December Boys (17 page)

UpStart headed a group of investors preparing to build the state’s largest private prison. And the proposed site for the massive juvenile detention center? The newly available TC Truck Stop on the edge of my hometown.

“T
HIS IS JUST
like Big Daddy,” Charlie said.

He was behind the wheel of his old Subaru hatchback beater, half maroon, half-rusted piece of shit with long gashes and cigarette holes in the upholstery. The car belonged to his mom before she died. When Charlie lost the phone company gig, he lost the company van too, dragging this monstrosity off the automotive graveyard and back into action.

The latest forecast didn’t have the blizzard wreaking havoc until much later. We had plenty of time to get out in front of the storm. I argued that as long as we were here, might as well check out the families in town. Nicki and Fisher went to call on a couple kids on the other side of the mountain, while Charlie and I paid a visit to the parents of Wendy Shaw, the sixteen-year-old girl who’d been locked up over a year for defending a gay classmate. One of the things I’d gleaned from my year as an investigator: people have a much easier time hanging up a phone than they do slamming a door. Plus I knew if we called it a night, Nicki would be the one taking me home to Plasterville. Empty house. Late at night. The heels of rejection on the precipice of a disaster, I didn’t want to deal with temptation. Fat guys on diets don’t walk past the cake shop.

“Remember, from
The Simpsons
?”

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, Charlie.”

“The fake spin-off featuring Chief Wiggum as a private investigator in Louisiana?”

I tried to read route numbers as we snaked through the twists of the mountain. Fat flakes started to fall, lullabying through headlights. The engine was hot enough to melt them on impact, but the soft, fluffy down had begun to slick the roadways. Still several hours till midnight, I wondered if the forecast had gotten it wrong.

“
The Simpsons
,” Charlie said. “It’s a cartoon. Been on television over twenty years—”

“I’m aware of
The Simpsons
, yes. What the hell does that have to do with any of this?” I’d grown up in these mountains. You’d think I’d be able to find my way around in the dark by now. The Ashton foothills were nothing but a labyrinth of secret alcoves and hiding spots.

“It’s an episode. On
The Simpsons
. ‘Chief Wiggum, PI.’ But a pretend show. It’s not real.”

“None of it’s real. It’s a fucking cartoon.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Charlie said, growing exasperated. “You remember Chief Wiggum? Y’know, the fat, dumb Springfield cop?” He chuckled to himself. “Kinda like Turley.”

“Make your point, man.”

“It’s a spin-off, dude. Troy McClure hosts. Principal Skinner is ‘Skinny Boy.’ Wiggum’s kid—what’s his name? Wrote the Valentine’s Day card to Lisa—I choo-choo-choose you? Ralph!” Charlie chuckled over the funny memory. “Every week’s episode features the same villain, this New Orleans kingpin, Big Daddy. Get it?”

“No.”

“Lombardi is Big Daddy.”

“You’re an idiot, Charlie.”

The inside of his car smelled like a rat had died in a bag of
McDonald’s french fries. At least we could smoke. I lit a cigarette with an old Zippo I found in the ashtray.

“It’s a good analogy,” Charlie said, softly. “Why are you so pissy?”

“I don’t know, man. How about because you’ve been busting my balls a whole year? Anytime I’d mention the Lombardis, you’d give me hell, while the
entire time
you knew Fisher was playing Hardy Boys on the sly, investigating shit I’d asked you to drop.”

“I wouldn’t call it investigating. More like—”

“What?”

“A hobby.”

“A hobby I asked you both to drop.”

“Like you dropped it?”

“You didn’t have to make me sound nuts any time I brought it up.”

“I didn’t want you driving yourself crazy. Last winter tore you up, man. I saw how rough that was on you. Sure, I knew Fisher was still poking around, but not the extent of it. Obsessing over this wasn’t helping you any. I didn’t want you blowing a good thing. You had the family. A good job.”

“Not anymore.”

“I figured if Fisher ever stumbled on something worthwhile, I’d bring it to you then. Until that time well, y’know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Before North River popped up on the map, I honestly didn’t think he’d find anything.” Charlie dug out a cigarette. “I’m never getting those things.”

“What things?”

