Timothy Johnston - The Current

What? she said.

You leave Marky alone.

He saw the change in her eyes—the moment when play, teasing, fell away.

I was just kidding, she said.

I’m not.

She stared at him, and he saw the meanness coming. But ahead of it came the tears.

Like I’d let either of you retards kiss me, she said, and turned and ran—flat-out ran from him through the woods, and he’d stood watching her go, her red girl’s coat, her red knit cap, her winter boots kicking up snow, until she was nothing but small bursts of red in all that thickness of green and white.

THE TRUCK SHRUGGED itself from the snow and rocked back onto the road and it was flinging snow to its undercarriage when he heard what sounded like a good-size rock striking the inside of the wheelwell, and he thought nothing about that, or even about the flash of light he thought he’d seen from deep in the trees, just a small splash of light in the darkness, until an instant later when his heart, his whole body jolted with fear and he ducked down low and floored the truck—all four tires shuddering in the tracks, and there was no one coming on the road ahead and he barreled down it cutting the turns so close to the snowbanks he sheared them off with the side of the truck, and when he reached the end of the park he didn’t slow down, he blew through the stop sign and the truck skated almost broadside to the road before the wheels caught and the truck heaved into line with the road, and he sped away down the county road with an oncoming car pulling over to give him room, this maniac, and his heart was pounding and all his blood was ice but there was no one coming, no one following, and after a mile or maybe two he eased off the gas and he remembered to shift back to two-wheel drive and he was all right, he wasn’t shot, he was all right.

HE DID NOT stop, did not pull over to look at the truck.

He thought of calling 911 or even driving to the police station but he had a vision of getting out of the truck and finding nothing there, no bullet hole, and the cops wanting to see his ID and looking him up, Daniel Young—that Daniel Young? and as he thought through these scenarios, and others, he arrived, as if suddenly, at the farmhouse and he slowed down well before he reached the drive, because parked just before it on the side of the road was a car—his own headlights picking up the rear lenses first, then the barlights on the roof, and lastly shaping out the man who sat behind the wheel—and his first thought was that there had been some report, that already they knew about the shot in the park and the officer had been dispatched to meet him.

But that made no sense—and anyway why wouldn’t the officer pull into the drive and knock on the door?

Then he understood, and he knew that he should not pass the officer and pull into the drive himself, but should instead pull over behind the cruiser and put the truck in park, turn off his lights, and wait, just sit there and wait, and he did each of these things in turn and only then, after perhaps another full minute, did the door of the cruiser open and the man step out putting on his hat and begin his walk to the truck, and Danny knew him before he put on the hat and before he stepped out of the cruiser even.

The deputy carried no flashlight this time and he walked up to the truck with no caution at all, his hands loose at his sides, and when he reached the window he stood square to it and put his hands in his jacket pockets and he was already shaking his head before the window was down.

“I was hoping I had the wrong information,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t pull in here tonight but had gone back to wherever you came from.”

“I’m just here to see my family, Deputy.”

“That’s Sheriff, buddy,” he said, tapping his badge.

It was an Iowa badge, Danny saw. “Have I done something wrong?”

“You mean other than coming back here? I don’t know. Have you?”

“No, sir. In fact I think someone just took a potshot at me.”

“A potshot? What do you mean a potshot?”

“It sounded like my truck got hit by a bullet.”

“Sounded like.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t get out and see?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want to get shot.”

“Where was it?”

“I think in the back there,” he said and thumbed toward the truckbed.

“I mean where did it happen.”

“In the park.”

“Henry Sibley Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

The deputy—sheriff—stared at him. Danny could see the smug look in his eye and he thought, Go ahead and say it, smart guy: What were you doing in there this time?

But Moran didn’t say it. He stopped himself, and said instead: “Did you have your cell phone on you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be sure about it first.”

Moran shook his head again. “Well, come on out of there and let’s get sure about it.” He stepped back and Danny got out and walked to the back of the truck looking, running his bare hand over the fender, over the tailgate, while Moran followed along with his Mini MagLite, roving the little spot here and there. When Danny got to the opposite side of the truckbed he found it right away—a neat quarter-size indentation in the rear fender just above the wheelwell, a hole at its center not quite big enough for the tip of his index finger.

Moran leaned in with his light. The paint had chipped away, leaving a clean ring of bare metal around the hole. He put his finger to it and felt around as if this would tell him something.

“That’s a potshot all right,” he said. “Looks like a .30-30, wouldn’t you say?”

Danny couldn’t say. The only gun he knew was Cousin Jer’s Remington 20-gauge, and the only load they used was birdshot.

“Deer rifle, I expect,” said Moran. He stood and put his thin beam into the truckbed. “Didn’t come through here.” He got down on one knee on the pavement and put the beam up under the truck. “No telling what it hit under there or where it went but it’s for sure gone now.”

He stood again slapping the grit from his knee. He doused the MagLite and restored it to its place on his belt and then stood looking at the bullet hole.

“I guess the deer don’t have much to worry about from this feller, do they,” he said.

Danny said nothing.

“Else he’s a crack shot and was just trying to tell you something. That’s a possibility too. Pretty good one, maybe, right about now.”

“Right about now?” said Danny.

Moran turned to him. “You think I’m up here on a social visit?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t, huh.”

“No, sir.”

“You wouldn’t know about Sheriff Sutter’s daughter going into the river with that other girl?”

“I heard about it.”

“You and everyone else. That’s my investigation, buddy. My witness. I got no other reason to be up here.”

Danny was silent. Moran staring at him.

“But then a man told me you were in town and I thought, now there’s a curious piece of timing, all things considered.”

He stared at Danny. Danny said, “I’m just here to see my family.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Moran turned to look at the house and Danny did too. Light in the downstairs windows and in one upstairs window. Marky’s room. Getting ready for bed. Moran sucked at something in his teeth and said, “Question is, are you doing them any favors.”

Danny stared at his profile. “Not sure I follow you, Officer.”

Moran looked at him. Then he turned back to the truck and he seemed to study the bullet hole once more. “No, sir,” he said. “I expect this was just some gomer out in the park with one too many beers under the belt, thinking he could poach him a deer maybe, and instead decided to put one in your fender just for shits and giggles.”