"I'm quite a few years away from retirement, so I haven't given it much thought."
"That's a shame," he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "Because I got a feeling your career's about to come to an abrupt end." He flipped open the wallet to show me a gold badge exactly like the one I'd shown him. "When I said that about not being able to keep your badge after retirement, I lied."
"I get that now." I rubbed my eyes. "Oh, shit…."
Uncle Herb replaced his wallet, then leaned on the bar toward me. "You probably can't see them too well from here, Mr. Tommy Lee Jones—by the way, I thought you deserved your Oscar for that movie, but damn if you don't look a thing in real life like you did up on that screen—anyway, you can't see 'em from here, but a couple of those pool players back there are State Police. Andy and Barney—yes, those are their real names and no, I wouldn't make Mayberry or Floyd the barber jokes around them if I was you. They come in here every night right after their shift finishes and play a couple of games. Says it helps them relax, and trust me, Andy and Barney are a couple of real tense guys. Now, unless you can give me one goddamned good reason why I shouldn't call them over here and have your ass arrested right here and now, then your day's about to have a crimp put into it. You got any idea what the penalty is for impersonating a Federal officer?—don't bother answering that, it wasn't a real question." He finished off his beer, opened another one. "I usually take about five minutes to finish off my second beer, son. You got until then to convince me that you shouldn't spend the next forty years of your life in prison being ass-candy for a big cranky guy named Bubba." He lifted the bottle to his lips. "Clock's running."
I said the first thing that came into my mind. "I found John and Ellen Matthews' son."
Uncle Herb paused with the bottle almost to his mouth. "Christopher?" He lowered the bottle. "You telling me that you found Christopher Matthews?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded, then sipped his beer. "You want a refill on that Pepsi or maybe something stronger? I'm buying."
"That's awfully nice of you, considering."
"Considering that you're still in spitting range of being Bubba's pillow-biter? Not all that nice." He handed me a beer. "The cap twists off but I like to pop 'em. Seems more macho, the way Hemingway'd do it, if you ask me. Ever read Hemingway? Man could make a semicolon seem like it had an overload of testosterone." He found a stool behind the bar and pulled it up to sit directly across from me. "What's your real name?"
"Mark."
"Got a last name or are you one of them one-name wonders like Madonna and Prince?"
"I've got a last name. I'd rather not tell you what it is."
He stared at me for several seconds, then said: "All right, I'll let you keep it to yourself for the moment, but understand: I've got a Bulldog .44 within easy reach, you try to dart on me, Mark No-Last-Name-For-The-Moment and I will not hesitate to shoot you in the back of the leg."
"I believe you."
"Fine. I'm guessing from that addition to your nose and all them other decorations on your face—not to mention the blood on your shirt that you think that jacket's covering up—that you haven't had the best couple of days."
"No, sir, I haven't." And I proceeded to tell him about what had happened since yesterday. I was about a third of the way through it when he said, "Indiana."
"What?"
He slapped the bar with his open hand. "Son-of-a-bitch! I must be getting old—any other time I'd've made the connection toot-sweet in a second flat. You're the guy who brought them two kids into the Dupont emergency room, aren't you? The diabetic girl and that little colored boy with his face all scarred up."
My stomach and throat tried changing places. "You've heard something about Arnold and Rebecca?"
"Is that what their names are? News reports didn't say."
I reached out and grabbed his forearm. "Is the girl all right? Did the reports say—?"
"Easy there, son." He pulled my hand from his arm. "The girl's fine. She's still listed in guarded condition, but the news says she's gonna be just fine."
"What about their families? Did the reports say whether or not—?"
"Last I heard, the families had been located and were on their way to get 'em—but keep in mind, this was the late news last night; for all I know, their families might've already gotten them and be on their ways back home. The kids ain't saying who it was that brought them to the hospital, though a security guard there claims it was a U.S. Marshal. Kids won't give him up. But you can be they've been talking all about the guy who abducted them… Grendel?"
I nodded. "Grendel."
"So far they ain't made so much as a peep about this 'mystery man' who rescued them." He ran a hand through his hair. "How bad is the girl's face?"
"Almost half of it's gone, and not all in one place, either." I rubbed my eyes. "Plus one of her breasts has been cut off." I looked at him. "Grendel made her cut it off, then cook it up and eat it. If you want to call any of your friends who're still with the Marshal's office or on the force or whatever and check on that, I promise you I'll sit right here and wait."
His lower lip trembled. "He made her… cut it off and… and…?"
"Yeah."
He shook his head. "The news reports ain't saying the extent of the disfigurement on either of them, except some about the colored boy—Arnold? Says his face was deliberately scarred in patterns."
"Ta Moko," I said. "It's a traditional method of facial scarring among ancient Maori warriors. To hide a boy's age and show his place amongst the hierarchy of the tribe."
Uncle Herb wrote that down in pencil on the back of a bar ticket, then looked at me, considered something, and set out two more beers. "You want something more to eat than them rings? Beth could fix us up a couple of mean burgers."
"You still buying?"
"Why not? Can I see that driver's license of yours again?"
"Then you'll know my last name."
"I'm gonna trust you not to bolt when I step away from this bar, then you gotta trust me." He held out his hand. "Your license."
I handed over the wallet; he did not open it; instead, he slid back the lid of the beer cooler, tossed it inside, then closed the lid. "I'll go put in our order, make a call or two."
"I'll wait right here."
"I believe you. How many burgers you want?"
"Two. One for here, one for the road."
"Sounds like you're assuming that Big Bad Bubba isn't still lurking in your future."
I did not blink. "I like to assume the bright side whenever possible."
He said nothing to that, only smiled, shook his head, and disappeared through the swinging doors.
I sat there staring at the rings of condensation made by the beer bottles on the marble of the bar. I have no idea what I thought about, or for how long I sat there doing so; all I remember is that I was scared half out of mind, the rings kept spreading out toward each other, and that I really truly seriously didn't want to know anyone named Bubba or Brutus or even Bruce. Especially not Bubba. Bubba was a name you saw on Wanted posters in post office lobbies. And they were never smiling. Bubba the Unsmiling One. Meet Mark, your new cellmate. No thank you.
"Who'd you get the badge from?"
His voice startled me. I shuddered from my thoughts, cleared my throat, had to pause for a moment to remember what he'd just asked me, then said: "From them. They stole it from Grendel, who I guess got it from an actual U.S Marshal."
Uncle Herb's face turned into a slab of granite. "That's the only way he could've gotten it. I've seen the phonies—some of them damned good and expensive phonies—and what you flashed there was the real thing."