Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “Harold is sorry. I hope you’re not injured.” Hannah leaned over her, then straightened and turned back to .22, “Tell Julie you’re sorry.”

  .22 seemed hesitant and still cowered on the floor, covering his head with his hands. He’s scared to death she’s going to hit him again, Julie thought.

  “He doesn’t know his own strength. He really doesn’t mean to do things like this. His judgement simply isn’t like ours.” Hannah seemed to be seeking approval. Then she held out her hand to help Julie up.

  For a split second Julie considered not accepting the gesture. But, for what? Couldn’t she be magnanimous? A little forgive and forget never hurt.

  “I’m positive Harold didn’t mean to harm me.” Julie stood.

  “Me sorry.”

  “I know that and I appreciate your apology.” Julie smiled at him. “Well, my looking for chips started all this, would I be likely to find any in here?”

  Hannah picked up the flashlight and turned the beam to a shelf above Julie’s head.

  “The lights are out. I need Sal to check the breaker box when he gets back. But you have your choice—corn or potato?”

  Julie grabbed the corn chips and walked back out to the kitchen to retrieve her sandwich feeling more relief than she wanted to admit.

  + + +

  “I don’t believe it. I know I haven’t seen the video but you didn’t see him this afternoon, either.” Julie and Ben were watching the fireworks from his truck at the edge of the Civic Center’s parking lot. She had told Ben what had happened and could tell he was upset that .22 had been physical with her. And she hadn’t even told him the boy’s strength had scared her—just for a second when he wouldn’t let go. She didn’t consider herself a wimp but there was a brute force, animal strength about him and that coupled with his impaired reasoning ... could he be dangerous? A sexual assault, maybe? If she were being honest, that had crossed her mind when he was burying his face in her thighs.

  “Who can cry on demand complete with snot?” Julie asked.

  “A good actor.”

  “And you think Hannah may have hired such an actor when something happened to her son?”

  “It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds,” Ben said.

  “But still, the risk and all. It doesn’t seem very plausible.”

  “But worth it if he passes. He got past me.”

  “I still think you’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Will you agree that the situation is strange? That there seems to be a lot that we don’t know about?” Ben asked.

  Julie nodded. They sat in silence.

  “I don’t want you around him when I’m not there.” Ben added abruptly. “If he isn’t who we think, then, who knows? Anything could happen.”

  “I don’t need protection. I’ve lived twenty-seven years without your being around to run interference.” She didn’t try to keep the anger out of her voice.

  “I’m not asking. I’m telling. I believe he could be dangerous. Are you forgetting there’s an unsolved murder? And Sal has disappeared?”

  Julie fought back an angry retort. Ben seemed to be overreacting and ordering her around. She hadn’t meant to sound harsh, but she wouldn’t be cloistered, kept on a leash. She could see Ben’s jaw working as a starburst of light rained from the sky. Three more Roman Candle explosions—fiery balls in pink, green and gold shot upward before shattering in an umbrella of trailing comets.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I haven’t seen a lot of proof of that.”

  Was he referring to .22 or four years ago when she had been abducted by her boss? She’d gotten out of that, hadn’t she?

  “I’m sorry you’re angry. But that’s no excuse to come down on me. I’m an adult and I’m able to make adult decisions. I refuse to believe I could be injured by .22—are you sure you aren’t more angry because you think .22 may have tricked you? Isn’t all this just a reaction to a bruised professional ego? Which I don’t think you have to worry about in the first place. .22 is retarded—sometimes more, sometimes less in control but nonetheless impaired.”

  Ben didn’t answer. Maybe it hadn’t been the most tactful thing to say, but she was irritated. He didn’t own her. That wasn’t the meaning of the ring on her finger. And a doctorate didn’t mean he had to be right. He hadn’t been in that pantry. It was that simple. She didn’t think she could be tricked very easily, either.

  “I think we need to talk with Tommy’s mother.” Julie said after a pause. When there was no reaction from Ben, she continued. “Maybe I’ll look her up in the morning. I’ll ask Tommy to run me by, help me find the place and do the introductions.” She saw Ben’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Stupid. She hadn’t been thinking. Under the circumstances, mentioning Tommy must have seemed like a taunt. How could the evening have gone so wrong? Julie leaned out the window to watch a group of children waving sparklers and playing tag not far from the truck.

  “I’d like to go with you to see Tommy’s mother.” Ben nosed the pickup between two parked cars in front of the boarding house and pulled on the emergency brake. They had hardly spoken after the firework display or on the ride back.

  “Sure. I’d like that. Shall I pick you up at the clinic around lunch?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  God, how formal. The goodnight kiss was only slightly better. Oh well, maybe in the morning everything would look different, Julie mused. She wouldn’t run the risk of saying anything else that might be misunderstood. She couldn’t even coax a half-hearted smile from Ben before she walked back to her room. He looked tired. He took things so seriously. Sal’s disappearance was bugging him as much as it was her. And he was conscientious. If someone had taken advantage of his professional opinion, used him, he wouldn’t get over it easily.

