Smoke

by Joe Ide

  Had she really seen him? Billy wondered. She didn’t know where or when. Maybe she saw someone who looked like Crowe or saw no one at all. This had happened to Billy many times before, wanting to believe something and creating his own affirmation.

  “Don’t be offended,” Billy said. “But Crowe looks how a serial killer should look. Maybe you glommed on to that.”

  “No, Billy. I wasn’t conjuring up something, I recognized him. There’s a difference.”

  “The evidence is pretty circumstantial,” he went on. He felt silly saying it. His entire belief system was based on circumstantial evidence.

  “Circumstantial is another way of saying coincidental,” Ava said, getting heated. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

  “But what about the other two murders when Crowe was locked up? He couldn’t have committed them.”

  “They were copycats,” Ava said with a little less conviction.

  “Maybe, but the police have lost interest.”

  “Not completely.” She was angry now. “And I don’t care one way or the other, Billy. I saw him, and that means he was stalking Hannah or maybe me. I’m not arguing anymore. Are you with me or not? Make up your mind.”

  Billy was in a panic. He’d gone too far. “I was playing devil’s advocate,” he said with a fake laugh. “Of course I’m with you.”

  Isaiah and Billy were still at the breakfast table. The pause had started a minute ago, Isaiah saying nothing, the tension of silence making Billy sweat.

  “Can I have some water, please?” Billy asked.

  “No, you can’t,” Isaiah replied. He returned to his reverie, piecing together what he’d read with what Billy told him. “You said Ava is following Crowe?” he asked.

  “Yes. They’re coming south on Highway 185 from Sacramento. Another 150 miles and they’ll pass through Coronado Springs.”

  Going where? Isaiah wondered. He brought up a map on the laptop. Pass through town and there was only one logical destination. Lake Tahoe. There were only truck stops between here and there. It seemed unlikely Crowe was headed for a truck stop, and if he wanted to go to Tahoe, Highway 80 was a much more direct route. It would save him a couple hundred miles.

  “Crowe’s destination is here, Coronado Springs,” Isaiah said.

  “Here? Why?” Billy asked. “Are you sure?”

  Isaiah worried. If you’re following someone over a long distance it is very hard not to be spotted. Crowe might be watching for a tail as a matter of course. He’d been on a decade-long murder spree and hadn’t been caught. He was cunning and vigilant, if nothing else. “Call Ava,” Isaiah said, urgency in his voice. “Tell her to back off and we’ll pick Crowe up when he arrives here.”

  “Ava will not back off,” Billy said firmly. “She doesn’t want Crowe to be arrested, she wants to kill him.”

  “Damn,” Isaiah breathed. He rose. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Go where?” Billy said. Isaiah didn’t answer. He went into the living room and gathered his things off the coffee table.

  “You’re going to meet them, aren’t you?” Isaiah didn’t answer. He pushed through the screen door and headed for the Mustang, Billy trailing.

  “Please let me go with you,” Billy pleaded. “Please.” Isaiah got in the car and sped off.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Come and Get Me

  Ava had Crowe’s routines down. At eight a.m., he left the house, arrived at the garage at eight-thirty. He changed tires and oil, installed air cleaners, swept up the parking area and did other menial tasks. He took longer breaks than he was supposed to, looked pissed off all the time and generally did as little as possible. At six, he left work, stopped at Bigelow’s for a shot and a beer, talked to no one and then went home to his wife, Shareen. She was a big woman with a big mole on her upper lip, her bramble of salt-and-pepper hair unbrushed and crooked as an untrimmed hedge. She looked like the prototype of disappointed and stubborn.

  Shareen’s house had wooden fences on either side of it. No one could see you creeping along the side, peeking in windows and eavesdropping, especially at night. The couple seemed to fight more than anything else. Second on their list of activities was eating, third was sitting on the sofa three feet apart and watching TV. They had sex with surprising frequency, especially for two people who clearly didn’t like each other. Neither seemed to be enjoying it. A quick, standing hump while Shareen was ironing. A quick, clumsy grapple in the morning, or a quick up-and-down on the sofa while Crowe peeked under Shareen’s armpits at the TV.

