Lost Memory of Skin (46 page)

Throughout the conversation the Kid has remained silent. At first he was freshly ashamed for not having told the man that he was a convicted sex offender and felt once again like a chomo like the Shyster and then when he saw that Cat also knew that he had lied about having been in combat in Afghanistan he felt like he was O. J. Simpson again. But listening to Dolores and the Writer lay out what kinds of secrets and lies were meaningful and what kinds were meaningless he began to feel a little better about himself and when even Cat came around to essentially forgiving the Kid for his secrets and lies he was able to see himself briefly through Cat’s eyes—although not through Dolores’s which were a little too wet with sympathy for him and not through the Writer’s either who for all he knew might now be thinking about writing an article for a fancy magazine about sex offenders or about American males who lie about having fought in a war instead of writing an article about the Great Panzacola Swamp and will next be wanting to interview the Kid on one or both of those subjects.

The Kid has been interviewed enough for a lifetime thanks to the Professor and shrinks in prison and judges and public defender lawyers and cops and parole officers going all the way back to Brandi’s father and before that at his army discharge hearing. Except for Iggy the best thing about his life before he joined the army is that back then no one ever wanted to interview him which meant that he never had to lie and didn’t have to keep any secrets. He was no more or less than what he seemed to be—a fatherless white kid who graduated high school without ever passing a single test or turning in a single paper, a kid who could barely read and write or do math beyond the simplest level of arithmetic, who was hooked for years and maybe still was hooked on porn and jacking off and never had a girlfriend or a best friend and belonged to no one’s posse—but that was okay to the Kid back then. He might not be the kind of kid he wanted to be but at least back then he didn’t have anything to hide.

The Writer asks the Kid if the missing person, the fat bearded professor, might really be a friend of his, and the Kid says,
Yeah. I’m sure of it, in fact. He’s not exactly a friend, though. More of an acquaintance.

You got any idea of where he is?

Yeah. Sort of.

The Writer is intrigued. So are Dolores and Cat. All three turn their full attention on the Kid and wait for him to say more. He stays silent for a long minute until finally the Writer asks if the missing professor has been having marital problems. The Kid shrugs as if he doesn’t really know.
Maybe,
he says. Although he knows of course that the Professor’s wife Gloria has recently taken their two children and gone to live with her mother.

Financial problems?

The Kid shrugs again.

But you do have an idea of where he might be found. Correct?

It’s only a guess. It’s probably not him anyhow. I’d hafta see a picture. Most professors are fat and wear a beard anyway, aren’t they?

Dolores suggests they go over to the trailer and check out today’s
Calusa Times-Union
on the Internet. They print the paper a day early but the Internet’s up to the minute. There’ll likely be a photograph of the missing professor to accompany the article.
And
if it is your friend
,
and you have an idea of where he might be, then naturally you’ll want to help find him.

The Writer thinks that’s a great idea, and Cat says,
Yeah, sure, why not?
He’s still a little embarrassed for having used the computer to check on the Kid. Maybe he’ll feel better if he apologizes to the Kid. Which is a little tricky for Cat to pull off, since he’ll be apologizing to someone who’s a convicted sex offender and has committed a sin that’s cardinal to a Marine vet by falsely claiming to have served his country in wartime. He tries anyhow, for Dolores’s sake and says to the Kid,
No hard feelings, I hope. About me not believing you and all. And looking you up on the computer and such. I probably shouldn’t have done that. I mean, it isn’t like we was gonna hire you for a babysitter or something.

My late husband Abbott,
Dolores chimes in,
used to say that a person’s private life ought to be kept private. That’s why it’s called private life. ’Course, that was before the Internet and all.

Thank you, Dolores, for your late husband’s words of wisdom. Anyhow, sonny, I guess I just got a suspicious nature. Must come from dealing with tourists all the time out here.

That’s okay, man. I’m actually kinda relieved. When people know the truth about me there’s not so much for me to keep track of.

Ha! You’re starting to sound like Dolores’s late husband.

The Writer is impatient to check out today’s online edition of the Calusa newspaper. He says so, and Dolores leads the group from the store along the pier and up the grassy slope to the double-wide trailer where she and Cat make their home.

T
HAT
’
S
HIM
ALL
RIGHT
!

How come it’s a whachacallit, a mug shot? Like he’s been arrested for something. What’s the article say? Is he a fugitive from justice?

Says he’s a “person of interest” in an ongoing investigation but has not been arrested. Doesn’t say what kind of investigation, though.

So how come they took his mug shot?

Maybe it’s off his ID. Or from some previous arrest. Does it say anything about that?

No. Just says he was last seen leaving his home in his car Sunday morning in the company of an unidentified teenage boy and when he didn’t show up for his Monday classes university officials called his home. His wife and two children were visiting her mother and have no idea of his whereabouts. I’m summarizing here.

So he hasn’t been gone very long. Maybe he had a family emergency.

He has two children? And a wife? Wouldn’t have figured that.

Why not?

Well, I guess on account of he’s so fat.

Gimme a break, Cat. That’s a prejudice. Plenty of fat people get married and have kids.

Mentions he’s well known in the city for his civic work and in academic circles. A popular teacher. That sort of stuff.

Maybe he just wants to be alone. Or is on a bender. Is he a drinker?

The wife’s gone ahead and filed a missing person report. She obviously doesn’t think he just wants to be alone.

I don’t think he’s a drinker. But I don’t really know him that way. Like for drinking.

What’s with the teenage boy? Is that a reference to you, sonny?

