The More They Disappear (22 page)

Harlan stood there gawping like a fish. “Looks like you got competition,” the man next to him said. Harlan couldn't manage a response. He shouldn't have been surprised. When was the last time a Mattock hadn't been sheriff? And people would vote for Lewis. Some would vote for him because his daddy had died and some because he'd installed their security systems and others because they'd spent so long voting Mattock it was second nature.

Harlan slipped away quick and made for the back door of the courthouse, climbed the stairs to the judge's chambers, and stepped into Wesley Craycraft's office only to find himself in the company of Lewis Mattock's father-in-law. “Harlan,” the judge crowed. “Come on in.” A bottle of Basil Hayden's sat on the desk between the men. Craycraft motioned to it. “Have a drink.” Craycraft pointed Harlan toward a second chair next to Trip Gaines, who was holding a glass of water.

“I'm on duty,” Harlan said.

“Oh, come on,” the judge whined. “That never would have stopped Lew. Besides, Trip here is a teetotaler and I don't want to drink alone. It makes me feel self-conscious.”

“All right,” Harlan said. “Pour me a taste.”

“Did you happen to catch Lewis's speech?” Gaines asked.

Craycraft poured a double and handed it over. “I did.” Harlan sat up straight so that he could look down on the doctor. “It was short and to the point.”

“I hope you don't take it personally.”

Harlan didn't like the smug look on Gaines's face, but he tried not to let it show. “It's just politics.”

“That's right,” Gaines said. “It's just politics.”

“And of course I'm neutral,” Craycraft chimed in. “Let the people decide. Democracy and all that.” He raised a glass. “To the union,” he said.

Gaines lifted his glass of water. “I'd hoped to toast to my son-in-law but the union will have to do.”

“And justice,” Harlan added.

“And justice,” Craycraft cried, as if he'd been dipping into the bottle all day.

Gaines downed his water and set the glass on the desk. “Gentlemen, I have patients to see. Wesley, it was a pleasure.” He shook hands with the judge, then put his hand out for Harlan. “Sheriff, I wish you luck. May the best man win.”

Harlan waited for the door to shut and turned to Craycraft. “What was that about?”

“That's my business, Harlan.” Wesley pulled back the metal ball of a desk ornament and let it go. The ball was at one end of five, and when it crashed against its neighbors, the ball on the other end swung up. “But if you must know, Trip asked me to support Lewis in the election.” The clinking ornament sounded out like a metronome, the two spheres flying up and down, up and down. “Like I said, I'm neutral. I won't be supporting either of you publicly. Of course, I'd rather Lewis had come to ask me himself.”

“Well, I'm not here to ask for your endorsement,” Harlan said.

“Oh, thank God.”

“I'm following up with witnesses from the barbeque.”

“Official business, then.” Craycraft reached out a hand and stilled the desk ornament. “You know,” he said, “ever since it happened, I've been wracking my brain to come up with someone who'd want to hurt Lew.”

“And?”

“I don't enforce the law for a reason. I couldn't think of a single person. Everyone liked Lew. He was always good for a laugh.” Harlan nodded. The Lew Mattock he knew could make people laugh but only at someone else's expense. “My guess is that some criminal he locked up came back for revenge.”

“So I've been told.”

“It's the only plausible explanation.”

“I guess I'm not sure Lew wasn't mixed up in things he shouldn't have been.” Harlan leaned forward and set the silver balls back in motion. “Maybe Lew put his hand in the wrong man's pocket or asked the wrong person for a favor.”

Craycraft wrinkled his brow and poured himself another drink, swirled the remaining cubes in his glass. “I heard you had that idiot judge over in Mason County sign a subpoena for Lew's bank records. I'd have been more than happy to do that for you, Harlan.”

“I'll remember that.”

“It's just a matter of trust.”

Craycraft put his feet on the desk, though his legs barely reached. Harlan never realized he was so short. In fact, he'd never considered Craycraft much at all. He just was. The judge. The man who'd let Doyle Chapman out of jail. Harlan wanted desperately to confront Craycraft about it but he bit his tongue. “I need a warrant to search Lingg Pedersen's premises for guns,” he said.

“The farmer?”

