Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (11 page)

"Okay."

I paused in the doorway. "Hang in there, Jerry. You'll be able to see your girlfriend again. I should be back in a few hours."

I clipped the cell phone onto my belt, started up the Ford and pulled out onto the highway. I headed south on Highway 93, towards the mountains and a little town called Currie. After a few moments I opened the window and inhaled the perfume of the sage.

Nevada is a beautiful state in its own primitive way, despite the garish gaming establishments. It has long, open spaces and stunning high deserts with mountains that are dotted with single-leaf pinon trees and bristlecone pines. The state sprawls over 110,540 square miles and much of it is virtually uninhabited. Miners, among them the Irish who built Carson City, have pulled gold, silver, copper, zinc, and even uranium from the ground. Ranchers and farmers have successfully raised livestock and harvested alfalfa, wheat, vegetables, and even hardy fruits. It's rich land.

On the Bell ranch, slender deer would gather in the thick brush near a water supply, venturing out to drink only at dusk or in the cool of the dark. I had milked cows in the brisk cold just before sunrise, squirting precious streams to the feral cats crouched in the barn's open, wood-framed windows. There were bobcats and coyotes and badgers, a seemingly endless supply of gophers and jackrabbits, magpies that dotted the landscape with thin black and white feathers.

I dialed my cell phone. A woman answered the telephone on the third ring. "Palmer's residence," she said. She was young and seemed anxious.

"I'd like to speak to Wilson, please," I said.

"Hold on," she said. There was a moment of confusion and fumbling; the receiver was handed back and forth.

"This is Will Palmer."

"My name is Mick Callahan."

"I had heard you were in town. I remember catching your old television show a time or two. What can I do for you?"

"Will, I was very sorry to hear about your sister."

"It was a terrible shock. You knew my sister, then?"

"Many years ago."

No mention of watching Sandy and I conversing. If Will Palmer had no idea what I looked like, then he was lying about having seen the television show. Or perhaps he did know of me, but had something to hide. We hadn't even met yet, and he was already getting on my nerves.

"I was wondering if I might visit you for a few minutes. I'm not far away."

"I assume you have something significant to discuss since you have already expressed your grief at the passing of my half-sister?"

What a chilly personality
, I thought. He sounded narcissistic and passive-aggressive. I decided to be cool, direct and firm. "Will, I'd like to talk to you in person."

He bit. "Where are you?"

"Out on the 93."

"Take 93 past the 229 cutoff to Humboldt Forest. We're maybe a couple of miles north of Currie."

"I've got it. Is this a good time?"

"I'm not desperately busy, Mr. Callahan. Perhaps you can enliven my day."

Dial tone.

Sudden trauma can cause odd behavior; the larger the shock, the more bizarre the conduct. Grieving people have been known to break into giggles at the funeral of a beloved relative, for example. Gentle family members may suddenly have temper tantrums, drink excessively, and even find themselves in trouble with the law. But there was something far too cold, calculated, and deliberately insulting about Will Palmer's performance.

The Palmer spread was set back from the highway, right after the turnoff from the 93. The barbed wire fence and barred metal gate were nearly invisible. I hit the brakes and backed up, spraying dust. Thirty yards behind a smattering of small pines sat a cinderblock wall, about six feet tall. Huge twenty-foot gates, with a garish metal "Palmer Ranch" logo above them, were centered in that wall. The gates were open and I drove through.

On the left I saw a large half-sunken potato cellar, common to this part of the country; the door made of splintering wooden planks. To the right, more trees and a rocky slope that tapered out of sight. Straight ahead sat a blue one-story wooden house with a porch railing; beyond it a larger wood-and-brick two-story house, also with a wooden railing. The second house was painted red. A horse corral stood between these two dwellings and a full garden framed the back yard of the larger home. Further in the distance I could make out a grain silo, a large white wooden barn that seemed freshly painted, and some large animal pens.

