Pickard County Atlas Read online

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  For Paula

  1

  DEEP IN THE LATE JULY NIGHT, the headlamps of Harley Jensen’s cruiser carved a tunnel of light above Highway 28. They lit the thin tar-and-chip road and the bunchgrass whose shoots ate its crumbling edges. The glare blotted out all else. North-central Nebraska, the spot where sand met loam, rose and fell around him, cast black against the shadow of sky.

  Each night on patrol, Harley absently ticked off names of passing tracts like reading a plat map in an old atlas. Convention out here held that pastures and fields were named for the living who owned them. Homes and outbuildings huddled within windbreaks, their yards lit by single lampposts, were named for their builders. The only exception was Harley’s folks’ place, the abandoned farmhouse he now approached and intended to speed right by. Once the windbreak’s trees cut a dark mound against the horizon, he’d pass the barn and glance to see the front door still shut. Then he’d sink the gas with the sole of his roper.

  The Jensen place had been built by a Braasch, and a Braasch owned it now. Before Harley was born there forty-seven years back, other families had lived in the silent two-story, but Jensen was the name that took. Which meant there were two systems for naming, Harley supposed. Industry or infamy. Whichever stuck.

  A chrome glint flickered in the overgrown yard and tightened his neck. Somebody was parked down by the barn.

  He passed the house and let the incline slow him to a coast. He made a left on the gravel of County Road K and stopped. Elbow propped on the window frame, he took a last long drag of the smoke that kept him awake and flicked a shred of tobacco from his tongue. He brushed a knuckle against a sideburn and debated whether or not to keep driving. Pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

  The legal drinking age was nineteen, old enough that high school kids gathered in broken-down homesteads dotting the hillsides. Granted, they were generally bright enough to pick a place without highway frontage, certainly one without ties to a deputy who patrolled half the night. But then Harley supposed nothing drew drunk, horny kids so much as a little seediness, some grisly bit of trivia they could spin into full-fledged lore. He wondered what they’d come up with. In his day, rumor had it in the thick cottonwoods lining the quarry, a compound of naked cannibal albinos waited for couples to park on moonlit nights. It’d be tough to beat that.

  He threw the Fury in reverse, punched the gas to clear the blind intersection quick, and weaved into the house’s drive. The tracks were little more than two slight dips in the knee-high grass. Ahead, his low beams caught a snatch of tailgate. Above the wild rye and volunteer ash saplings hovered the dusty bumper of a red F-250.

  Paul Reddick.

  Harley gripped the handset where it clipped to the radio. He held the button, not pressing but resting. Protocol was to radio in whenever he pulled someone over. Technically, he supposed he wasn’t pulling anyone over. He let the handset go.

  He grabbed the flashlight from the bench seat and tensed at the pop of the door hinge he kept forgetting to WD-40. He stood in the brush and trained the beam on the pickup’s back window. The old twelve-gauge Winchester lay in the rack behind Paul’s dirt-colored hair, which hung well past his shoulders. From the open driver’s-side window, a tan and veined forearm jutted like it was signaling a right-hand turn. Its fist flipped Harley the bird.

  “Reddick,” Harley acknowledged.

  Paul dropped the middle finger and let his arm dangle from the window. “Jensen,” floated back just as how-do-you-do.

  That how-do-you-do-ness, that unshakable calm, made Harley’s teeth grit. It wasn’t composure, and it wasn’t reserve. Harley knew a good bit about composure and reserve himself. What Paul had was the hostile indifference of a person who valued nothing. The kind of rarefied spite that came from never having known a single thing he’d mind losing.

  It no doubt stemmed from a brother dying eighteen years back, when Paul was surely too young to even remember him. In Paul’s case, Harley thought not remembering was probably worse. All Paul would’ve known was the wake of it.