  One morning, Crowe came out of the house with a battered suitcase and no ankle monitor. Ava was surprised and confused. Crowe was on parole; what was he doing? He put the suitcase in the trunk, then Shareen came out toting a big handbag. She yelled at him, but Crowe ignored her. Frustrated, she got in the backseat. He ranted at her for five minutes, but she didn’t budge. He gave up and they left. They drove north on 185, out of Sacramento for a hundred miles or so. They stopped at a gas station. Ava was filling up, Crowe on the other side of the pumps. He was on the phone, talking heatedly, fiercely, trying to keep his voice down. She could only hear a phrase or two. Shareen was in the backseat of the car, morose and glaring at nothing, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Ava’s phone buzzed. It was Billy. She sent it to voice mail. He was getting to be a distraction.

  She had to get nearer to Crowe, but she needed a reason. She thought a moment. The air hose! It was closer to Crowe, and the pumps wouldn’t be in the way. He might have seen her on TV so she pulled her Dodgers cap down low. She messed with the hose like she didn’t know how to use it.

  Crowe was walking in circles. “You can’t do it; you can’t fucking do it!” he shouted. “Why? Because you’re going to fuck it up, that’s why!” He listened, getting angrier and angrier. He shook the phone and roared into it, “Yes, I’m giving you an order! Don’t you fucking hang up on me! DON’T YOU FUCKING HANG UP ON ME!” Ava wanted to run. The man was terrifying.

  Even in his rage, his dull eyes were fixed, the thick lips wet, a snarl like a claw across his face. He was a creature, she thought. Something damaged in the womb, born defective, vicious and implacable. This was the animal that had killed Hannah. Fury banished Ava’s fear. She had to force herself not to douse him with gasoline and set him on fire. Crowe was still talking. “Just wait for me, okay? You can do that, can’t you? I’ll be there in—what was that? No, you can’t do that! Just stay there until I—hello? Hello?” He swore, a molten stream of invective, the veins in his neck bulging. He glanced at Ava. She quickly pulled out the air hose, turned and kneeled beside her car. She heard him arguing with Shareen.

  “You can’t go with me. You have to go back,” he said.

  “Not until I know what you’re up to,” she said.

  “I told you, it’s a business thing.”

  “What business thing? You change tires for a living.”

  “I’m gonna drop you at a bus station.”

  “There ain’t no bus station out here.”

  “Get out of the car, Shareen, I’m warning you.”

  “Warning me?” she said. “I got news for you. This is my car, paid for with my money, and if anybody’s getting out it’s you.”

  “I swear to God I’m gonna drag you out of there,” he snarled.

  “Oh, really? Who’s on parole, me or you? You touch me and I’ll call the cops and you won’t have to worry about your business thing no more. You’ll be in handcuffs on your way back to Quentin.” Crowe clenched his teeth and growled at the sky. Then he got back in the car and they drove away.

  Ava hurriedly returned to her car, a white Chevrolet Spark. It was tiny, but it got great mileage. The gas nozzle hadn’t been returned to the pump.

  “Shit!” She jumped out, returned the nozzle to the pump, got in and raced out of the gas station. She thought about what Crowe said on the phone. Was that why Crowe had left Sacramento? To stop someone from doing—what? What could be so extreme that a
serial killer was trying to hold you back?

  She’d been driving for ten minutes. The road ahead was straight and empty. Had she lost him? “GODDAMMIT!” she shouted, and tromped on the gas.

  Shareen was pissed off. Everything was better when Crowe was in prison. Everything was better when he was an idea, or like an actor on TV. She remembered the good parts; telling her funny stories, being nice to her, telling her she was beautiful and writing all those romantic letters. And he was the one that was needy. She liked that. No man had ever needed her before. Her friends told her she was out of her mind, but Crowe didn’t scare her. All the things he’d done before didn’t bother her at all. For one thing, he was a changed man, and for two, he was behind bars. He didn’t tell her he was getting out on parole so when he showed up at her door it was a big-ass surprise. What else could she do but let him in? They were husband and wife.

