The More They Disappear (10 page)

Trip laughed. “You don't think I'd figure something else out?” He stood up, came around the desk, and grabbed the backpack from Mark's soft hands. Mark shrunk into the chair. “Don't fuck up a good thing,” Trip said, taking the cash and sliding it into the front pocket of his slacks before tossing the empty bag back in Mark's lap. He gripped Mark's shoulder and dug his fingers deep as if he was giving a massage but there would be bruises. “This isn't the time to buck, Mark. You're being shortsighted. Now that Lew's gone, the profit is all ours. Don't you get it? We're going to be rich.”

“You're going to be rich.”

“And that makes you rich by proxy. You're my son.”

Mark wanted to tell his father that he wasn't going to be pushed around anymore, but instead he mumbled assent—ever the dutiful son. Satisfied, Trip released his shoulder and patted it. “I've got patients,” he said, and slipped away but not before reminding Mark to close the door on his way out. Mark tried not to cry.

There were photos of Sophie scattered around his father's office, but just one of Mark and even that was in a hinged frame he shared with his sister. Sophie favored their mother; it was uncanny how alike they looked. Mark had never stood a chance, would never be loved like Sophie, who had only to walk into a room to be admired. This was supposed to be his chance to break free, but he'd failed. Himself and Mary Jane both.

He wiped the snot from his nose and dried his eyes. It was time for him to fight back, not by standing up to his father—that wasn't in the cards—but by doing something that fit his nature. He stooped behind his father's desk, pulled open the bottom left drawer, and stole a prescription pad. If Mark couldn't collect what he and Mary Jane were owed, he could at least use the pad to load up on pills and make a big deal, enough to help them start over in Montreal. With the prescription pad in his bag, Mark felt like he had the upper hand; for once he was the gander and his dad was the goose.

*   *   *

The pinging of the fax brought Harlan out of his office and he crowded around the machine with Holly as she read line after barely inked line from the crime lab in Frankfort. The bullet had entered below Lew's right orbital and exited at the base of the skull, which suggested an elevated shooter and jived with what they already knew. The fragment was 150 grain and came from one of three rifles—a 30-06, .308, or 300 Win Mag. There were partial markings that could be matched to the murder weapon, and they'd preserved the spit sample to do a DNA test, but only for trial. Holly stopped reading. Harlan waited for more. “That's it,” she said. “I guess we have to find the gun.”

“That shouldn't be hard,” Harlan replied, knowing it was damn near impossible. Just about every man, woman, and child in the county owned a rifle, and the 30-06 was popular with hunters. He'd have a deputy stop by the Walmart and check their sales, but it was a long shot at best.

Harlan had planned to keep the information about Leland and Lew to himself but decided it was better to tell Holly. Holly knew Lew better than just about anyone in Marathon, maybe even his wife. She shook her head at the news. “You think Leland was telling the truth?”

“I don't think he intended to let it slip.”

Holly twisted the wedding band on her ring finger. “I wouldn't put it past Lew, but I also think he left Leland alone for those reasons he talked about. Concentration of crime and so on. It's likely Lew saw a way to profit from what he was already doing.”

“I'm more interested in how it might relate to the murder,” Harlan said. “Don't you think that's the sort of deal that could come back to bite someone?”

“You think Leland killed Lew?”

“No. It wasn't that much money. But there might be other bribes.” Harlan stopped. “Forget I mentioned it.”

Holly started packing up her purse. “I don't care about defending Lew's legacy, but I also don't see him doing anything so corrupt as to get shot. Lew wore his faults like badges of honor.”

“Maybe you didn't know him as well as you think.”

“Maybe not. I'm just giving you my opinion.” Holly snapped her purse shut and put on her jacket. “Find the gun. That's the fastest way to wrap this up.”

As far as Harlan was concerned, Leland was his best lead. Let the other deputies search for the gun, that was a needle-haystack job. Let them follow up on bunk information from the tip line. Just because Lew was dead, Harlan wasn't going to pretend like his former boss was some idealistic lawman. Lew had plenty of enemies besides the people he arrested, and Harlan was willing to bet he carried his fair share of secrets. If he found out
why
Lew was murdered, he was certain it would lead him to
who
.

