“Make sure who you’re shooting it at,” Lucas said.
“I don’t know—I think people get more scared when they think that you’re crazy and maybe drunk. Tend not to fuck with you,” said the man, smiling in a distinctly crazy way.
“You could be right about that,” Lucas said.
As they walked away, he looked at the patch of white skin on his arm. “Let’s go get Letty.”
LETTY WAS OUT on the dump when they got there, a small figure in dark clothes, kicking through the trash pile. Letty was concentrating on something, and didn’t see them pull in. Lucas got out and yelled, “Hey. Letty.”
She turned, waved, and skidded down the side of the pile of trash, and clumped across the dirt pan between the edge of the trash pile and the gate. When she got to the gate, she passed him the .22 and the empty gunny sack, then climbed the gate. When she dropped down beside him, he got a whiff of aged garbage.
“You oughta stay out of the trash,” he said. “You don’t know what might be in there.”
Letty said, “Nobody knows what might be in there. Phil gets all kinds of good stuff out of there.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“Drives the Cat,” she said, nodding at the bulldozer. “He gets about one good computer a week.”
“Won’t do you any good if you die of some weird disease,” Lucas said. “You better take a shower when you get home.”
“Water kills cancer?”
“You’re also a little stinky,” Lucas said.
“Yeah? It’d be worth it, stinky, if I could get a good computer out of it,” she said. “My computer is worse than this old piece-of-crap .22.”
They were loading into the Acura as she said it. Del asked, “If the gun’s a piece of crap, why don’t you get another one?”
“ ’Cause they cost money, and this one works,” she said. “I mean, it’s a piece of crap, but that’s all I need. My computer . . . that’s just a piece of crap.” As they were backing out, she added, “You know what I’d do if I was a cop? I’d tell the guy at the dump to turn in all the computers he found. Most of them work, they’re just old. When people throw them away, they leave all their letters and stuff on them—he finds out the neatest stuff about people, messing with the old computers. It’s his hobby. One time he found, uh . . . ” She suddenly colored, and snapped her mouth shut.
“What?” Lucas asked.
“Never mind.”
They both looked at her, and then Del said to Lucas, “I need to get my old computer back.”
14
SINGLETON COULD NOT remember feeling exactly like this: unable to breathe, unable to think. He’d driven out of the dump, down the gravel road, and straight through the stop sign onto the highway. He was heading south before he realized he’d missed the stop. He might have died right there, he thought, if there’d been a Molson truck coming through from Canada.
Goddamn Letty West. She was out there all the time, trapping the goddamn ’coons. He was sure that she hadn’t been out there when he’d buried the girls. Except that he hadn’t checked. He had the same sense of uneasiness that came when he was sure he’d unplugged the iron before leaving town, or when he was sure that he’d locked the doors before going to bed . . .
He was sure, but he wasn’t sure.
He knew she was often out there, even late, because he’d seen her walking along the highway in the evening, carrying her rifle and her bag.
If she had seen him, hauling the garbage bags that held the girls’ bodies, she would have assumed that he was getting rid of his own household trash. Though it wasn’t legal, people did it—did it all the time, after hunting and fishing trips, to get rid of fish guts or deer remains.
But: the girl had been dragging around town with the two state cops, had apparently helped them reach the unbelievably quick conclusion that the Sorrells had been involved in the hanging of Deon Cash and Jane Warr. Now she had taken them out to the dump.
Did she know something? Were the state cops looking at him? Maybe he shouldn’t have left so quickly, maybe he should have stopped and chatted. He could say that the dump was part of his check-route. But if they started to ask him questions, what would he have said? He wasn’t ready for that.
Then: if the state cops were looking at him, why hadn’t he felt anything at work? There hadn’t been any curious looks, or veiled questions. Could the state cops be holding it that close, not even letting the sheriff in on it?
Or—how about this—they’d found out that he’d been hanging around Calb’s, and in the process of checking on him, they’d talked to Letty and she’d mentioned seeing him at the dump, dragging the bags. Of course, putting him with Calb wouldn’t get them to Deon and Jane, because he’d kept that connection very quiet.
Think.
All right, here’s another possibility: it was all a coincidence. She was out there trapping, and the cops had taken her out. But why would the cops do that? It wasn’t like they were a taxi service.
Think.
Better talk to Mom.
THE DAY HAD started simply enough. He’d slept late after a strenuous evening with Katina Lewis, had then gotten up, gotten dressed, and had gone into the office to see if anything had happened with the murders of the Sorrells.
Micky James was working the comm center: “The state boys are back,” James said. “They’ve been asked in to cover the Sorrell murders, too. They’re going to be up around Broderick. What the hell you think is happening?”
“Dope dealing up at the res, if you ask me,” Singleton said. “It’s all gotta be tied together.”
Back home, he’d decided that snooping was probably more dangerous than doing nothing—and his thoughts turned to the Caddy out in his garage. He needed to do some fine sanding on the last clear coat, and doing that kind of work always smoothed him out, along with the car. Gave him a chance to think.
