Ryan
Granite Harbor, Maine
Present Day
“I don’t think Dubbs went willingly,” I whisper to Eli over the bar crowd.
It’s Friday night, and Angler’s is packed. It’s also tourist season, and it makes for uncomfortable Friday nights.
“You think Ronan Fields took him?” Eli sets down his beer.
“Strong possibility.”
“What’s the connection?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m having Lindsay in dispatch run criminal history to see what she can find. Who the fuck knows?” I take another sip of my beer and set it down.
Merit’s in the forefront of my mind, and it’s hard to focus because of that.
“Another beer?” Felix asks both Eli and me.
“I’m good. Thanks, Felix.” I throw a ten down.
“Nah. Thanks, man.” Eli grabs his wallet.
Shannon, one of the cocktail waitresses, walks up behind us. “Eli. Douche bag.” The douche bag reference is for me.
I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit in the past. Broken hearts. Things I sure as fuck am not proud of.
“Hi, Shannon,” is all I say.
She ignores me. Whispers something under her breath.
“I’ve gotta take Hero home.”
Eli laughs. “I still can’t believe she did that. Got you a dog.” He shakes his head.
My hands start to sweat. I want to ask him if he’s talked to her. If she’s all right. She hasn’t—and probably won’t—return my texts and calls.
“Have you talked to her?”
Eli quickly shifts his head toward me. “You haven’t? Does she hate you again?”
I peel at the label of my beer. It’s not hate. I know it’s love. It’s hard for her. But there’s no way in hell I’ll explain it to Eli right now.
“We just haven’t connected.”
“She’s good. Made it back all right. Same Merit. Something up with you two?”
Peel label.
Don’t respond.
I can’t lie to Eli. I’ve spent years denying how I fucking feel for this girl. Get truthful, Ryan.
“I love her, Eli.”
Although the bar is loud with chatter, it’s silent for Eli and me.
Finally, he says, “It took Alex several times to point this out to me.” Another long pause. “You wouldn’t tell Merit no if she agreed to help. You needed the help. It was more Alex’s idea than mine to get you in the same house together.”
My heart starts to beat fast. Hands still sweating. I continue to peel the label.
“Seeing you guys together this past month, I felt like a fucking idiot for not seeing this sooner.” Eli takes the last of his beer.
Maybe, when you’re in it, you don’t think others can see it. Or maybe it’s because we’ve spent so long hiding, running, from it.
I stand, taking what’s left of my beer.
“Remember when I was working the Stehl poaching case a while back?” Eli switches gears as he throws some cash out on the bar, too, and puts his wallet away.
“Ryan, Eli, thanks.” Felix holds his hand up to say good-bye.
“Thanks,” Eli and I say in unison. He follows me to my truck.
“No. Who’s that?”
Eli opens my truck door and lets Hero out of his crate. He pulls a few treats out of his pocket and picks up Hero. Holds him like a baby as he squirms to lick Eli’s face.
I lean against the truck, nodding.
“One of the inmates we interviewed for the case said to talk to Stan at The Bill.” He shrugs. “So, I did. Seems he knows a few things. Wouldn’t hurt to check and see if Stan knows anything. Especially, if Ronan Fields has an extensive criminal background.”
Eli lets Hero lick his face and then puts him back in his crate.
“I’ll do that.”
“I’ll go with you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you tangled up in this mess. You have a wife and daughter. No.”
Eli stops. Turns. Smirks. “Wait a minute. You value my life more now that I have a wife and daughter than when I didn’t?”
“That’s right.” I open my truck door.
“When you headed over to Portland?” Eli walks to his truck.
Tonight.
“Tomorrow.”
“All right. Later,” Eli says as he climbs into his truck.
“Later,” I say and shut my truck door.
I head toward Portland.
I sit outside The Bill in my personal truck, watching the clientele filter in and out, profiling the comings and goings, getting a feel of what I’m walking into. It’s a dive bar. With a padded red door. What it’s not is, sophisticated. Classy. Upscale. And the neighborhood was my first indicator.
But it’s the perfect neighborhood for intel.
Hero is passed out on my lap. Too much running in the woods today. I stroke the soft spot at the base of his ears.
I take out my phone. Stare at the screen. Wanting to text her.
All of a sudden, the passenger door opens.
What the fuck?
Hero doesn’t budge.
Eli.
“How in the fuck did you find me?” My heart is neatly put back into my chest, finding its original pace.
“You didn’t seriously believe that I bought that line of bullshit about you leaving tomorrow? And, when you lie, it’s all over your face. Just so you know. Work on that shit, would you?” He quietly shuts the truck door, careful not to wake Hero, who is still sleeping.
I smile. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Surveillance?” he asks, looking at the front door of The Bill.
A man taller than normal in baggy green jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt looks behind his shoulder and walks in.
“You ready?” I ask, putting the sleeping puppy in his crate with a blanket.
But Eli’s already out of the truck.
We make our way across the street and can already smell stale pretzels, booze, and cigarette smoke.
There are a few patrons playing pool and a younger couple sitting at a table in the corner. The guy in the Pink Floyd T-shirt is at the jukebox.
Eli and I sit at the bar.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks.
“You Stan?” I ask.
He leans on the bar, one arm stretched out, rag in hand, his eyes narrow, his eyeglasses held around his neck with a rubber strap. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Ryan. This is Eli.”
He doesn’t budge.
