“Talk about what?”
“For one,” he said. “Your sister thinks you’re dead. She’s on a plane from Portland with Bobby right now. They left the baby with Bobby’s aunt and uncle ’cause he has an ear infection and can’t fly. Poor little bugger. For two, what the hell was your pickup doing in the north hills?”
Granger was tall and awkward as ever. He had a beak nose and one of those big Adam’s apples, looks like a tree knot. He wore a high and tight haircut, too, which only made everything that bulged stick out worse, and I’d bet dollars to donuts he was still a virgin.
“Well, I’m not dead,” I said.
“Clearly,” he said, and snapped a can of dip in his hand.
Granger is one of those that can’t ever sit still. He’s all bouncy knees, flinches, and tics, and he worked that tin of Kodiak something serious. Pop-pop-pop.
“So what are you doing here?” I said.
“What happened was, Bobby’s mother called out to Portland when they released Portis Dale’s name on the news. On account of how he looked after you and Starr when you were little.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Starr tried to call you, but the phone’s cut off and you didn’t answer any of the five hundred e-mails she sent. Then they had Bobby’s mother drive over here, must have been a half-dozen times, but she couldn’t see in and nobody came to the door and your truck wasn’t here. She just stood there knocking. Then they called your work and Jeff Pickering hadn’t seen you either. You still work out there at the barn?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, you might want to call Jeff and let him know you’re still alive. He sounded a little worried when I called.”
“That’s what happens when the police call,” I said. “People get worried.”
“Either way, Bobby called me and told me they were coming on the plane. He asked me to come out in case something had happened.”
Granger finally opened his can of dip. He pinched off a clump between his thumb and finger and when he stuffed it down in his jutted-out bottom lip I could smell it clear across the room. It about singed my nostrils.
“That shit is nasty,” I said.
“Then this morning,” he said. “We fished out a little Nissan pickup from the hills. Just towed it in and the strange thing is, it’s registered to you. You want to tell me anything about that?”
And just like that, he’d gone cop on me. His voice was all, I’m an officer of the law, and it ground my nerves something serious.
“Where’s my truck?” I said.
“Over there at Power’s towing.”
“You think you can give me a ride?” I said. “To go and get it?”
“Well, the first thing is how did it get up there? That’s the first thing we need to figure out.”
“I would guess somebody drove it.”
“And who would that be?”
“Who do you think?”
“Typically,” he said. “I’m the one that asks the questions in these situations.”
“Carletta took it,” I said. “I haven’t seen that truck in days.”
Granger looked at me and massaged the dip with his tongue.
“That’s why I haven’t been at work,” I said. “Which is why I haven’t been checking my e-mail.”
“You don’t let your boss know when you can’t make work?”
“Jeff doesn’t operate like that. You go when you can and he pays by the piece. And anyway, what am I going to do? Send him a smoke signal? I don’t have a phone, man. Like you said.”
“So Carletta just drove your truck up to Shelton Potter’s and parked it in a snowbank? And you didn’t know nothing about it? Not one thing?”
“Man, I haven’t seen Carletta in two weeks. You think she leaves little notes around the house when she takes things?”
Granger looked at me for a minute. He made his eyes narrow and hard, like he was in the midst of some serious, detective-type considerations. Finally, he nodded.
“I tried to tell Bobby it was probably nothing,” he said. “But your sister had it in her mind something happened.”
“Well,” I said. “Something did happen. Portis is dead, isn’t he?”
And just like that I had reached the limit of Deputy Granger’s investigative powers. He spit in his empty Faygo bottle and transitioned to telling me about the county’s indigent burial service. He could try to pretend otherwise, but at the end of the day he was a good guy and he wanted to help me. He said once Starr signed some paperwork—I was a minor and of no help there—we’d be able to get Portis a proper funeral.
“They won’t be able to put him in the ground just yet,” he said. “They’ll have to wait until spring to bury him, but you can go ahead and have the service now.”
“What do they do with his body?” I said. “In the meantime.”
“They basically put him in a warehouse right there on the grounds. Let Mother Nature keep the body cold.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“It’s just what happens,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “I guess that would be good. Thank you.”