Lucky's Girl (2 page)

Being a dad is a big job, and any jury would say Kenny did his best. Everyone at work had told him that. His kids’ teachers had told him that, as well as the company counselor. But it didn’t matter.
If I’d only been there, I would have seen the signs, I could have stood in between my family and the twin trains that crushed them.

He thought he was a good husband and father. He’d picked up extra shifts so his family could have more. They’d had a two storey house, two cars, and his kids had new school clothes every year. He was willing to be away and work one of the most dangerous jobs in the world for those new clothes. That mattered to him in a way which Kelly could never understand. He never complained, he loved that he could do it.

But it wasn’t the right thing, was it?

He hadn’t noticed that Kelly had been tired and had lost weight. He’d just assumed she was on some diet. Not that he cared, he liked her however he could have her. But he was so tired himself that he hadn’t noticed she was skinny and slept all the time. By the time she’d got the first nosebleed it was too late.

He hadn’t said a thing when Jenny had started wearing those clothes and listening to that music. The kids on TV were like that, affecting the halfwit vacancy pop culture standard. But even if he had said something she would have charmed him out of it. She was daddy’s girl and he would give her anything she wanted. He was so proud of her and her precociousness. She’d had an Elizabeth Taylor in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
attitude at the age of five. The little boys in her classes couldn’t manage a sentence around her. Kelly said she’d be a movie star, but they’d need a fence to keep the boys away when they got up the nerve to say hello.

But it wasn’t boys her age who did it. And it wasn’t just one. The imitation wayfarers covered big yellowing bruises, and her clothes covered the rest, most of them at least.

***

Sheriff Jerry Kaminsky stared at the antique computer, exhaled a stream of Marlboro smoke, and shook his head. He leant back in the metal folding chair and considered throwing the Styrofoam cup at the wall while cursing his life.

The email spelled out that Elton Township was getting royally fucked and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But this was par for the course. It was fucked up, it was wrong, he hadn’t seen it coming, but neither did it surprise him. Yeah, this was bad news, but everything about Elton Township was bad news.

He’d stopped throwing coffee cups twenty-odd years ago when he’d started drinking again. The coffee hid the whiskey which was keeping his hands from shaking. It would be a waste of booze. He’d been making little more than minimum wage since the budget cuts. He simply couldn’t afford to throw this coffee cup. Whiskey, coffee, and Styrofoam cups cost money. The only things the county and state paid for were the little stationhouse, and his car.

The email was from that hyper little twerp from Ann Arbor, professor of North American Archeology and all around Democrat asshat,
Shelby Stiles
. Even his faggy name bugged the shit out of Jerry.

Apparently Stiles’s operation had fallen to the same fate everything requiring the green stuff had in this state. Their funding had been cut. He’d shot off the email in the middle of the night and got the fuck out of Elton Township. He was probably across the Mackinac bridge by now.

Stiles had left his “project” halfway done. That meant Elton Lake was now a non-lake until someone could remove the dam Stiles’s money had built to drain the lake for their
archeological dig
. Someone, somewhere had actually given taxpayer money for that wheezy twit to dam up their little offshoot of the Paint River. It was professor Stile’s theory that Grove Island was actually a Menominee Indian mound. Now, mind you, it wasn’t really the Menominee Indians but their ancestors removed by several thousand years who, in a fit of Stone Age inspiration, had dug access to the Little Cedar River and had flooded the area around the mound with water. And they’d done it with stone tools. And Stiles was going to “prove” this theory… except he’d lost his funding and there was no more money to remove that dam. Elton Township had no jobs, no money, and now no lake.

It hadn’t even been a big lake; there were no fish in it for some reason, but at least it looked nice. You could ice skate on it in the winter. Now even that wasn’t going to happen.

The only reason Kaminsky hadn’t blown a gasket when Stiles had originally rolled into town was that he’d hired ten locals to build the dam. Ten guys who wouldn’t be asking Reverend James (the Rev to his congregation) at the Elton Township Church of the Pentacost for help with the groceries.

For guys like Jerry Kaminsky, when balancing out bad and worse, good intention always fucked you.

He pulled out the bottle from his top drawer for an extra splash of whiskey, downing the lukewarm stuff in one gulp. He looked at his hand. Not shaking anymore. That last splash had done the trick. Maybe he was headed to where no amount could stop those shakes. He knew one day he’d be there, but didn’t know when. He would lock up three or four guys a week for drunk driving, and was legally drunk while doing it. One day this whole sham would fall apart.

He sighed and shook his head.

He’d have to ask the Rev for volunteers to remove Stile’s dam. He’d have to tell Reverend James that he wouldn’t be able to pay but at least there would be ice skating this winter. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was reinforced concrete.

He would have to wear the humble public servant face and bring in the Mayor. He was a good guy, one of the few non-drunks in the town, a guy named Errol Wilson. He was also the mailman,
and
Jerry’s deputy when he needed one. He really needed two full-time, but hadn’t had any in years. Same old story, no money. The Mayorship was an unpaid position, Errol did it out of the kindness of his heart.

Bringing Errol would spare Jerry that
look
and, in the worst case, the
talk
.

The look that said, “I know you’ve been drinking,” and the talk which said, “You need to come back to AA.”

The AA meeting was held in the basement of the church, and for twenty-odd years Jerry had been a regular. Reverend James and his wife would always host the meeting, laying out coffee and homemade cookies, as well as greeting everyone. They’d pick people up in the church van, driving them home afterwards. The Rev was kind and good to everyone no matter how far gone they were. He was also the last person Jerry wanted see just then, after tuning up to stave off the shakes. Later on he’d be fine; decaf and mouthwash would see to that.

