Too Close to Home

Drew Lockus had already finished one sandwich, and reached into his bag for a second. “I guess we all have to die of something.” He bit hurriedly into his second sandwich.

“Take your time,” I said. “We don’t have to rush. It’s good to recharge the batteries a bit, especially in this heat.”

“Sorry,” Drew said, chewing steadily. “I guess I eat kind of fast.”

“So what kind of work have you been doing?”

“Small engine repair, machine shop work, that kind of thing,” Drew said. “But like I said, I haven’t been working all that much lately. When my mom took sick, I came up here to look after her.”

“Your father, he still alive?”

“No, he died a long time ago. Heart attack.”

“That’s too bad. Brothers, sisters?”

“Just me.”

“That’s tough, when there’s no one else to share the load.” I drank some water. “Married?”

“Not anymore,” Drew said. “Long time ago. And we lived together. Not actually married.”

“Kids?”

Drew hesitated before answering. “Same deal. Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” I said again. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

“That’s okay,” Drew said. “Fact is, I haven’t had a very happy life. And I don’t see it going in a direction where it’s going to get any better.”

At first I thought, great, I’ve found the perfect guy to cheer me up. But then I saw it from his point of view. With all the troubles he seemed to have, he had to go and get hired by the one person who might actually have, at least for the moment, even more.

Maybe my dilemmas would give him something to be thankful for. It could be worse. Or, I could end up bringing him down even further.

We both enjoyed the breeze for a moment without talking. Then Drew said, “How are things with your son?”

I took a sip of water. “They could be better,” I said. “I’m just hoping that, once we start gathering some more information, the police will realize they’ve made a mistake, drop the charges.”

“Prison,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not a good place to be.”

“No,” I said, weighing the meaning behind his comment. “You sound as though you’re speaking from some experience.”

“Like I said,” Drew reminded me, “I haven’t had a very happy life. Sometime, maybe I’ll tell you about it, when you feel like being bored.” He paused, then said, “I notice you looking upriver a lot.”

“I was just looking at Promise Falls,” I said. Watching the water come down, the white foam and mist rising up from the bottom, bordered on hypnotic.

“Pretty,” Drew said.

“Yeah,” I said, picturing Brett Stockwell going over the railing that spanned the falls.

I could see it. The boy falling, his body hitting the rocks below.

That wasn’t all I saw. Back up there, on the bridge, I imagined Conrad Chase looking down, waving goodbye, a smile on his face, all his problems solved.

Driving out of the downtown, we passed by the Clover Restaurant, an upscale place where you could get a nice dinner for two if you had an extra hundred bucks, maybe lunch for half that. What caught my eye as we drove past the parking lot was a Mazda sedan, just like Ellen’s.

“Looks like my wife’s car,” I said, slowing. I glanced at the license plate, saw that it was indeed her car. “Maybe she’s having a meeting with Derek’s lawyer, maybe I should-”

I spotted another familiar car just as I was about to turn into the lot. A silver Audi TT, parked half a dozen cars down from Ellen’s.

I wrenched the wheel back, kept on going.

“What?” said Drew. “You want to pop in, I don’t mind waiting in the truck.”

“I was wrong,” I said. “Not her car.”

A couple of hours later, standing by the truck, getting ready to unload the Deere, my cell rang. I put it to my ear so quickly I didn’t have a chance to look at the readout and see who it was from.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jimmy, I hear you were in the building. You should have dropped by and said hello.”

Mayor Randall Finley.

“Sorry,” I said. “Delia said you were in a meeting with your campaign strategist.”

“Yeah, Maxine Woodrow. She’s a real looker, plus she’s got brains. Not the sort of combination I’m typically attracted to.” He laughed.

“What can I do for you, Randy?”

“Listen,” he said, “Lance had to take a sick day because you knocked half his face off. It wasn’t that bad, I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow, but Jesus, I really wish you wouldn’t do that kind of thing. Fucks things up for me.”

“I had a score to settle,” I said.

“I don’t doubt it. There’s days I wouldn’t mind taking a frying pan to his head myself. What did you use, anyway? Delia said you had a watering can with you.”

“That’s right.”

“Fucking hell. Now the lefties will want everyone to register their watering cans. All I wanted to say is, if you’re in a pissing match with Lance, don’t do it in my sandbox. Understand what I’m saying?”

“I hear ya,” I said.

“You ever think maybe you have a bit of a problem? You keep things all bottled up, you talk in monosyllables, then every once in a while you just explode.” A chortling noise. “Nobody knows better than me.”

“I’ll join a group.”

“There’s the spirit.” Then, adopting a softer tone, “Hey, Cutter, about your kid.”

“Yeah.”