The Bones of Old Carlisle (20 page)

“Ninety days,” he said, extending his hand. “Ninety days of hard
time, hard county time. Now it finish.”
“Where you going?” Arrowroot asked.
“I stay in Leetle Chihuahua,” he said. “You know this place?”
“I don’t,” Arrowroot admitted.
“Oh, man, it got everything,” the man said. “Grocery, tamale
restaurant, a place to buy beer on tap. It even got a library. I’m
going to read every book there.”
“Oh, behind the Matterhorn?” Arrowroot inquired, referring to a
bowling alley and ice rink.
They walked outside, blinking against the blazing April sun. The
county jail had been built decades before on cheap land, about five
blocks up the mountain from City Hall, in a part of Traxie clogged
with warehouses, small factories and industrial supply shops. But
through a happy accident, the main entrance to the jail stood in a
broad open area, so that everyone who left the building, if they were
so inclined, could take in the big sky and the great sweep of the
valley, including all of Fort Shergawa.
Arrowroot breathed in and gazed about him and reminded himself
that the world could be a beautiful place, as cruel as it sometimes
was.
The ex-prisoner stood beside him, staring at a parked car 20 feet
away from which people had begun to emerge, slowly. There was an
elderly woman and two young men. They said nothing until they reached
the man, then they looked warily at Arrowroot and said a few things in
quiet Spanish he couldn’t understand.
The man stood back, stretched his arms out and turned his face up
to the sun, smiling, and there was laughter. The old woman was wearing
a patchwork dress and a shawl over her shoulders, and she dabbed at
her eyes with it and waved everyone back to the car.
She cast a furtive glance back at Arrowroot, and he nodded to
her, then turned to look for Hatfield. He quickly found the chief
across the parking lot, in a heated conversation with a slender black
woman in a suit.
Hatfield saw Arrowroot and waved, the woman followed his gaze,
and when she spotted Arrowroot, she shouted one angry word: “YOU!”

Karl Arrowroot had been in his share of confrontations, and he’d
learned to work through them, if not occasionally enjoy them.
So he wasn’t particularly worried about a well-dressed, angry
woman stomping toward him in front of the county jail, at least not
until he found out what she was mad about.
“Did you meet with my client?” she demanded.
“Well, hello there,” Arrowroot replied, “I didn’t catch your—“
“Did you meet with my client?” she repeated, shouting every word.
Chief Hatfield hustled up behind her. “Karl,” he said, “you don’t
need to say anything.”
“Hold on a minute!” Arrowroot yelled. “Who’s your client?”
“Nebuchadnezzar Smiley,” she said. “Have you been talking to
him?”
“Oh, Mr. Smiley?” Arrowroot responded. “You mean the fellow they
picked up out at the Carlisle place?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And what did you just call him?” Arrowroot asked. “Nebucha—
Nebucha—, uh what?”
“His name is Nebuchadnezzar Smiley,” she replied. “And I repeat,
did you talk to him?”
“Nebuchadnezzar?” Arrowroot replied. “Did you say Nebuchadnezzar,
like the king in the Bible?”
“That’s his name, yes,” the woman said, and her tone softened
slightly.
“Say, Floyd,” Arrowroot said, turning to the chief, “did you know
that fella we picked up at the Carlisle house was named
Nebuchadnezzar?”
“News to me,” Hatfield admitted. “I thought he was just Mr.
Smiley.”
“Nebuchadnezzar,” said Arrowroot. “Wow. Well, my name’s just
Karl. Karl Arrowroot. And you are?”
“Cecilia Mixson,” the woman replied, taking Arrowroot’s hand
suspiciously.
“Very good, Cecilia, nice to meet you,” Arrowroot said. “Now, I
think we got off on the wrong foot a moment ago. Can you tell me what
it is you’re thinking about today?”
“You talked to my client,” she said. The edge returned to her
voice and she crossed her arms and glared. “You don’t talk to my
client unless I’m there.”
“Well, hell, he called me!” Arrowroot protested. “Sent the chief
of police to practically drag me off my damned couch.”
“Hey,” Hatfield protested, “that’s not quite—“
“He didn’t call anyone,” Mixson retorted. “My client is mentally
retarded. And I will not stand—“ She unfolded her arms and held one
finger in the air next to her face. “I will not stand for witness
tampering, or bullying or any other interference in this case.”
“Witness tampering?” Arrowroot cried. “Bullying? What exactly are
you accusing me of?”
Mixson looked down, apparently to weigh carefully her next words,
and spoke softly for the first time. “Mr. Arrowroot,” she began,
“please understand. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” said Arrowroot, swallowing. “Believe me, I didn’t
want to talk to your client any more than you wanted me to.”
“You understand he’s very vulnerable, and very afraid,” Mixson
said. “He’s got the mind of a five-year-old.”
