Good Day In Hell (19 page)

“Would you like a drink, balloon man?” she asked.

“Not now, thanks,” said Keller.

“Hah,” she said. “It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere, doesn’t it?” She plopped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and sloshed a few fingers of the dark amber bourbon into the glass. She pulled a cigarette out of a pack on the side table and lit it.

“Mrs. Marks …” Keller began.

“Ellen,” she said. “And your name was Jack, right?”

“Still is,” Keller said. “Ellen, Laurel didn’t make her last court appearance. She’s dropped out of sight. Do you know anyone she might go to if she was in trouble?”

“Well, it sure as hell wouldn’t be here, Jack,” she said. The slight whiskey slur made the word come out “heah.” “Laurel walked out of this house on her eighteenth birthday and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.” “Why was that, Ellen?”

She didn’t answer at first. She took a long drink of bourbon, her eyes regarding Keller over the glass. She put the glass down and closed her eyes as the fiery liquid went down. When she opened them again, her voice was steadier. “My daughter has severe emotional problems. She’s violent. She’s a thief. She’s sexually promiscuous. She’s also a pathological liar. We did everything we could to help her, but,” she shrugged, “enough was enough.”

“Is that why Social Services was involved when she was younger?”

“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework, haven’t you?” She took another drink. “Yes, Jack,” she said. “Laurel told a teacher that Ted… my husband … had sexually abused her. It was a lie, of course. He never touched her.”

“How do you know it was a lie?”

She gave him a bitter smile. “Because she admitted it was a lie. She recanted. Of course that was after she and her brother had been out of the home in foster care for several months.”

“Her brother?” Keller said.

“Yes. His name is Curt. He’s a student at …” She stopped. “I don’t want you bothering him,” she said.

“Do you think she’d go to him for help if she was on the run?”

She laughed. “Not by a long sight, Jack. He was very upset by the whole incident. Curt idolizes his father. It tore him apart to see the family separated like that.”

“He blamed Laurel,” Keller said. Ellen looked at him blankly.

“Of course,” she said. “Laurel was to blame. Fortunately, Curt eventually convinced her to tell the truth.”

Keller let that go. “Can you think of any place she’d go, any friend she’d call?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped at the sound of the front door opening and closing. There was a sound of something heavy being set down in the front hallway.

“Ellen?” a male voice called out. There were footsteps in the hall. A man entered.

He was in his late fifties, tall, stocky, with the build and swagger of a man used to intimidating by his size alone. His hair was almost gone on top, with only a few strands combed over his sunburned and freckled scalp. His bright green golf slacks and bright yellow shirt made his already ruddy face look nearly apoplectic. He stopped and regarded Keller with narrowed eyes.

“Hello,” he said, without an ounce of welcome in a deep, gravelly voice.

Keller stood up, extended his hand. “Mister Marks?”

The man ignored the hand. “Who are you?”

“Mister Keller is a bail bondsman,” Ellen Marks said. She hadn’t bothered to get up. “He’s here asking about Laurel.”

The man’s jaw tightened. Keller could see the resemblance to Laurel. “We don’t know anything about her,” he said.

“I understand she’s not here, sir,” Keller said, “but I wanted to know if—”

“You need to get your ass out of here, Keller,” Marks said. “I don’t know how you got in, but—”

“She’s jumped bail, Mister Marks,” Keller said. “If you know anything about where she might be—”

“God damn it,” Marks said, “I said get the hell out!” He moved toward Keller as if to grab him.

“I wouldn’t,” Keller said. His voice was low, but his tone stopped Marks cold. His hands dropped to his sides.

“Ellen,” he said, “call the cops.”

