by Sue Grafton
“It’s on Foster Road over by the airport. Here, I’ll draw you a map. It’s not hard,” she said. “The quickest route is to cut down from Highway 166 to Winslet Road on Dinsmore.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen that,” I said.
Liza drew a crude map on a paper napkin. The scale was off, but I got the general idea.
I tucked the napkin in my pocket. “Thanks. As soon as I get this last piece of information, I’m heading over there. I trust they have a copier. The originals are Daisy’s, but I want one set for my files and one set for theirs.”
“You’ll be driving home after that?”
“I have to. I’ve got a stack of files on my desk, plus mail, plus calls to return. If I don’t get back to work, I won’t eat this month.”
We hugged quickly. When I left, she was standing in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the living room. She watched until I was safely in my car and then she waved. I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, taking another quick peek at my watch. Mrs. Wyrick struck me as a stickler for punctuality, someone who’d lock the door and turn the lights out if you were one minute late. She’d love nothing better than to shut me down.
The temperature had dropped and the night was considerably colder than it had been when I left Daisy’s. I sped over to Main Street, which turned into Highway 166. Traffic was light and once I had Santa Maria at my back, the darkness stretched out in all directions—broad fields of black rimmed in lights where a house or two backed up to the empty land. The air smelled damp. My headlights cut a path in front of me into which I rushed. I had only a rough idea how far away she was. This section of the county was uncomplicated, five or six roads that ran in straight lines, cattywumpus to one another so that they occasionally intersected. I was currently heading toward the ocean, which was somewhere ahead, fenced off by a low rim of hills marked in darker black against the gray-black of the sky.
Now and then I passed an oil rig and farther on a huge storage tank, lighted from below as though to emphasize its mass. Barbed-wire fences ran on both sides of the road. I could see the ghosts of irrigation pipes zigzagging across a field where the available moonlight picked out the lines of PVC in white. A stand of frail pines was the only feathery interruption to the skyline. I caught a flash of bright blue—Mrs. Wyrick’s house, a hundred feet off the highway and planted in the middle of a junkyard.
I slowed and turned onto the rutted dirt driveway. She lived in a landscape of rusted farm equipment, disabled vehicles, piles of lumber, wood pallets, and scrolls of chicken-wire fencing. This was apparently where old bathroom fixtures came to die once the renovations were done. I could see sinks, toilets, and upended bathtubs. In another area, sections of wrought-iron fencing had been laid against a wooden shed. There were sufficient discarded iron gates to enclose a pasture if you soldered them together side by side.
There was a doghouse, of course, and chained to it, a heavy-chested brindled pit bull. The dog’s choke collar made its bark sound like whooping cough was on the rise. I thought about Jake’s pit bull killing Violet’s toy poodle and hoped this dog was properly secured.
There was no place to park, but a hard-packed dirt lane encircled the house, where I could see lights still burning. I pulled in beside a vintage truck up on blocks, wheels gone, its black tailgate down. I killed the engine and got out. I kept my attention half-turned on the pit bull while I picked my way to the front porch. The wooden steps creaked emphatically, which threw the pit bull into a frenzy. The dog lunged repeatedly with such force that the shuddering doghouse humped closer by a foot. Looking out across the yard, I could see a number of old cars dotting the landscape. Maybe Mrs. Wyrick sold salvaged auto parts along with all the other junk.
The top half of the front door was glass, with a panel of cloth that might have once been a dish towel concealing the rooms from view. The sound from a television set suggested a sitcom in progress. When I knocked, the glass windowpane rattled under my knuckles. After a moment, Mrs. Wyrick peered out and then she opened the door. The overhead light was on in the living room and a brightly lighted kitchen was visible beyond it.
