December Boys Part 23

CHARLIE SAWED LOGS in the back bedroom. I eyed his car keys in the bowl of waxed fruit on the kitchen table next to my sack of papers. I fantasied a fantastic scenario, where I'd sneak out the back door, slit the cruiser tires with a switchblade, steal a car and speed my way to freedom beneath predawn skies. This is the crazy s.h.i.t you cook up when you can't fully fall asleep.

At the window, I peeled the curtain as another heavy fist rained down.

"Open up. It's me. Turley."

I cracked the front door, rubbing my eyes like he'd interrupted a wonderful dream. "What the h.e.l.l time is it?"

"Thought I'd find you here." Turley stepped past, barging inside. He stopped when he heard Charlie raising the roof. "Is that Finn? How you get any sleep?"

"What do you want, Turley?"

"I need you to come down to the station. Some detectives from Longmont been looking for you. Got some questions."

"Detectives?" Like the man sent to execute my brother last year? Those cops on the side of the road weren't detectives. Maybe Turley was willing to double down on that bridge. I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't.

"They said they'd been out to your place. Truck's there. You're not. I told 'em to head over." Turley looked bored with the conversation. "I said I'd fetch you."

"And take me where?"

"They're gonna meet us at the station."

"Ever hear of calling?"

"Yeah, Jay. Charlie's landline was busy. Neither of you was answering your cell."

"That's because there's no cell reception out here for one, and two, I was f.u.c.king sleeping. It's the a.s.s crack of dawn."

I saw the receiver belly up on the nightstand. Must've kicked it over in my thrashing attempts to sleep.

"Which is why I had to drive out here." He reached for my arm.

I pulled away. "The f.u.c.k are you doing?"

Turley's hand shot for his holster.

"What? You're going to cuff me? Arrest me? Shoot me?"

The snoring in the backroom stopped.

"No one is arresting anyone. These boys just want to talk to you. Don't be a red-a.s.s."

"What's going on?" Charlie stood in the doorway to his bedroom, pink ham belly more swollen that usual, like the meat had soaked too long in the brine. "What are you doing here, Turley?"

"Hey'ya, Charlie. Sorry to bother you. Got a couple of cops up from Longmont. Need to talk to Jay. Said I'd grab him."

Charlie scratched his head. He didn't understand what was happening. But I did.

"Fine." I grabbed my winter coat, nodding toward the back bathroom. "Okay if I take a p.i.s.s first?"

"Knock yourself out."

While Charlie and Turley made small talk about ice fishing and elk, I walked into the kitchen, plucking a plastic apple from the fake fruit bowl. I stuffed the evidence inside my coat, double-checking that the blade was still there. I snuck out the side door.

At the back of the house, I pulled the steak knife from my pocket and slit the telephone wire. Then I crept toward Turley's squad car, cracked the driver's side door, and sliced the CB cable, too. Good luck getting a cell signal. I plunged the knife headlong into his tire.

I was turning over Charlie's engine as Turley, the fat f.u.c.k, lumbered down the steps, shouting after me.

Speeding out of the foothills, I made for the lowlands. The papers were going to love this one. Another one of the Porter boys embroiled with the law. But I'd fallen for the masquerading cop bit before. Fool me once, not this time. I had to find that reporter Bowman told me about. One objective: Get Jim Case the evidence. After that, I didn't care what happened to me. Without Jenny and my son, nothing mattered.

Nicki still refused to pick up. I kept driving, hitting the Turnpike south, checking my phone every six seconds like a girl waiting on her prom date. The dark winter skies churned, tractor-trailers zipping by, gas stations glowing with the promise of free coffee with every fill-up. I watched the rearview, antic.i.p.ating the fleet of squad cars that never materialized. I wished I had the complete package to give to the reporter, but waiting wasn't a luxury I had. I decided to forgo getting it right for getting it right now.

I needed to give Nicki time to call me back. The farther from Ashton I got, the better I felt about my decision.

One eye on the road, the other on my cell trying to follow the squiggly GPS instructions, I chain-smoked, jittery, shaky, break-of-day surreal, ears ringing, pulsating, pounding with blood flow, an old Subaru's rumbling gut underfoot.

Pittsfield wasn't far, a few counties south. At this hour, with little traffic, I knew if I got there fast enough I could catch Jim Case before he left for work, which beat all h.e.l.l out of having to trek down to Concord and trying to talk my way onto a newsroom floor.

Seemed like only minutes ticked by before I was parked outside the turquoise house on the subdivision's street, wondering if it could really be this easy. I checked the mirror, licked my palm to smooth the tangled mop atop my head. My hair looked like I'd shampooed it in a deep fryer, and with the sprouting beard I resembled a crackhead. Unshaven, gaunt, black circles under my eyes, unrecognizable even to myself. I grabbed my papers and rang the bell. The world kept going faster and faster, spinning like a bottle top I couldn't make stop.

