The Midnight Ground

by Eric Dontigney

  The thickset deputy was sitting behind a desk, flipping through some paperwork. She pointed to a table and I saw bagels and a pot of coffee.

  “Coffee, thank God,” I said.

  She gave me the knowing smile of someone who found a morning without coffee a sure recipe for a crappy day. I filled a Styrofoam cup and dumped half a dozen tiny packets of sugar into it. I spotted a mug by the pot labeled “Deputy.” I picked it up and waved it in the woman’s general direction. She gave me a little nod.

  “I take it black,” she said.

  I filled the mug and took it over to her. She accepted it and gave me the once over.

  “Sheriff said you had a little dust up last night. Heard Tucker Smith pulled a knife on you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It happens. Deputy?”

  “Deputy Michelson. You can just call me Patty, everyone does.”

  I sincerely doubted that everyone called her that, but I rolled with it. “Okay, Patty.”

  “You want to file charges? Technically, it’s assault with a deadly weapon, even if you did give him a much-deserved kick in the head.”

  “It was a bar fight. People do dumb shit during bar fights. If I press charges, I have to stick around or come back. I’m just passing through.”

  Patty looked disappointed, but she nodded. “Fair enough. I still need a formal statement from you, just so we have it.”

  “Understood.”

  I polished off my coffee, had a second cup, and then Patty took my statement. She looked it over, compared it with some other statements, and then nodded.

  “It jives with what the witnesses said. I don’t know what the hell Gary was thinking. Sure sounds like you knew what you were doing. You an ex-soldier?”

  “I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I learned how to take care of myself.”

  It was true-ish. The neighborhood wasn’t really that rough, but the people I ran with back in the day were very damn rough, and very dark, and very stupid. It had cost them everything. It hadn’t cost me the way it cost them, but it cost me enough. Little things, like my identity, and my family, and any hope of a normal life. I went back, every once in a while, and drove past my childhood home. It was still tidy, with the fence scrupulously repainted every spring, and my father still drove an old Ford pickup, though not the one I remembered.

  My three sisters were scattered across the country. My older sister, Kelly, was married and living in Seattle with a couple kids of her own. My younger sister, Emma, was running her own graphic design firm in Austin. My youngest sister, Laura, was off the grid somewhere. At least, she thought she was. I knew where she was and who she was with. I also knew that one day, in the not too distant future, I’d bring that dysfunctional situation to an abrupt end. I frowned at the thought of Laura and then pushed it aside. The time wasn’t right, not yet.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Patty.

  “I was just wondering if there’s a cab company around here I can call? You know, take me back to the motel. I figured I’d get while the getting is good.”

  “I can give you a ride,” she said. “If anything really bad happens, people know to call my cell phone directly.”

  “Appreciated.”

  We went outside and Patty locked the door behind her. I looked around. The sheriff’s office was on the main drag through town, by all appearances. There wasn’t a lot to be seen, really, just a handful of small shops that would have been put out of business if any big box stores were closer. Still, it looked like they took care of things. There was none of the casual litter you see in cities and larger towns. There were plenty of trucks and well-worn SUVs. It struck me as the kind of place that, come February or so, people actually needed those kinds of vehicles.

  Patty walked me over to a white and brown sedan with a light strip on the roof and the word “Sheriff” airbrushed across the doors. She thought for a second and then cleared off the passenger seat in the front. I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Far as I can tell, you were the victim. No need to make you ride in back.”

  “Works for me.”

  Patty drove slowly through the town. It was probably the same speed she used on patrol. She pointed out a large, surprisingly ornate, brick building.

  “Believe it or not, that’s the high school. Used to be a church of some kind, back around the turn of the last century, but it didn’t last. They donated it to the city when the church closed up shop for good.”

  “You go to school there?”

  “Me? No, I moved here for the job. Sheriff did, though. Says the place creeps him out.”

  I eyed the building again and wondered what kind of church it had been. It wasn’t Catholic. The architecture was all wrong, more Byzantine than Gothic, with lots of arches and a dome.

  “Guess it is a bit foreboding, at that.”

  Patty gave me a sharp look and said, “Foreboding?”

  “A feeling of impending doom.”

  “I know, just surprised you said it. Not a word you hear much anymore.”

  “Ah. I read a lot of old books.”

  Patty nodded and we passed the rest of the drive in amiable silence. I knew something was wrong as soon as we pulled into the motel parking lot. It was subtle things, like every window in my car being broken out and all four tires being flat. I sighed. Patty parked and we got out. I didn’t get too close. If there was evidence, I didn’t want to disturb it. The deputy did a wide circuit around the vehicle and then gave me a pinched expression.

  “Seems you’re a bit late for getting while the getting was good.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, “seems like.”

  Chapter 3

  It took a minute, but the shock of seeing my car’s undrivable state wore off. Tension bloomed in my shoulders as the frustration took hold, building slowly to genuine anger. It wasn’t the car itself, I had no attachment to it, but goal-blocking pissed me off. Best case scenario, I was stuck for a lot longer than I wanted to be stuck somewhere. I forced myself to stop grinding my teeth and spoke as rationally as I could to the deputy.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a bus coming through this morning or an airport nearby?”

