Repo Madness: A Novel

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  For Amy and Julie,

  who have always been

  so supportive of their baby brother

  Prologue

  Gary Bruner drove his panel van down to the Ironton Ferry docks the Friday after Thanksgiving under the assumption that he would be free from harassment there—harassment of the police kind. That’s how he resentfully defined the two incidents when he’d been pulled over and had his pot confiscated, even though he’d escaped arrest both times: police harassment. All he was doing was smoking marijuana, which he did nearly every day of his life, and then he gets harassed for it.

  Gary Bruner was sometimes known by his nickname, “Burner.” He’d forgotten who gave him that name or, to be truthful, why.

  The panel van had belonged to a painter in its former life, and splatters of latex—egg white and orange parrot and hazy lilac—still riotously decorated the windowless interior. Gary thought it looked festive, and sometimes pictured himself cutting out pieces of the vehicle with a torch and framing them and selling them as art for thousands of dollars. But that would mean locating a torch and deciding which pieces and all that, which felt like a lot of work to Gary. Besides, then his van would have all these holes in it.

  What made the van really special were the four theater seats to which he’d helped himself when the Star movie house closed several years ago. They were folding chairs, burgundy velvet where not worn down to shiny black leather, and he’d bolted them to the wooden floor of the van after using liberal amounts of duct tape to repair the puncture wounds in the cushions.

  Two people were sitting in the seats now: a woman named Sharon, who looked to be maybe twenty-two years old, and Gary’s friend Mick, who at twenty-four was a year younger than Gary and who had his arm casually draped around Sharon’s shoulder back there, as if they were watching a movie and not bouncing down the highway on ten-year-old shocks. When Gary’s brakes squealed them to a halt, he saw Sharon glancing at the arm and caught a flicker of irritation in her eyes. It suggested to Gary that Mick’s play for Sharon was far from a done deal.

  Sharon looked pretty good to Gary. She had short cropped red hair and nice light-blue eyes. She wore big looped earrings, which Gary thought was pretty sexy. She had on tight jeans and calf-high boots, which Gary thought was pretty sexy. Her eyes briefly met his in the rearview mirror.

  Gary left the engine on and turned to the two in the back. “Let’s see what you got,” he suggested to his friend. Mick nodded and pulled out a ziplock bag and pinched out a handful of his new buy, finding his rolling papers and deftly packing a joint’s worth of dope into what twisted out to be a very slender white stick. Sharon moved back a row to give him room to operate, which Gary found pretty sexy.

  The van was the only vehicle in the parking lot. The restaurant, called the Landing, had once been a bait shop but now was one of the most popular dining spots on the lake. They served lobster rolls in there, Gary had heard. From worms to lobster—there was probably a philosophical comment about that he could make to impress Sharon, but Gary couldn’t think of what it might be.

  Because of the holidays, the Landing was closed, and the Ironton Ferry had ceased operations for the winter, though it hadn’t yet been pulled out of the channel. There was no reason for anyone to drive down the ferry road from M-66, which was why there would be no police harassment tonight. Even still, Gary had backed the van into the parking spot so they could see up the driveway to the highway and also enjoy a view of the lake, which on this night was still and cold looking.

  They didn’t talk much as they passed the joint around. Gary tried to meet Sharon’s eyes, but she mostly sat staring out the driver-side window, holding in the smoke and contemplating the dark water.

  Gary tried to see things from Sharon’s point of view. He and Mick looked pretty similar—both had unkempt beards and long hair. Neither had showered in a few days. Both were skinny. Mick had bought the dope, which maybe gave him some points, but Gary owned the panel van. Professionally speaking, both men were seeking opportunities at the moment, or at least were willing to entertain any opportunities that came seeking them, so Gary scored that one a toss-up.

  “I’m going to roll another,” Mick said, his voice strained as he talked past his held breath.

  “I’m not feeling much,” Sharon admitted.

  Gary blew out a deep lungful. “I don’t think it’s dope,” he stated flatly.

  “What do you mean?” Mick looked offended.

  “It’s, like, the weakest pot ever. Where did you get it?” Gary asked. “The high school again?”

  “No, it’s good. You need to just let it work on you,” Mick insisted.

  The air was so polluted that Gary cracked his window, turning up the heat to compensate. The moon outside was glinting off the black water of the channel. “It doesn’t even smell like dope,” Gary complained. Sharon nodded at this, and Gary felt a gush of affection for her. “Are you from around here?” he asked her.

  Sharon nodded. “Mancelona.”

  Mick, trying to demonstrate how potent his marijuana was, took in a huge lungful and barked it back out.

  “And you and Mick, how long have you…,” Gary asked delicately over Mick’s hacking and choking.

  “Oh, we’re just friends.”

  Mick stared at her through his red, watery eyes. This seemed to be new information to him.

  “I have a boyfriend,” Sharon continued in what Gary felt was unnecessary elaboration.

  “You do?” Mick demanded.

