The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 3
“Anyways, it was like Delilah was like our own little girl. Anne and I—bless her soul, my wife is very ill these days—we had our two boys and our daughter but Delilah...she was just something special to me. Out of the three of them left in that house, Delilah—even at age two—took her daddy leavin’ them the hardest. Sonofabitch.
“So I stepped in. Anne too, now. Kind of grandparents. I tried as hard as I could to be their father as well. Anne, she watched the girls while Darla worked. Darla didn’t have no skills, not any great ones. But she could wait tables or work a cash register. We’d have the girls and see ’em off to school and get ’em when they came home. Feed ’em.
“Belinda graduated school with honors and got picked up by the Naval Academy. She’s off on some huge boat somewheres now. I think she’s a Lieutenant Commander. She missed her father’s bullshit responsibility gene. Good for her.
“Delilah was so precious. She was more into the popularity in school than her sister was. Delilah was there every mornin’ ’cuz it was social hour. She had a lot of friends. But you know how that works after high school. All your buddies peel away the day after graduation. Delilah squeaked by. She needed night school for a math class her senior year but she took it, passed it. Graduated.
“She bounced around for ’bout year, came in and out of our lives. Each visit was a snapshot. I could see she was maybe learnin’ the wrong things with every drop-in. Every snapshot was somethin’ a little concerning. Not so wrong that she was gonna be some hardened dope dealer or nothin’, just livin’ life a little fast is all. She was older than she should have been. We were sad.
“You know the type of thing. Bad boyfriends. Late nights. Maybe came to drunk a time or two wonderin’ what happened to the night. Probably smoked grass. She got her father’s bullshit responsibility gene.
“But then one day clear out of the blue she shows up. Says she’s been through the ringer and now she wants what Belinda’s got. Education. Career. Turning over a new leaf. Fresh start-kinda thing. Said she heard some commercial on the radio from a school sayin’ they’d teach you that IT stuff. In demand here in the city. In demand everywhere I suppose. I got my dad’s auto shop when he passed away—stroke—when I was in my twenties. I never stepped foot in no college but she wanted to in a bad way.
“I asked her ’bout scholarships and loans and all that. She said her credit was shit. Belinda told her there was no way the Navy Academy would take her but she could join up as a swabbie and get some education benefits. Delilah didn’t want to be a squid. If you ask me she just didn’t want to be in the military. Too much discipline. Strict rules, responsibility. She was bad about it. She’d have to wait her four years and then go to IT school. She never wanted to wait for nothin’.
“So, in the end, I gave her tuition money. I did with all my children. She was no different. I woulda done it for Belinda too, but the Navy beat me to it.
“I set up a plan with Delilah, an agreement. The IT school was a four-year degree from college, it wasn’t nothin’ specialized. No tech college. She didn’t want that either. She wanted a degree. Somethin’ her mom never had. But, bless her heart; Darla Boothe always would complain her employment choices and troubles were rooted in the fact that she didn’t have a degree. Benjamin did. Piece of shit.
“Delilah must have figured she could avoid those same problems with education. So our agreement stated she spend two continuous, full-load years at a community college. Then two years at the university over in Dunkirk getting her IT degree. And by God she buckled down. Must have drained every ounce of hard work and good judgment from her.
“She worked nights four days a week waiting tables at some chain restaurant in the suburbs. Lived with her mother. Cut her bills down to the bare minimum.
“She struggled, made C’s in everything mostly. Some B’s. Had a steady boyfriend by the name of Ted something for two years before she found out he had a steady girlfriend at his job and a third one over in his home town about two hours away.
“Got her degree from the university and Anne and I were never so proud. Our own kids did their accomplishments; we loved them and cheered them on. It just seemed Delilah had more adversity to tackle. I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say we were proud even more because she was—let’s face it—a financial risk and we had our necks out.
“Right away she got a good job downtown. Some medical company.”
Mr. Derne huffs the kind of sigh an old pack mule will the moment it knows its heart is exploding. Giving it up.
