“What about you?” I said. “It looks like you’ve been here nonstop. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
He looked up at me as he went to put more paint on his roller.
“Where the hell else am I going to go? They took away my badge, you know.”
“I hear you were driving those FBI agents a little crazy.”
“The FBI can kiss my ass. They can’t touch me. But the mayor, that little spineless weasel, he kinda suggested that maybe I’d be better off taking a personal leave of absence for a while.”
“That doesn’t sound like taking away your badge.”
“Don’t be an idiot. They forced me out. Like what the hell else am I supposed to do with myself? The job is all I know anymore.”
That much was true, I thought. It was hard to imagine him doing anything else.
I watched him paint. He accidentally got some wall paint on the white ceiling and spent the next five minutes trying to fix it. He was getting more and more aggravated and I knew he’d blow up at me if I stayed there. But for some reason I knew I couldn’t leave.
What he was doing… it was something I knew so well myself. He had already cleaned the place within an inch of its life and now he was painting, and if I left him there he’d probably start knocking down the walls. Anything to change the one thing that couldn’t be changed.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” I said, “but I wonder if you’d like to help me keep my promise to Raz.”
He stopped painting. “What are you talking about?
“I’ll tell you the whole story, but first I need to use your phone.”
“For what? Who are you calling?”
“The undersheriff of Houghton County.”
An hour later, we were making our plans. We’d be leaving early the next morning and driving all the way out to Iron Mountain. A long trip with such an unlikely passenger, but we both knew it was something we needed to do. We had to see it with our own eyes, this place behind a barn in a forgotten corner of the Upper Peninsula. One more cold and lonely place where one more young man somehow decided to end his own life.
And we’re rolling…
… These are the Monster’s instruments. Pan slowly here.
… One man’s leather belt, size 38.
… One big metal spoon.
… One broom, minus the broom. Just the handle, I mean.
… Then this thing. I have no idea what this is.
… But it would probably hurt more than all the other things put together.
… If it was real.
… Good thing these are just movie props, eh?
And cut.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On a cold morning in April in this part of the world, the sun doesn’t come up until seven o’clock, so it was still dark as he came walking down his driveway and got in the truck. He was wearing a green blanket-lined parka, dungarees with extra wide cuffs, and heavy-duty work boots. Like we were about to go hunting, or maybe even go work on an oil rig. To complete the outfit, he was sporting an original Stormy Kromer hat, with the elastic band you can pull down over your ears if they get cold. I suppose it was exactly the kind of hat I would have imagined Roy Maven wearing, aside from his chief’s hat.
As he got in, I saw that he was carrying an old-school silver thermos. Probably the same one he had brought with him his first day on the job. It went perfectly with the hat and the buzz cut underneath it, not to mention the silver flip-top lighter in his hip pocket along with the Marlboro Reds.
“Good morning, Chief.” I waited until he closed the door and then I gunned it.
“You’re gonna get us killed before we even leave the Soo?”
“You can’t even write me a ticket. It must be killing you.”
“I’m only on leave, McKnight. I can still run your ass right up the flagpole.”
“Tell you what,” I said, settling down to somewhere near the speed limit. “It’s gonna be a long trip. How ’bout we try not to drive each other crazy?”
He shook his head at that and settled in for the ride. We left the city and headed due west, the sun finally starting to come up behind us. When we hit the main highway, he opened up his thermos. The cab of the truck was filled with the aroma of strong black coffee. He filled up the cap of the thermos and then put that in the cup holder. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a travel mug. He filled it with more coffee and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I don’t know how good it is. My wife usually makes it for me.”
“Have you talked to her since she went over to-where was it again?”
“Amsterdam. That’s where they’ll be this week, anyway. I think they’re going to Germany next.”
“That sounds great.”
“Yeah, I talked to her, to answer your question. She sounded tired. But Olivia is with her, so it’s all good.”
“Olivia, that’s your daughter.”
He nodded. We rode for another full minute before he spoke again.
“She’s thirty years old now. She had kind of a rough patch for a while. Just got out of a bad marriage. Finally. So she decided to go travel around for a while.”
“No grandkids?”
“No, not yet. There’s still time.”
We were sounding like two human beings actually talking to each other. The first of many surprises we’d run into that day. I headed out to Newberry and it was starting to feel like the trip I had just made a week before to Houghton. This time, instead of that ruler-straight shot across the UP, we cut south and headed down toward Lake Michigan, passing through a string of small towns along the southern coast. Gulliver, Manistique, Thompson, and Cooks, places I hardly ever had any reason to see. As we drove, I gave him all the details from my two phone calls.
“The undersheriff was very helpful,” I said. “He didn’t understand why I’d want to know more about this other suicide, but I just told him I had a gut feeling that I wanted to follow up on. That was enough for him. He gave me the man’s name and number. Donald Steele. He’s a sergeant in the state police, stationed at the Iron Mountain post.”
“So you talked to him next?”
“Well, I called, but he wasn’t at the post. I gave the guy on the phone the undersheriff’s name, told him he had sent me, and he was nice enough to give me Sergeant Steele’s home number. Steele wasn’t at home either, but I talked to his wife. I wasn’t so sure about pressing her for details. I mean, it’s only been a couple of months since it happened, but she seemed to want to talk to somebody about it. So I just listened.”
“Another kid kills himself. Two more parents going through God knows what. I can’t imagine and I hope I never have to.”
“I hope so, too.”
“You don’t have any kids, McKnight.”
“I was talking about you,” I said. Thinking, okay, here we go, so much for talking like two human beings. “I’m hoping you never have to live through something like that.”