Far to the rear of the property sat a cluster of dilapidated old mobile homes; three or more, located near a side gate. Past the gate lay a dirt road, likely something private that returned to highway 93 and curved south and east. I opted for the larger house, the red brick and wood two-story. I started along the left side of the two homes, but as I passed the empty horse corral realized that this was the back entrance. I turned around.

Wilson Palmer was seated comfortably on the wooden porch of the two-story, smoking and rocking in a chair. He had his booted feet up on the wooden railing and stared at me with studied insouciance. There was a blur of motion, the slamming of a screen door. I saw a scantily clad female with dark hair return to the darkness within the house. I parked and got out. A sickly-sweet smell struck my nostrils; Palmer was finishing a joint. He ground it out beneath his heel and got to his feet.

Close up, Will was as strikingly handsome as a movie star. His hair was dark and perfectly coiffed; black eyes cold and flat. He greeted me with a thin smile. "Mr. Callahan, I'm Will Palmer. Have a seat."

Sunday Morning, 8:46 AM

Will Palmer and I were natural enemies; cobra and mongoose. The tension was palpable and immediately filled the gaps between pleasantries. My counseling supervisor would have called it 'counter-transference,' and I suppose that's true enough. But the harsh fact is that I flat-out disliked the arrogant little bastard, and he returned the sentiment.

Palmer's aura of narcissism and smug superiority was a visceral presence. I needed to try to shake him up. I decided to be indirect, avoid activating his defenses. Otherwise things could very rapidly spiral out of control, because a man like Will Palmer actually had a very fragile ego. It would be difficult to get his mask of arrogance to slip, but I had come here to see what lay behind it.

"I was looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Callahan."

"The feeling is mutual. I heard a lot about the Palmer family growing up, but I never knew anyone but your sister when she was still a child."

"You never laid eyes on us?"

"Not up close." I found myself slipping into a drawl that matched Palmers.
Maybe try for some kind of a narcissistic twin- ship? But then he'll know you're stroking him. He's a smart bastard
. Something about Will Palmer made my flesh writhe. It felt like a form of projective identification, so perhaps he had borderline-psychotic features, too.
Better tread lightly
.

His tone dripped sarcasm. "Why, how nice for you, then, I'll bet you're just thrilled to be here. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks," I said. My eyes wandered to the joint lying crushed on the porch.

"Too late to ask for a hit."

"I'd pass anyway."

"Have a seat. I trust this won't take long?"

I shrugged. "I'll stand." I meant to use height as an advantage.

It had no visible effect. Will Palmer yawned in a contrived show of disinterest. "So what can I do you for, Callahan?"

A female figure appeared, blurred by the screen door and hidden in the dark living room. "Honey? Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"What's the matter with you? Can't you see we're having a conversation?"

"I'm sorry." She turned on a dime and vanished. I felt frozen, at a loss for words. I couldn't recall meeting anyone quite as cruel as Will Palmer. He was Darin Young squared.

"Okay, I suppose you're just heartbroken about Sandy," Will said, "got anything else on your mind?"

I felt myself losing ground already. "I just wanted to talk with you." Cattle started to moo somewhere to the south.

"Okay, where is it Mr. Callahan?"

"Where is what?"

"Your hidden camera."

That explained part of the obnoxious attitude. He was paranoid that I was on the job. "No camera. I'm out of work again."

"I heard you had fallen on hard times. Otherwise, what would you be doing spending your holiday weekend in a dump like Dry Wells. Am I right?" We stared at one another and time crept by. I noticed that Will Palmer seldom blinked.

"Are you always so detached?"

"What do you mean by detached?" Palmer responded. He was not smiling.

"You just seem . . ."

"Bravo," Palmer said. He clapped his hands together. I jumped a bit. Palmer read my nervousness, enjoyed having startled me. "That was an absolutely dead-on impersonation of a sensitive therapist."

