Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  Sven flashed him an unsmiling glance tinged with curious concern. “Someone didn’t want you going anywhere.”

  “So it seems.” He couldn’t stop a flick of his eyes in the direction of the cabin. Where was Iago, anyway? Lily would stay out of sight, but the dog, even if he was inside, should have barked.

  “Okay, then,” Sven said as he finished checking the straps. “I’ll call you when I get to the garage.”

  Cam frowned but slapped him on the shoulder. “Granny. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

  Sven danced like he wanted to say something else. He looked at the cabin but got in the cab and drove away, lugging the truck.

  Cam rubbed Lear’s ears. The dog sat silent, shivering. Cam flicked on his pocket flashlight and reflected on the silent cabin. “Where’s Iago, buddy?”

  Lear whined.

  Someone was stomping on his grave. An hour ago Cam wanted nothing more than to get home, tell his guest everything he’d found out. He definitely needed to tell her about Kenny. But something was wrong. Kingston’s tracks indicated he came and left. Had to be his and not made by the loser who’d trashed the truck tires. Cam studied them, partly buried under those of the tow truck.

  He squared his shoulders. “Who’s the granny, huh, boy?” Lear wagged his tail but otherwise didn’t budge. Cam took a step toward his packages. “Let’s get inside.” He advanced another reluctant step. “Juice will be frozen. Lily needs us.”

  His phone chimed. Cam let out a breath. He’d never welcomed a call as much as this one. Checking the ID, he answered. “Matt. What’s up?”

  “Thought you’d like to know. One of the kids might not make it. He’s in a coma. The other’s still in critical condition.”

  “Shoot. Which one?”

  “They’re not releasing names, pending notification of the family.”

  Cam took the phone from his ear.

  “Cam? You there?”

  He wished he wasn’t.

  “Cam?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” He swallowed. “Let me just…I have to tell her. I’ll tell her.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “The mother…Berta. Do you know anything about her? Or the uncle?”

  “Let me check. Hang on.”

  Lear got up and paced a circle. Cam looked at the house again, worry replacing his earlier bogey fears.

  “I got nothing,” Matt said when he came back on.

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll keep in touch. Call if you hear anything, please.”

  “Will do.”

  Cam snapped his phone shut and put it in his pocket. He slowly leaned down and picked up the four bags. The hair on the back of his neck prickled against his scarf.

  * * *

  Art went back out to the trailer court toward dusk, hoping to get something out of the neighbors besides some food from Berta. The place was humming, the same feeling as when some kind of extracurricular inmate activity was going on at the pen.

  A squad car screamed in. Art backed away, making no sudden moves, slipping around the corner as Deegan slammed his door and approached the Ramirez place.

  “No, no.” The woman wrung her hands and sobbed like some soap opera queen under the porch light. The big Mexican held her off while shouting at the cops in Spanish, spitting and ugly mottled. Another red-headed and heavy-set woman opened the squeaking metal screen door and stomped outside, joined by a fat man in a baggy green sweat suit. The porch was way too small when a fifth person looked out. Art almost acknowledged a speck of concern for Deegan at the sight of the figure completely filling the entry. Another Mexican man, dark, scowling.

  This could get interesting. Art shrank out of sight when Deegan halted and scanned the area.

  “Mrs. Ramirez? Mr. Ramirez?”

  Art peeked around again at the sound of the cop’s voice.

  “I have news. I need to speak to you privately.”

  Deegan had his hands on his hips, conveniently close to his weapon but not threatening.

  “My son! My son! Where is he?” Mrs. Ramirez held her hands out and stumbled off the stoop, plopping at Deegan’s feet. He reached down.

  “Don’t you touch her!” The man with the cigarette charged, leaping off the steps, both hands in fists aimed at Deegan.

  The cop backed up, held up one hand. “Calm down!” He turned his chin to speak urgently into his shoulder microphone.

  Art shook his head. Bad Deegan. Never escalate the situation.

