Something Bad, page 4
“Something bad,” he said. And shivered.
Halfway home, Gabe’s mind was on Miz Murtry. He didn’t know much about her, except that she had come to the Tri-counties a year ago. He knew she spent her cigarette breaks reading romance novels about daring damsels with flowing hair being rescued by strapping young men with names like Dmitri and Lance. He didn’t know her age, but her face didn’t have the luster of the teen years. Maybe months of standing over deep fryers and the steam off newly reheated country fried steaks were prematurely pushing her toward middle age.
The pickup engine lugged so Gabe downshifted and brought it back up to speed. He often thought about his attraction to Miz Murtry. There was something about her that initially escaped explanation—it was impossible to dismiss her with a quick look. The gaze was typically extended into a full-out stare, mostly due to a prolonged puzzlement as to just what feature made her seem so appealing. Gabe liked to watch the other male patrons look at Miz Murtry that way. He imagined them looking for the one outstanding feature that made them turn their heads when she walked across the floor. It was the focus on individual features that made most people miss her full appeal, and left them wondering why they felt the strange sense of attraction when she was around. Now, Gabe saw her through a special window—one that counted up more than individual external characters. One that went beyond the usual checklist of scanning points most men used to size up a woman from a distance. He wondered what Horace saw when he looked at her.
Gabe slammed on the brakes, hard. The tires slid on the gravel and he turned the steering wheel to the right to counteract the slight fishtail of the truck. A dust cloud surrounded the truck and gave him a blink of fright. But only a blink. When the truck slid to a stop, he put it in neutral and let off the clutch. He looked down at the dashboard gauges and spoke to the truck.
“Horace said he had to go tell the boys at work.” Gabe let go of the steering wheel. “But Horace lost his job five months ago. Fired was more like it. Probably the last place he’d want to go.”
He double-clutched, shifted into first, and re-gripped the wheel. The clutch slipped a little as he let it out but the truck rolled on the gravel.
Gabe smiled. “Got a chance.”
CHAPTER
4
As SOON AS Gabe came in the back door, he heard the television. He walked through the kitchen to the front room, up to the couch, but Wanna didn’t move. She appeared mesmerized, maybe even hypnotized by the program.
Gabe watched a few seconds and grabbed the remote. He changed channels.
“Hey. I was watching that.” Wanna spun on the couch and made a wild swipe for the device.
Gabe pulled it away. “I told you not to watch any more doctor shows.”
“Damn it, Gabe. They were just getting to the symptoms. Put it back on.” Wanna jumped to her feet and balled her right fist.
“You know what happens when you watch doctor shows. I know how you get. You watched one on prostate problems and had trouble peeing for two days before you found out the prostate gland is a man part.”
“Oh, yeah. Well … mind your own business.”
Gabe grinned. “Nice comeback.”
“I’m not the one who can’t leave the Tri-counties.”
Gabe stiffened. Whenever she brought up his problem, he resorted to his best defense. Silence. Besides, she seemed like she wanted to argue. Wanna loved to argue.
A smile swept Gabe’s face. Whenever an argument was at stake, she swam in past the drop-off every time. The prospect of going down for the third time never derailed her enthusiasm. To her, the destination wasn’t the destination. Gabe had two ways to deal with Wanna’s itch. If it was a subject of interest, he would push her to the edge of her reason as fast as possible and then weather her reliance on emotion. A much more effective tack was to go silent. He knew she hated it when he wouldn’t give her an argument.
Wanna stomped her foot and walked toward the kitchen. “What do you want for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You still hung over from the card game?” “I swear, you get worse every time you go. You talk about me. You’re the only one I know who has a hangover for three days at a time. Let me come to the card games and I’ll keep an eye on you.”
“For the last time, no. You can’t come to the games.”
“Why not? You afraid I’ll hear some man jokes and get offended?”
Gabe laughed. “No. Just the opposite. Your jokes would probably offend the men. Some of them are downright gross. And you don’t know when to stop with them.”
“What a bunch of sissies.” Wanna walked to the refrigerator. “How about some corn dogs?”
“I told you, I’m not hungry.”
Wanna slammed the refrigerator door and walked over to Gabe. “You need a little cuddling, sissy boy?” She put her arms around him and gave a tight hug.
Gabe felt the strength of arms on his back. She was a stocky woman of average height, but her large bosom gave her an hourglass figure, although of quite buxom proportions. In contrast to the sensation from his back, he felt her softness push into the front of his body. It wasn’t a three-pat hug—the kind reserved for relatives. Her body forced into him, sealing the space between them. He felt her pelvis push forward into his.
He shoved her away. “We can’t do this.” He took a step back.
“Why not? We’re adults.” Wanna put her arms out and moved forward. Her smile looked devious.
Gabe stepped back again. “We can’t. No one knows the situation. No one understands.”
“As far as anyone knows, we’re not doing anything right now.” She moved forward again.
