The More They Disappear (6 page)

“Hey Boo Boo,” Chance said as he set down a stack of library books and slung himself into a leather armchair. Mark pulled the books from his backpack and left the pills inside, placed the backpack under the table. Afterward Chance put his own bag down and in this manner they made the exchange. They'd learned to trust each other more or less. Mark wondered what Chance would do the following week when he didn't show up, wondered if Chance would come looking for him or leave the past alone. He hoped it was the latter, hoped that whatever rapport they'd built counted for something.

He'd met Chance during his freshman year. Before college Mark had dealt pills in Marathon, and not long after he joined the pharmacy program and started work at the campus clinic, he'd found ways to game the system. There was outright theft, pocketing from bulk stock, but there were also Medicare patients with multiple prescriptions. Mark learned to target the clinic's most beleaguered clientele, then visited their houses and told them about a pill buyback program for terminally ill patients who couldn't afford medication. He never pressured people but he offered cash, and those in need accepted. Soon Mark had more Oxy than he could sell. The clinic scheme was how Chance found him—Chance by way of his mother, Linda Goodenow, who was one of those beleaguered patients. Linda told her son about the nice young man from the university and how she had money for groceries now and Chance didn't need to keep driving all this way and handing over his hard-earned paychecks to take care of her, and no, she didn't really need the OxyContin because she also had a prescription for Vicodin and she didn't like the way the Oxy made her feel anyway.

Chance had waited for Mark's next visit, then followed him to the library and told him that if he kept making handshake deals in the quad he would get caught or piss off someone he didn't want to piss off. Then Chance explained that he too had business in the pill trade and no matter how careful Mark thought he was, someone like Chance would find out about him eventually. “‘Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge,'” Chance said. Mark didn't know whether he meant it as a threat or something else. Chance explained that it was a quote from Byron and that Mark was that hovering star, which meant Chance was both night and morn.

Mark was scared, convinced he'd end the night in a ditch—dead or dying—but Chance suggested a partnership instead. “I need another supplier,” he said, laying an envelope on the table. “That's five G's. Come back next week with ten thousand milligrams and we'll have ourselves a partnership. But if you don't come back, I'll find you. And it'll hurt.”

Mark stared at the envelope. “Why me?”

“A kid like you doesn't want to get caught and fuck up his life,” Chance said. “And I don't either. I got a good life. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, you know?”

“The gander?”

“That's the male goose. The big-dick kingpin. And that's me. You're the female goose 'cause you're scared. You don't even realize I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you.”

Mark had nodded along as if this made sense, picked up the envelope, and sealed his fate. What else could he have done?

A year had passed since that first meeting but not much had changed. Now, Chance opened the backpack, took a cursory glance at the pills, and zipped it back up. “So how're classes?” he asked, his voice filled with fake cheer.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“My mama says ‘fine' stands for fearful, insecure, negative, and emotional.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, but my mama is full of shit. You know that. Sometimes fine is just fine.”

Mark shrugged.

“Just keep studying hard, Marcus Aurelius. You're gonna make a hell of a pharmacist one day.” Chance turned his head, pressed his chin to pop his neck, and set his boots up on the table before cracking open a book.

Mark felt the eyes of other students on them. “Are you going to stick around?” he asked.

“I believe this library's open to the public, Mark, so I thought maybe I'd set here and expand my mind. Don't let me bother you.”

“I have someplace I need to be.” Mark put his books in the backpack Chance had brought. As he zipped it up, Chance grabbed his arm.

“Just remember I'm the one in charge,” Chance said. “And when I want to read some fucking history book, I will read that fucking history book. Do you understand?”

Mark pulled his arm away. “You want me to stay and keep you company?”

Chance smiled. He liked seeing Mark show a little spine. “No,” he said. “Go on home and yank your little nubbin or whatever it is you college boys do.”

Mark gave a half smile and turned to leave. When he glanced back, he saw that Chance was reading intently—pen poised in hand as if ready to take notes.

