J.T. Warren - Remains

He reached over and turned the radio down. Without looking at me, he sighed, then said “Mikey, a man is someone who does what he has to do, even when he doesn’t want to.” He was using that voice. The one he used reading bed time stories. I wanted that voice to go on forever. It seemed like he might stop there, so I started thinking of ways to get him to keep talking. I knew it had to be something that would get him to keep using that voice, though. If it was too silly, he’d switch into his regular voice with a laugh.

“Things like what?” I’d asked. It was the best I could come up with.

He laughed, and reached over to tug the bill of my baseball cap downward. I knew I’d failed, but that it was okay. “Just— things , Mikey. Just things,” he’d said.

It was that voice I was hearing in my head; my father before the change telling me that I must do this. ‘Before what?’ I asked myself, but there was no answer. I hadn’t really expected there to be one.

I got out of the car and walked to the door. The second I set foot on Pete’s lawn, though, I knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I raised my hand to knock on the front door, and saw that it was already open a crack. It seemed like something you’d see in a murder mystery. I brought my knocked once, just a short little rap on it. The door swung open with a creak.

From where I was standing, I could see the destruction. The front room was filled with little nicknacks, things Mrs. McPherson had collected over the years, the last time I’d come, just a few days ago. It looked as if an explosion had happened in between now and then.

‘Don’t go in’ I thought, but stepped in, anyway. It felt powerful. It felt as if some wave was pushing me in the door, a wave that would be so hard to resist. I didn’t think I had the strength to stop myself. The moment I was in the house, the air around me seemed to grow solid. I can’t find any other way to describe that. It was as if some great decision, something effecting millions of lives, had just been made final. Some powerful step had been taken. I thought that any moment, the door would slam closed. For that brief second, I understood the word ‘fate’.

I was afraid. Every step I took, my shoes crunched on some broken glass. I got past the front room, into the living room. It was worse. The chair had been overturned, and holes had been punched in it with something big and sharp. The boxes that had been so neatly piled up were toppled, and papers were scattered everywhere. The room was dark, and the air felt heavy.

I moved back to the bedrooms. They were just as ransacked. I kept expecting to see blood, but there was none.

The house was empty. I moved back to the living room. I thought about picking up the phone and dialing the police; that would be the natural thing to do in any sane world. Something in me reminded me that this situation, this town, this world , had stopped being sane a few days ago. I stood near the telephone, wondering what I should do.

A low, rumbling sound went through the whole house, shaking it. I started, and turned. I jumped again, and nearly yelled. The first time had been because of the thunder; the second was because the Sheriff was standing in the doorway.

“Well, doggy. Looks like that storm is gonna’ set in a might sooner than we all thought,” the Sheriff said, tipping his hat a few millimeters back on his forehead. He put his hand on his hip, and gestured with the other one, “Just get here?” he asked. He grinned with one side of his mouth; the rest of his face didn’t move.

“Yes,” I said.

“I reckon you came lookin’ for ol’ Pete?” He looked down at the floor, as if he was waiting or my answer.

“Yes,” I said, “but he’s not here.”

“Nope, I reckon not,” he said, and moved toward me. He stopped at a box that was on the floor, staring down at the papers. He squinted as though one were particularly important, then ‘hmmphed’, and looked up at me “I reckon not,” he repeated.

“Do—umm—do you know where he went?” I asked.

“Well, I ain’t exactly sure, mind, but,” he said, and paused. He looked up at me, and when I saw his eyes, I went cold. Something in them was amused. It was the same sort of look you might see just before a snake strikes. It was a look that said ‘I know something you don’t know’ so clearly you could almost hear it. “but I reckon ol’ Pete had hisself a woman on the side-like.” I didn’t say anything, and the Sheriff moved to look down at the papers that had spilled out of another of the boxes. “Reckon he went to go be with her. Runnin’ outta here with a hardon, dumb bastard left the door wide open.” At the last part, he grinned that same way, again; it never touched more than his lips.

“Oh,” I said. I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. I was starting to shake.

“Thing that interests me, though, is why you come a’callin’ when I asked you specifically not to.”

“I—umm—I don’t understand,” I said.

“Well, now,” he said, grinning and barking one, small, dray laugh, “I don’t know as I believe that. See,” he said, putting his hand, curled into a fist, on his hip again, “I told you that all a’ this business with the bones and all, had really stirred ol’ Pete up. Yessir, I said that plain as day,” he said, then his voice dropped even further from icy to deadly, “and I distinctly remember someone dressed a lot like me, and bearin’ a striking resemblance saying something like ‘stay away from Mrs. McPherson, too’. Now, I could be wrong; memory ain’t so good these days. May be I need to get one a’ them tests, find out if I got that A.D.D. or not, huh?” he said, and chuckled at himself. Again, though, his eyes never changed.

“I wanted to say goodbye to Pete,” I said.

“Oh, I see. Leavin’ to go back to ta’ the city, are ya’? Well, that’s mighty fine. Glad you could come visit us; thing is, Pete’s gone. Up and left. As you can see, this town’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket. Vagrants and homosexuals,” he said, pronouncing each syllable of both words. If we’d been outside, I had the distinct impression he’s have spit on the ground. “Pete ain’t been gone but a few hours, maybe, and already someone done been in here and had a go at his wife’s things.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Well, I’s on my way back to the station to get some fingerprintin’ stuff. May be I could give you a lift back to your folk’s place. That’s where your stayin’, ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah. I brought the car, though, I could—”

“Well, then, good. Save me a’ extra trip,” he said, turning toward the door but not moving. I knew that he didn’t mean any of this as cordial as it sounded. I walked toward the door. I felt his eyes on me, even though they weren’t as I passed. I heard his boots clomp on the linoleum. He was just behind me. The hairs on my neck started to hurt because they hadn’t gone down, yet.

As we stepped out the door, I happened to look over at his police cruiser. I stopped, and heard him stop, too. In the backseat, was Kevin. Even though his head was down, I could see he had a cut on his forehead.

“Some problem?” the Sheriff asked.

“Umm—no,” I said.

“Oh. That. Just cleanin’ up some. Somethin’ I shoulda’ done years ago. Vagrants and homosexuals, son. Whole god-damned world is full of ’em,” he said, and then spit. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and though he used no force, I knew it meant ‘keep walking’.

Kevin looked up at me: his lips were bloody, and there was a large cut on the side of his face. In his eyes I saw total fear. He was terrified. I knew why, too. Without anything said, I knew that the sheriff had not only found out we’d been together, but that he’d come here specifically to find me. He’d known where I’d be. I knew one other thing, too, just as surely: Pete McPherson hadn’t left Placerville.