"You seem angry." It was a weak, very textbook stalling tactic. I regretted it instantly.

"Reflection of feeling, Callahan? You can do better than that."

"Sorry, observation is an occupational hazard." I downshifted and forced myself to relax.
I've got to find a way to bond with him. Maybe if I opened up a little?

At precisely that moment, as if reading my mind, Will Palmer leered and said: "Did you fuck her?"

My stomach went sour. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Callahan. We both know practically everyone in town fucked my sister. Did you?"

"I-I knew her as a child."
Christ, he's got me stammering
. . .

Palmer closed his eyes as if preparing to nap. "Then why bother, Callahan? You have no career left to speak of, you weren't fucking Sandy, and you're boring me. Go away."

My pilot light popped on; heat rose up from my rib cage to turn the world black and red. I almost kicked the legs of the chair out from under him. My voice sounded strange; low and tight: "You know, maybe I just remembered something I need to do."

"How about you go do it, then."

I started towards the car.
This is exactly what he wants. He thrives on it.
"You know something, Will?"

Without opening his eyes: "What?"

"You might want to try going to charm school."

"That so?"

"You don't, someday somebody's likely to rearrange your face so bad you'll drown when it rains."

"Have a nice day, Mr. Callahan."

I got into the Ford, feeling completely defeated both professionally and personally. I drove away.

Sunday Morning, 10:45 AM

Thirty minutes later: FOR SALE.

I was not prepared for my reaction. The sight of the weather-beaten black mailbox set into concrete and brick brought tears to my eyes. I pulled to the side of the road and sat quietly in the trailing cloud of dust. The long, unpaved driveway was now overgrown with cactus and dried weeds. A man could still walk it, if he navigated carefully between the needled guardians. I had taken Hal's advice.

I had come home.

It only took me a moment to find the spot. A tiny stream still trickled through the low, gray boulders and fragile strands of water moss spider-webbed among small multi-colored rocks. I lingered there for a while, trying to sense her presence. All I could recall was the scent of her perfume, the way she brushed her long, dark hair, and then scattering her gray ashes over a row of blooming red roses while Daddy Danny sobbed helplessly. I could not remember my mother's face.

Rest easy, Katherine,
I thought.
I wish I had known you
. I got to my feet and kept walking.

My chest tightened as the old, boarded-up buildings came into view; then the corral, the long metal watering trough, the barn. Old wagon wheels and rusted fragments of farm appliances littered the yard. The house was ruined now; the white had faded to something beyond color. The boards had splintered at all edges, and even the nails had begun to crumble. The well was bone dry, the bucket just a few slats bonded by bits of orange metal.

I paused on the porch, heart hammering in my chest. I could hear Danny Bell's voice as if echoing down a tunnel:
God damn it boy, what are you, stupid or something? I told you not to touch that. Shut up or I'll really give you something to cry about
. . .

The door was nailed into place. I raised my left leg and kicked; kicked again. After three tries the wood gave way and I stepped into the house. I was astonished at how small the living room was, now that I was fully-grown. I sneezed in the dust and the gloom.

When I was in school I studied a variety of different therapeutic techniques, some more effective than others. Gestalt therapy works wonders. It allows the client to project their unresolved feelings for someone onto an empty chair. I decided to use the house itself.

"Hello Danny," I said, feeling foolish. "How's it going?"

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I reached for painful memories, activated them: Saw a scared, scrawny kid in a torn, striped tee shirt and jeans circling me in the dirt. His name was Willie Chambers, and his small hands were balled into fists, knuckles bruised and bloodied. Willie's eye was swollen shut and he was crying. Snot was running from his flattened nose. Daddy Danny and some friends were cheering and laughing, enjoying the contest. Danny seemed pleased and proud.
Put him down, boy. He's a goner now, sure enough
. I closed the gap and landed a right cross. Willie fell and curled up, trying to protect himself.
Pay up, pay up,
Danny called.
I told you he could do it.