  Dell Junior, the oldest of three Reddick boys, was seven when he was killed by a farmhand named Rollie Asher. Dell Junior caught Rollie off guard while he was shoveling dirt into a collapsed cellar at the old Lucas place. Rollie hadn’t been right since Korea. He caved in the boy’s skull, called the sheriff to say he’d done it, then blew a load of buckshot through his own. All Rollie neglected to mention was where he put the body. The summer of ’60, Harley and the department searched every vacant building, scoured every grain of dirt in the fields and ditches. Never found him. They’d found the spade, matted with hair and skin. They’d found a spot of earth soaked in more blood than Harley knew could course through a seven-year-old boy. Just no body.

  Sometimes Harley suspected if the department had found that body, the Reddicks might’ve fared better. Maybe the mother, Virginia, wouldn’t have become a shut-in. Maybe Dell Senior wouldn’t have moved out and left the two young boys as her caretakers. If the department had just found that body, maybe Paul’s sense of the size and gravity of things, of knowing how and when to be fazed, would’ve been halfway normal. As it stood, not a whole hell of a lot qualified.

  Harley’s boots moved forward, flattening the grass and grinding the dirt till a movement in the cab stopped him. He rubbed the holster’s thumb-break. Another head, this one covered in long, crumpled blond curls, surfaced from the seat. A pair of eyes sleepily squinted back at him. A girl, sixteen maybe. Paul had to be bordering twenty-two by now. It was worth a check.

  At the open window, Harley trained his light on Paul, who didn’t squint. Instead his head tilted back, as if he were studying the glare through a pair of bifocals. The angle made his hard-set jaw look more square than it already was. His silver-gray eyes held steady, unblinking.

  “Sightseeing?” Harley asked.

  “Getting a little air.” The words seemed a touch too loud, an effect of the pitch, not the volume. Paul’s voice was clear and low. “While I’m still on the right side of the sod.”

  It was a quip old men would exchange at a feed store. But then, the only thing young about Paul was the age on his license. The hairline cracks at the edges of his eyes, lines from working in the sun and wind, resembled crow’s feet.

  “Time being, at least,” Harley said.

  “Sounds pretty foreboding.” Paul glanced away easily, without a trace of readable meaning, toward the house. In profile, his bones were thick, prominent. So much so, they seemed ready to surface and split the skin. The flashlight shadowed the dark hollows below Paul’s deep-set eyes, between his cheekbone and jaw.

  “Kindly step from the vehicle.”

  Paul looked down in his lap and busied himself with his hands. Harley nudged his holster break with a snap. The rasp of a zipper’s teeth filtered from the cab in reply.

  The pickup door opened, and Harley watched for P
aul to blink at the dome light stuttering on. Nothing. Paul slipped his hands in the pockets of his too-tight jeans and strolled through the knee-high grass toward the house. His threadbare black T-shirt faded into the night’s darkness, a whiff of Brut aftershave lingering on the air behind him.

  Harley gripped the wheel and used the running board to hoist himself into the driver’s seat. He turned the beam on the girl, although the overhead made her clear enough.

  She was wide-eyed, pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger.

  “You here of your own volition?” he asked her.

  She sat there, dumb and dazed as a sleepwalker.

  “I said, you out here on purpose?”

  The girl said nothing.

  He shifted the light from pupil to pupil. They worked fine. Harley reached across the cab and pressed the button on the glove box. The compartment fell open with a thud.

  “Ain’t nothing in there,” Paul called out, more or less jovially.

  There probably wasn’t. Once, there’d been a half bottle of quaaludes prescribed to Paul’s mother, but Glenn, the sheriff, flushed them. Glenn told Harley to forget it, that poor woman had enough problems. What exactly those problems were was a matter of small-town speculation, since she never came out of her house.

  There was nothing in the glove box besides the registration and some coarse paper napkins. Rifling through Paul Reddick’s F-250 always felt about as productive as clipping off the lit end of a fuse. Even if it put the spark out, Harley sensed the fuse getting shorter each time.

