P. Parrish - South Of Hell

“Mostly the first, a little of the second.”

Shockey gave Joe a quick, appraising look, then turned back to Louis. “Folks in those towns out there will talk to a sheriff.”

He nodded to Joe. “Just let her flash her badge.”

The school in Hell was a three-story, red brick building. To the right was a playground, to the left a football field. There were a bunch of screaming kids on the swings and a squad of teenage boys running sprints on the field. The two contrasting stretches of grass were testament to the school’s service to students from kindergarten to high school.

“Got your badge out?” Louis asked.

Joe glanced at him and led the way into the school’s dim lobby. At the door stenciled with the word office, Louis held the door open so Joe could go in first.

A woman with winged glasses and a thick cardigan sweater rose from a desk to greet them. While Joe introduced herself, Louis looked around. Beyond the windows, he could see the football field’s scoreboard, one of those old hang-the-numbers kinds, with a cut-out of a roaring lion mounted on top.

The secretary’s voice drew him back to her.

“Amy Brandt?” the woman said. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard the name. Do you know what grade she would have been in?”

“Old enough to have a wagon and young enough to still want to play with it,” Joe said.

They waited while the woman rifled through a file cabinet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have no Amy Brandt.”

Louis had the thought that maybe Amy might be a middle name or a nickname. “Do you have any Brandts?” he asked.

The woman reached back into the drawer and pulled out two folders. “I have a Geneva and an Owen.”

“May we see Owen’s?” Louis asked.

The secretary came back to the counter and started to hand the file to Joe. Louis intercepted it and flipped it open. He had no idea what could be in there that could be of any use, but he wanted to look.

The first paper was a history of Owen Brandt’s time in school. He started kindergarten in 1953, missed a year in 1962, and finally dropped out in the tenth grade.

Louis sifted through the rest. Report cards, heavy with D’s and F’s, teachers’ notes, class schedules, and a list of family contacts.

“Geneva was his older sister,” he said to Joe.

Joe was flipping through Geneva’s file. “I know. Nothing important in her file. Mediocre grades, lots of absences. Looks like she left school at sixteen.”

Louis found a form titled “Disciplinary History.” It was filled with the handwriting of teachers, starting in grade school: fighting, insubordination, fighting, truancy.

“Look at these,” Louis said, sliding the paper to Joe.

Age ten. Owen hit Mary Jane Wilson in her face with his fist. Suspended three days. Age fourteen. Owen tore Betsy Miller’s blouse. Sheriff Potts called. Suspended three weeks.

“I have a feeling that was more than a torn blouse,” Joe said.

Louis nodded. He closed the file and handed it back to the secretary. Joe thanked her, and they left the school. As they walked across the parking lot, Louis fell a few paces behind. Joe turned to look back at him when she reached the Bronco.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Sorry about that remark about you having your badge ready,” he said.

“No problem.”

“It was just the hangover talking.”

“Forget it,” Joe said. “Where do you want to go now?”

“I want to talk to some people in town,” he said. “Just because the kid never made it to school doesn’t mean she didn’t exist.”

He counted seven buildings in Hell. On one side of County Road D32 stood a general store, a Marathon gas station, the Brimstone Cafe, and a souvenir shop called the Devil’s Lair. On the other side of the blacktop road was the Tree Top Tavern, a real estate office that doubled as a doughnut shop, and a second souvenir store called Lucifer’s. Halloween costumes, mostly devils, hung in the window. Near the door sat a barrel of plastic pitchforks.

“These people are scary,” Joe said as she climbed out of the Bronco.

Louis closed his door and looked around, a small memory kicking in: passing through this place on one of his foster father Phillip’s long Sunday drives. He’d been about eleven and wanted to stop and get a devil mask. His foster mother, Frances, was a little sharp as she told him she wouldn’t hear of it. It had taken him years to figure out that it had nothing to do with him but everything to do with the crucifix that hung over her bed.

Louis pulled the picture of Owen Brandt from his pocket, and they went inside the Devil’s Lair.

The old place was packed to its wood rafters. Shelves of T-shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with i’ve been to hell and back. Racks of Halloween costumes. Counters heaped with red coffee mugs, plastic skulls, bobble-head devils, and hats printed with flames.

The middle-aged guy behind the register was bagging up some shirts for a woman. Louis waited until she was gone, then introduced himself.

The man seemed impressed by the fact that there was a real private investigator in his store. “My name’s Harry,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

Louis showed him Brandt’s photo. “Do you know this man?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s Owen Brandt.”

“You know much about him?” Louis asked.

“Haven’t seen him for years,” Harry said. “He used to come into town once in a while. Buy some gas or groceries. Big, friendly guy.”

Louis held out the picture of Jean Brandt. He had cut off the missing persons part of the bulletin, leaving only her face.

“You ever see him with this woman?” Louis asked.

Harry peered at the photo and started to shake his head, but a memory hit him. “Oh, yeah, I did,” he said. “One time, maybe 1977 or so. We were all sitting over at the Brimstone having coffee, and Owen pulled up. He came inside, but she stayed in the truck. I could see her pretty good because we were in the window booth.”

“Was she alone in the truck?” Louis asked.

“Far as I could tell,” Harry said. “I remember thinking how strange it was for Owen to leave her out there in the cold while he came in and ate himself a nice hot breakfast.”

Louis picked up the two pictures.

“In fact,” Harry went on, “I remember that same winter, Fred from over at the gas station drove down to deliver Owen some firewood. Normally, Owen chopped his own or came and picked it up, but his truck was broke or something.”

“What happened?” Louis asked.

“Fred said he started to help Owen unload the wood,” Harry said. “But Owen told him never mind, and he got the woman from inside the house to come help him. It was freezing cold, and Fred said Owen made that woman make all these trips back and forth carrying logs that weighed more than she did.”

“Did you ever see a child with Owen Brandt?” Louis asked.

Harry’s brow rose in surprise. “A child? No.”

“This Fred fellow from the gas station, did he mention seeing a child?”

Harry shook his head. “He would’ve, too, because later that night at the bar, we all talked about how crappy it was to make that woman work like that.”

“Thank you,” Louis said.

He went back through the store, but Joe was gone. He stepped outside to see her coming out of the cafe, carrying two Styrofoam cups. She met him at the rear end of the Bronco and gave him one.

“You find out anything over there?” he asked.

“Just that people here liked Owen Brandt, as far as they knew him,” she said. “No one ever saw a child with him.”

“I want to try the places across the street,” Louis said.

Joe let out a small, frustrated sigh. He knew she thought this was a waste of time, but he didn’t say anything as he started across the road.