UnderCover Page 3

  Amanda, on the other hand, was born three months after Paul vanished. She never had a daddy, never went through the trauma of loss, and never realized anything was missing. Where Sarah walked through life, Mandy hit it on a dead run. She was a climber of bookshelves, a bouncer on beds, a grabber of curtains and a spiller of milk. Mandy could figure a way to move a chair five times her weight if she thought it necessary. The fact that she lived in a world of giants did not intimidate her in the slightest. Cheryl often called her a thirty-year-old in a kid suit. Amanda was trouble looking for a place to happen, but her hugs were given with reckless abandon and her kisses with sloppy joy.

  The girls stayed by the pond until nearly dark, Sarah fussing almost constantly at her sister to keep Mandy from getting too close to the edge. Martha spoke to the children several times, but they could not hear her. Her disappointment at being unnoticed was more than balanced by the hope that she would now get to see the girls grow and blossom. She had always felt a bit of melancholy when she considered the fact that she would not be around to see her great grandchildren develop and mature. Now it seemed that might no longer be the case. Perhaps that was why she had not gone on, but was still in the yard with her beloved fish.

  She could see or sense the fish down among the stones, under cover, seeking the solitude of the night. She sat beside them and sighed, anticipating the boredom of waiting for the morning, but it did not come. She felt relaxed, she felt complete, and she felt at peace. In the face of peace, noting else really mattered. She was not waiting, she was existing, and that very fact brought serenity. Maybe this was what true meditation meant. The feeling of fulfilled oneness. It was very pleasant and the passage of hours and minutes no longer concerned or affected her. Martha was Martha, beyond and not needful of time.

  Dawn found Martha returning from what she called meditation. Time spent in that state meant nothing, was nothing. She still sat on the lawn and looked around as the golden early morning overtook her. The yard was covered in a heavy glistening dew, but she was dry. Had the dew settled through her? She got up and looked at the ground where she’d sat. Sure enough, the grass was not depressed, and its content of droplets was the same as the rest of the space. For a few moments she walked around the yard backwards watching herself leave no footprints on the wet grass.

  How could such a thing happen? Martha had an active mind and had watched the Discovery and National Geographic channels on a regular basis. Perhaps, with her death, her mass had been shifted to pure energy. Nonsense. Her mass had gone to the mortuary and would soon be committed to the ground. Maybe she was what some people referred to as a soul. But wasn’t a soul supposed to be free of mundane encumbrance? She certainly wasn’t. She couldn’t even get out of her own yard. Maybe she was in an alternate dimension only peering into the one that she had left behind, little more than vibration with memory, some sort of proof for the ever malleable String Theory. That, too, was nonsense. The fish could see her.

  Whatever she had become, Martha decided, defining her condition would certainly have no bearing on it. She was what she was. Massless energy, the sum total of inter and intra dimensional vibration, an immortal soul, a spook, specter or ghost, a pawn in a cosmic game of religious one-upsmanship, or nothing more than the imagination of some massive mind that thought things into existence and then forgot them into extinction. She was Martha Charity Boyd McGill, she was dead, and yet she, for whatever reason, had been given another chance to peer through a metaphysical window onto what she had left behind. There had to be a rationale for her still being where she was. Martha, with the patience she had learned over a long lifetime, resolved not to let it worry her and spoil the privilege she had been awarded. All would be made clear in good time. And that’s exactly what it was. A good time.

  Martha McGill sat by the edge of her pond and watched the Koi come to her and beg for food and attention. She smiled at them and talked her fishy baby-talk as she had done thousands of times before. They saw her and perhaps even heard her. Martha wanted to be seen and heard. Existence, she now realized, was an extremely tenuous condition. The fact that she existed in the awareness of her beloved fish was great comfort to her. Martha needed that comfort. Martha needed to exist.

  *****

  CHAPTER THREE

  Crockett and Satin went into town around noon; Satin in her Jeep, Crockett in his truck. He parked across the street from her place, went into Wager’s Café, and took a booth near the front window to keep an eye on Satin’s apartment above the post office. Satin turned down the alley and parked behind the building in her customary spot. Crockett had just received the usual bad cup of coffee when a city cop car pulled up in front of the window, and he was joined by the Hartrick chief of police, Dale Smoot. The big man eased himself into the other side of the booth, finger combed a strand of gray hair back where it belonged, and peered across the table.

  “You buyin’?” he asked.

  Crockett smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Especially since I may have to ask you for a favor in the very near future.”

  Smoot grimaced. “Always strings attached with you, huh, Crockett? Never just a free lunch.”

  “Hell, Dale. If I didn’t feed you two or three times a week, you’d have to ask the city for a raise.”

  “That’s true enough. If it wasn’t for you I’d have to take a second job. What kinda favor you need this time?”

  “Maybe none if we’re lucky. Satin’s kid is coming out. She’s having trouble with a man threatening her or something. I don’t have the whole story yet.”

  Smoot signaled the waitress for coffee. “I thought she took off someplace,” he said.

  “She’s back now, and asking Mama for help.”

  “And, therefore, you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And, therefore, me.”

  “Right again,” Crockett said.

