Thomas Cook - Sacrificial Ground

The heat remained stifling even outside the shed, and Caleb pulled off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.

“This Davon character, did he say anything to you, Luther?”

Luther thought about it for a moment. “I just noticed one thing.”

“What was that?”

“He didn’t try to get me down,” Luther said. “Minute I give him a price, he took it.” He looked at Frank. “This ain’t Woolworth’s. People usually bitch and moan about the price, and I come up a little, and the next guy comes down. Not Little, though. Not this time. I quoted him about half what I’d have paid him on the up and up, and he looked glad to have it.”

Frank wrote it down.

“He must have figured they was a APB on it by now,” Luther said, “so he just wanted to dump it. Cutter is the best place. A fence don’t want no fucked-up car.” He shook his head. “Shit, I wouldn’t have bought it either if I’d read the paper yesterday.” He laughed. “But I don’t ever get to the paper till the next day. When it comes to the news, I’m always a day late.”

“Did he say anything at all about the car?” Frank asked.

“They’s nothing to say,” Luther told him. “I know my business, so nobody bullshits me. Besides, I ain’t buying it to take a long vacation in.” He nodded back toward the shed. “Them cars in there, they’ll be down to parts before morning. I mean right down to parts, nothing but bumpers and carburetors and shit like that.” He looked affectionately at Caleb. “Could have been the same with that little BMW, too.”

“I know it could, Luther,” Caleb said quietly.

Luther turned back to Frank. “I’m a car cutter, and I’m a good one, but I don’t have nothing to do with no real meanness, and that’s a fact. Anybody hurts a little girl, they deserve what they get.” He glanced back toward Caleb. “They deserve it a hell of a lot more than S. D. Pullens did, I bet.”

Frank pulled out his card and offered it to Luther.

Luther didn’t move to take it. “I just deal with Caleb,” he said flatly.

Frank put the card back in his pocket. “I appreciate it,” he said.

Caleb laughed. “Well, Luther, I’d tell you stay out of trouble, but shit, I know better than that.” He pulled on his jacket. “You know where to find me.”

“Tell your boys to come get this fucking car out of here,” Luther said. “Some people I deal with would get pretty bent out of joint if they come driving up and saw a goddamn police tow truck.”

“It’ll be here fast, Luther,” Caleb said. “I guarantee it.”

Luther rubbed his sleeve across his face. “And do something about this fucking heat while you’re at it,” he said.

13

The drive back to headquarters struck Frank as unbearably long, and as the first grayish outline of the city became visible, he felt an urge to turn away from it and drive in the opposite direction, it didn’t matter where. Just someplace where he didn’t know the pimps or the whores, or even that fresh-faced young traffic cop who waved him through the late-afternoon congestion. He wanted to be a stranger, a silent, invisible presence, nothing more.

A full sheet had already been run on Davon Little by the time they got back to the bullpen. Gibbons was waving it playfully in his hand when Frank and Caleb came through the door.

“This looks hot,” he said with a boyish smile.

Frank snatched it from his hand. “We don’t know yet.”

Gibbons looked at him doubtfully. “You’d let me know if you needed something, I hope.”

“Sure thing,” Caleb said as he passed by and followed Frank quickly to his desk.

“Davon Clinton Little,” Frank said to himself as he began to read the report.

Caleb stood over him, his eyes fixed on the paper.

“Uh huh,” he said, after a moment. “Lots of petty shit. Burglary in his youth, then graduating to a little personal assault.”

“He drew some time on that,” Frank said.

“Yeah, and it looks like it settled him down a little,” Caleb added. “So he switched over to flim-flams and car theft.” He smiled. “Before long we’ll be dealing with white-collar crime.”

“Slid back in eighty-two,” Frank said.

“And things got raw, didn’t they?” Caleb said.

Frank ticked off the descent. “Armed robbery, assault, attempted murder.”

“He’s not mellowing with age, Frank,” Caleb warned darkly.

Frank nodded. “Last known address was on the Southside.” He took a map of the city and spread it out across his desk. “Simpson Street.” He found the street name in the index then pinpointed it on the map. “Look at this.”

Caleb leaned forward, eyeing the map. He watched as Frank’s finger moved left about a quarter of an inch and struck the corner of Amsterdam and Glenwood, the vacant lot where Angelica’s body had been found.

“Bingo,” he whispered.

Frank stood up. “Well, let’s go see if he’s home.”

“When you get older, it’s all memory,” Caleb said as he pulled himself into the car.

Frank hit the ignition and eased the car from the curb. “What is?”

“Life,” Caleb answered. “Like since we found that girl, I’ve been thinking of all the other bodies. I can remember the first one the best.” He pulled out his pipe and began to fill the bowl. “It was on the Southside, too, and it was a young girl. But there was a difference. She’d been buried quite a while, and, you know, Frank, the thing I remember most is how she kept coming apart when they tried to dig her out. Pieces of her would just crumble in your hand.” He shook his head. “And I thought, well, the preacher back home, he got one thing right: dust to dust, Frank, that’s a fact.” He put the pipe in his mouth and lit it.

Frank glanced over at him, and for some reason his eyes lingered on Caleb’s face. It was large and jowled. Skin hung flaccidly from the line of his jaw and gathered in rounded puffs beneath his eyes. He was nearly sixty, Frank guessed, and it was as if he could see the thread of his life as it unraveled, hear each fiber as it snapped.

“Now my wife has a different idea,” Caleb said after a moment. “Sort of a Holy Roller type. She thinks she’s on her way to God.”

Frank continued to listen. He was surprised that after so many years, Caleb had suddenly begun to talk about his private life. It was as if there was something in him trying to break out, a small, trapped animal gnawing through his skin.

“She was always off to church,” Caleb went on. “Praying we could have a kid, that’s what I always figured.” He glanced over to Frank. “I don’t know why we couldn’t. We tried plenty during the first few years.” He smiled ruefully. “Then we didn’t try that much anymore.”

Frank felt himself overtaken by a deep sadness, like a fist out of the darkness, and he had to turn away quickly and fix his eyes on the street ahead in order to keep himself contained. Caleb seemed to sense it, and said nothing else. He simply sat, puffing on his pipe, and watched the line of shops and restaurants until they faded almost imperceptibly into the dilapidated service stations and fast-food joints of the Southside.

“Okay, let’s keep our eyes open for Simpson Street,” Frank said after they’d gone past the vacant lot.

“Should be on our right,” Caleb said matter-of-factly.

It was a narrow, pitted street, and the car rumbled noisily as Frank turned onto it.

“Go slow, now,” Caleb said. “We’re looking for Two Forty-one.” He peered out the window, his eyes darting from one house to the next. “There it is,” he said, finally.

Frank guided the car over to the curb and stopped. The house was small and rested on a cement foundation. The red brick facade was chipped, and even from that distance, Frank could see a large tear in the front screen door. A scattering of children’s toys lay here and there on the parched lawn.