Nowhere to Run

16

With Marybeth at work and the girls at school, Joe had the revelation that he’d never been alone in his own house before. It was remarkably quiet. He felt like both a voyeur and a trespasser as he limped through the rooms carrying a plastic five-gallon bucket filled with tools and equipment. His only company was Tube, who, since they’d returned two days before, had not let Joe out of his sight. In fact, Tube trailed him so tightly that the dog would bump into the back of his legs if Joe stopped.

At dinner the previous night, Joe had queried Marybeth and his daughters for their wish lists of repairs, maintenance, and projects. He listed the chores on a legal pad and finally begged them to stop after he filled the first page and after April requested he build “a wall of separation” between her bed and Lucy’s in the room they shared so she “wouldn’t have to look at her face, like, ever.” He was embarrassed there was so much to get done, which was a testament to his long absences over the past two years. In addition to his own list-painting the house, fixing a leak in the garage roof, cleaning the gutters, shoring up his leaning slat-board fence, sorting out his long-neglected Game and Fish office-Joe figured he had at least a week’s worth of projects ahead of him. By then, he hoped, his in-house sentence would be over and Governor Rulon would lift his order of administrative leave.

Certainly Marybeth had welcomed him home and was pleased he was getting to all of the neglected projects, but Joe could feel tension building between them. Marybeth ran the house and family, and she did a good job of both. She had become used to him not being around. Joe’s presence, especially since he was at home during the day, disrupted her management and routine. He sympathized with her and found himself feeling sorry for himself as well. Joe didn’t like being inside so much.

Although the home they owned on the quiet residential street in Saddlestring was much more conventional and convenient for Marybeth’s business and the girls’ school and activities, Joe still pined for past houses in the country. He’d even mentioned to Marybeth when they pulled into the driveway from Billings that it seemed the neighboring houses on each side had somehow encroached a few feet closer to theirs. This was not the first time he’d had this impression, and it made him doubt his sanity.

After he turned off the water to the toilet so he could reset the float to make it stop trickling constantly, Joe parted the curtain and checked to see if his neighbor, Ed Nedney, was still out in his yard. He was. He was out there reseeding a one-foot patch of slightly bare earth in his backyard with a rake so it would grow to be as perfect as the rest of his yard. Nedney was a former town administrator who’d retired solely, Joe believed, to keep his lawn and home immaculate and because it gave him more time to disapprove of Joe’s home maintenance regimen.

Joe had watched Nedney through the window all morning while he himself was on the phone making arrangements for his father’s body with a Billings funeral home. He didn’t look forward to discussing the costs with Marybeth later that night. Marybeth’s business transition was facing hurdles now that the downturn in the economy had finally reached Wyoming. The buyers were slowing down the process and making noises about pulling out of the sale. Since the sale had been negotiated, half of her retail clients had either closed shop or taken their financial management in-house to save money. Marybeth had laid off two of her four employees and was in the process of prospecting for more clients while running her office on a day-to-day basis. Because the state had frozen salaries, including Joe’s, money was tight.

In a calming and well-practiced baritone, the funeral home director had explained the costs and options for cremation and urns.

The cremation alone would cost $1,835. Joe contained his alarm.

He told Joe, “Our charge for a direct cremation (without ceremony) includes basic services of funeral director and staff, a proportionate share of overhead costs, removal of remains, necessary authorizations, minimum container, minimum urn, and cremation. Another option that has proven very meaningful to families is to have a traditional service followed by cremation. The cost for this type of service is three thousand nine hundred fifty dollars.”

Joe wondered if it would be bad form to ask how the cost compared with that of a burial, but assumed a burial would cost more. Plus, he couldn’t ask his girls and wife to attend the funeral for a man they’d never met. Meaning it would be a burial with one mourner-him. Cremation was the only option.

“That’s kind of expensive,” Joe said. “We can do the cremation, but it’s more than I thought it would be.”