  Across the way, Paul swung a foot, not kicking but swiping his worn motorcycle boot through the grass, like he was searching halfheartedly between the blades. “Stop by for old times’ sake?” he asked.

  “Saw your pickup,” Harley told him, running his flashlight beam over the dash, the floor, the seat. “Thought I’d make sure nobody lost a foot or got brained on a rock yet.”

  The silhouette of Paul’s head was shrouded in long hair so it looked hooded. It bobbed in agreement. “My burden, apparently. I know it. Always bearing witness.”

  “Just a bad penny, huh?” Harley said. “You know, you turn up often enough—wrong place, wrong time—you seem less like an omen than a reason.”

  “Got any evidence to that effect, Deputy?”

  Harley didn’t. He wished to hell he did. He turned to the girl again. He asked her age.

  Seventeen, she said.

  She probably was. Her back had shrunk to the corner of the seat and passenger-side door. She looked repentant, like a child, but given the cut of her cheeks and her shape, draped beneath a thin Wilton Panthers T-shirt, she was old enough to know better. Harley asked for her ID.

  The girl’s forehead shriveled into folds. She stammered she’d snuck out, forgot her purse, that her parents would kill her. Her shoulders racked with a sob that crumpled her toward him across the seat. He flinched and slid away. He grabbed the wheel to keep from falling out the open driver’s-side door. His elbow nailed the horn, and the loud, clipped blare rang through the quiet. Harley didn’t care for being touched. Not unexpectedly.

  If Paul was concerned about the horn, he didn’t mention it. “Nah,” he said in answer to some question Harley hadn’t asked. “Don’t guess you stop by the home place much if you can help it.”

  A deep breath burned in Harley’s lungs. He held it there. He told the girl to pull herself together, go wait in the cruiser. When her sniffling bubbled into a panicked stammer again, he told her to calm down, he didn’t want to deal with some idiot girl’s parents at 4:00 a.m. any more than she did. He’d drop her a block from the house and she could take her chances sneaking back in. She got out of the cab and went to the cruiser to wait.

  Paul kept talking, offhandedly. “How’d she do it, again? Gun? Hanging?”

  Harley slid down from the seat. He held the burning breath tight in his chest and walked across the yard to Reddick’s black outline. “Guess that’s why you stopped by. Figured I wouldn’t. Knowing I drive right past on patrol.”

  Paul sighed a breath. “Don’t read into it. I misplaced something, is all. Thought it might’ve drifted out this way. Surely you’ve done that—lost something, drove yourself half nuts looking for it.” He gave a pause, perfunctory, not waiting for a reply. “I been all over this evening. Here’s where I happened to land. Where our paths crossed. It’s happenstance, Harley. No accounting for fate.”

  The flashlight bled a long, oblong mist across the grass and toward the house. Toward the kitchen windows. Harley didn’t look there. He kept his focus on Paul’s dark figure. With the yard’s incline, he stood a hair taller than Harley.

  “Seem distracted.” Paul craned his head to look back.

  “Let yourself in, then? Have a look inside? There’s a root cellar out back. You check there?”

  “Now, that’d be trespassing. You ought to know I learned my lesson about trespassing.”

  The night of the water tower, he meant. That’d been the charge in the end, trespassing. For an instant, Harley pictured Paul dangling upside down in the tower’s floodlights, barrels of the Winchester trained toward Harley and the cruiser below. “You’re trespassing just parked here,” Harley said. “I’m seeing if we can tack on breaking and entering.”

  Paul’s voice briefly lowered. It took on a tone of discretion. “I suppose you’ll need to call Braasch, then. See if he wants to press charges. Loren Braasch owns the place now, don’t he?”

  The flashlight’s glow had crept upward a touch. The waved pane of a kitchen window winked back. Harley pushed the beam down again. “Want to say what you’re looking for?”

  “I would not,” Paul said. “If it’s all the same to you. Not that county law enforcement’s sleuthing expertise wouldn’t be helpful, of course.”