  His stomach growled. Maybe he’d have time to grab some food and come back before the cavalry came to scoop up what was left of the cop. Then again, if this was about the kid, maybe he’d hear what happened to Kenny.

  The big guy had Deegan pinned but didn’t have a clue what was coming. Art winced when Deegan’s knee came right on target between the assailant’s straddled legs.

  Sirens screeched in the distance, covering the curses of Deegan’s victim.

  Great. If he went over there now, offered assistance as a fellow officer of the law, would they talk? He was about to step out of the shadow when the woman who’d come out after the mother belly-flopped on top of the Mexican. Deegan scrambled away and reached for his stick.

  “Stop right there!” the cop shouted. “This isn’t helping your son.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Please, please, por favor. Where is my son?” The Mexican was on his knees in the snow, crying, as the heavy-set woman grabbed his collar.

  This was way better than reality TV. What about the son? he wanted to shout. Tell!

  Two patrol cars crunched up, one a county cop. Handcuffs came out, more shouting which Art couldn’t understand. He decided to stay out of the scene for now as the father was hauled to the back of the local squad. Deegan was talking quietly to the mother, too quiet for Art to hear.

  Art turned, scowling at a white-haired guy staring at him from another lit-up trailer window. Now was as good a time as any to get lost. He’d check in on the Ramirez scenario another day. Cop news was never good news, anyhow. Good old Roger had a scanner.

  Back at home, Art’s eyeballs were swelled-up little water balloons. Whether closed or open, they hurt. He popped open the bag of cheesy rounds he’d found in dear dead Berta’s cupboard. Jeepers, who’da thought crunching food could make a guy’s face ache? He gingerly massaged his sore jaw muscles, working them back and forth until he was numb enough to stand chewing.

  A half loaf of cheap bread, peanut butter still thawing out. He’d survive another day.

  With the opened bag and a sandwich in one hand and his last beer in the other, he settled into his recliner in front of SportsNet, which he pirated from good old Roger. The place was cold since the power came back on. Lily had messed with his thermostat, and he had a curse-laden ten minutes making the heat go back on. He should have more than one brewski for all the trouble he’d put up with the last several hours, but Berta hadn’t cooperated by leaving anything for him. She’d been cleaned out, probably by some of those freakin’ trailer trash who noticed her place was empty.

  Roger hadn’t been able to come through with his scanner news, though Art could guess easy enough. Two juveniles were found in an abandoned vehicle. Stupid kids. They’d been transported to the hospital. No need for all the hysterics at the Ramirez place.

  He picked up the remote and flicked through the channels during a commercial for blah-blah male enhancement whatever. Stupid ads. Local channel was the pits.

  The bag of cheesy junk was empty. He crushed and sailed it over the coffee table. No Lily to tell him to use the trash can. He clanked his drained beer can against the wall. He rubbed his orange fingers against the chair, bored with the rehash of the Packer-Vikings game from a week ago. Getting up to wash his hands was such a hassle.

  A rap on the front door shocked him out of his stupor. Man, his whole face hurt. The rap came again. Not squeaker from next door’s knock. Art groaned as he pushed out of the chair. He approached the door, wondering, dreading it might be a Lim
m sent to usher him to his new job. Cripes, they couldn’t even let him have a whole night off after filling out that endless set of forms Wanda kept shoving at him at Human Resources.

  He put one burning eyeball at the peephole and then took a backward step at the sight of Deegan. Now what? Suppose that old fart at the trailer court noticed him using Berta’s keys. They’d been over this before. He’d just been checking on his family. He’d done nothing wrong.

  “Mr. Townsend!” Deegan rapped again and called.

  Art took a deep breath and opened the door, forced a chuckle. “You caught me napping, Officer. What can I do you for?”

  “I’d like you to come with me, sir. We found your vehicle and I have a few questions, starting with the last known whereabouts of your sister.”

  His heartbeat started a crazy slapping. Over Deegan’s shoulder, in the streetlight, he watched a dark-windowed car, one belonging to the Limms, cruise past slowly. He swallowed. “My vehicle?” He did a quick check at the drive out the side window. Lily’s car sat like the hunk of junk it was.

