The More They Disappear (25 page)

“So you're planning to collect?”

“No. I don't plan on causing Mabel any more trouble. As far as I'm concerned, it's a family matter.” Gaines looked down on Harlan from the top step. “In fact, the only reason I can come up with for why you'd be asking is because you want to use it as blackmail in the election. Does that sound about right?”

“For me being sheriff isn't about winning elections.”

Gaines laughed. “That's good. Because you haven't won any.”

“What I really want to know is what your money was buying.”

“Buying?”

“What did you get out of the deal?”

A glint came into Gaines's eyes. “You don't have a family, do you? A wife? Kids?”

Harlan shook his head.

“So you don't know what it means to provide. You don't have responsibilities. You see, I'm a provider, Harlan. I give money to charities. Medical care to the poor. And no one ever thanks me because they don't realize how valuable my time is. You don't seem to realize that either.” Gaines cracked his knuckles like some Ivy League brawler. “I take care of my own, Harlan. When someone in my family gets in trouble, I help. Lew was a good man with one vice. Maybe you would punish him for that but not me. I tried to help him put his life back in order, but he never got that chance, and it's your job to find out who took it from him—not terrorize the people who helped. I'm a provider, Harlan. What exactly are you?”

Harlan didn't answer the question, wouldn't even know how, but he liked seeing the doctor get worked up. He decided not to push his luck and raised two fingers to the brim of his cap. “I appreciate your time,” he said. “I'll make sure if I have any more questions, they're worth your while.” He pivoted to leave, then hesitated. “In the meantime get me a copy of that loan agreement. As long as it's not too much hassle.”

“I'll put you in touch with my lawyer.”

“Good enough.”

Harlan turned to go. Maybe Gaines was telling the truth. Maybe he was helping Lew out of a jam, but Harlan knew a snake when he saw one, and as soon as he backed out of the drive, he knew the doctor would be on the phone with one crony or another talking about the sheriff's surprise visit and what it might mean for his son-in-law's electoral outlook.

*   *   *

Mark put faith in his headlights as he wound through the curves of the Appalachian Mountains. It was a part of the state he tried to avoid, but ever since Chance tracked him down in the library, he'd become a cog in the eastern Kentucky drug trade. He'd trekked out to Chance's spread by the Virginia border only a couple of times and he dreaded the trip. He would get lost and stay lost for long stretches, unable to make sense of the unmarked roads or get his bearings amid the shadows of ragged mountains. And eastern Kentucky wasn't exactly the sort of place strangers went asking for directions, especially not strangers with drugs in the trunk.

Chance acted more roughneck on his own turf. He never gave Mark a tour of his property, which seemed to consist of various outbuildings, two small airplane hangars, and a house made up of four double-wides fused together. Mark once caught a glimpse into one of the hangars; there'd been a virtual army of classic cars and two gutted prop planes surrounded by wires and engine parts. The house itself was a mystery. Chance would come out front, hand over the money—no envelope, no rubberbands—and grab the pills before saying, “Get on outta here” or lobbing an insult Mark's way. It wasn't that much different from his usual trash-talking but there was less humor to it. Mark missed the Chance that came to the UK library, the steady businessman who spoke clean English and didn't delight in the role of hillbilly drug dealer; yet despite the hiccups, Chance never stopped being reliable. He paid in full, bought often, and never quibbled over price.

Now, for the first time, Mark needed a favor from Chance. He carried fifteen thousand in Oxy—most of it in the trunk, a few prescriptions hidden in his backpack—and if Chance bought the lot, he and Mary Jane would have the cash they needed.

He passed through Evarts, the last real town before Highsplint, crossed Bailey Creek, and inched slowly around the sharp turns that led into the valley. Chance's hometown wasn't much of anything anymore—an abandoned post office and a few houses with shuttered windows and slanted porches. No businesses to speak of, no municipalities, no law.

As he turned onto Chance's property, Mark gripped the wheel tight and kept his Mustang steady over the bumps in the road. When he reached a couple bare bulbs strung on a pole thirty yards out from the house, he slowed long enough for Chance to recognize him, then continued past various tin-roofed lean-tos.

