Perfect Touch

by Elizabeth Lowell

  He stood to the side, out of the line of any fire. A beam of sunlight spread into the room, showing more blood tracked over the rag rug Inge had made. There was order to the marks, jagged and diagonal.

  Boot tracks. Looks big for Ivar, much less Inge.

  The room was dark but for a trapezoid of light falling in from the open door. The smell told him all he needed to know.

  Too much.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a foot half covered by a slipper. The foot was bent at a wrong angle. Inge loved her warm slippers, but she never wore them outside the house. At least, she hadn’t until now.

  He stepped into the long, narrow room. Adrenaline morphed into rage.

  Senseless. Meaningless. Wanton.

  I thought I left this behind.

  But here it was, at his feet, motionless, stinking of the aftermath of death. Without realizing it, Jay cursed with the savagery of the combat leader he had once been.

  Slowly he went to kneel next to Inge. Her plump face was slack, her pale eyes open, seeing nothing. He closed them with a sweep of his fingers, surprised that his hands weren’t shaking.

  Later. I’ll have time for rage and grief then.

  And vengeance. I’ll make certain of that.

  He was glad Inge lay beyond the reach of the pitiless light. The wound in her chest was a bad one, T-shirt so bloodstained that it looked black. He had seen wounds like that before, too many of them.

  Combat knife. Or a hunting knife.

  Same thing, really.

  He looked over to Ivar, who lay facedown, utterly still, a wide pool of dried blood beneath his head like a dark pillow. Careful not to get too close, Jay sat on his heels and studied the body.

  Only a slit throat bleeds like that. If I really looked, I’d see splatter marks.

  Jay hated that he recognized the cause of death, that he knew it so well. He hated that he was using knowledge gained in war to understand death in a place that had always meant peace.

  Yet there Ivar lay on his stomach, his arms at his sides and his feet toed out at an angle that would have been painful for anyone still alive. He was in work clothes, a pair of jeans faded to robin-egg blue, topped by the green-and-black flannel shirt that he wore every day but the day Inge washed. Now the flannel was stained with blood that was so thick Jay could taste copper on his tongue.

  With a grace and strength only the living had, he came to his feet and turned on a wall switch with his gloved hand. The old incandescent bulbs came on after a small hesitation.

  Old room, old wiring.

  Old people.

  Only death is new.

  A quick, visual inspection of the floor showed a scattering of boot prints.

  Could have been three men. Probably only two. That will be for the sheriff to figure out.

  For the first time Jay regretted Inge’s one-woman war against dust and dirt. Dust would have helped distinguish the tracks, but even Ivar’s man cave had a clean floor.

  That’s Cooke’s problem. Mine is to disturb as little as possible.

  The door to the minute bathroom lay open, as did the door to the tiny storeroom where Ivar kept whatever odds and ends of old stuff he thought might be useful some time in the future. Stuff Inge insisted had no place in her house.

  Someone had been in the storeroom.

  Avoiding the bloody tracks, Jay looked in. Surrounding the anonymous junk in the center of the room, large wooden crates were stacked along the walls like makeshift wainscoting. All the crates had been pried open, revealing unframed paintings by Custer. None of the crates had any empty space within.

  Whatever the jackals were after, Custer wasn’t it.

  A gleam of metal lured Jay into the room. Ivar’s big, missing screwdriver lay abandoned.

  They used it to pry open the crates.

  Later, he would be furious, grieving. Later he would hunt. Now he would gather what facts he could, though his eyes burned with unshed tears.

  The sound of raindrops came on the parts of the roof that had been repaired with tin.

  Real rain will make tracking anyone coming in or out of Fish Camp a lot more difficult.

  The jackals who did this are gone.

  Did they get what they wanted? Or will they be coming back?

  Knowing the sheriff would disapprove but understand, Jay pulled a ragged tarp from the storeroom and covered Inge and Ivar.

  God be with you, old friends.

  Switching off the light, Jay stepped outside and locked the padlock behind him. There was nothing more he could do for the dead.

  He walked back to the house in the growing drizzle. When he reached the yard, he called out and stood in plain sight, letting Sara know he was back. The door opened so quickly he knew that she had been watching for him.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  He shut and locked the door behind him without answering.

  She took a closer look at his face and felt her heart roll over. “Jay?”

  “Ivar and Inge are in Ivar’s special toolshed, next to the boathouse. Dead.”

  She put her arms around him and said, “I’m so sorry,” again and again without even knowing it.

  He accepted the embrace, returned it, then gently separated from her. “It’s starting to rain. I’ll get the tack under cover and bring in the saddlebags. And check the pantry. Inge kept dog food on hand for the summer. Then I’ll call Cooke.”

  “Don’t worry about the pantry,” Sara said. “Are you bringing the dogs inside?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll leave Skunk with the cattle. Lightfoot will guard the toolshed from wildlife. If something is too big for him to handle, he’ll make a racket.”

  The implication hit her like a bucket of cold water. To a wild animal, protein was protein.

  Don’t go there, she told herself fiercely. It won’t do any good. Jay needs someone he can count on, not a dumb blonde from a dumber movie, screaming and screaming.

