Safer (27 page)

The old man grunted.

Van Stockman rolled his eyes in much the same way his sister had a few moments earlier. “Follow me.”

I turned to Valerie Stockman. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” she said.

I followed her brother out the door, down the steps, and
across the yard to a big, gleaming Dodge Ram pickup sitting in the driveway on the other side of the duplex. He was chuckling to himself by the time we got there.

“Listen,” I said.

“Des Moines.” He turned to look at me, shaking his head. “You’re not all that fuckin’ smart for a college professor, are you?”

I don’t remember how I responded to that. I suppose I stood there looking not all that smart.

“Don’t remember me, do you?” He had a cold smile.

I was certainly trying.

Van Stockman went on shaking his head. But something changed in his eyes. I thought back to another thing Darius Calvin had told me.
Dude gave me this look, shrank my nuts.
In that moment, looking at Van Stockman, I believed that I understood what Darius had been talking about.

“Watch your step,” Stockman said. “Professor.”

With that, he walked around the tailgate, got into his truck, and left me standing there.

Later that night, I sat up in bed. Sara stirred beside me. Voice thick with sleep, she said, “What’s the matter?”

“A mustache.”

“What?”

“He has a mustache.”

She yawned, patted me on the leg, turned over. “You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

I knew I couldn’t be dreaming, because I hadn’t been to sleep yet. My alarm clock read 3 a.m.; it had taken me that long to realize why Sergeant Van Stockman had seemed so familiar to me earlier that afternoon.

It wasn’t because I’d seen his face in Roger’s family photos, or in the newspaper articles I’d retrieved from the
Telegram.
I’d seen him in person before. Right here in our house. The night we moved in.

In the darkness of our bedroom, I pictured the burly cop who’d carried my golf club out the front door. He’d nodded to us as he left. I’d only seen him for a moment, but now that I’d placed him, I found that I could call his image up from memory—as it seemed I could so many details regarding that night—with high clarity.

Middle- aged. Clean- shaven. Same thick face, same pocked cheeks, same watchful eyes.

In my mind, I transferred his face to a sketch pad and scribbled a mustache on him.

Safer Places one, resistance zip.

WHILE I’VE BEEN TALKING, The Firehouse has filled up with people. Maya Lamb and I have finished our beers and ordered a second round.

I’m kicking myself under the table, knowing I’ve gone too far. I only intended to warm her up with Roger’s video cameras and my adventures this morning at the Loess Point Mall. I didn’t mean to bring up Van Stockman, and I definitely didn’t mean to get into the whole concept of Darius Calvin. At least not yet. But I got caught up in my own story, and now here we are.

“You’re kidding,” she says. “Right?”

I shrug. “Wish I were.”

When she drops her eyes, I realize that she doesn’t believe a word of this. I’m not sure that I would if I were sitting on her side of the table.

Then she looks up and says, “We need to bushwhack this dirtball schoolteacher before the lawyers get to him.” She produces a notepad and a pen as if from the air. “Brand, you said. Timothy? That’s his name?”

“Hold on,” I say, holding up my hands, surprised at her response. “Wait a minute. We had a deal. Remember?”

Maya does her best to pantomime the appearance of patience. But she’s practically vibrating in place on her side of the booth. She says, “Paul, listen. Let me tell you what’s going to happen.”

“I help you, and you help me,” I say. “Right? You gave me your word.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m—”

“How does ‘bushwhacking’ Timothy Brand help me, exactly?”

“That’s what I’m trying to—”

“I’ll be lucky if my attorney doesn’t quit when he hears I’ve been talking to you in the first place.”

“Just listen to me for a minute. Will you hear me out?”

I stop talking. Drink my beer.

“Actually,” she says, “answer me something first. You say that Roger Mallory told you he wanted you to move out of the neighborhood. Right?”

“Right.”

“How did you respond?”

“I laughed at him.”

