The More They Disappear (30 page)

“I don't know how much any of that means to you,” Boggs said. “I figure it's a hunting trip gone bad, but that powder's either pill dust or cocaine. Pills, most likely.”

“Why do you think that?”

“We've been fighting that shit for a year or two now. Seems like every other person I arrest is hopped up on pills. I asked my brother who's a cop out in Tucson if they have the same problem but he told me they have the cartels and we have Purdue and Pfizer.”

“I just started hearing about it in Finley.”

“Watch out,” Boggs said. “It only gets worse.”

Harlan borrowed a vinyl glove and examined the evidence. The empty cartridge was promising. He hadn't found one along the ridge in Marathon and it wasn't like a hunter to clean up after himself. Boggs had done a good job preserving the lot, even managed to dry out the water-sodden food containers and a receipt.

Harlan returned the bags to the box and hefted it up. “I appreciate this,” he said.

Boggs picked up his broom and returned to sweeping. “Glad to get it out of my hands.” As Harlan walked outside, Boggs called out, “Safe home” while Dwight continued to croon about being a thousand miles from nowhere.

*   *   *

Lewis woke to the tap-tap of his mother's bony fingers. “Get up, get up, you sleepyhead,” she sang. “Get up, get up, get out of bed.” Lewis groaned and burrowed deeper into the sheets, but Mabel continued to tap-tap away. “You're not sleeping off a hangover in my house,” she said. “I laid out clean clothes and a towel in the bathroom. Shower and then come eat.”

Lewis opened his eyes and tried to piece together how he'd ended up in his childhood bed. After punching Trip, he'd driven to the river to drink in solitude, and when all he had were empties, he'd driven to the gas station for more. He remembered calling Sophie from a pay phone. Ended up leaving a drunken message on her father's answering machine—apologized, defended himself, apologized again, said he loved the girls. Then he called their house and did it again. It was all so dramatic. A marriage, not some high school romance, and yet he acted like they were one and the same. He had a vague recollection of having driven to his mother's house, though he couldn't remember if she'd come to get him or if he'd knocked and asked to be let in.

His bedroom was unchanged from when he was a kid, had the same pennants and posters thumbtacked into the wall, the same trophies atop the dresser, the same linens on the bed. It felt like the room of a boy who'd died young.

A new toothbrush sat on the bathroom sink along with a set of hotel soaps and shampoos. It was as if his mother had been preparing for this day. The clothes she'd left out were leftovers from high school—snug—though aside from a few extra pounds, Lewis cleaned up well. He almost looked like he did before his marriage, when the world was still his oyster and he held the knife, but Lewis knew better than to think time could go backward.

He wandered to the kitchen, found eggs, bacon, and strong coffee on the table. His mother sat reading the newspaper and began chatting about insignificant things. “The weatherman says it's going to storm again,” she said. “I hope he's right because my new garden could use a drink.”

Her small talk pained him. Lewis couldn't pretend like this was just another day. “I punched Trip,” he said.

“I know. You went on about it quite a bit last night.” Mabel sipped her coffee. “I think today is a better one for amends, so you and I have an errand to run.”

“What's that?”

“We're visiting your father.”

Lewis couldn't imagine why, but he didn't argue. It didn't seem his place, considering. He chewed his breakfast slowly, his stomach gurgling as each bite settled. When he finished, his mother took his plate and said, “It's nice to have someone to cook for, and since the house is all we have left, I'm glad you're putting it to use.” He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or sincere.

As they left, Mabel picked the lone rose from her new garden, stepped over a beer bottle on the lawn, and made her way to the Explorer, which was parked crooked in the street. If she had a lecture about driving drunk, she kept it to herself. “The Plymouth won't start,” she explained, and though Lewis could have said, “I told you so,” he didn't.

There were only two other cars at the cemetery, both of them in spots reserved for employees. As Lewis and Mabel walked toward his father's grave, a heavyset groundskeeper sped by on a riding mower. He took breakneck turns around the shrubs and scraped against one of the vaults that lined the water like ancient fishing shacks. A second groundskeeper, a Hispanic kid with a pockmarked face, pushed a beat-down Briggs & Stratton wherever the riding mower didn't fit.