  Harley wanted to grip him by the Adam’s apple and shake the nonchalance right out of him. “Leave,” he said instead.

  Paul looked skyward. Harley thought he might’ve squinted a bit before his gaze dropped back to the shadows. “Oh, now. I wasn’t insinuating. You always think I’m insinuating. You need to let some shit go, Harley. You don’t let that shit go, it’ll give you ulcers.”

  “Leave.”

  Paul stayed put a beat, then ambled toward the cab. He hopped in and closed the door. Harley followed and trained the flashlight on his face again. Under the low-hung lids, the beam shrank Paul’s pupils to little pits. Little pits of irises, drilled in like aluminum funnels. Like they’d been carved out by the light. But Paul didn’t flinch. He never flinched. Not when his nighttime game of chicken left the Sawyer kid crawling in a ditch, feeling alongside a flipped Chevelle for his severed foot. Not when the Ferguson girl, on a dare, missed the quarry water and dove headfirst into dry granite. Paul was the only kid out there not frantic or vaguely giddy. “Pretty clean,” he’d deemed it. “Not near as gourd-like as you’d think.” He hadn’t flinched that night at the water tower, either. Harley saw then. There wasn’t something off about Paul Reddick. There was something too on. He was too lucid for anyone’s goddamn good.

  “I don’t want to see you here again,” Harley told him.

  “Nope.” Paul stared straight into Harley’s eyes, though he couldn’t have made them out past the glare. “I can’t imagine you do.”

  The key ring jangled and the engine churned to life. Reddick pulled out in a broad curve, no hurry, tires rolling over what was once a yard, nicking the corner of what was once a carefully tended flower bed. The hairs on Harley’s arms and the back of his neck rose in needle pricks. Then the Ford passed, and the taillights brightened where the drive met the highway. The pickup turned right and passed through the blind intersection. It disappeared over the hill.

  When his eyes adjusted to the stars, Harley saw his shadow was missing, swallowed by the house that loomed at his back. He walked slowly to where the cruiser shone in the moon.

  * * *

  AS HARLEY DROVE east toward the station, morning broke in a st
ill-life fire of receding clouds to light a jagged sand hill the color of honey. Bunchgrass and spires of soapweed yucca rooted most of the thin topsoil in place, but in a bald divot of erosion, a rancher had lined spent tires tread to tread like a dark scab. The rubber kept the blowout from spreading. Within the turn of an odometer’s digit, the dune lay in the rearview. A ditch of cattails and reeds gave way to a plain of wine-stain bluestem.

  Pickard County’s dirt was erratic as the weather. The place was a cusp, and it’d once drawn people accustomed to life on cusps. Farm kids, immigrants, children of freed slaves. They’d come a century before, for cheap railroad land or cheaper homestead tracts. Hordes left with the droughts and dust and then again when the combines rolled in, when crop rows snaked longer and longer to make the same ends meet.

  The cruiser coasted toward the county seat huddled in a green wedge of trees. Alongside the highway, the abandoned railbed’s shaggy embankment blurred by. The pink ballast and creosote-coated ties were why the town of Madson came to be, a spot to fuel up trains in the days of steam.

  Harley checked his speed as he crossed the wood-planked bridge spanning a loop in the Wakonda, and he slowed-and-goed through the town’s sole four-way stop. He passed the business district, the K–12 with its sprawling addition Madson would be lucky to ever pay off, then the courthouse, where boxes of county assessor paperwork had squeezed out the sheriff’s office two years before.

  He made the right on the gravel and headed toward the dusty white portable they’d been consigned to since then, the Fury’s leaf springs groaning across the train tracks and past the footings of the old railroad water tank. The concrete footings rose from the grass like a plot of graveyard obelisks. Wilton, thirteen miles down the tracks, had a matching set.

  He parked and headed up the steps. Inside, across the wood-paneled room lit yellow by fluorescents, the sheriff sat at his desk filling out paperwork, bald head propped on a fist. “Harley,” he said in tired greeting without looking up.