In the garage, he realized that his breathing gear was still out at Calb’s, and the paint he was using always specified breathing gear. That meant a trip to Broderick.
He’d gone to Broderick without a thought in his mind. As he came into town, he saw a silver SUV pulling out of the body shop, heading out on the highway, north. He pulled into the spot that the SUV had just left and found the shop deserted. Not unusual for a Sunday. He ran the door up with his remote control, went inside, and got the breather gear. Didn’t feel the slightest vibration from the silver truck.
“Loren?” A woman’s voice called to him. He looked back to his right, and saw an older woman walking across the highway from the church. “Hey,” she called. “Did you talk to Katina?”
“Not since last night. She said she was heading back here . . . ” And for a moment, Singleton thought the woman was going to tell him that Katina was missing. If she’d gone missing, for any reason, he might be cooked.
“She was here, until ten minutes ago,” the woman said. She was an older woman, who looked like a Saturday Evening Post caricature of Grandma. “She tried to call you—she’s probably down at your place, now. She said if you came by, looking for her, to tell you that she’d wait.”
“All right.”
“Did you talk to the state policemen?”
“No . . . ”
“They were just here. They’ve been going around town.”
“Silver truck?”
The woman nodded. “Yes. You just missed them.”
THEY WERE HEADED north. To Letty West’s? He thanked the woman, and as soon as she was back in the church, headed north out of town, after the silver SUV. He was no more than fifteen minutes behind it, he thought. He took it slow going out, looking for their car at West’s house. It wasn’t there—in fact, there was no car at West’s. Of course, they might have come back past Calb’s when he was getting the breathing gear, but he hadn’t seen or heard any traffic, and the shop was quiet.
They were headed north . . .
Then it hit him. Shit. The dump. He denied it to himself—Couldn’t be the dump.
He wheeled the Caddy out of the parking lot and put his foot down. The Cadillac would make a hundred and ten. He had to fight the undulating highway and the soft suspension, but he stuck with it, pushing the car as hard as he could. The dump road came up in four minutes, with no sign of the silver truck. He turned the corner, eased down the road . . . saw nothing until he came to the entry.
Turned in.
There they were, caught like deer in the headlights. The whole goddamned bunch of them, standing around the SUV.
He lifted a hand, mind gone blank, backed out, and raced away . . .
THE SCENE WENT round and round in Singleton’s brain, and he couldn’t stop it. There were too many permutations, but it all came back to one problem: he didn’t believe in coincidence. The state cops had been out there with Letty West for a reason.
He’d put the two girls four feet down in the center of the landfill, under the clay cap. He’d dug through to the garbage layers, shoved the bodies in, refilled the holes and carefully tamped down the clay. Even if he went out to look for the bodies, now, he’d be lucky to get within twenty feet of them. Letty West, if she’d been back in the woods and had seen him cutting the holes, would never be able to put the cops on the exact spot.
Still: if they knew he’d been involved, they’d find a way to get him. Christ, they might hit the house. In fact, that’s the first thing they’d do. If they found the money, he’d be gone.
And what else did Letty know? Had she seen his Caddy at Deon’s? He’d parked it in the back, but he’d seen her walking down the creek behind the place. Had she seen it there? He’d been there often enough. Did she know he’d gone to Vegas with James Ramone and later with Deon and Jane?
He better get a story. He needed a story, and a good one. And he needed to think about Letty West.
Goddamnit. He looked at himself, caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror. He’d never been like this. Could this be fear?
KATINA WAS AT his house, sitting on the back stoop in the cold, a brown grocery sack next to her leg. He pulled into his driveway and she stood up, hugging herself across the chest, jiggling up and down, trying to keep warm.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Had to go in for a couple of hours,” he said. “Got guys running all over the place with this Deon thing.” He got his keys out, unlocked the house, and she picked up the sack and followed him inside. He walked on through to the front hall, took off his coat, hung it, leaned back against the wall, and pulled off his boots.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
He didn’t exactly jump, but felt himself twitch. “Huh?”
“You look a little stressed.”
“Just, uh, wish I didn’t have to work tonight,” he said. “Anything new with the Deon thing? From Gene?”
“Not that I’ve heard. The state police have been going around town, talking to people. Talked to Ruth for quite a while. She didn’t have much to tell them.”
“Good. Be dumb.”
“The Lord looks over the innocent,” she said. “I brought a couple of rib-eyes and some veggies. I thought we could eat here.”
“That’d be good,” he said.
THEY HAD A quiet afternoon, Katina cooking, Singleton looking through car trader magazines. Calb had a computer on his desk, and he’d shown Singleton how to get online and browse car-rehab sites. Singleton did it, from time to time, but preferred paper. He trusted the magazines—he liked the color and he liked to lie on his couch and look at a photo for a long time, thinking what he might have done with the same car. He had a hard time doing it this afternoon: he kept thinking about the scene at the dump, with the two cops and Letty West.