“Not very restful, is it?” Lewis said.

“You take everything personally,” his mother replied.

It was a large cemetery for a small town, as though what Marathoners excelled at best was death. His mother kept stopping to read names and dates. “You knew the McGreevys, right? Went to school with a McGreevy?” Lewis nodded. She placed her hand on the cool stone of a mausoleum decorated with a lion's head. “Your father wanted one of these,” she said. “And he wanted all his sons and daughters and their sons and daughters buried in there with him, like some king of kings.”

“What happened?”

“I had my tubes tied after you.”

Lewis hadn't known this but he couldn't bring himself to ask her why.

The grave sat on a grassy knoll overlooking the pond. “I bought the plot next to him,” he said. “For when the time comes.”

“How thoughtful.”

“I figured—”

“When I die, you can scatter my ashes where I grew up,” she said. “Your father won't miss me.”

“But you haven't been back there in ages.”

“It'll be about time for a visit then.” His mother bent at the knees and laid the rose in front of the headstone:
LEW MATTOCK
1946–1998.
SHERIFF
1986–1998. The hem of her long skirt gathered moisture from the grass.

“Maybe we should give each other time alone,” Lewis said.

“No,” Mabel replied. “We do this together.”

Lewis felt stranded as she began to speak. “I thought you were too tough to die,” she said. “Too stubborn, really. You should have warned me this might happen.” Lewis looked across the pond, watched a heron settle on a water lily. “We could have done things differently.” The heron dipped its beak at something in the water—an insect, a piece of algae. “I'm sorry we didn't get that chance.” His mother's voice started to tremble. Lewis felt like a trespasser to sadness. “I brought a flower from my new garden. I know it's silly. You couldn't care less about flowers. Maybe next time I'll bring a steak.” She reached back for Lewis's hand. “Your son plans to run for sheriff.” She wiped her eyes. Lewis looked for the heron but it had flown away. “You'd be proud of him.”

She stood and waited for Lewis to speak. He felt like an actor on a stage. He leaned close and whispered, “Take care, Dad. Be good.” He wanted to say more, wanted to tell him he loved him, but when the time came, it seemed like too great a lie. He'd run out of words. He turned to look at his mother and she nodded and wiped a single tear from her eye. Then he put his arm around her and shepherded her back toward the noise of the mowers, back toward their new lives.

*   *   *

Mary Jane balled a sweater against the passenger-side window and counted mile markers. The leaves on the trees, the same trees she'd passed a week before, were still painted in hues of red and orange, but on the ground beneath them brownish piles of dead had formed. Horses huddled in packs to protect themselves from the cold and a heavy gray sky swallowed the horizon. As they passed the sign marking twenty-six miles to Marathon, an announcement by Miss Kentucky came on the stereo reminding people to buckle their safety belts. It was followed by a campaign ad for Lewis Mattock that Mary Jane's mother turned off. Neither of them said a word.

At the house, the first order of business was a search of Mary Jane's room, which turned up a stale dime bag and a couple pills that Lyda flushed down the toilet. She made Jackson bear witness like it was a holy affair. Mary Jane didn't care for the show and she didn't think her father did either. Jackson perched awkwardly on the ledge of the tub and wrung his hands the entire time. He glanced at Mary Jane, managed to ask if she was okay, and then excused himself—more distant than ever. Even her mother's heart wasn't in it. Lyda looked ghostly. She kept asking Mary Jane why. Why had she acted so recklessly? Why was she sleeping with strangers? Why was she doing drugs? But Mary Jane couldn't explain why. Her parents had spent years looking past her stumble-home arrivals, her deep-seated sadness. How could she explain that none of this was surprising? And they didn't even know the worst of it. Mary Jane carried secrets that would break them.

Lyda started in on another question, and Mary Jane's stomach churned and she managed to reach the toilet just in time to vomit. The fluids from the hospital had kept her from crashing but now she felt ragged. Her mother had cruelly emptied the medicine cabinet, hiding the aspirin and sleeping pills. There was no relief but at least the vomiting quelled her mother's need to ask why. After handing her mouthwash, Lyda helped Mary Jane crawl beneath the covers of her bed. “This too shall pass,” she said.

