We slowly regrouped around the quilt and finally sat down to sew again. I kept my phone on the table right next to me, and next to the cups of tea and plates of crumbs. My eyes kept flying to the wall clock about thirty feet away in the living room. Everyone else seemed to be glancing at Gerry’s phone.
But neither Matt or Tom called. Not for ages, and our collective hearts sank as reasons why they didn’t floated from one to the other of us without ever being spoken.
Chapter 75
Victoria had suffered so much within the last month--so many deaths, so many losses. I wondered if she’d still been in shock when I’d first met her last month and that was why she seemed not to be feeling the pain. Or was it the ALS and the attendant meds muting her emotions?
But now one of her charges—she thought of the young girl as one of her foster kids—was in deep trouble. After our initial joy at contemplating that Abigail was just hanging with her boyfriend, reality crept back in. It was way after midnight. Thirteen-year-olds didn’t stay out that late unless….
A solitary tear made its way down Victoria’s face over the cracks and crevices of age. A gnarled and spotted right hand darted up and quickly wiped it away then returned to its work, a knuckle now glistening.
Her hand had been wiping away tears for several minutes, hadn’t it?
I spoke one of my rambling thoughts, “…unless they fell asleep.”
I was barely holding it together. I knew they all felt the same. I pondered more pie, and grease came to mind instead. My tongue felt coated with lard.
Hannah decided to tell her teenage story around one-thirty. Actually, Hannah’s story was much like Gerry’s, one of crushing innocence and unrequited loves. She repeated Gerry’s statement that she didn’t feel she fit in. That she was an outsider skirting the fringes of high school life in homemade and hand-me-down clothes. Maybe most teenagers felt this way. Maybe that was adolescence in a nutshell—a perpetual bad fit.
And then she startled us by changing direction.
“I thought in honor of my mom and dad I’d share a little about Ruth’s high school romance with Paul McMichaels. You know, she would have done the same if she could have been here. Maybe you can help me along, Victoria.”
Victoria nodded without looking up.
“They met when they were kids, grew up in the same small town, Pinto Springs of course. But they really didn’t notice each other until the hormones kicked in.
“My dad, Paul, was a football player, and mom was a cheerleader. She used to tell us stories about how the other kids teased them, calling them the Mutt and Jeff of Cleveland County High School. That was what Pinto Springs High was called back in her day, when there was only one secondary school in the whole county instead of the four there are now.”
I listened as she explained to the younger women at the quilt that Mutt and Jeff were two cartoon characters in the Sunday comics sections of most major newspapers back then—in which one was very tall and one was very short, like Paul and Ruth. Which made me wonder how long it would be before the “younger” members would have to be told what a newspaper was.
In short, I drifted in and out of Hannah’s gentle story, brought back to the present constantly by the growing pains in my hands and neck, and my fears for Abigail. The sewing was taking its toll, and I worried that I might need my hands to save myself in the coming hours…to hold the gun I’d brought in my large bag.
My stomach clenched at the thought. And I would forever wonder what made me bring it.
Chapter 76
Matthew Lyon’s LIRI Journal
Sunday, November 2, 1:45
We found the Zinzer house empty; scrawled across the living room wall, written in blood, was HIDALGO. The we consisted of Detective Learner, Beardsley, an assortment of cops, Will and me. LIRI was here at the behest of Learner. I think he was testing us.
There was blood everywhere. Sprayed on, splashed on, and left in smears. Will and I moved slowly through the house, trying not to react.
The house looked like the aftermath of a Hidalgo signature mutilation and murder scene, only there were no bodies yet. Maybe there was still hope.
Forensics arrived and went directly to work, trying to identify how many had been cut. Next step was to find out Buddy and Abigail’s blood types.
Learner took one look at the back bedroom and said, “Someone bled out here. Maybe two.”
Last thing I wanted to hear.
Marana arrived, angry as usual and taking it out on his assistant, though he was happy to target me instead as soon as he spotted me. Made a crack about Rachel and I needing to be on the payroll soon. To head off a confrontation, I said we were just leaving.
Learner, to my surprise, turned on him and snarled something about the fact that Rachel and I had unearthed Abigail’s last known location and that maybe Marana could make himself useful by helping search the woods for the bodies.
The news that there were no bodies yet set Marana back on his heels. I knew he was thinking he could have stayed in bed until we had something for him to examine.
“We thought they were here,” Learner said coldly. “The sheets were bunched and bloodied to make it look like there was a body wrapped in them. My guess is whoever was cut here hasn’t been taken far.”
“Your guess. My day is made, Detective.” What a big shit. He finally moved his bulk out of the doorway and into the bedroom. Learner, Will and I headed back down the hall.
One of Learner’s guys, Stone, approached, saying that Buddy’s parents were on their way back from an out-of-town memorial service for his sister Judi. Christ, this poor family.
They’d be arriving in about an hour and so far they didn’t know anything beyond what their neighbor told them when he called them an hour ago to say that some out-of-control party was going on at their house. Said neighbor is now in tears over not calling the cops sooner.
Learner told Stone to cordon the block off and keep the press out.
