Twisted: The Collected Stories (18 page)

“I want to do the right thing,” Nate said. “But . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Boz, he wants to help. I know he does.”

“I do,” Nate said earnestly. And scrunched his eyes closed, thinking hard. “But I can’t lie. I
can’t.
My dad . . . You remember my dad. He taught me never to lie.”

His dad was a nobody who couldn’t swim worth shit. That’s all they knew about his dad. Boz plucked his shirt away from his fat chest and examined the black patches of sweat under his arms. He walked in a slow circle around the boy, sighing.

Nate cringed faintly, as if he were afraid of losing his gym shoes again.

Finally Ed said in an easy voice, “Nate, you know we’ve had our disputes.”

“Well, you guys used to pick on me a lot in school.”

“Hell, that? That was just joshing,” Ed said earnestly. “We only did it with the kids we liked.”

“Yeah?” Nate asked.

“But sometimes,” Ed continued, “I guess it got a little out of hand. You know how it is? You’re fooling around, you get pumped up.”

Neither of them thought this little salamander had
ever
been pumped up (for Christ’s sake, a man does at least
one
sport).

“Look, Nate, will you let bygones be bygones?” Ed held out his hand. “I’ll apologize for all of that stuff we done.”

Nate stared at Ed’s meaty hand.

Burning bushes, Ed thought, he’s gonna cry. He glanced at Boz, who said, “I’ll second that, Nate.” The
Procedure Manual
said that after the subject has been worn down, the bad cop comes around and starts to act like a good cop. “I’m sorry for what we done.”

Ed said, “Come on, Nate. What d’you say? Let’s put our differences behind us.”

Nate’s spooky face looked from one deputy to the other. He took Ed’s hand, shook it cautiously. Ed wanted to wipe it after they released the grip. But he just smiled and said, “Now, man to man, what can you tell us?”

“Okay. I did see someone. But I couldn’t swear it was Lester.”

Ed and Boz exchanged cool glances.

Nate continued fast. “Wait. Let me tell you what I saw.”

Boz—who of the two had worse handwriting but could spell better—opened a notebook and began to write.

“I was sitting on my porch reading.”

Porn, probably.

“And listening to music.”

“I love you, Satan. Take me, take me, take me . . .”

Ed kept an encouraging smile on his face. “Go ahead.”

“Okay. I heard a car on Barlow Road. I remember it because Barlow Road isn’t real close but the car was making a ton of noise so I figured it had a bad muffler or something.”

“And then?”

“Okay . . .” Nate’s voice cracked. “Then I saw somebody running through the grass, heading down to the river across from my place. And maybe he was carrying some big white bags.”

Bingo!

Boz: “That’s near the caves, right?”

Not as sexy as Luray’s maybe, but plenty big enough to hide a half million dollars. Ed glanced at him and nodded. “And he went into one of ’em?” he asked Nate.

“I guess. I didn’t see exactly ’cause of that old black willow.”

“You can’t give us
any
description?” Boz asked, smiling but wishing oh so badly that he could be a bad cop again.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Nate whined. “I’d help you if I could. All that grass, the tree. I just couldn’t see.”

Pussy faggot . . .

But at least he’d pointed them in the right direction. They’d find some physical evidence that would lead to Lester.

“Okay, Nate,” Ed said, “that’s a big help. We’re
going to check out a few things. Think we better keep you here till we get back. For your own protection.”

“I can’t leave?” He was brushing at the cowlick. “I really wanta get home. I got a lot of stuff to do.”

Involving
Playboy
and your right hand? Boz asked silently.

“Naw, better you stay here. We won’t be long.”

“Wait,” Nate said uneasily. “Can Lester get out?”

Boz looked at Ed. “Oh, hey, be practically impossible for him to get outa that lockup.” Ed nodded.

“Practically?”
the boy asked.

“Naw, it’s okay.”

“Sure, it’s okay.”

“Wait—”

Outside, they walked to the squad car. Boz won the toss and got in the driver’s seat.

“Oooo-eee.” Ed said, “that boy’s gonna sweat up a storm every time Lester rubs his butt on his chair.”

“Good,” said Boz and sped out onto the road.

They were surprised.

They’d been talking in the car and decided that Nate had made up most of what he was telling them just so he could get home. But, no, as soon as they started down Barlow Road, they spotted fresh tire tracks, even in the failing evening light.

“Well, lookie that.”

They followed the trail into the grove of low hemlock and juniper and, weapons drawn, as the
Procedure
Manual
dictated, they came up on either side of the low-riding Pontiac.

“Ain’t been here long,” Boz said, reaching through the grill and touching the radiator.

“Keys’re inside. Fire it up, see if it’s what the boy heard.”

Boz cranked the engine and from the tailpipe came the sound of a small plane.

“Stupid for a getaway car,” he shouted. “That Lester’s got wood for brains.”

“Back her out. Let’s take a look.”

Boz eased the old car into a clearing, where the light was better. He shut off the engine.

They didn’t find any physical evidence in the front or back seats.

“Damn,” Boz muttered, poking through the glove compartment.

“Well, well, well.” Ed called. He was peering into the trunk.

He lifted out a large Armored Courier cash bag, plump and heavy. He opened it up and pulled out thick packets of hundred-dollar bills.

“Phew.” Ed counted it. “I make it nineteen thousand bucks.”

“Damn, my salary without overtime. Just sitting there. Lookit that.”

“Where’s the rest of it, I wonder.”

“Which way’s the river?”

“There. Over there.”