“A Jenny. An Aiden. A family.” He squinted to find a path in the darkness. “I see the way people look at me. At the Dubliner. Around town. You.”

“Forget about it, man.”

“I’m never leaving this place. I’m getting fat, losing my hair. I drink too much. Shit, I know I peaked in high school. It’s cool. But I’m not meeting a nice girl at the bar and settling down. I’ll die alone.”

“We all will, Charlie.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

I scrolled down the names and addresses I’d cribbed from Fisher’s notebook, double-checking best I could through my eyes watering from the smoke. The problem with finding houses in these parts, people moved up here to stay lost.

“Pretty sure the Shaw place is over that ridge,” I said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He patted his person, searching for a lighter.

I knew his heart was in the right place. I pulled out the old Zippo I’d pocketed, passing it along. I pointed out the windshield. “Take that left.”

We cleared a cluster of witch-hobble and moosewood, curving around a boulder, steering toward the glowing patch of porch light. Didn’t matter that these homes were in the middle of nowhere or that folks cherished their privacy: no one ever switched off their porch light.

“So we cool?” Charlie said.

“Yeah, we’re cool.”

I was hoping the Shaws were going to be receptive. I could use a little light shined. One thing I could not wrap my head around was why these parents had signed off. Nicki said incarceration at North River was a mutual decision. Courts
and
Mom and Dad. Why would parents do that to their own kids? I’d wanted to reach out to Donna Olisky again, circumvent this entire process. Except last time we’d spoken, Donna hadn’t been feeling all that friendly,
and I doubted she’d had a change of heart. After all, in her mind, I’d cost her family five large. Plus, I wasn’t sure who’d alerted DeSouza that I’d been hanging around Longmont. Could’ve been Donna as easily as security guards reporting license plate numbers. Unless someone else was watching me. There was a reason that car sat parked down the block.

I knew taking on this fight again wasn’t going to improve my life, not professionally, not personally. My ribs and kidneys still felt tender from last week’s beating. But what could I do? I owed a debt. My dead brother deserved vengeance. I was finally close to getting that for him, so much so that I was having a tough time focusing on anything else.

That’s the problem with tunnel vision: you can’t appreciate peripheral danger. Until it’s too late.

* * *

The Shaw homestead would’ve been just another unremarkable shelter in the foothills of Lamentation Mountain, secluded from the road, shrouded in secrecy, swallowed by tall winter evergreens. Except that unlike many of the old farmhouses you find out here, which were hundreds of years old and in need of major renovation, planks peeling off the frame, shingles checkering the rooftop, this home had benefited from a serious makeover.

As our headlights fanned up the driveway and the exterior, I could see the extent of repairs and expansion. A second story had recently been added, walls still unpainted plywood. An entire new home had been built atop the existing one, transforming a meager ranch into a split-level, doubling its market value. There was a new veranda, a new roof. Sandbags, paint cans, and a ladder lay on the side of the house buried beneath blue tarp.

“There goes the neighborhood,” Charlie said.

“Why don’t you wait here?”

Soon as I set foot in the snow, a barrel-chested man in bibbed overalls, with a bushy beard and ham hands, pushed open the front door. A frail boy, twelve or so, stood behind him in the doorway.

“You lost?” the man said.

“Sorry to bother you. Are you Ken Shaw?”

“I’m Shaw. What do you want?”

“I was hoping to speak with you about your daughter, Wendy.”

Ken Shaw spat, hitching up his giddy. He stared past my shoulder, at Charlie’s clunker belching fumes in the driveway. “Who are you?”

I’d pulled a business card from my wallet, deciding whether to pass it along. Given the trouble I’d suffered at the office lately, mentioning the job wasn’t the smartest move, but I’d also learned that if you say anything with self-confidence and authority, people follow your lead. I figured insurance sounded less threatening than independent investigator. Especially to these libertarian mountain men up here with their inherent distrust of, well, everything.

I tried to hand him the card, but Shaw stepped from the porch, backing me down the stairs. Damn thing flew out of my hand, carried off on the wings of the night.

