Timothy Johnston - The Current

“Let me ask you something,” he said.

“All right.”

“When you came to see me, why didn’t you tell me about Danny Young going out to talk to Gordon Burke? Why didn’t you tell me about that piece of cloth?”

Audrey was silent, filling in the blanks: Katie Goss had told him about Danny Young and Gordon Burke. About the piece of cloth.

What else had she told him?

“Did you hear me?” said the sheriff.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I guess I figured you needed to hear it from Danny himself.”

Halsey watched her. He seemed to be thinking on that—seemed about to say something. But then he turned back to the road and drove on in silence.

Audrey watching the drab winter buildings, the black trees drifting by.

“Are you going to arrest him?” she said.

“Arrest who?”

“Moran.”

“Sheriff Moran?” He glanced over. “I think you know it doesn’t work like that.”

It took her a moment. “Because he’s out of state.”

“Not that we’re having this conversation. Again, I would ask you, as a personal favor, let’s say, since actual authority doesn’t seem to—”

“But Sheriff,” she said. “What if he wasn’t out of state?”

The sheriff glaring at her now. Squeezing the wheel in his big hand. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she began, and hesitated, her mind dividing once again along two separate paths… because once you say it you can’t go back, but if you don’t say it now and he’s dead then they’ll say why did you wait to say it… but if he’s not dead he’ll deny everything and—

“Audrey,” said the sheriff, startling her.

“I think he might be here in town, Sheriff. Right now.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Because I saw him.”

“You saw him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You saw him this morning?”

“No, sir, last night.”

“You saw Sheriff Moran last night, here in town.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where was this?”

“In the park. Henry Sibley Park.”

He didn’t ask her what she was doing in the park at night. He was putting it together for himself. He looked at her again—looking this time for some sign of trouble, of harm.

“What makes you think Sheriff Moran is still in town this morning when you saw him last night in the park?” he said, and she stared at him. The bright morning sky beyond him. Her heart drumming in her chest and in the bones of her forearm under the cast.

“Sheriff,” she said. “I think it might be better if I showed you.”

THE DEPUTY RETURNED at 8:45 and he walked into the office and he looked through the glass door into the garage and then he walked right in—walking past Jeff under the Dodge and coming up to the second bay and bending to look at Marky where he stood hunched under the chassis of the Ford Escape.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Marky looked at him. “I’m working on your vehicle Deputy.”

“I bring this in for a busted headlight and you put it up on a lift?”

“Yes sir you got a leaky oil pan and I put it up in the air to show you that’s all.”

“What? Don’t understand a word you’re saying. Where’s Wabash?”

“Leaky oil pan,” Marky said again.

“Leaky what?”

Marky pointed, and the deputy, muttering, removed his hat and ducked under the chassis to look and Marky stepped away to give him room. The oil was dripping steadily into a pan on the floor, plink, plink, plink.

“What is that?” said the deputy. “Is that the oil pan? This car isn’t old enough to have a bad gasket.”

“You threw a bolt Deputy.” Marky had come out from under the SUV and was standing beside it.

“I what?”

Marky was looking out the bay door windows.

“Hey—” said the deputy, and Marky turned back to him, there under the SUV. Then he looked out the windows again.

“Son,” said the deputy, “I haven’t got time for this shit. Where is that other one, your little buddy?”

Marky stood beside the lift and when he turned back to the deputy once again he could see the meanness in him, meaner with every second that you don’t answer him, every second you stand here looking at him under the cruiser. And then he saw the moment when the deputy saw that Marky was standing so close to the lift release lever, and he saw more than meanness come into the deputy’s eyes, and it was like the deputy was seeing him for the first time, and for a long while it was just the two of them staring at each other. But then someone else went, “Whoa whoa whoa!” and it was Jeff coming out of nowhere and bending for a look at the deputy and saying, “Officer, you can’t be under that vehicle like that,” and then to Marky, “Marky, what the hell? What’s this vehicle doing up on this lift?” and the two of them turning to look at the deputy again, who was stepping out from under the SUV at last, moving calmly. Putting his hat back on his head.

“Marky,” said Jeff, “what did you put the sheriff’s car up on the lift for?” But Marky was watching the deputy, the deputy watching him.

“Leaky oil pan,” the deputy said.

“Leaky oil pan?” said Jeff.

“There’s a bolt missing Jeff,” Marky said, and Jeff looked at him, then stooped under the chassis for a look. He looked for a while and then he came out again.

“There’s a bolt missing, Sheriff,” Jeff said. “You must of thrown it.”

“Yeah, I got that. Can you replace it?”

“Pretty standard bolt, Sheriff. We should be able to scare one up.”

“Well, how about you do that, hey? How about you scare one up and right quick?”

“Absolutely, Sheriff, we’re on it. And I’m sorry about this, Sheriff. I take full responsibility. When it’s just the two of us here, then I’m in charge and I didn’t see what was going on. It ain’t his fault, Sheriff. He doesn’t know any better.”

The deputy looked at Jeff and said, “Relax, Goss. I’m not gonna tell your boss. Just get my goddam vehicle down and get me on my way.” He looked from one of them to the other. “Christ. You boys. You boys and your bullshit. We should’ve locked up the lot of you ten years ago and thrown away the key.” He eyed them a moment longer, then he walked past them and pushed back through the glass door into the office.

Jeff ran both his hands through his hair and held on to the back of his neck, his elbows up in the air, saying nothing.

“I’ll go find a bolt now Jeff.”

Jeff shook his head, and from between the wings of his arms he said, “Yeah, OK, Marky. You do that. And maybe Wabash won’t fire both our asses.”

SHE RODE IN the passenger seat and it was like she was the deputy again, except that the sheriff at the wheel was not her sheriff, and the cab did not smell of his cigarettes. And although she was not this sheriff’s prisoner, not under arrest, the feeling was closer to that than anything else. A bright and sunny day and the blackbirds were hopping in the bare branches and a man in black leggings and big winter gloves was jogging through the park and he was not under arrest and his life would not be spent in jail, and this is how it would feel if you were the criminal and you were caught and the sheriff was taking you in and it was all over—your freedom, your life. Suddenly and forever done.

Moran’s cruiser was not there, and neither was the Ford—no sign of either car, but the sheriff knew the place and he pulled over short of where the cars had been and put his cruiser in park. He cut the engine and sat looking out toward the wide, frozen river, and you could see it from here in the gap between the pines: the small dark hole in the ice where she’d fallen through.