“Okay to pick him up at around three?” says Clay.
Judd nods. He is clean-shaven and wears his hair in a crew cut. Six months off the police force and Judd still keeps his hair high and tight. Clay guesses it’s more out of frugality than holding on to some military-like semblance of order. Judd cuts his own hair with electric clippers. Number one guard on the sides. Number three guard on top. With some semiskilled blending between the two.
“You sure it’s okay to have Braedon here? I don’t want to keep you from searching for Teddy.”
Judd looks at his son. Three months after Clay’s return, Judd is still surprised he’s here. He figured they’d never live in the same town again, let alone the same country. Judd had written Clay off as an irrecoverable loss. Clay showing up all of sudden feels like a second chance for Judd, but it’s a chance he’s not sure how to take.
“I’ve been all over the county the last twenty-four hours,” says Judd. “Better I stay home for a while rather than drive around like I’m looking for a lost dog. But I’ll hit the bars tonight and ask around. Somebody has to know where Teddy is.”
Clay nods. He and his father are capable of communicating, but it’s like they’re talking through a wall. The words get through, but not much else.
“Call me if you change your mind,” says Clay. “I’ll check in with Deb at the property.”
“And keep an eye out for Teddy on the river?” says Judd. “Deb says his fishing stuff is all at home, but you never know. He could have taken just one rod and reel and walked down without waders.”
“Of course,” says Clay, although he knows if he finds Teddy on the river after being missing over twenty-four hours, it’ll be a grisly discovery. “Hate to ask this,” adds Clay, “but—”
“No,” says Judd with an edge in his voice. He doesn’t intend to sound riled but the reaction is so ingrained when talking to Clay, it’s hard for Judd to curb it. “Teddy didn’t fall off the wagon. Earned his fifteen-year chip last month and was proud as hell about it. Posted it on Facebook and everything. He’d miss one of our funerals before he’d miss one of his meetings.”
“What did Chief Jensen say?” Clay sees the cords tense in his father’s neck. He’s struck a nerve, though he had no intention of doing so.
“I don’t need to talk to Zoey Jensen,” says Judd. “Talked to Sue, Mike, and Andy. They’re keeping an eye out.”
Clay can feel the conversation moving into dangerous waters. Ordinarily he’d drop it, but he’s concerned that Judd’s closeness to Teddy is obscuring the old cop’s judgment. There’s no time to waste. Judd will survive another clash with his son. He may not survive the loss of Teddy. “But Chief Jensen—”
“She’s not from here,” says Judd. “She doesn’t have the contacts.She doesn’t know the backroads. I don’t need to talk to Zoey Jensen.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” says Clay. His tone is firm but calm. “Swallow your pride and call the chief of police.” Then he tries to throw a blanket on the fire by adding, “For Teddy.”
“I know how this town works a lot better than you do,” says Judd. “I’m not the one who left for twenty-four years.”
“Whatever you’re pissed off about,” says Clay, maintaining his calm, “don’t take it out on the new chief. She didn’t push you out. She didn’t even live here when the city council asked you to step down.”
“Fired me,” says Judd. “They fired me. Don’t sugarcoat it.” Judd looks at his son with cold, hard eyes. Talk about old habits. It’s as if he doesn’t know how to look at Clay any other way. Seeing Pam’s eyes in Clay’s, Judd wonders if he’s fully processed his wife’s death. Even all these years later. Does he blame Clay, even subconsciously, rather than the real culprit, cancer? Or if Pam’s pregnancy did make the disease more difficult to detect, then maybe he should blame himself. Pam didn’t get pregnant on her own.
Clay’s picking up on none of this and won’t back down. He appreciates Judd’s relationship with Braedon, but after being gone for twenty-four years, his father needs to understand that Clay is no longer a child. It’s man-to-man now, not man-to-boy. “Call Chief Jensen. You owe it to Teddy. And you owe it to Riverwood.”
“Oh,” says Judd. “Sure. Now you’re talking about loyalty. That’s rich coming from you, Clay. The army admits you to the finest military institution in the world. The government foots thebill. How do you repay them? By serving the minimum five years. First day you could, you resigned your commission and headed off to Europe to kick a ball for your adoring fans. You have no sense of duty or honor. No sense of loyalty to the country that made you who you are. Hell, I still don’t know why you came back here.”
Clay’s about to turn and walk away when the thought comes to him. “Do you wish I hadn’t come back? Do you wish Braedon and I had stayed in Europe? Because I have standing offers to coach back there if we’ve ruined your life by moving to Riverwood.”
It’s a threat Judd doesn’t take lightly. He checks himself. Takes a deep breath, then another. Then he lowers his voice to just above a whisper and says, “You know how much I love that boy. Don’t you dare take him away from me.”
“Yeah,” says Clay, “I do know how much you lovethatboy.” Clay’s insinuation is clear and it hits his father hard. Judd looks like he’s about to counter when Clay adds, “See you at three.” He turns his back on his father and walks to his F-150 without another word from Judd.
CHAPTER 3
When Clay was twelve years old, his mother went to the hospital for the last time. He was thirteen when she returned as ashes in an urn. The urn was mauve and looked like the antique pottery Clay’s mother had collected. Depression pottery, she’d called it. Clay’s father set the urn on the mantel and proclaimed it Pam Hawkins’s eternal resting place. Clay had other ideas. When it came to Judd and his pronouncements, Clay always had other ideas. Still does.
Pam Hawkins’s dream was to see Europe, the land of her favorite composers. Judd promised his wife they would make that trip. They married at nineteen and swore they wouldn’t have kids until they were at least twenty-five. They had plenty of time. That was the plan, but nature wasn’t listening. Judd and Pam were only twenty-one when Clay was born.
It was the lactation nurse who first discovered the lump inPam’s breast. Pam was in and out of remission for the next twelve years. Clay had only known his mother as a sick person, sometimes home, sometimes at the hospital, hairless from chemo, burned from radiation, hopeful about the next new trial drug and disappointed when it didn’t work.
Pam and Judd Hawkins never took that trip to Europe. Plenty was to blame. Clay arriving years earlier than planned. Pam’s illness. And the demands of Judd’s job as a police officer for the city of Riverwood, Minnesota. But Pam Hawkins talked about that trip until the day she died. As if it would be her reward for beating the big C. Pam showed Clay the books she’d collected. Books with photographs of the places she longed to see. It broke Clay’s heart that his mother would die having never seen those places. Walked their cobblestone streets. Listened to their orchestras in centuries-old concert halls.
On the one-month anniversary of Pam’s death, Clay took the Depression pottery urn down from the mantel and carried it into the kitchen. He lifted the lid and peeked inside to see a clear plastic bag sealed with a twist tie. As if his mother were a loaf of bread.
Clay had sat around enough campfires and their aftermaths to know the slightest movement of air could scatter ash into oblivion. He made sure the kitchen sink was clean and dry, then unfastened the twist tie and opened the bag. He used a tablespoon to carefully transfer a small heap of white ash from the urn to a Ziploc sandwich bag. He did this in the sink figuring that if he spilled, he could easily wash part of his mother down the drain. That might seem heartless, but if it happened, her going down the drain fit with Clay’s plan, albeit in a less-scenic way.
