Chapter Eleven
“Hey,” Li’l Ron said, walking up to the beautiful girl outlined in blue.
“Hello, Li’l Ron,” she said, her smiling eyes taking him in.
He didn’t know a delicate way to ask what he came to find out, so he just blurted out, “What was the name of the boy who did this to you?”
She turned away from him.
“I’d rather not say,” she said.
Anger swept up within him. Before he could grab it, he barked out, “Why the hell not? Is this asshole still here? Is he still living in town?”
Her bare shoulders hitched. She was weeping—an angel wounded by his dumb mouth. He suddenly felt no better than his father.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hearing his father’s voice in place of his own.
“No, I’m sorry, Li’l Ron. I guess…I guess I’m just afraid,” she said.
“Afraid of what? He can’t hurt you anymore.”
She turned. Her glistening crystal eyes, still tearless, cast a haunting gaze his way. “I’m afraid you’ll do something rash. It was so long ago you should let it go now—I have.”
Li’l Ron shook his head, hands on his hips, angry, frustrated with the whole day. What if he did discover this son of a bitch still lived in Marsden? Confront him? Of course not.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. Not for me.”
“His name,” Li’l Ron said.
“Li’l Ron, don’t make me—”
“Sweet Kate, tell me his name.”
She dropped her head, porcelain shoulders slumping as she squeezed the fabric of her dress—a nervous habit he hadn’t noticed before.
“His name was Greg.”
Chapter Twelve
“Hey, Del,” Stefan Schultz said, taking up a stool at the bar.
“What can I do you for, Stefan?” Del said, sliding a bottle of Bud to Hank Olson.
Stefan, already buzzing from the six-pack he’d finished off prior to his father’s phone call, smiled at the bartender. “You seen Greg Sawyer today?”
Del’s eyebrow arched. “Not yet. Why, you lookin’ for him?”
“Let me have a Pabst,” Stefan said, pulling out a pack of Marlb Reds. He drew a cigarette from the packaging, tapping it against the counter.
Del slid the draft in front of him. “I don’t know why anyone drinks this shit, but more than half this town still does,” the tall bartender said.
“Sawyer ever talk about anything…from our sordid past?”
Del ran a long-fingered hand along his grey-stubble-covered chin. “What exactly is this about, Stefan? You got a problem with Greg Sawyer?”
He chugged the glass of cheap beer, placed it down and slid it to Del. “I’ll take another, and my business with Sawyer is my business. You’d do well to remember that.”
Del shook his head, poured another Pabst, placing the frothing brew in front of Stefan. “Hey, you’re the one askin’ questions. And what the hell does
sordid
mean anyways? This town ain’t seen trouble since the Kenney kid got caught stealing old man Jenner’s Chevy…twenty years ago.”
Stefan snorted. He raised the beer, looking through narrowed slits toward the smart-ass bartender. He wondered where the guy’s disconnect had occurred. Bartenders were supposed to be in the know, have their ear to the ground and have the dish on all the little nicks and herpes dressing their town. Del seemed oblivious.
“Forget about it, sorry I gave you shit. I just want to talk to my old friend.”
“Well, he usually comes in after work, unless he’s off. Then, he comes in with the breeze.”
Stefan Schultz downed the beer, asked for another and made for the door.
He stepped into the brisk, late-afternoon breeze, his cigarette ready. There was nothing like sucking in a lungful of nicotine and nice, cold air—freshest smoke, every time.
Sawyer was smart (had been, anyway). Stefan didn’t think Sawyer was wise to anything. Sure, the guy had wigged out years ago, but that was over coincidence, and coincidence doesn’t prove shit. Stefan’s father’s nerves were probably itching just from seeing the guy back in town. Of course, it was
his
kid snooping around. Coincidence or not, Stefan’s own curiosity was in need of proper ointment. If Sawyer knew anything, he’d find out.
He took in another deep, refreshing drag, dropped the butt to the ground and headed back inside to wait.