“Call them yourself, Ted,” she said lazily. She took another drag from the cigarette. “Or try to throw Jack out. That really would beat watching Dr. Phil.” She gave a low throaty laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Keller said. “I’m leaving.” He turned to Ellen Marks. “You’ve got my card,” he told her. “If Laurel contacts you, try to persuade her to come in voluntarily, It’ll be easier for everyone. Or if you hear anything about her, call me.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off her husband. They were bright with anticipation. Keller realized she wanted her husband to make a move on him, wanted to see him hurt. He shook his head. Ted Marks moved quickly to get out of Keller’s way as he walked out.

As he left, Keller saw a tan Lincoln Navigator looming in the driveway behind his car. There were a pair of bumper stickers on the back. One said, I’D RATHER BE GOLFING. The other said, MY SON AND MY MONEY GO TO NC STATE. He remembered Ellen Marks saying that her son was a student and filed that away for reference.

“This phone’s almost out of juice,” Stan said. He peered out the van window. “Not like it’ll make any difference, out here in the sticks. Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“Almost there,” Laurel said.

Stan stole a nervous glance at Roy. He had been grim and scary, even more so than usual, since setting the trailer on fire. He didn’t know what to make of it. “The turn’s up here on the right,” he heard Laurel say.

“I know,” Roy said. He slowed the van and turned off the hard road onto a narrow dirt track in an overgrown field. Weeds grew in the center of the road and whispered against the sides of the van as they bumped along. There were fields on either side, fenced in by stands of pine. The fields were grown up in waist-high pale grasses. Here and there a young pine thrust up where crops once grew. They passed an old tobacco bam, its tin roof fallen in.

“What is this place?” Stan asked.

“My grandma’s old farm,” Laurel said. “No one ever comes here.”

“No shit,” Stan said.

“Which is why it’s a good place to hide out,” she snapped. “Get it, genius?” Stan felt his face redden.

They passed through another stand of trees and came out at the lip of a broad, bowl-shaped valley. There was a grove of pecan trees on the valley floor, lined up in neat rows in the undergrowth. The dirt drive led between the rows to the top of the opposite slope. There, the ground leveled off into a yard in front of a small white farmhouse. Roy parked in front. He got out without speaking.

“What’s eating him?” Stan asked.

“He’s just stressin’, is all,” Laurel said. “Let me handle him.” She looked at Stan. “I may need to spend some time with him,” she said. “You know, to get him calmed down.”

Stan frowned. “I don’t like that idea.”

Laurel glanced at Roy. He was bending down to retrieve the key that was hidden under a rock by the front door. She leaned over and whispered to Stan,
“Now, what did I tell you, sweetie? We’re not like other people. We don’t live by rules like that.”

“It ain’t a rule,” Stan said. “It’s just the way I feel.”

Laurel glanced back again. Roy had gone inside. She leaned over and kissed Stan quickly. “I know, honey,” she said. “I used to feel the same way. But it’s better this way. Trust me, okay?”

“I don’t like it,” Stan repeated stubbornly.

“Well, Stan,” she said, her voice suddenly cold, “you better learn to like it. Because this is the way it is.” She opened the van door and got out. Stan heard the deep cough and sputter of a gasoline motor starting up. Laurel slid the van door open and took hold of a huge red cooler. Stan didn’t move. He was still in the back, his knees drawn up to his chest. Misery and confusion were gnawing at his gut.

“You gonna help me get this stuff inside?” Laurel said.

“What’s that noise?” Stan asked “Gas generator,” Laurel said. “We set it up for electricity.”

“Won’t somebody hear?” Stan asked.

“No,” she replied. “Not this far off the road. It’s a big place. Now help me with this damn cooler.”

Stan took the other handle and helped her wrestle the cooler out of the van. It was stuffed full of food, ice, and beer, and they struggled awkwardly with it as they hauled it to the door.

Inside, they found themselves in a small room, with pale white walls and a dusty heart-pine floor. The room was illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a frayed wire. The only furniture in the room was an old, tom-up couch that looked like something someone had rescued from the side of the road. Across from the couch was a new-looking color TV. Roy was fussing with a black box on top of the set. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and stepped back.