  Deegan sniffed. “Have you been drinking, sir?”

  “One beer. I ain’t been driving. My car’s right there. It’s cold. You can check it.”

  “I’m not talking about that car.” He checked the notebook in his gloved hand, just for show. “A vehicle registered in your name…”

  The model and license plate whooshed around his ears.

  “Now, about your sister, Mr. Townsend.”

  The Limm car went past in the other direction. “Which one?”

  * * *

  Cam halted on the dark threshold of his cabin, heart threatening to choke him. Hyperventilating was not an option. He used his phone’s light and saw Iago lying on his side halfway between the sofa and the door. Cam breathed through his nose, still, listening, assessing. He had no weapon to reach for, no men to signal.

  Threat? He panned the room. Should he light the lantern? No Lily.

  She wouldn’t hurt the dog.

  Iago!

  He studied the animal. Iago’s side moved slightly.

  Cam went dizzy with relief. At least he was still breathing. Didn’t appear to be any blood. He took a cautious step into the room, looking for signs of a struggle, anything that would help him. The afghan Lily preferred was on the floor. The fire in the woodstove was dying.

  Not in the mood for games, he decided to call out. “Lily? Where are you?” He grabbed the battery lantern, thumbed it on, and moved as lightly as he could in his outdoor gear toward the bedroom. “I know your name. They told me in town.”

  No Lily in the bedroom. No impression of a body on his bed. The kitchen was equally unoccupied. Something was out of place, but he didn’t stop to puzzle it out. What was going on?

  He returned to the main room, realizing he’d left the door open. Lear stood over Iago, nosing him, whimpering.

  “I know, boy,” Cam whispered and hunkered near. “I’ll find out what happened, don’t you worry.” He reached out to stroke Iago’s side and was encouraged when the tail twitched. He continued to check along the head and flanks. No sign of injury. Without a vehicle, he couldn’t rush the animal to the vet. They’d have to wait it out. Must have been something he ate. Or was fed.

  “What did you eat, boy? Who gave it…right.” Cam pushed up. “Our resident herbalist, that’s who. And I was the one who told him to come here.”

  Frustrated, he pulled his gloves back on and walked toward the door. Lily’s rabbit coat was still on the peg. He touched it and turned as if she still sat in his chair, watching him, green eyes glowing, urging him to do something. Deeper, Cameron. There on the floor—one of the diaries, open to the entries about the murder.

  And next to it something that looked awfully like a piece of gauze with crimson stains.

  He whirled when a shadow filled the doorway.

  “Oh, golly…what happened?”

  “Sven?”

  The other man walked in, frowning, tugging off heavy gloves. “Got to the end of the drive and didn’t tune into the right vibes, man, I dunno, leaving here. Hey, that’s your other dog? He hurt?”

  “No. Yes. I think maybe poisoned.”

  Sven looked him straight on. “Got to be careful with the rat poison.”

  “Don’t use any.”

  Sven’s washed-out blue eyes narrowed, assessing as Cam had done earlier. “Right. Knew a guy like you’d be careful.” He moved inside, hesitating at Lear’s low growl.

  “’S’all right, fella,” Cam said. “Sven’s here to help.”

  “That’s right.” The skinny guy held his hand out cautiously, palm forward, for Lear to sniff. When the test was over, Sven came out all right. Could have been the perpetual odor of french fries that seemed to cling to the brothers and their trucks.

  “So, should we take him in, let Doc Adams check him out?” he asked.

  Iago’s tail thumped, and a keening whine escaped his throat. Lear nosed his muzzle.

  “I think he’ll be okay. I have a bigger problem, though. Perhaps you can help.”

  Sven raised a brow, pointedly letting his gaze rest on Lily’s coat. “Really? Maybe I should call my brother.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Roman casually crossed his ankle over his knee and shifted on the folding chair in the chapel. Monday fellowship looked good on his exit papers and he’d taken advantage these past couple of years. Today’s guest speaker was a nun, Sister Evangeline something, from somewhere, speaking on the tender subject of rising above a bad reputation. The Catholic Church had certainly developed a bad reputation, but the Sister made her point. Once you made the mistake and did all you could to repair the damage, a person couldn’t let the resulting echoes of prejudice drag him down. He must move onward, Christian soldier.