Gabe moved to his left. “People have a way of finding out. You think they’d believe us if we told them the truth about our family? If we did anything, they’d see a brother and sister doing this and they’d turn their backs on us in an instant. Just look at the Wilcoxes. They sit in the back of the church now. You know why?”
“They diddle their relatives?” She laughed loud.
“No. A few years back, their son was caught stealing women’s underwear from their neighbors’ clotheslines. Before that, they sat up front, third row.”
Wanna put her hands on her hips. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“They moved to the back. They needed to show everyone that their son’s behavior wasn’t due to poor parenting. Their son was probably running with the wrong crowd or something beyond their control. So they moved to the back, with the newcomers and visitors.”
Wanna put her arms out and moved toward Gabe again. “Let’s sit in the back of the church.”
Gabe deflected her arms and moved to the sink. “Maybe you don’t care what happens here, but our family has been working this farm for four generations. People expect certain things of me. Of us. Besides, why are you getting like this all of a sudden?”
Wanna stopped, then smiled again. “Maybe I’ve always felt something for you. Maybe not. Maybe I just feel sorry for you. As far as I can tell, you haven’t been laid in ages.”
Movement from the window over the sink caught Gabe’s eye. “What the hell? When did the fogs start coming this far from the swamp?” Gabe put both hands on the sink rim and leaned, putting his head next to the window.
The fog bank receded from the house like it was drawn by a vacuum and Gabe pushed himself from the sink. He felt like he should run, but he didn’t know why. A tug in his belly made two more words come to his tongue, but he didn’t let them out.
Wanna was back on the couch cycling through the television channels. “Damn. It’s over. Gabe, could you put three corn dogs in the microwave for me.”
Gabe stared out the kitchen window. Something vague was taking form in his mind, and it went back to the very edge of his memory. Twenty-five years back. It was a bicycle. He was pedaling a bicycle. Through fog.
CHAPTER
5
JOHN JOHNSON SCANNED Main Street and turned to Billy and Press, who were seated on the bench outside the general store. He nodded to Billy, who was trying to pick the permanent grease from his fingernails. “Go get Mac.”
Billy threw open the wooden screen door of the general store and let it slam shut behind him. A minute later he walked out, followed by Mac McKenna. Both squeezed onto the bench with Press.
John paced on the porch and stopped, facing the men. The sky opened up with a soft rain and he took a deep breath to savor the smell of the freshly wet asphalt.
“Okay. So far we know his name is A. Jackson Thibideaux. He’s from New Orleans. Billy found out he’s renting the rectory and I found out that the electricity isn’t hooked up. No water either.” John looked at the wooden floor and paced in front of the bench again. He stopped and turned to face the three.
“Anyone have anything good on him? Anyone been able to find out what he’s up to?” He turned to Mac and frowned. “Mac, what you got?”
Mac’s hands twitched and he rocked forward and back on the bench. “I overheard him talking about some land in the north, and the swamp. He was asking if the swamp affected the weather in these parts.” He looked down at his twitching hands. “But, I don’t know if that’s important or not.” Before John could butt in, Mac looked up again. “Oh yeah. I stayed late the other night to catch up on the books, and I saw he had a fire going in the fireplace. I don’t see any firewood, though.” John’s hands moved in jerky circles in time to his words.
John cringed. He hoped Mac wouldn’t get excited. Mac’s fidgety movements consisted of a series of stereotyped nervous tics, and with a little concentration, John envisioned them as a repetitive series of syncopated drum beats with occasional drum solos of totally unique twitches that quickly yielded to the original background rhythm. If Mac became really excited, John equated the symphony of movements to the seven-minute drum solo in Iron Butterfly’s In a Gadda Da Vida. John tried to feel sorry for Mac, but he couldn’t edge out the contempt he felt for anyone who had a physical disability and didn’t try to hide it.
John turned away from Mac. “Press, you got anything?”
Press shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “No. Every time I’m around, he just says ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to all the questions. I asked him if he did most of his work in the country and he said yes. I also asked if he liked being in the cities, and he said no, except for his house in the outskirts of New Orleans. Sorry I can’t add more. That any help?”
John bit his lower lip and cleared his throat. He glared at Press. “We’ll see. Billy, you got anything to add?”
“I found out that he gave a stack of money to the Reverend, for rent.” Billy’s grin was wide.
John exhaled through his lips. “That was a great job you did finding that out, but we already know that. We need to know if you got anything new to add.” He rolled his eyes.
Billy’s grin faded and he looked at the floor. “No. Nothing else, but I did find out about the money.”
John kept his head level and raised his eyes toward the sky. His open hands were held together as if praying, with his thumbs gripping the underside of his chin and the tips of his index fingers lightly tapping his lips. When he thought his pensive expression had provided the correct amount of suspense, he spoke. “I think they’re finally going to do it.”
“Do what?” Press said.
“I think they’re finally going to put in the freeway shunt.”
Billy frowned. “What freeway shunt?”