“And then it started spiraling down.
“She saw a house over on Carolina, near Mason Avenue. For sale, nice older couple. Moving to a retirement pad. She just loved it. Not too big. Well-kept. I had no idea Delilah was even entertaining buying a house. She was sneakin’ Anne and I a few bucks here and there to pay us back for the education costs. I didn’t care myself—I never made Elam Jr., Tommy or Angela pay us back—but Delilah insisted. So we set it aside for her. She didn’t know.
“And Delilah wanted the house so bad. She could afford it too; but her credit was ruined worse than she ever told us by those years between high school and college. Apparently she got in a few of those triangle pyramid schemes—whatever—and took a bath. She got behind on her credit cards, floated checks, bounced checks, you know the deal. Took a bath. And another bath. And another bath.
“Well, that’s not wholly correct. Banks will lend to anybody these days so she could buy the place but the APR, closing costs, all that. She couldn’t afford all of it. Not with her blighted credit and non-existent bank account.
“Anyways, she asked for help.
“We bought the house for her. She paid me for the mortgage, insurance, all of it. I paid the companies. It didn’t help her credit, but we talked about credit cards, a car loan, that sort of thing. Steady payments, all that. Delilah started trying to be responsible.
“Then, she met Pierce White. Rat bastard. Some senior client rep over at the medical company. He was married, of course. Two kids. Naturally they start an affair. They couldn’t control themselves in the office and gossip started. They get asked about it; they say they were dating. The company’s image came first. I guess every employee of that place signs some agreement sayin’ if they have an office romance it’s gotta be disclosed, yada yada yada. People cheatin’ on spouses in office romances will not be tolerated.
“Pierce and Delilah got fired. Pierce had to go home and explain to his wife. His kids. Delilah broke up with him. She said he was flamin’ pissed off about losin’ his job. Called her somethin’ horrible like a sport fuck and Delilah said she felt so trashy and used, she just stayed depressed for months. Come to really think of it, I believe all this started goin’ really downhill then.
“Delilah went through the rigmarole of life: woke up, eventually got out of bed. Smoked a cigarette for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Drank coffee. Missed a few months’ worth of bills. Interviewed at another place for half the money. Got hired on.
“Then she met James Dobbins. Married, no kids. His wife, however, was a great white shark. Jesus, what a bitch. Delilah started seein’ this guy. It was a short romance before they both got fired but I’ll give it this: she started eating again. She wore make-up. Dressed in something other than sweat pants. You never knew she was so low until you seen her out of it.
“Anyways, she says they got caught kissin’ in a break room or somethin’—she didn’t wanna talk about it—and for whatever reason it was against the rules and she was canned. Dobbins too. He flipped out. His shark-wife took him for a ride in divorce court. I guess as soon as he told her what happened she was in a lawyer’s office. Fast-tracked his ass to the poor house.
“This was a little over a year ago. Delilah hadn’t made a payment on the house since. Anne and I moved into a new place about three years ago and while I can do some extra every month, I don’t have the bones to pay two mortgages. I kept tellin’ Delilah this but she never...never got back on her feet. Decided to rot in that house. Throwin’ parties, wakin’ the neighbors. Botherin’ the cops. They’d get called there so often they looked the property owner. Found me.
“I got calls at work and home. The cops thought it was a rental property. Finally I said to Delilah: Look, you’ve got to get a job and get back payin’ for this house. I don’t care if you wait tables, if you paint buildings or if you drive a semi through the Rockies. Get back on your feet. Or else...or else you’re out.
“I hated putting the ultimatum out there, but I had to. It was hard. No way would she dare to lose the house. But I’ll be damned. She called my bluff. I guess it’s fair to say she’s not used to hearing no and having it be firm. Real. She always gets more chances.
“She never did go find work. She asked to borrow more money. I said no. She begged, cried. I still said no. It was time to be stern. Tough love. She borrowed from her mother, her sister. Her friends, maybe. Never paid no one back that I’m aware of.