A man answered the door. Gla.s.ses, limp hair swept to the side, already dressed and prepared to conquer the day, he held a novelty coffee mug, which read: Never Bury the Lead. I thought I recognized his face from his Facebook picture. I also knew from social media that he wasn't much older than me. Somehow he seemed a lot older. I had to be sure.

"Are you Jim Case? Reporter for the Monitor?"

He didn't respond, but his eyes told me I had the right man.

I presented my wadded-up paper bag.

Case peered past the weirdo on his porch. No one else on the street, everything serene, another pleasant valley suburban morning. How did I expect him to respond?

"That's everything you need on the Lombardis and Roberts," I said. "Well, almost everything." I thrust the bag forward, my offering.

He didn't take my bag.

"You're Jim Case, right?"

Maybe I had the wrong guy. Maybe he didn't care. I was operating on a few newspaper bylines, a couple thumbnail pics, what Bowman had told me, which for all I knew was spoon-fed bulls.h.i.t, and very little sleep. If I was wrong, the slammed door would come next.

Instead Case stepped aside, opening his home to let me inside.

Had I been thinking right, I would've asked the right questions, like why he was letting a man as disheveled as me into his home, why he hadn't asked my name yet. Only I wasn't thinking right. I was as far from right as you get. I stood inside the vestibule, on the mud mat, brain all jumbled, doing nothing to help my own cause. Jim Case carefully pried the bag from my clutches. At the breakfast nook, he removed my photocopies and charts, stacking them on the counter beneath a cupboard, going through them, one by one, not unlike Bowman, glancing over at me every few turns.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. It was the first time he'd spoken.

"Friends of mine. Copies from the courthouse. Internet research. Some parents I spoke to. Judge Roberts is selling kids to the North River Inst.i.tute."

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Jay. Jay Porter."

Jim Case continued to scan through the pages.

"It's not everything you need," I said. "I'm waiting on something else."

"Something else?"

"A report on interstate extradition. I think UpStart is bankrolling the project, trying to inflate numbers to get that new private prison built on the grounds of the old TC Truck Stop. Y'know, in Ashton?"

"Can you wait here a minute?"

His landline rang. And suddenly I knew I had to get out of there.

We both looked at the phone.

Jim Case held up his hands, letting the phone keep ringing. "It's okay, Jay."

"How do you know my name?"

"You just told me."

He was right. I had.

Jim Case swung open an arm, guiding safe pa.s.sage to a small kitchen table, where he sat down first. "Please. Have a seat."

I could only guess what had to be going through this guy's head. I could smell myself. I stank like that b.u.m inside the Dunkin' Donuts. I didn't know why was he even talking to me. How was explaining Bowman going to help?

But Bowman had said he was next on the list. I had to warn him. I was having that problem where I could formulate cogent points in my head, but when I tried to articulate a coherent sentence, my tongue got all thick, and I couldn't pluck the right word, resulting in a lot of starting and stumbling. I sounded r.e.t.a.r.ded. "Why are you talking to me?" With those words, I knew I only sounded crazier.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't know me. I'm just some guy who knocked on your door at seven in the morning. You shouldn't let strangers in your house. You're in danger."

"Are you here to hurt me?"

"No!"

"I didn't think so. I trust my instincts. It's why I'm a reporter." He pointed at the doc.u.ments stacked in front of him. "I think we are on the same side. I rely on sources from all walks of life."

"I'm not a b.u.m. I've had a rough few days."

Jim Case held up his hands, the way you do when you agree to disagree.

"I know what I'm doing," he said. "How serious it is. I've been looking into North River for a while. Roberts too. Now why don't you tell me what you know?"

The phone rang again, and I jolted, startled. He made no move to answer it, gesturing for me to stay calm. "It's just the phone. People call me for work. It's okay. You seem really jumpy. Relax. Can I get you some water?"

"I'm fine."

"Talk to me."

"I just told you. Judge Roberts is shipping kids to the North River Inst.i.tute in exchange for kickbacks. I know the parents are . . ."

"Parents are what?"

"Receiving kickbacks! Housing repairs getting pushed through HUD. Big fat stacks. Payoffs, man." I pointed at the paper trail. "It's all in there. Well, not all of it. You're missing something."

"Sorry, Jay. I'm having a hard time following you. What exactly am I missing?"

"I told you. The out-of-state stuff. I don't know, exactly. But I know where to get it. I'll get it, okay?"

When the phone rang again, I stood up, shoving in the chair.

"Hold on. Where are you going?"

"To prove it. You got a business card or something? How I can reach you?"

He plucked a business card from his pocket, pa.s.sing it along, wary, like you do meat sc.r.a.ps a feral dog.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the business card. "Watch your back." I bolted out the front door as the phone started up again.