On foot, they started through the grass and sedge and cattails that bordered the Shenandoah. They searched for footprints in the tall grass but couldn’t find any. “We can look for ’em in the
morning. Let’s get to the caves, have a look-see there.”

Ed and Boz walked down to the water’s edge. They could clearly see Nate’s house overlooking the bluff. Nearby were several cave entrances.

“Those caves right there. Must be the ones.”

They continued along the riverbank to the spindly black willow Nate had mentioned.

This time Boz lost the toss and dropped to his hands and knees. Breathing heavily in the hot, murky air, he disappeared into the largest of the caves.

Five minutes later Ed bent down and called, “You okay?”

And had to dodge another canvas bag, as it came flying out of the mouth of the cave.

“Lordy, whatta we got here?”

Eighty thousand dollars, it turned out.

“S’the only one in there,” Boz said, climbing out, panting. “Lester must’ve planted the bags in different caves.”

“Why?” Ed wondered. “We find one around here, we’d just keep searching till we found the rest.”

“Wood for brains is why.”

They poked through a few other caves, feeling hot and itchy-sweaty and sickened by the stink of a dead catfish, but didn’t find any more money.

They looked down at the bag. Neither said a word. Ed glanced up at the sky through a notch in the Massanuttens, at the nearly full moon, glowing with brilliance and promise. Standing on either side of the bag the two men rocked on their heels like nervous boys at a junior high dance. The shoal
beneath their feet was smooth and black and soft, just like a thousand other banks along the Shenandoah, banks where these two had spent so many hours fishing and drinking beer and—in their daydreams—making love with roadhouse waitresses and cheerleaders.

Ed said, “This’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah,” Boz said, stretching a lot of syllables out of the word. “What’re you saying, Edward?”

“I’m—”

“Don’t beat around the bush.”

“I’m thinking, there’s only two people know about it, ’side from us.”

Nate and Lester. “Keep going.”

“So what would happen . . . I’m just thinking out loud here. What would happen if they got together—accidental, of course—in a room back at the station? If, say, Lester had his knife back.”

“Accidental.”

“Sure.”

“Well, he’d gut Nate and leave him like that catfish over there.”

“ ’Course, if that happened,” Ed continued, “we’d have to shoot Lester, right?”

“Have to. Prisoner gets loose, has a weapon . . .”

“Be a sad thing to have happen.”

“But necessary,” Boz offered. Then: “That Nate, he’s dangerous.”

“Never liked him.”

“He’s the sort’d go postal in a year or two. Climb up to the South Bank Baptist Church tower and let loose with an AR-15.”

“Don’t doubt it.”

“Where’s that knife of Lester’s?”

“Evidence locker. But it could find its way back upstairs.”

“We sure we want to do this?”

Ed opened the canvas bag. Looked inside. So did Boz. Stared for a time.

“Let’s get a beer,” Boz said.

“Okay, let’s.”

Even though alcohol on duty was clearly prohibited by the
Procedure Manual.

An hour later they snuck in the back door of the station.

Boz went down to the evidence room and found Lester’s knife. He padded back upstairs, made sure that Sheriff Tappin hadn’t returned yet and slipped into the main interview room. He left the knife on the table—under a folder, hidden but not too hidden—and stepped innocently back into the corridor.

Ed brought Lester Botts up to the door, hands cuffed in front of him, which was definitely contrary to procedure, and escorted him inside.

“I don’t see why the hell you’re holding me,” the tendony man said. His thinning hair was greasy and stuck out in all directions. His clothes were muddy and hadn’t been washed in months, it looked like.

“Sit down, shut up,” Boz barked. “We’re holding you ’cause Nate Spoda ID’d you as the one stashing Armored Courier bags down by the river tonight.”

“That son of a bitch!” Lester roared and started to rise.

Boz shoved him back in his seat. “Yep, ID’d you right down to that tattoo of yours, which is the ugliest-looking woman I have
ever
seen, by the way. Say, that your mother?”

“That Nate,” Lester muttered, looking at the door, “he’s meat. Oh, that boy’s gonna pay.”

“Enough of that talk,” Ed said. Then: “We’re going downstairs for five minutes, see the Commonwealth’s Attorney. He’s gonna wanta talk to you. So you just cool your heels in here and don’t cause a ruckus.”

They stepped outside and locked the door. Boz cocked his head and heard the shuffle of chains moving toward the table. He gave Ed a thumbs-up.

At the end of the corridor, thick with August heat and moisture, they found Nate Spoda by the vending machines, sitting at a broken Formica table, sipping Pepsi and eating a Twinkie.

“Come on down here, Nate, just got a few more questions.”

“After you, sir,” Ed said, gesturing with his hand.

Nate took another bite of Twinkie and preceded them down the hall toward the interview room. Ed whispered to Boz, “He’ll scream. But we gotta give Lester time to finish it before we go in.”

“Okay, sure. Hey, Ed?”

“What?”

“You know I never shot anybody before.”

“It ain’t
anybody.
It’s Lester Botts. Anyway, we’ll shoot together. At the same time. How’s that? Make you feel better?”

“Okay.”

“And if Nate’s still alive, shoot him too, and we’ll say it was—”

“—accidental.”

“Right.”

Outside the door, Nate turned to them, washed down the Twinkie with the soda. There was Twinkie cream on his chin. Disgusting.

“Oh, one thing—” the kid began.

“Nate, this won’t take long. We’ll have you home in no time.” Ed unlocked the door. “Go on inside. We’ll be in, in a minute.”

“Sure. But there’s something—”

“Just go on in.”

Nate hesitated uncertainly. He started to open the door.