  She got ready for bed but found she was too restless to sleep. Had she been unfair? What if .22 really was an imposter? What if they both had been taken in by an actor? And the first .22? Dead? Maybe with a little help? Maybe the second time there hadn’t been a Tommy’s mother around to save him. She shivered. This certainly put a sinister spin on things.

  She turned out the light. She’d picked up a Hillerman mystery at the trading post earlier, but this didn’t seem like a good night to start it. She lay back on top of the covers after fluffing her pillow. A breeze had sprung up. At least it had waited until after the fireworks. She watched the lace panels at the window billow stiffly into the room. And there was a full moon—almost full, maybe two nights shy of perfect roundness but big enough to cast shadows that played across the patchwork quilt.

  Didn’t this tiff with Ben only play up her worst fears? That she was too unbending—that they both were—to make it work? She lived in New York for Christ’s sake. Didn’t he take that into consideration? Didn’t that give her some badge of courage—or at least prove she was able to take care of herself?

  They’d decided on a wedding at Christmas, six months—less than six months—away. She’d called her parents and had sat through fifteen minutes of “I know we have no right to interfere, but ...” The concerns had all been ones Julie had faced—her career, what she might have to give up living in a rural area, how would she be accepted by “his people,” and then her mother had reminded her that her engagement to Wayne had lasted two years and wasn’t that smart planning because it hadn’t worked out in the long run—so, wasn’t Christmas just a little sudden? Shouldn’t she take her time? After all, what was the rush?

  And then her mother ended by saying she always worried that Julie was “committed to commit”—that maybe the engagement was all the closure she really sought, that a marriage ... Julie had abruptly hung up, used the excuse that someone was waiting to use the phone, that she’d call back. But she hadn’t and wouldn’t real soon.

  The first thump made her catch her breath. It had come from the corner near the armoire. She listened but there was nothing more, no sound she didn’t recognize. Branches from a ne
arby cottonwood scraped the side of the house; the breeze played with a set of wind chimes at the far end of the porch.

  Then suddenly there were three more thumps, evenly spaced in rapid succession, but closer to the bed this time. She sat up, reached for the lamp on the nightstand. This was going to take incredible nerve, but she had to check it out. She switched on the light and crawled to the foot of the bed. Taking a breath she looked toward the armoire, then to the throw rug between the big chest and the bed and burst out laughing. There in the middle of inch-long green shag sat the biggest toad she’d ever seen. Easily seven or eight inches across, he sat unblinking, stunned by the light, and hesitated before he hopped toward the bed.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Julie jumped up and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, threw it over the toad, then slipped on sandals and a robe, scooped up her errant visitor and started out the door. She was reluctant to just put it outside—what if it was part of a collection? It looked exactly like the ones she’d seen at the river bunched in cages, staked in the shallow pond. And this old guy was the granddaddy of them all.

  She hesitated but knew she should take it back to .22—if it wasn’t his, he’d know what to do with it. Hopefully, the door to his room would be unlocked, and she could just nudge it inside and hurry away.

  The hall was quiet. The grandfather clock had just struck one. From the “Do Not Disturb” signs on the room next to hers and the one across the hall, it appeared that Hannah had guests for the night. .22’s room was at the end, kitty-corner from Hannah’s. Julie dropped to her knees and tried to look through the keyhole. There was a light on, nightlight judging from the amount of illumination in addition to that weird glow from the aquariums. And that was about all in her line of sight.

  Still crouching, she tried the door handle. Open. Now, she needed to concentrate on not making any noise. She placed the toad on the floor beside her and loosened the towel. Then she turned her attention to the door knob, turning it slowly to the right, a click, faint, but she paused. Was .22 asleep? He should be at this hour. She continued to turn—another half revolution, and it was ready to open.

  Holding the knob secure in her left hand, she reached down and dragged the towel and toad closer, then pushed the door open three inches. It was the voice that caught her attention first before her eyes had adjusted to the dimness—the deep masculine voice whispering, quieting an obviously upset Hannah. The man appeared to be gruffly pleading with Hannah. Julie was just too far away to distinguish the words. She leaned forward, peeked, and caught a glimpse of a tall man with his hands on Hannah’s shoulders.

  Was it Ben? She thought so. Something about the deep bass voice, and the posture reminded her of him. She wiggled forward again trying to see if .22 was in bed, but the heavy wooden frame obscured her view. She wished she wasn’t so jealous. But hearing Ben with Hannah just pushed her buttons.

  Julie slowly released the door knob, let it turn back, making no sound cradled within her sweating palm. She felt sick, as if someone had pounded the air out of her. She sank back on her heels. She certainly hadn’t expected to find this. But then she roused herself. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have Ben or Hannah find her on her knees in the hall looking in the door.

  The toad forgotten, she grabbed the towel and inched backward before she stood, not really trusting her legs to bear her weight. Reality shivered down her spine. Ben seemed to be a lot more friendly with the landlady than he wanted her to know. But was she jumping to conclusions? Couldn’t it truly be someone else? A boarder, perhaps?