  Lights lit up the trees: a car had turned off the highway and was descending the curved approach to the ferry landing. A fast car. Gary watched out the passenger-side window as it careened down the hill toward them. “Whoa!” he blurted.

  “What is it?” Sharon asked.

  The car, a four-door of some kind, flashed past the parking lot as if rushing for the ferry. Except there was no ferry, just the gate that raised and lowered like a drawbridge. The gate was sagging outward toward the lake, Gary saw, less a barrier than a steep ramp, and in the seconds before the car hit it, he drew a mental trajectory and saw where in the channel the car would land.

  Sharon screamed when the car hit the barrier, and was still screaming when the vehicle went into the water in a huge spray. The three dope smokers scrambled out of the van into the cold night air.

  “What the…,” Mick said. They stood and watched numbly as the car heaved and surged in the lake, white foam dancing in its headlights, which lit the water up green as they dipped beneath the surface.

  And then a man swam into the light, flapping his arms on the water. “Lisa Marie!” he was yelling. “Lisa!”
r />   “Boat!” Mick shouted, pointing. A small aluminum rowboat lay upside down in the grass lawn of the cottage next door, pulled up twenty yards from shore. The three of them ran to it. Gary and Mick flipped it and saw there were oars inside. Gary fumbled to get the paddles into the locks.

  “Hurry!” Sharon cried. She was sobbing, and Gary and Mick pushed the small craft down the slick grass and into the shallow water. When Gary stepped into the lake, it was shockingly cold.

  The guy in the channel was still yelling something, his voice anguished and audibly growing weaker. Gary sat and heaved on the oars, and Mick fell heavily, nearly capsizing them. “Jesus, Burner!” Mick snapped at him.

  It took them no time at all to get to the man, who was floundering in the water. He was still shouting, screaming, “Lisa!” over and over. The car was now totally submerged, and the lights were pointing down into the depths, seemingly aimed at infinity. “Dude! Give me your hand!” Mick shouted, leaning out of the boat. Gary stopped rowing and went to help, and together they seized the guy’s jacket.

  “Careful!” Gary warned as they started to haul the man up. The boat was close to tipping—the dude was heavy. He was staring with glassy eyes up at the two of them and seemed incapable of helping himself aboard. There was a gash on his forehead, pouring blood down his face—in the ethereal light from the head lamps, it was black as ink.

  They put everything they had into it and managed to get the man into the boat without winding up in the drink themselves. He was shivering violently.

  “Call 911!” Mick yelled at Sharon. She turned and raced away. Mick looked to Gary with a stricken expression. “You think there is someone else in the car? Was that why he was yelling? Dude, was there someone else in the car with you?”

  The guy didn’t answer and looked as if he couldn’t—his eyes were rolling up into his head.

  Gary stared somberly at the sinking car, still visible but now a huge blurry shadow underwater, the taillights making the foam look like bubbling blood. If there was someone else in there, he didn’t see how that person would survive.

  Gary looked down at the nearly catatonic crash victim. “Hey,” he said suddenly to Mick. “You know who this guy is?”

  And then the car lights winked out, and they were swallowed by the night.

  1

  Nothing Like You in the Literature

  I flipped the light under the little sign that said JOHNSTON and then took my seat, pensively glancing at my watch. I was close to fifteen minutes late.

  The small anteroom had a coffee table layered with magazines for every possible sort of person who might be seeking psychotherapy: fishermen, people who cared about fashionable clothing, people who wanted their houses to look like someone else’s house, women who were pregnant or wanting to be pregnant or had recently been pregnant. I picked up one whose cover had a snowmobile straddled by a woman in a bikini. The girl and the machine were both impressively muscular. Maybe where she lived, that’s how everyone dressed for snowmobiling.

  I’ve never actually owned a snowmobile, but I’ve stolen a few.

  The door popped open, and I blinked in surprise at the guy standing there—fit, wiry, fifties; short, sparse hair receding from a freckled forehead; green eyes. My regular psychiatrist was a trim and frankly attractive woman who I felt was really helping me because she laughed at my jokes. “Mr. McCann?” he asked.

  I stood and tossed aside my magazine. “Where’s Sheryl?” I asked.

  He bent and arranged the snowmobile magazine so that its edges lined up with the magazine for people who dress their dogs in sweaters. I’m not an edges-lined-up kind of guy and didn’t feel bad about my apparent negligence.

  “You call your doctor by her first name?” he asked mildly. “Why are you late, Mr. McCann?”

  “I had to repo a Mazda from a guy who got fired from his job for threatening his boss with a baseball bat.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows in interest.

  I shrugged. “The guy still had the bat.”

  “Come on in. Dr. Johnston was in a skiing mishap. She’s all right, but she won’t be able to work for a few months, so I am helping out. My name is Dr. Schaumburg. Robert Schaumburg.”

