Page 10

The Wheelers lived in a nice-sized ranch in a development that must have been from the ’90s. The brick was hideous, a mix of dark and light, like somebody had used whatever colors were leftover, but otherwise it looked nice—the yard had some crabgrass and a few patches of bare dirt, but it was mowed and edged, and the flowerbeds were the low-maintenance variety but free of weeds. Trees gave plenty of shade; it was almost noon, because it had taken me that long to finish the bare essentials of what I needed to do and come up with an excuse to get away from Palomo. She was a good partner in a lot of ways, but she didn’t fuck around.

The first thing I noticed as I approached the door was that even though it was midday, the porchlights were on. Curtains framed the windows, and on the other side of the glass, the house was dark. Maybe the whole family had left town. Maybe they were on a family vacation. I thought about how Eddie Wheeler had gripped his wife’swrist in the hospital hallway. I thought about how he’d said, His friend. Once, on a family vacation, my dad had gotten so plastered he’d shat himself in the motel pool. I’d had to fish him out because Mom had been busy getting rugburn in the manager’s office.

I knocked, and a moment later, the deadbolt flipped back, and the door opened. Eddie Wheeler stood there, and I got my second look at him. White, early middle age, the stubby sideburns. Today, he looked every painful inch his age: a tank top with the Thin Blue Line design showed off nice shoulders and arms and graying chest hair; Mizzou basketball shorts that hung past his knees; and those straight guy shoes that look like they’re made out of carpet backing. Now that I knew he was Highway Patrol, it made sense—he definitely gave off Daddy Cop vibes.

He said, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Wheeler, we met at the hospital. I’m Gray Dulac with the Wahredua PD.”

He didn’t like looking at me—that much was obvious—but he didn’t look away. Maybe it was because he thought it’d make him look like a pussy. Maybe, just maybe, because of his son. All he said was “I remember. That was bullshit, what you said about working with the sheriff’s department.”

I smiled. “Sorry about that. I was the one who found Tip, and—” I made a gesture that took in my scars, the blood-streaked eye. “—I’m kind of personally invested, if you know what I mean.”

He grunted. “I heard about that. Fucking nutjobs can learn how to do anything on the internet.” He seemed to consider if he was going to say more. “We’d just moved here.”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Tip. Could I come in?”

Leaves rustled as an eddy of air stirred. It felt like a hot tongue on the back of my neck.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s been a terrible fucking day already. Let’s see if we can make it worse.”

He walked deeper into the house, leavingthe door open behind him.

I caught up with him in the living room. Like a lot of family homes, the furniture looked like it had been accumulated over time, in styles that fit well enough together but clearly hadn’t come as a set. He was already sitting in a recliner. It was the kind of chair only a guy would buy himself—the kind with a built-in cupholder and, I judged by the power cord that ran from the chair to a plug in the wall, some sort of massage and power lift features. He held a sweating bottle of Bud Light, and he looked me over again as he took a long drink. He still had yesterday’s stubble, which was graying like everything else. And he had Tip’s mouth.

He didn’t invite me to sit, so after a moment, I settled on the couch. He looked at me. I had the thought that he wanted to smile. And then he picked up the remote and turned on the TV. It was ESPN. My boy John-Henry watched First Take on his phone occasionally when it was a slow day, and sometimes, he forgot to close the blinds to his office.

“Do you know where Tip is?”

He took just long enough to answer to make his point. “Nope.”

“Did you know he left town?”

He didn’t even answer this time. He took a long drink of his beer. At this rate, the next drink would kill it.

“I talked to Jordan,” I said, “and he says Tip left three days ago. Nobody seems to know where he is or what’s going on.”

Eddie Wheeler settled back in the recliner, eyes glued to the TV.

“I’m worried that something might have happened to Tip,” I said. “Or that he might have hurt himself. Mr. Wheeler, are you listening to me?”

“I heard you.”

“Could you turn off the television?”

One more of those long pulls drained the bottle. He set it down without looking at me and said, “Get me a beer.”

I almost laughed. The voices on the TV had changed to a high-pitched noise. I said, “Turn off the fucking television.”

He looked at me. Now I was sure he was trying not to smile. “Where’s that beer?”