*   *   *

Harlan drove the beat-down county roads inland past trailers and tobacco fields, past crumbling stone fences and Amish homesteads. The Amish had started moving down from Ohio a few years back to buy up eyesore farms. Lew had called them “backwoods motherfuckers,” but Harlan liked to watch the Amish work, liked that they used the old-time methods and cared enough to paint their weather-beaten homes. The wipers made loud, futile whipping noises against the rain, and Harlan could barely see the road ahead but he didn't need to. He knew the county like a map etched into the backs of his hands.

In the hills south of Marathon, the cruiser planed across the slickwater ponds that formed in the dales. Harlan wished he could drive his pickup on the job. The tight steering and touchy brakes of the county's Impalas put a man on edge. His truck wasn't sleek but steadfast. Growing up, Harlan's daddy had preached the values of the Ford Motor Company, claimed he'd rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy, and though Harlan didn't care much for his daddy's opinions, that one he'd adopted as his own.

He crossed the county line and parked on the muddy-rut road of a tobacco farm cut clean of its burley. He probably should have been out with the other deputies breaking down ex-cons or looking over Lew's case files, doing something more hands-on, but he needed time to think. Lew always hated that about Harlan; what Harlan called prudence, Lew called dawdling. Lew, whose cruiser was a mess. Beneath the driver-side window tobacco stains from misdirected spits splotched the vinyl. Harlan cleaned them with rainwater and the bandanna from his pocket. Under the driver's seat he found a plastic bag from Walmart and a half-empty bottle of bourbon, which he poured onto the soggy ground. He used the bag for trash, picking up crumb-filled packages of chips, Styrofoam cups stained with coffee, tins of Skoal. Among the maps in the doorside compartment, he picked out loose change from the sticky remains of soda. The cruiser's filth spoke to Lew's various faults. He drank too much, dipped too much, ate too much. Even though he was good at his job, good at telling his deputies where they needed to be and when, the rest of Lew's life was a mess. He rarely took days off and he spent those drinking in the office, looking for someone willing to shoot the shit.

In the glove box Harlan found a cell phone among a mess of candy wrappers and used napkins. He didn't recall ever seeing Lew with a cell phone, had never used one himself. The first time Harlan ever saw someone on a cell, he mistook the man for a lunatic, though more and more he'd seen people walking down the street and talking into their hands. Harlan couldn't understand the desire. There wasn't one person he'd like to talk to so bad it couldn't wait.

He dialed the number for the sheriff's department but nothing happened. Then he examined the keypad and pressed the green button—green for go—and the phone started to ring. When Holly answered, her voice surprised him, the way it rose out of a thin, staticky air, and Harlan, as if caught in a prank, pressed all manner of buttons to hang up. In between the pings, he could hear Holly cursing, and at some point, he stopped trying to end the call and said hello.

“Harlan,” Holly said. “Is that you? What the hell?”

Harlan could barely hear her. “I found this cellular phone in Lew's cruiser,” he shouted. “Do you know if it's his?”

“I don't know,” she said. “But you don't need to yell about it. Maybe he confiscated it off someone.”

Harlan lowered his voice. “You think you could get me the phone records?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Okay.” Harlan looked at the phone. “I don't know how you hang this thing up, so why don't you do that on your end.”

“Gladly,” Holly said and the line went dead.

*   *   *

Lewis took his mother's feather-boned fingers into his own and returned them to her lap. “Let's not listen to the radio,” he said. Like most people who knew Mabel Mattock, Lewis thought her a touch odd. He'd been close with his mother as a child but over time adopted his father's attitude toward her—mild embarrassment coupled with condescension. His father's loud talk, his sheer size, had lured Lewis away. It was a split he recognized in his own family, the way he favored Ginny and Sophie favored Stella. As soon as the girls had started to form personalities, it seemed like sides were taken for a lifelong tug-of-war. When his mother reached for the stereo a second time, Lewis wondered if it was an early sign of dementia. She was a decade older than his father and frailer; Lewis never once thought his dad would be the first to go.

Mabel settled on a song with screeching guitars and a loud singer, something like Van Halen or AC/DC, and turned the volume up until the floorboards rumbled. Then she opened the window and took big breaths of damp air.

