Aric Davis - The Fort

They stopped talking. Becca had makeup running down her face, way more than their mom ever would have approved of, and she was wearing clothing he didn’t recognize. The outfit didn’t look like it would have garnered a positive response either, but most troubling about it was the tear in the low collar of her shirt. Dad looked pissed, madder than Tim could remember ever seeing him, even more than that time Tim spilled all that paint in the driveway. Mom looked really sad—scary sad, just like Becca did.

“Stanley, you get Tim back to bed,” Tammy said. “This will still be waiting when you come back. And calm down. No more yelling, not from anybody, OK?” Dad didn’t say anything to her, just walked to Tim, pointed to the hallway, and walked behind him back to his room. Tim hopped back into bed, and his dad sat on the floor next to it. He didn’t look mad anymore. He looked worse, like maybe he wanted to hurt somebody, maybe even kill them. Tim was used to his dad with his nose in a book, grading papers, or lately, looking sadly at the hole in the backyard. This was very different.

“How much did you hear?” Stan asked, finally. His voice was flat, like the life had been sucked out of him.

“I don’t know. Mostly just a bunch of noise, and then you said the F word, and that you were going to kill someone. What happened to Becca?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Stan. “Not exactly, in any case. If I had to guess, a boy, probably that Tyler kid, got a little fresh with your sister, and she told him to dial it back a notch. When he didn’t…well, I’m not sure what exactly happened. I suppose I’ll know soon enough.”

“So are you going to kill him?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. This is probably one of those things that can be handled a little differently than that.” He smiled. “I’m not sure I’d be much good at killing, after all. I’d likely bungle it all up, end up not killing anybody, and going to jail to boot. I don’t think it’s in my genes. I suppose that’s a good thing.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, buddy. I really don’t. But you don’t need to worry about any of this silly stuff, at least not for a few more years at least.”

“I’m not sure I want to get any older.”

“I don’t either,” said Stan, almost chuckling. “You get some winks, Tim, and don’t worry about Becca. She’ll be fine, all right?”

“If you say so.”

7

Detective Dick Van Endel woke to the twin sounds of his pager and the phone ringing. He checked the clock: 2:37 a.m. Christ. Ignoring the pager, he yawned, gave the mostly empty glass of whiskey on the nightstand an ugly look, and answered the phone. There was a pause, and then a click.

“Van Endel.”

“Jesus, Dick. Where are you?” It was his partner, Phil Nelson. His nickname had been Full Nelson until he’d lost thirty pounds and threatened to beat the shit out of the next man who used that term to describe anything besides a headlock.

“I’m at home,” Van Endel said. “I take it I need to answer that page on the double?”

“Yes, please do. They’re driving me nuts. Plus, I think Sarah is going to kill me if I leave her alone with all the fucking machines again. For fuck’s sake, they know I’m on leave. Why are they even calling me?”

Phil’s wife, Sarah, was pregnant, about six months along, and things weren’t going well. They had her on bed rest, and evidently had her hooked up to twenty-seven different machines to monitor her condition. Phil was on emergency leave until they successfully got the kid out of her. Phil and Van Endel had joked just two days earlier that something terrible was going to happen while Phil was gone, perhaps another dead whore at Riverside, maybe something worse. As Van Endel listened to his pager wail, the joking was an ugly memory.

“Well, sorry they had to bug you, Phil. Give Sarah my love, all right? And don’t let this stress you out. We talked about that. I got shit under control, no matter how thick it may get.”

“Thanks, buddy. Make me proud.” Phil hung up, and Van Endel depressed the button to make his end click off, then released it again. He grabbed the pager, then punched in the number.

“This is Dispatch,” said the female operator on the other end.

“Van Endel, returning a page. Whaddya got?”

“Possible 207, sixteen-year-old girl. A couple of uniforms on the scene already. They requested you.”

Van Endel gritted his teeth. That wasn’t good. Usually, a possible 207 on a kid that old took a few days to process. There had to be a part of the story he wasn’t getting yet. Van Endel took a pen and a tattered Moleskine from his nightstand. “Got an address for me?”

She rattled it off quickly. Once he had all the details—apartment on the north end, single mother named Samantha Peterson, missing girl named Molly Peterson—he thanked her and hung up the phone.

Van Endel briefly considered a shower to remove his whiskey-sweat, but decided on cologne instead. He dressed in a black suit that was as comfortable as his favorite pair of pajamas but still looked reasonably sharp, then ran a comb through his hair. Given what he’d thrown down before he’d dozed off (he preferred that to “passed out”), he knew he had no right to look as good as he did. He hoisted a smile at the mirror to see if he could carry it off. He supposed he could. And then, just that quick, thoughts of her, of Lex, took the smile off of his face. He left the mirror behind, threw on his shoulder holster, tucked his wallet into the rear right pocket of his pants, and shrugged on his jacket. It was going to be a long night, and probably a long day, but that was OK. This work was everything that he was.

There were two marked cars parked at the apartment complex, and Van Endel parked his Chevy Caprice behind them before getting out. He gave his notes a look for the address, then saw a uniform he recognized, Don Pratt, standing by a door across the lot. Van Endel opened the door and climbed from the car, then closed the door quietly, before rubbing his palms together and walking to the uni. Waking up was hard to do. “How’s it shaking, Donny?”

“Mrs. Peterson is inside losing her shit, Dick. Just so you know. And thanks for asking. I’ve been good. My kids are at summer camp all week, and I plan on fucking my wife every chance I get until they get back.”

“This must be throwing a monkey wrench in that plan,” said Van Endel, grinning. “We’ll get you back to it soon.”

“Hey, no sweat on my end,” said Don. “I had to work tonight either way, may as well be doing something. You talk to Phil?”

“Yeah, briefly. I didn’t get a progress report or anything, though. I just know that Sarah’s in a holding pattern. What’s your take on our missing kid?” He eyed the Petersons’ door.

“Kid’s gone,” said Don. “Aside from that, tough to tell you. Mom thinks they were at the drive-in, but Molly never came home. Sorry, missing girl’s name is Molly, not sure if you had that. In any case, Mrs. Peterson called it in, and we were here a little later. Once we figured out that Mrs. Peterson most likely was not full of shit, I put in for a detective. Hope you don’t have plans.”

“Only plan I had was sleeping one off,” said Van Endel. “I’m going to go talk to the missus, you call me once your week in paradise is over, we’ll hit the Shipwreck and get a beer.”

“That sounds great, Dick. I’ll keep you posted.”

On his way into the apartment building, Van Endel walked into the doorframe, hard, with his shoulder. Take a deep breath, you’re doing fine. Willing the booze away wasn’t going to happen, but he could at least ignore it. Feeling a bit more together now—the bump with the frame might have been a good thing—Van Endel saw another uniform at the top of the steps, this one a woman he didn’t recognize. He walked to her, showed her his badge, and she opened the door for him.