  The sound of rain on the windows broke the silence.

  “I’ll help you with the tack,” Sara said. “It will go faster that way.”

  Jay didn’t argue.

  With the two of them working, everything was quickly stowed in the barn. The rain was cold, refreshing.

  Maybe it will wash everything clean, Sara thought, even though she knew that some things couldn’t be made right, ever.

  Jay turned the horses out to pasture with the cows, grabbed the rifle and saddlebags, and said, “Back to the main house.”

  It wasn’t raining hard at all, more of a wind-swept sprinkle with fat, cold drops. Each drop was a separate sensation, reminding them that they were alive.

  “Ever used a woodstove?” he asked when they were inside.

  “Every day of my life until I was eighteen.”

  The grim line of his mouth shifted slightly. “You’re a wonder, Sara Anne Medina.”

  “The only wonder is that I waited until I was eighteen to leave that farm behind.”

  She opened the door and took stock of the stove. A fire was laid, and there was no ash buildup that would need cleaning. Wood was stacked in a tub beside the stove. A box of matches waited on the built-up brick floor that surrounded the old stove. She opened the damper, set fire to the kindling, and watched little flames grow into big ones until she closed the door.

  Keeping track of her from the corner of his eye, Jay set the saddlebags in the mudroom near a second wood bin and dug out the shortwave radio. Before the sheriff’s office answered, he could smell the tang of fire biting into pine.

  “This is Jay Vermilion. Who’s on duty?”

  “Afternoon, Jay,” said the dispatcher. “Cooke just came in. Will he do?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  A moment later Cooke’s voice came over the radio. “What’s up?”

  “Two murders. Inge and Ivar.”

  At the word murders Sara dropped the piece of wood she had just picked up to put in the stove. She looked at Jay, but all
she could see was his back. It was tight, muscles bunched across his shoulders. Tension radiated from him.

  While he relayed what he had found, she picked up the wood and tended the fire. After a few deep, slow breaths to steady herself, she went to the pantry. Plenty of canned goods. Dried beans, sugar, flour, ground coffee, dog food.

  Plus two freshly baked loaves of bread and a lemon meringue pie.

  Sara didn’t know she was crying until she felt the tears on her face. Silently she went about making coffee, automatically feeding wood into the stove when needed, listening to Jay talk about bloody murder.

  He watched her, wishing she didn’t have to hear his words, yet glad that she was here with him.

  “No blood or signs of a real struggle in any of the cabins,” he said. “Either Inge gave up housekeeping or the buildings were searched in a half-assed way. ATVs and their Scout were disabled.”

  “Anything taken?”

  “Not obviously. Could have taken money, booze, or guns. I haven’t checked.”

  “How long ago?” Cooke asked. “Best estimate.”

  “Within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “How were they murdered?”

  “With a combat or hunting knife. Inge’s chest was sliced up, more than one blow. Ivar’s throat was cut.”

  Sara fumbled with the stove, nearly burning her hand.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cooke said.

  “Lightfoot is guarding the bodies.”

  “Hell of a thing,” the sheriff said. “One sad hell of a thing.”

  Jay didn’t think about it. Couldn’t. There was too much to do. “I can’t get out on my cell phone. Their kids and grandkids will have to be told. Henry has the contact numbers.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Sara and I will stay until you can send someone up here tomorrow,” he said, his voice neutral as it had been from the first word he had spoken. “We’re in the main house. Don’t know how the weather is in town, but it’s raining pretty good up here. If the temperature drops much more, it will snow.”

  “I’ll send someone up first thing in the morning, but it will be afternoon before they get there. Rain plays hell with that road.”

  “No hurry. They’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Jay. The Solvangs were damn good people.”

  “Yes. And they were murdered just the same.”

  With savage restraint, he switched over to the home ranch frequency. Henry picked up immediately.

  “Inge and Ivar are dead,” Jay said. “Murdered. Tomorrow morning, send the new hands up in a four-wheel rig to . . .”

  Sara did her best not to hear the sad details and regrets all over again. Instead, she concentrated on fixing food. The living had to eat in order to take care of the dead. Screaming and crying and cursing wouldn’t do anything but waste energy that was necessary to take care of all the details for the dead. And for the survivors.

  At least the cows don’t have to be milked, with their scheming eyes and shit-covered tails waiting for a chance to smack me in the face.

  She shook off the past and concentrated on what she could do in the present.

  The rich smell of coffee began to fill the room. It was followed by the tang of gun oil as Jay began cleaning the rifle and the Glock. He knew the Glock wouldn’t need it—he’d seen it take a mud bath and come out firing just fine. The rifle was different. It required more care.

  In any case, he needed something to do with his hands. Part of him hoped that the murderers would return. He would enjoy getting up close and physical with the kind of cowards who murdered good people just because they could.

  “Cleaning a pistol was part of my training,” Sara said.

  “I’ll take care of this. But thanks.”

  She watched him for a moment—deft fingers, swift, experienced motions—and was glad she was cooking rather than fumbling her way through cleaning a weapon.