The radiophone squawked, Errol’s voice cutting through. His deputy/mailman/town mayor. “Sheriff, you there? Jerry?”

It was nine in the morning so Errol would probably be reporting a crashed car from last night’s drinking, hopefully unoccupied. “Morning, Errol, what’s the good news this time?”

“Okay, Jerry, you know I wouldn’t bug you this early but it’s Sheila Running Bear’s dog, Scooter.”

Jerry smiled. An American Indian had named her dog Scooter.

Jerry cleared his throat. “So… Scooter?”

It was obvious from the sound Errol was holding his hand over the radiophone to prevent anyone from hearing them. “Sheriff our visitors came back and there ain’t nothing but fur left. They did it right in front of her, and one even bit her when she tried to stop it.”

Jerry was at full attention now. This was exactly what the State Wildlife people had said wouldn’t happen. “Was it the alpha? Was it her?”

Jerry could visualize Errol’s head vigorously nodding up and down. “Yep it was Blackie, and people’re gonna be even more spooked.”

“I’m on my way, Errol. Just try to keep them calm.”

CHAPTER 2

Kenny sat in the truck watching the men’s room door of the rest stop. Even before having kids these places had scared and disgusted him. Every pervert abduction scenario focused on places like this. A big van with black windows rolls up and the kids or the wife disappears. Variations on
Silence of the Lambs
and
The Hitcher
.

This fear was omnipresent after what had happened to Jenny. He couldn’t live in a city like Houston anymore. Everywhere, hungry faces appraised his kids. Out here it was no better. Truckers seemed especially suspicious, as did buses full of migrant workers. People with no fixed address, transients with a gleam in their eyes, just waiting for an opportunity to take his children…

“Daddy, I really gotta go. I’m gonna pee my pants!”

He turned to look at Jenny. Despite the big fake wayfarers he could see her fear. She was about to piss herself.

“Daddy it hurts!”

He turned back to the door of the men’s room. No sign of his Jake. If he took Jenny to the women’s room he wouldn’t be able to see Jake emerging out of the men’s room. Jake wouldn’t know where his family had gone.

He turned back. Jenny took her seatbelt off, leaning forward holding her abdomen. She had stitches
down there
from what those fucking gang animals had done and she wasn’t supposed to hold it for any reason.

He whirled back around. Still no Jake. Out of time.

He turned back around. “Okay, honey, we’re going now, I’m so sorry.”

“Daddy please, let’s go!”

He jumped out, running to the passenger side door but she was already sprinting to the restroom. He followed, scanning for Jake. He stopped at the bathroom door, getting the stink-eye from a fat lady in a jogging suit. He ran back, peeking around the corner for Jake.

The fat lady rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Sir, do you have another kid you’re looking for? I can stand here and wait for your daughter.”

He gawped for a moment. She didn’t look dangerous, just fat. “Yes, thank you, please…”

She waved him away and rolled her eyes again, dismissing him with a look that said
get your act together moron.

He ran into to the men’s room, past the row of sinks. Jake wasn’t at the urinals or in line to take a piss. He scanned the line of stalls. There were men and boys waiting for each one. No Jake in line. He leaned down to check under the stalls looking for his sneakers. No Jake there either.

He looked up to see everyone viewing him without sympathy.

A man with a no-nonsense moustache waiting for a stall took a step forward. “You got a problem, buddy?”

Kenny knew he’d invaded personal space. He put up his hands and said, “I can’t find my son.”

He ran out into the parking lot.

Eighteen wheelers. RVs. Vans. Cars. Motorcycles.

No Jake.

He ran to their truck. Jake wasn’t at the truck. He turned to the parking lot again. It was a big parking lot. Jake was a little boy. He could easily have walked to the wrong truck.

“Jake! Jake!”

People watched him running back and forth. A highway patrol cop sitting on the hood of his car walked over.

“Jake! Jake!”

The cop said, “Okay, sir, did you lose someone?”

Kenny continued scanning, his head jerking back and forth, turning to look for Jenny coming out of the women’s room.

“Yeah, Jake, my son, he’s eight he’s…”

“Sir, is that your son right there?”

The fat lady in the jogging suit was walking Jake and Jenny over to them, holding Jake’s hand. She smiled to the cop, but not to Kenny.

“Yes, officer, I found him over by the women’s room looking for his father and sister.”

The fat lady handed Jenny’s fake wayfarers to Kenny with an icy look, then shot the cop a different kind of glance.

The cop’s face went blank. “Kids, why don’t you go ahead to your truck while I have a word with your dad.”

Kenny was too relieved to understand what just happened. “Ma’am, thank you so much! I’m so sorry for all of this. I just lost him while taking her to the bathroom and…”

“Mister, I don’t want to hear it.” Then she turned and walked away.

It suddenly dawned on Kenny that this looked really
really
bad. The kids walked to the truck looking at the ground and got in, leaving their father with the cop.

The cop turned to Kenny. “You mind telling me where she got those bruises?”

The small crowd that had gathered so quickly, so sympathetic to the man with the missing son, now walked away with a completely different demeanor, glaring back over their shoulders.

“I’m sorry about this, officer.”

“Me too. Now answer the question.”

Kenny stared out at the cars and trucks passing on the highway, their sound ascending and descending as they passed. Big horizon, big empty fucking horizon.

Kenny really didn’t want to explain his life to a cop at a rest stop, but he didn’t really have any choice.

CHAPTER 3