“We’re talking about the same person, aren’t we?” Arrowroot
replied, clearing his throat. “The fellow I just met with, he was
talking up a storm, told me he was on a secret mission, said he needed
my help, asked me to send myself—“
“He did no such thing!” Mixson shouted, her empathy of a moment
ago swallowed up with rage. “Maybe some things happened out at the
fort, but my client had nothing to do with them. And I’m not going to
let you railroad him for your own— for your own personal revenge. If
anything, he’s a victim. If anything, he’s due a large settlement for
pain and suffering!”
“Look, look,” Arrowroot countered, “here’s what he gave me, told
me to email this nonsense to myself.”
Arrowroot drew the paper out, unfolded it and handed it to
Mixson. She took a quick glance and handed it back. “I don’t know what
this is, but it has nothing to do with my client,” she said. “With all
due respect, Mr. Arrowroot, for your loss, and for your role in this
city – any attempt to make false allegations about my client will be
met with a vigorous legal response. Vigorous!”
“It’s the truth!” Arrowroot thundered. “Don’t you dare call me a
liar! And don’t you dare try to use my— to use the death of my son to
discredit what I saw and heard!”
In arguments like this, Arrowroot knew, the actual fact and logic
of the matter had very little to do with who prevailed. The loudest
and most passionate voice, the sentence with the fewest pauses, these
were what carried the day. But the death of a child was the trump
card, the point at which all others assertions had to yield.
As Arrowroot expected, Mixson stepped back, put her hands up and
looked down, in a symbolic gesture of defeat. “I’m not going to argue
with you about this,” she said. It was a hollow victory though,
Arrowroot knew. Mixson wasn’t accepting that her client was
intelligent, she was just refusing to argue any more in the jail
parking lot. If he persisted in his claim that he had actually spoken
to Mr. Smiley, especially if he tried to do so in a courtroom, Mixson
could probably do any number of unpleasant things to him.
“Very good, Ms. Mixson,” Arrowroot said, extending his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, best of luck winning your case.”
For the first five minutes of the drive back home, Arrowroot and
Hatfield said nothing. Finally, Arrowroot spoke. “I know what I
heard,” he said. “And even if I made it all up, about him talking, I
didn’t make up that piece of paper.”
“You mean with the ones and zeroes on it?” Hatfield asked.
“Yes,” Arrowroot replied, “the piece of paper he gave to me, with
ones and zeroes he wrote on it, that he asked me to email to myself.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty strange,” Hatfield said.
“You believe me, right?” Arrowroot asked.
“I believe you believe it,” Hatfield replied.
“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Arrowroot replied. “You think I’m crazy!”
“I didn’t say that,” Hatfield said.
“You don’t need to say it,” Arrowroot retorted. “I know what
you’re thinking.”
“Look, here’s what I’m at,” Hatfield said. “You’ve been under a
lot of stress. You’ve suffered a terrible, terrible loss. I just never
shoulda come banging on your door this afternoon. The whole thing was
a mistake.”
“No,” Arrowroot replied. “I was glad you woke me up. I enjoyed
the ride over, I enjoyed talking to Mr. Smiley, I even enjoyed talking
to this Mexican fellow that just got let out. And then three folks
pick him up, every damn one of ‘em illegal as hell, I’m sure. Hey, you
know there’s a place in Traxie called Little Chihuahua?”
“I didn’t,” Hatfield admitted.
“Well there is, and I didn’t imagine that any more than my
conversation with Mr. Smiley.” Arrowroot was silent for a moment, but
his mind was working furiously. He drew in a deep breath, than he
punched the dashboard. “I’ve lost my only son, and— and I’m never
going to get over that. Never,” he said, his words breaking with
emotion. “But I’ll not have you telling me it’s made me crazy, and
I’ll not have that damned lawyer telling me it’s turned me into a
liar.”
“I didn’t say you’re crazy,” Hatfield protested. “And Cecelia’s a
lawyer, she’ll tell Jesus he’s lying if he gets in her way. She’s
working for Mr. Smiley for free, by the way. She’s good, too, and she
believes in what she’s doing. Volunteered as soon as she heard about
him.”
“Alright, alright, fine,” Arrowroot said. “I’m done lying on the
couch. I’ll be in the office tomorrow. Gonna be mayor again, like they
voted me to be. If I’ve gone twisty, everyone’ll know it soon enough.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Hatfield. “It’ll be good to have you back
in City Hall. And I mean that.”
“Well, if whatever’s been eatin’ those people heads to town, your
pleasure’ll be short-lived,” Arrowroot warned. “Oh, and not that you
would care, nor that damned lawyer either, but my friend Mr. Smiley
thought he might know who or what’s doing the munching.”
“What did he tell you?” Hatfield asked.
“I didn’t say he told me anything,” Arrowroot said. “He just
hinted he might know. But he didn’t want to go into detail – afraid it
might scare the hell out of me.”
“Damn,” Hatfield said simply. He turned onto Arrowroot’s street
and slowly approached the home.
“I know, I know,” Arrowroot said. “Whatever. But I’m gonna do
what he asked.”