  Patty gave me a look of bland sympathy. “Bus only comes through once a week, a few days from now. Nearest airport is fifty miles away.”

  “Used car dealership?”

  Patty looked away, almost sheepish. “Yeah, we’ve got one of those, but I don’t think you want to go there.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You sent the owner to the hospital last night with a dislocated shoulder.”

  “Fucking hell. I don’t suppose you know someone who’s looking to get rid of a car cheap?”

  “There’s probably someone in town looking to sell, but I can’t think of anyone with a car I’d trust to get you more than ten miles.”

  The pressure was building behind my eyes in preparation for the enormous headache I knew was coming. “I’m in hell.”

  Marcy’s warning to get out was fresh in my head. I wanted to get gone. “Patty, if you can find me a car that will get me as far as that airport, there’s a hundred bucks in it for you.”

  Patty adopted what I thought of as standard-issue police suspicion. “You seem to be in an awful big hurry to get out of here. You running from something?”

  I pointed at the car. “You’re damn skippy! I’m running from whoever was short-sighted enough to do that to a car in a public parking lot. I don’t want to be here if they decide to do an encore on my body.”

  The suspicion faded. “That’s fair. I need to take a report, but then I’ll see about tracking you down a car.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Patty pulled a camera out of the cruiser and took lots of pictures. Then she popped the trunk with a gloved hand and let me retrieve a few odds and ends I’d left in there. I retrieved my belongings from my room, mostly an overnight bag and a long, hard case. If I’d been in a real hurry, I’d have left the overnight bag. I checke
d out and dumped my stuff in the back seat of the cruiser. Patty eyed the hard case, but didn’t ask any questions. I’d been on the receiving end of two crimes in less than twenty-four hours in her little town. Odds were good that she’d decided too much curiosity about my belongings meant more trouble than it was worth. She’d have won that bet.

  We drove back to the Sherriff’s office and I drank slightly burned coffee while Patty filled out a report. It was short, since I’d been sleeping in the sheriff’s office all night. I certainly hadn’t heard anything. She spared me the normal questions police might ask in that scenario. The suspects were obvious, but unlikely. Unless that tool, Tucker Smith, got released from the hospital and paid a visit to my car before sense kicked in. I didn’t really care who did it, as long as I could leave and do so quickly.

  Patty looked up from the paperwork. “What about your car?”

  “Sell it. Junk it. See if a mechanic can fix it,” I offered with shrug. “I’ll leave a contact number and sort the details out later.”

  “Are you rich, Mr. Hartworth?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You really want to get out of this town, don’t you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I’ll make some calls. See about getting you that car. How much can you afford on short notice?”

  I had a few grand, but I didn’t want to advertise that fact. “Let’s say eight hundred.”

  I waited while Patty called around, waking some people, cajoling others, and then negotiating down one recalcitrant soul. I tuned out the details and watched the street below coming to life. A little diner slowly filled with the early morning crowd of senior citizens and the working class. I checked the clock and was surprised to find it was only a little after seven in the morning. How early had Patty woken me? Lights flickered on inside the shops as people got ready for what I expected were probably fairly slow days. A couple school buses rumbled by, no doubt to fetch farm kids and the poverty stricken out on the edges of the township. At least, that was how it always seemed to work in small towns.

  “Okay,” said Patty. “I think I found you one that the owner will part with for seven hundred, if you bring it in cash, inside the next twenty minutes.”

  “Not a problem.”

  The car’s owner was a pear-shaped man named Eddie Brubaker. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses and an unfortunate goatee. By the look on his face, he was still half-asleep when Patty and I showed up on his doorstep. He had managed to put on slacks and a pair of beat up tennis shoes, but apparently lost concentration at that point. A maroon bathrobe hung open to reveal a t-shirt that read “Join the nerd side. We have Pi!” He blinked at us blearily and then stepped out onto the porch. He made it down the steps before turning around, walking back up the steps, and closing the door.

  “Sorry,” he grunted. “Early.”

  He led us to a cramped, two-car garage and opened it up. Inside there was a new Taurus to the right. To the left was a much-abused, or possibly well-loved, mid-nineties Neon. The unkind shade of green paint was mottled and chipped on the hood and the tires looked well beyond their expiration date. Eddie jangled a set of keys at me. I took the keys, unlocked the car and climbed in. It smelled like ancient fast food and cheap pine air freshener. Still, it started on the first try. I rolled down the window.

  “Mind if I take it down the block?”

  Eddie waved a hand at me and went back to looking half asleep. I took the car on a brief test drive. I could tell it had problems, but none of them were catastrophic. More importantly, none of them were things that needed the immediate attention of a mechanic. It was good enough to get me to an airport or train station, which was all I needed. I drove back up the driveway. Eddie gave me a semi-expectant look before issuing forth with a jaw-creaking yawn.

  He gave a second small yawn and then looked at me again. “What do you think?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  I took some money out of my pocket, counted it out onto the hood and then handed him the bundle.

