The More They Disappear (20 page)

She logged on to a computer and brought up Lew's account, asked if there was anything in particular they wanted her to find. Harlan had her scroll through the transactions. “This sure was a busy account,” she said as the numbers flashed on the screen. “Thank God for computers, right?”

Harlan found the data dizzying. “I don't even own a calculator,” he said.

Holly giggled. “They have their merits,” she said and pulled a chair next to the teller, asked the girl if she could handle the mouse.

Harlan and the teller watched Holly methodically click through screens, occasionally making marks on a pad of paper. “You find what you're looking for?” the girl asked.

“It's not quite that simple, honey,” Holly said.

The girl started to make her own notes, wrote each time Holly stopped on a screen and made a mark. She was the bank manager's eyes, but Harlan didn't blame her. She was just a kid following directions and most people following directions have no idea what they're doing. Harlan had been like that for years—just following Lew's directions.

He didn't feel comfortable talking in front of the teller, so he asked her if she'd get the manager for him. The girl was conflicted. Her boss wanted her to keep an eye on Harlan, but then again Harlan was the sheriff and you did what the sheriff asked. She looked once more at Holly, who kept scrolling through transactions. “Sure,” she said and picked up her notes. “I'll be a minute.”

As soon as she was out the door, Holly said, “Lew's financial situation was a mess. He kept zeroing his balance, bouncing checks, then adding large deposits. The cycle repeated.”

“That sounds like someone who's taking bribes.”

“It does. Especially since almost every deposit that isn't a paycheck is cash, which makes the money hard to track.”

“So what's the verdict?”

“I thought we'd be out of luck, but three months ago a check from Lingg Pedersen bounced. I remember him from those letters. His son Adam had a drug charge reduced.”

Harlan knew the kid, knew his dad, a surly Scandinavian tobacco farmer. “By God,” Harlan said, reaching down and rubbing Holly's shoulders. “I should give you this badge.”

“No thanks,” she said. “I don't want the responsibility.”

Harlan could hear the teller returning with her boss, heels and wingtips clicking in an even rhythm, and asked Holly if she'd seen any checks from a Chapman.

“As in Doyle Chapman?”

“Yeah,” Harlan said. “As in Doyle.”

Holly reached up and took his hand in hers. “I looked, Harlan. There wasn't anything unusual around the time of his release. I'm sorry.”

“I don't know if it would have been better or worse.”

“I don't think what happened to you and that girl could be any worse.” She squeezed Harlan's hand once and let go as the bank manager pivoted on his polished Oxfords and asked Harlan what he needed.

“I was wondering if y'all have a john I might use?” Harlan said.

“Excuse me?”

“A restroom.”

Holly snickered.

“Down the hall on your right.” The manager glanced at the teller. “Amanda could have told you that.”

“I know.” Harlan soaked in the manager's confusion, then said, “Holly here has some stuff she wants y'all to print out. She'll tell you all about it.” He clapped the bank manager on the shoulder as he walked by and thanked him for his help.

On the way out, Harlan and Holly bumped into Lewis Mattock, who was with his father-in-law and a third man Harlan didn't recognize. Holly gave Lewis a hug and told him not to be such a stranger. Harlan muttered something about making headway in the investigation. Lewis didn't offer much response. It was awkward running into Lewis right after digging up dirt on his dad and soon everyone was standing around without much to say. The third man didn't introduce himself, so Trip Gaines ended everyone's discomfort and said to Lewis, “We should really get a move on.”

*   *   *

Mary Jane's new tattoo worried Mark. Even though she'd taken it well when he'd come clean about his father, he didn't know how long the calm would last. Mary Jane could become unpredictable if she wasn't stoned or fucking or otherwise distracted and the clock was ticking. For the moment she was content, napping on the couch. The air smelled heavy with sex and Mark pressed his nose into the crook of her neck and breathed deep. If Mark couldn't whisk her away that moment, the least he could do was keep Mary Jane happy in Lexington.