  First, she needed to prove it wasn’t Ben. No one had come to the door of .22’s room. She hadn’t been noticed. Her breathing was more even now and, mastering her fright of creaking boards, she walked toward the stairs and crept down, pausing on the bottom step to listen. The house was quiet. The wind whistled across the porch, through the screen to fluff her hair and tickle along her neck, but even it seemed subdued.

  She was feeling stronger. She continued past the kitchen to the back. She needed, desperately needed, to find Ben in bed, his own—and put these green demons behind her. She knocked softly. No answer. He was probably sound asleep. She turned the knob and pushed the door open. A lamp on the nightstand gave out hooded light; its pleated shade directed all the illumination toward the floor, but there was no one in the bed. The bed hadn’t been slept in—sat on, even. She stepped into the room. The bathroom door was open.

  “Ben?”

  No answer. But she hadn’t really expected one. The room felt empty. It was obvious no one was there—hadn’t been for awhile. She couldn’t stop the feeling of alarm that pushed into her consciousness. And the sinking feeling, almost of nausea, when her mind strayed to what she’d seen upstairs. She would just have to face it—Ben cared for Hannah. It crossed her mind to sit and wait for him to come back. But, then, what if he didn’t? What if she had seen the prelude to a night together?

  But wasn’t she jumping to conclusions? Unfounded, so far. She didn’t have proof. They’d sort of had a fight. Would this be Ben’s way of getting back? No. He didn’t think like that. It couldn’t have been Ben upstairs ... Maybe he’d gone back to the clinic, or somewhere in his truck. She’d check out front. She hurried into the hall, out the front door, across the porch, pausing to catch the screen to keep it from slamming. His truck was there, parked where they had left it earlier. She slumped back against the railing. Now what? But something was wrong. The driver side door was open. She looked around. She couldn’t see Ben, or anyone, for that matter. There was simply the truck sitting at the curb with its interior light shining through the windshield attesting to its emptiness. But now that she was out here, it wouldn’t hurt to check, at least close the truck’s door. There were fewer cars than just an hour ago. Hadn’t Ben parked between two cars earlier?

  She saw Ben’s legs, then his body as she rounded the front of the cab—the blood didn’t register until she had knelt beside him cradling his head, trying to rouse him. The welt at his crown was separated down the middle by a jagged cut mushed by hair and clotted blood.

  “Ben.” Her voice sounded strange. Because she was crying? Probably. Relief, fright—emotions tumbled over one another. She wouldn’t let herself think he was dying. She took off her robe, wadded it and placed it under his head then rummaged behind the truck’s front seat, found a towel, ran to the closest spigot on the side of the trading post and soaked it in cold water. The compress seemed to work. Ben moaned, turned his head toward her and tried to open his eyes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I don’t need stitches.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his bed next to Julie who was holding a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

  “You just don’t want your head shaved. I detect a little vanity,” Julie answered.

  “We already have one shaved head around here.”

  “You should never take a chance with a head wound.”

  “I’ll be at the clinic in four hours. I’ll have someone look at it then.”

  “At least call Tommy.”

  “And what? Say I was hit on the head in the parking lot and don’t remember much else?”

  “I’m not going to win, am I?”

  “No.” Ben laughed.

  “You’re impossible.” Julie fell backward on the bed.

  “We both are. Headstrong and impossible. Think this relationship has any hope of working?” Ben was teasing but Julie thought there was an underlying seriousness.

  “I want to give it a chance. How about you?” She propped herself up on one elbow.

  “I’m committed.”

  “Ugh. You sound like my mother talking about me.”

  “I’m in love. Sound any better?”

  “Lots.” Julie threw her arms around Ben. “This whole thing is getting dangerous.”

  “Past tense.” Ben gestured toward his head.

  “And you have no idea who it was or why?”

  “None. After the fireworks tonight I pulled in beside a car I thought I
recognized. The night I locked the money I’d found in Sal’s trailer in my glove compartment, there was a car with Nevada plates parked next to the truck—same car. I’d swear to it.”

  “So you decided to investigate?”

  “Something like that. I guess I found out it was more than a coincidence.”

  “And you don’t remember anything?”

  “Nothing that makes sense. The trunk was open. I leaned down to take a look ...”

  “And, then what?”

  “I thought I saw trays of vials. Lab setup, sort of.”

  “Maybe the guy’s in pharmaceutical sales.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I don’t know how to explain it. All the test tubes had rubber stoppers like they were being delivered to a lab.”

  “Couldn’t that be it? A collection of samples on its way to a university or hospital?”

  “But what of? They all looked the same. All held some kind of white liquid.”

  “A medium, maybe? Something could have been incubating in the tubes. The person could drive around the southwest picking up whatever it is for testing.”

  “It wasn’t in dry ice or a cold container of any kind. Whatever it was, he or she didn’t want me to see it.”

  “How can you be sure that the owner of the car whacked you on the head?”

  “I can’t. But the car was gone when you got there. And the last thing I remember is looking in the trunk.”

  “It’s probably a good assumption.”

  Ben shrugged. “I vote for trying to get some sleep.” He pulled the quilt back.