I slide the grainy image of Ronan Fields across the bar. “You know this guy?”
The bartender stares at me and then at Eli. Taking in our haircuts, facial features, our nail beds, our character. He probably knows our drink preference just by looking at us. I hope this guy is Stan. If he isn’t, I’m sure Eli would have tipped me off.
Finally, Stan breaks eye contact and looks down at the picture, putting his glasses on his face. “Ronan Fields,” he whispers.
“What’s the guy do?” I ask.
Stan slides the same picture back to me, and I slip it into my pocket.
He walks to the other end of the bar to help the guy in the Pink Floyd T-shirt, who curiously eyes us. “You don’t wanna know.”
Stan makes a whiskey on the rocks. It’s an expensive whiskey, which strikes me as peculiar, taking in the guy’s choice in clothing.
Stan leaves us at the bar, cleaning glasses, cleaning counters.
Eli and I each order a beer, trying not to make us look out of place or too obvious.
The guy in the Pink Floyd shirt lights up a cigarette and occasionally looks up at us, sipping his whiskey like he’s got all the time in the world.
Stan eyes us as Eli and I shoot the shit. A totally fake facade. Talk sports as the old box television sits at our end of the bar, playing ESPN highlights.
It’s been forty minutes. I know Hero will need to piss soon. He did do a lot of running with me today out in the woods, so maybe he’s still asleep, and maybe he’ll be all right for another twenty minutes.
Finally, Pink Floyd finishes his drink. Takes the last drag of his cigarette and throws money on the counter. Nods at Stan. Walks past us and leaves.
Ten minutes after he leaves, Stan walks back over to us.
“Look,” he whispers, “whatever beef you have with Ronan Fields, he’s not a man you want to mess with. He’s got eyes everywhere.”
“What does he do?” I ask again.
Stan leans closer. “He’s your best friend if you’re willing to run drugs for him. But, the moment you fuck him over, consider yourself dead.”
“Where can I find him?” I pretend to take a drink of my beer.
“Runs in and out of Mookey’s on Tuesday nights. Bar down on Seventh. Other than that, I dunno.”
Eli pipes in, “You know the guy in the Floyd T-shirt?”
Stan smirks. “I know everybody who comes in and out of my bar. Guy works for Fields. Better be careful and make sure he’s not following you. You might be on some sorta list.”
“He’s got my dad, Stan. So, yeah, I’m probably on a list somewhere.” I take a long pull of my beer. Because, now, I’m fucking pissed.
Stan stops wiping the counter. “What’s his name?”
“Dubbs Taylor.”
Stan thinks for a minute. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, how do you know Fields has him?”
“Just a hunch.” And then I tell Stan what I saw with Ronan at Dubbs’s place that day.
“Oh, fuck.” Stan takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, throwing his cleaning rag on the counter. He leans in. “If you saw Fields and your dad together, he’s as good as dead. Fields never does his own dirty work unless it’s personal. He’d bring in a minion before he put his name on any evidence. The only person you’ll see him with ever is his old lady.”
“It could have been a chat about the weather.” I shrug, trying to get more intel, clearly knowing it wasn’t a chat about the weather.
Stan laughs. “Your dad’s missing, right? Wasn’t a chat about the weather.”
Eli stands, and this time, I follow his lead, trying to figure out my next move with the new information.
We each throw a twenty-dollar bill down on the counter.
“Thanks, Stan,” I say, and we make our way out of The Bill.
My alarm sounds and I hit snooze, already awake, needing a few more minutes before I get in the shower.
It’s Merit who’s first on my mind. It’s been a week since she left. I want to call her again.
Give her space, Ryan. For fuck’s sake.
Hero is passed out in his crate. He’s not too bad through the night, but I still let him out every two hours to piss.
I can’t help but wonder how she’s doing. I used to wash my worry away with other women. Use them as a tool to my advantage. Now, with Merit’s return to Granite Harbor, everything has flipped the fuck around.
In my nightstand, I have a picture of Merit, Eli, and me when we were barely teenagers. Merit has on her big, beautiful smile while Eli has me in a headlock. We’re all smiling. I kept this photo and slept with it under my pillow during times when fear ran rampant through my body, just waiting for Dubbs to drunkenly bust through my bedroom door. I wasn’t so scared when the old Hero was there. But, when Dubbs killed him, I knew it wasn’t a safe situation. It never was.
The photo captures what most kids should feel all the time. Carefree. Excitement.
I’ve always felt I have to look over my shoulder. It wasn’t until I finally stood up to the fucker when the fear subsided. Finally, at sixteen, when I grew old enough, strong enough, to stand up to a man so full of hate, the fear went away. But then I was left with some sort of inadequacy. Like I wasn’t good enough. And I knew goddamn well that, when Merit left, I’d never get her back. Women, just like alcohol to some, just like drugs to others, seemed to fill that inadequacy with a false sense of ego. But, woman after woman, the fix changed. It didn’t meet my ego’s expectations. It didn’t anymore. I wanted to be fixed. But nobody had taught me how to deal with shit.
Screw.
That’s what Dubbs taught me.
One night, he said, “You want to know how you deal with life, shithead? You don’t. You just keep runnin’.”
I rub my thumb across Merit’s face on the picture. She felt a lot of responsibility after Rebecca died. But the level of the responsibility never took away her smile. A smile that told you she would be all right, no matter what.
I know Merit will be all right. She’ll make it through life. I just hope she doesn’t settle.