She was softer than I’d imagined her. When I’d spoken to her on the phone, I’d pictured a harridan, stooped, not quite clean, with flyaway white hair, rheumy eyes, and bristles on her chin. She’d mentioned her shed, and I had images of a crone who’d been saving Life magazines since 1946. I envisioned a house filled with newspapers, head-high, with narrow walkways between, stray cats, and filth. The woman who greeted me had a round, doughy face. Her body looked spongy, rising and swelling as she moved until the flesh filled all the little nooks and crannies in her dress. She may have had some fermentation action under way as well because the snappishness I’d encountered on the phone had now mellowed. She seemed vague and irresolute, and she smelled like those bourbon balls people give you at Christmastime. She was eighty-five if a day.
The minute she saw me, she turned and lumbered back to her easy chair, leaving me to close the door. The rise and fall of a laugh track churned the air, not quite camouflaging the fact that nothing being said was funny in the least. “Did you take out the garbage?” Screams of laughter. “No, did you?” The more witless the line, the more hilarious was the outbreak of merriment. Mrs. Wyrick picked up the remote and lowered the sound. I spotted the half-empty pint of Old Forrester sitting on the end table near her chair.
We skipped right past all the social niceties, which was just as well. She was too looped to do much more than navigate from the chair to the door and back. I said, “Did you have any luck?”
Something flickered in the depths of her blue eyes—cunning or guilt. She picked up a folded piece of paper that fluttered lightly from the palsy in her hands. “Why do you want this?”
“Do you remember Violet Sullivan?”
“Yes. I knew Violet many years ago.”
“You must have heard that her body was found.”
“I saw that on the television.”
“Then you know about the Pomeranian in the car with her.”
“I believe the fella said a dog. I don’t remember any mention of a Pomeranian.”
“Well, that’s what it was, and I think the dog was one you sold. Is that the litter record?”
“Yes it is, hon, but I can only tell you who bought the puppy. I wouldn’t know anything about where the dog went from here.”
“I understand. The point is I suspect the man who bought the dog gave her to Violet and he’s the one who killed both.”
She began to shake her head. “No, now you see, that doesn’t sound right. I can’t believe that. It doesn’t set well with me.”
“Why not?” I caught a flash of light and glanced over my shoulder, thinking a car was pulling into the drive. The dog barked with renewed vigor.
Mrs. Wyrick touched my arm and I turned back to her. “Because I’ve known the man for years. My late husband and I were longtime customers of his and he treated us well.”
“You’re talking about the Blue Moon?”
“Oh, no. The Moon is a bar. My husband didn’t hold with alcoholic beverages. He never had a drink in his life.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Do you sell automobile parts?”
“Not for the kind of car you have. I heard you when you drove up. It sounded foreign to me. I may be deaf in the one ear, but the other one hears good.”
“What about Chevrolet parts?”
“Them and Fords and whatever, but I don’t see how that applies to this question of the dog.”
“May I see the paper?”
“That’s what I’m still talking over in my head, whether I should pass this on. I don’t want to cause any harm.”
“The harm’s already been done. I’d be happy to pay for the information if that would help you decide.”
“A hundred dollars?”
“I can do that,” I said. When I reached for my wallet, I noticed my hand was shaking. I had to get out of the
re.
She laughed. “I was just saying that to see what you’d do. I won’t charge you anything.”
“Then you’ll give it to me?”
“I suppose so since you drove all the way out.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She held the paper out.
It was like the Academy Awards. And the nominees are… I opened the fold and looked down at the name, thinking about the presenter who pulls the card from the envelope and knows for one split second something the audience is still waiting to hear. And the winner is…
“Tom Padgett?”
“You know Little Tommy? We always called him Little Tommy to distinguish from his daddy, who was Big Tom.”
“I don’t know him well, but I’ve met the man,” I said. I thought about how rich he was now that his wife was dead, how desperate he must have been while she was still alive.
“Well, then I don’t see how you can think he’d ever do a thing like that.”
“Maybe I’m mistaken.” I could feel the fear welling up. I tucked the paper in my bag and put one hand on the door-knob, prepared to ease out.
She seemed to be rooted in place but fidgety at the same time. “He always said if anybody ever asked about the dog I should let him know. So I called and told him you were coming out.”