All trace of pleasantry gone, a sneer formed on his lips, apple cheeks blazing beneath farmer scruffiness. “What did you say about my daughter?”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Shaw.” You’d think I’d asked if his baby girl entertained sailors on the wharf. I showed my hands in surrender. I come in peace, I mean no harm. “Wendy’s in the North River Institute, right?” I didn’t know what response I’d been hoping for—by that point I could see Shaw wanted to throttle me, hard expression twisting harder with each passing moment—might as well get to it. My time here was almost up.

Charlie waited in the shadows. A quick engine rev cut through the howling squall, my friend’s way of letting me know he had my back when I was ready to run away. Ken Shaw paid no heed, content eyeballing me with the significant height and weight advantage he enjoyed. I didn’t know why the farmer pegged me for such a threat—I’d said little more than hello—but he treated my presence like a wolf sniffing around his hens.

The snow started coming down steadier, slanting with the mountain jet stream, howling through the valley. Shaw’s eyes whittled mean, trap stuck between sneer and scowl.

He barked an order over his shoulder to the young boy, who retreated inside.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw,” I shouted into the wind. “I think we got started off on the wrong foot. I am here to help your daughter.”

Ken Shaw turned around and walked up the steps to his front door. Reaching inside, he brought out a shotgun. The big man cocked his big gun.

That was all the incentive I needed.

I jumped in the car and Charlie peeled out the driveway. Looking back I could still see the madman on the porch, standing guard over the henhouse with his shotgun. On the new second floor landing, the young boy stared out a window. Our eyes remained on one another until the entire home receded into darkness.

The storm had rolled in sooner than expected, and by the time we made Charlie’s place, the damage piled high, snow falling hard and heavy, at least three inches in less than an hour. Soon Ashton would ground its plows. Without tire chains and four-wheel drive, I wasn’t making it back to Plasterville tonight. I had nothing to go back to anyway. I called Nicki to see how they’d made out.

“Any luck?”

“Nope.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Driving around, waiting for you to call.”

The sound of highway whisked by in the background. Fisher was behind the wheel.

“What now, genius?” I heard him say, voice muffled by speeding engines and racing winds.

“You guys better get off the road,” I told her.

She repeated my message.

“Tell him no shit.”

She put the phone to his ear, because I could hear him better.

“You at Charlie’s?” he said.

“Yeah. Just got here.”

“We’ll see you in a few. I can’t see shit in this blizzard.”

Nicki got back on the line. “Guess we’ll see you at Creepy Charlie’s soon.”

I glanced over at Charlie, who sat bloated and balding in a chair with a beer, staring at a wall without pictures, lost in deep thought.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I didn’t want to throw Charlie under the bus, not with my friend sitting there. Nicki got it.

“No worries,” she said. “Happens all the time.” She laughed. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t seem to notice.”

“I’m not blind, Nicki. Just married. There’s a difference.”

Then it hit me. Jenny had told me I could see my son tomorrow. Which would soon be today, buried beneath a nor’easter with no exit off the mountain. My head was too far up my ass to hear about the blizzard—I possessed a strange, unfortunate ability to compartmentalize—but Jenny would’ve known about the storm. I felt a gully in my gut a mile wide when I realized my wife didn’t want me anywhere near my child.

N
O ONE SPOKE
much at Charlie’s. Following fifteen coffees at the Olympic, racing to get ahead of the storm, we’d been so geared up. For what? A big crash. We had no business kicking over stones. Where was the crime, anyway? A judge who favored punishment over rehabilitation? Businessmen who liked to make money? Prime real estate used to build stuff on? If there were impropriety—if incriminating evidence existed anywhere in that hodgepodge collection of loose-leaf—none of us were qualified to lead the charge.

Fisher attempted to broach the subject at one point, outlining a plan of action, and I told him to shut the fuck up. I said it hotter than I intended. I was in a mood. Mixing whiskey and beer is never a good idea. Not that it stopped me. I knew I was losing her, could feel the pangs in my heart, ties being cut without a word, the rest of the night a blur. I kept drinking. Conversation dried up after that.

Next morning, the plows were back out, roads cleared. Nicki drove me back to my place. Final accumulation tallies fell well below doomsday predictions. A foot, tops. In other words, a typical Wednesday.