my shoulder would stop thumping internally.

  I notice the break in the conversation a few beats after the last word.

  Lindsay’s face has gone stern. “Monny, was Frank into anything weird lately? Like…political stuff?”

  Monica twists her face. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “It’s funny you say that. He’s been posting all sorts of anti-government things. Like memes and stuff.”

  I step closer, and Lindsay leans in. “How long has he been doing that?”

  “A couple months. Maybe three or four?” Monica looks away, then back to Lindsay. “And you know what? David said he kept talking about the guys that were delivering the meth. Like, interested in them. I didn’t think about that until just now.”

  “Does anyone around here know who those guys are?”

  Monica shakes her head. “I don’t know. Ask David or Nina. They might know.”

  Lindsay gives me a look, but I can’t tell what it means. She turns back to Monica. “I’ll ask them. Thanks. It was good to see you, Monny. Take care.”

  “You too.” Monica waves to me. “Nice to meet you, Chad.”

  Outside, Lindsay hurries toward the truck. The sun is out, and the clouds have broken up into clusters. My head now throbs in sync with my shoulder.

  Lindsay stops at the truck. “Can we make one more stop? Please.”

  “Of course. Just tell me where to go.”

  I open the door and climb in one-handed, remembering my bum shoulder this time. I start the engine and scratch the sudden itch on my chest.

  Oh, no. Not now.

  My shoulder screams in agony if I try to scratch the rash with my right hand, and releasing my left hand’s grip on the steering wheel isn’t an option on these curvy roads. I try rubbing myself against the seatbelt, but it doesn’t give me any relief. Lindsay assures me we’re close. A relentless fiery itch engulfs my chest, and we can’t arrive soon enough.

  “Left at the mailbox,” Lindsay says.

  I turn, and we travel down a long tree-lined corridor. Wisps of sunlight flick through the trees, long shadows stretching across the road like gray fingers grabbing the earth. After a slight left turn, the trees open up into a small clearing. A modest white house with forest green trim stands in the middle of the opening. Beside the house sits a motorboat atop a trailer. Two lifted Chevy trucks are parked in front of the closed garage.
r />   I shut off the engine and, as casually as possible, scratch my chest. “Should I wait in the truck?”

  Lindsay scrunches her face. “No…you can come in. But David’s always had a thing for me, so he might be a little stand-offish with you.” She cocks a mischievous smile.

  “Good to know. Should I be nervous?” I return a half-smile.

  Lindsay waves it off. “No. He’s a teddy bear. I messaged him to let him know we were coming, so he’s expecting you.”

  “What is it you want to know from him?”

  “He’s Frank’s best friend. He’ll know if Frank was doing anything with Wade.”

  I ease out of the truck, and a thought stops me. What if David tries to shake my hand? I don’t have the sweats yet, but I don’t want to risk infecting him. I’ll say I have a cold or something. Hopefully, Lindsay plays along or ignores the lie.

  Lindsay knocks three times on the front door, then opens it and walks in. “David?”

  “In here,” a deep voice booms from around a corner.

  Kids’ toys litter the floor. Barbies, stuffed animals, Ninja Turtles, Nerf dart guns. I follow Lindsay into a living room. David, presumably, sits on an L-shaped sofa; two toddlers in pajamas lie asleep on his lap.

  “Hey, Lin-Lin.” He strokes one of the kid’s hair, then looks at me. He tips his head back with a quick jerk. “Hey.”

  “Hi. I’m Chad. Nice to meet you.”

  He looks down at the sleeping children, then to Lindsay. “Let me put them to bed.” In a swift motion, he stands and swoops each child into his arms with graceful ease. David passes me, and I’m overwhelmed at his stature—he’s at least six-five and pushing three hundred pounds. The kids each lie their sleepy heads on his shoulders, and he carries them into the hallway.

  Moments later, a door closes in the hall, and David comes back into the living room. He hugs Lindsay. She lets go, but he gives another squeeze before releasing her.

  I stay back, hoping to avoid an awkward hand-shaking situation.

  David steps toward the couch. “Have a seat.”

  Phew.

  I sit at the end of the sofa. Lindsay sits perpendicular to David on the couch, their knees almost touching. “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Been better.” He props his elbows on his legs, leans his chin onto his hands. “It’s sad. Frankie was doing good. Laid off the drugs, even stopped drinking. Don’t know what made him start doing it again.”

  Lindsay frowns and breathes in through her nose. “Was Frank doing anything weird? Like, meeting with anyone outside the res?”

  David turns toward Lindsay and fixes on her with an intense gaze. “Yeah. How d’you know that?”

  “Have you heard him talk about a guy named Wade? Or a group named FATE?”

  David rubs his stubbly cheeks. “He was hanging out with some white dudes, but I don’t know their names.” David glances at me quickly, then back to Lindsay. “I never heard him say anything about any groups.”

  I sneak a chest scratch when he looks away.

  “Was Frank into, like, anti-government stuff?”

  “Yeah. He always was. Why?”

  Lindsay squints briefly. “I think the guys that were selling him meth are also running a militia kind of thing.”

  David leans back into the couch. “I mean, I guess he was posting some pretty crazy things. Like, crazier than before.”

  Lindsay squeezes his knee. “Sorry, I know I’m throwing a bunch of questions at you.”

  He looks at her hand. “It’s all right.”

  I lean forward. “You said he was hanging around the white guys. Was that here on the reservation or somewhere else?”