Harlan took advantage of Holly's absence and lit a cigarette as he examined Lew's old office. Inside various cabinets and closets he found paperwork Lew had neglected to file, old campaign paraphernalia, and stacks of
Field & Stream,
but nothing of consequence. Lew's funeral was slated for the next morning. After that Harlan would have to meet up with Mabel Mattock and search Lew's house. He'd need to talk with Lewis as well.

He took a seat at the desk and sifted through its drawers, searching for clues among the pens and paper clips. The filing cabinet was still locked, and with a cigarette dangling from his lips, Harlan used his clasp knife to break in. An upward shove popped the pins and the drawer came sliding out. It was crammed with files tagged in Lew's mix of cursive and print. Budget files and employee files. Various official forms. Harlan read through his own file first. It was clean. No discipline cases, no commendations—just a decade of service and a promotion.

Near the back of the drawer, he uncovered a folder of correspondence between Wesley Craycraft and Lew. It seemed Lew liked to offer the judge suggestions for parole and sentencing—his way of being judge, jury, and executioner. Harlan sorted though the file and stopped at a familiar name.

Wes,

We talked about the parole hearing for inmate 165198. Given the lack of prior offenses and prison overcrowding I don't see any benefit in keeping Doyle Chapman behind bars. He has family in Arkansas and intends to move there. The sooner Doyle is gone and forgotten the better. I never believed he intended to kill Angeline Chapman. As far as I'm concerned Mr. Chapman must reckon himself with God more than the state of Kentucky. I suggest an early parole and an end to this unfortunate incident.

—Mattock

Harlan ran his fingers over the type as if reading braille, pressed them against her name. Stapled to Lew's letter was a copy of Doyle's court-ordered release, signed by Craycraft.

For two years Angeline had curled into Harlan like a scared potato bug and rested her backside against him—a pretty girl with a round face. In the morning they'd flirt over fried eggs and figure out to the minute when they'd see each other again. She worked at a dental office and liked to tell Harlan he drank too much soda. He picked up groceries after his shift and cooked her dinner. They talked about plaque and criminals, kissed each other softly, and made sweet love. Harlan promised her a ring on her finger when he could afford it and then, all at once, it ended.

Harlan found Angeline dead in the kitchen of her father's place the day after she decided it was time to move in with him. Her body was covered in flies. Doyle Chapman had pushed his only daughter harder than intended into an object not made for contact with the head. A plastic bag filled with Angeline's meager belongings sat next to her body like trash. Later, Doyle would claim that he'd only meant to have a heart-to-heart, to teach Angeline a lesson about family. He'd only wanted her to stay. Maybe he'd been drinking. He was sorry. Things had gotten out of hand.

By the time Harlan found her body, Doyle was already on the run, though he didn't have many places to go. Harlan treated it like a crime scene and called Lew for help, a decision he'd regretted ever since. They'd looked at Angeline's misshapen face together. Lew had seen the crater in her skull, the skin a loose bowl, her bangs falling into it—the frightening lack of blood. How could the man capable of that reckon himself with God? If Harlan were a better man, he'd have tracked Doyle down and beat him to a pulp, he'd have brought him back to the house and made him bear witness to what his hands had wrought, but Harlan had trusted in the law.

Lew gave him an extended leave, which Harlan spent in various stages of drunkenness. People brought casseroles and buckets of fried chicken, left them on the porch when he didn't come to the door. Doyle pled guilty and people talked about the tragedy of Angeline Chapman for a while but soon they forgot. At some point, Harlan took her belongings from evidence and offered them to the river. Everything sunk save one white dress, which floated downstream, rippling beneath the surface like some sort of water flower. Afterward, Harlan asked Lew if he could please return to work. Doyle served a few years on a twenty-year manslaughter charge and moved on. Early release. And all because of Lew. Harlan had vowed to find Doyle in Arkansas, but the weeks passed and he stayed in Marathon—working all day and getting high deep into the night—his dreams of revenge drifting away on a cloud of smoke.

Nearly four years had passed and Harlan had never woken up the same. He still loved Angeline, could conjure memories of her that made him ache—her soft body, the way she sneezed twice whenever she sneezed, the nonsense she spoke in her sleep—but the girl in those memories had grown faint. He no longer remembered the hint of red in her summer hair, the smallest scars of her skin. She'd slipped into the fog of his past. A ghost. There was only one thing left of her in the house, a bottle of apple-scented shampoo that he brought to his nose whenever the loneliness became too much to bear.

