The Best American Mystery Stories 2012 (45 page)

And not once did he return.

Not once.

Until now.

That was where Webb's investigation had to start. At Johanssen's decision to return to the land of his sins. Never mind that Webb was off the case. Darcy'd still be digging up graves by the time he had answers to the most pressing question.

The secret wasn't in who Johanssen had hurt. Webb suspected that the list probably extended well beyond midwesterners. The secret lay in what had made him change enough to come home.

If Webb found that, he'd find the killer.

He knew that as well as he knew his own sister's name.

He had to work fast. Once Bernard caught him, he was out of time, probably with a suspension, badge and gun turned in for good measure. So he laid the attack like a well-planned military maneuver. People first, machines second.

Johanssen's parents still lived on the corner of Maple and Pine in a red-and-white clapboard house that had seemed bigger when Webb was a kid. He had only been to the house a few times, the most memorable a class picnic at the end of his junior year. The house had seemed wrong, even then. Johanssen was too glamorous, too intelligent to come from a house that had no books on the walls, and which had yellow and brown slipcovers all over the furniture. His parents, Gladys and Phil, were so firmly working-class that Webb had trouble associating them with their son. As the picnic wore on that bright sunny afternoon, it soon became clear that Johanssen had done the planning, the cooking, and the cleaning to make it all happen. Webb had felt a stab of pity. His own parents would have helped even if they didn't believe in a project, but it was obvious that Johanssen's wouldn't.

Webb grabbed his badge before he got out of the car. He didn't like rooting this deep into his own past. He didn't like the memories and the way they made him feel, as if he were smaller than he really was. In life Johanssen had made him feel that way; he seemed to do the same in death.

The sidewalk leading to the front door was cracked and broken. The concrete steps showed the signs of harsh winter. A fake grass welcome mat that dated from the sixties sat soggily near the stoop. Webb was careful not to step on it as he knocked.

The yellow curtain covering the window nearest the door moved slightly. Then voices echoed, and finally the door opened. The hunched old man staring through the screen was barely recognizable as Phil Johanssen.

“Mr. Johanssen,” Webb said, holding up his badge. “I'm Detective Webster Coninck. I've come to talk to you about your son.”

“No need to be formal, Webb,” Phil Johanssen said, as he pushed open the screen. “I remember you just fine. Sorry about your losing your folks. Gladys sent a card both times.”

“I know,” Webb said. “Flo and I appreciated it.”

Flo had gasped each time she saw the word
Johanssen
on the envelope. She had hoped that the card inside came from Tom.

Webb slipped inside. The house smelled of mothballs, liniment, and fried foods. Phil Johanssen still wore his slippers. His blue pants hung on him, and his red-and-black plaid shirt looked like it dated from the seventies.

Gladys stood in the door to the kitchen. She looked much the same, only faded, as if she had been in the sun too long and it had leached the color from her. Her hair, once the exact same shade as Tom's, was now gray, and the wrinkles on her face had the effect of dulling it.

“Webster,” she said, and her strong alto took him back to his teenage years quicker than anything else ever could. “I was hoping you'd come.”

“Mrs. Johanssen,” he said. “I'm so sorry about Tom.”

She made a small snort and took his hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Come into the kitchen. I haven't had a boy at my table in too long.”

The kitchen had been remodeled. It had a window over the sink, and oak cabinets that still gave off a faintly new scent. The countertops were a shiny ceramic, and the stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher were matching white. The table, covered with a vinyl tablecloth, sat against a bay window opening into the backyard. Plants littered the large sill. On the walls around them, Gladys's spoon collection alternated with Phil's pipe collection.

That was the smell Webb missed, the faint odor of pipe smoke clinging to everything.

“He gave up smoking for his health,” Gladys said, following Webb's gaze. “But he couldn't give up the pipes.”

She sat down beneath the spoon collection. Phil sat in front of the bay window. Webb sat across from her. The chair was covered with a crocheted cushion that didn't fit his body.

“Has anyone else spoken to you?” he asked, careful to keep his voice gentle.

