The Detective's Garden (33 page)

When Clarke hung up, he put his hands on his knees. His
vision seemed unstable for a minute, as if the grocery store and
clock tower were trying to corkscrew around him. He thought
about where King would want to go. Home. King would want
to go home. He dialed Jon Howland’s phone number and lis
tened to the static between each ring.

“Hello?” Jon Howland said.

“Jon, it’s Clarke.”

“Hey, boyo, I’ve got news.”

“You talked to King?”

“Not King, no. The FBI. They say she’s with them.”

“Is she okay?”

“I think so. Here’s the thing. They’re coming back this way.”

Dominick pulled up in a Lincoln Continental. Clarke placed
the phone gently in its cradle. He and Elsie opened the doors
of the stolen car.

The leather seats felt smooth and cold. They took turns be
hind the driver’s seat as the miles ahead of them blurred into
the miles behind. In the night theirs was the only vehicle on
the road, and each driver’s mind fumbled with sleep and wove
over the center line, and the car shivered over the rumble strips.
They bought plastic-wrapped crackers and shared gallons of
milk. They stopped beneath cones of light and pumped gas and
looked up at the pale moths circling the bulbs. Coyotes called
beyond the periphery of the light and farther out they could
sense the great voided darkness.

They consulted an atlas. Straight through, the drive would
take over forty hours. They would sleep in shifts. Before they
left the gas station, Elsie slid behind the wheel. She turned the
ignition. The car trembled beneath them, its frame an untuned
percussion instrument. She pushed the accelerator, and wheeled
the steering wheel, and asked, “Is this trip coming to an end?”

“No,” Dominick said, “it’s not.”

“We’re screwed,” Elsie said.

Clarke said, “I don’t know.” His eyelids were like weights.
He was so tired he couldn’t summon the appropriate fear.

Dominick reached from the backseat and awkwardly patted
Elsie’s shoulder. “We can drop you back in Illinois,” he said. He
spoke kindly, without threat.

“No,” she said. “There’s nothing there. I don’t want to go
back.”

To pass the time, they counted cows and cemeteries. They
called out the letters of the alphabet as found in road signs.
Sometimes they drove in silence. They shifted around the
shabby interior. Each of them felt that something about them
had shrunk. Their skins were a size too small. They felt delir
ious. Sometimes one of them would begin to shake with cold
or sleeplessness or fear or hunger and they’d turn up the heat
or close their eyes or speak in calming tones or pull into con
venience stores and out again with small bags of corn chips
and green soda bottles and dried beef. They drove the main
road, I-90, and they drove fast. They were reckless, crossing the
states in a blur. Clarke slept through the state of North Dakota.
Elsie slept through Minnesota and Wisconsin. Dominick didn’t
sleep at all.

THE AIRPLANE PASSENGERS
were rolled
inside a thin cylinder of steel. King’s eyes were closed. Her
thin arms were goose bumped. This man beside her smelled
of breath mints and fabric softener and soap but beneath there
was sawdust and sweat and, when he bent in close to say some
thing, indigestion. King turned to Charlie. She pushed against
his arm. She asked him, “Is my father a bad man?” She looked
serious.

“Bad is complicated,” Charlie said.

“No, it’s not.” King leaned across Charlie’s lap and closed
the small oval shade so that she couldn’t see the wisps of clouds
and the contoured map of land. She pushed a button on the
arm of her seat so that it reclined. She closed her eyes. She felt
Charlie cover her with a small blanket. Her ears hurt a little.
She listened to the roaring noise of the engines, a noise like the
unfolding of thousands of small wings.

The plane landed in D.C. and Charlie drove King to his sub
urban home. He parked against the curb, cut the engine, and
turned toward her. She hung her head and her black hair cov
ered most of her face. She didn’t speak. What had he done with
Charlene when she was this age? How had he talked to her? In
what tone? How had he gotten her to smile? “Hey,” he said,
“are you hungry?”

“I guess.”

“You want to come inside for dinner? Meet my wife? Her
name is Rosamund.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on,” Charlie said, “I’m tired. I promise to drive you
home first thing in the morning.”

“Okay.”

King trailed a few feet behind Charlie. He held the door
open. The oak floors were bright and his house had never felt so
spacious and wide open. The kitchen smelled of basil and garlic
and oil. Sliced tomatoes piled on a cutting board. Rosamund
wiped her hands on her apron. Her graying hair curled behind
her ears. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “what a beautiful girl!”

Charlie and King stood at the entranceway to the kitchen.
“King,” Charlie said, “this is my wife, Rosamund.” King raised
a hand to signal hello. To their right, down the hallway, feet
knocked against the wooden stairs on the back staircase. A
slight foot. Charlie’s daughter in the hallway, wearing an old
sweatshirt, her hair pulled into a braid.

Rosamund pushed a strand of her hair away from her lip. She
turned toward Charlie. “Charlene’s here,” she said.

“I see that,” Charlie said.

“She’s making supper,” Rosamund said. “I’m just the help.
Isn’t that right?”

“I guess,” Charlene said. The muscles in her face twitched, as
volatile as boiled water. She looked from her father to the little
girl standing beside him.

“Hey, Charlene,” Charlie said, “this is King.”

Charlene held still. She didn’t answer.

“Charlene?” Charlie said.

Again she didn’t answer. Her brow lifted, her teeth grit
ted, then her eyes fell. She came forward, took King by the
shoulders, and pulled her under the bright lights that hovered
above the tiled island. Holding a paring knife out to King, she
said, “Would you mind giving me a hand?” She handed King a
green pepper and an onion. “You know how to dice?”