  David shrugs. “Both. He tried to get me to go to drink some beers with them a few times, but I couldn’t leave the kids.”

  The front door opens and shuts. David looks over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Sabrina. Lin-Lin’s here.”

  The tall teenage girl that was dominating the basketball court enters. She’s taller in person than she looked before, at least five-eleven. She comes in and hugs Lindsay.

  Lindsay looks up at her. “You’ve grown a foot since the last time I saw you.”

  Lindsay introduces me, and Sabrina disappears into the back hallway.

  “Do you know where Frank was going to drink beers with those guys?” I ask.

  David shakes his head. “Frankie said some dude has property on the county land between here and the city. They have parties and stuff there all the time, I guess.”

  Lindsay gives me an affirmative glance. “Thank you, David. It’s good to see you.”

  “You too.” David stands up, towering over Lindsay. He swallows her in a hug and says, “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I walk past him. “Thanks, David. Sorry to hear about your friend.”

  His lips go into a straight line, and he nods once.

  I climb into the truck. I’m dizzy and nervous about driving, but I back out and train my focus on the road.

  We drive back through the tree tunnel and head toward Spokane. The sun is sinking behind the mountain horizon, casting an amber-hue over the landscape. On a straight road, I sneak a quick scratch of my itchy chest. The relief is short-lived but worth it.

  Lindsay looks at her phone.

  “David seems nice,” I say.

  Her eyes stay focused on the screen. “Yeah.”

  “His daughter is quite the basketball player.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  This is going well.

  I huff a quick breath. “Look, I’m sorry. If there’s a way—”

  “Stop. We’re not getting back together. Thanks for helping me, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to forget everything and take you back.”

  Message received.

  “Holy shit!” Her shout makes me jump.

  “What?”

  “Pull over and watch this.”

  I slow and pull to the side of the road.

  Lindsay hands me her phone. “Press play.”

  She has the FATE Facebook page loaded. I play the video. It’s a shaky phone recording of men in military-style gear hollering, drinking beer, and posing with AR-15 rifles. It’s at the location Lindsay and I visited earlier today. The twenty-second video ends without fanfare.

  “What did I miss?”

  “Play it again and look in the background. Recognize anyone?”

  I do. As the video pans the group, it captures a shot of several vehicles parked next to each other. I pause it. Clear as day—I don’t know how I missed it the first time—is a blue Jeep Wrangler. Standing behind it is Nick Ansley, the drug-dealing correctional officer from my prison.

  15

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” I pace in my kitchen. “That explains the meth ODs at the prison. Fucking Nick. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

  Lindsay stands at the counter, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Her puckered lips make her look like a gerbil nibbling on a seed. She checks her phone.

  I consider going to the police to investigate the prison overdoses and the connection to Nick, but I don’t want anyone snooping around the prison since I’m the link to the Grim Fever cases there. Of course Nick knows Wade—jerks of a feather and all that.

  “Call him,” Lindsay says.

  “Nick?”

  “No, the Pope.” She glares at me.

  “What the hell am I going to say? ‘Hey, Nick, can you introduce me to Wade Linford so my…friend can confront him?’”

  “I don’t know, Chad. I don’t know what we’re doing here.” It’s not quite a shout, but it’s close. She steps toward the foyer. “I want justice for Frank and all the others that died because of Wade. I want that asshole to pay. But I don’t know what I can do. Monica already went to the police. There’s nothing they can do legally.”

  “What about cutting off the supply? Have the tribal police be on alert for Wade’s truck.”

  “Maybe, but they’re already stretched thin. They
have a tiny budget as it is, and only a few officers. Did you see any police cars while we were there?”

  “No. But it’s worth a shot.”

  Lindsay shoots a death stare my way.

  My shoulder is on fire, the fever is pummeling my brain, and the rash makes me want to tear my skin off. The last thing I want to do right now is argue.

  I raise my hands, palms up. “What do you want to do, then?” I say it softly, masking the anger I’m feeling.

  Lindsay shrugs. “I don’t have a plan. Maybe we can find evidence of drugs on that property and take it to the county police.”

  “So, you want to go to the headquarters of a drug dealing, anti-government militia to find their drugs and report them to the police?” It sounds even more ridiculous out loud.

  She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one side. “Yes.”

  “And you’re going with or without me, right?”

  “I’m going without you. I can handle myself.”

  “Lindsay—”

  “No. I’m not some princess who needs a bodyguard.”

  I want to let her go, wash my hands of our relationship. She doesn’t need me to protect her. I should break whatever threads of our bond remain now. Quick and mostly painless.

  Lindsay stomps out and slams the door.

  Her tiles squeal.

  I lower my head and close my eyes to resist the oncoming flood.

  My phone sits screen-up on the coffee table next to the plate of untouched leftover chicken I reheated. I stare at the phone like it might get up and dance. Am I hoping Lindsay calls? Or am I psyching myself up to call her? She’s done with me, and I don’t blame her—we have irreconcilable differences—but she’s about to walk into the mouth of a monster, and I let her go. I doubt she’d answer if I called.

  I flip open my laptop. The headache blurs my vision and delays my focus, so I have to close one eye to see the screen. Lindsay’s fake Jim Toole profile is still logged in. Curiosity takes over, and I scroll through the FATE video posts:

  A group of men slam beers and throw their cans into a fire.

  Three men shoot AR-15s at silhouette targets.