Bertha rubbed grease and salt from her fingers, then swallowed a painful knot. “I can relate. But things might change. She might move back to the States. She might kick out the jealous woman.”
Silence lay between them, weighted with the things unsaid.
Finally Maggie said, “We were together for seventeen years. It went by so fast. One minute her daughter was a little girl selling Girl Scout cookies, and the next she was a bride and then having her own baby.”
“You have a picture?” Toni’d taught her to always ask to see a picture of someone’s kids because it was good protocol. Bertha carried several of Doree on her smart phone for the same reason.
Maggie dug her cell phone out of her apron pocket and started paging through pictures. Finally she turned it around for Bertha to see. “Her name is Maya. This was a couple of years ago.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. But I wish I could take any of the credit. Some nights I can’t sleep because when I close my eyes, I see her face.”
“I’m educated on dreams that can draw blood.”
Maggie smiled. “You’re a poet.”
“Not really. I just know a lot about preferring sleepless nights to dreams where dark things wait.”
The bell on the front door startled them. Maggie left her coffee to seat three construction men from the bridge repair Bertha had encountered on the way out of town. They all wore overalls and orange down-filled coats. Chairs scraped on the linoleum floor as they sat. Maggie took their drink orders and went to work behind the counter.
Bertha finished her cheeseburger and reached for her cell phone. She’d decided she could show Maggie a picture of Doree and found a text from Alvin. He wanted her to call the office. She dialed the number of the phone at his desk.
When he answered, Bertha said, “It’s me.”
“I tried the house several times. Where are you?”
“I’ve been learning how to fire a weapon so I can kill the bastard who’s screwing with my life.”
After a moment of silence, Alvin said, “All right. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. I’ve been trying to get you because January Johnson has called for you twice.”
“From jail?”
“Where else? I took both the collect calls and told her an hour ago that I’d get the message to you.”
“I had them put me on her call list when I visited. This was before the fire—didn’t give them the cell because I’m not good at remembering to charge it.”
“You visited her?” Alvin sounded incredulous.
“Long story.” Bertha rifled through her bag for a pen and pulled one from the bottom that had lint on the point. “What’s the number over there?”
Alvin gave it to her and she wrote it on a napkin.
“Do you have an address in case I can’t reach her?”
“You’re not going to go to her place. Those people can be dangerous. The fact that she tried to reach you scares me.”
“Sorry. Try to remember I’m a big girl.” As she disconnected she heard the sizzle of French fries in hot grease again and realized that Maggie would be busy for a while cooking for the latest customers. She dialed the number and spoke to a deputy who answered.
“This is Judge Brannon. I’ve been told a prisoner, January Johnson, is trying to contact me. Can you put me through to her?”
“Sorry, Judge, someone bailed her out about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“Let me check.” The deputy was back on the line within seconds. “Lionel Russett.”
“The pimp.”
“That would be my guess. Looks like he came in here this morning with an attorney and went before a judge to get bail reduced.”
“You say fifteen minutes ago?”
“Definitely not more than a half hour.”
“So you have an address for her?”
After a brief silence, the deputy said, “Fifteen hundred East Cook. Apartment 2D. Not a great neighborhood. If you’re thinking of trying to find her, go before dark.”
“Thanks.” Bertha disconnected, gathered her things, and stopped at the cash register on the way out. When Maggie took her money, Bertha said, “It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Same here. Do you have to go?”
She called over her shoulder on the way out the door. “Court business.”
Bertha drove into town on Cook Street. She’d grown up in this area, but back then the neighborhood hadn’t been as bad. She found the address without much trouble, a two-story apartment building with a security door that stood partially open. Two-D would be the second floor in the back. She left the Honda locked on the street. Just inside was a wall of mailboxes, some hanging open with junk mail and utility bills on the floor. Creaky wooden stairs rose before her; at the top, the hall led straight to the back.
She found 2-D and knocked. She called out for January. Nothing. She sat on the top step and waited. The building was quiet, as was the street. When she left, Bertha realized that she was less than a block from where Toni had been killed, where she met January Johnson for the first time. She turned the car toward South Fifth Street. The traffic was heavier, but she saw no sign of the hooker. By the time she gave up and headed for home, large flakes of snow were falling.
Chapter Nineteen
They were sitting down to a dinner of delivered pizza, the dog and the cat beneath the table, eyeing each other apprehensively. Outside, snowflakes that seemed to defy gravity floated to the ground. The kitchen was warm—too warm. Bertha accepted this fact with grace; skinny people were often cold, probably less insulation. It cost her little more than sweat on her upper lip to stand it. Deep in thought, she wondered if the road to Stumpy’s farm would be drivable in the morning. She reached for a slice of the pizza and found her plate empty. She spun the box in the center of the table and helped herself to a couple of large edge pieces. Then she said, “I’m worried about January Johnson.”
Alvin said, “She’s with her pimp. That’s a natural place for her. Even if he did rough her up, she’s his income. He’ll treat her well.”
“If he treats her so well, how did she get beat up?”
“Look. You know these people. They’re not like you and me.”