Chapter Thirteen
“Where’s my dad?” Li’l Ron said, barging through the door.
Lucille Sawyer looked up from her knitting. “He wasn’t here when I got home from Packard’s,” she said, going right back to her work. “Don’t imagine he made it to work today.”
She didn’t have to mention the bar—he could hear it in her tone.
“Did he ever have a girlfriend…when he was with my mom, I mean?”
“Yes, your mother,” she said.
“No, I mean, did he ever
cheat
on her, that you know of?”
“Your father? Oh my, no. Do you think he could juggle two girls at once? He can’t even keep his p’s from his q’s.” Her hands stopped their busyness as she placed the yarn and needles on her lap, and she looked at him standing in the doorway. “Now, what is this about?”
“I need to talk to him,” Li’l Ron said. Before she could respond, he was out the door, on his bike, and heading back downtown.
Stefan Schultz heard the door open and waited to turn until the man that entered took up the stool next to him.
“Sawyer, hey, man, how have you been?” he said.
“Schultz? Shit, man, good—well, not really, but, holy shit, how are you?” Greg said as Del put a bottle of Budweiser before him.
“Thanks, Del,” Greg said, nodding at the bartender.
“Not much, man. Really, nothing at all. When did you get back in town?” Stefan said.
“About a month back. Jen…Jen left me,” Greg said, averting his eyes, raising the bottle to his lips.
Stefan knew as much, local gossip ran fast and true in a small town. He could not care less, but feigned a moment of sympathy. “Shit, sorry to hear that,” he said. “Say, you have your son, or did she hold him hostage?”
“No, Li’l Ron’s with me. How about your boy? He with you?”
“Nope. He’s with his mother. I haven’t spoken to either of ’em in…oh, I don’t know, five years.”
“You and Missy never got married?” Greg said.
“Nah, she was a fucking bitch, man. She dropped my ass shortly after you and Jenny left town. Married Jase Fucking Barnes. Been his headache since like 2003. Fuck ’em both.”
He hated saying that loser Barnes’s name. Fucking prick adopted his boy, ditching his name and branding him a Barnes.
“Anyways, my dad said your boy was in the library today. Said he was researchin’,” Stefan said.
“Yeah, he was in town. Took off after he got pissed at me.”
“Yeah…” Stefan swigged from his glass, “…Dad said he was askin’ about that missing girl, Katharine Bell. You remember her?”
“She just up and disappeared, right? They said she ran away,” Greg said.
“Yeah,” Stefan said, eyeing Greg closely. “I guess she didn’t have many friends.”
He watched Sawyer look away; he remembered something all right. Stefan watched his old chum slowly twirl the bottle of Bud in his hands.
“You ever…” Greg began.
“What?” Stefan said.
“Nothing, I guess I never really thought much of it then—with Jen being pregnant and all. My head was wrapped up in enough drama of my own. Same as you and Missy.” Sawyer looked back to him, staring.
Stefan pulled a twenty and a five out of his wallet, placing them on the bar. “Well, Sawyer, it was nice seein’ ya, but I gotta get goin’. Take care, huh?” he said, getting to his feet and zipping his black hoodie.
“Yeah, sure, Schultz. Nice seein’ you too, man,” Greg said, tipping his bottle toward his old friend.
Stefan left Greg Sawyer to wallow in his sorrow. The guy probably hadn’t thought about the girl since he left town, but something had crossed his mind at the mention of her; a look like a spider had crawled across the back of his neck had settled on his face. Maybe Dad’s paranoid; maybe he has reason to be. He’d probably forget all about it after a few drinks…but still.…
Stefan was about to head home when he saw the younger Sawyer, the nosey Sawyer, heading down the road on a BMX.
The source.
Might as well ask him what he knows and what he’s lookin’ for, face-to-face.
Stefan Schultz lit another cigarette, walking out into the street to confront the little shit.
A man in a knit cap stepped from between two trucks and out into the street. Li’l Ron slammed his heel back and skidded his bike to a stop.