“Mom,” Lewis said, as he turned the volume down. “It's cold outside.”

She turned to him and said, “How are you
really
doing, Lewis?” Her questions always sounded like accusations.

“I'm fine,” he said.

“I don't know how I'm doing,” she replied, not that he'd asked. “I'm sad and shocked. That's what I'm supposed to be. But I'm also … at peace.”

Lewis pulled in front of the Baker Family Funeral Home and parked. “You're probably just confused,” he said. He walked around the Explorer to help her down, but his mother didn't move.

“I don't feel like doing this,” she said.

Ezra Baker watched them from the front step, smoking a cigarette. Lewis raised a hand hello. “You don't have to do anything. I can handle it.”

“Just make sure he gets a fancy casket,” she said. “Your father liked fancy things.”

“You're okay here?”

“Leave the keys. I'll listen to the stereo.”

Lewis didn't particularly feel like planning a funeral either, but these sorts of tasks were his responsibility now. He took the sheriff's uniform from the backseat. Olive piping ran down beige pants and there was a matching olive tie. The starched shirt stood stiff on a hanger to which Lewis had tied a plastic bag of insignias and a badge. It was a uniform he respected but had never worn. His father wasn't keen on the idea of Lewis becoming a deputy. “It's not a line of work that suits you,” he'd told Lewis after he graduated with a two-year degree. That was always the way with his father. Lew Mattock never thought anyone as capable as himself, especially not his son. No matter what Lewis achieved—a college degree, his own business, a wife and kids—it never seemed to make his father proud.

When he reached the top step of the funeral home, Ezra Baker tendered a limp, sweaty hand and muted condolences. Inside the vases of fresh flowers failed to mask the smell of bleach and the plush carpet swallowed Lewis's steps. Through an open arch, he could see a coffin. “We have a service later,” Ezra explained before closing the room off with heavy drapes. “I see you chose the uniform.”

“I doubt Dad even owned Sunday clothes,” Lewis replied, handing over the hanger. “There's a specific location for each honor, so if you need help—”

“If we have questions, we'll ask.” Ezra fingered the metal pins through the plastic. “But we should be fine.”

Lewis shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Why don't we go into my office and discuss the details.” Ezra put one of his clammy hands to Lewis's shoulder but Lewis drew back. He didn't care about the details. And he didn't want to spend another minute in the presence of Ezra Baker's practiced solemnity.

“There're a lot things I need to get done,” Lewis said. “I'm sure you can imagine.”

“Of course. This won't take long.”

“Just make sure he has a nice casket.”

“I can show you a catalogue—”

Lewis shook his head. “No need. Just pick a nice one. He already has a plot at the cemetery.”

“We should discuss a few matters at least,” Ezra said. “A pastor? A budget?”

Lewis took out his checkbook. “What's suitable?”

“I really—”

“A couple thousand to start?”

Ezra straightened his thin tie. Its black had turned purplish from too many washings. “Three would suffice.”

Lewis scribbled the check and handed it over.

“If you change your mind and want to help—”

“I won't.”

“And you don't have a family pastor?”

“No,” Lewis said. “Anyone is fine. Really, Ezra, I have to go.”

Ezra followed him out and lit another cigarette on the porch, drew the smoke deep into his lungs and out his nose. Death. It was a good business. The sort that thrives when things go wrong.

*   *   *

Harlan put the car in drive and crossed back into Finley County. When he reached the sheriff's department, he found his office empty save a rectangular desk and bare shelves. Holly had moved everything into the sheriff's office proper, though photos of Lew still hung on the wall and Lew's belongings were scattered about. On the desk a mug filled with Harlan's favorite pencils sat beside neat stacks of files. There were Post-it notes on everything. One pile of papers was marked, “Things for you to sign.” Another, “Things for you to ignore.” Four banker's boxes in front of the desk said, “Lew's case history” and a note on the desk itself said, “Harlan's desk.” The filing cabinet was locked and Holly had written, “Couldn't find the key” on a pink Post-it. When Harlan asked about it, she said, “I don't know, but that cabinet's not exactly Fort Knox.”