“I went over there one morning and found four strange people drunk, passed out in the living room. Car parked in the damn front yard. She was in the bedroom, some shitbird asleep next to her. Both naked as newborns. I woke her ass up and demanded to know what kind of spring break crash pad I was footin’ the bill on. We got into a huge fight. Huge. Said things we shouldn’t have. Can’t take back. She was cryin’, throwin’ her arms about, yellin’ at me for not doin’ enough. I was blown away. Not doin’ enough. She cussed, she broke a damn window.
“I left. Didn’t speak to her for almost a week. Anne was goin’ to be gettin’ the results from her biopsy that week so I had other things on my mind. And when my wife said she was dyin’, well, I felt the clutter in my head greater than I had ever before. I needed to clear some space. And for some reason, sellin’ that pit over on Carolina was the single best thing I could do.
“I called Delilah and told her she had thirty days to vacate. Period. Done. I told her mom the same thing. Belinda too. My daughter-in-law, she’s a real estate broker. She fixed me up with friends of hers who were in the market for a home. They saw it, liked it. Even with Delilah’s mess all over it—I told her we were showin’ the place and to clean up but of course she didn’t—they just liked it.
“She was gone August fifteenth of this year. Moved back in with her mom. Up until the very end she thought I’d change my mind. Right up to the very last day.
“And not a month later, Darla calls me. Screaming.
“Said she come from work one evening and the house was abandoned. Delilah left. I wouldn’t be surprised if Darla was missin’ some jewelry though. Darla said she called and called and called but Delilah wouldn’t answer.
“Gone for two days before Delilah emailed her mother. Here, I got a copy for you.”
Mom, leaving town for a while. Scared out of my mind. I’ll call when it’s safe. Love, Delilah.
“That was two months ago. Mr. Buckner, I ain’t got no earthly idea what scared her like that. The police said she’s an adult and adults can go where they like, when they like, tell or not tell anybody they like about it. I need her found. Her mother needs her found. Her sister. My wife, too.
“Anne ain’t got but this year to live, and she wants to see Delilah home safe. Mr. Buckner, what’d I do throwin’ her out like that?”
5
I get Delilah’s information and say goodbye to Derne.
He leaves. I dig.
6
The next day I hit the streets.
Derne said Delilah had a car. There are three tow truck companies in the city. I know folks at each. I’ll call and see if there’s something in their inventory matching her wheels. I’ll also get ahold of a guy I know at the PD who can check their records for me.
Then it’s the usual canvass protocol: truck stops, hookers and the check-cashing stations. Carefully canvass the women’s shelters. A lot of the shelter workers know me from my cop days, but there’s no guarantee a new one won’t see a rough, gritty man with a neck tattoo and shoulders wider than the Pacific cruising their “safe” place and freak out. I could easily be mistaken as an abusive husband trawling for his battered wife.
Jane Doe checks at the area hospitals, emergency rooms and morgues. Check her on the usual social media websites. I find profiles but they’re set to PRIVATE. I use a fake profile of mine to send her friend-type requests. I doubt it’ll pan out. She might be a complete moron and still post about every last thing she does, but if she really wants to disappear she’d have abandoned those things as soon as she decided to drop off the face of the earth. Hours of dull but necessary legwork that almost never pays off.
The snow is coming down in blankets; crisp virgin flakes of sheer white fluff pouring out of the sky like the angels were sobbing in frosted cotton.
Saint Ansgar, my hometown, my double-edged mistress, my living coffin.
In the foreground is a major modern city, skyline complete with goliaths of architecture and stunning views.
In the background, a seedy maze of cracked streets where nightmares are given free reign about the neighborhoods. Separated north and south by a river flowing east to west, the city of Saint Ansgar flourishes on the top and rots on the bottom.
Composed of Germanic elements, Ans means “God” and gar means “spear.” Our namesake was a Frenchman born in 801 AD. He lived his pious life and died sixty-four years later. Somewhere in that lifetime he tried to convert the Danes and the Norwegians to Christianity.
