Somebody I Used to Know (26 page)

Allison shared a smile with me. “I may be a fool, but I’m going to take this to the police. I guess I believe what we don’t know sometimes really does hurt us.”

I nodded. “What we know
and
what we don’t know.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

I
was at Heather’s house, eating a late dinner, when the detective from Robeson County called me. Heather’s kids were away for the evening, and she’d insisted on cooking an elaborate meal, most of which had been eaten when the phone rang. Pork roast, vegetables, good bread hot from the oven. Warm, comforting food. I could get used to it.

I almost ignored the call.

I didn’t recognize the number, and I’d been looking forward to being with Heather. We hadn’t seen each other for a few days, and the thought of a quiet evening with good food, good beer, and time alone got my blood flowing in all the right directions.

But I didn’t ignore the call. I answered. And the man on the other end told me he was a retired detective from Robeson County, the county that encompassed Hanfort.

“I received your name and number from a colleague of mine in Eastland,” the man said after introducing himself as Troy Cato. “You know him, right? Nate Denning? He said he talked to you recently.”

“Sure. I know him.”

“He and I were talking about cases we’d worked on over the years, and I thought there was something you’d want to see. Something up here in Robeson.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” I asked.

I looked across the table. Heather was sipping her wine, but I could see the look on her face, a look that said she was quickly growing bored with me being distracted by the phone.

“I’d prefer to show you,” he said. “That’s better than discussing it.”

I stood up from the table and walked into Heather’s living room. The furniture, the carpet, the drapes—all of them were white and immaculately clean. I probably wasn’t even supposed to be walking in there while wearing shoes. But I wanted to be alone, away from her while I talked.

“Okay,” I said. “Show me what?”

“Again, I think in person is better. Can I explain something to you? I didn’t even tell Nate about this. You’re the only other person I’ve shared this with.”

I sat in one of Heather’s not-so-comfortable chairs. They had no give. It was like sitting on a rock.

“Do you want to meet tomorrow?” I asked. “I can drive up to Robeson County in the afternoon.”

“No,” Troy said.

For a moment, he didn’t explain, his negation hanging in the ether between us.

Then he said, “I can’t show you this during the day. It has to be in the evening. Or at night. In fact, it has to be tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“I may decide I don’t want to do this tomorrow. I may not even be
able
to do it tomorrow.”

I looked at my slightly scuffed shoes as they rested on the pristine carpet. I knew very well what waited for me if I stayed at Heather’s house for the rest of the evening. After I finished my meal, I would feel stuffed and happy. I could eat a decadent dessert and drink coffee, maybe adding a shot of brandy, and then cap off the night with a round of fulfilling if not entirely unbridled sex. I could return home to Riley, sleep like the dead, wake up tomorrow with a little spring in my step, and go about my life.

Or I could go meet this guy, this Troy Cato. He claimed to be a detective, and that should be easy enough to check with Nate, even if I had no idea why he wanted to see me. But he lived near Marissa’s hometown, maybe thirty minutes away. And it seemed as though the scattered fragments of her life weren’t ready to let me go.

When I added it all up in my head, I didn’t have much of a choice.

“How soon do you want to meet?” I asked.

“It will take you an hour or so to get here. Can you leave soon?”

It wasn’t until I was off the phone that I realized my hand was covered with sweat.

*   *   *

Heather tried to talk me out of it.

“A stranger? He just calls you and orders you up to Robeson County and so you’re going?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It sounds kind of nuts when you say it like that.”

“But you’re going anyway?”

I thought about how to answer, but there was only one way I knew to express it.

“I have to go,” I said. “I have to.”

A flush rose on Heather’s cheeks. She went to the counter, grabbed the bottle of wine, and sloshed more into her glass, taking a quick drink.

“I swear,” she said.

“Swear what?” I asked.

“She’ll never be dead. This will never be dead.”

I started to say we didn’t even know if the call was about Marissa. Heather shot me a look that could have peeled paint.