“The process must be thorough to maintain dignity,” the funeral director said in a well-practiced response. “Now we should talk about an urn.”

“Okay.”

Joe thought of his father’s last laugh. Now he thought he knew what it was about.

“If an individual weighs one hundred eighty pounds at the time of cremation, they will require an urn one hundred eighty cubic inches or larger,” the man said. “Do you know the weight of your loved one?”

Joe said, “I’d guess one-sixty.”

He could hear the funeral director tapping on computer keys. “You have many, many choices of urns,” he said. “Many people these days like to purchase an urn that would mean something to the departed. We have urns available from forty-five dollars to five thousand, so it would help if you could give me the parameters of your budget.”

Joe hadn’t thought about budgeting the funeral. He thought, How much is he worth to me, this man who walked out on our family so many years ago and never even bothered to make contact with his wife or sons? Then, ashamed of his conclusion, he said, “We don’t want to make a big deal of it. Simple is best.” By simple, he meant cheap.

“Very well,” the man said. “Maybe I can help you make a decision. As I mentioned, the trend is toward themed urns. Did your father like to golf? We have golf urns ranging from fifty dollars to two thousand dollars. Fishing? Fishing urns are very popular here in Billings, as you might guess. We have fishing urns in metal, ceramic, glass, and biodegradable. Did your father like to fish?”

“No.”

“And we have cowboy boot urns, another popular choice in Montana and Wyoming. Hunting urns as well. Did your father like to hunt?”

Said Joe, “My father liked to drink. Do you have urns resembling a bottle of gin or Old Grand-Dad bourbon? Or maybe one shaped like a suitcase? He was fond of packing up and leaving.”

The funeral director paused for a few beats before he said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

“Sort of.”

With excess pomposity, the funeral director said, “We laugh so that we will not cry.”

“Yup, we do,” Joe said, and ordered a simple ceramic urn for $100 and the funeral director promised to FedEx the remains to Saddlestring within a day.

When the toilet was fixed, Joe called Sheriff Baird in Carbon County. He wasn’t in his office, but the dispatcher said, “Oh, it’s you” and patched Joe through to Baird’s county pickup. From the first word, Joe knew McLanahan’s version of events was accurate.

“It’s the fabulist,” Baird said.

“I’m not sure what to say to that, sheriff.”

“Don’t say anything. When you start talking, it costs me too much damned money and time.”

“The Grim Brothers must have covered their tracks,” Joe said. “They knew you’d be looking for them, I guess.”

“Then they did a hell of a good job, because my team couldn’t confirm a single thing you said. Do you know how much it costs to mount an eleven-person search-and-rescue team and outfit them for the mountains? Do you have any idea?”

Joe looked out the window. Ed Nedney was standing on the dividing line between his perfect lawn and Joe’s matted and leaf-strewn grass. Nedney was shaking his head and puffing on his pipe.

“I’d guess quite a bit,” Joe said.

“Damn straight. Plus, I had to personally call the parents of Diane Shober and tell them their daughter wasn’t found. That was not a pleasant experience.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. “I never claimed I saw her. You must have put that out.”

“Yeah, stupid me,” Baird said. “I believed what you told me. I’m spending way too much time trying to defend your story. The state even sent a man to interview me this morning.”

Joe felt a twinge in his belly. “What do you mean, the state?”

“DCI. They sent an agent over here to ask me questions about your statement, even though he had a copy of it with him.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know, McQueen or something. He didn’t give me a card.”

“Was it McCue?” Joe asked, leaning into the phone. “Bobby McCue?”

“Yeah, that’s him. An odd duck. I don’t like the state looking over my shoulder.”

Joe shook his head. “He came to talk to me in the hospital. Same guy. I can’t figure out what his game is or who he’s really with.”

Baird snorted. “That’s all I need is some damned rogue investigator running around down here. Maybe I’ll have to sic the FBI on him.”

“The FBI?”