“No, they’re not.” The sky was becoming a darker shade of gray. The deck, in her line of vision, was covered with snow. “I ran into the cat lady this afternoon.”
Jerry chimed in this time. “She’s an interesting story.”
“You know her?”
“A little. Her partner landscaped our yard a couple of years ago. She helped. The weather was hot that spring, so I had them in for iced tea more than once. Maggie has an old personality.”
Bertha reached for her drink. “Old? You mean like us?”
“Not really.” Jerry let a perfectly good edge piece lie on his paper plate as he tried to explain. “Some people just seem wiser, more settled than the rest of us. It seems like their spirits have been around before.”
“Reincarnation?”
Jerry nodded. “For lack of a better word.”
“You believe in that stuff?”
Jerry shot a meaningful look at Alvin. “We both do, right, hon?”
Alvin shrugged and yawned. He appeared to be beating back boredom one inch at a time. “Where did you see her?”
Bertha didn’t want to tell them about the shooting lessons, so she said, “I was running errands and found her in a little diner west of town. I think she tried to flirt with me.”
“Good for her,” Jerry said. “You are a handsome hunk of butch.”
Bertha felt the air leave her lungs. “I’m not ready. I may never have another lover.”
“Of course, that’s up to you,” Alvin said. “But you’re fairly young to quit. If I were widowed, I’d find someone else.”
“What do you mean?” Jerry asked.
Alvin stammered. “I was just saying…”
Bertha realized that her plate was
empty again. She excused herself and stood.
“See what you’ve done?” Jerry scolded Alvin. “She can’t even have dinner in peace.”
“I need to get to bed early.”
“It’s not even seven yet.”
Bertha stretched. “I’m tired.”
She called Norman Bates and headed for the guest bedroom. There she turned on a small TV, propped herself up with pillows at the headboard, watched the end of the news, and fell asleep.
When she woke again, still in her clothes and with a crick in her neck, the clock on the nightstand read 1:33.
She stumbled into the bathroom and washed her face, then brushed her teeth. She missed her electric toothbrush. Funny, most people didn’t think about those little things when they had to grab their gear and leave.
Back in the guest room, she undressed and pulled an oversized T-shirt over her head. She lay down and Norman curled up at her feet. But now that she wanted to sleep, she couldn’t. She stared at the ceiling for a while and then sat up and gazed out the window. The snow had stopped, and the clear sky meant it would be cold out there. A streetlight on the corner illuminated the front yard. Everything was white, and she couldn’t tell the yard from the street. The Honda was covered with snow. She’d have to move it in the morning to let Alvin and Jerry out of the drive. She lay down again and stared at the uneven shadows on the walls.
Finally she got out of bed and started dressing. She intended to dig the car out of the drive, sure that with a little exercise she’d be able to sleep. Plus it’d be a nice surprise for the guys in the morning. The only shoes she had were her leather tennis shoes. But she wouldn’t be going far.
When she opened the door the cold night air hit her. Once she reached the car, she looked back at the house. No lights were on. Good, she was the only one awake. Brushing ice off the keyhole to the trunk, she jiggled the key, which finally opened, and she pulled out a large ice scraper and went to work on the Honda. The snow was heavy and wet. Across the Honda’s roof and down the street, the snow was a sparkling thick blanket that muffled any sounds. She felt alone on the planet.
At home she had a garage—that’s all she was thinking. She didn’t want to sleep in Alvin and Jerry’s guest room. She wanted her own bed. By the time the car was more-or-less clean, the cold air was stinging her cheeks. She opened the driver’s door, got in, and started the motor. She peeled her wet gloves off and rubbed her hands together. The passenger seat was covered with junk, including tissues, CDs, a map, and the tip of the tent-pole bag that contained her guns and ammo. She removed the heavy bag and locked it in her trunk.
From the end of the block she heard the plow, then saw the flashing lights as it made a single lane behind her. And that’s how it happened. She didn’t start out intending to go look for January Johnson again, but one thing led to the next. By the time the car was warmed up, she’d loaded and pocketed a gun, pulled out of the driveway, and sliding and spinning her wheels in the mound of snow left by a plow, she righted the car and headed south toward town. Did hookers work on nights like this? Did they ever get a snow day? It was ridiculous to think anyone would be out in this weather and at this time of night, but her life had been fairly ridiculous lately. She turned the radio to an easy-listening channel, cranked up the sound, and spun her wheels. At the corner of MacArthur and Lawrence, the 7-Eleven was open. A snowplow idled in the parking lot. She stopped the car, went in, and got a large coffee to go.
Two people were inside: the woman at the cash register and a second one at the doughnut display. The cashier looked about fifty, with dark circles under her eyes and a drooping double chin. She said “Hello” as Bertha came in, stomping snow off the tops of her tennis shoes. Melting snow crusted on her pant legs, and inside her shoe, her socks were cold and wet. Bertha nodded in Dark-Circle’s direction, then fixed a coffee and stared at the packages of Little Debbie Cakes on the end-cap. Coffee and chocolate and sugar would perk her up. Hoping to ask about the roads, she waited for the plow driver to come out of the john or wherever he was. At length she took her coffee and Little Debbie Cakes to the counter and dug in her pocket to pay. She asked the cashier, “Where’s the city driver?”
