The Skeleton Box

TWENTY

Repelmaus walked Joanie and me to the parking lot.

“Well,” he said, as the pro shop door swung shut behind us. “I thought that went well.”

“For you or for us?” Joanie said.

“For all concerned, I hope,” Repelmaus said. “I thought Father was candid. Maybe even a little too candid. Which reminds me, Gus.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink While You Were Out slip. “The archdiocese got a message this morning from Luke Whistler of the Free Press. Didn’t want to return it until after we met. You know him?”

I tried not to look surprised. “Yep. He works for me.”

“At?”

“The Pine County Pilot.”

“Ah. Hadn’t heard. I’m usually up to date on reporter comings and goings.”

“He came up north after retiring, though you’d never know by how hard he works.”

“As opposed to when he was at the Freep, ” Joanie said. “Come on, I’ve got to get downtown.”

Joanie and I walked to Soupy’s pickup as Repelmaus’s Caddy pulled onto Six Mile.

“Well,” Joanie said, “at least you got his name spelled, huh?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“It was like he interviewed you.”

“I learned what I came to learn,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like, the archdiocese is buying up that land.”

“He never confirmed that.”

“Not so I could write it in the paper, but enough that I believe it. Also, he bullshitted us about Joe Wayland. That’s why I asked about his name.”

“What do you mean?”

“It dawned on me when he was drinking his coffee. His hand was shaking like a leaf, and I thought, man, he’s old. And then I remembered there was a priest quoted in one of the old Pilot stories about the nun and Joe Wayland.”

“That was him?”

“Pretty sure. I’ll show you. In the truck.”

“Hey.” She stopped and faced me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you come up last night?”

“Up?” I started walking toward the truck again. Joanie followed.

“To my bed,” she said. “Am I too young for you?”

“Come on.”

“Or are you intimidated because I work for a bigger paper? Your old paper?”

“No.”

“For the record, I don’t really care.”

“Joanie, I didn’t come-oh, what the fuck?”

The dome light was on in the truck. I ran over. As I got closer I saw that the driver’s side door was ajar, and there was a jagged hole in the window. Someone had punched through the glass and unlocked the door. I pulled the door open, climbed across the front seat, and plowed through the garbage on the floor.

The lockbox was gone.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “My mother-” I stepped away from the truck and looked around the parking lot, up and down Six Mile. “Fuck.”

“Someone broke in?”

“Yeah, and stole something. Something important. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have left it.”

“What was it?”

“A box. Something Mom gave me.”

“How would anyone know it was there?”

“Nobody would. Except me. And Soupy.” I looked back toward the clubhouse. “Maybe the good Father had the truck searched while we were in the clubhouse, and he got lucky.”

“Too obvious,” Joanie said. “But why would he care about your mother’s whatever?”

“Your boyfriend didn’t know, did he?”

“I told you I don’t have boyfriends.”

She blushed as she said it.

“Shit,” I said. “Frenchy knew we were coming here, didn’t he.”

“He helped us, Gus. I’m sorry. Besides, I thought, you know, the small world of newspapers, he might know you from your time here.”

“Oh, he knows me, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. I’m such a jackass.” I pointed at the clubhouse. “You don’t think he’s working for those guys, do you?”

“He works for a lot of people.”

“Great.”

“Should we call the cops?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I appreciate the help. Talking to the priest actually made things a little clearer. I’ve got to get back and make sure Mom’s OK.”

“Give her my best.”

She stepped close and hugged me around the waist. The fragrance of her body wash was gone. She stepped back.

“I can’t believe you’re playing hockey,” I said.

She smiled. “Maybe we’ll get out there together sometime.”

“Maybe.”

“You know, Gus, you belong here.”

I slid into the truck. “Sometimes I wish I did.”

Brittle wind whistled through the hole in my window as I veered from Interstate 96 West onto U.S. 23 North. I didn’t want to stop long enough to patch the hole, so I kept my hat and gloves on and turned the heat up as high as it would go.

I turned on my phone. A tiny red light was blinking, telling me the power was about to run out. I wondered if the blinking light itself was wasting power. I wanted to call Darlene but felt like I had to call my mother’s attorney first.

Shipman was just heading into court. He told me he’d seen Mom in the morning and she was fine. The sheriff’s department was keeping her in hot tea and magazines. He had advised her not to talk, and she had obeyed for the most part, except for a brief conversation she’d had in her cell with Darlene.

High beams flashed in my rearview mirror, somebody wanting to pass. I glanced at the speedometer. I’d been driving in the left lane at sixty miles per hour, about twenty-five too slow for the maniacs escaping Detroit on I-75.

I eased the truck into the right lane and asked what Mom had said. Mostly small talk, Shipman said, though she let on that she might have said something about, as he put it, “the new guy with Tatch and the other religious folks.” You mean Breck, I said. Correct, he said, adding that he’d heard a rumor that Tatch also might have intimated something to the cops about Breck.

“Really?” I said. “Like what?”

Maybe, I thought, Tatch had had enough of his new “friend.”

“Not sure, but Dingus seemed more jumpy than I’ve-”

That was the last I heard.

I looked at my phone. The red light had stopped blinking. A car horn beeped. I looked to my left. The man in the SUV next to me flipped me off before speeding ahead.