“Right. Now take this teacher, Brand. Mr. B, the McNally girl called him?” She opens her hands for comparison: me on the one hand, Mr. B on the other. “Brittany gets in over her head with some scumbag schoolteacher who likes to take pictures. She’s scared to tell her folks, so she goes to Roger Mallory for help. Roger Mallory decides to protect her from shame and scandal, spare her the scarlet letter.”

I toast her ongoing facility with the lit references. I’ll bet she was that one kid who always showed up for class early and sat in front.

“So Mallory pays the schoolteacher the same kind of visit he paid you. How do you guess that went?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”

“And Timothy Brand, apparently, is no longer a history teacher at Bluffs View Middle. Me?” She sips her beer. “I’d guess that Mallory must have put the fear of God into him.”

“I’m still not following your argument.”

“It’s a no- brainer,” she says. “Timothy Brand suddenly quits his job and leaves town? If that’s the deal he made with Roger Mallory to keep himself out of trouble, why would he come clean now?”

“I assume he’ll be subpoenaed.”

“What makes you think he’ll tell anyone the truth?”

“He’ll have to. According to Rachel McNally—”

“You mean the girl who told you a story because you bought her a four- hundred- dollar iPod? That Rachel McNally?”

“Wait a minute…”

“Do you have anything that backs up her little story? Any corroborating sources?” She raises her eyebrows. She shakes her head.
I didn’t think so.
“What you’ve got are the statements of a thirteen- year- old girl whom you bribed to talk to you. And then you’ve got
another
thirteen- year- old girl who’s already named
you
as the photographer.”

For all I know, she’s absolutely right about all of this. But I still feel like I’ve put my foot in a bucket of trouble.

“Anyway,” Maya says, “you don’t even need the schoolteacher for your case anymore. Brit Seward’s tattoo clears you on that front. You couldn’t have taken the pictures if you weren’t here.”

“Obviously.”

“So your attorney?” She points at my chest. “I promise you, he’s only thinking about what was actually found on your computer at this point. The schoolteacher has nothing to do with that. So what do you care?”

“If Mr. B’s got no reason to tell the truth, he’s certainly not going to talk to a reporter.”

“You’d be surprised how far you can get with people,” she tells me, “if you can trip them up on camera.”

“If you say so.”

“I got
you
talking on camera, didn’t I?”

I suppose I can’t argue that.

Maya senses my frustration and eases up on the full- court press. “Look, I gave you my word. Believe it or not, I’m one of those strange little people who still thinks that counts for something.” She fiddles with her sodden beer coaster a moment. “How about this? Let’s make it a bet.”

“How do you mean?”

“Call your lawyer. See if he’s found Timothy Brand yet.”

“First tell me—”

“Just call him.”

What the hell. I pull out the cell phone Douglas Bennett gave me. The Firehouse has gotten busier since I first arrived; all around us, people are talking and laughing and toasting the holidays. I slide out of the booth, walk to a quieter spot, and dial Bennett’s direct line.

“Paul,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Any word on Timothy Brand?”

“Debbie’s working on it,” he says. “I just got off the phone with the county attorney. What the hell is this I hear about you buying Rachel McNally an iPod?”

I hang up and walk back to the booth.

Maya Lamb says, “Well?”

“They’re all over it.”

“Okay, then. Are you game?”

“Tell me the bet first.”

“If your attorney’s office finds Timothy Brand before I can, I’ll back off. Otherwise, first come, first served.”

I think about the terms. Debbie the Intern has almost a five-hour head start. She’s been working on this all afternoon. Anyway, Maya Lamb is right. At this point, Mr. B isn’t my stay- out- of- jail card.

“Fine,” I tell her. “If it makes you happy, call it a bet. I’m going to the bathroom.”

I go. When I return to our booth in the alcove, Maya Lamb is talking on her cell phone. Her laptop computer is sitting on the table in front of her. She sees me coming, finishes her conversation, and snaps the phone shut. Then she closes her laptop, puts it back into her bag, and climbs out of the booth.

“Got him,” she says.

“You gotta be kidding.”

Maya Lamb grins. “Want to come along and supervise?”

