Two for Flinching (7 page)

“
Uh huh.” She traced a scar lower on my
side, broader, above the hip. “What about this one? Is it from the
rocket?”

“
No. Knife.”

“
It’s bigger.”

“
Yes.”

“
I would have thought a rocket would do
more damage than a blade.”

“
Depends on how it is used.”

“
I guess.” Amber propped herself up on an
elbow. “You’ve lived an interesting life.”

“
That’s one way of looking at it.”

***

“I cut myself shaving. Steven, what do you
want?”

He handed me a piece of notebook paper. His
handwriting was flawless, neat, in cursive. Something you didn’t
see much anymore. “List of her friends and family.”

“Thanks. I’ll get right on it.”

“Anything yet?”

“She’s not in a hospital.”

“That’s a good thing. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Ten

I came into Gadsden on Highway 431, turning
left before I got to the river and went over the bridge and
followed Broad Street into downtown. My brother and I used to make
the half hour drive once a month or so. Friday night, cruising
Broad, drinking beer, hollering at the girls, getting into fights.
The girls were hit or miss, but you could always count on the
fights. I should’ve married one of those Gadsden girls.

Broad turned into Forest Avenue and I drove
by the new jail built to house illegal immigrants. I followed the
directions I had been given, turning left at the light onto Twelfth
Street and was in Alabama City. Once the home of cotton mills and
industry, the neighborhood was middle class and going in the wrong
direction. Boarded up homes long ago abandoned sat next to
clapboard houses and brick ranches. I took a side street and
halfway down the block found what I was looking for.

Wide front porch, white paint not fresh, yet
far from peeling, carefully trimmed hedges. The yard was small and
a five year old Chevy sedan sat in the driveway. I left the Jeep on
the street, punching the fob to lock it. The porch creaked beneath
my weight. I knocked.

Stirring from inside and the door opened.
“Mrs. Hogan?”

“Yes?”

“Beason Camp. I called earlier.”

Gene Hogan was long and lean, like her
daughter. In jeans and a cream sweater, her white hair was piled on
top of her head. “Of course. Please, come in, Mr. Camp.”

The front room had a floral patterned couch
along one wall facing an entertainment center, a battered recliner
in the corner. I could see the kitchen on the far side, closed
doors on the other—presumably to bedrooms.

“Can I get you anything? Sweet tea? I can
make coffee if you like.”

Never turn down sweet tea from an elderly
Alabama woman.
“Tea would be great.”

She smiled. “Have a seat. I’ll be right
back.”

I didn’t sit. Alone, I wandered around the
room looking at the pictures that covered every space. There were
several of Mr. and Mrs. Hogan, younger and growing older, but most
were of a pair of girls, separated by three or four years. Blond,
smiling, with braces and then perfect teeth. Babies and elementary
school. Softball uniforms, dance outfits and pompoms. Two huge
graduation portraits hung above the couch.

She returned with a glass slightly smaller
than a gallon jug and handed it to me. I sipped. A little piece of
heaven. “I had no idea Amber was an athlete.”

“You know her?”

“Yes, ma’am. She is my neighbor.”

She nodded. Knowing or polite, I couldn’t
tell. “She played it all when she was little. Soccer, basketball,
but she stuck with softball when she hit high school. She and her
father used to play catch for hours after he got home from work.
How well do you know her?”

Tough question.
Carnally?
I went with,
“We were friends. When did you find out she was missing?”

“When the police called.”

“Steven didn’t tell you?”

“No.” She frowned. There was something there,
but before I could pursue it, she said, “I already knew something
was wrong.”

“You did? How?”

Mrs. Hogan sat on one end of the couch and I
took the other. “How often do you talk to your mother?”

“Not often enough.”

“That’s the way it is with boys—at least from
what I’ve heard. Mothers and their daughters are different.”

“How often did you talk to Amber?”

“Once a day. At least.”

“When was the last time you talked to
her?”

“Sunday. Sunday morning.”