Mark saw that Chance was sitting on a wooden chair in the yard with a double-barrel sawed-off lying across his lap and his bare feet stretched out beside a pair of work boots. Chance was grinning wide, perfectly tickled by the surprise visit. “Boo Boo Bear,” he said. “You came to make a social call. That touches me right inside where I'm all goopy and soft. I mean, I was ready to shoot your fucking head off, but I'll buy you a beer instead.” He grabbed a Silver Bullet from the cooler at his feet and tossed it to Mark, who cracked the tab and drank off its sudsy top. “Don't be shy,” Chance said, making a sweeping motion with the gun. “Come over here beside me.” Mark did as he was told, and Chance tossed his empty to the ground where Mark had been standing, raised the gun, and fired. The can jumped and Chance let loose the second barrel, catching it airborne and knocking it into the shadows. Then he put an arm around Mark and said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to sell.”

“I didn't call you.”

“I
need
to sell.”

“That's not how this works. You can want to your heart's content, but you don't get to
need
anything from me.” Chance moved his grip to Mark's neck, gave a squeeze.

A heavyset blonde poked her head out and said, “Who you shootin' at?” When she spied Mark, she crowed out, “You didn't tell me we had company.” Chance told her to shut up and flung one of his mud boots in her direction, but the door slammed and the boot bounced harmlessly to the ground.

“Get that, would you?” Chance said. Mark heard him stand as he reached down for the boot, but he wasn't expecting the kick to the ribs that sent him rolling over the rocky earth. He shielded his face with the boot and readied himself for more, but Chance was busy hopping around on one foot and cursing. “Damn your bony ass,” he said as Mark sat up. “I had to do that. On principle. You've gone too long without realizing what kind of business you're in.” Chance reached down and rubbed his foot. “You're lucky I'm in a good mood or else I'd shoot you and take whatever pills you were dumb enough to bring out here. Now tell me what's going on.”

“My girlfriend got herself in trouble and I want to help but I need cash.”

“That doesn't sound like you. Helping out a damsel in distress.”

“It's in my best interest.”

“Now that sounds more like you,” Chance said. “What, did
you
knock her up?”

Mark shrugged. The lie sounded good enough. “Yeah. And I'm not ready to be a dad.”

Chance hesitated. “I don't get involved in matters of the heart. Or the pussy.”

“Look,” Mark said. “You may not care, but I trust you. And I have a stash that I'll sell on the cheap.”

Chance cracked open another beer. “What's cheap?”

Mark wasn't in a position to bargain—he needed Chance—so he dropped the price. “Let's say three hundred for a scrip of forties.” It was two hundred less than usual.

Chance whistled. “You must be hard up. How much do you have?”

“Ten thousand would clean me out.”

Chance clutched his heart as if having a cardiac event. “Woo-boy. That's a lot of pain to cure. Let's see the goods.”

“I stashed them down the road.”

“Bullshit you did.”

Mark shrugged.

“We're past the point I'd rob your dumb ass.” Chance cracked the shotgun and emptied the shells onto the ground. “Come on inside. Let's talk more about your troubles.”

The trailer they walked into looked like it had been ransacked. There were empty beer cans littering the floor and piles of books stacked like shrines. Books filled with Post-its, books on the stove in the kitchen, books as tables holding beer bottles and books. A blond girl about eight with pale blue eyes and freckles sat cross-legged on the floor playing Nintendo. Toys were scattered around her, as well as a power drill and socket set. “Say hello to our company, June,” Chance said. The girl waved without looking away from the screen.

The woman who'd come out earlier was passed out on the couch. Her nightgown had lifted, and Mark could see her underwear and the fat and pubic hair inching out from it. A hash pipe sat on the couch next to her.

“What?” Chance said. “You were expecting Ethan Allen and shit?” He laughed. “This mess is Darlene's and she needs to clean it the fuck up.” Chance yelled her name and another woman, the spitting image of the one on the couch, came out with a child clasped to her veiny breast. There were two of them. Twins. “Hello, Harvard,” she said and bounced the child, who lifted her breast in his mouth. The other tit sagged like a cow's.

“That's Kenny,” Chance said, motioning to the baby. “Kenny G. Like that bullshit saxophonist. Darlene named him. I wanted to name him Second Chance.”