“Just the boys who came to tell us the news,” Phil said.

“Like on the TV,” Gladys added. Her hands rested on the vinyl cloth, fingers laced together. Her knuckles were white from the tightness of her grip.

So Darcy hadn't been there yet. She would arrive soon.

“So,” Webb said, “when did Tom tell you he'd be coming home?”

“Didn't know until them cops showed up,” Phil said. “You'd think the boy would call if he was coming home after all those years.”

“So you had no idea he was coming?”

“I did.” Gladys had her head down, her hands pressed so tight that they were turning red. “He called two days ago. Said he'd be here tonight. I didn't say nothing because I thought he wouldn't come. Like all them other times.”

“Dammit, woman.” Phil shoved his chair back. “You could have said something.”

“The disappointment—”

“Wouldn'ta killed me.” He got up, bowed in an odd, formal way to Webb, then left the room.

Gladys's lower lip trembled. She brought her head up. Webb was sorry for thinking that they hadn't cared about Tom's death. They had been trying to put a good face on it.

For company.

“It would have hurt him something awful, Webb. The last time Tom didn't show, Phil went to bed for a week. Didn't want to do that to him this time.”

“You said there'd been other times when Tom said he'd be here and didn't show?”

She nodded, grabbed a tissue from her sleeve, and dabbed at her nose. “Every three years like clockwork. He never made it. Not once. And he always felt so bad after that he'd pay to take us out there. But it ain't the same as coming home.”

“No, ma'am, it isn't.”

“I don't know why he hated it so bad. It was like the town burned him and he couldn't face it again. I kept telling him that folks'd forgiven him, but he didn't seem to hear. He was a good boy, Webb. You know that.”

“He made quite an impression on me,” Webb said.

Gladys studied her hands. Her thumbs worked against each other as if she were rubbing pain out of them. “I'm sorry about Florence,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He opened his mouth, closed it, unsure what to say. He almost said that it didn't matter, but it did matter. Tom had ruined his sister's life.

“You tell her that money's still here. I got it in an account for her. Remind her.”

Webb went rigid. The room spun and he realized he hadn't taken a breath. Gladys looked up, the lines in her face deeper somehow, and he made himself breathe. He couldn't hide his surprise.

“You—?”

But Gladys didn't answer. She pushed her chair away from the table, stood, and walked to the sink. She grabbed a glass from the sideboard and filled it with water. Her reflection in the window was wavy and indistinct.

“He was a good boy, my Tom,” she said. “He just forgot sometimes that things have consequences. Like never coming home. His kids would've liked him here, you know? At a game, maybe, or that play Donnie was in. It'd meant a lot.” She took a sip. “Guess it don't matter now.”

“Who killed him, Mrs. Johanssen?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” She set her glass down, but she didn't turn around. “Not sure I want to find out the answer.”

 

Neither was he. But fear had wrapped itself around his heart, and he had learned long ago to face that fear, to stand it down as if it were a charging dog or rampaging drunk.

He was on this path. Nothing, not even his own fear, would make him leave.

The Johanssens had offered to repay Flo her $5000, and she had never taken them up on it. They had it in an account in her name, had since 1971. When Tom sent them the money to pay off their own mortgage.

Webb didn't want to think about how much money was there, what kind of life Flo could have had if she'd only tried.

He drove away from the Johanssens' sick and shaking and wishing for a drink.

Instead he turned onto Hill, drove past the high school, past the duplexes owned by John Johanssen, and stopped at a crudely constructed A-frame on what looked like a vacant lot bordering John Johanssen's property.

Three brothers. Tom, John, and Scott. Scott Johanssen was the youngest, Vietnam vet, five children and no job.

The yard was a mixture of snow and dirt. Toys, half buried in the muck, were colorful reflections in the glare of a powerful porch light. Webb got out of the car and trudged on the unshoveled path. It was icy and awkward, with tramped footprints. Voices echoed from inside the house. Sharp voices, male and female, that cut off abruptly when he knocked.

