The Subtle Art of Brutality

“She never did go find work. She asked to borrow more money. I said no. She begged, cried. I still said no. It was time to be stern. Tough love. She borrowed from her mother, her sister. Her friends, maybe. Never paid no one back that I’m aware of.

“I went over there one morning and found four strange people drunk, passed out in the living room. Car parked in the damn front yard. She was in the bedroom, some shitbird asleep next to her. Both naked as newborns. I woke her ass up and demanded to know what kind of spring break crash pad I was footin’ the bill on. We got into a huge fight. Huge. Said things we shouldn’t have. Can’t take back. She was cryin’, throwin’ her arms about, yellin’ at me for not doin’ enough. I was blown away. Not doin’ enough. She cussed, she broke a damn window.

“I left. Didn’t speak to her for almost a week. Anne was goin’ to be gettin’ the results from her biopsy that week so I had other things on my mind. And when my wife said she was dyin’, well, I felt the clutter in my head greater than I had ever before. I needed to clear some space. And for some reason, sellin’ that pit over on Carolina was the single best thing I could do.

“I called Delilah and told her she had thirty days to vacate. Period. Done. I told her mom the same thing. Belinda too. My daughter-in-law, she’s a real estate broker. She fixed me up with friends of hers who were in the market for a home. They saw it, liked it. Even with Delilah’s mess all over it—I told her we were showin’ the place and to clean up but of course she didn’t—they just liked it.

“She was gone August fifteenth of this year. Moved back in with her mom. Up until the very end she thought I’d change my mind. Right up to the very last day.

“And not a month later, Darla calls me. Screaming.

“Said she come from work one evening and the house was abandoned. Delilah left. I wouldn’t be surprised if Darla was missin’ some jewelry though. Darla said she called and called and called but Delilah wouldn’t answer.

“Gone for two days before Delilah emailed her mother. Here, I got a copy for you.”

Mom, leaving town for a while. Scared out of my mind. I’ll call when it’s safe. Love, Delilah.

“That was two months ago. Mr. Buckner, I ain’t got no earthly idea what scared her like that. The police said she’s an adult and adults can go where they like, when they like, tell or not tell anybody they like about it. I need her found. Her mother needs her found. Her sister. My wife, too.

“Anne ain’t got but this year to live, and she wants to see Delilah home safe. Mr. Buckner, what’d I do throwin’ her out like that?”

5

I get Delilah’s information and say goodbye to Derne.

He leaves. I dig.

6

The next day I hit the streets.

Derne said Delilah had a car. There are three tow truck companies in the city. I know folks at each. I’ll call and see if there’s something in their inventory matching her wheels. I’ll also get ahold of a guy I know at the PD who can check their records for me.

Then it’s the usual canvass protocol: truck stops, hookers and the check-cashing stations. Carefully canvass the women’s shelters. A lot of the shelter workers know me from my cop days, but there’s no guarantee a new one won’t see a rough, gritty man with a neck tattoo and shoulders wider than the Pacific cruising their “safe” place and freak out. I could easily be mistaken as an abusive husband trawling for his battered wife.

Jane Doe checks at the area hospitals, emergency rooms and morgues. Check her on the usual social media websites. I find profiles but they’re set to PRIVATE. I use a fake profile of mine to send her friend-type requests. I doubt it’ll pan out. She might be a complete moron and still post about every last thing she does, but if she really wants to disappear she’d have abandoned those things as soon as she decided to drop off the face of the earth. Hours of dull but necessary legwork that almost never pays off.

The snow is coming down in blankets; crisp virgin flakes of sheer white fluff pouring out of the sky like the angels were sobbing in frosted cotton.

Saint Ansgar, my hometown, my double-edged mistress, my living coffin.

In the foreground is a major modern city, skyline complete with goliaths of architecture and stunning views.

In the background, a seedy maze of cracked streets where nightmares are given free reign about the neighborhoods. Separated north and south by a river flowing east to west, the city of Saint Ansgar flourishes on the top and rots on the bottom.

Composed of Germanic elements, Ans means “God” and gar means “spear.” Our namesake was a Frenchman born in 801 AD. He lived his pious life and died sixty-four years later. Somewhere in that lifetime he tried to convert the Danes and the Norwegians to Christianity.

His life parallels our city. Originally founded on the southern shore in the 1880s, the city of Saint Ansgar quickly fell to scoundrels in the early twentieth century. The saint himself founded the first Christian church in Sweden, only to be run out by pagans. He lost most of his earnings for the church to them and the pagans burned his house of worship to the ground.

It seems that good does not prosper where that saint first set foot. The northern shore of our metropolis is alive and well with business and culture, while the pagans still burn and roam unhindered on the southern, original side.

Sports: an arena football team, major league hockey team, triple A baseball team who won their pennant two years in a row and a woman’s basketball team that is top notch though no one in the city cares.

The ocean borders us to the west. The shore is a thin mountain range, cut in half by a single inlet. The inlet flows from the ocean into the large Fissure Bay, which separates the mountain range from the city proper.

Fissure Bay is wide and deep oval, reaching from east to west almost ten miles. From north to south it is just over thirteen miles long. At the northern tip it opens into a small waterway known as The Funnel that broadens into a smaller, tighter body of water called Shrouded Bay. A treacherous series of spits—finger-like ridges of sediment that extend from the shore out into the water line—span the northern coast of Shrouded Bay and protrude southward about two hundred yards.

Police are always finding dead bodies in the shallow strips of water between the spits. The mafia here, a weak but viable presence, will dump the few people they feel the urge to kill in those spits. I have deposited there as well. A convicted but paroled child molester fell to my hand cannon and was found six weeks later, anchored down in the shoals between spits. Eventually he was positively identified and, as it should be, no one cared.