It was still the middle of the day and no matter how hard she tried, Mary Jane couldn't manage sleep. Her mind raced. Her skin ached. Her breath quivered. Images of Mark flashed into her head. And Vince. And Lew. Images of her mom. Her dad. All of them coming to pay their regards.

Her bedroom was a prison. It gave the illusion of freedom—no bars on the windows, no chains on the door—but there was no place to go. Lyda checked in every hour or so and asked if she needed anything, though this was just a pretense to spy. Her father didn't make any similar attempt. At some point a black bird flew into her window and fell to the sill. Mary Jane sat up and watched the bird flap back to the power line, where it perched as if nothing had gone wrong. She looked at the hole she'd cut in her window screen and made up a new lie. A bird flew into it. It didn't sound believable, but the truth rarely sounded as good as the lie.

Lyda talked about recovery programs and counselors, even brought out a couple of brochures from the hospital. Mary Jane clutched her teddy bear, his battery bay free of both drugs and batteries. She half-hoped that he'd speak up in her defense, but he didn't speak. Mary Jane wanted to tell her mother that drugs weren't the problem—they'd only been the solution—but her parents would do what they wanted with her now. And she'd let them. She'd failed. She was a girl who couldn't even manage to run away, who'd committed unforgivable sins, a girl who deserved whatever tragedy came her way.

She left the bedroom to use the restroom and release more terrible into the toilet, and only after she felt empty did she manage to shower. Back in her room, she let the towel fall away and stood in front of the mirror. She still wasn't clean. She could smell the sweat and sick and sex on her skin as she examined the bruises from the IV, the splotches on her backside where Mark had ground her into the earth, the puffy spot where his knuckles met her cheek. Then she scratched behind her left knee with her right foot and did a pirouette. Hers was a strange body—thick legs and swollen boobs beneath rounded shoulders. Parts of it she'd mastered while other parts felt like they belonged to another person entire.

In her desk she found a pair of safety scissors, things made for grade-schoolers, and started cutting. She planned to chop her hair off but stopped just below the ears because she liked the way it looked. It was a style from the past, given to girls who wore letter jackets and had doors opened for them. Then she put on a skirt and blouse that matched the hairstyle and imagined herself on black-and-white film—the very picture of innocence.

Mary Jane was no one and therefore she could be anyone, but it was exhausting, living with such uncertainty. She didn't recognize the girl in the mirror but neither did she recognize the one in the photos taped to that mirror—the mother's daughter wearing a robin-blue dress and glittering tiara. Her hair had darkened since then, her face broadened, her body grown. She'd failed at becoming the woman the photos promised. She no more recognized herself now than she had the day she shot Lew or anytime before that. So much had happened and yet nothing had changed. How could she be guilty when she didn't even know who she was?

*   *   *

Harlan drove straight from Deerhorn to the crime lab in Frankfort. The tech, a thin-nosed woman dressed like a scientist, said they'd analyze the evidence and search for prints before seeing if the gun fired. “It will be a couple days,” she said.

“Can't you fast-track it?” Harlan asked.

“There are protocols,” she replied. “And while it's not rocket science, it's not far from.” Harlan shook his head. Protocols. He cringed at the word. They seemed to get in the way of people doing their jobs more than they ever helped. Harlan watched as the lab tech started to catalogue the evidence. “Someone liked Big Macs,” she said. Harlan asked what she meant and she showed him the fast-food receipt. “Big Mac, fries, and a Coke.” At the top was a phone number with a northern Kentucky area code. He asked for the telephone.

A girl answered and said, “McDonald's, Highway 68. How can I help you?” Harlan asked where exactly they were located and she said just down from the Walmart and that they'd be open until ten.

“In Marathon?” he asked.

She seemed surprised by the question. “Yeah,” she said. “In Marathon.” Harlan hung up and asked the tech to examine the receipt and copy down as much information as possible. After a little work, he knew the store number, the server's name, and the total.