Forever Man (10 page)

Thin fingers skimmed over the rainbow of wax sticks until he found the ones he needed. As he put crayon to paper, a name flashed through his mind.

Natalie.

Patrolman Carlton Manick pulled his police cruiser into the drive-thru lane and ordered two breakfast burritos with extra hot sauce and a large black coffee. When he fished out his wallet, he found four singles. That was it. Payday had been two days ago, and he’d set aside two hundred, enough to get him through until his next check. But after his little run-in with Morris yesterday morning, he’d felt agitated, out of sorts. He’d needed some release. So he’d gone out last night and hit the casinos. Hit them pretty hard. Now he’d be scrimping for the next couple weeks.

Pulling up to the pick-up window, he tried a wink and a smile on the girl taking the money. Maybe he’d get a little cop courtesy and she’d give him his breakfast for free.

“That’ll be $3.06,” the girl said with a roll of her eyes.

Sighing, Carlton handed over the last of his cash. Damn kids didn’t appreciate authority anymore.

“Thanks,” he said sourly as he got his change. “I’ll remember this.”

He parked in an empty space near the exit, set his coffee in the console cup holder, and attacked the first burrito.

It had been a bitch of a morning.

Painfully hung-over, he’d snored through the alarm and had to shower and dress quickly for work. Outside his apartment, he found his motorcycle sitting in Mrs. Burkowski’s space with a terse note from his neighbor taped to the windscreen. He stuffed the note into his pocket, wondering—not for the first time, either—what he was doing to himself.

He’d raced to the police station and parked his 2004 Harley-Davison Springer Softail near the back entrance. Knowing he had only a minute or two to spare, he’d bolted for the door, dropping his keys, grabbed them, found the one that unlocked the back entrance, hurried to the time clock, and jammed his timecard in the slot after it had ticked forward to 7:01 am.

Shit shit shit! Morris had already warned him about his job performance and being late again wasn’t going to help. He slid the timecard back into its slot. Oh well, maybe he’d get lucky, pull over some guy, and find her kid stuffed in the trunk. Maybe that’d get the bitch off his back.

Carlton finished his first burrito in three huge bites. He was reaching into the bag for the other one when a white Chevy Silverado blew by the McDonalds.

“Aw, damn it,” he muttered. Now his burrito was going to get cold.

Flipping on the overhead bar lights and siren, he took off after the SUV.

About two blocks ahead of him, the truck turned right on Newman, fishtailing before the driver regained control.

Carlton reached for his mic. “Base, seven. In pursuit of a white Chevy Silverado traveling east on Newman. Haven’t seen the plate yet.”

“Ten four, seven,” replied Aggie Ripley, the shift dispatcher. “Let me know if you need assistance.”

He clicked his mic twice to acknowledge he’d heard her.

Right on Newman. The Silverado ran ahead of him. He stomped on the gas and closed in. Jersey plate. He called it in.

“Seven,” Aggie came back. “The plate belongs to a white Silverado. Registered to a Darryl Webber.”

The vehicle finally pulled over, the driver’s window rolling smoothly down.

Carlton parked behind the SUV. The Silverado’s windows were darkened. No way to tell how many were inside.

“Any wants or warrants?”

Aggie replied, “He’s clean.”

“Roger. I’ll stay in touch.”

Carlton got out of the car. He approached cautiously, his hand on his sidearm. In the side view mirror, a wedge of a man’s face—a slice of cheek and one green eye—followed his steps.

Carlton stopped at the rear edge of the window. The driver looked to be in his mid-forties. Long pale hair down to his shoulders. Jaw that came to a squared-off point like some shitkicker’s boot. About three days’ worth of beard. A jagged scar from his ear down his jaw line.

The smell of cigarette smoke, Old Spice, and something he couldn’t quite identify—something unpleasant, like a mixture of pine tar and spoiled meat—wafted through the open window. There was some death-metal crap blaring from the radio. Other than butts in the ashtray, the inside of the cab was clean. Carlton looked in the back of the cab. No Natalie. Damn.

“Please turn off the radio,” Carlton yelled.

The man dialed down the sound but didn’t turn it off.

Carlton sighed. Another one with no respect for the law. “Driver’s license and registration, please.”