“That's the one.”

“What do you have on him?”

“He bribed Lew but the check bounced, so Lew settled for a couple prime heifers.”

“Bribed him why?”

“To get his son off in court.”

Craycraft removed his feet from the desk and leaned closer. “That little pissant pothead?”

Harlan nodded.

“Why would Lingg bribe Lew? That doesn't make sense. It's my court.”

“Good question. Here's what I know: Lew wrote a letter to you on behalf of Adam, Lingg paid him for the favor, and a couple weeks later Adam's charged was reduced.”

“Hold on,” Craycraft said. “Lew wrote me hundreds of letters about defendants, and I humored his desire to be part of the process, but I never decided a case based on what Lew Mattock or anyone else wanted. So if you want to come into my office and question my integrity, at least have the decency not to drink my fucking bourbon.”

“Why'd you reduce the charge on the Pedersen kid?”

“If I remember correctly, he was caught with some pot. It was his third offense—maybe he had a couple DUIs—so he was going to do hard time if I didn't reduce the charge. Now how would that help a kid like him? Being locked up with rapists and murderers? I gave him another shot and haven't seen him since, so maybe it worked.” Wesley shook his head. “Now do you still want a warrant to search the Pedersen place?”

Harlan nodded. “I do.”

“Okay. But let me be clear. If Lew was earning on the side, I wasn't part of it.”

“And if I wanted to look at your bank records?”

“I'd sign the subpoena myself.” Craycraft came out from behind the desk and took Harlan's elbow in his stubby fingers. “Now, let me show you out.” He led Harlan to the door. “And don't go asking that mulligan-lover Smoot for any more favors. At least let me do my job.”

*   *   *

When Lewis showed up at his mother's to share the news of his candidacy, he was surprised to discover the Plymouth sitting in the driveway like a snapshot from the past. As far as he knew, the station wagon hadn't been driven in years, but now, moving between the wayback and the yard with an armload of plants, was a man in a flannel shirt and mesh cap. A fifties doo-wop song drifted from the windows, but his mother was nowhere to be seen.

Lewis had spent half his childhood riding passenger-side in the Plymouth. His short legs always struggled to touch the floor and he'd slipped the seat belt's upper strap behind him so it didn't rub against his neck, but he remembered those days fondly nonetheless. His own daughters rode in car seats in the back, and Lewis often wished they could sit in the front with him and watch the world pass by. It made him sad to think that Ginny and Stella were forever staring into headrests.

His mother had loved driving. She'd let her hair loose and sing along to a worn-out tape of the Everly Brothers, drumming the beat on the steering wheel while serenading the straightaways.
Love is strange, yeah-eeh-yeah
. Even after his father leased a new car for his mother, she wouldn't let go of the station wagon. Keeping the Plymouth in the garage was the one thing she put her foot down about.

Above the crooning of the speakers, Lewis heard his mother call from the porch. “What's going on?” he asked, stepping out.

“We're planting a garden.”

“You're planting a garden
today
?”

“I always wanted to … I just never—I put it off too long.”

“It's almost November,” he said. “None of this is even going to bloom.”

“Don't be shortsighted, Lewis. It'll bloom next year. The man at Home Depot said a garden is a lifelong project.”

“Sounds like he was trying to make a sale.”

Mabel shrugged. “You sure look nice.” He was still wearing his suit from the campaign announcement. Sophie's father had called in favors and a sizable crowd showed up. The editor of the newspaper even took photos and interviewed him.

The man helping his mother finished unloading the wagon and came over to them. His face was pockmarked and he had a gold cap on one tooth. “Mrs. Mabel,” he said softly.

“Oh, it's just Mabel, Bonito.” She turned to Lewis. “Lewis, this is Bonito. That means ‘handsome' in Spanish.” She gestured to Bonito. “Bonito, this is Lewis.
Mi hijo
.”

Bonito gave Lewis an awkward wave hello.

“Give us a moment,” Mabel said to Lewis and led Bonito to an assortment of plants. “I think we should put
las rosas
here.” She made a circle with her arms in front of the leggy shrubs that bordered the front steps.
“Uno, dos, tres,”
she said, stomping her foot three times before walking to the other side of the steps and repeating herself.
“Uno, dos, tres.”
Bonito nodded. “
Nada
grass,” she said.