SOMEHOW, within one hour’s time, Maya Lamb has managed to locate Timothy Brand, determine that he’s answering his home telephone, and finagle from her news station a Ford Explorer, a set of long- range Motorola walkie- talkies, and a cameraman named Josh. It’s a little bit fascinating to observe her at work.

“Timothy Brand,” she says over the walkie- talkie. I can hear Blondie blaring in the background. “Gonna getcha getcha getcha.”

I’m following the Explorer in my car. I key my radio. It’s almost like being back on the old neighborhood patrol. “You realize it’ll be midnight before we get there.”

Beep. Crackle. Maya says, “My boy Josh drives fast. Better keep up.”

Monday afternoon rush- hour traffic thins quickly on the edge of town. Forty minutes south, we approach the Flying J truck stop where Douglas Bennett and I met Darius Calvin just two nights ago. This time, instead of taking the off- ramp, I follow Maya and Josh through the interchange, onto I-80, heading east.

Maya’s research blitz has tracked Timothy Brand to a rental house in Iowa City, on the opposite side of the state. It’s a five- hour drive—more or less the same drive Sara and I made five months ago, traveling the other direction. We’d stayed the night at a Holiday Inn off the Interstate. Our last stop on our way to Clark Falls.

Maya Lamb, Josh the camera guy, and I manage to make the whole trip without stopping or being pulled over by the state patrol. It’s half past ten by the time we arrive in town. My back feels stiff, kidneys crunched. I’d probably be asleep at the wheel if I didn’t need a bathroom so badly.

Maya’s voice comes over the radio. “Josh needs to pee. There’s a Kwik Star up ahead.”

I key the button. “Right behind you.”

Beep. Crackle. “Emphasis on Kwik.”

10:45 p.m.

We pull to the curb on a quiet residential street on the east side of town. Timothy Brand’s house is conspicuous by virtue of being the only house on the block not outlined in holiday lights.

It’s cold, but not brutal. A few snowflakes drift in the air, floating gently toward the bare ground. The weatherpeople say it looks to be a white Christmas.

“Hey.” Josh nods toward my hybrid as he pulls his camera gear from the back of the Explorer. “How many miles you get on that, anyway?”

“I’ve never kept track,” I tell him. “You?”

“Put seventy bucks in the tank back there.”

“Long drive.”

“The station pays for the gas,” Maya says. “Now shut up, you guys. It’s work time.”

We move up the sidewalk, toward Timothy Brand’s undec-orated rental house. The blue glow of a television bleeds through one of the curtains upstairs.

“Watch but don’t talk,” Maya tells me. “Okay?”

“You’re the professional.”

“Hey, Josh, throw the hood over the camera.”

Josh looks at the sky. “Just flurries.”

“I don’t care about the snow, I want you to cover our call sign. And turn your hat backward, huh?”

Josh shrugs, turns his Channel Five cap backward, and pulls a black canvas shroud from the bag on his shoulder.

We head up the steps, onto the front porch. Maya signals with her hand, and Josh veers to her left, stepping lightly, settling his camera on his shoulder as he moves. We could be a small liberal arts and communications SWAT team getting ready to smash down the door. I decide to move back down the steps and wait at the bottom.

“Here we go,” Maya says. “Ready?” Josh gives a thumbs-up and nestles his eye against the viewfinder. Maya rings the doorbell.

Nothing happens. We stand around.

Maya rings the bell again and a dog barks somewhere in the house. In a moment, the porch light comes on, sudden and blinding. Curtains move. For at least a minute, nothing else happens.

Then comes the sound of locks tumbling.

Everyone seems to pause at the sight of the guy who opens the front door. Josh actually moves his eye away from the viewfinder. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Maya Lamb hesitate. There’s a brief hiccup in her rhythm while she finds her smile and puts it on. “Mr. Brand?”

“Yes?”

Maybe I expected some greasy- haired bogeyman. Brit’s
seventh- grade volleyball coach appears to be about my age. He appears to have been a handsome, athletic guy.