The driver produced a battered leather wallet from his back pocket, removed two pieces of paper, stuck his hand out the window. His green eyes never left Carlton’s.

After a quick scan of the papers, Carlton said, “Darryl Webber?”

“That’s me…” Webber glanced at Carlton’s nametag. “Officer Manick.”

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Webber looked up and flashed him a smile. The man’s grin spread, stretching wider and wider, until his skin tore apart, separating in bloody, ropey tendrils. The ghastly smile continued like a zipper being opened, ripping through Webber’s skull, until Carlton thought the top half of the guy’s head was going to slide off and plop onto the floor.

Carlton closed his eyes, shook his head, opened them. The man’s smile was normal.

Christ, this was one mother of a hangover.

“You look funny,” Webber said. “Like you seen a ghost or something?”

Carlton took a few moments to gather himself, then said, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

Webber raised a hand to his mouth and removed the cigarette. Blue smoke drifted from the window. “Sorry, Chief. No idea.”

“Sir, you were doing at least twenty over the speed limit.”

“That much?” Webber took another drag on his cigarette. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention. My ass is still fried from losing my money last night at one of your lovely casinos.  Damned things are everywhere up here.”

Carlton paused. He was about to say something, but the thought slipped away.

The cell phone clipped to Webber’s belt went off. Carlton heard the thin strains of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun.”

The man glanced down at the display, then looked back up at Carlton. “I walked into one last night, about an hour out of town, my wallet fat and happy with dead presidents. A few hours at the blackjack table and I was broke. And they don’t even give you free drinks, like in Vegas. I tell you, Chief, it just ain’t right.”

Carlton frowned. There was only one casino near Kinsey, and he’d been there last night playing blackjack. He didn’t remember seeing this guy hanging around. Then again, after pounding a few Buds, he didn’t remember much of anything.

“You’re looking a little green around the gills,” Webber said. “You sure you’re feelin’ all right?”

“Yup, fine,” Carlton mumbled.

“I’d say you’re about as fuzzy as a daylily with a pickle in its mouth.” Webber laughed, but Carlton didn’t get the joke. “You know what you need, Chief? A little hair of the dog, that’s what.”

Carlton again had the feeling he should be doing something, but it was now only a faint tickle at the periphery of his mind. And he
had
been wondering about the beer. He was pretty much broke, and the old fridge was as bare as that Hubbard bitch’s cupboard.

“That one’s not in the cards,” Carlton said, amused at his own attempt at humor.

Webber tapped his cigarette ash out the window. “Tell you what. You seem like a good enough joe. How ’bout we meet up later? Tip a few. My treat.”

On some primitive level, the one where instinct trumped logic and tried to take control, Carlton Manick understood that danger lay ahead. There was a question here, an important one, but his hung-over mind couldn’t quite grasp what it was; thinking had become hard, like trying to pull water out of a river with a fishing net. And when you got down to what
really
curled your short-hairs, payday was almost two weeks away, and that was a long time to go cold turkey.

“Sure. I get off at three. I’ll meet you at the Lula. It’s down on Asher.”

“Ah…no, not there,” Webber said quickly. “I’m not much for plain old bars. Why don’t we meet in front of that Kwik-N-Go party store I saw back there on the main drag?”

“I know the place.”

“I thought you might.” Webber took another pull on his cigarette, held it, and then let wispy threads of smoke drifted out from his nostrils.

For some reason, the sight unsettled Carlton; he knew it shouldn’t have, but it did.

And that fuzzy, hung-over feeling was back. His head felt thick, like it was filled with molasses. He tried to push through the stickiness, to clear his thoughts, but the effort only made him feel worse. His eyes started to burn, his lids grew heavy, and Carlton wondered if he was going to pass out.

“Need you to do me a favor, Chief.” Webber’s voice, though he spoke softly, cut through the fuzzy-sticky mass of his hangover. “A show of faith, let’s say. For all the beer I’ll be buying.”

Carlton tried to blink, but his eyelids had grown so goddamn
heavy
. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

“Fuzzy as a daylily,” he mumbled.

“I bet you are, Chief,” Webber said. “I bet you are. Now, come a little closer. Let me tell you what I want you to do.”