  Dale shook his head. “I doan know. Seems to me like this free lunch could get a little expensive.”

  “Shit,” Crockett said. “If you didn’t have me stirring up some hell now and then, you’d waste away from boredom in this one-horse little burg.”

  “Everything’s temporary. I been givin’ some thought to retiring.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. Maybe movin’ down to the Stockton area and gittin’ me a little place close to the lake. Or maybe back up to Nebraska. Spend the rest a my days worryin’ about fishin’ instead of long-haired old bastards like you.”

  Crockett grinned. “You are getting pretty feeble. It’s about time for you to take to the rocking chair and dream about the good old days. Get yourself a hound dog, some chewin’ tobaccy, a Barlow pocket knife, an’ set out on the porch in the sunshine while ya whittle and complain about your rhumatiz.”

  Smoot returned the grin. “The perfect life,” he said.

  The waitress brought Smoot’s coffee. He ordered the meatloaf special. Crockett settled for chicken strips and fries. As the waitress departed, Crockett watched an old Honda Civic drive slowly down the street, a woman behind the wheel. In just a moment the car returned, made a left down the drive by the post office and disappeared into the alley behind the building.

  “That’d be her,” Crockett said.

  “Who?” Smoot asked, his back toward the window.

  “Satin’s kid. She just pulled in the alley.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now we see if she’s being followed.”

  “By who?”

  “By an immense black guy called Train.”

  “Dammit, Crockett. What are you getting’ me into this time?”

  “Evidently this guy is giving her a lotta grief. He needs to understand that his conduct is unacceptable. As soon as I get what I need to know from her, I’ll make sure he gets the message. Meantime, he does not need to know who Satin is or where she lives. He may be the type of individual to take out his frustrations on the mother if she attempts to help to the daughter.”

  “And you want me
to do what, exactly?”

  “If he’s followed her out here, I want you to stop him and delay him long enough that I can get Satin and her kid out to my place without him seeing where they went. He damn sure doesn’t need to know where I live, either.”

  “Must be nice to have your own personal police department around just to keep your dick outa the dirt,” Smoot said. “And just what grounds do I have to stop this law-abiding citizen?”

  Crockett chuckled. “Racial profiling,” he said. “This guy’ll be the only black man that’s been inside the Hartrick city limits in a decade or two. Pretty suspicious, if you ask me.”

  “Well, shit. Now you’re draggin’ the A.C.L.U. and the N.A.A.C.P. into this mess. Maybe you’d like my job if I retire. That way you could throw your weight around instead of mine. Lotta damn trouble for some bad meatloaf.”

  “Meatloaf may have to wait,” Crockett said, watching a massive, light blue, Lincoln Mark V cruise past. The car was immaculate, decades old and showroom new.

  Smoot looked over his shoulder. “Never saw that ride in town before,” he said.

  “That’s probably our guy,” Crockett said. “Go get him, tiger.”

  Smoot grunted as he got to his feet. “Tell ‘em to keep my meatloaf warm,” he said, and headed out the door.

  Crockett watched him go, then reach for his cell phone. Satin answered on the third ring.

  “Your kid there?” Crockett asked.

  “Just got here.”

  “In spite of cautioning her to the contrary, she let herself get followed.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s under control for the moment. Now, and I mean right now, have her follow you out to my place. I want the two of you on the road in less than a minute. I’ll see you there in a little while.”

  “Gotcha,” Satin said, and Crockett was left holding a dead phone.

  The Chief and their meals arrived at Crockett’s booth at almost the same time.

  “Damn!” Smoot said as he sat down. “That was one big sumbitch. Jesus. That fucker could shade the water tower.”

  Crockett grinned as Smoot dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket, took a bite of meatloaf, and aimed his fork across the tabletop. “His name is Devon Washington, D.O.B August thirteenth, 1974. Six-nine, three hundred and seventy pounds, no wants, no warrants, and the car belongs to him. Lives at 9701 West 52nd Street in Merriam, Kansas. He got outa that Lincoln and it felt like there was a thunderstorm comin’ in. Got a voice that sounds like molasses bein’ poured outa a barrel. Accused me of stoppin’ him because he was black.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I told him he was dead right, thanked him for his cooperation, and sent him on his way. When he slammed his car door, I thought the windows in Marlene’s Beauty Shop were gonna blow out. Godamighty! He may have been carrying a gun. I didn’t want to ask. Holy shit, Crockett. You screw with this fucker, and I doan even wanna see what’s left of your body. I still gotta sleep nights.”

  “You sound impressed,” Crockett said.

  “Impressed? This boy oughta be playin’ for the Raiders or the Bears. He’d be the whole left side of the fuckin’ line. Next time you want my help with somebody, make it a midget on a motor scooter, will ya? I’m sick of giants drivin’ baby blue aircraft carriers.”

  Short on appetite and laughing, Crockett got a box for his chicken strips and fries, accepted the slip of paper from Dale with Mister Train’s vital statistics, and headed home with a special treat for Dundee and Nudge.

  *****

  Cheryl and the girls returned the next afternoon. Sarah and Amanda looked so cute in matching dark blue dresses with white trim and tights. Martha was glad Cheryl had taken the girls to the funeral. It was important, she thought, that death become an accepted part of life at an early age.