He slipped away to buy her flowers at the Kroger, and as he walked back to the apartment, he stopped in a boutique and scanned the racks of dresses. They needed every dollar he'd saved, but he considered the navy dress with a white collar more investment than gift.

“I love that one,” the salesgirl said from behind him.

Mark lifted the dress; he had no idea how to shop for women's clothes. “It looks like it would be too small.”

“What size is she?”

“I don't know. She's my height. A bit rounder.” He hoped he hadn't made Mary Jane sound fat. She was self-conscious about her weight, but how could Mark explain to the waif of a girl in front of him what fitting into clothes was like for Mary Jane? “She'd be about a medium in men's.”

“So maybe a ten or twelve.”

“I really don't know.” Mark was on the slight side for a boy—five-eight, pushing 140. Sometimes he felt that if he and Mary Jane fit better, their lives would be easier, not that he'd ever told her that. She'd take it too personally. It wasn't an indictment of her size and shape any more than it was of his own.

“Give me one minute,” the girl said as she scanned the racks and pulled out the same style dress in black, along with a white leather belt. “This should be the right size and this belt would give the dress some shape, especially for a woman with curves.”

Mark hadn't thought about a belt but it was a nice touch. A minute later, he was back on the sidewalk, heading home with flowers and the dress. He opened the apartment door and announced in his most gallant voice, “I'm taking you on a date.”

Mary Jane was sitting on the couch watching TV. “What's that?”

Mark brought out the flowers and she jumped off the couch to hug him. “And…” He handed over a bag stamped with the boutique's bird logo. “Something to wear.”

Mary Jane unwrapped the dress and blushed. She wanted to give Mark a fashion show and took her time changing. When she came out, she'd straightened her hair and done her makeup and the dress clung to her in all the right places, even flared out as she spun. “What do you think?”

Mark could see the Mary Jane of his past in that dress, the vision he'd fallen for years before. She was almost stunning. “Beautiful,” he said.

Mary Jane cat-walked up to the couch and straddled herself over him. The dress lifted, and as Mark started to get hard, she ran her fingers through his hair and over his chest and grinded against his cock. “We'll deal with this later,” she whispered and licked his ear. Mark wanted to deal with it right then, but Mary Jane stood up and told him to get dressed for dinner.

He changed into slacks and a button-down shirt, ran a comb through his hair. Tonight, he would be an admiring Romeo. So much of their relationship had been lived in the dark. Their first kiss had been in middle school at a basement truth-or-dare party, and for a couple of weeks afterward they'd “dated,” which meant making out in hallways and after school. Eventually Mary Jane broke it off. She could have had any boy she wanted.

Then, in high school, as other girls matured into their bodies, Mary Jane grew heavy. Mark would find her after parties and they'd go someplace hidden. Mary Jane wasn't considered a catch anymore. By then, it was Mark who kept Mary Jane at arm's length, who didn't want people to know what he did with the heavyset girl who liked to say yes. Eventually they lost their virginity together, and even though he wanted to keep their coupling secret, Mary Jane never complained or tried to make it “official.” Mark felt closer to her because of that. He tried to date other girls but it didn't work out. Other girls found him too quiet, too brooding, and in time he started to think of Mary Jane as something more than a fuck buddy, as someone he could trust—a girl who was smarter than she let on. During his lonely and sexless freshman year of college, he'd kept returning to Marathon to be with her, came to realize that she was the only person he'd ever confided in, came to realize that even though he wasn't sure what it meant to love, this was as close as he'd ever come.

As he came out of the bedroom, Mark kissed Mary Jane deeply. On the way to the restaurant, he opened the car door, played slow jams, and piled compliments upon compliments. When the hostess at Chili's asked how many, he said, “Table for two” and put his arm around Mary Jane.

It was a proper date—something to take their mind off all the what-ifs—the perfect illusion. Then midway through dinner Mary Jane forked a bite of chicken fettuccini into her mouth and asked, “What are you going to do about the money?”

Mark stared at the television above the bar.

“When are we leaving, Mark? What's the plan?”