I sat the glass on the end table. “Nothing
since then?”

“No.”

“What did you talk about Sunday?”

“The usual.” She shrugged. “The weather, her
job, her sister.”

“Where do you think she went?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think she could have left
Steven?”

“I hope so. I’ve been praying for it for
years. I never did like that boy.”

“No?”

She shook her head. She had large, dangling,
silver earrings that shook with her. “He is loud and obnoxious. And
unfaithful.” Mrs. Hogan gave me a look. “We never discussed it, but
I know the marriage is on the rocks.”

“Did Amber ever indicate where she might
go?”

“Amber will always have a home here,” she
said. “But I expect she would have moved in with her sister.”

“Have you talked to her?”

A small smile. “Every day.”

“And she hasn’t heard from Amber?”

“Not since Sunday.”

“Maybe I should talk to her.”

“Maybe you should, though, I doubt she knows
anything I don’t. The three of us have always been close.”

“Sometimes siblings share things they won’t
tell anybody else,” I said. “I know I’ve told my brother and sister
things I would never tell my mother.”

“Perhaps.” She reached into her end table,
produced a pad and pen and scribbled some notes on it. “Her number,
address, and directions.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Not that I can think of.”

I gave her my card. “If you think of
anything. Anything at all.”

She walked me to the door. “Are you going to
find my daughter, Mr. Camp?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She examined me closely. “Amber was
right.”

“About what?”

“About you. There is
something
different about you. I cannot tell if it is good or bad.”

“Neither can I.” I broke eye contact and
looked out at the street. A scrawny black cat had climbed onto the
roof of my Jeep. “What do you think happened to her?”

Mrs. Hogan shuddered and closed the door.

***

I went down Rainbow Drive into Rainbow City,
turned onto Highway 77, went over another bridge and found myself
in Southside. The bedroom community had gone through some big
changes since we had come down for a high school basketball
tournament. There were now two stop lights. The highway had been
widened, a few new stores, and the high school looked to be closed,
probably a new one built somewhere else. I turned at the tiny city
hall and found the new one. This neighborhood was solid middle
class and moving up, brick ranches mostly, large, well-kept yard. I
left the Jeep on the street. No sidewalks—not even curbs. The home
was a brick split-level, a bird bath in the front lawn. The door
opened as I climbed the steps to the porch.

“You must be Beason.” Her hair was shorter
than in the pictures, strong lines, green eyes. She was in a
t-shirt and grey sweats.

“Yes, ma’am. You must be Madison.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled and gave me a mock
salute. She had a very nice smile. She held out her hand and
followed me down the short foyer. Hardwood floors, a scattering of
pictures and prints on the wall. She indicated I should sit on the
black leather couch and I complied. “Momma told me you were looking
for Amber.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She cocked a carefully shaped eyebrow. “We’re
on a first name basis, Beason. You can drop the ma’am.”

“Okay.” Her resemblance to Amber was
unmistakable. Same body type, same blond hair, same spark in the
green eyes. “You and Amber could be sisters.”

She laughed. Not a polite, ladylike laugh,
but a sincere guffaw. “She told me you were funny.”

“I’m a big hit at amateur night at the comedy
club.”

“Chickasaw Falls has a comedy club?”

“No.”

“You’re not as big as I thought you would
be.”

“No?”

“Amber always liked her men big.”

“I’ve got big feet.”

“And I know what that means.”

“Big socks?”

Another laugh. “Right.”

“Do you know where your sister is?”

A shake of the short, blond hair. “No
idea.”

“You don’t seem concerned with her
disappearance.”

“I’m not.” Madison took the remote from the
coffee table and the big screen television went silent. “Momma is
the worrying kind.”

“Do you know where she might have gone?”

“I expect she is holed up in a hotel
somewhere. She’ll turn up in a day or two.”

“Without her purse?”

She shrugged. “Husbands don’t know everything
about their wives, do they, Beason?”

Zing!

“No,” I agreed. “They do not. When was the
last time you talked to her?”

