Dry Spell: A Mercy Watts Short (6 page)

“Which one?”
 

“The grifter.”
 

Claire was my dad’s secretary. She had terrible taste in men. If I ever decided to get married, I’d ask Claire for her opinion. If she liked him, I’d run the other way. She didn’t much like Pete because of his schedule, so he was safe.
 

Uncle Morty’s keys stopped clicking. “You got connections there.”
 

“Not really,” I said.
 

“You can’t be going alone. There’s some crazy dudes in those small towns.”

“You want to go?”

“I ain’t going nowhere. I got shit to do.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll let you know what turns up.”

I hung up and Skanky came yawning out of my bedroom.
 

“You ready to listen to me now?” I asked my feline.
 

He stuck his hind leg in the air and began an intense rear cleaning.
 

I guess not.
 

I slept a heavy, dreamless sleep that night with the help of Ambien and a purring Skanky. I don’t usually take that stuff, but Janet Lee Fine was a nightmare waiting to happen. I awoke to the smell of peppers and onions. Yawning, I followed Skanky into the kitchen to find Aaron in my kitchen putting dough in a tortilla press.
 

“How’d you get in here?” I asked.
 

He squashed the dough and then flipped the disk onto a sizzling hot skillet.

“Aaron?” I asked.
 

“Pete?”
 

“Where’d you see him?”
 

“Kronos.”
 

Cooking was clearly getting in the way of conversation, not that Aaron was much of a talker. He was mostly an eater. He dished me up some eggs, specially-made salsa and tortillas and watched me eat, clutching his hands together. The tortillas were unbelievable, which made me suspicious and sad.
 

“They’re made with lard, aren’t they?”
 

“Tortillas have lard,” he said, making himself a plate.
 

“And I have flab. I can’t eat this.”
 

“It’s good lard.” He stared at me hard through his thick 1980’s glasses. “You like ‘em?”

I sighed. Was there any such thing as good lard? I ignored the rest of the world’s best tortilla and concentrated on the eggs and salsa. “They’re fabulous and you know it.”

“So where’re we going?” Aaron asked with a mouth full of eggs.
 

We? Of course. He wasn’t just making me eggs for the hell of it.
 

“Morty sent you?” I asked.
 

“Yep. I packed snacks.” Aaron produced a small cooler with a hot section and a cold section. There were homemade pizzas, salad Niçoise, ice cream, Twinkies, because you can’t leave home without Twinkies, a thermos, and a collection of San Pellegrino sodas.
 

“How long do you think we’re going to be gone?” I asked.
 

He shrugged and started making more delicious tortillas that I couldn’t eat. I loaded the dishwasher so I could seem like I was useful and called Ellen.
 

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, instead of saying hello.
 

“Fine. I just have a quick question,” I said.
 

“About Janine?”
 

“Sort of. Have you ever been to Augusta, Poplar Bluff, or St. Sebastian?”
 

“All of them actually. Why?”
 

“I’m following up a lead. What’s the most recent one?”
 

“St. Seb for my family reunion.”
 

I got all tingly. “Was there a fair?”
 

“No. We were there in June. The fair’s in August. Right now, I think.”

“Is there a lake?”
 

“How’d you know?”
 

I told her lucky guess and hung up. “Aaron, pack it up. We’re going to St. Sebastian.”
 

He finished his last tortilla and packed it with the pizzas, just to torture me, and we were in my truck in ten minutes.
 

 
St. Sebastian was a highway hour away. Finding the lake was a cinch. There were signs everywhere advertising the Town and Country fair. I followed the signs and parked next to the lake. It was a quarter to noon and the fairgrounds were quiet. No one was picnicking or boating. Waves of heat shimmered off the blacktop of the parking lot and only the ducks were enjoying the day. Aaron grabbed the cooler like we were there for a picnic and I started taking pictures with my phone. The lake was man-made and not large. I estimated that it was less than a mile around. I started walking with Aaron huffing and puffing along behind me. At least he made me look fit. I took a picture every few feet. I could get Mom to blow up the shots later and look for what I missed.
 

Ahead of us, a young mother got out of her car with two toddlers. Her little boy began to chase the ducks. He waved to me as I walked to the water’s edge. The day was beautiful, if hot. The more I walked the more peaceful I felt. I wouldn’t find anything. It would be a nice walk in a pretty park. Maybe I’d go to the fair for a while and ride a ride or two. I picked up my pace when I came out of the trees and headed for the far end of the lake, a fingertip reached into a glade of trees. I stopped for a couple of pictures. It was so pretty. I posed Aaron with the Ferris wheel behind him. He looked confused at being photographed, but I liked the juxtaposition of my messy odd partner and the perfect day.
 

Behind Aaron, the fair’s rides started going. Music played, like the music I’d heard at Ellen’s. The peaceful feeling went away and the nausea started up. I stood at the water’s edge, feeling ill and hopeless. What was I doing there? This wasn’t going to do any good, except make me hurl again. I should’ve told Pete. He could’ve ordered a CAT scan, for me, not Janine. Law enforcement had looked for Janet. Like I was going to find her. What an idiot.
 

Aaron nudged my elbow with something cold. “Here.”
 

I took a metal thermos from him. “What’s this?”
 

“Iced chocolate.”
 

