J.T. Warren - Remains

I knew what they’d find when they ran that serial number.

I don’t know how long I walked. It didn’t seem all that long. After a time, though, I realized I was walking the old route out to the field. It felt strange not to be riding my bike. I stopped near one of the huge ditches that ran alongside the road. I could feel the memory coming on, but I tried to stop it. The second therapist I’d seen taught me how to do that, but I’d never been very good at it. I could feel it building up, like a summer storm, pressure just behind my face. My arms and legs felt heavy.

I was still there when the sheriff’s car pulled up. I had been so deep down that I hadn’t seen or heard it coming. I blinked at him, slowly, as he got out of his car. He adjusted his belt and put his hat back on. For a split second, I saw the salt and pepper of his hair. He closed the door of his patrol car and came toward me, his boots thunking on each step.

“Afternoon,” he said, putting a hand up to the brim of his hat.

“Sheriff,” I said, nodding my head.

“Just on my way out to your place,” he said.

“Had to go for a walk,” I said.

“Pretty day for one,” he said. He stared at me for a second, his sunglasses reflecting my face, then said “Did you get those papers over to Ol’ Albert?” he asked. I nodded. “Well,” he said, turning his head and spitting a gob of something brown into the ditch, “I’ll get right down to it; somethin’s come up, and I need a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

“The bike,” I said.

He nodded, “Yahp,” he said, hooking his thumbs through his belt, “the bicycle.” He pronounced it “buh eye sickle”. “You musta’ seen that news conference,” he said, and I nodded. “Hell you must’a been, what? no bigger’n that,” he said, gesturing to his hip. My eyes glued on his gun, “Ol’ Albert traipsed you into my office, and you said someone come along and swiped it out the back yard, right?” he asked. I nodded. He nodded, too, only slower. “We ran the number, and that there is your bike, son. Got it down to the station. Yuh can have it when this whole shitstorm blows over, you want it,” he said. He looked down at his boots, then back up at me, “thing is,” he said, and spit a wad of something off into the ditch, “means I need to ask you a question or two. Won’t take long. Figure we can do that tomorrow.” He tilted his head to the side a bit after saying this, looking me in the eye.

“I was hoping to leave tomorrow,” I said, and immediately knew I didn’t mean it.

“Don’t mean to interrupt your plans. Why don’t you let me give you a lift back over to the station; you can get this out the way, then I can give you a lift back home?” he asked. I couldn’t see his eyes under the glasses, but I knew they were squinted down to pinpoints.

“I don’t know—,” I said, looking back toward my house. My skin was gooseprickled tight, and I was starting to shiver.

“Would it make any difference to ya’ if I said this might help us a damn sight?” he said, turned his head, and spit again. “I mean, son, this thing is gonna’ blow up into about as big a shit storm as a man can ask for. I’d like to have all my ducks in a row when the boys from the FBI come knockin’ on my door, if you catch my meanin’.” He pronounced it “eff” “bee” “eye” with long pauses between the letters. His head was tilted to the side, again.

I wanted to help; anything to help Randy get where he needed to be, but—and that’s when it hit me. Randy wasn’t in that coffin. He never had been. When they put that coffin in the ground, I’d been upset because I knew he wasn’t in it. Somehow, I had forgotten that. It seemed to me some part had remembered, though; in all the times I’d come for visits, I’d never once gone to Randy’s grave. I hadn’t even gone with the discovery of the remains. Randy wasn’t laid to rest—he wasn’t resting. I stood there, looking at the sheriff, for a few moments that seemed to last years. My skin relaxed.

“Sure,” I said, and walked toward the sheriff’s car. He nodded that slow nod, and walked to the driver side door.

“Let me move some of my paperwork,” he said, climbing in. He swept a fat stack of papers and a clipboard onto the floor. Leaning across the seat, he unlocked the door. I got in, and sat down as he turned the key. On the stereo was a song that seemed familiar. He closed his door, and I paused. ‘There’s still a chance,’ some part of me whispered, ‘run.’ I closed my door, and the sheriff put the car in Drive.

“I mean to tell ya’ this is a help.” He sounded grateful. The song’s familiarity drew my attention.

“Who?” I gestured toward the stereo.

“That there is Johnny Cash. Don’t tell me you ain’t never heard of The Man in Black,” he said. It clicked; this was the same song that had been playing on Kevin’s stereo when I’d walked out. Something about a man and how many roads he has to walk down. “When was it; hell, so long ago I don’t remember, but Roger Parker got me listenin’ to him.”

“You knew Mr. Roger?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Knew him?” he asked, “boy, we served together.”

That was the day I found out that Sheriff Aiken and Mr. Roger were friends. Well, I don’t know that you could call them friends. They’d played poker together over at the VFW hall on Saturday nights, the Sheriff told me. “Ain’t no one in this town could shark me into foldin’ on a flush-build like Roger Parker, the son of a bitch,” he said. I thought that if he hadn’t been indoors, he might have spit after saying that name. I’d never known Mr. Roger’s last name. It seemed to fit perfectly. They each took turns grilling steaks for the rest of “the boys” at the hall every Tuesday, he went on to say. “Lord knows, didn’t have no cookin’ show over on the television, but I did alright. Ol’ Parker wan’t all that great, but shit, who’s complainin’?” I think they respected each other, or at least Aiken thought of Mr. Roger as an equal. The main thing I remember is that, looking back, they talked alike. Not the chopping off ends of words, or calling me ‘son’ or ‘boy’, but more that they had similar gestures; their eyes moved in the same way. I think I started, even then, to grasp what was to come.

Of course, when we got to the police station, the bike was mine. I knew it was before I even looked at it. The storage area smelled like cardboard, and the strange smell concrete takes on when it’s shielded from the sun.

He walked me back to the office, asking “Soda?” as we passed a machine. I watched him as he put the change in, and tried not to smile as he grunted bending to take the cans from the tray. He handed one to me, and took the other. We walked back to the office, and sat down.

“How long you in town for?” he asked.

“I don’t know, really,” I said, “a few more days, maybe less.”

“Well, small piece of advice, son—and the man says you can judge how good advice is by how much ya’ shell out for it, and this here’s free —but maybe while you’re here, ya’ might think about leaving the McPhersons alone.” He didn’t look at me while he spoke. He wiped the lid of the can off with the tail of his tie carefully, as if he were honestly worried about it being dirty.

“I didn’t—,” I began.

“Now,” he said, and went completely still, “son, don’t go that route. It ain’t polite, and, worse, if you start someone to not trustin’ ya’, ya don’t never get that trust back. You know damn well I’ve had that hospital watched ever since I noticed those newsfolk in town. So, save us both the trouble, and just listen to what I’m sayin’.” He looked down the hallway from where we were sitting. “This has been hard on Pete. He ain’t but half the man he used to be, and Gwen? Well, like I said, she ain’t never come back. Some say she’s the lucky one,” he smiled a bit at the corners of his mouth. A chill ran through me, and I stopped moving. “So,” he said, and something in him came back to life, “I need to ask you a few questions about the McPherson boy if ya’ got a minute.” I could tell that was rhetorical, though. He meant I was going to answer. I felt my shoulders tense. “You said you was how old, again, when the boy disappeared?”