Probably. Only I ain’t teenage.

You look like it, sweetie. Especially to a stranger and from a distance.

So maybe you were the last person to see him alive.

Assuming he’s no longer alive. He might be living it up in Rio, for all we know.

Actually, Cat and I were the last people to see him alive too.

Where was he headed, sonny? After he left you off here?

Didn’t say.

But you think you know where he might be? Like you said earlier?

Yeah. Actually, no. I don’t.

C’mon. We all heard you.

Okay, he maybe was doing some research. For his work as a professor. He’s interested in those old Army Corps of Engineers canals back toward Calusa. He was telling me all about how they get used by criminals and such for hiding the evidence of their crimes.

Any particular canal?

Yeah.

You know how to find it?

Yeah.

Maybe we oughta take a ride over there for a look-see. What do you think? I’m driving back to Calusa later today. My work here’s about done, only got to interview one of the rangers for my piece, and this disappeared- professor story is a lot more interesting.

I don’t think he’d want you writing about it in some big New York magazine.

It’s not that interesting. I’m just curious is all. I’ll even bring you back here afterward if you want. I can interview a ranger later.

You should do it, hon. Go with him. Or at least tell the police about the canal. Especially since the last person he was seen with is you. Clear your name, so to speak. We’ll watch your pets and your stuff.

Clear his fat friend’s name is more like it.

There you go! Exactly, clear the professor’s name. Who knows, out there in the sun investigating a canal, the guy might’ve had a heart attack or something. He looks like a heart attack waiting to happen anyhow. I’ll drive you there and we’ll check around for him. If we see his car, we call the police. If not, not. And since they’re probably also looking for you, you being the last person seen with him, I’ll do the calling. You can stay out of it completely if you want.

Dude, I’m not that hard to find. See? Check this out. Speaking of which, I got to charge this thing before I turn into a pumpkin. It’s a good thing I came outa the swamp when I did. I didn’t know there wasn’t any electricity in the houseboat or at the so-called campsites.

Wow. I’ve never seen one of those before. They make you wear that?

Yeah.

For how long?

Like ten years.

You poor thing! That’s horrible! Look, Cat, it’s like he’s a prisoner or a slave in shackles.

No comment, Dolores. No damned comment. He’s paying his debt to society, that’s all. Same as those guys the corrections department sends over. We don’t know what he done. Frankly, I don’t want to know. And I don’t want to hear what your late husband Abbott would say.

He’d be horrified.

So what about it, friend? Shall we take a little ride in my rental? It’s a Lincoln Town Car. Great air. How far is the canal? About an hour?

Hour and a half, maybe.

Is that a yes?

I dunno. I gotta charge my shackle.

I rented a GPS when I picked up the car. Maybe the outlet jack’s the same size as your thingie there and you can charge it while we drive. Let me take a look. Yeah, it’s the same. No problema.

Okay. But if we see his van, you be the one to call the cops. I don’t want nothin’ to do with finding his body.

How do you know he’s dead?

I don’t. It’s just . . . like you said, he’s a heart attack waiting to happen.

Well, if he is dead we can prove you had nothing to do with it. He was certainly alive when he left here, and we can testify that you’ve been in the Panzacola the whole time since.

You still have three days’ rental on that houseboat, sonny. You gonna want a refund on that?

No. I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll just not take it into the swamp again. It’s kinda primitive out there. Maybe I’ll just keep it tied up here at the dock this time.

Suit yourself.

First I gotta get something from my backpack.

Terrific. Meet you at the parking lot up by the ranger station.

CHAPTER FOUR

C
ANE
FIELDS
STRETCH
FROM
THE
CANAL
nearly to the horizon where a rough line of citrus trees divides the green earth from the cloudless blue sky. Half- a-dozen police cars—Calusa County Sheriff’s Department, local police, state troopers—and a white Sheriff’s Department tow truck and at least three vans from local TV stations are lined up on the shoulder between the two-lane road and the canal. Uniformed and plainclothes officers in twos and threes mill around the edge of the canal talking and smoking. Occasionally one of them breaks off and peers down into the dark still waters of the canal as if he dropped a coin in for luck. Wearing oxygen tanks and weight belts, a pair of divers in dripping black wet suits lean against a fire engine red EMT rescue truck.

Highway traffic is backed up for a quarter of a mile in both directions. Waving impatiently, a single state trooper tries to keep the rubbernecked drivers moving their vehicles in a single lane past the site, and as the Writer’s Town Car approaches the trooper, the Kid slumps in his seat and turns away. The Writer does the opposite: he stops the car, lowers his window, and hands the trooper his business card. He says he’s covering the story for his magazine and asks where the officer would like him to park.

The trooper glances at the card and shakes his head with irritation.
Boy, you guys’re all over this one, aren’t you? Park down there beyond the TV guys and stay the hell there till we get this done.

You find the body yet?

It’s still down there. We got to get his van out first. Get moving now. You’re holding up traffic.

How’d you know to look here, officer?

Sir, I said to keep moving! There’ll be a press briefing later. Save your questions for that.

The Writer takes back his card and salutes the trooper and drives on, parking the car a short ways past the TV vans and several nondescript civilian sedans on the shoulder of the highway. Reporters and cameramen and sound technicians drink coffee and smoke and wait. The Writer swings open his door and tells the Kid he’s going to try to speak with one of the divers.
Always talk to the guys you won’t see later at the press conference. You coming?
he asks the Kid.

No way, man.

Why not? You could identify the body for them. Assuming it’s your friend they bring up.