“
Sí
. No grass,” Bonito replied and picked up a worn spade from a pile of tools.

Some of the tools still had their price tags attached, and when Lewis pointed out that Bonito wasn't using the new shovel, his mother said, “Oh, I didn't buy those. Your father claimed he was going to plant a vegetable garden one year.” She glanced over. “Besides, I'm sure Bonito knows best.”

Lewis was oddly unsettled by his mother's newfound love of gardening; it didn't seem rational. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she might have to sell the house; maybe by planting new flowers she thought she was deepening her hold on the place. Lewis searched for some logic she'd understand. “I think it's … I mean, isn't it strange to plant a new garden so soon after Dad's funeral?”

“Is it?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“I guess I don't know all the rules about planting a garden. And I certainly don't know all the rules about dead husbands.”

“I'm worried about you, Mom.”

“Hold on,” Mabel said. “I forgot the compost.”

She walked back to Bonito and waved for him to stop.
“Muy bueno,”
she said, toeing the freshly turned earth. He smiled. “Remember the good dirt.” She pointed to a couple of bags and gave a thumbs-up. Bonito mirrored the gesture.

“Bonito doesn't speak much English,” she explained to Lewis. “And I don't really speak Spanish. Just little bits like ‘hello' or ‘good.'”

“Wouldn't you rather relax and read a book?” Lewis asked. “Isn't this a lot of work?”

“This is my house now and I don't want to relax,” Mabel said. “I want to do some gardening.” Her voice started to rise like one of his daughters before they threw a fit. “I've been bored a long time, Lewis. I drove that Plymouth today and—”

“That's another thing, are you sure—”

“And I put the windows down and I listened to the stereo and I felt young again. It drives like a dream.”

“Is it safe?”

“Listen to that stereo.” Mabel took Lewis's hands and did a couple of shuffle steps while Bonito poured compost onto the dirt. “Let's go look at the soil,” she said. “The man at Home Depot said roses like clay soil.” Each turn of Bonito's spade brought up a mix of red and brown. With the black compost, it looked to Lewis like a finger painting Ginny might make for him to hang on the fridge.

“Perfecto,”
Mabel said, taking a handful and letting it slip through her fingers. Then she whispered to Lewis, “Let's make Bonito lemonade.”

“I didn't ask you how you met Bonito,” Lewis said as they walked inside.

“At the Home Depot in Flemingsburg. This teenager was loading my plants like an ogre, so Bonito came over to help. I managed to tell him I needed an assistant. I think I mimed digging and he nodded, so here we are. He didn't ask about pay, but I'll be generous. I've never been an employer.” She plunked a cylinder of concentrate into a pitcher and handed Lewis a slotted spoon. “So what brings you here all dressed up?” she asked. “Besides putting a wrinkle in my garden plans?”

“I'm running for sheriff,” Lewis said. It came out matter-of-fact, like it was no news at all.

“Is that right?”

“I talked it over with Sophie. She thinks it's a good idea. John Tyler can run the security business without me.” Lewis tried to think of other reasons. “I think it's time for a change, and it would be good to give back to the community.” He paused. “What do you think?”

“If you think that's for the best.”

“Do you think I'd be good at it?”

“I think you'd make a better sheriff than your father.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I said. You'd make a better sheriff.” She hesitated. “But you'll have to run against Harlan Dupee.”

“I'm not worried about that. You know Dad didn't think highly of him.”

“I wouldn't judge a man before you walk in his shoes. Harlan was actually over here yesterday; he wanted to know if I'd noticed anything strange before your father died. I told him about our meeting with Jim. I got the sense he thought it was useful.”

“Maybe for the election,” Lewis said. “He can use Dad's gambling against me.”

Mabel took Lewis's stirring hand in hers. “That lemonade looks ready,” she said. Lewis looked down. Some of the juice had sloshed onto the counter. “I don't think Harlan's built that way. Besides, he's not your enemy. He's trying to find the person who shot your dad. Don't forget that part.” She grabbed the pitcher and a glass and walked outside.