  Or he moves to Mexico.

  Roman smiled, accidentally caught the Sister’s eye, and nodded, pretending to appreciate something she’d said. In the company in the chapel, his abject fear from the message he’d received earlier kindly offering him as shark bait ebbed. When his son came on duty later, he’d find a way to have a conversation, make sure the boy understood the importance of his commitment to the plan. The reward, son. Think of all the possibilities, he’d say. You owe your old man, now, after I took you in and raised you as my own.

  “Let us pray,” Sister Evangeline said. “Our Father…”

  “Amen,” Roman said with the others, still working on a plan to meet Art.

  He went back to his cell and waited for meal time. Monday was…indescribable protein product, along with unpalatable starch product, over which was poured disgusting gelatinous product, followed by what was commonly known as…no, he couldn’t say it right, but it was supposed to be a dessert of dubious dairy product. Seven more weeks and he’d be eating like a king.

  But first, he needed to talk to Art. The plan, Art, he’d say—think, now. Tell Lily—tell her anything, that there’s a great new job offer at the Limm estate. They want her to take over the marketing, when they realized how talented she was with that previous piece of—that magazine she worked for. Yes, that would do the trick. Take her to an interview. You can handle that much, can’t you?

  They’re rich, they’ll take care of all of us if we play our cards right.

  He shivered and got nauseous when he closed his eyes and the bloody fingerprint in the book danced in front of him. Since Syl had lost half a finger and the print had that same look, and he was the only other person who could possibly be involved, Roman assumed his former partner had met the Limms. The only way they could have made Syl was if someone at the pen during visiting hours saw and reported the meeting. Or if they someone planted here.

  The plan. Roman stood and rubbed his arms and paced, three steps, turn, three steps. They’d been talking ever since…ever since…he counted backward. Sixteen months. It started with…he squinted, trying to pry out the elusive memory. He’d been approached during the half-hour yard time. Somebody who knew he worked in the pr
ison library asked about a book. That was it! But the inmate had been released not long after.

  The book title was…what? Didn’t matter. Inside the book was a phone number. Tear it out, flush it, call it, meet with the person who showed up at visitor day.

  Yes or no.

  No meant nothing. No job, no life after parole.

  Yes meant Mexico.

  Of course he’d said yes. Marge was gone, not that he’d have taken her along. Send one of his daughters to a new…job, declare her missing, collect the insurance and a fee. Disappear. Which he wanted to do anyway. People go missing every day. Lily needed a job. So what if it meant being a maid in some foreign country? Or…but there was no recourse. He had done his best to take care of them.

  Art had to cooperate as well, but he was easy. Mention easy money and the kid drooled like Pavlov’s dogs.

  Roman’s meal tray was pushed through the slot in the door.

  “Art? We have to talk.”

  The fading footfalls stopped. They weren’t supposed to respond, to talk back. Roman knew that, but it was Art.

  No answer. Roman moved to the door, put his ear against it in a futile attempt to hear through it. “Art? Hey! I’m talking to you. We have business to discuss.”

  He looked up when his light bulb buzzed, hissed, and blinked.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Cam and Sven turned down Findley’s long, dark driveway. A com tower was lit up at the compound next door, a revolving light shining off the barbed-wire-topped metal fence along the road. It reminded Cam of a prison searchlight, hunting for escapees or other problematic issues.

  The snow clung in clumps to the overhead branches, calling up more lines of the Lowell poem, which he mouthed.

  “Every pine and fir and hemlock

  Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

  And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

  Was ridged inch deep with pearl.”

  “Hey, that’s real nice,” Sven said. “You write it?”

  “No.” Cam hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “I used to teach literature and some poetry. It’s by a guy named Lowell. Been on my mind these last few days. Don’t know why.”