“Right over there.” The cashier lifted both chins toward the doors to the cooler. “Says she’s looking for an energy drink that tastes good.”
“But none of them taste good. Enjoyment isn’t the purpose—”
“That’ll be $4.56.” The cashier put the Debbie Cakes in a plastic bag and picked up the change and four ones that Bertha had spread on the counter. “You got the best-tasting energy combination right there. Coffee and chocolate.”
Bertha held up her index finger and said, “Be right back.” She approached the plow driver with, “Hi. How are the roads?”
The woman turned toward her. “Hi, yourself. You should know that if plows were called out, it’s pretty bad.”
“How about south of here? South Fifth?”
The driver reached into the cooler and got a diet Red Bull. Thinking about the taste made Bertha shiver. They should make chocolate- or peanut-butter or marshmallow-flavored energy drinks. The person who invented a sugar-free marshmallow could probably retire for life.
The driver was answering her question while she’d been distracted by marshmallows. She said, “What?”
“Me and one other driver out tonight. We started back to back in the center of town and have been working our way toward the suburbs. It’ll be late morning before we get the job done. That is if it doesn’t snow again. And it might.”
They walked toward the cashier side by side. The driver looked familiar. So Bertha held out her right hand and said, “Name’s Brannon. Bertha Brannon.”
The driver took her hand. “Emily Bell. I know who you are, Judge Brannon. I was one of the kids you represented—kept me out of juvie several years ago.”
Bertha looked at her closely. “I saw so many kids back then. I hope everything came out all right for you.”
“Thanks to you.”
“If things got turned around, you did it. I only provided an opportunity. So you work for the city now?”
“When I’m not cleaning snow off the streets, I work as a part-time dispatcher for the police. City is going with lots of part-timers to save on overtime.”
“This is the first snow. If the city can’t afford a little overtime now, where will they be by February?”
Emily Bell shrugged and ran her fingers through her dark hair. “That’s above my pay grade.”
They walked out of the 7-Eleven together and Bertha said, “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Same here.” Emily raced to the driver’s side of the rig and pulled the door open. But before she climbed up into the cab, she backed away and called out to Bertha. “You say you’re headed for South Fifth?”
“Right.”
“Stay behind me. I’ll get you there.”
Bertha’s first impulse was to turn down the offer, but she found herself saying, “Thanks.”
The plow was noisy and moved slowly scraping snow, only spreading salt at intersections. The wind picked up and Bertha stayed back a couple of car lengths with her wipers going as crystals of ice hit her windshield. Streetlights on the snow-packed surfaces around her made for well-lit areas broken by long, dark shadows. Block after block, the streets were empty except for cars parked at the curb that the plow left buried. As the scenery changed from commercial to unkempt residential, more and more streetlights were dark—broken or burnt out. Her eyes got tired as she watched the blocks go by.
The farther she went, the more ridiculous trying to find January Johnson seemed. No one was out, thus hookers wouldn’t be out. Instead of trolling the streets, tricks would be home jacking off in front of their computers. Johnson was probably home in a warm bed where Bertha belonged. Nevertheless, she sucked in her breath as she approached the house where Toni had been killed, where she’d talked to the blond hooker.
Lights were out at all but a few b
uildings. Now and then a window had a wavering blue light that suggested a TV left on. As she passed the monstrous bushes that grew on the property line she saw that the house, supposedly unoccupied with no power, had lights burning inside.
Bertha stopped the car as far off the single plowed lane as she could without getting stuck, but she didn’t see another vehicle. There was no reason to bury the Honda in the drift left by the plow yet. Waiting in the single plowed lane, she watched Emily Bell continue down Fifth Street and turn around at the intersection and come back toward her, plowing a second narrow strip in the opposite lane. When the plow was ready to pass her, Emily flickered the headlights and Bertha did the same. Then she watched the plow through her rearview mirror until it was gone. She wanted to get out and look in the window but couldn’t figure out a way to do that without leaving footprints. She turned the motor off, thinking she’d finish her coffee and start on the Little Debbie Cakes. If no one lived there, whoever was inside would eventually come out. The windows of the little Honda fogged up until she couldn’t see anything.
A half an hour passed and Bertha was cold. She said to Toni, “What am I missing? I feel like the key to your death is right in front of me.” The car windows were opaque. Her coffee was empty and her icy fingers sticky from chocolate icing. She heard a door slam and rubbed the windshield with a tissue. Through a hole about the size of a softball, she could see a white man pulling his coat on as he came out the side door and down the steps. He turned toward the back of the house, and Bertha thought he might be parked in the alley, although surely the alley would be worse than the streets.
The windshield frosted up again. She was reaching for another tissue when someone tapped on the passenger window, startling her. Bertha turned on the ignition and lowered the window slightly. Her heart was still pounding when the passenger door swung open and a familiar voice said, “My God, Judge Brannon, you were the last person I thought would be in this car. What you doing all the way out here?”
Bertha unlocked the door and tossed the CDs and empty snack-cake wrappers into the backseat. The tissues went onto the floor. “I’m looking for you. Get in.”
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