The More They Disappear (35 page)

They marched him to Paige's car, hoping not to draw attention. Mark didn't fight or make a scene, though. He watched his shuffling feet as if he were going to the gallows. In the parking lot, Harlan noticed a yellow Mustang. “That your car?” he asked. Mark didn't respond, so Harlan told Paige to search it and wait for a tow. He could take Mark in alone.

The kid bent willingly into the Datsun, so Harlan let him ride in the front. As they drove into town, Harlan looked out at the black river. He imagined the look on Trip Gaines's face when he found his son in custody, but it didn't bring him the pleasure he thought it might. The boy next to him was scared shitless, fragile as a misplaced vase. Harlan had a million questions he wanted to ask but they all had to wait.

He led Mark to a holding cell until formal charges could be filed, called over to the diner and ordered a burger and fries to help put the kid at ease. Frank, who was sitting on the couch with a bemused look on his face, asked what the hell was going on. Harlan said he'd explain later.

Mark's dinner arrived around the same time Paige came back with evidence from his Mustang, including a prescription pad of his father's that she found in the glove box. Harlan stepped into Mark's cell with food in one hand and the prescription pad in the other. “What are you doing with this?”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“This isn't just about a drug charge,” Harlan said. He risked a little white lie. “I have the gun that shot Lew Mattock. You're gonna be charged with murder.”

“I didn't do it,” Mark whined.

“Who did?”

Mark looked down at his feet. Harlan slid the Styrofoam container of food across the floor to him. “Come on, Mark. Do the right thing.”

Mark opened the container and chanced a fry. “Just let me eat.”

Harlan relocked the cell. The kid hadn't asked for a lawyer, but Harlan needed to be careful and wait until he was formally charged before pressing him too hard.

Paige stepped out of the bathroom wearing her uniform and holding the skirt and halter-top as if they were covered in grime. “Wild night,” she said.

“It's about to get wilder,” Harlan replied. “I want you to go arrest Trip Gaines.” With the prescription pad as evidence, they'd be able to charge Trip and hold him until he posted bail, which would give Harlan more time with Mark, who seemed primed to break at any moment.

“Are you serious?” Paige asked.

“Tell him he's suspected of drug trafficking and take him to Mason County. I'll call Sheriff Hart and secure you an empty cell. And take Frank with you. He's bored.”

“You sure you don't want to do it, Harlan? I mean, this isn't something I've done before.”

“If I go out there, I might belt the motherfucker, and I don't want to mess up our chance at a conviction. Besides, it'll give you both a good story to tell.”

After they left, Harlan took in the momentary peace and quiet with Holly. “Is Del out on patrol?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“You mind staying here with the kid? I have one last person I need to see.”

Holly nodded. “Of course. I couldn't fall asleep tonight no matter how hard I tried.”

*   *   *

Lewis headed for the Fifth Amendment, a mobile-home-cum-bar with a rough reputation and views of the river. He'd been at home watching television when Harlan called. He figured if Sophie wasn't going to stay there with the girls, there was no reason to keep the house shuttered. Lewis explained to Harlan he wasn't drinking and didn't particularly feel like socializing, but Harlan said it was important and that while Lewis might be on the wagon, he himself was in need of a beer. When Lewis tried to find out what he wanted, Harlan was vague and shifty, and ended the conversation by saying, “See you in about twenty,” as if Lewis had never expressed hesitation.

By the time Lewis arrived, Harlan had taken up residence in front of the taps. The place was otherwise empty save a couple of disability-check drunks. Lewis took the stool next to Harlan and ordered a Coke. The bartender, an old-timer who Harlan claimed kept a shotgun behind the bar and shells in his pocket, fizzed the drink out in a plastic cup and added a straw and a cherry. Lewis picked up on the sarcasm and said, “Fuck it. Give me a Budweiser.” The bartender nodded and poured the Coke down the drain.

Photos of the UK basketball teams going back to the '50s lined the walls, the white faces of the past giving way to the black faces of the present. A couple sepia-toned photos of family hung behind the taps. Harlan asked about them, and the bartender said he'd bought the photos at a junk sale, claimed he didn't even know the people. “You believe him?” Harlan asked Lewis.