“Yes,” said King.

“Charlie, can I speak with you for a minute?” Rosamund
pointed toward the swinging door and they faded from the
room.

King lost herself in the movement of the knife. She piled the
vegetables into shallow bowls. Somber string music began to
play elsewhere in the house. Charlene went to the refrigerator
and, without asking, poured King a glass of orange juice and
set it beside her. The first drink bit King’s throat enough to
hurt. She turned to Charlene. “Is your family always like this?”
she asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” King said. “So calm.”

“No,” Charlene said, “not always.” Her lips fluttered upward
at their edges. She washed her hands at the sink. “You think
this is calm?”

“I guess,” King said.

“I don’t understand the situation you’re in at all. It must be
hard. You’re on the run?”

“Not anymore.”

“My dad,” Charlene said, “has he been talking to you much?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does he say?”

“He asked a lot of questions about my dad.” King sliced a
red pepper in half. “He told me about you.”

“He did?”

“Uh-huh.”

Charlene lifted a hand to smooth the hair that had escaped
from her braid. “You know where your dad is right now?”

“No.”

“Why’s my dad looking for him?” Charlene asked. “What’s
he done?”

“He hurts people.”

“Lots of people?”

“I don’t know how many.”

Outside, a weeping spruce bent over like a thick-bodied man
straining to touch his toes. Something small and windblown
struck a windowpane. Steam rose from a copper pot on the
stove and, underneath, blue flames roared quietly. Charlie and
Rosamund pushed through the swinging door and Rosamund
turned to a cabinet and put her hands on the blue-flowered
bone china. She said, “King, would you help me set the table?”
She set four plates in King’s arms, lifted a flatware chest, and
followed the girl back through the swinging door.

In the kitchen, Charlie stood quietly for a minute. He
opened the refrigerator door and then closed it again. Charlene
stirred red pepper and garlic in oil. “I’m surprised you’re here,”
Charlie said. He took a step closer to her, lifted his hands, then
let them drop back to his sides. “That didn’t come out right. I
mean, it’s a good surprise.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, too,” Charlene said.

“Aren’t you missing classes?”

“Aren’t you, kind of literally, bringing work home with
you?”

“I am. But I like her.”

“I’m missing a lot of classes,” Charlene said.

Charlie took another step closer to her. “You shouldn’t worry
about your classes right now.”

Charlene’s eyes were half closed. Her hands froze above the
stove. “I’m dropping out,” she said. She did not look at him.

Charlie opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. His
brow furrowed and settled. One hand clenched. He leaned
against the counter. “You think,” he asked, “you think that’s
the best thing to do?”

“No. But I’m doing it.”

“Okay,” Charlie said. “Okay.” He tried to stop himself from
nodding too much. “You’re dropping out. Where are you
thinking about going? Are you going to come live with us?”

“WE’RE HERE,” CLARKE
said and the warm grace
of being home spread through him like a stolen sip of whiskey.
Dominick drove slowly as if there was no hurry. The Pennsyl
vania hills were heavily treed. Creeks trickled in barely visible
gullies. The day was temperate. The sun burned hot but the
cool breeze could goose bump skin in the shade.

In the backseat, Elsie slid closer to Clarke. Her hand whis
pered up his leg toward his crotch. Her lips brushed his ear. She
whispered, “I don’t know about this.”

“About what?” Clarke whispered back.

“What sense does this make?” Elsie asked.

“She’s my sister.”

“Even if she’s really here,” Elsie said, “how will we get her
back?”

“I don’t know. We just will.”

“And then what?” Elsie said. “What do we do? Where would
we go?”

Clarke shrugged. They would figure it out when they were
all together again. He looked at the back of his father’s head.
The dark bristling hair, the rough beard visible on one cheek.
Clarke admired the way his father focused on what was just
ahead of them.

Elsie pushed her head against Clarke’s shoulder. He rubbed
his mouth on her scalp and a strand of her dark hair tickled
his nose. She smelled like some flowered and earthy weed like
dandelion or clover.

They moved among the roads that Clarke remembered. A
macadam lane arched over with horse chestnut trees. Flint Val
ley Road. They would be home too soon. There were few vehi
cles on the road besides theirs. A short-nosed school bus. Black
Mennonite buggies pulled by teams of horses. A rust-colored
van that backfired. At a crossroads, a dark Suburban traveled in
their direction. Clarke closed his eyes. He imagined frozen wa
ter. Spit hanging in the air like a dragonfly. Idle cars on eternal
country roads. Mouths hanging wide open. Stilled tongues not
moving, not moving at all.

In the morning, Charlie Basin drove King home. When the
hill country began to look familiar, King rolled down the win
dow. Air lisped around the glass. A long sedan pulled through
the crossroads ahead of them. Flint Valley Road. King drew a
low breath. In that sedan, she recognized the profile of her fa
ther’s oversized sharp-angled skull. Charlie Basin was looking
out the side window, braking so that the Suburban slowed gen
tly. Beside them, a bonneted woman hung plain black dresses
on a clothesline. One of King’s hands squeezed her other hand.
She watched Charlie Basin study the heavy beams of the farm
at the crossroads. They came to a full stop. The scoliotic stop
sign was pocked with birdshot. The old barn at the crossroads
had long been unpainted, its shiplap siding grayed and bored
by insects. Its tin roof had rusted through. On the hill behind
the ruined house, he could see another small farm. A half-dozen
skinny cows. A rutted lane. A dying landscape.