“Let me find that message,” Baird said. “I grabbed it at the office before I left.” Joe could hear paper being unfolded. “Special Agent Chuck Coon called. He wants me to call him back regarding what we found or didn’t find in the mountains.”

“I know Coon,” Joe said, remembering that the governor had also mentioned federal interest. “He’s a good enough guy, but I don’t know why they’re interested.”

Said Baird, “DCI, FBI, the National Enquirer. You sure as hell know how to stir up a hornet’s nest. For nothing, I might add.”

“They’re up there,” Joe said. “The Grim Brothers, Terri Wade, and the mystery woman. You just didn’t manage to find them. They know those mountains better than anyone alive, and they probably watched you the whole time. Luckily, you had numbers and firepower on your side so they left you alone.”

Said Baird, “They sure as hell did.”

“Come on, sheriff. You’re well aware of all the break-ins and vandalism over the last couple of years. You’ve heard from ranchers who’ve pulled their cattle from leases. You know they’re up there.”

Baird was silent.

“Look,” Joe said, “I’m sorry you couldn’t find them. And I’m sorry about your budget. But those brothers will stay up there and something else will happen unless they’re located. We both know that.”

Baird said, “I don’t know a damned thing, Joe, other than I’m pulling into the parking lot of the county building right now where I’ve got to go inside and tell the county commissioners that I’ve blown the entire annual discretionary budget of the sheriff’s department and it’s just September. You want to drive down here and explain it to them with me?”

Joe said, “I can’t leave my house right now.”

“Thought so.”

“But I wish I could,” Joe said. He sounded lame even to himself.

“I need to hang up now. I’ve gotta go let the commissioners peel the bark off me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You sure are.” With that, Baird punched off.

The woman who answered the phone in the state Department of Administration and Information Human Resources office in Cheyenne said, “I’ve got three minutes to help you or you’ll need to call back.”

Joe glanced at the digital clock on his desk. It was 11:57 a.m.

“You go to lunch in three minutes?” Joe asked.

“Two minutes now,” she said.

Joe closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and asked her to confirm that either Bobby McCue or Robert McCue was employed by the State of Wyoming. Joe knew that although additional information couldn’t be given out regarding personnel information, the state was obligated to provide the names of employees because it was public record.

“Spell it,” she said. Joe tried M-C–C-U-E to no avail. He suggested M-C–C-E-W, then M-C-H-U-G-H. No hits on her computer system. “You’ll have to try back later,” she said.

Said Joe, “I realize it’s noon and noon is your lunch break. But can you please give me five more minutes? I promise I’ll buy you lunch next time I’m in Cheyenne.”

Through gritted teeth, she said she had to go and she did.

At 12:01, Joe called the Department of Criminal Investigation and asked for Bobby McCue’s voice mail.

“We don’t have an employee with that name,” the receptionist said.

“Thank you.” Joe slammed down the phone and moaned. Tube raised his head and cocked it inquisitively.

Joe threw back the curtains and shoved the window open. Nedney looked up, surprised.

“Hey, Ed,” Joe said. “Get off of my lawn.”

Nedney looked down at his feet. The tips of his shoes had crossed the property line.

“Hey, you’re trampling my grass,” Joe said.

“Is that what it is?” Nedney said, slowly removing the pipe from his mouth, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

“Good one,” Joe conceded and closed the window and put the drapes back in place, already sorry he’d taken his frustration out on his neighbor.

As he limped through the kitchen with his bucket of tools, bound for the mudroom to fix the door that wouldn’t shut properly, he felt he was being watched. Joe paused and slowly turned around. Tube was right with him, as always, but the sensation hadn’t come from his dog.

Had Nedney entered his backyard?

Slowly, Joe raised his eyes to the window over the sink that overlooked his back lawn.

Nate cocked his eyebrows at him from outside. Through the glass, Nate mouthed, “Hey.”

Joe grinned. It had been a long time.