  At first, she was happy. Crowe was glad to be out and appreciative of everything she did. And the sex. My, oh my, he was like a moose during mating season, the big bull trying to fuck the whole herd, but in this case, the whole herd was her. He was quick about it but frequent. Like all the damn time. He was wearing her junk into scrap metal. But then things started to change. He hardly talked, kept to himself. No more I love you baby, you’re beautiful baby, I need you baby. All that nicey-nicey stuff was just an act. He’d turned into one more man, one more slob, one more do this, do that. The only thing Crowe had on her ex-husband Maurice was that he had to have a job. Then something weird happened. One afternoon, a white man showed up at the door. He didn’t say his name or anything. He was nervous and had a creepy smile. She couldn’t believe it when he took Crowe’s ankle monitor off.

  “The hell are you doing?” she said. The man didn’t say anything and left. It scared her. Without the monitor, Crowe could go wherever he wanted. He could leave her. She asked him about it.

  “I’m off parole,” he said, but she knew that wasn’t true. The next day, he said he was going on a trip.

  “What trip? To where? For what?” she said. He said it was a business thing. “What business thing? You don’t have any business.”

  Maybe it was a good idea, she thought. With Crowe gone, the house wouldn’t look like an earthmover had rolled through it, she wouldn’t have to cook, and she could go a half day without getting boned. But she knew from years of living in an empty house that loneliness was a bitch and a half. Love the one you’re with, she thought, because there’s nobody else to love.

  Crowe wouldn’t say anymore. While he was putting stuff in the trunk, she came out of the house with her biggest handbag and climbed into the backseat of her metallic red Jetta. She’d saved for over a year just for the down payment, and she wasn’t leaving until hell froze over and everybody went ice-skating.

  “Get out,” Crowe said.

  “Tell me where you’re going.”

  “I told you already.”

  “You mean your business thing?” she scoffed. “You think I’m a fool? Whatever you’re up to it’s criminal. What else could it be? You’ve never been anything but a criminal your whole damn life.”

  “Shut up, Shareen, and get out of the fucking car.”

  “You shut up, and if you want me outta here you better have a baseball bat. I don’t play that shit, mister man. Mess with me and see what happens.” Crowe pleaded, threatened and cajoled. Finally, he got in the car and they drove off.

  “Where’re we going?” she asked. When he didn’t answer she added, “Well, fuck you then.”

  They left the gas station and drove a half hour, the elevation climbing, deep forest on either side. Shareen’s ears popped. Crowe still hadn’t said anything, but he didn’t have to, sighing every seven seconds, shifting around in his seat, glaring bullets at her in the rearview mirror. He wants to get rid of you after all you’ve done. It was humiliating. You give somebody all you got and find out all you got ain’t good enough. The only reason Crowe waited while she was in the bathroom was because she threatened to call the police and report the car stolen. If you have to threaten your husband to keep him from ditching you at a gas station, you are a sad, sad case. As the miles went by, her anger swelled. Another man jerking her around, making her feel bad and kicking the shit out of her dignity. Crowe might be leaving her, but it wouldn’t be on his terms.

  “Turn the car around. We’re going home,” she said.

  “No, we’re not,” Crowe said.

  “Well, this ain’t your car now, is it? And by the way, you just bought gas with my credit card because the money you make wouldn’t get us around the block.”

  “Shut up, Shareen.”

  “Fuck you, Crowe.” She looked at her phone. “Too bad you can’t get cell service up here or I’d be calling the police right now.” Crowe went quiet. That always shut him up, the bastard. She almost laughed. They didn’t talk for a while, and then he did a weird thing.

  He said, “Okay.” But not to her. He said it like he was answering somebody else’s question.

  “Okay what?” she said. Crowe said nothing. He drove, looking right and left, slowing nearly to a stop before turning off the highway onto a dirt road.

  “Hey,” she said. “Where’re we going?”

  Ava drove fast. There were some wide bends, but the highway was mostly straight. She saw nothing. Damn you, Ava, you lost them! No, wait. They couldn’t have gotten that far ahead. They must have turned off somewhere. She did a U-turn, raced back but saw nothing but the blur of trees. She pounded on the steering wheel. “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” She jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. A dirt road cut into the forest. There was still dust in the air.