  A closer survey of the pantry turned up onions, dried peppers, garlic, and cooking oil. The sink had running water. Cold. Apparently the solar panels were out or only generated enough electricity to run the lights. Gritting her teeth, she washed her fingers in well water so cold that it made her hands ache.

  Very quickly the smell of chopped onions overcame that of gun oil and coffee. Jay finished with the Glock and set it aside, loaded and ready to go.

  Sara handed him a mug of coffee.

  “There’s canned milk in the pantry,” she said, “along with some sugar. Want either one?”

  “No thanks. I’ll take it straight up,” he said, reaching for the mug. “Whoa, your hands are freezing. I’ll turn on the generator. Water should be hot by the time we do dishes.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “That would be great. I was thinking of having to warm water for dishes and baths and . . .”

  He smiled slightly. “Mom felt the same way. She said she’d put up with the racket a generator makes to have hot water at night.”

  “Your mother was a wise woman.”

  Moments after Jay went out the back door, a diesel generator sputtered, caught, and thundered happily to life. When he came back in, Sara was frying onions and chopping garlic. She opened a can of chili, looked over at the size of the man who was settling back in to clean the rifle, and opened four more cans, dumping their contents into the big frying pan with the onions.

  “Do you want your canned green beans on the side or in the chili?” Sara asked.

  “In it works for me. Fewer pans to wash.”

  “Good point.”

  She added more wood to the fire and went back to stirring. After a few minutes, she tasted and immediately went looking for cayenne pepper. It was in the pantry, along with some other spices she could use.

  By the time Jay was done cleaning the pistol, the chili was simmering on the stove. He cleared away the cleaning materials and set out flatware on the small kitchen table where he had worked on the weapons.

  Sara cut off thick slices of bread. “Grab a plate and fill it.”

  He came up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, and slowly, gently, kissed the side of her neck. “Thank you.”

  Her breath stopped. “Opening cans takes no particular talent.”

  “I was talking about being you, being what I need.”

  She leaned back against him with a long sigh. “I feel so useless.”

  “Looking at death, we all feel that way.” He pulled her closer for a moment. “Keep my dinner warm. I’m going to feed the dogs and check that the storage room in Ivar’s toolshed isn’t leaking on anything important.”

  The knife hit the counter with a clang. “The Custers! How could I have forgotten them? We should bring them to the house.”

  “If necessary, I’ll take care of it.”

  With another gentle squeeze, he released her. She turned quickly and hugged him back.

  “I’ll bank the fire and meet you at the toolshed,” she said.

  “You don’t—”

  “I need to check the paintings,” she interrupted, looking up at him. “And I should be smacked for not doing it sooner.”

  “You’ll have to walk past the bodies to get to the paintings,” he said.

  His eyes were dark and bleak and made her wish that she could put light back into them. But she couldn’t. Only time could.

  “Then I’ll walk past them,” she said evenly.

  A single look at Sara’s face told Jay that arguing was a waste of time. “There’s a flashlight in the drawer to the right of the sink and cleaning rags under the sink. Soak them with the pine cleaner and throw in some ammonia. Stuff the rags in a covered pot and bring it with you.”

  She gave him an odd look.

  “I put a tarp over the bodies,” he said. “It takes chemicals to cover the smell.”

  She lifted her chin. It can’t smell worse than pulling that dead calf did. “I’ll be at the toolshed in five minutes.”

  Without a word he stepped away from her. He
rummaged in the cupboard, found two bowls, and filled them with kibble from the pantry. Then he stepped out into the rainy twilight and shut the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 14

  IT TOOK SARA less than five minutes to get to the boathouse, but Jay was already there, waiting for her. Lightfoot waved his tail at her once, then returned to guarding the small outbuilding, watching from the open door of the boathouse. Rain came down steadily, coldly. She could see her breath between the drops.

  The instant Jay opened the door to Ivar’s retreat, she reached for the small pot she carried. The pungent smell made her cough and all but stunned her nose, covering the smell of death. She followed him inside, walking in his wet boot prints, fighting her gag reflex.

  Throwing up doesn’t help. It just makes you weaker, and the job still has to be done after you’ve cleaned up your own mess.

  She kept repeating the words from her childhood as she followed Jay through the room that stank of death.

  The overhead light showed only the ragged blue tarp draped over the bodies. Blood reached beyond the tarp. Quickly she looked away, fighting herself until her stomach stopped trying to crawl up her throat.

  Ahead of her were walls and counters of neatly arranged tools. She concentrated on their patterns and was grateful she hadn’t eaten recently.

  “The junk room is over there,” he said, pointing with the flashlight. “We’ll go along the outside of the wall so if we leave any tracks, they won’t be confused with any the killers left. Don’t touch anything with bare fingers.”

  She swallowed hard again, took another sniff from the pot, and breathed through her mouth. And she carefully didn’t think about the tarp. With quick steps she went through the door of the junk room, used her elbow to turn on the light, and stepped aside for him.

  “May I look in the boxes?” she asked. “I can put on my mittens.”

  “Good idea.” He tucked the flashlight under his arm, took his riding gloves out of his jacket, and pulled them on before he shut the door.