Back in the car, I popped the battery from my cell. Which I knew would make it tough for Nicki to return my call. There's a fine line between preparation and paranoia. Charlie's was my safe house. I couldn't go home. I realized I was headed back to Ashton without consciously making the decision to do so. Like a moth drawn to the firelight. Or bug zapper. I needed off the grid. Somewhere with a secure line. I had to talk to Nicki. How hard was it to return a G.o.dd.a.m.n phone call? Where do the invisible go when they have to disappear?

When I was young, we used to tease the poorer kids. Anytime the school bus took the Turnpike, we'd point at the fleabag motels, say, "This is where you'll end up living someday." Because kids are mean little s.h.i.ts. And karma is one vengeful b.i.t.c.h.

I needed to dump Charlie's Subaru. I was driving a stolen car. I shouldn't have risked taking it to Pittsfield. Even if I knew my buddy wouldn't press charges, Turley had the license plate, which meant those Longmont cops did too. I had to buy a few hours, long enough to reach Nicki.

Racing north along the Turnpike, I took the Duncan Pond exit, hopped the access road down a dirt path, abandoning the stolen car behind a patch of cattail. I scattered dead branches, bulrush and sedge over the roof and hood. Then I started walking. Pond swamp mucked my shoes. I kept hearing helicopters overhead, but when I'd look up, I'd find nothing but the same churning mountain skies. This is what skipping sleep does, little brother. Turns your brain to mush. Can't think straight. Goops your oatmeal, bogs you down in a slog of maple. Try stirring that s.h.i.t with a spoon.

I weaved through woodland until I hit the string of cheap motels. Despite the early hour, the welfare cases were already out, pushing their shopping carts along icy shoulders. b.u.ms with cardboard signs touting patriotic service in fict.i.tious wars. I spotted a pair of junkies, frighteningly malnourished, about a hundred pounds between them, flightless birds in search of a morning meal. I pulled my collar, hunched my shoulders, and joined the hobo parade.

No one asks for an ID at these motels; that's the beauty of Turnpike living. I paid my thirty bucks and change with crumpled bills and coins sifted from lint, got my oversized key, and locked myself away in a tiny room choked with B.O., fast food, and stale cigarette smoke.

I flicked on a lamp. Low wattage revealed streaks of red and black shooting across the walls and ceiling. The impressionistic artwork felt out of place with the rest of the spa.r.s.e, p.a.w.nshop decor. I remembered overhearing a pair of junkies talking once while I waited to admit Chris into rehab. They were b.i.t.c.hing about bad veins, how after so many misfires, the needle would clog with sludge. To clear the line, they'd have to push the plunger extra hard. Drugs and bodily fluids would spit out, spraying everything. That's what I was looking at. Dried blood and wasted lives.

I sat on the edge of a lumpy bed and pulled the janky parts of the cell phone from my pocket. I didn't know how long service providers required to pinpoint location from a tower, whether that was even a real concern or some drug addict urban legend, a plot device employed by lazy TV show writers. But I couldn't afford to test theories. I fitted the battery, retrieved Nicki's number, scribbled it down, and popped the battery back out. I wasn't taking any chances. I called her again from the motel phone. Another voice mail. I left as polite a message as I could, considering the rage burning inside me. I laid out everything Bowman had told me, again, spelling it out in slow, small words. I trusted her with everything-the stakes, how indispensable she was, because what other choice did I have? She'd call back. Or she wouldn't. I couldn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing but wait.

I peeled off my clothes, sniffed my shirt, which stank worse than my days laboring on the cow farm. I brought the shirt with me into the shower and scrubbed it clean with the complimentary sliver of soap. Rang the tee out, threw it over the radiator to dry. I brushed my teeth without toothpaste, using my finger.

Stepping from the fog, I cleared the mirror with my hand and studied the man standing before me, the guy who was usually clean-shaven, good looking, put together. My left eye twitched. An honest-to-G.o.d facial tick. My bottom lid quivered, like teeny tiny worms had burrowed beneath the lashes and were staking claim. I remained transfixed, fascinated by my own eye's squirming involuntarily. The parasites had taken over.

I combed back my wet hair with my fingers, stepped into the next room. Just had the one. The motel didn't offer the option of a suite upgrade. I could smell trap grease from the KFC/Taco Bell combo next door. Peeling the curtain, I watched my new neighbors hoof it across the parking lot, broken men with sagging guts and receding hairlines, six-packs in hand, the day's first already cracked. It wasn't even nine a.m. A beer sounded pretty good about now.

I checked the progress of my tee shirt drying in the bathroom. Still damp. If I tried walking outside with a wet shirt in this weather I'd end up with walking pneumonia. I wrapped the winter coat around me and bundled up shirtless. I could use food. I needed a beer.

I was about to head outside when the telephone rang.