“Send Wilson and Sharkey out to I-13 to catch them as they come off the ramp. Take them downtown. No, take them to Mountain Rise. Let the hotel manager know we’ll be using a back door to put them in a top floor room. Warn him to keep quiet. Don’t need the press sniffing them out.”
By this time we’re in the kitchen, next to the table. I noticed something wasn’t right—chairs were pulled way out from one side. I asked Will to get in touch with Harks and have him meet us ASAP. The Feds would be taking over very shortly, and I didn’t want that to hamper our search for Abigail. I wasn’t particularly confident the Feds would be any more effective than the locals had been. The whole thing would probably just become more political. Christ.
I noticed something down low on the kitchen wall, behind the table. More red marks. I gestured to Will.
“Blood?” he said. I pulled out my flashlight and we crouched down. We were alone in the kitchen. I leaned in and smelled the marks on the wall. “I think this is lipstick. Take a look, Will. Do these markings look familiar to you?”
I snapped a couple of pictures.
Will drew a blank at first, then said, “It kind of looks like Russian writing.”
Or maybe Ukrainian, which uses a variation of the Cyrillic alphabet. Rachel’s always complaining about Gloria’s accent.
“Maybe Gloria taught her daughter Ukrainian.”
“So, you think Abigail wrote this?”
I nodded. Maybe they left her in the kitchen at some point. “Learner and Marana need to see this.”
“I need to see what?” Marana loomed in the doorway, a crime scene photog a pace behind him. He’d been watching to see what we’d do.
I stepped back for the ME to get a closer look at the markings on the wall and watched as his expression changed.
He ordered the photog to take some shots and stared at me for a moment. I waited him out.
“So, you know someone who understands the Cyrillic alphabet.”
I nodded. “Abigail’s mother…” I began. Ma
rana interrupted to say that he knew.
So he could call her but he wanted me to but he didn’t want to ask.
“We’ll need this translated.” He was getting impatient. I knew, and Marana probably did too, that with his low EQ he’d fuck up any contact with Gloria. We needed her to translate this. I decided a working relationship with Marana would be more valuable than the satisfaction of making him grovel.
“Rachel is at Gloria Pustovoytenko’s house now.”
Marana nodded then seemed to decide an olive branch was in order. “We’ve been through three nights of little or no sleep,” he said brusquely.
A limp-dick apology.
“We’re all wiped, doc.“ I let that thought marinate.
I thought about how to proceed. I could forward the picture to Rachel but she’d run right out and start looking for Abigail herself. No, I needed to drive over and do this in person.
I told Marana I’d get Gloria to translate the writing and headed to the living room.
My cell rang. It was Harks.
Will and I headed out to the Chicano neighborhood that was the heart of the Pintos gang’s turf and parked on a side street. Harks was waiting. He’d brought along his Mexican gang counterpart, a guy named Rodriguez. Harks’ strength was his knowledge of black gangs but he knew how to tap other resources. The four of us huddled together in the Deacon’s SUV and I made my first big mistake of the night by shoving the Ukrainian message to the back of my brain. I was too focused on what Harks had learned. Or not.
Rodriguez whined that the Pintos were stonewalling and I was instantly annoyed by his tone. I wondered if he could be trusted.
I was expecting some kind of progress. I glanced at Harks. Unreadable.
Rodriguez said they were working on one gang banger and were close to getting him to spill.
Harks remained silent. So I filled them in on what we found at the Zinzer house. Briefly. Harks and Rodriguez grimaced.
Rodriguez said they had gotten this much out of some Pintos—that the Hidalgos had taken over the local gang and now Pintos were turning on Pintos, families were confused and scared, and the Hidalgos weren’t just trafficking in drugs. Sex slavery. Good Christ.
“If we can get this Garcia guy off by himself…” Rodriguez trailed away.
I said that was an excellent idea, silently cursing that they hadn’t managed to do that already.
Chapter 77
“When I was fifteen I met Jake Stowall. My maiden name was Driscoll, but I knew a distant relative in direct line of descent was another Stowall. I was reassured by an old country doctor from those days there was no genetic danger to marrying someone in the same ‘clan’ as it were.
“He was wrong. But back when I was fifteen, there was nothing wrong with Jake Stowall. He was handsome…looked a little like Ronald Coleman, a romantic heart throb in many of the movies of my day. Oh, and I should tell you, this was nineteen forty-one,” Victoria said.
Andrea gasped. “What? You mean you’re not fifty-nine?”
Everyone chuckled, especially Victoria—which was a lovely thing to see. We needed a laugh right about then. The tension in the room was as high as I’d ever seen it. Frankly all I could think of was why hasn’t Matt called me to tell me Abigail is safe?
But it had only been fifteen minutes. They were probably still going through the bureaucratic chains of command before they could act.
So I tried to concentrate and smile and laugh appropriately as Victoria told her story of their sweet romance sixty-seven years ago. Her distant memories were perfect, although no doubt modified by the passage of so many years.
It was when she told us how gentle he was as a lover that Anne rose and left the room and an uncomfortable silence followed her departure.