  There were a few minutes of respite after they arrived. Then, the visitation began.

  Martha was rather surprised at the volume of cars that came and went, each with its cargo of well-wishers and food. My goodness. Her counters would be covered up with pies, cakes, fried chicken, green bean casseroles, and potato salads. Poor Cheryl. It would take a day just to get the kitchen straightened away. When the crowd became large enough to spill outside onto the patio, Martha retreated to the backside of the fishpond. She had no desire to eavesdrop on the people nearly vandalizing her home and yard. Now that her funeral was actually over, the conversations would be mostly about daily life and needs anyway, little different from any other time. Unless a person is related to, or involved with, whoever has passed, people have a tendency to put death behind them quickly and move on. That was as it should be, Martha thought. Duty is both from and to the living.

  By late afternoon, the participants had come and gone. A small workforce, headed up by her two oldest friends, Effie Hyde and Mildred Gossard, stayed behind to help Cheryl with the cleanup. God bless them, they even shooed Cheryl and the girls outside and out of the way. Sarah and Mandy brought the can of fish food with them and went directly to the pond. When the koi were fed, Cheryl sat on a stone by the water. The girls joined her.

  Sarah stared at the fish for a while before she turned to her mother. “I’m going to miss Grandma,” she said.

  “I know, sweetie. Me, too.”

  “Is she with Daddy?”

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. Are we going to live in her house now?”

  “Yes, we are. Only it’s our house. Grandma gave it to us.”

  “She gave us her whole house?”

  “Yep. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She gave us a lot of other stuff, too. Grandma loved us very much.”

  “And she died.”

  “Yes, she did, Sarah.”

  “And she’s not going to be here anymore.”

  “No she isn’t, sweetie.”

  “Like Daddy.”

  Hot tears sprang to Cheryl’s eyes, and she put her arms around her older daughter.

  “She and Daddy are gone,” Cheryl whispered. “Now we get to hold them in our hearts. That’s where they live now. Deep in our hearts.”

  Sarah submitted to the embrace and became silent. Cheryl let her have the quiet; and they sat, side by side, watching the koi trail Mandy as she played around the edge of the pond. Time escaped them, and it was dusk when the last departing car caught Cheryl’s attention.

  “Girls,” she said, “we’ve been out here for a long time. We should to go in now. I’ll get your bags out of the trunk so you can change. We’re gonna stay here tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’ll spend the day getting organized so we can move into our new house next week. Okay?”

  The girls trailed her into the kitchen, and Cheryl was amazed. Everything was as neat as a pin, the fridge crammed with food, the house picked up and straightened away. Clean sheets were on the beds, garbage was sacked and left by the sliding glass doors, and even the living room carpet had been vacuumed.

  She fixed the kids some cold fried chicken and potato salad, then put them in the tub. While they washed, she made up the long living room couch for the two of them, making their first night in Grandma’s house a treat. After she got them settled in, Cheryl took a soak and then a shower. As she was toweling off, she heard a noise in the kitchen. She finished drying, wrapped the towel around herself, and went into the living room. Sarah lay quietly asleep on the couch. Mandy was nowhere to be seen. Cheryl padded into the kitchen. The sliding glass door was open about a foot. Outside, on the edge of the patio, her youngest daughter perched on a concrete block with her bare feet in the grass.

  “Mandy, what are you doing?” Cheryl said as she stepped onto the cement surface. She picked the child up, swung her to a hip, and returned to the kitchen, this time locking the sliding door. She adjusted her daughter to a position on her tummy and held her with both arms. Amanda yawned and let her head fall forward onto Mom’s shoulder.

  “Why did you go outside?”


  Amanda rubbed her nose with a fist. “Say goodnight to Gramma,” she said, and began to quietly snore.

  Cheryl stared blankly into the backyard and felt a chill creep up the backs of her arms.

  *****

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dundee was excited when Crockett got home, bouncing along in front of the truck, then barking a bit as she made it clear something was happening on the front porch. Crockett climbed the steps to find Satin sitting in the swing, and a young woman slouched with forced casualness in a canvas chair by the far railing. She looked a great deal like her mother, only slightly smaller and nearly delicate. She was wearing oversized breasts, soiled and holey blue jeans, ratty tenni-runners, and an electric yellow t-shirt with “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” stenciled across her chest in bold, black letters. She gazed indolently across the yard while avoiding eye contact with everyone, even the dog. Satin stood up.

  “Danielle,” she said, “this is my friend, David Crockett. Crockett, this is my daughter, Danielle Connelly.”

  “Hi, Danielle,” Crockett said. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. I’m gonna get a cup of coffee. You want anything?”

  The girl flicked her eyes in his direction, then back out over the yard. “Got any diet?” she asked.

  “Got Coke,” Crockett said. “Sorry, no diet drinks of any kind.”

  Danielle’s eyes slowly raked Crockett from head to toe. “That’s pretty evident,” she said.

  Crockett chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “Your mother said you were bright. She said you were scared, too. You just proved her right on both counts. You want a coke or not?”