Timothy Johnston - The Current

Audrey looked away from his eyes. She looked at her fingers, twined and twisting in her lap.

“But Sheriff,” she said, and faltered again.

“Go on,” he said.

“Didn’t you have a feeling, though? In your gut? Didn’t you know?”

His eyes were on her but she could not look up again. So quiet in that cab she could hear her fingers twisting together. Could hear his breaths, her breaths. Her heartbeat. The wind in the boughs of the pines. The shifting, crackling ice; the water scouring away at its underside. And she heard the sound of car tires on the packed snow—another cruiser pulling up behind them—and when she turned to look she saw a young-looking deputy stepping out of the cruiser and coming toward them. Halsey stepping out to meet him, throwing his door shut behind him. Audrey watching the two men through the driver’s-side window as Halsey pointed and the deputy nodded. Secure it , Halsey’s gestures said, set up barriers, don’t walk in the snow . The place was once again a crime scene.

TEN MINUTES LATER, as they were coming into town, the radio crackled and a woman’s voice said, “Sheriff, I got an Iowa sheriff’s department vehicle at Wabash Auto on Main Street.”

The sheriff picked up the handpiece and said, “Is anyone with it?”

“No, sir, not exactly. It’s up on a lift in the garage.”

“Up on a lift?”

“Yes, sir. Otherwise I wouldn’t have even seen it in the windows.”

“You didn’t pull in there, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how do you know it’s an Iowa sheriff’s department vehicle?”

“Well, sir, it isn’t one of ours, and I saw an Iowa sheriff standing in the office.”

“Sheriff Moran?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he see you?”

“He might of, as I was going by.”

“Where are you now?”

“Across the street at the 7-Eleven.”

“And he’s still there.”

“Well, his cruiser’s still up on the lift.”

“All right, you stay put. I’m not five minutes away.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff.”

“And Deputy Lowell.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“If that cruiser comes down and he drives off before I get there, I want you to follow and nothing more—no lights, no nothing. Do you copy?”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff, copy that.”

JEFF TIGHTENED THE new bolt—he tightened all the bolts—and he wiped down the pan and stood watching for drips, then he came out from under the chassis and lowered the cruiser on the old lift, watching it all the way, until it was on its wheels again. He opened the driver’s door to pop the hood and then he went to the front and raised the hood, and the whole time he didn’t say a word to Marky or even look at him where he stood off to the side. Then they both heard Mr. Wabash returning with the wrecker and they watched through the glass as he came into the office and began talking with the deputy.

“Marky. Marky ,” said Jeff.

“What Jeff.”

“I said bring me a quart of the 5W-30.”

“It’s synthetic Jeff.”

Jeff looked at the engine. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure Jeff.” You could feel it in your fingers and you could see the colors of it and you could smell the difference too.

“All right,” Jeff said, “just bring the quart and top this off, all right?”

Marky turned to get the quart and when he turned back, Jeff was walking toward the office and Marky was falling again—not because of what Jeff would say to Mr. Wabash but because Danny was gone. He was gone and nothing mattered now and nothing ever would. But Jeff stopped short and moved to the side of the glass door and stood looking at the red mechanic’s rag in his hands.

Marky poured a quarter of the quart into the funnel and waited for the oil to settle.

Jeff returned to the SUV, wiping his hands. “They’re just shootin the shit in there. We aren’t in any trouble. By some fucking miracle. What were you thinking, Marky? Why didn’t you ask me first?”

Marky pulled the dipstick and wiped it clean and fed it back into the spout and pulled it out again and the level was good. He didn’t know what to say without saying everything and he couldn’t say everything, not to Jeff, so he said nothing. He replaced the oil-fill cap and twisted it tight, then he brought down the hood and wiped his fingerprints from the silver paint.

Jeff shook his head. “Well, open up the bay door and I’ll back her out.”

He backed the car out and parked it so it faced the street, ready to go, then he wiped down the steering wheel with a fresh rag, pulled the paper mat from the floor and walked back to Marky, mashing the paper into a ball, and the two of them were still standing there when the deputy stepped out of the office and walked toward his cruiser, not looking at them, not even looking their way but going straight to the cruiser and opening the door and climbing in and shutting the door. And they were still standing there watching when a second SUV pulled into the lot and it was the sheriff’s cruiser—Sheriff Halsey’s white Chevy Tahoe—the sheriff pulling in nose-to-nose with the Escape and putting his cruiser in park. And there was someone else in the cab and after a second Marky recognized her, it was the girl who’d come to see him and wanted to talk to him about Danny and who’d gone into the river down in Iowa and her name was Audrey.

“Hang tight, Big Man,” Jeff said. He had him by the arm, to keep him from taking another step toward the SUVs. He pulled him back one step. “Just hang tight.”

Sheriff Halsey sat with one hand on the wheel, staring straight ahead, and the deputy sat like a mirror image in his cruiser, staring back. At last Halsey killed his engine and the deputy, taking his time about it, killed his.

HALSEY AND THE girl did not speak, did not look at each other. They sat watching Moran, who sat back in his seat with his hands out of view and with the look of a man who could not guess what might happen next but would sit there patiently, contentedly even, until it did. Finally without looking at her, Halsey said, “You shouldn’t be here. I should’ve dropped you at the station.”

“You might’ve missed him if you did.”

“I know it.” He tapped the wheel. “I want you to do me a favor, though—all right?”

“All right.”

“If this goes bad, if you see any sign of a gun from anyone, I want you to get your head down out of view. All right?”

“All right.”

“For now you just sit here and don’t do a thing. Just sit here. All right?”

“All right, Sheriff.”

He got out then and put his hat on and walked toward the other cruiser. The two mechanics, Marky Young and Jeff Goss, were standing in the open bay door and he didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t expect Wabash to stay inside either and he didn’t; he stepped out from the office and stood watching from there in his black cop’s jacket.

Halsey came up to Moran’s door with his hands at his sides and he saw his own reflection in the glass, his face layered weirdly over Moran’s before the glass slid down and it was just Moran’s face, watching him with that look of curiosity, amusement almost.

“Sheriff,” said Halsey.

“Sheriff,” said Moran. He looked away and nodded toward the Tahoe and said, “I didn’t know better, Wayne, I’d say you’ve executed some kind of a preemptive maneuver here.” His hands were in his lap, his fingers laced, his thumbs slowly circling, not touching, round and round, like opposed magnets.

“What are you doing here, Ed?”

“I came to have a headlight fixed.”

“Drove all the way up here for that, did you?”

“No, Wayne. Drove up here because I’ve got an active investigation involving that girl I see sitting in your cruiser there. Some good citizen or other shot out my headlight for me and I thought I’d have Dave fix it while I was here. Nothing more to it than that.”