Philipp Meyer - American Rust

“Well, I guess in that case I won't arrest you.”

The two looked at him.

“That was a joke.”

“You want me to check them out?” said the other cop.

“They look fine from here,” said Harris. “I don't think we need to lay hands on them. Maybe if they promise to stay out of trouble we can give them a ride home.”

“We can walk,” said Isaac.

“You ought to take the ride.”

“What are y'all doing out here, anyway?” Poe said.

“Let's go,” said Isaac.

“You two are good boys,” said Harris. “Officer Ho, why don't you take your fancy night goggles and go sit in those bushes. See who else comes onto the premises.”

“It's still soaking wet down there, boss.”

“I apologize,” Harris told him. “Go ahead and wait till it's to your liking.”

Ho scowled and collected his things and made his way down the fireroad cradling his assault rifle. The other three watched him go, looking down over the meadow and the river. In the distance most of the hillsides were nearly black but there were a few patches of errant light where the land shone a bright green. They stood quietly watching the colors change until the light was gone completely.

Harris said: “Like an advertisement for church, isn't it? You wonder why people don't notice what a beautiful place this is.”

“They're all a bunch of freakin complainers,” said Poe.

Because none of them have jobs, thought Isaac, but when he glanced at Harris the police chief seemed thoughtful. It seemed likely he had already taken that view into consideration.

After a minute Harris motioned them toward the backseat of the Explorer and started it and, after flipping a switch to lock the differential, pulled a wide U-turn through the forest. This truck would not have gotten stuck in that mudhole, Isaac noted. There were plenty of other cars here besides this one. At the top of the fireroad Harris got out to open a gate and they turned south on the main road.

“You two stay out of that area,” he said. “I don't want to see you there again.”

There was a Plexiglas divider between them and his voice came through muffled. He slid the panel open.

“Did you hear me,” he said.

“Yessir,” said Isaac.

It was dark in the back and Isaac couldn't see much, just the back of Harris's bald head and the glow from the computer between the front seats. They were driving very fast down the curving river road. Your money and notebooks are still down in the meadow. Unless someone already found them. Not likely. That place is covered with junk and what they wanted was in plain sight in the machine shop.

“Son, I can't remember your name but I know your daddy. He was the one working in Indiana when that Steelcor mill caught fire.”

“Isaac English. My dad is Henry.”

Harris nodded. “I was sad when that happened,” he said. “Your sister is the one that went to Harvard, isn't she?”

“That's her,” said Isaac.

“It was Yale,” Poe said. “Not Harvard.”

Harris made a modest hand gesture. “Excuse me,” he said.

“No problem,” said Isaac.

“You all still live in that big brick house?”

“What's left of it.”

It was quiet after that. Ahead of them, where the river bent, Isaac could see the lights scattered along the hillside that was Buell. He closed his eyes, heard the tires whirring against the road in the darkness, thought you can't really be sure what you were thinking. How pure was that decision. What thoughts you were having without being aware of them, you can barely see the surface of your own mind, there's lower layers running all the time. I just want to sleep, he thought. But you won't. Meanwhile big Otto he's sleeping all the time. What made you throw that bearing? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what thoughts he'd had, or if he'd thought anything at all. It will be first degree — you picked up that chunk of metal for a reason and took it inside. Premeditation. Lethal injection. They said it didn't hurt but he doubted that. Knowing what it meant for you, that shot would hurt.

He pushed his fingers to his temples. Keep this to yourself, he thought. Need to convince yourself you didn't do this. Except that is hopeless. That is not the kind of person I am.

Poe nudged him and Isaac opened his eyes. He saw they were passing the new police station, heading on toward the center of town. He craned his neck slightly as the police station disappeared into the darkness behind them. They passed Frank's Automotive Supermarket, a new spinal rehab place, Valley Dialysis, Valley Pain and Wellness, Rothco Medical Supply. A barbershop for rent, a tanning salon in a dingy storefront that had once sold model trains. Then Black's Gun and Outdoor, the closed Montgomery Ward, the closed pharmacy, the closed Supper Club, the closed McDonald's, a Slovak Lodge, the Masonic Hall.

Then, more stores, their windows boarded, he would have to think hard to remember what had once been there. Stone buildings with their elaborate cornices and ornate iron windows, all covered with plywood, the walls plastered with posters for the Cash Five lottery. An unusual number of people stood on the sidewalks; it was Saturday night.

“If the welfare office ever saw where their money went,” said Harris. He stopped the Explorer in front of the first bar they came to; people were already walking away.

“I'm gonna give you two the option here — you can catch a ride home with me or you can get out and call for one yourselves.”

Isaac wasn't sure but Poe quickly answered: “We'll call.”

“Alrighty then.” He shrugged. “Go ahead and get out. Tell whoever's workin there I said let you use the phone.”

“We can walk it from here,” said Poe.

“You get a ride,” said Harris. “Make your phone call. Don't let me catch you around later.”

The two nodded.

“By the way” said Harris. “How'd you get that cut on your neck?”

“What's that?”

“Don't play with me, Billy.”

“Fell on some barbed wire, sir.”

Harris shook his head. “Billy,” he said. “Oh, Billy.” He turned all the way around in his seat. “Keep this up and it won't end good for you. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You too,” he said to Isaac. “Both of you stay inside the next couple days. Stick around where I can find you.”

They went into the bar. The walls were wood panel with initials carved everywhere, the bar was dimly lit and much bigger than it needed to be; the only light came from neon beer signs. A keno game played on two of the televisions, a recap of a stock car race ran on the third. Outside in the hall there was plywood nailed in front of an elevator.

“This is all old- timers,” Isaac said quietly.

“You wanna go to Howie's and have everyone in there see us?”

“We shouldn't be out here at all.”

“Try explaining to my mother why I got a ride home from Harris.”

“That's the least of our fuckin worries,” said Isaac.

The bartender made her way slowly over to them. She smoked her cigarette. She was a young, pretty girl that Isaac recognized as being a few years ahead of them in school.

Finally she said: “Just so you don't waste your time, I just saw you both get out of that cop's truck.”

“Emily Simmons,” said Poe. “I remember you.”

“Well, I don't,” she said.

That was unlikely, Isaac knew, but there was no point in saying anything. “Harris said you'd let us use your phone,” he told her.

“Anything for Mr. Harris.” She set the phone in front of Isaac and stood watching as he called his sister.

Poe said: “Lemme get an Iron City while we wait for our ride.”

“You left your ID home, didn't you?”