“Holy shit, mister, I’m sorry,” Li’l Ron said. As he looked in the guy’s beady eyes, he felt like he’d been thrust into an old-time western. This guy didn’t look right.
“S’okay, man,” the guy said.
Li’l Ron noticed a slight slur in his words. The man was smiling behind a cigarette hanging from his cracked lips.
“Say, you Sawyer’s boy?” the man said.
“Ah, yeah” was all he could manage before the guy rushed him, grabbing him by the collar and ripping him from his bike. He was dragged around the darkened corner of Del’s Bar and slammed up against the brick wall.
The cigarette hanging from the guy’s gross lips was now pointing at Li’l Ron’s right eye.
“You been looking for something in this town? Huh?”
“No, no,” Li’l Ron whimpered, closing his eyes. “I-I just moved here.”
“Yeah? That ain’t what I heard,” the man said. His breath was rank, somewhere between tuna fish and old cheese.
“You better be careful what you look for, boy. You might not like what you find, or who, for that matter,” the man said.
Li’l Ron felt the heat from the burning cherry of the cigarette fade away, replaced by the cool night. The hand on his collar let go. He slumped to the ground.
“You ain’t never talked to me before, you got that? Don’t go tellin’ nobody nothin’. And you make sure you mind your own fuckin’ business round here. Next time, I’ll put that cherry right in your goddamn lyin’ eye.”
The man threw the cigarette to the ground, tucked his hands in his hoodie pockets, disappearing around the corner.
Li’l Ron wiped the tears from his face, trying to stifle the sobs, but he couldn’t. The most fucked-up day of his life was getting more fucked up by the minute.
Following his run-in with the angry stranger in the black hoodie, the burning fire inside he’d stoked for his father was smothered. Something about the guy had been familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was certain he’d never seen the man before. His words though:
“You been looking for something in this town?”
,
“…mind your own fuckin’ business round here…”
,
“you might not like what you find, or who…”
The only mess that Li’l Ron had his nose in was trying to figure out what happened to Sweet Kate. Why she had been cast off as a runaway and her disappearance not further investigated. He’d seen a billion of those shows like
48 Hours Mystery
, as well as fake crime shows based on real cases, like
Law and Order
.
Sweet Kate had said the guy’s name was Greg. It had to be his dad, didn’t it? But, if so, who the hell was this wack job threatening to burn his eyes out? Doubt wormed its way into his heart as he hopped off his bike at the corner of his nan’s yard. Dropping the Huffy on the lawn and breathing into his numb hands, he glided up the steps.
Nan was sleeping in her rocker, Alex Trebek blathering on the television, her knitting lying in her lap beneath her folded hands. He grabbed the faded-pink and sea-green afghan from the couch, tossing it over her, and lowered the volume on the TV.
Li’l Ron searched the kitchen cupboards, finding a can of Beefaroni. He nuked it in a bowl, grabbed a Pepsi and headed up the stairs to his refuge.
He needed time to sort through a few questions brewing in his head about Sweet Kate and this shithole town. There had to be more to the story, and as incriminating as the name she’d given him was, it occurred to him that he never considered that there might be another Greg his dad went to school with. After last night’s blowup and today’s not quite confession about hitting or not hitting his mother, his father’s hand fit the glove too well.
It all hurt his head. And what was he supposed to do now, with this guy threatening him? How was he supposed to find the answers that someone obviously didn’t want him to find? Everything about this stunk.
He needed to talk to Sweet Kate again, had to get her to tell him everything.
Chapter Fourteen
Greg Sawyer slowed his truck into the driveway. He was buzzing from his drinks at Del’s, but he wasn’t drunk. Still, after last night, eggshells were now a privileged path, humility his new best friend.
His mother was sleeping beneath an afghan in front of the television. He should wake her and get her to her room, but the smell of his breath would have her drawing conclusions on how much he’d drunk—best to let her be.