Lewis studied the photos. “Not really. If they were junk, why hang them where you see them all the time?”

“I suspect you're right.” Harlan raised his glass. “To having a good eye.”

Maybe it was because his home life was unraveling and he welcomed the distraction or maybe it was the setting or something in the way Harlan carried himself off duty; whatever the reason, Lewis felt at ease. It was almost as if he were catching up with an old friend. “You think they know we're candidates for office?” he asked, nodding his head toward the drunks.

Harlan put his palms on the bar and stretched his back straight. He sure was a tall son-of-a-bitch. “You drumming up votes?” he asked.

“Nope,” Lewis said. “To be honest, my campaign is in shambles. I've been drunk every day since my dad died. I got into a fight with my campaign manager, who happens to be my wife. And I punched my biggest backer, who happens to be her father.” He laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “Apparently, I'm not the best at running for office.”

“Hell, Lewis. I had no idea. You sound right nice in those radio ads.”

“Trip's handiwork.”

“And you hit him?”

“Knocked him down with one punch.”

“What for?”

Lewis shrugged. “It's hard to explain.”

“That asshole probably deserved it.”

Lewis watched Harlan's slender fingers work a rolling paper around a mound of tobacco. “So why'd you call me out here?”

Harlan licked the paper and picked stray threads of tobacco from the end. “I guess Trip's part of the reason,” he said and lit the cigarette.

Lewis tensed up. “So this is about the election?”

“Not really. The reason I called you is to let you know I arrested Trip's son tonight.” Harlan blew smoke toward the ceiling, which had blackened from years of other people doing the same.

“Mark? What for?”

“Dealing drugs.”

“No way.”

“He's in some deep shit, Lewis.”

“But Mark's a good kid.… I mean why would he—”

Harlan frowned. “I'm not sure he came up with the idea. We found one of Trip's prescription pads in Mark's car.”

Lewis shook his head. “Why are you telling me this? I mean, what's your angle?”

“I don't have a fucking angle,” Harlan said. “I just thought you should know.” He drained his beer and banged the empty glass on the bar. “I'm not messing with you, Lewis. A deputy is bringing Trip in as we speak. Mark's already in jail. I'm giving you a heads-up because this shit is going to turn your life inside out.”

Harlan motioned to the bartender for another round. The glass in Lewis's hand was half-full but he followed Harlan's lead and drained it in one go. He couldn't wrap his head around what Harlan was saying, but he also couldn't convince himself it wasn't true. He'd never trusted Trip. And there was the Mercedes and the newfound wealth—the loan he'd given Lewis, the down payment on his and Sophie's house, the money to pay his father's debts. If what Harlan said was true, much of Lewis's life had been built on the back of Trip Gaines's wrongs. When he finally replied, he said, “My daughters are at Trip's with their mother.”

“I wouldn't worry about that,” Harlan said. “Trip's smart enough to keep quiet and let his lawyer deal with the charges.”

Lewis pointed to Harlan's pack of Bugler. “Roll me one of those?” Harlan set to work and Lewis asked the question he'd been avoiding. “Do you think this has anything to do with my dad's murder?”

Harlan took his time with the cigarette. “I think your dad knew Mark and Trip were dealing drugs, but as far as his death is concerned, I'm looking for a different suspect.” He handed over the cigarette and lit a match.

Lewis leaned forward. “Who?”

“I can't tell you that, but it's not going to be some feel-good story when it comes out.”

Lewis inhaled, leaned back, and coughed. “So my father was crooked?”

“Truth told, I thought that's why you were running for sheriff. Keep it in the family and all. But I don't believe that anymore.”

“Why not?”

“You'd have to be the best damn actor I ever met, Lewis. And that's just not the case.”

Lewis stabbed his barely burned cigarette in the ashtray and excused himself. He needed a moment alone.

The bar's bathroom smelled like stale piss and shit. Phone numbers and juvenile drawings of big tits and big dicks covered the wall. A mound of cigarette butts sat in a plastic tray atop the urinal. Lewis closed his eyes and tried to let his mind go blank, focused on the sound of his stream hitting the urinal cake. One of the bleary-eyed drunks stumbled in and wheezed, “Don't shake her too much, Youngblood.”