“What do you mean?” Hatfield asked.
“I’m gonna email myself all those ones and zeroes, on that piece
of paper,” Arrowroot said. “And if a bunch of people show up at the
county jail a couple minutes later to bust Mr. Smiley out, you know,
that’s not gonna be my problem.”
“Okay,” Hatfield said, and it was obvious he wanted Arrowroot out
of his car so he could get back to work.
Arrowroot wasn’t quite ready to oblige. “Can you imagine, say, 10
or 15 Mr. Smileys, all looking like him, no chins, big flat noses,
makin’ a buncha weird faces like he does, walkin’ around saying ‘gleeb
this’ and ‘glub that’ and tearin’ the whole damn jail down?”
“Heh,” said Hatfield humorlessly.
“I bet they’ll all be wearing those white suits, like he had on,”
Arrowroot added as he angled himself out of Hatfield’s police cruiser.
“Well, anyway, thank you, Floyd, thank you. See ya tomorrow.”
“Yup!” Hatfield replied.
Arrowroot’s phone was ringing before he reached his front door.
It was Danielle.
“Hey,” Arrowroot answered.
“Where have you been?” Danielle demanded.
“Out at the jail, talking to Mr. Smiley,” Arrowroot said.
“Didn’t you get my text?” Danielle demanded.
“I did,” Arrowroot said, “wasn’t free to talk to you until just
now, Chief Hatfield—“
“Who’s Mr. Smiley?” she asked. “Does he know who killed Robert?”
“I doubt it,” Arrowroot replied. “He’s that weird fellow we
picked up at the Carlisle house. Turns out he’s not retarded at all,
maybe just a little confused, though. He—“
“Daddy, this is way more important than that!” Danielle shouted
through the phone.
“Okay, what you got?” Arrowroot asked, letting himself into his
home.
For the next 10 minutes, as Arrowroot settled onto his couch,
Danielle described in excruciating detail the Army’s systems for
recording munitions training, weapons discharges and what was done
when someone shot something where they shouldn’t have. Good chance
there was a report somewhere relating to Robert’s death, with a date
and a time, and most importantly, a name.
“I know it’s got to be written down somewhere,” Danielle
concluded breathlessly. “There’s a record at the fort with someone’s
name on it. The name of a murderer. The name of Robert’s murderer.”
Arrowroot felt his heart stir with something strange and ancient
and not entirely comfortable: the opportunity for revenge.
“So how do we get that paperwork?” he asked.
“If you work through official channels, it’ll probably take
years,” she said. “You’ve got a bunch of friends out there, ask one of
them for a favor.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,” Arrowroot said. “But I’ll
see what I can do.”
“You’ll call someone today?” she asked.
“I will,” Arrowroot promised. “But hey, let’s say we get that
name. Then what?”
“You leave that to me,” Danielle muttered. She had been holding
some things back lately, Arrowroot noticed. He’d ask where she went or
whom she’d seen and she wouldn’t answer directly, or wouldn’t answer
at all. He assumed she wasn’t planning murder, at least not outright
murder, although anything less than death for the man who killed his
son would be getting off easy.
Finding a name, and using that name to track someone down, and
getting a confession out of that person was going to take a lot of
time, so there’d be plenty of opportunity to think about what form the
vengeance should take. Court-martial made sense to Arrowroot, or
dishonorable discharge, but God only knew what Danielle had in mind.
Violence was a possibility, but only if administered by one of
Danielle’s Traxie friends. He’d seen enough of the county jail to know
he didn’t want to be there, nor to visit Danielle there.
“Okay, I’ll do my part,” Arrowroot said. “By the way, be careful
going out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Danielle asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” Arrowroot assured. “Just been some things
going on at the fort, animals or whatever that got all those people
out there, might show up in town.”
“You mean like raccoons or wolverines?” Danielle asked absently.
The threat of marauding animals didn’t seem to hold much interest for
her.
“Yes, or whatever it was,” Arrowroot replied. “Just anything like
that, don’t go walking through the woods alone if you can help it.”
“Okay,” she said. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
Arrowroot stood, uncertain what to do first, send Mr. Smiley’s
email or call someone at Fort Shergawa. Or he could drink, the dark
place in his mind reminded him. Just a sip or two. Been two weeks
since Robert died, surely no one would think anymore that he was just
trying to drown the memories of his son.
“Nope,” he said audibly, and he settled on a fourth plan. He
stormed up stairs, taking them two at a time, threw open Robert’s
bedroom door and opened up the backpack that had been lying on
Robert’s bed since that day at Fort Shergawa.
They were the same papers, the same handwritten notes, the same
letters and documents and drawings, but everything looked completely
different to Arrowroot now – not just a collection of things, but the
last legacy of a son who had died in his prime.
Arrowroot, desperate to uncover meaning here, quickly found it.
“Oh, my goodness, Son,” Arrowroot said quietly to himself. “You
were on to something now, weren’t you?”