“Where the hell is his car?” Connie said.
“He’s not here?”
“If his car’s not here, he’s not here, genius.”
I let that one go. We ended up sitting there another minute while he tried his cell phone again. I overheard the four rings and then the voice mail picking up.
“What the hell,” he said, putting the phone down.
“Is there somewhere else he could be?”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s somewhere.”
It was all I could do to not reach over and slap him in his smart mouth.
“He could be at the lake house,” he said, “but what would he be doing up there? He knows we’ve got work to do today.”
“Where’s the lake house?”
“Up by Port Austin.”
“How far away?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe.”
I put the truck in reverse. “Let’s go.”
“Since when are you calling the shots?”
“Since I’m the one driving. I assume I keep going north here?”
“Yeah, that’s where Port Austin is, last I checked.”
I went back to the main road and went north. It was all empty farmland now, dusted white with the snow.
“Mind if I ask you a couple questions?”
“You can ask,” he said. “I may not answer.”
“When did you last see him?”
He didn’t say anything. He kept looking out the window and I thought that was probably the only answer I was going to get.
“Couple of days ago,” he finally said.
“That’s the same day the agent came?”
“Yeah, I suppose it was.”
“So the agent came and asked his questions. Then your father disappeared.”
“He didn’t disappear.”
“I understand he’s been doing that a lot. Ever since you finished filming.”
He looked over at me. “My son tell you that?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Then you’ve already got your answer.”
“So ever since January, he’s been gone off and on, for a couple days at a time. Is that fair to say?”
“He’s been gone because he gets tired. He hates for other people to see him like that.”
“I understand he’s a pretty good actor. Is it possible he just seemed tired?”
He didn’t even try to answer that one. Another minute of silence passed.
“Tell me about your sister,” I said. “What was her name?”
“I swear to God,” he said, “if you came down here to ask my father about Corina, you can just forget it right now. Do you understand me?”
“Relax,” I said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
It wasn’t a total lie. If Clyde C. Wiley was really the person hunting down former state troopers and their children… well, then the death of his daughter was obviously a big part of the reason why. But there was no specific reason why I’d have to bring her up now.
“Sounds like a sensitive topic,” I said. “Doesn’t he ever talk about it?”
Connie shook his head.
“He must have said something to you about it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Relax. I told you I won’t bring it up with him. But he’s not here now, right? You can talk about her.”
“There’s not much to say,” he said. “I never really got to know her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he basically had two separate families, okay? I grew up in California, after my mother walked out on him. Corina grew up in Michigan. She ended up getting married to the biggest loser in the world, which my father blamed himself for because the daughter always tries to marry a younger version of her father, and all that other crap. End of story.”
“So you weren’t around when she killed herself.”
“No.”
I was about to ask him why the hell he didn’t try to help her, at least. Do something for his own sister or half-sister or whatever he wanted to call her. But I figured I wouldn’t get very far with that.
I kept driving. It was another typical long, straight Michigan road. There was no snow on the pavement, so we were making good time. We saw the lake a few minutes later. The road ended in the small town of Port Austin, right at the very tip of the Lower Peninsula’s thumb, extending out into Lake Huron. I saw a lot less ice than I’d seen on Lake Superior, but I still wasn’t about to go swimming.
He had me make the right turn and head east, past driveway after driveway, each leading down to a small house near the water. Most of them were sealed up tight for the winter, I was sure. There wasn’t much reason to be here in the middle of April.
“Why would he come up here?” I said.
“Various reasons. If he’s not asleep, he’ll probably be smoking. Just so you know.”
“Smoking, as in…”
“What do you think?”
“I thought he was clean now.”
“It’s just pot,” Connie said. “You want him coked up and getting in a fight with the police? Or hanging out watching old movies and smoking a joint?”
“I don’t care what he does. I just want to talk to him. But you’re telling me this is the designated smoking house?”
“It’s the hangout house, yeah. Plus he keeps all his old stuff up here.”
“What kind of old stuff?”
“He collects vintage film equipment. Spring-wound Bolex cameras, sixteen millimeter film. He even has an old Steenbeck up there.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an edit bay. From back when they had to splice actual strips of film together. It’s like ancient history.”
“So that’s his other hobby, aside from the smoking?”
“It’s his whole life,” Connie said, an even harder edge to his voice now. “I know you wouldn’t understand. Everything’s digital now, but he still loves real film so much. He even develops the film himself sometimes. You know how hard that is to do?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Trust me. There aren’t many people left who can do it.”
We went down the road maybe a mile and a half, then he pointed to a driveway. It was unmarked and completely unremarkable. You’d definitely have to know where you were going to find this place. I could see a faint indentation where the last tracks had been made.
I stopped in front of the house. The weather had beat the hell out of the place. The siding was so split and worn, it was starting to fall right off the exterior walls. There was a big black vintage Cadillac parked haphazardly by the front door. A vintage car to go with his vintage film gear.
“He’s here,” Connie said. I could tell he was at least a little relieved. “Come on.”
We got out of the truck and went to the door.
“I know it don’t look like much from the outside,” he said. “That’s the way he likes it. Beat up all to hell, just like himself.”
“Okay, whatever you say.” Personally, I couldn’t have slept one night in the place without going outside and working on that siding.
Connie tried the front door. It was locked.
“Since when do you lock the door?” he muttered to himself. He reached down under the little wooden front porch and grabbed a key off a hook. Not the most secure place in the world, obviously. As he unlocked the door and pushed it open, he called out to his father. There was no answer.
When I came in behind him, I could see he’d been right about the place. It looked like crap from the outside, but the inside was immaculate. There was a leather sofa in the front room facing a big hi-def television. Above the sofa was a framed poster for Road Hogs, with the young Clyde C. Wiley himself posed on the back of a Harley, looking ready to kick some serious butt.
I stood there for a moment, looking at the movie star with the tattoos and the arms rippling with muscles. He might be seventy-two years old now, I thought, but he’s not ninety-two. I bet he could still put a hurt on you if he really wanted to.
As I turned around, I didn’t see Connie anywhere. Might as well make myself at home, I thought. I took a quick look into the kitchen. It was small but well-appointed with high-end appliances. There was a small eating area with a glass table, and more framed movie posters. I was definitely picking up the faint, sweet odor of marijuana now. If anybody ever bought this place, they’d have to air it out for a month.