“You got in late last night.”
“More like this morning,” Benson acknowledged.
“And went right out again. With something under your arm, all folded up. Just the way we’re folding this.” Her thighs pressed against his. He felt their heat even through the double thickness of the tarp.
She took it from him, making the last folds herself. “Maybe I’ll just take this back to my place. I’m painting my kitchen. It’ll come in handy.” Her gaze lingered on the dark places on his shirt and pants. “I got a washer-dryer. I can take care of those. You don’t want to leave them too long. Stain’ll set. Come on.”
He’d never been inside her trailer. She had a rare double-wide, carpeted, clean, smelling of air freshener.
“Well?” she said, and waited.
“What?”
“Can’t wash your clothes if you’re still in them. Here’s how this goes. Let’s see if you remember.”
She stripped down first.
He concentrated on undoing the buttons of his shirt, grateful for the reason to look away.
Nathalie showed up a couple of days after Gary disappeared. She lifted a shredded Kleenex to her raw little nose as she choked out questions.
Behind him, Benson heard the metallic pop and hiss of opening cans. He didn’t dare turn but knew Velma and Miss Mary were taking in the dreads snaking around Nathalie’s bony shoulders, the loose halter dress, the skinny legs disappearing into the cowboy boots. When she bent to dig a fresh tissue from her purse, Benson could see down the front of the dress, nipples like cinnamon gumdrops on a flat, pale expanse.
“I’ve called and called and called. His roommates think he went fishing. All his gear is gone. But his car’s still there.”
“Maybe he hitchhiked. He’s been known to do that.”
“He has?”
No, he hadn’t. But she didn’t know that, and no one else did, either. None of these people knew Gary the way he did.
“Maybe he’s just moved on to someone else. He’s been known to do that too. Although, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.” Benson put his fist to his mouth. Pumped. “You know?”
“You’re horrible!” Hahhhrible.
Slow claps from Miss Mary and Velma as Nathalie boo-hooed her way to her car.
The knock Benson had been expecting came when he was at the camper’s drop-down table, finally writing out in longhand the story he’d been spinning for Miss Mary and Velma. He closed his notebook.
“I’d rather talk outside,” he told the cop. “I could use the fresh air.”
The cop raised an eyebrow. “You been out yet today?”
The weather had changed overnight and the Hellgate wind blustered past, tearing leaves from the cottonwoods. They piled up against the trailers, a jackpot shower of gold. The Mountain View Mobile Home Park had never looked so good. But the sun was a tease, winking from a blue, blue sky, promising relief that never arrived. Down the row, Velma fussed over her dead irises. She wore a jacket that failed to cover her bare thighs, mottled with cellulite and cold. The officer stamped his feet and beat gloved hands together. Between questions, his gaze strayed to the fading bruise along Benson’s cheekbone, his skinned knuckles.
Yes, Benson had seen Gary the night before he’d disappeared.
Yes, at Gary’s place.
No, no one else had been around.
No, no idea where Gary was. Maybe he’d gone fishing? Nathalie had said his gear was gone. As to Gary’s car sitting under its own blanket of leaves in front of the house: “He was always a big hitchhiker. Me? Hitchhike with him? Do I look like I can afford to fly-fish?”
“Officer?” Velma sashayed toward them, smiling, coat open. The cop looked, smiled back. “Anything I can help you with, officer?”
Plenty, according to his expression. “You know this guy?”
“Depends on what you mean by know.” Velma cocked a hip.
Benson watched the cop trying to work it out, looking his way and rejecting the obvious implication. “You see any unusual activity over at his place a couple of days back?”
Benson had left Velma’s while she slept, pulling his damp clothes from the dryer, hustling back down the row to his camper, thankful Miss Mary wasn’t on her step. He hadn’t gone out since. Sweat pricked his hairline.
“Anything unusual? I don’t think so. Not that I remember.”
Benson breathed.
“But I might think of something later. You got a card?”
He did. The blouse beneath the parka was scooped low. The card disappeared into all that abundance. “See you later, hon,” she said. Maybe to Benson. Or maybe the cop, who watched her ass all the way back into her trailer. Tick-tock, Benson thought. The woman had mastered the art of the sway.
The cop pulled a glove from one hand and wrote in a narrow notebook. “There was blood on the rug at your friend’s place. We’re going to test it. You up for a DNA sample?”
“Sure. But you don’t need to take a sample. At least some of that blood is mine.”
“Say what?”
“We had a fight.” He held out his hand, scabbed knuckles up, pointed to his cheek, stopping himself just in time from adding a Nathalie-esque, Ahhbviously.
“What about?”
“Love.” Because wasn’t that what it was, the writing? The Unattainable One they chased, wooed, fought for and over? “Any idea where he is, officer?”
“None. I’ll be honest: it doesn’t look good. He hasn’t showed up at any of his classes, and he’d never missed any until now. Nobody’s used his credit cards or his phone. Nobody’s heard from him. Those things usually add up to somebody being dead. Hard to know for sure, though, without a body.” He slapped his notebook against his thigh. “So I’m just going to come right out and ask. Did you kill him?”
Benson locked eyes with the cop. He shook his head long and slow. “The last time I saw Gary, he was alive.”
Benson had never thought much about the term dead weight until he’d wrestled Gary out of the car and toward the lip of the cutbank.
“How’d you get so heavy eating all that goddamn fruit?” he asked the back of Gary’s lolling head. It would have been easier to drag him faceup but he couldn’t stand the thought of Gary’s dead eyes staring at him.
“Hunh?” Gary said.
Benson dropped him and jumped back, teetering on the edge of the bank. “Jesus Christ!”
When Benson was a boy, he’d gone duck hunting with his dad. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get the hang of leading them as they coasted in toward the decoys. All his shots went wild. But his dad was a good shot, and as Benson had stuffed the mallards into a sack, their rich brown breast feathers still soft and warm, the blood on them only beginning to stiffen, he’d accidentally squeezed one. For years, his father retold the story of how Benson burst into tears when the dead duck emitted a final quack as the last of its breath was forced from its lungs.
Benson nudged Gary with his toe. Nothing. He nudged him harder, finally working up the nerve to turn him over. Gary’s lips moved. “Dude. The fuck?” He stared up at Benson. His eyes widened as he went over the rim.
“That Benjamin. He’s a better man than me,” Miss Mary said.
Than I, Benson thought.
Miss Mary spoke from inside a pink parka that looked like it had swallowed her whole. Fuzzy pink socks warmed her feet inside their sparkly Crocs. Her skin seemed grayer than usual next to all that color. Velma had finally traded in her skirts for seam-stretched jeans. The cottonwoods, limbs creaking a warning, stood bare against a sky that spat snow.