There was no screen. When the unpainted door eased open, the scents of dirty diapers and dryer lint floated to him on a bed of warm air. A woman stood behind the door, her body thick with the aftermath of a pregnancy, her blouse stained with milk. The toddler in her arms was kicking her in a vain attempt to get down.

“Scott Johanssen, please,” Webb said.

“You a cop?” she asked.

He nodded, reaching for his badge. But she didn't wait. She stood aside and yelled, “Dad, another one!” as she let Webb inside.

He stepped into a kitchen filled with old dishes and an overflowing diaper pail. In the center of the room, a weather-scarred picnic table stood, covered with crumbs and an overturned child's juice glass.

“Through there,” she said, waving a hand at the A-shaped doorway.

He followed the trail of baby clothes and toys until he reached shag carpeting that might have been brown and might have been orange. This room smelled no better than the other. The furniture was old and brown, the upholstery torn. A TV was crammed against the unfinished wall, a red mute across Dan Rather's face.

Scott Johanssen was crammed into a Barcalounger that sagged under his weight. The footrest tilted, obviously broken. Scott was balding but still baby-faced, his round features a fatter, younger version of Phil's.

“Webster Coninck. Why the hell they got you on the case?”

“Dad,” the woman said from the doorway.

Scott shrugged, and slapped the remote on a cup-strewn metal table. “Fair question when you remember that Webster here vowed undying hate toward my brother thirty-some years ago.”

“I came to offer condolences, Scott.”

“Yeah, and monkeys'll fly out of my ass.”

“Dad,” the woman said. “The children . . .”

“It's my house, Cheri,” Scott said. “You don't like how I talk, you and them kids can go back to that asshole husband of yours.”

“I'm sorry,” she said to Webb, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Scott peered up at him. “Condolences my ass,” he said. “You want to know if I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“Should have, for all the times he left Mom and Dad hanging. And them kids. They worship him, you know, and he didn't even have the time of day for 'em. Not even when he flew 'em to Utah. He'd let that slut of his take 'em places, and then he'd show up maybe for supper, maybe for one day of skiing, and that's all they'd talk about. Me and John, we were always there for 'em, but we were never enough. I was a fat bum, and John was too slick. Their dad was perfect because he was mostly a figment of their imaginations. That's what Tom was good at. Making up lies about himself that other people'd believe.”

“What kind of lies?” Webb asked, figuring he'd let Scott talk if that was what he wanted.

Scott snorted, slid one finger forward, and shut off the TV. A whine that Webb hadn't been aware of disappeared. “Lies? You mean like that corporate job that made so damn much money? I called him at work lotsa times, always got him direct. Then I lost the number, called information, and got the receptionist. She said she'd never heard of him. I got”—he grinned—“well, lessay I can be a mean s.o.b. when I wanna, and she put me through to personnel. Said they had a Tom Johanssen in their records. He'd been there and left years ago. That was in 1979, and when I'd ask him about it, Tom'd just laugh and say, ‘Scott, there's business and then there's business.' As if I didn't know that. Every grunt ever lived knows that. Just didn't want to hear my brother saying it, you know?”

Webb wasn't sure he did know. He shifted. His feet had left a fresh snow-mud trail on the flattened carpet. “You ever see him on those trips back here?”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “How'd you know about them?”

Webb shrugged. “Amazing what you hear when you're listening.”

Scott pushed back on the arms of the chair. The back of the Barcalounger hit the wall.

“I was still drinking,” he said. “So it had to be eight-eight, eight-nine, down to Tups. I had just come from Ma's and she was in a fine fix because she thought Tom was coming home. But he never showed. He was good at that, too. So I wander into Tups and take my usual spot when who do I see through that stupid glass bead curtain Tup used to have but my brother in one of his fancy suits, talking to some fat asshole I've never seen before or since.”

“What happened?” Webb asked.

“I was drinking.” Scott picked up the remote, tapped its end against the metal table, making a sound like a brush on a snare drum. “So I wasn't thinking, you know? I shout his name and stumble back there and by then him and his buddies are gone.”