MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST

MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST: CHAPTER SIX

The phone rings while Pearl brushes his teeth, and he worries that it's the lawyer or Sheriff West on the phone. To his surprise and relief, it's the public records office. The information he requested is ready. He asks them to make copies of everything so he can take it home and they agree, albeit with a bit of attitude. He gets more good news afterwards; the apple dumpling he left in the backseat of his car is still good. He eats it on his way into town.

There are a few people waiting in line at the public records office when Pearl arrives, which is just as well since he has to wait for them to finish photocopying his documents anyway. They're done by the time he reaches the counter, and he pays them $50 for their trouble.

Back at the hotel, he spreads the documents across the bed and reads them one by one. The narrative that emerges is simple enough: Ken Carlisle owned the farmhouse, but it reverted to city property after he died from an aneurysm the previous year and left no will behind. He racked up a few misdemeanor charges — disrupting the peace, reckless driving, trespassing — in the six months before he died, and Ken's cousin Dale moved in during that time. Dale's criminal record is attached as well. Aside from everything related to squatting, he has a lot of DUIs and minor drug charges. Not a surprise. Ken didn't owe anything on the house, and most of the major renovations took place within the first two years of ownership. The one exception is the well, which he commissioned seven months before his death.

This sticks out to Pearl as a potential problem. The well was never finished, and Ken went off the deep end a month after the initial drilling. Maybe there's something to the headaches he gets being near that thing, after all.

He calls the lawyer, who's out of the office, and leaves a vague message with her secretary. Then he looks up the name of the well-driller Ken hired.

There is nothing in any of the documents about Max Ordos.

Rutland Well Drilling, according to the lady at the front desk, is two miles north of town. She sketches him a rough map explaining how to get there, and he smokes two cigarettes on the drive there. The office looks more like a bed and breakfast, with baby blue shutters and rocking chairs on the ground-level porch. Pearl parks out front and follows a nearby alley to the building's back lot, where a red, trailer-mounted drilling rig is parked. Satisfied, he walks back to the entrance and enters the lobby.

As homey as Rutland looks outside, the interior has been renovated. The hardwood floors are new, as are the front desk and black leather couches. Fake ferns and a side table with a coffee machine round out the room. A paunchy guy with bad acne scars sits at the desk, and he greets Pearl with a smile.

Pearl smiles back. "Hi. Is Rutland in, by any chance?"

"She is," the receptionist says. "Got an appointment?"

"No," Pearl says. "Just moved to the area and I'm thinking about installing a well. Was hoping I could talk to her about it." He stumbles and almost says him, which must be a common mistake. "Maybe get an estimate or talk over my options."

The receptionist looks at him like he's a child struggling with a jigsaw puzzle. "Don't usually do walk-ins," he says, "but I'll go see if she's busy." He moves past Pearl to a staircase blocked off with a length of bungee cord and heads upstairs. Pearl sits down on one of the couches and leafs through a copy of Water Well Journal until the guy comes back down. An older woman in brown coveralls follows him. "Clare Rutland," she says. "You're looking to get a well drilled?"

"I am," Pearl says. "New to it, though. Don't know a whole lot about wells."

"Where d'you live?"

"Kadath," Pearl says. "Just bought some property down there. A friend recommended you." He smiles. "Mind if I take a look at your drill? I've never seen one before."

Clare gives him the same look her receptionist had. "Sure. It's around back." She walks outside and down the alley to the drill rig, with Pearl following.

"Here she is," Clare says. "Won't find a better one in the county."

"It's impressive," Pearl says, trying to make sense of the tangle of hoses and gauges and metal support rigging in front of him. Not knowing anything about well drills is one thing he doesn't have to put on. "My friend was right about you, I think."

"Who recommended me?"

"Ken Carlisle," Pearl says without looking at her. "Says you drilled him a well about six, seven months ago."

He can hear her boots in the wet dirt as she walks in front of him and looks into his face. "Don't waste my time," she says. "Whatever you're here for, say it."

"Why didn't you finish the job?" Pearl asks.

Clare sighs. "First of all, I hope that guy isn't really your friend because he's crazy," she says. "He wanted that damn thing too close to the road and too close to his house. I kept telling him to move it further away to keep the water safe for drinking, but he wouldn't listen."

"Why'd he want a well in the first place?"

"Didn't ask," Clare says. "A lot of people around here want wells because they don't trust city water. Fluoride and stuff." She leans against the side of the rig. "Why do you care about this?"

"Ken died and I'm the executor of his estate," Pearl says. "If it was unsafe to drill there, why'd you start?"

"To shut him up," Clare says. "But then I hit something underground so I stopped."

Pearl wasn't expecting that answer. "What did you hit?"

"Dunno," Clare says, shrugging. "Didn't want to hurt the drill, though. Your buddy Ken wasn't happy about that." She looks at the ground, then back at him. "You have to tell me if you're a cop."

"I'm not a cop," Pearl says. "How far down was this thing?"

"Fifty feet," Clare says. "I drilled into it a bit. Maybe an old sewer pipe or something?"

"Maybe," Pearl says, stepping away from the rig. "I gotta get back to town. Thanks for your help."

"Sure," Clare says, following him as far as the end of the alley before heading back to her office. "Sorry to hear about your friend," she says over her shoulder. Pearl thanks her and drives back to the hotel, stopping once at a truck stop for a sandwich. Sheriff West is waiting for him in the hotel parking lot, flanked by two other cops.

"Heard you'd planned to move here and get a well drilled, Mr. Pearl," West says as Pearl gets out of his car. "Rutland ran your plates and called me. Didn't think you were the paranoid type, but I guess private investigators have to be." He pushes Pearl up against the car, the two other cops glaring at him. They're big, bull-necked specimens. Farm boys too dumb for college, maybe too flat-footed for the Army. West peers over his sunglasses at Pearl.

"Clare Rutland has nothing to do with a real estate deal," he says. "Neither does that piece of shit we've got in lockup. Maybe that big developer you're working for will call you back to Baltimore soon."

"They might," Pearl says.

"Maybe tomorrow," West says. He backs away and one of the other cops slugs Pearl in the stomach, doubling him over. "Better do something about those cramps, Mr. Pearl," West says as he walks to his car. "Have you tried antacids?" Pearl spits and watches West's car hit the siren and peel out when oncoming traffic gives him room.

He takes a shower, sitting in the tub and letting the hot water batter him. He has to go back to that house and find that door. Something very weird is looming over this house, the sheriff's hostility confirms it. Ken was his friend, but there's more to it.

Before drying off, he calls the lawyer and tells her everything: his findings from the documents, his chat with Rutland, getting harassed by the sheriff, all of it. She asks if he found that secret door in the house and he says no, but he will. She tells him to be careful, that it would be a major pain in the ass to hire a new investigator, and hangs up.