  I followed him into Sheryl’s office. There was a couch, of course, but I always sat in a chair across from her, and I settled into my habitual place uneasily. After eighteen months of dealing with one psychiatrist, I was feeling awkward starting up with another.

  “I’ve been reviewing her notes, to which I am allowed access under the terms of your probation.” He settled into a soft chair, tapping a thick green folder. My file, I gathered.

  “Okay, so should we wait for her to recover, probably?” I suggested helpfully.

  Dr. Schaumburg regarded me blandly. “We have no idea how long that might be, unfortunately,” he responded finally. “Shall I call you Ruddick? Ruddy?”

  “Ruddy. No one calls me Ruddick except those phone calls at election time.”

  “Ruddy, then. Are you still taking your meds, Ruddy?”

  My discomfort increased. “Well, yeah, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “People on your mix of medications usually exhibit small changes in facial muscle tone and general body movements. I’m pretty good at spotting those, and you don’t seem to have any.”

  “Guess I’m just lucky that way.”

  “Under the terms of your probation, you are required to be on your medication. I’m sure Dr. Johnston advised you of this.”

  I used my facial muscle tone to give myself a frown. “Did you talk to her? Because this whole probation thing is BS.”

  Dr. Schaumburg settled back slightly. “Tell me about that.”

  I shrugged. “Not a lot to tell. A bomb went off. A couple of people got killed. I wasn’t to blame for any of it, but I was in the middle of everything and the D.A. felt like I had to be charged with something, even though I did nothing wrong.”

  “Because you’re an ex-con.”

  “Because I went to prison, yeah. So we worked out this sham arrangement where I would get probation for obstruction of justice, because instead of taking matters into my own hands, I should have called the cops and let innocent people get killed while we all waited for them to respond, I guess. Sheryl agrees it’s ridiculous. I didn’t obstruct. I solved. Things could have been a lot worse, let me tell you.”

  Schaumburg reflected on this. He looked at his notes. “You were in prison for…”

  I blew out some air. “Murder.”

  “Because you were drunk and crashed your car and a woman died.”

  “I was not drunk,” I corrected. “I tested well below the limit. And many people accidentally took that turn down to the ferry before they reengineered it.”

  He regarded me blandly. “But you were drinking.”

  “Yes.” I bit off anything else I might add.

  “You don’t seem to have any remorse.”

  I wanted to stand up. That’s what guys my size do when we’re getting pissed off: We stand up. A lot of times that ends the conversation. But something told me that was not a good idea here, so I jammed my hands into my pockets. “No remorse? I think about that accident every day of my life. Didn’t I plead guilty? Didn’t I stand up in front of a judge and say I deserved to go to prison? Don’t you think I would give anything to have it all back, to have her back? That I would have traded places with her if I could?”

  “Lisa Maria Walker.”

  “Yes. That was her name.”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “No.” I looked away. “We had just met.”

  Schaumburg nodded as if I had just confirmed something. “Before that, you were something of a local hero,” he observed. “Football star, NFL career all but assured. And now you are a repo man and a bouncer in a bar.”

  “You say that like it’s a step down or something.”

  “You’re getting agitated.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t? It was the worst thing that�
€™s ever happened to me.”

  “I would expect someone on your dosage to be more calm. A deadening of response is typical.”

  Okay, now I wanted to stand up and also punch him in the face. He was needling me, picking at a deep wound to test me. “I am calm. Bob.”

  A tiny smile played on his lips, but it wasn’t amusement. “All right, then. Has Dr. Johnston ever discussed with you something called dissociative personality disorder?”

  “Mostly we discuss sports.”

  “Let’s talk about the voices in your head.”

  I sighed. We sat there, silently regarding each other for a full minute before I nodded wearily. “One voice, actually.”

  “Under what sort of circumstances do you hear the voice? Is there something that triggers it?”

  “I don’t hear it anymore,” I replied dully.

  “The meds are working, then.” He was giving me a look full of irony, and I didn’t reply. “But you also told Dr. Johnston that there were times when the voice would take over your body.”

  “No, not ‘take over.’ Look, I had a voice in my head that said his name was Alan Lottner. That’s all.”

  Schaumburg pulled out a pen and clicked it, positioning it to write something. I waited patiently. “Alan Lottner,” he repeated. “Who was once a real person? Now deceased.”

  “He died, yes.”

  “And it turns out you are engaged to his daughter?” His green eyes flicked up to meet mine, glinting slyly.

  Jesus, had Sheryl written down every single one of my personal secrets for this schmuck to read? “Yes, but that was just a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence.”

  “Meaning, I didn’t know Katie when Alan showed up. Okay, I had met her, but I didn’t know who she was. In relation to him, I mean.”

  “You met a woman you were attracted to and then started hearing her father in your head,” he summarized.

  I was developing a real dislike for this guy.

  “It’s not typical for someone who harbors the delusion of a voice in his head to tie it to a real person,” he informed me. “Historical figures, maybe, but I’ve never heard of it being the father of a fiancé. Does she know?”