“Just once,” Lewis replied.

“Once ain't enough.”

When Lewis opened his eyes, the world careened toward him. He glanced over at the drunkard as he removed his gray member. The man put the palm of one hand on the wall for support and swayed. Piss splattered and kicked down to his feet. Lewis finished up and returned to the bar, where Harlan had another round waiting.

*   *   *

As Lewis stepped out of bathroom, Harlan noticed that his face had gone pale and that his bulky body listed more than it moved with any sense of direction. Harlan could tell a dam was about to break inside the poor man. When Lewis had asked if Trip was involved in Lew's murder, he'd tried to plug the hole. Lewis was in no position to think rationally about his father or Trip Gaines, and while Harlan had his suspicions, they'd remain that until he got Mark talking. He hoped Lewis would be able to recover. He knew about the sorts of disappointments fathers leave sons.

“I'm going to drop out of the election,” Lewis said as he sat back down. “I don't deserve it. My father. My father-in-law. You deserve it.”

Harlan shook his head. “Nobody
deserves
it, Lewis. You just get the job and do it.”

He watched as Lewis ran a finger through the condensation on his beer. “If you knew he was corrupt, why didn't you confront him?”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn't know back then. Part of me wishes I still didn't. It wears you down, learning the things people do.”

“So what now?”

“Life goes on. A little messier for a while. Maybe you drop out of the election, maybe you don't. I don't care. Maybe I hire you on as a deputy 'cause we're one short and I teach you how to do the job.” Harlan laid a twenty on the bar, tapped it. “I've never told anyone this but a woman I loved, the only one I ever loved and probably ever will, your dad wrote a note asking for her killer to be let out of jail. Just a couple years and he was free. Maybe that's why I'm telling you all this. 'Cause at some point it's got to stop being about winning elections and start being about doing what's right. And trust me, that's a gray area.” Lewis didn't say a word, so Harlan picked his hat off the bar and finished his beer. “Take all that bad shit I told you and let it go. Don't let it sink you. And when you're not buying up newspaper ads or radio ads or punching your father-in-law or whatever the hell it is you do in your free time, drive around this county with me and see it through my eyes.” Harlan put a hand to Lewis's shoulder. “Buck up, Lewis,” he said. “You're not him. You never were.”

Harlan ordered a six-pack to go and popped a beer as he drove home. The maples and oaks still clung to a smattering of leaves, but the height of fall had passed and swirling winds blew debris across the road. It was almost November and the ash were bare. Sickly. There'd been years when fall had passed him by, when he hadn't taken notice until it was too late, but he'd learned there are things worth appreciating in this world and autumn in Kentucky is one of them.

It was near midnight by the time he pulled into his driveway. The houselights were on and the hood of his truck was open with a lamp clipped to it. Harlan grabbed the remains of his six-pack and followed the sound of a dog barking to the porch, where he found Mattie's brindled mutt chained to the door. The dog was a bigheaded, small-bodied mongrel with a raspy bark and overgrown paws. He sat and stared at Harlan with a slight underbite and goopy brown eyes, his tail curled up behind him like he had something to show off.

Mattie came out of the house, spatula in hand, and pretended like she was surprised to see him.

“So now you broke into my house?” he said.

“It was open,” she replied.

Harlan leaned down to scratch the mutt behind his flea-ridden ears. The dog was a sucker for attention. “Who's this?”

“That's Floyd.”

“Hello, Floyd,” Harlan said. “What are you and Mattie doing here?”

“Well, Harlan,” Mattie said in what he supposed was her approximation of the dog's voice. “Mattie was fixin' your truck but she hasn't finished. And she's been waiting for you to get home so she can cook dinner.”

Harlan straightened back up. “Mattie, you don't have to—”

“No,” she said, stopping him. “I'm sorry about the other day at Leland's and the way Henry treated you and…” In the moonlight, he could see the wet forming in her eyes. “And I don't really want to talk about it except to say you've been a good friend to me and I don't have too many friends, so I'd like to keep counting you as one. And I think you need a friend every once in a while, too, so I thought maybe I'd fix your truck and cook you dinner, and then if it's all right, we can put the past behind us.” She wiped her sleeve across her face and sniffled once.