“How old is he?” Mark asked.

“Too old to be sucking on his mama's tit.” The woman ignored the insult and coolly lit a cigarette with her free hand. “June is Deanna's,” Chance said, motioning to the woman on the couch. “She takes after me, thank God.” The girl didn't take note of the compliment, but Chance went over and kissed the top of her head anyway. Then he threw a blanket over the woman on the couch, but not before slapping her on the ass. She stirred and muttered for him to stop. “‘For God's sake hold your tongue and let me love,'” Chance cried out and turned to Mark. “You know who said that?”

He shook his head. “June?”

The girl didn't reply.

“It was John Donne,” Chance said. “But I think he was talking about a dude.” He motioned for Mark to follow him and walked through the junk-filled kitchen, turning a corner where it seemed the trailer would end. He'd cut doors and joined the four double-wides together to make a square. The second was a stark contrast to the first, had been outfitted as a kitchen and dining room. The interior windows opened onto a courtyard garden where a few winter cabbages popped their heads out of the ground. Chance kept walking to the third trailer, which faced the back of the property and had to be opened with a series of keys. “I'm the only one allowed in here,” he explained. “You can't trust those two bitches as far as you can throw them.”

As soon as Mark stepped inside, he forgot he was in a trailer at all. The entire thing had been gutted and just about every square inch was lined with books and maps. Chance pointed to one of the maps above a captain's desk. “That's an original,” he said. “My favorite part is where it says ‘terra incognita.' That means ‘unknown land.' Which doesn't really exist anymore, except maybe on other planets. Anyway, the cartographer drew these rad fucking sea monsters.” Everywhere Mark turned, some new oddity showed itself. On a shelf sat three military helmets—one camouflage, another with a swastika, the third some sort of Spartan replica. In one corner hung two birdcages, one with a white bird that cooed softly and the other with a black bird that called out, “Hot dog. Hot dog.” Chance ignored the bird and unlocked the captain's desk. “I'm a collector of sorts,” he said, “And in my line of work you have a lot of free time, so this is my refuge.” He pulled out a stack of hundreds, didn't even bother to count. “Eight is the best I can do and the only reason is 'cause the price is right.” He held on to the money as Mark reached for it. “Don't ever come out here uninvited again, okay?”

Mark nodded and Chance released his grip on the money. Mark had hoped for more but he couldn't complain. The weight in his hands was a lifeline. “The Oxy's out in my car,” he said.

“I thought so.” Chance shook his keys. “Go ahead and get it while I lock up.”

Mark noted the place settings as he passed back through the dining room and tried to imagine Chance sitting around the table with his kids and the two women like a proper family. In the front trailer, the taciturn girl was still fixed to her video game, her mother snoring on the couch.

As he stepped outside, Mark breathed deep and let his lungs expand. His plan had worked. A weight lifted and he felt proud as he counted out pills from the trunk of the Mustang. Then he heard the sound of a shotgun shell being chambered and froze. “Boo Boo Bear,” Chance said from behind him. “I thought you were smarter than this.” Mark wondered where he'd come from. Nobody had opened the front door. Out of his periphery he could see one of the twins holding the sawed-off.

“Can you ask her to lower the gun?” Mark said. His voice trembled as badly as his hands. His stomach unspooled and there was a rattle in his throat, but his mind stayed sharp. He worked through the situation and realized he deserved whatever happened next. If the woman shot him, it was because he'd helped take Lew Mattock's life. And if he was beaten by Chance, he would die in the company he kept. And if it was a joke—a cruel, frightening joke—if the woman put the gun down and Chance let him go, well, he deserved that too—because he was not the creator of this madness; he was just a bit player among other players and to start placing blame or meting out justice wouldn't make it better and wouldn't make it just.

Chance walked gingerly to the car and put Mark between himself and his gun-wielding girlfriend. “Boo,” he whispered before grabbing a pill bottle and tossing a graceful hook shot in the woman's direction. Mark heard it rattle along the ground and watched her lower the gun and grab at it like an animal baited by bread crumbs. As she bent over, her finger pulled the trigger and the gun fired into the ground and Mark started pissing down his leg while Chance laughed and laughed. The woman kept screaming at him to stop making fun and help her ass up.