  He stared at the cold, hard cash in my hand without comprehension, and then jerked back to reality. “I’ll get you the title.”

  “Hey Eddie, this thing still insured?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “There’s an extra hundred in it for you if you leave the insurance on it for another week. I’d like to leave now, but…”

  “But the insurance people won’t insure it until you get the paperwork settled. Hell, for a hundred bucks, I’ll leave it on for another two weeks.”

  I handed him the extra money and he vanished into the house.

  “You know,” said Patty, “that isn’t strictly legal.”

  “I know, but it’s not like I’m planning on doing anything stupid with it. Hell, I’m probably only going to drive it fifty miles.”

  Patty raised an eyebrow, but let that one hang in the air. While he was inside, I unloaded my stuff from the police cruiser and dumped it into the back seat of the Neon. I walked back over to Patty and forked over a hundred.

  She pocketed the cash and then shook her head. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “I said I would,” I offered with a shrug.

  “People say lots of things.”

  “True.”

  Eddie came back with the title and signed the car over. He gave the vehicle a wistful look and then shook his head. “Had a lot of fun in that car. I drove clear to the Pacific Ocean and back in her. The lock sticks on the passenger door. You’ll have to jiggle the key a little when you turn it.”

  “Good to know. I appreciate you getting up to sell it to me.”

  Eddie rolled his eyes. “When Deputy Michelson says jump, you jump.”

  “Good lord, Eddie, you can call me Patty.”

  The words seemed to pass straight through the consciousness of Eddie Brubaker. “I need to get ready for work, so I’ll leave you to it. Mr. Hartworth, nice doing business with you. You’ll need to mail me the plates when you get where you’re going. Deputy Michelson, tell the sheriff I said hello.”

  “Patty,” muttered the deputy, as if she could make the name stick through sheer repetition.

  I gave her a wry smile. “As much fun as my stay here has been, I think I’m about ready to take my leave of small town America. You can leave me a message at that number once things calm down. I’ll get things sorted out with that car.”

  That car, I mused. Not my car anymore, just that car. I thought there must be an object lesson in it about the impermanence of all things or the futility of concepts of ownership, but mostly it just made me realize that I didn’t care that much about stuff. It also made me realize that, given the opportunity, I’d cheerfully punch whoever did it in the face because they made my exit so much more difficult. Stuff was just stuff. Time was irreplaceable.

  The deputy nodded. “I’ll do that. You remember how to get out of here?”

  “I think I’ll be okay. I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction.”

  “It’s been, well, interesting to meet you, Mr. Hartworth. I hope your next stop is less trouble than this one has been.”

  “Me too.”

  I climbed into the Neon and headed back to Main Street. I followed the road west toward the edge of town. I stopped for gas on pure reflex.

  Chapter 4

  The small concentration of civilization soon gave way to open countryside spotted with occasional houses. I blew past a white, two-story place that teetered between nice and unkempt, but something in my subconscious registered the thing that didn’t fit. I glanced into the rearview mirror, then pulled to the side of the road and looked back over my shoulder.

  I slammed my hand against the steering wheel. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!”

  I seriously considered pulling back onto the road and going my way. It wasn’t my problem. Someone else was bound to drive by before long. I rationalized my intentions for a good twenty seconds before I noticed that I’d already turned the car around and was racing back
toward the house. I’d seen smoke pouring off the back of the building. The old station wagon parked out front told me that someone was probably inside. The absence of anything like sirens, fire trucks, and panicking people in the front yard suggested the person inside either didn’t know or was already incapacitated. I pulled into the driveway way too fast and had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the station wagon.

  The yard needed a good lawn-mowing, so the faded green hose that sent me sprawling wasn’t obvious to the unobservant eye. I stood back up, ignored the pain in my hands and knees, and took the porch steps two at a time. I slammed my fist against the door.

  “Hello! Is anyone home?”

  I waited a full second before I repeated the process. Then I waited a full two seconds, possibly even three, before I tried to peer through the porch window. There were gauzy curtains, but I could see that smoke was already building up on the ground floor. I also saw a staircase with an old man sprawled on it, as if he’d been trying to make his way up to the second floor. I went back to the door, drew my leg back and then thought better of it. I reached out and gingerly touched the knob. It wasn’t hot. I turned it and the door swung open. Small towns, I thought.

  Smoke rolled out the door and the sheer noise of the fire buffeted me. I dragged my shirt up over my mouth and nose before I pushed through the smoke. Even while I focused on getting to the old man, my brain made of note of useless details. Antique chair, Arts & Crafts era. Reproduction Federal game table. Shaker cabinet, possibly original. I wondered if the guy was an antiques dealer, but I shoved the idea aside in favor of trying to get him on his feet. He was barely conscious, which made it a lot harder.

  He was taller than I was and even a thin, tall man weighs a lot when he can’t help you move that mass. I all but dragged him out of the house and was wheezing by the time we got into the clean air outside. I pulled him a good twenty feet away, almost to the road, before I nearly toppled us both under a big oak. I hacked and choked for a while before I felt his hand on my arm. I looked at the old man. He was out of focus and the sounds he made were more garble than words.