Harlan balled Lew's letter in his fist and punched the cabinet. The metal buckled and he punched again, an uppercut that sliced his knuckles. Blood pooled in his hand and dripped onto the carpet but Harlan didn't care. He punched again. And again. Over and over. He punched because he'd failed to protect her, because he'd done nothing to avenge her, because she was gone and he'd started to forget her.

When Paige came in to take over dispatch, she asked, “What happened to your hand?” Asked, “Are you all right?” Asked, “What's going on?” Harlan wrapped his bloody hand in a bandanna and shoved the crumpled letter into his pocket. There were always more questions than answers. Why even reply? He left the rest of Lew's correspondence on Holly's desk along with a note telling her to find out what Craycraft decided in each case.

Outside, crows perched on power lines, black forms above the glow of a streetlight. They squawked warnings to anyone who'd listen. Harlan had once known a crow with a forked tongue. His owner cut him that way, taught the bird to say, “Damnation is coming to us all.” The crow squawked it to whoever would listen. Harlan launched a rock at the crows with his bandaged hand but missed. They flapped their wings and sang an ugly song. Damnation coming.

*   *   *

In that hazy hour between night and day, just after the sun fell but before the sky went dark, Mary Jane's mother knocked on her door. “Your father insists you join us at the table.” Lyda started to fold Mary Jane's discarded clothes and pair her scattered shoes. “It's a mess in here,” she said.

“Mom,” Mary Jane groaned, letting the vowel extend. “Stop.”

Lyda opened the closet and pulled out a dress that still had its tags attached. Lyda's tastes tended toward floral print and cable-knit, and she rarely brought home anything in a size twelve. She bought Mary Jane fours to “inspire” her and help her envision the pretty girl she might become again. “This looks nice,” she said. The dress complemented the shimmering skirt and blouse Lyda had on for dinner. Wearing it would turn Mary Jane into an accessory no different from her mother's dangly earrings or diamond tennis bracelet.

“I'm not wearing that,” she said.

“Well, you can't wear sweatpants. You father has it in mind to enjoy a proper meal and we should play our part.”

“Like puppets.”

“Like ladies.” Her mother gave a dramatic curtsy to make a joke of it. Mary Jane burrowed deeper into the covers. “Why are you always so tired?” Lyda asked.

“Maybe I take after you.”

Lyda ignored the insult. “Did you sleep at all last night? Were you even here? What's going on? Are you smoking marijuana?”

Mary Jane moaned. Caring wasn't something her mother got to turn on and off whenever it seemed convenient. “Yeah,” Mary Jane said. “I'm smoking pot and snorting cocaine and dancing at a strip club where my boyfriend works as a bouncer. It's a great life.”

“I guess I don't find that funny,” Lyda said. “Besides, the girls who dance at those clubs are fit. Maybe that would be a step in the right direction.” Satisfied that she'd gotten the last word, Lyda turned to leave. “Ten minutes,” she said. “And put on some makeup.”

Mary Jane dropped her head back to the pillow. She and her mother had been close once. After Mary Jane's pageants they'd get tea—“lady time” Lyda called it—and her mom would talk about how she'd wanted to go to New York to model or L.A. to act, dreams that were silly looking back, but growing up they made Mary Jane think her mother a star. For a long time she'd wanted those same things. Pageant titles. Attention. Compliments. But when Mary Jane stopped rehearsing for the stage and trying on sequined dresses at the store, they lost whatever connection they'd had. For a while Lyda kept trying to fit Mary Jane in a box and slap a bow on her but eventually they drifted apart for good.

The difference between Mary Jane's stagnant life and her mother's was that Mary Jane had been born into it and Lyda had chosen it. Her mother was born a Fieldhouse, the daughter of a tobacco worker and a homemaker; she married into the Finley money. Her mother barely spoke about that past, but the way Mary Jane's father told the story, it wasn't hard to win her affection. He told her his last name, bought a big diamond, and soon enough they were walking down the aisle. After one too many gins, Jackson liked to pay Lyda back for years of icy stares and noncommittal I-love-you's by recounting their wedding in glorious detail—hillbillies on one side, respectable folks on the other. Mary Jane had heard her mother crying after a few particularly unpleasant dinners and came to realize those tears might not be from shame over the life she left behind but the life she chose. Because the Finley name wasn't a badge of honor; it was a burden to live up to.