project.”
“Yeah, and if it was up to me, the county wouldn’t hire fags to tell people what to do.”
Tarboe’s mouth got thin and tight. “You’ll regret that,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you do.”
“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you go find somebody to bugger and let me get back to work?”
Big glare. Tarboe turned away, then turned back and said before stomping out, “You know, what everyone’s saying about you is right. You really are the biggest asshole in Green Valley.”
Balfour stood there with the sweat running on him and it felt like the top of his head was ready to come off. Nothing going right anymore, pressure from every direction. Verriker, the woman, the Buckhorn crowd, Charlotte, Tarboe, Donaldson, snotnose kids and half-wits and people he hardly knew … seemed like everybody in the valley was his enemy. Looking at him like he was a pile of dog turds, wrinkling their noses like they couldn’t stand his smell. Ragging on him, laughing at him to his face and behind his back, screwing him over, pulling the noose so tight he couldn’t breathe. Man could only take so much. Some of the pressure didn’t get released quick, he was liable to blow like a boiler with a busted safety valve.
He couldn’t work anymore today. Just didn’t give a shit anymore. He bulled out of the restroom, yanked off his toolbelt and threw it into the storage unit, then got into his truck and roared out of there. Didn’t bother to tell Eladio and the half-wit he was leaving and not coming back; screw them, too.
He drove over to Freedom Lanes, went into the bar, and threw down two double shots and a bottle of Bud before some of the pounding in his head and boiling in his gut eased off. But he could still feel the pressure like a hundred-pound sack of cement sitting on his shoulders, weighing him down.
Out on the alleys, balls thudded on hardwood and pins crashed, and the sounds all seemed to come together into one steady beating noise that got inside his head like a voice talking, shouting. Verriker’s voice, saying the same things over and over.
Biggest asshole I know, maybe the biggest one in these parts. I bet somebody’d nominate you for mayor, I bet you’d win hands down. Pete Balfour, the first mayor of Asshole Valley … mayor of Asshole Valley … mayor of Asshole Valley …
11
Broxmeyer was at the substation to take my call and showed up on the logging road, alone in his cruiser, within fifteen minutes. He examined Kerry’s sun hat, looked over the area where I’d found it, looked at the marks on the ground where the vehicle had been parked, poked around elsewhere in the vicinity. Accommodating, professional, sympathetic up to a point, his expression carefully neutral the entire time. But he was too young, too inexperienced, too detached to share my place sensitivity, or my fears. None of it seemed to add up for him the way it did for me.
“Well, those tire impressions don’t necessarily mean anything,” he said when he was finished looking. We were standing next to his cruiser, me leaning against the rear door because my legs were still a little shaky. “Kids park up here sometimes. One of the other deputies caught a couple last year … you wouldn’t believe what they were doing—”
“I don’t care what they were doing. All I care about is finding my wife.”
“I understand that. But I think you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s no evidence here to support the idea that she was abducted.”
“What about the other marks on the ground?”
“Anything could’ve made them. No clear signs of a struggle.”
“The hat,” I said.
“Not damaged in any way. Nothing on it but some pine needles stuck in the straw.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t forcibly knocked off her head.”
“It indicates she was here, but—”
“Indicates? The hat wouldn’t have been if she wasn’t.”
“On this road, yes. She could have lost it walking along.”
“No,” I said.
“Yeah, and if it was up to me, the county wouldn’t hire fags to tell people what to do.”
Tarboe’s mouth got thin and tight. “You’ll regret that,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you do.”
“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you go find somebody to bugger and let me get back to work?”
Big glare. Tarboe turned away, then turned back and said before stomping out, “You know, what everyone’s saying about you is right. You really are the biggest asshole in Green Valley.”
Balfour stood there with the sweat running on him and it felt like the top of his head was ready to come off. Nothing going right anymore, pressure from every direction. Verriker, the woman, the Buckhorn crowd, Charlotte, Tarboe, Donaldson, snotnose kids and half-wits and people he hardly knew … seemed like everybody in the valley was his enemy. Looking at him like he was a pile of dog turds, wrinkling their noses like they couldn’t stand his smell. Ragging on him, laughing at him to his face and behind his back, screwing him over, pulling the noose so tight he couldn’t breathe. Man could only take so much. Some of the pressure didn’t get released quick, he was liable to blow like a boiler with a busted safety valve.
He couldn’t work anymore today. Just didn’t give a shit anymore. He bulled out of the restroom, yanked off his toolbelt and threw it into the storage unit, then got into his truck and roared out of there. Didn’t bother to tell Eladio and the half-wit he was leaving and not coming back; screw them, too.
He drove over to Freedom Lanes, went into the bar, and threw down two double shots and a bottle of Bud before some of the pounding in his head and boiling in his gut eased off. But he could still feel the pressure like a hundred-pound sack of cement sitting on his shoulders, weighing him down.
Out on the alleys, balls thudded on hardwood and pins crashed, and the sounds all seemed to come together into one steady beating noise that got inside his head like a voice talking, shouting. Verriker’s voice, saying the same things over and over.
Biggest asshole I know, maybe the biggest one in these parts. I bet somebody’d nominate you for mayor, I bet you’d win hands down. Pete Balfour, the first mayor of Asshole Valley … mayor of Asshole Valley … mayor of Asshole Valley …
11
Broxmeyer was at the substation to take my call and showed up on the logging road, alone in his cruiser, within fifteen minutes. He examined Kerry’s sun hat, looked over the area where I’d found it, looked at the marks on the ground where the vehicle had been parked, poked around elsewhere in the vicinity. Accommodating, professional, sympathetic up to a point, his expression carefully neutral the entire time. But he was too young, too inexperienced, too detached to share my place sensitivity, or my fears. None of it seemed to add up for him the way it did for me.
“Well, those tire impressions don’t necessarily mean anything,” he said when he was finished looking. We were standing next to his cruiser, me leaning against the rear door because my legs were still a little shaky. “Kids park up here sometimes. One of the other deputies caught a couple last year … you wouldn’t believe what they were doing—”
“I don’t care what they were doing. All I care about is finding my wife.”
“I understand that. But I think you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s no evidence here to support the idea that she was abducted.”
“What about the other marks on the ground?”
“Anything could’ve made them. No clear signs of a struggle.”
“The hat,” I said.
“Not damaged in any way. Nothing on it but some pine needles stuck in the straw.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t forcibly knocked off her head.”
“It indicates she was here, but—”
“Indicates? The hat wouldn’t have been if she wasn’t.”
“On this road, yes. She could have lost it walking along.”
“No,” I said.
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