Prodigal Blues

"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 go

"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 go

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."

I took it out of the wallet and handed it to him.  "Is there any way that badge can be traced back to the man who originally had it?"

"You damned well better believe it.  And if it turns out the guy's dead, they have ways of finding out the who and how of stuff like this.  If the guy isn't dead, he'll soon enough wish he were."  He looked at the badge, then blinked.  "Silly me—I went and smudged it."  He took the towel he'd used on his hands and began wiping off the badge, then winked at me as he slipped it into his shirt pocket.  "But the two kids are go

"So you got hold of someone…?"

"Yeah.  A friend of mine with the Indy State Police.  He's damned curious how it is I know about Rebecca's breast when that information hasn't been released.  He was also glad to know the term Ta Moko.  Seems several of the guys have been trying to remember what that type of scarring is called."

"But the kids are all right?"

"They're both in real good shape, Mark.  And their families are there with them."

I exhaled, dropped my chin onto my chest, and started crying.  "Oh, God… oh, you have… you have no idea how worried I was about them, that… that…"

He patted my shoulder.  "I understand.  If it's any consolation, you did the exact right thing, considering the circumstances."  He handed me some napkins so I could blow my nose (gingerly, and it still hurt like hell) and wipe my eyes, then tossed my still-unopened wallet back onto the bar.  "All right, then.  What happened after all of you left the motel room?"

I filled him in on most of it—excepting the murder and what we had stashed in the trailer.  While I spoke, Uncle Herb's eyes narrowed into slits, grew hard, then sad.  As I was finishing, he polished off the rest of his beer, did not call Andy and Barney over, then pulled a pack of smokes out from behind their hiding place near the cash register.  "Beth and Larry been lecturing me for years to quit these things.  I know they're bad for you, but dammit, they taste good sometimes, you know?  Especially right after hearing a story like yours."  He lit up, offered me one, and I took it.

We smoked in silence for a moment.

"Are you going to have me arrested?"

"I'd've done that by now if I was going to."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to give you your burgers and let you leave here.  I don't know your last name, so all I can give the State Police boys from Indiana is your description—by the way, lose the nose-splint as soon as you can."

"Your friend's that curious how you came to know about Rebecca?"

"He's downright perplexed.  I hung up soon as I could, but it's not go

"Yes—did you buy this place from John and Ellen Matthews?"

"I bought it from the Matthews family, yes."

"Then can you please, please tell me where I can find them?"

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, brushed something off his sleeve, then looked at me and said, "I certainly can."

I walked toward the bus with a slip of paper in my hand.  Written on it was an address which, according to Uncle Herb, wasn't all that far from where we were now.  The rain was coming down a lot heavier, and rumbles of serious thunder were getting louder and closer.  I pulled up the hood on my jacket and ran the rest of the way to the bus.