Before the situation with Lew reached a point of no return, Mary Jane had told him he should make a run for it, that kids ran away all the time, but he'd missed that chance.

“Tomorrow is the day I usually pick up prescriptions,” he said. “So we'll do that. Then we'll hit up pharmacies and by the end of the day we'll have a stash of Oxy.”

“And?”

“I'll sell it.”

“I don't understand why we can't leave now.”

Mark sighed. Part of him wanted to believe they would make it no matter what, but he was a realist at heart. He knew it took means to make it on your own. “How would we survive?” he asked. “I mean honest-to-God survival. Maybe we'd have enough money to pay for gas and food to get to Canada. But what then? This way we'll have enough to rent an apartment, get settled.”

“And we're just going to forget about the money your dad owes us?”

“We're moving ahead.”

“Because you're scared of him?”

“Because it's not going to happen.”

“Even after what we did?”

“I'm sorry,” Mark said. It was the best he could offer and it wasn't much. “But what we did kept us together. Made tonight possible and all the tonights to come.” He stared at her, unblinking, tried to convince her he was telling the truth. There was something beautiful in the hazel eyes that looked back, the hazel eyes that had driven boys wild with desire all growing up, but there was skepticism, too. Mark wanted to give Mary Jane everything she wanted but he knew he wasn't capable. She asked too much; he offered too little. He could only do his best. It was the try that mattered. If he could erase it all now, he would. He'd return to school, complete his degree, get a regular job, move to a town with suburbs, buy them a house, lead a normal life. He'd never wanted fame or fortune. The most he'd ever tried to weasel was a little gas money.

“What?” she said, as he continued to look into her eyes.

It was one of those questions that you don't really answer, that you're not supposed to. Mary Jane didn't want to hear the what, didn't want to know that Mark was afraid they would get caught, that even if they made it to Canada he worried they wouldn't find happiness. “Nothing,” he said.

“Seriously. What?”

Mark didn't know how to feel. “I love you,” he said.

Mary Jane's face relaxed into a smile. “I love you, too.”

 

seven

A sad herd of bedraggled cows lolled across the road leading into Lingg Pedersen's homestead. Harlan had to shoo them by waving his ball cap as if it were a Stetson. He'd read up on the Pedersen case since visiting the bank. Lingg's son, Adam, was a common punk facing jail time after having swung through his third strike—the last one for carrying a couple of grams over the misdemeanor limit of dope. Lew's letter to Craycraft had mentioned how the weighing of drugs was an imperfect science and that he might consider this when adjudicating Adam's future. Craycraft ended up dropping the charge to a misdemeanor, and Adam walked out with a fine and community service. Not long after, Lingg sent his son on a bus to his mother's place in Pennsylvania. A week after that, a check from Pedersen to Lew bounced. There wasn't a second check.

When no one came to the door of Pedersen's house, Harlan continued on to the barn. He found Lingg checking his tobacco, which hung on inch-thick poles to cure. “Good yield this year, Lingg?”

“Doesn't matter if the market's down,” Pedersen replied before turning to see who'd asked.

“I wondered if I might talk to you,” Harlan said. “About Adam.”

“That boy. So much potential, so little drive. He's at his mother's place.”

“I remember when you sent him up there. Pretty soon after his court date.”

“Yep.”

“Pretty good fortune for Adam.”

“I suppose.”

Pedersen grabbed a broom and started brewing up a dust storm of barn-floor dirt.

“Do you know why the judge reduced the charges?”

“Nope.”

Harlan pulled out a bandanna and covered his mouth, took hold of the broom to make Pedersen stop. “You wrote Lew Mattock a check around that time.”

“Now there's a tragedy,” Pedersen said.

“We're all broken up about it,” Harlan said. “But the check. Do you remember it?”

Pedersen scratched through his beard and thought. “Probably a campaign donation.”

“That's strange,” Harlan said. “It didn't go into a campaign account. It went into Lew's personal savings. And then it bounced.”

“Did it now?” Pedersen shrugged. “I never put much stock in banks.”