  “Oh, no,” Ava said. Crowe had no reason to go in there unless he was going to kill Shareen. What now? she asked herself. Go after them? Go after a serial killer? No, that was crazy. Call the cops? No cell service. They wouldn’t be in time anyway. Ava sat there, her conscience and common sense pulling in opposite directions. She couldn’t let Shareen be butchered. She took a deep breath and made the turn. She drove down the road at walking speed, trying to see around the curves. She was afraid Crowe would hear her coming so she pulled over into a clearing. She went around to the trunk and lifted the spare tire. The Sig Sauer was wrapped in a towel.

  As soon as Crowe turned off the highway, a sneaking suspicion crawled up Shareen’s spine and crawled back down again. She thought about the crimes he had committed and the warnings from her friends. She should have listened to them. You’re in trouble, Shareen, you’re in deep-ass trouble. The road got bumpier and more narrow. She could see him in the mirror. His face blank and staring straight ahead. If he felt something, it wasn’t an emotion. It was dim and gloomy in the forest, trees blocked the sunlight, thick brush all around.

  “What’s in here?” Shareen asked hoarsely. “We going camping?” He didn’t think that was funny and neither did she. “Uh, you know, I was just kidding about calling the cops. I was just messing with you! You know me, I’m always joking around!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded like she was panting. Branches scraped against the side of the car. She could already see the scratch marks on the beautiful red paint. The ruts made her sway back and forth. She was getting carsick. “I swear, Crowe, I would never call no police on you! I’m your wife, remember?” She smiled at him in the mirror. She couldn’t see herself, but she knew it looked fake.

  The sweat had soaked through her clothes and her heart was beating fast. She could feel her pulse in her throat. She had to get out of the car, but how? If she jumped out, she’d break an arm or a leg or some other body part. If she waited until they stopped, she’d have to run for it. She wished she hadn’t worn flip-flops and stuck with Weight Watchers. She felt her anger returning, her gumption. Fuck you, Crowe. One of us is walkin’ outta here and it ain’t gonna be you. As casually as she could, she reached into her big purse and found her makeup bag. Crowe glared at her in the mirror. She found a small package of tissues and dabbed her face. “Hot in here,” she
said. There were stumps to drive around, and Crowe’s eyes went back to the road. Shareen put the tissues back in the makeup bag but kept her hand in there, her fingers fumbling around until they found the cuticle scissors. They were small but sharp. But were they sharp enough?

  Shareen could see an open space ahead. The road dead-ended. Oh shit. It’s now or never, girl. She pushed the seat belt down below her breasts, making a little sound to indicate it was too tight. She leaned forward and swung the scissors as hard as she could. She was aiming for Crowe’s neck, but the seat belt held her back and she stuck him in the shoulder.

  “FUUUCKK!” he screamed. He stepped on the gas, the car lurching forward and slamming into a tree. Crowe’s airbag went off. Shareen untangled herself from the seat belt, got out of the car and ran.

  Ava reached a bend in the road and peeked around it. Crowe’s car had crashed into a tree, and the doors were open. She crept up on it, holding the gun tight. She could hear movement somewhere off in the trees. She heard Crowe shouting. She followed the sounds. There was no trail. She pushed her way through the branches and bushes, ducking and shoving them aside. Some were impenetrable, and she had to go around. She heard Crowe shouting again. She was going in the wrong direction. The trees dispersed the sound. She swore, changed course and kept going.

  Crowe bulled his way through the brush, getting scratched to shit and wheezing for breath. It was frustrating, but in another way it was good. The hunt, the rage, the lust, the unrelenting need to kill was overwhelming. Shareen wasn’t Shareen anymore. She was a thing, an object, a locked box that held unspeakable pleasure. He couldn’t wait. He went faster. “Aww, fuck!” he said. He forgot to bring his knives. He didn’t want to drag Shareen back to the car. He’d have to just kill her. He saw a flash of movement. He was gaining on her. A flood of adrenaline coursed through him. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “YOU CAN’T GET AWAY FROM ME! I’M COMING FOR YOU, BITCH!”