“Sunday night. She called on her way to meet
you at the hotel.”

“Do you believe she is going to leave her
husband?”

“Maybe. I think she is in the process of
working it all out.”

“Your mother doesn’t have a very good opinion
of her husband.”

“No.” She held out her hands. “Steve is…okay.
I never had a problem with him. Though, I never had to live with
him.”

“What do you believe Amber will do?”

“I expect she’ll move in with me for a little
while.”

“She’ll leave her job? In this economy?”

“It’s not that far of a drive. Besides, I’m
sure I can get her on at the hospital. Nurses and truck drivers can
always get a job.”

“You’re a nurse, too?”

“Peas in a pod, Amber and I.”

“Are you married, Madison?”

She batted her eyelashes. “Like that’s ever
stopped you before.”

I felt my face warm. “I was only wondering if
your husband would object to Amber moving in.”

She shook her head. “I’m still waiting on my
prince.”

“Big house for one person.”

Another shrug. “Seemed like a good
investment. At the time.”

“I know what you mean.”

“That fucking housing bubble.”

Somewhere a dog barked outside. “Where should
I look next?”

“Beats me,” she said. “You’re the
detective.”

Madison had that energy, that look, that
fire, that same…
something
that had pulled me into Amber like
a heat seeking missile. I stood to leave, forcing myself to cut the
interview short. I knew what that
something
could do to me.
“If you hear from her, will you have her call me? Or the
police?”

“Sure.” She rose and led me to the door.
Juicy
was scribbled across the seat of her sweats.

I took out a card and at the door said,
“Maybe you could call me, too? If you hear from her.”

“Maybe I’ll call you anyway.”

***

Madison gave me a shortcut back to 431 so I
wouldn’t have to drive back through Gadsden. I passed a dirt race
track and a home with approximately four hundred roosters tethered
to their small shelters. Cockfighting is illegal in Alabama, but
raising cocks to fight was not. If I hadn’t been going slow to
admire the beauty of the valley, I would have run pell-mell into a
speed trap.

The general rule for a good barbeque joint;
the worse a place looks from the outside, the better the food. I
found the perfect one back on the highway, closer to shack than
restaurant. Chirt parking lot, tin roof, I had to share a long
table with six others, three blue collar types elbow to elbow with
three men in ties. I ordered a sandwich, fried dill pickles and a
sweet tea. As I waited for the food, I exchanged small talk with
the others, the weather, the ongoing bingo scandal, but mostly
college football. How they did in the bowls and what we could
expect in the fall.

The sandwich came and it was all I had hoped
for. Spicy pulled pork topped with coleslaw, ranch dressing in a
plastic container to dip the pickles in. I ate half the pickles
first. The sandwich was the kind that once you picked it up, you
couldn’t put it back down. A roll of paper towels was on the table
and I put it to good use.

While I chewed and wiped away sauce, I
thought about the mysterious case of Amber Hogan Noble. The mother
was worried to death. The sister wasn’t concerned in the least. It
was obvious that this family didn’t keep secrets from one
another—both were aware of our affair. I had the feeling Amber and
Madison may have been closer than either was to their mother.
Completely understandable. I had an inkling that Madison knew
exactly where her sister was. Hence, the absence of concern. For
all I knew, Amber’s damaged car was in the garage, Amber herself
hiding upstairs or down in the basement. The mother had called, and
even if she hadn’t, all Amber needed to do was see my Jeep and
secret herself away.

If Madison wasn’t worried, then neither
should I be.

Except, I was.

I finished my lunch, left a ten on the table
and took the tea with me.

Chapter Eleven

A familiar Lexus was waiting for me in the
sock factory lot. I parked in the handicapped space and the Lexus
door popped open.

“Camp, we need to talk.”

“No, Melvin,” I said. Jenks was in his proper
bank attire, dark suit, red tie. “I don’t think we do.”

That threw him. He was unaccustomed to being
told no. “Well, we do.”