P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Duane wanted to go to college,” Bjork said.

“College?” Louis said.

“Yeah. He applied to Tech but didn’t get in. Couple months later he got arrested, joyriding with some older kids in a stolen car. Judge told Lacey to shape up or he was headed for jail. Recommended he join the service.”

“Lacey have a juvenile record?”

“Yeah, but it’s sealed.”

Louis nodded. “Judges think if parents can’t straighten a kid out, the service will.”

“Well, all I know is we were glad he was somebody else’s problem for a change,” Bjork said, swinging the Jeep down a side street. “He was gone for eight years, on and off. Then one day, I saw him in town, standing outside the Rexall. He was discharged but still wearing his uniform, boots, the whole shot. He wore his fatigues and hair shaved off for months.”

“Lots of vets were raw around the edges,” Louis said.

Bjork shook her head. “It was more than that. Duane was always weird but he was downright creepy when he got back. Always talking about how the government was screwing everybody over.” Bjork glanced over at him. “I mean, lots of folks around here feel the same way, that their freedoms are being chipped away and they want authority off their backs.”

She shook her head again. “But Duane seemed to take it personal. I remember one day he walked into the post office, cut up his driver’s license and social security card and threw the pieces at the poor woman behind the desk.”

“Was he ever involved in any organized anti-government groups?” Louis asked.

“He joined the Michigan Militia. But we keep an eye on them and they’re pretty harmless,” Bjork said. “They sit in their trucks, get tanked up on beer and bitch a lot. But next morning, they go back to work with hangovers and forget about it.”

“And Lacey?”

Bjork shrugged. “Not enough action for him. He dropped out after six months.” Bjork slowed the Jeep. “This is it.”

Louis looked up. It was a narrow, two-story, gray-shingled house, just like all the others. There were peeling wooden flower boxes beneath the front small windows, tendrils of dead plants snaking out through the snow. As he got out of the Jeep, Louis peered around the side of the house. No red truck.

“We checked the house this morning when we heard the BOLO but Lacey wasn’t here,” Bjork said. “Since then, we’ve had Dennis down there keeping an eye out. Lacey hasn’t shown up.”

As Louis closed his door, he saw a Jeep sitting a block down the snowy road.

Bjork trudged to the porch through knee-high drifts and knocked hard on the door.

“Have you spoken to his mother?” Louis asked, following.

“Usually she’s three sheets to the wind. Maybe we’ll have better luck hitting her this early in the day.”

Bjork banged again and the thin curtain in the small window moved slightly. “It’s okay, Mrs. Cronk, it’s just me,” Bjork called.

The door cracked and a pale single eye, embedded in shriveled skin, peeked out at them.

“Cops again?”

Bjork opened the screen and gently pushed against the wood door. Millie Cronk moved backward and let them enter.

The house was dark as a cave and smelled of stale liquor and cigarettes. Dust and smoke floated in a ray of yellow light from a torn window shade.

Millie was small, a humped shadowy figure huddled near the bottom step of a long, steep staircase. The top disappeared into darkness. Bjork reached in front of Louis and flipped on a switch. A weak overhead lamp lit up the foyer. Millie withdrew like a mole unused to sunshine.

“You sober today, Millie?” Bjork asked. “I need to talk to you about Duane.”

Millie’s lip curled and she shuffled off toward the living room, her hand on the wall. They followed her and Bjork flipped up the torn shade, flooding the room in sunlight.

Louis glanced around. The tables were old mahogany stuff that almost looked valuable, except for the glass rings and dust that covered them. Millie’s couch was, what, green, maybe? It was covered in frayed afghans and doilies yellow with nicotine stains.

Louis forced his attention back to Millie. She had slumped down on the couch, her hands clasped between her knees. A cotton housedress, splashed with ugly daisies, hung over her knees. She had on calf-high stockings and dirty pink fur slippers with little pig snouts and plastic eyes.

She combed her bleached hair with shaking fingers. She looked up, her eyes slithering to Louis’s face. “Who’s he?”

“He’s from down under, Millie. He’s looking for Duane.”

“What’s he done now?” She asked. Her voice was husky, scarred with years of smoke and booze.

“Officer Kincaid thinks Duane might have caused some trouble there and he just wants to ask you some questions, ya know?” Bjork said.

Millie raked her hair. “I don’t like cops. Never did.”

“Millie…” Bjork said

“Why can’t you just leave him alone? Why ya always gotta cause him trouble?”

Louis had to remind himself this was Lacey’s mother. She was entitled to believe he was harmless.

“Mrs. Lacey — ” Louis began.

“Cronk!” Millie spat. “My name is Cronk. I ain’t been a Lacey in years.”

“I’m sorry. We need to find your son. If we can locate him peacefully, no one will get hurt.”

“Peaceful…right,” Millie said with a sneer. She turned and reached for a pack of Pall Malls on the end table. A book of matches slid to the floor and Bjork picked them up. She took one look and passed them to Louis. The front said: Jo-Jo’s Tavern, Loon Lake, MI.

“When’s the last time Duane was home, can you tell us that?” Bjork asked.

Millie sucked on her cigarette, her gray skin pulling over her high cheekbones. “Last Tuesday or Wednesday,” she said, smoke drifting from her mouth as she talked. “It was, no, wait, about a week before Christmas. He came home ‘bout the first of the month and stayed ‘til…hell, I don’t know. Days get mixed up, ya know?”

“He left around the first of December?” Louis asked.

“’Round then, ya.”

“Where did he go?” Louis asked.

“Don’t you know?” Millie asked.

Louis stared at her. She had the same weird eyes as Lacey, only hers were clouded with cataracts, more milky than watery.

“He don’t tell me things, ya know?” Millie went on. “He was gone a coupla days. When he got back he started drinking and talking about things that made no sense, ya know?”

Louis stepped forward. “What did he say?”

Millie glanced around the room. Bjork watched her then went to the tiny kitchen, returning with a bottle of Beefeater’s Gin. She set it loudly on the end table.

Millie picked it up and twisted off the cap. She looked back at Bjork. “What? Ya think I got no class?”

Louis saw a glass on the coffee table and reached down to take the bottle from Millie. He poured her half a glass and handed it back.

Millie looked up at him. “I ain’t never had no black man in my house before.”

Louis glanced at Bjork, who rolled her eyes.

“Mrs. Cronk, did your son say anything when he got back from his trip?” Louis repeated.

“He was talking about things not goin’ right. He said it was all fucked up. All fucked up.”

Louis frowned. “Did he say anything else? Mention any names?”

“No, no, said he needed to think things out.” She gave a little snort. “Like he could think straight. He ain’t been right in the head since…since, shit, who knows?”

“Did he take anything with him when he left?” Louis asked.

Millie’s eyes were closed.

“Mrs. Cronk?” Louis said.

“What?”

“Did your son take anything with him when he left here?”