My mouth had gone dry and there was a sensation in my chest like a faraway electrical storm. “What did he say?”
“It didn’t seem to worry him. He said he’d drive over to have a chat with you and get it all straightened out, but he must have been delayed.”
“I thought someone pulled in just a moment ago.”
“Well, it must not have been him. He’d have knocked on the door.”
“If he shows up after I’m gone, would you tell him I was thinking of someone else and I’m sorry for the inconvenience?”
“I can tell him that.”
“Mind if I use your phone?”
“It’s right there on the wall.” She nodded toward the kitchen.
“Thanks.” I crossed the living room to the kitchen and picked up the handset from the wall-mounted phone. The line was dead. I set it back with care. “It seems to be out of order so I’ll just be on my way. I can probably find a phone somewhere else.”
“Whatever you say, Hon. I enjoyed the visit.”
I left by the front door, and the porch bulb went out as soon as my foot hit the step. For a minute I was blinded by the sudden shift from bright lights to darkness. The dog had taken up its barking, but he didn’t seem any closer to the house. I could hear the rattle of its chain as he paced back and forth. I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I scanned the area around the house. I spotted my VW, parked where I’d left it. There were no other cars in sight. The highway extended in both directions with no passing cars. I found my car keys and listened to them jingle as I went down the stairs. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the car door.
Automatically I checked the backseat before I got in. I made sure both doors were locked and then started the car, shoving the gear into reverse. I took my gun out of the glove compartment and laid it on the passenger seat, putting my shoulder bag over it to weigh it in place. I threw my right arm over the top of the passenger seat, my eyes on the path behind me as I backed out of the yard. I swung out onto the highway and shifted into first. All I had to do was reach the sheriff ’s substation, less than ten miles away. I’d have to cut south from Highway 166 to West Winslet Road, then cut south again on Blosser, which Liza had penned in parallel to the triangle of land where the airport sat. Foster Road was close to the southernmost boundary.
The alternative was to take 166 straight into Santa Maria and pick up Blosser on the outskirts. The problem was Padgett Construction and A-Okay Heavy Equipment sat on Highway 166 between me and the town. My car was conspicuous. If Padgett were looking for me, all he had to do was wait for me to pass. I shifted from second to third, engine whining in a high-pitched protest. I tried to picture the roads that connected the 166 and West Winslet. There were three that I remembered. The Old Cromwell and New Cut were now behind me so scratch that idea. The one choice remaining was a road called Dinsmore.
I leaned on the gas until I spotted the sign and took a hard right-hand turn. It was black as pitch out there. I kept scanning for headlights, my eyes flicking back and forth from the darkened road ahead of me to the darkened road behind me, spinning away in my rearview mirror. On my right, lengths of thirty-six-inch pipe were lined up along the road, in preparation for who knows what. An excavator and a bulldozer were parked across the road. I was guessing they were laying gas lines, collection mains, something of the sort.
I was on the verge of making a U-turn when a set of headlights popped into view behind me, filling the oblong of mirror with a glare that made me squint. The vehicle was closing rapidly, coming up behind me at a speed far greater than I could coax out of my thirteen-year-old tin can. I pressed down on the accelerator, but my VW was no match for the car behind. I picked up a blend of silhouettes as the car swung wide and passed me with a crew of teenage boys inside. One of them tossed an empty beer can out the window, and I watched the aluminum cylinder bounce and tumble before it disappeared.
The red of taillights diminished and winked out.
A minute later, I saw a fork in the road ahead where Dinsmore split. One arm continued straight ahead and a second road shot off to the left. There was a row of four barriers across that arm. The devices were hinged like sawhorses with a two-by-four-foot panel across the top, painted in series of diagonal orange and white stripes. Each had a reflecting light on top that seemed to blink an additional caution. I slowed to a stop, remembering Winston’s description of the barriers he’d seen the night he’d spotted Violet’s car.