We both knew it was.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe it will never die. Or maybe this trip will kill it.”

“Or you.” She threw back more wine. “When you get back from this little trip, assuming this stranger doesn’t murder you or steal your kidney up there in Robeson County, just don’t bother coming back here. Don’t call. Just . . . let’s just move on. Well, I know I can move on. I’ve done it before. I’ve done it my whole life. I have my doubts about you.”

I had to admit I shared those doubts.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T
he address Troy Cato gave me turned out to be a dive bar on an isolated stretch of State Route 187. At first I thought a mistake had been made, but I checked and double-checked, and I realized I was at the right location. He had something to show me, something he could only show me at night. Something he might decide he didn’t want to show me in the future. It made sense to meet me at an out-of-the-way place.

It also made sense to check with Nate Denning, but I didn’t. If Troy was skittish about meeting me, he might not want Nate to know what we were doing. So I called Laurel while I drove, and I told her I was going to meet someone in Robeson County, and if she didn’t hear from me in a few hours, she should assume I was lying in a bathtub full of ice with a major organ or two missing.

“Nick, don’t joke. What are you doing?”

“I’m working the case, boss.”

“I’m coming with you. Where are you?”

“I’ve dragged you into this enough. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t hear from me in a few hours, assume something went wrong.”

“Jesus, Nick. You can’t just make calls like these.”

“I just did.”

*   *   *

The bar was named Wing Ding’s. It occupied a squat brick structure that may once have been a garage or gas station. The neon beer signs flashed and glowed in the evening light. The cloud cover was thick, blocking out the moon and stars, hinting at the possibility of rain or even sleet. The parking lot was covered with crushed gravel, and my four-door sedan was the only vehicle in the lot that wasn’t a truck, jeep, or motorcycle. I bet they couldn’t wait to see me and make me one of their regulars.

When I walked in, the twanging music overwhelmed my ears. For a Saturday night, Wing Ding’s looked fairly sedate. Two guys played a game of pool against the far wall, and all heads at the bar to my right turned and examined me. Mostly men, they gave me the once-over and then turned back to staring into their beers or at a college basketball game playing on two different TVs. When I looked around the small, poorly lit room, I saw eight or ten tables, only a few of them occupied. Then I saw a man in his sixties sitting alone. He raised his hand, beckoning me to his table.

“Are you Nick?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

“I am. Troy?”

“What’s your pleasure?” He raised his hand again, summoning the bartender.

“I have to drive, and I had a beer at home.”

“You can have one,” he said. “Besides, I’m driving.”

His voice sounded rough from years of smoking, and I wasn’t sure his permission made me feel any better. I didn’t know how many he’d already thrown down. But when in Rome . . .

I asked for a Budweiser.

While the bartender went to get the beer, Troy and I sat in silence. He stared at the TV screen as though I wasn’t there. The pool balls clacked, and one of the players let out a cry of triumph. I followed Troy’s lead and watched the game. Then the beer was placed in front of me and I started drinking it.

After two more swallows, Troy said, his face still turned toward the TV, “I just want you to know some things about what we’re doing tonight.”

“I don’t know
anything
about what we’re doing tonight.”

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

“I have to, or I’m not going.”

Troy turned to look at me then. I felt his eyes on me. I turned away from the basketball game and faced him.

“I’m doing you a favor,” he said.

“How do I know that?” I asked.

“I can walk out of here anytime,” he said. “It’s nothing to me. Nate told me you’re looking for this girl you used to be in love with. The one who died in the fire.”

“What do you know about her?” I asked.

“You need to listen to me first.”

I nodded, hoping he’d continue.

He leaned in closer and spoke just loud enough for me to hear over the music. “What I’m doing for you tonight is a favor. It’s something that if certain people found out about could lead to some trouble for me. And maybe for other people as well. I don’t know what you’ll end up doing with what I tell you, but you have to keep my name out of it. Nate doesn’t even know about this. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

A look of exaggerated admiration passed across Troy’s face. “You did good, then. That’s smart.” He emptied his beer and pushed the bottle toward the center of the table. “That was a test, and you passed. You can think on your feet a little. That’s a good sign.” He looked me over again. “What are you? Some kind of professor or something?”