I poured a bit into the lid and drank the icy goodness. “Perfect for a hot day. Belgian chocolate?”
 

“Venezuelan.”
 

“Breaking out the good stuff. Why?”
 

“Cause you’re going to find her,” he said, simply.
 

“I don’t know about that,” I said.
 

“I do. Drink.”
 

I obeyed, which isn’t really my thing, but iced chocolate soothed my stomach. I finished my cup and started around the lake. I kept looking, but for what I had no clue.
 

The lake petered out into a fingertip. Instead of going around the fingertip, I decided to walk over a foot bridge constructed over the muck at the end of the lake. Our footsteps made hollow beats on the wood. I stopped at the center and took a shot over the lake. Then I turned and took another one over the dried out muck, cracked in a giraffe pattern with each section buckling up like mud bowls. Something about those bowls. Something about that pattern. An idea tried to pop into my head, but I couldn’t pin it down. I should be seeing something, knowing something. I turned and looked at the fingertip again. Lake. Fingertip. Lake. Fingertip. Water. No water. Water. No water. What had Janine said? Something about sometimes being wet. I bent over the railing and looked at where the water stopped several feet from the bridge. There was some slimy muck, but under the bridge the ground was Sahara dry. It wasn’t always dry, though. From the plants at the edge, I thought that it was usually wet.
 

“Wait here,” I said to Aaron.
 

He happily pulled out a pizza while I walked to the end of the bridge and slid on my rump to the lake bed.

There wasn’t much to see, a soda can, dead water plants and leaves. I walked the perimeter scanning every step. I found a long stick and began to push leaves aside. Then I started at the far end and zigzagged in a tight pattern back towards the water. I reached the bridge and leaned my head against the wood. I said a silent ‘thank you’ that at least no one was around to see me look so stupid. Nobody except Aaron and he didn’t count. I doubt he knew how I looked period.
 

I crouched under the bridge to continue my search. I was only five two, but still too tall to stand upright. I started at the left and did another zigzag. In the middle, I bonked my head on a beam and knocked myself to the ground. I heard a man yell down to me, “Are you alright?

I peeked my head out from under the bridge and smiled, “I think so.”
 

The man in short shorts and a skimpy tank stood next to a chewing Aaron, who looked like he didn’t know me or anything.
 

“Do you need some help?” asked the man.

In other words, what are you doing under there, you weirdo?

“I lost an earring.”

He looked around the area. “Oh well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The man, obviously an insane jogger, started running again in the one-hundred-degree heat. I watched as he ran past the bridge and out of sight. So much for the luck of being alone. Now I looked crazy to a random stranger and I had an egg forming on my forehead. It was sticky with blood from a splinter. That was just what I needed. I looked like a real nut. Only I could get a splinter in my forehead. I arched my back and started my pattern again. I was there. I might as well finish the job. Then I tripped and caught myself just before I added another egg to my head. Sitting in the dirt, I put my head down on my knees and questioned my sanity. Who else would be there? Even Uncle Morty wouldn’t do this and he was certifiably weird.
 

But what had I tripped on anyway. I looked up and nothing was immediately apparent. I crawled the couple of feet and started brushing away the leaves. My left hand hit a bump, not a big bump, a little one. It was cold and dirty. I rubbed the dirt away and a glint of metal shown through. I stopped for a moment and said to myself, ‘Soda can.’
 

I used a rock to clear more dirt. It wasn’t a can. It was hard metal and a tube. I worked some more and a bit of plastic emerged. I spit on it and it became pink. Pink plastic with sparkly bits imbedded in it. I’d seen that kind of plastic before. It was a kid’s thing. I’d had a bike with handgrips like that, only mine were purple. My stomach twisted and I felt sweat beading on my upper lip.
 

“Mercy?” Aaron leaned over and waggled the thermos at me. “Need this?”
 

I shook my head and started digging in earnest. The music was so loud my eardrums were screaming. The light faded until I was digging in a dusky twilight. There was the sound of a shovel being shoved into hard dirt. Voices. Music. The rattle of a bike chain. I had to be sure. More of a pink handgrip emerged and surrounding it were bits of shredded plastic. I’d had streamers on the end of my handlebars, too. A bead of sweat rolled into my mouth as I brought my dirt encrusted hand to my lips and turned it to mud. I was standing on her. My father’s words during a visit to my great grandfather’s grave sounded softly in my ears. “Never step on a grave. It’s an insult.” I scuttled backwards out from under the bridge and it was bright daylight again and the music was just that, music in the distance, but I couldn’t move fast enough. I ran around the lake to my truck. My feet pounded on the grass and crushed stray leaves. The lake was still beautiful, more so in fact. It seemed a perfect world with its brilliant sky and playgrounds.
 

I jumped into my truck and gripped the steering wheel. My fingernails were ripped off and the nail beds were oozing blood. I hadn’t felt it. How did I not feel that? I was crying and didn’t know when I’d started. I’d never been so afraid. Under that bridge something had reached out and touched me. It was different than the night before. More horrible and lasting.
 

Aaron reached in and took my hands off the steering wheel. He pushed me across the bench seat and got in the driver’s seat. He put an icy soda can into my burning hands and then drove away from the lake. I sat in that seat, shaking and confused.