He checked the thermostat, notching it up from Mother’s permanent sixty-four degrees to a more suitable seventy. He’d throw in a little extra for fuel if she yacked at him over it in the morning. And, most likely, she would. He shut off the TV and made his way up the stairs.
The light beneath Li’l Ron’s door beckoned to him. He placed an ear to the wood and heard the melodic sounds of Iron Maiden.
Tap, tap, tap.
He cracked open the door, sneaking his head in.
“Hey, you got a minute,” he asked.
His son was scratching away in a notebook, but slammed it shut, startled by the sound of his voice.
“Yeah, sure,” Li’l Ron said. Greg noted the folded arms atop the notebook.
“What are you workin’ on, homework?”
“Yeah,” the boy said.
“So…about this afternoon…”
“Do we need to talk about this right now?”
Greg stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m afraid so.”
Li’l Ron sat up on the bed, grabbing the notebook and tucking it under his pillow.
Greg sat down next to him, drooping his shoulders, head down, and sighed. “This is some pretty grown-up stuff, but I guess you’re getting older than I’m ready for.”
His son said nothing; he just sat with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the closet door ahead of him.
“Well, I guess you’re pretty pissed, and you should be. I used to drink a lot when your mother and I first moved to Pennsylvania. You were only two, two and a half, and I was having trouble keeping work. The economy sucked then too. I’d be at home, you’d be cryin’. I felt like I was failing at everything, at every turn. So I did what I’d seen most men do in this town. I tried to drown those feelings. I guess I’m back in that same old wheelhouse, huh?”
Li’l Ron stared ahead. Greg continued.
“It only happened a couple times. I was trashed, your mom came home, and she was feeling the pressure too, being the bread winner, and then coming home to find me next to useless. She must have been holding it all back, because one night she came home and unloaded on me. And every boiling, nasty word she spewed was a fistful of hard truth that I didn’t want to hear. Problem was, every shot was a direct hit, and I just…lost it. I hated myself, I hated hearing out loud the things the annoying voice in my head had been saying for months. I hit her. I knocked her to the floor…and the hurt…in her eyes…”
Greg paused, wiping at the corners of his eyes.
“I dropped down next to your mother, and she held me.
She
held
me
.” Greg stood up, collecting himself. Something in his stomach was trying to devour everything inside of him. The black hole could only be filled with booze. At least, that’s what the weak part of him whispered.
“The same scene played out again a year later after I lost my job at the factory. Your mom held me again, blood running from her mouth, and she held me. I don’t know, son, maybe she made her mind up then. Maybe she knew I could never give you guys the life you deserved. I’m sure I had it all coming.”
Li’l Ron got up and looked him in the eye. His boy’s eyes were glistening, the tears holding steady, not yet released.
“Did you ever cheat on Mom in high school?”
“What?”
“Did you know Katharine Bell?”
“What? Ronnie, what…”
“Someone killed that girl. And someone…” His son stopped; the tears fell.
“What? Do you, do you know something about this? Do you know something about that girl?”
His son turned away again. “Dad, did you know her?” he asked.
Greg’s mind swooned. The black hole begging for more, begging for all of him. What the hell had his son stumbled into, and how?
Li’l Ron turned back to face him. “Did you?”
“I-I didn’t
know
her. She was a friend of a friend,” he said, feeling his insides slide away.
“Did you ever talk to her?”
“No.”
“Did you ever kiss her?”
“What? No, what… Where is this all coming from?” Anger poured over the pull in Greg Sawyer’s guts.
“I-I, I’d rather not say right now,” his son said, clamming up.
Greg stepped toward the door, opening it. “Ronnie, I’m sorry about all of my shit coming down on you. I am, and I don’t know what all of this is about, but I suggest you drop it. This is a small town. People don’t appreciate kids who go stirring up ghosts. I suggest you finish that homework of yours and keep your Hardy Boy antics on your shelf,” he said, pausing as he stepped into the hall. “Good night.”
Greg didn’t bother looking back; he just closed the door behind him, needing another drink.