I walked over to the television and unplugged it. The house was quieter, but that high-pitched noise in my ears got louder. “Your son is missing.”

“Do you know where Tip is? He’s probably on his knees at a truck stop gloryhole, sucking every cock like it’s his last one.”

The AC came on with a click.

“You think I’m an asshole,” Eddie Wheeler said. “But that’s not a guess, son. That’s a fact. That’s where I found him when he was fifteen fucking years old. Some kid at school had been bullying him, so you know what that boy did? He made himself feel better by slurping a load out of every cock in Kansas City. When I went to pick him up, there was a line .” He stopped; emotions warred on his face before collapsing into hostile emptiness. “So, am I worried that my son disappeared? No. He’s an adult. He can drag his own ass home this time when he’s done feeling sorry for himself.”

I wasn’t sure I could say anything, so I was surprised to hear myself saying, “He’s been through something terrible—”

“For fuck’s sake, you sound just like her. That’s all she’ll talk about. Him. Him, him, him. It’s always him. What about me?” His chest rose and fell rapidly. “I had a fucking career before that little faggot did his version of Debbie Does Dallas . You know what happened after they found out? Nothing. It was over. The end. I was shit-canned without anybody bothering to give me my papers.” He was clutching the arms of the recliner now, his fingertips white where they bit into the overstuffed padding. “You know what my captain said to me? He said, ‘What’s the difference between a fag and a fridge? A fridge doesn’t fart when I take my meat out of it.’” He stopped. His face was red, and he breathed hard through his nose.

He was angry, yes. But there was something else in his face. The satisfaction of saying something he’d wanted to say. Something he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

That’s when it clicked. The way he held his beer. The way he talked. Even the fucking recliner.

“I used to know a guy like you,” I said.

Whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it. He sat up a little straighter, and then the amusement sharpened in his face. “That’s right. You’re a queer too.”

“Does Tip have friends in Kansas City he might be staying with?”

“What’s that like? Little town like this, it can’t be easy.”

“It was harder in Springfield. What about family? A relative, someone he’s close to?”

“Is that why you’ve got such a hard-on for Tip? You want to fuck him or something?”

“What about friends in the area? Besides Jordan and Rory?”

He leaned back. His hand made a loose circle around the neck of the bottle, sliding up and down. Maybe it was subconscious, I thought. Maybe I should point it out. He said, “How do you pack faggots in a bar?”

“Has Tip been in any kind of trouble lately?”

“Turn the stools upside down.”

“Did Tip say anything recently that might suggest he was thinking about hurting himself?”

Eddie Wheeler’s smile was slow and hard. “Does your captain know you’re fucking around like this? Maybe I should call him.”

“Where’s Mrs. Wheeler? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

“Mrs. Wheeler. That’s a good one. You should call her that.”

“Is she home?”

“No,” he said. “She’s not home. Do you know why she’s not home? Because she’s a fucking whore. Like her son.”

“I’d like to talk to her. Is there a way I can get in touch with her?”

He looked like he didn’t want to answer, but he must have known how this worked—if I wanted to find her, I’d find her. He shifted in his seat, the color in his face deepening, and finally said, “Sure. You can drive out to the Beaver Trap and have a nice chat while she’s shaking her titties.”

In the front yard, a sparrow fluttered down from one of the big trees to peck at the ground.

Eddie Wheeler’s face was red again, and he spoke into the silence. “Hell, maybe you’ll find Tip there. That boy would love to shake his ass on a stage while a bunch of old fucks jerked off to him.”

“Do you think Tip is at the Beaver Trap?”

“How fucking stupid are you? They wouldn’t put a guy up there. Not to mention the last time, they beat the shit out of him. I told him that’s what he got for—”

He stopped so suddenly I could hear the click in his throat.

“For what?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“What happened the last time Tip went out to the Beaver Trap?”

“Did you hear me? I said get the fuck out!”

I studied him. He was flushed, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Get out of my house! You’d better believe I’m calling your fucking captain after this shit. Get the fuck out!”

“If you hear from Tip,” I said, “or you think of anything else, give me a call.”

As I made my way to the door, he shouted after me, “I’ll call your captain, that’s who I’m going to call. I’ll call the detectives in charge of this fucking case.”

I left my card, just in case, and let myself out.