I had two choices: I could take the barrier as gospel, warning of repairs or obstructions on the road ahead, or I could assume it was a ruse, drive around one barrier and straight onto Winslet Road. I flicked on my brights. I could see the front end of a truck parked about a hundred yards away. I understood the game. At that point the angle of the two roads was probably no more than forty-five degrees, the distance between them widening over the course of four hundred yards. Padgett could be waiting in between, biding his time until I chose one or the other. It really made no difference which I picked. I backed up and yanked the steering wheel hard to my right. I completed the turn, shifted from reverse into first, and headed back the way I’d come.
I checked my rearview mirror, expecting to see some sign of a vehicle. Nothing. I thought I might be okay until I heard the whap-whap-whapping of my tires. I struggled with the steering, which was suddenly clumsy and stiff, trying to control the car as the pressure in my tires diminished. I slowed to a stop. I was right. Padgett had stopped off at Mrs. Wyrick’s earlier that night. An ice pick would have been the perfect instrument to create four slow leaks. Not as dramatic as his tire-slashing methodology at the Sun Bonnet Motel, but he wanted to make sure I could drive on the tires for a while. At least long enough to find myself out here.
That’s when I saw the headlights behind me.
Padgett took his time. My engine was idling, but I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I wanted to open the door and flee, but I didn’t think I’d get far. Even if I ran as swiftly as I could across one of the wide dark fields, I wouldn’t be hard to catch as long as he was driving his truck. I reached for my handgun and pulled the slide back.
He pulled up behind me and slowed to a stop, his engine idling as mine was. He waited for a minute and then got out of his truck. He left his headlights on, flooding my car with an unearthly glow. He strolled along the road, coming up next to my car on the passenger side. He knocked on the window despite the fact that I was looking right at him.
“Flat tire?” His tone was conversational, his voice faintly muffled. I hated his smile.
“I’m fine. Get away from me.”
He leaned back and in an exaggerated display of skepticism as
he checked the tires on that side. “Don’t look fine to me.” He rested his arm on the roof of my car, watching me with interest. “Are you afraid of me or what?”
I pulled the gun up and pointed at him. “I said get the fuck away from me.”
He said, “Whoa!” and put his hands up. “I believe you have the wrong idea, Missie. I’m here to offer help…”
I should have shot him right then, but I thought there had to be another way out, something short of killing the man where he stood. I simply couldn’t sit there and blast him in the face.
I stepped on the accelerator and the car jolted forward. This threw him off balance, but far from becoming angry, he seemed amused. Maybe because he recognized my fleeting moment of cowardice. I put the gun in my lap and pressed on at a much-reduced speed. I knew I was ruining my rims, risking a broken front axle, and god knows what else, but I had to reach civilization. As I shuddered my way forward, I could see Padgett shake his head, bemused. He ambled toward his truck.
He got in, shifted into gear, and followed me, taking his sweet time, knowing his vehicle was always going to be the faster of the two. The rims were now cutting through my tires, trimming off streamers of rubber. The rims ripped along the pavement, throwing up a rooster tail of sparks. The steering was almost impossible to control, but I hung on for dear life. We continued this slow-speed pursuit, Padgett riding up against my rear bumper, giving me the occasional quick bump just to remind me he was there.
I could see Highway 166 in the distance. It was 10:00 at night and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, but there had to be a business open, a gas station at the very least. Cromwell was closer than Santa Maria and if I could make it as far as the highway, I’d head in that direction. Padgett had slipped his gear into neutral. I heard him revving his engine and then he popped it into first again and lurched into the back of my car with a thunderous bang. I clung to the steering wheel, my knuckles white with the tension of my grip. I spotted the construction site ahead, the bright yellow bulldozer and an excavator parked on the left. Padgett slammed into me twice, doing as much damage as he could, which turned out to be plenty. I smelled burning oil and scorched rubber, and something made a scraping sound every time my tires flopped around. Black smoke roiled across the rear window. My car limped along, like some sad, crippled beast while I listened to the screech of metal like the howling of the dead.