He finally got up and went into the hall to call Mom; he got no answer. Probably at the casino, he thought—she usually was on Sunday nights. She liked her slots. Since she’d come into the money, she’d moved up to the dollar machines.
He went back to the couch and dozed fitfully, the odors from the kitchen getting better and better, almost driving the Letty West demon out of his head. Then Katina called him into the kitchen and he found a tablecloth on the kitchen table, and a couple of white candles, in fancy glass candleholders. He said, “Whoa.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Katina said. She blushed a little, as though she were shy about it, or maybe it was the heat from the stove. She’d made a salad with white seeds that looked like sunflower seeds, but weren’t, and mashed potatoes to go with the steak.
Singleton sat down and said, “Pretty okay,” then popped up and said, “You forgot the ketchup.”
She said grace, as she always did, and then was quiet, until they were halfway through dinner, when she asked, “Have you ever thought about having a child?”
He said, “What?”
SINGLETON DIDN’T KNOW exactly what had happened, there, during dinner and afterward. They’d watched television and then wound up in bed, again, which was fine with him—but he’d gotten up to watch the ten o’clock news, and to get into his uniform, and she’d left, light-footed and apparently lighthearted, singing to herself.
He watched the news: they were still talking about Sorrell, and they had a quick piece of tape with Letty West, but it was old tape that he’d been seeing for a couple of days. He dozed for a while, sitting in front of the tube in the La-Z-Boy. When he woke up, he groped around for his cigarettes, found them, found the matchbox, and ripped the match down the igniter strip.
In the flare of the match, it occurred to him that the Sorrell killings had been no problem at all. He’d just gone and done it. Nothing pointed at him and a threat had been eliminated.
Truth be told, he realized as he stared into the flame, he’d enjoyed knocking down the Sorrells. Nothing to do with his mother—he’d enjoyed it for himself. Here was that king-shit Sorrell guy, all the money in the world, all big and smart and walking around in his house in silk pajamas, and here was Singleton, with his little ole mother . . .
But who had the gun, king shit? Who acted fast?
He knocked them down in his mind, knocked them down again, then swore as the flame bit down to his fingers.
“Goddamnit,” he said, aloud. He lit another match, lit the cigarette.
Letty West, he thought, waving the match out. Up there in the night, with nobody but her mama.
AFTER LUCAS AND Del dropped her at her house, Letty changed clothes and then went out to the highway and hitched a ride into Armstrong. She wasn’t stupid about it. She always waited until she recognized the truck before she put her thumb out. In that part of the county, she recognized one in twenty, and they always stopped for her.
At the library, she got a computer and went online, called up the Google search engine, entered how to with TV reporter and got some strange websites.
Three boys from her class came in, two of them wearing Vikings sweatshirts and the third wearing a sweatshirt that said Scouts, which was the high school nickname. One of the Vikings boys was named Don, and Letty considered him somewhat desirable. She felt a pressure from them, almost like a pressure on her face. They got on computers, two of them facing her, and they all clicked along through the net.
Two hours later, disturbed by what she’d read on the websites, and carrying fifty pages of printout, she hitched back home with an eighty-three-year-old drunk who’d spent the evening with a lady friend, and couldn’t keep his truck straight on the street. She flagged him down, and he let her drive. She dropped him at his house, halfway up to Broderick, and told him she’d come over in the morning with the truck, when he was sober.
As she went through Broderick, she stopped at the store and bought a bottle of milk and a box of cereal. The house was dark when she got back. She lit it up, turned down the heat, ate a quick bowl of cereal, and then went back into her mother’s bedroom, to look at herself in the mirror.
She wasn’t bad-looking, she decided. Actually, she was quite attractive. But she would need to soften up her face. She looked good now, but if she kept
making grim lines, she could wind up looking like a crocodile. She had no makeup skills at all, but the women at the hair salon could fix that. They had a whole library of books and magazines, and an ocean of experience. Letty had never spent a dime on makeup. She’d start now.
The web sites had stressed that journalism wasn’t very important, but skills were. That was her next assignment: print out everything she could find on TV schools.
Then she thought: School. Homework. Social studies. She climbed the stairs, found her textbook, and looked up the questions she was supposed to answer. Then she thought, They can’t hold it against me if I’m helping Lucas and Del . . .
She dumped the book, went back downstairs, turned on the TV, watched for a while, reading the printouts, and every half hour or so went to look at herself in the mirror some more. She hardly ever did that—this was not a matter of vanity, but a matter of technique. Of skills. She found that if she used her mother’s compact, she could hold it next to her eye and get a good right-angle profile in the dresser mirror.
One of the web sites had said that you had to look like TV. The site said that every female host of the Today show had been chosen because she looked like she’d be good at fellatio.
She’d carefully written fellatio on a piece of paper and carried it over to the library’s New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary and looked the word up: “Sucking or licking of a sexual partner’s penis.”
She thought, Huh, and, a second later, Every one of them? Then she’d ripped the piece of paper into a hundred bits, in case one of the boys from her class might see it, thrown the tiny bits of paper into the wastebasket, and changed pages in the dictionary.
Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 123