And Carlton, who was thinking of that “hair of the dog” and getting rid of this hangover, listened with interest.

*   *   *

Gene watched Bart Owens ease himself into the back of the police cruiser. As Bob Talbert walked around to get into the driver’s seat, Owens stared at him through the window. He briefly shook his head. The message was clear: I didn’t do this.

Owens and Izzy had managed to keep Stanley alive until the EMTs could stabilize him by using a small defibrillator to shock his heart back into beating. Before she’d left in the ambulance with her husband, Izzy had approached Owens.

“Thank you,” she’d said, her face flushed from exertion and emotion. “For helping save him. I know you didn’t have to, not after what he tried to do.”

Owens had simply nodded in reply.

Then she’d asked him if he was willing to go down to the station and answer a few questions.

“I don’t have many answers,” the man had said. “But I’ll hear your questions.”

That had been enough for Izzy.

The cruiser pulled away with Owens in the back seat.

A handful of spaces over from his Jeep, Gene noticed Denny Cain pull out a cell phone. Turning his back to everyone, the man put the phone to one ear, his finger in the other. He began talking.

Gene strode over to Denny, the wind masking his footsteps. Just as Denny shoved the phone back in his pocket, Gene tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hey there.”

Denny spun around. “Jesus, Gene! You scared the hell outta me.”

“Have you lost your damn mind? What were you thinking back there?”

“Sorry,” Denny replied, looking down and away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“You know
exactly
what I mean. You provoked Stanley into that attack.”

“Look, I got stuff to do. And besides, I’m not much interested in your conspiracy theories.”

Gene poked a finger in Denny’s chest. Hard. Construction work had sheathed his arms in thick muscles, and rehab had only added to his strength. Denny winced and took a step back.

“We all heard you. And in his state of mind, Stanley would’ve listened to anything.” Gene took a step closer. “So you whispered in his ear—nudged him in the right direction—and he attacked Owens. I’ve known that man since we were in third grade. He’s never been violent in his life.”

“Where’s your proof, Gene?” Denny looked around, made sure everyone else was out of earshot. In a harsh whisper, he added, “That jig bastard killed my son. I’m gonna make sure he gets what he deserves.”

Gene shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t know what happened any more than I do. Stanley’s been your friend for years, and you almost got him killed. Hell, he might still die.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Denny said. “Oh, yeah. We know about you. How you’ve had the hots for Izzy. Some even figure that’s why you left Kinsey.” Denny’s lips curled into a smug grin. “The way I see it, I did you a favor. Her old man kicks off, and you can move in. Maybe finally tap some of that.”

Gene caught hold of Denny’s shirt with both hands and jerked him forward. His back cried out in protest, but he was too angry to care.

“Listen to me,” Gene said. “You so much as set foot in the Lula again and I’ll—”

“You’re on the wrong side of this one,” Denny spluttered as he struggled to free himself. “You’d best start looking out for yourself.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” He shoved the man away. This time his back practically screamed. “Beat it, Denny. Get the hell out of here.”

Denny stumbled off, glaring at Gene. He never lost that smug, knowing look.

Gene worked at his back with his fingers. He was angry at Denny, but he was more dismayed by what the man had said. How people had come to the truth of why he’d left town.

And why he had returned.

“J.J., stop it!”

Katie Bethel stood in middle of the Sallinen’s living room. After the search for Natalie had been called off, Katie planned on catching a ride home with Brittany Parsons. Then she realized that she really didn’t want to go home. Her mother would likely be awake by then, hung-over and feeling miserably depressed. Not about the drinking, of course; it was
never
about the drinking. No, her mother would be depressed about letting Katie down. Again. 

Yesterday afternoon, her mother had said she wanted to help with the search. But this morning, when Katie had shaken her repeatedly, her mother couldn’t be roused. She lay there, snoring loudly, her breath sour from old alcohol. There was an empty fifth of vodka lying on the floor next to her bed, and Katie knew her mother had purchased it yesterday afternoon.

Dealing with another litany of her mother’s empty apologies was more than Katie could handle right now, so she’d asked Brittany to drive her over to J.J.’s house.