His life parallels our city. Originally founded on the southern shore in the 1880s, the city of Saint Ansgar quickly fell to scoundrels in the early twentieth century. The saint himself founded the first Christian church in Sweden, only to be run out by pagans. He lost most of his earnings for the church to them and the pagans burned his house of worship to the ground.
It seems that good does not prosper where that saint first set foot. The northern shore of our metropolis is alive and well with business and culture, while the pagans still burn and roam unhindered on the southern, original side.
Sports: an arena football team, major league hockey team, triple A baseball team who won their pennant two years in a row and a woman’s basketball team that is top notch though no one in the city cares.
The ocean borders us to the west. The shore is a thin mountain range, cut in half by a single inlet. The inlet flows from the ocean into the large Fissure Bay, which separates the mountain range from the city proper.
Fissure Bay is wide and deep oval, reaching from east to west almost ten miles. From north to south it is just over thirteen miles long. At the northern tip it opens into a small waterway known as The Funnel that broadens into a smaller, tighter body of water called Shrouded Bay. A treacherous series of spits—finger-like ridges of sediment that extend from the shore out into the water line—span the northern coast of Shrouded Bay and protrude southward about two hundred yards.
Police are always finding dead bodies in the shallow strips of water between the spits. The mafia here, a weak but viable presence, will dump the few people they feel the urge to kill in those spits. I have deposited there as well. A convicted but paroled child molester fell to my hand cannon and was found six weeks later, anchored down in the shoals between spits. Eventually he was positively identified and, as it should be, no one cared.
A river flows from Shrouded Bay easterly and it crawls east-northeast up into the state. The river, known simply as The Fjord although it is not one, thins out and finally breaks up into a series of deltas about thirty-five miles into land.
Just south of the midpoint of Fissure Bay is Landcaster Island. Back during the turn of the century, developers tried to form the island into a ritzy, posh living space. The idea never caught on, largely because no bridge from the mainland was built. It’d be miles long, and not even to this day will someone undertake that.
Eventually fisherman bought up the island. A small nugget of land a few hundred yards off of Landcaster’s northern coast is where the fisherman and their families, settled there for the better part of a century, have buried their dead. Littlecaster Island is not much more than an overstuffed graveyard, creepy at dusk. The fading sun throws just enough backlight over the old, ornate gravestones to create a tense and foreboding ambiance.
Fissure River flows dead east from the middle of Fissure Bay, cutting Saint Ansgar in half. The river is broad and straight, a deep swath carved from the earth. The northern shoreline is adorned with a three-mile long boardwalk and expensive, trendy shops and restaurants. Northward of that shoreline, the newer section of Saint Ansgar thrives.
The southern shoreline is a work in progress, and remains mostly a broken down series of docks and refineries. The refineries still stand, gutted and burned out from a deadly and massive fire in the 1920s. The remains hold themselves against the horizon like the skeletal remains of great beasts still not swallowed into the ground. Southward of that, the old section of the city is a haven for evildoers and the economically destitute. The Burrows exist there.
The two western peninsulas that define Fissure Bay and the state’s western border are solid mountain ranges. Spotty areas of flat, grassy fields scattered throughout the strips of mountains are protected as state parks and no industry has ever befallen them.
Both peninsulas are thin, only a mile or two wide. The southern peninsula measures almost six miles in length while the northern extends down almost four. Their tips, missing touching each other by a mile-wide mouth that was never bridged, each have a lighthouse that serves the waterborne traffic entering the bay.
The lighthouses are named The Sirens because of their duel foghorns, sounding in a call and answer. Their shrieks, as low-pitched as a tuba with silvery, sharp and tense edges to them, are common background noise here. Landcaster Island is almost perfectly between the two when looking into the bay from sea. Boat navigators line up the Sirens like sights on a handgun and steer directly at the Landcaster lighthouse. The light tower itself heaves out of the island’s central hill almost two hundred feet into the air, providing a three hundred and sixty degree blast of white light.