There was a bit of snow and static in the reception, but the picture was reasonably clear. On the screen, a man in an expensive-looking leather jacket was walking up and down between lines of cars, talking about incredible below-invoice deals in an excited voice. Roy sat on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows
resting on his knees. His gaze was riveted to the screen. The commercial ended and the screen filled with the picture of a beautiful blonde woman and a handsome bearded man arguing about someone named Troy. A soap opera.

“Where are we?” Roy muttered. He got up and strode angrily across the room to change the channels. He flipped through channel after channel, stopping on the news stations. CNN, Fox, MSNBC…

“Wait a minute,” Stan said. “You got cable out here?”

Laurel shook her head. “Bought a satellite dish from Wal-Mart. And we got a bootleg descrambler from this guy I know. Ain’t no use bein’ famous if you can’t see yourself on TV.”

“I’ll check the local yokels,” Roy said. He picked up a small box wired to the back of the TV. There was a slider switch on top of the box. “This here’s wired to a regular antenna,” he said. “For the local stations.” He moved the switch. The clear picture gave way to a snowier screen. It was showing a talk show about parents and troubled teens who dressed too provocatively.

Roy banged on the top of the set in frustration. “We should be wall to wall by now,” he snarled. “Every station. CNN. Fox. The works.”

“We just got started,” Laurel said. “We’ll get there.”

“Maybe we should call that reporter,” Stan said. He took the cell phone out of his pocket. The tiny letters “NS” were blinking on the top of the screen. “But we’re too far out to use this,” he said. “We’ll have to get back to civilization.”

Roy nodded. He seemed to have calmed somewhat. “We’ll do that,” he said. “After the next scene.”

“Scene?” Stan asked.

“The church was scene one,” Laurel said. “The diner was scene two. Tomorrow it’s time for scene three.”

Stan’s confusion didn’t do anything to help his mood. “What’s scene three?” Roy grinned. His mood seemed to be improving. “Oh, scene three is the best yet.” He walked over to Laurel and took her by the arm. “C’mon,” he said. “We need to get some rest. It’s gonna be a long night.”

Laurel gave Stan a worried glance as Roy led her toward the back of the house. “Maybe you’d better get some sleep, too, Stan,” she said. Roy led her down the hallway. He heard a door close.

Stan stood in the middle of the living room, his hands clenching and unclenching. He wanted to go back there, grab Laurel, tell Roy he wasn’t going to share anymore. And that Roy wasn’t going to touch him anymore, either. But he was afraid. Just like always. He was afraid of Roy, sure, but he was also afraid that Laurel might not like it, that she might laugh at him and go with Roy anyway. I hate being scared, he thought. I fuckin’ hate it. His stomach knotted. He felt like he was going to throw up. Instead, he walked over to the cooler, opened it, and took out a beer. He cracked it open and walked outside. The van door was still open and he walked over to close it. He saw the black deadly shapes of the rifles lying inside. Stan stood and looked at them for a long time, taking sips of the beer. Then he pulled the door shut. He went and sat down on the porch, looking at the van, thinking.

“Dad?” Marie said. She held the phone tightly to her ear with one hand while the other hand covered her ear to drown out the noise of the conversations in the squad room.

“Hey, girl,” her father said. “They got you working hard?”

“Pretty much,” Marie said. “Dad, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure,” he said.

“In the laundry,” Marie said, “there’s a pair of jeans I was wearing yesterday. I need you to go through the pockets.”

“What am I looking for?”

She glanced around at the squad room. She didn’t want to attract attention at that point. “You’ll know it when you find it, Dad, I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay,” he said. She heard the rattle as he put the phone down on the counter. She saw Shelby walking through the door on the other end of the squad room. He saw her and waved. He started toward her. She raised her index finger, then pointed at the phone. One minute. He nodded and veered off toward the coffeemaker.

Her father’s voice came back on the line. “Looks like an empty cartridge casing,” he said. His voice was expressionless. “A .45, I’d say.”