“I help people find affordable housing.”

Troy couldn’t hide his suspicion of such a job. “The less said about that, the better, I guess. Anyway, I’m going out on a limb for you here. You have to keep me out of it. If you can’t make that promise, then we’re done.”

“What are you getting out of this?”

Troy rubbed his hands together. He turned toward the TV again, and I saw his face in profile. The jaw was strong, the hairline receding. Something seemed to be tugging on the corners of his mouth and eyes, some weight that appeared to be aging him faster than regular time. He said, “I can tell you some of this when we get there. Some of it, my interest at least, may never be clear to you.” He turned back to me. “Maybe I don’t even understand it. And never will.”

He turned back to me, his eyes searching mine, asking for empathy or understanding. I was willing to grant it to him in that moment for my own selfish reasons. I wanted to know whatever he knew. I wanted to see this thing his name couldn’t be tied to.

He pointed to my beer. “Finish it, and then we can go.”

I did. I drank it down quickly, almost guzzling, and we left.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

W
e rode in Troy’s truck, a black Ford. He accelerated out of the parking lot of Wing Ding’s, not even stopping to look for oncoming traffic, heading north on 187. Troy didn’t wear a seat belt, but I did, and we zoomed into the darkness out where the road cut through farmland and more farmland, his headlights slicing through the night. Troy said nothing. He stared ahead, flipping on the radio, and the rantings of a talk show host filled the cab. Mercifully it went to a commercial, and Troy turned it down. We jounced over a set of railroad tracks, the crossing lights watching us like dark, unseeing eyes.

I told myself to resist the urge to look back, but I did once. Far in the distance behind us, I saw a glimmering collection of lights sprinkled in a cluster. Hanfort. And we were going the opposite way. I turned to face the front again.

“So we’re not going to Hanfort?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

I settled back against my seat. I felt the bulge of my phone in my back pocket. Laurel knew only that I had left Eastland, but she didn’t know exactly where I’d gone. My car still sat at Wing Ding’s, for what that was worth. They’d find it someday and wonder what I’d been doing there.

“I get the feeling you don’t want me to ask you questions,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he said.

I didn’t know what that meant, but before I could say anything else, he made a sudden left turn onto a smaller county road. He turned his brights on, lighting up the underside of gnarled tree limbs and the bare outlines of barbed-wire fencing. He made two, maybe three more turns, both rights and lefts, and at some point I lost my sense of which way we were going, although I guessed we were heading south back toward Hanfort. Once we passed a small cluster of cattle, bunched together against a rail fence, their eyes flashing as we zoomed by in the dark.

I was about to insist on Troy telling me where we were going when some houses appeared in the distance, and beyond the houses the glow of the rest of Hanfort. I exhaled for the first time in five miles.

Troy looked over at me, the lights from the dashboard display catching half his face. “See. Almost there.”

“Why the detour?” I asked. “Did you need to inspect the livestock?”

He smiled without showing his teeth. “Just being cautious.”

We entered the town and made a couple more turns. We rumbled across another set of railroad tracks, the truck vibrating like a plane over a pocket of turbulence, and then we came abreast of a fenced-in lot. A couple of school buses and road maintenance trucks sat around several rows of low, utilitarian sheds and garages. When the entrance gate came into view, I saw the sign designating it a Robeson County vehicle storage facility. Troy eased in, the headlights brightening the darkened corners of the lot and letting us see that nothing stirred. Troy jumped out as soon as we reached the gate, carrying a set of keys. He unlocked it, pushed it open, then came back and drove through. He carefully closed the gate and locked it behind us. When he climbed back into the cab, he said, “We’re looking for number two,” as though I knew what was going on.