John rubbed his temples. “You know this one. The State has been talking about putting in a shunt between the two interstates on either side of us. Been considering it for years. They nearly did it a few years back. That’s when the Tri-counties joined together. It was between us and them bastards up in Rother County. Either State Route 27, or 17, up there. Remember?”
Billy chuckled, but without a smile. “I was still in high school when the counties joined up.”
“Mac, Press, you remember, right?” John said.
Mac’s hands began circling out of phase, and he rocked on the bench. “Yeah. I remember a lot of bad blood between us and Rother. They kept saying that 17 was the shorter route, but it ain’t true. Wes and Gabe showed them up on that one.” Mac blinked in time to his hand twitches. “Them bastards made fools of themselves. They thought they could bully our three little counties. But not when we stood together.”
Press patted Mac on the shoulder and leaned forward. “I spent some time up in Rother, in Calhoun Township. I can tell you they’re nothing special. Just because they act superior and their high school teams always whip ours, everyone here has an inferiority complex. I remember when it started. Way back when Elvis was in the early stages of his career—they got him in for a concert. They still talk about it, and we still wish it was us. I heard it described perfectly once, and I’ll never forget the words, although I forgot who said them. Whoever it was said the people here hold a festering sense of envy that oozes northward like a slime mold on the march.” He looked around the table. “Anybody ever see a slime mold?”
“Speak for yourself,” John said. “I’m not about to let them screw up the freeway shunt like they did before.”
“I’m not so sure the State was that serious about building the shunt back then,” Press said. “I seem to remember it as another Rother plot to bully us and to get more highway funds from the legislature to repair State Route 17.”
“They were, too, serious,” John said. “And I heard they’re on it again. And that’s where Thibideaux comes in.” He watched the three men lift their eyes at the mention of Thibideaux.
“I talked to him the other day,” John said. “I asked him if his business was in land, and he just said he was into acquisitions. And I tried to find out who he works for, but he’s tight-lipped on that. I did notice a slight change in his eyes when I mentioned the State, though, so I think I got him on that one.”
John paused to let his words sink in. He looked toward the rectory. “He’s got to be a land broker. I bet he’s here to check out our route. Maybe even start buying some land.”
Billy’s eyes were wide. “Where would they put the shunt?”
John cocked his head back and pointed north. “Probably pretty close to Route 27. Halfway between the southern county lines and the swamp up there.”
“But what about Rother?” Mac said. “As I recall, Wes and Gabe didn’t show that our route was shorter. They just showed that the two routes were about the same. Are we ready for another fight with Rother?”
“Thibideaux’s here, isn’t he?” John said. “He isn’t up in Rother.” John pushed his sleeves up on his arms, exposing his forearms. He was two inches under six feet and weighed a full two thirty-five. At a glance, it seemed that at least one-fourth of that weight resided in his forearms. His former occupation in an aluminum smelting plant required a great deal of upper body strength, but his subsequent inactivity lent a softness to his massive physique. This was accentuated by a waistline that first exceeded his inseam measurement about six inches ago.
The showers turned to hard rain and John spun to watch the water run off the roof of the porch. The sky to the west showed blue, suggesting that the storm was winding up for its finale in Boyston.
“Can you imagine what a freeway shunt would do for the Tri-counties?” John said. “If it happens, I’m going to open up a gas station that has one of them markets. I’ll put it right next to one of the off-ramps with a great big sign that can be seen for miles. I’ll have the missus move her diner there, too. I’ll just sit back and count the money.”
John turned around. “Mac, what would you do?”
Mac’s hands sprung into action. “Well, when I was driving out west, I seen a group of outlet stores along a freeway—in the middle of nowhere. You know, the ones that sell stuff really cheap. I wouldn’t mind opening up a couple right here in Boyston. People will burn three dollars in gas to save two in places like that. I’d still run the general store, though, for all of the local folks.”
John noticed that Billy’s eyes were stuck off in the distance, apparently in a daydream. “Hey, Billy. Star Fleet Command wants you to check out that planet over there.”
The laughter of the group brought Billy back to the porch.
“What? You talking to me? Sorry, John. I was just thinking.”
“We were wondering what you would do if the freeway shunt came our way,” John said, still chuckling.
Billy’s eyes went skyward and a slight grin spread across his face. “I’d buy a new tow truck because people would be needing help. I’d like to get one of them big trucks that can tow an eighteen-wheeler, too. Other than that, I’d just keep the shop going, but I’d probably have to hire somebody, with all the extra business.”
John stared at Billy. He wanted to say something to put him in his place. But he couldn’t argue with Billy’s plan. It made sense. He shook his head. How could someone with the IQ of a four-legger be such a brilliant mechanic? And run such a successful business. He backed off. He remembered that it was Billy who usually financed their investigations.
John considered halting the exercise without polling Press, but he decided to be polite. “Press, what would you do?”
“I don’t know. I suspect that I’d keep doing what I’m doing now,” Press said.