Finally, Gerry said, “I’m bushed. Why don’t we take another break?”
As we streamed toward the kitchen to see what new caloric fancy would be unveiled this time, I could hear the cell phones snap open around me. I resisted the urge. He would call me when there was news. Andrea beat me to the bathroom.
After devouring a FIXation Apple Crumblesmash--don’t ask, you’ll gain weight just hearing the explanation--I took note of who was on the phone.
Anne was chatting up someone I thought was Mary but it turned out to be Martha. Elixchel was having a difficult conversation with someone who’d actually called her. She found a distant corner to converse in, and finally stepped out onto the back porch where she could tell that someone to pipe down, or whatever. It was cold and wet out. It didn’t take long.
Hannah actually woke her husband Peter to talk with him, telling him they were still looking for Abigail. She too moved away from us so she could whisper things.
Andrea was still in the bathroom.
Gloria was alone on the couch, her head hanging low. Gerry and I stood facing each other, making small talk.
The eruption came after twelve minutes of this electronic divide.
“See how we become!” the other side of Victoria roared. “See how you have left each other to stand and sit alone. This is your brave new world order. This is your idea of togetherness!” And she climbed back on her steed and rode magisterially back to the quilt rack.
Actually she was using a cane. Elixchel raced to her side just on time to keep her from toppling over. I heard phones snapping shut as we all joined her contritely at the cloth.
All except Andrea that is. She had taken the bathroom as if by force and wasn’t giving it up. I was wondering where the next bathroom was.
“Do you think she’s okay?” Gerry asked, next to me. I shrugged.
And then, as the room sat in silence, a loud growling, gurgling, gagging noise emitted from the bathroom giving us the answer.
“It wasn’t the Apple Crumblesmash. She didn’t even eat any, I don’t think, who-who.”
I almost burst out laughing.
Now I was thinking Anne was as decisive as an Okapi in the same manner Andrea was as discrete as a rainbow lorikeet in heat--even vomiting. Andrea finally emerged from the bathroom another ten minutes later. She was so pale even her camouflaged jacket looked faded.
Maybe it was. And now I was wondering if the fear we were all experiencing over Abigail’s wellbeing was more than she could handle. I was praying it wasn’t the flu. But at least the toilet was available, and we all took our turns. Coward that I am, I chose to use it last.
Anne started up the conversation again. “Martha just told me Eddie’s met some fascinating people on his travels. It seems he called Mary. Anyway, he’s been out hunting with the relatives.”
Hunting? Uh-oh, that meant he was becoming more proficient with guns. I truly didn’t trust this man, hard as I might try.
Pushing back from the quilt to stretch my back, I glanced at my watch and wondered for the fourth time why there was no word from Matt. The frustration I felt was slowly turning to dread.
My eyes strayed to the black box staring back at me from the living room—the television.
Chapter 78
A message popped into my brain—almost like a phone text, almost like a memo from…Ruth!
Speak to Nana.
I fairly jumped out of my skin. What the hell?
I resisted the urge to go to Gloria’s mother’s bedroom door. Surely at almost half past two in the morning she was sound asleep.
Okay, so I was losing it. Too much caffeinated tea and sugar. Too much fear and worry. I’m excused for going mad.
That was when Nana appeared before us, wearing only a floral nightgown and walking barefoot, with a piece of paper in her hand.
“Matusia?” Gloria said as she turned and slowly rose from her seat.
Matusia—Mom--began reading from the paper in English.
“Avay they’ve flown,
The road leads down,
To down of van free son,
Where pigs are prone
To hear men groan.
Avay they’ve gone
To vait for
dawn,
And rend their sweet reason,
And hearts turn stone
Says Sleeping Crone.”
Hannah stood so fast her chair almost pushed over backwards behind her.
The first look on her wonderful Zen face was one of shock. Her second was of soft anger. Her third was the pout of a two year old. The two year old spoke.
“Oh great! Why doesn’t she ever send me messages?”
Oh great? I watched Hannah’s face retrieve reality as she surveyed our faces.
“My mom, Ruth, she loves poetry.”
Gerry beat me to Nana to retrieve the note. We studied it together.
It was written in Ukrainian. And Cyrillic letters. And without poetic form. It was all one big paragraph of gibberish-sideways letters, upside down scribbles, italics everywhere.
“Can you write this in English for us, Nana?”
She shook her head and returned to her room. But the secret was out, or so Gloria thought.
“So, you speak English efter all, old woman.”
And Nana’s English had been clear, while Gloria’s was unintelligible at times. Especially when she was upset, like now. So I must again say I only think that’s what she said.
Maybe Nana had been sleep walking and sleep talking.
Channeling.
“Okay, Gloria we need this written in English complete with punctuation and poetic form so we can study it.” I handed her the note.
Gloria began translating. It took her a while. In the end we managed to get the exact words down that Nana had originally said. When she finished, she turned to hand it back to me, saying, “It’s called Mass Psychogenic Illness, and sometimes collective obsessional behavior.”
This was said in perfect English. Maybe when she was speaking in medical terminology she could do this. And she was referring to our collective belief that Ruth was in some way a psychic messenger.
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