Her eyes sealed behind the blindfold, Janice clasped her eyelids shut. In the dark of the dark, she saw it all now. Saw the movie of what was to happen, how this was to play out. Some country place. A single shot. Maybe two. All set up for Todd to discover.
43
Like half-cooked oatmeal smeared across a tabletop, the sprawl of the Twin Cities went on and on, ruining the rolling landscape of what was once known as Black Dog but rechristened in these days of mediocrity as Burnsville. It seemed to Todd that it was taking forever to get beyond the strip malls and acres and acres of identical houses slapped up all ticky-tacky. Never before had Todd hated them so much.
Russ Fugle had been completely cooperative; they'd left him at the downtown police station so another officer could take his formal statement. From there Rawlins had wanted to take his car, his silver Taurus with the police siren that he could slap on the roof. Todd, however, had been adamant: They had to take his Cherokee. The caller had insisted Todd come alone—which Rawlins absolutely forbade—so at least Todd had to be driving his car.
“It shouldn't take them too long to get a trace on that car,” said Rawlins, seated in the passenger seat.
“Yeah, but how long's that going to be?” And what good, wondered Todd as he sped southward at over eighty, would that do? “Shit, I can't believe this. It's my fault, all my fault. Janice is involved in this only because of me.”
“Why? You just asked her a few things.”
“Yeah, but …”
He just wished to hell he hadn't called her in the first place. True, after that it was her idea that someone from the queer community at large should check on Kris. And it was her idea, too, that she herself should do just that, see how Kris was doing and make sure the county wasn't going to assign her a transphobic defense attorney. In her typical caring fashion, though, Janice had done all that and more, becoming Kris Kenney's de facto lawyer. Still, Todd couldn't help but feel horribly responsible, and Janice herself had said as much.
“Okay, go through it again,” said Rawlins. “Go over it word by word.”
With the air-conditioning cranked on high, Todd gripped the wheel in both hands and said, “I answered the phone, and it was her.”
“Right.”
“She said she was in trouble, she needed me.”
“And then?”
“Then … then I think I said her name or something.” It had all happened so quickly; just what had been said? “And then she screamed my name back.”
“That was it, that was all?”
Todd replayed it in his memory, then nodded and replied, “All that Janice said, anyway.”
“Then Kris got on?”
“Yes. She said go to the gas station at the Crow Island exit. An old gas station. She said go there and then to the phone booth behind it. She said if I ever wanted to see Janice alive again, I should go there. And alone. She stressed that part—alone.” Todd touched his brow. “Oh, God, I hope we're not making some kind of mistake by bringing you along.”
“Let me handle that.”
“Then I asked if it was her, Kris. I couldn't tell because the voice was kind of deep.”
“Yeah, well, maybe none of us has ever heard her real voice before. I caught a glimmer of it when I was interviewing her—it was deep, kind of hoarse-sounding.”
Glancing out the right side of the vehicle, Todd shook his head and said, “What the hell's going on?”
Oh, God, dear God, prayed Todd. In his mind's eyes he saw Mark Forrest. Saw his body taking the bullet. The burst of blood. Please. Please, not Janice. Not her too.
“You don't think she's already hurt Janice, do you?” demanded Todd, his foot weighing heavier than ever on the accelerator.
“Probably not, but who knows.”
“This just doesn't make any sense,” said Todd, pounding the steering wheel with one fist. “Why would Kris want to hurt her? Janice is her lawyer. Janice got her out of jail. It doesn't fit the other killings. The others were cops.”
“Maybe Janice figured something out.”
“Maybe …”
“One thing for sure, it's not a plea for help.”
“No.” And then of course the answer stared right back at Todd with grotesque clarity. “Oh, shit. I'm her witness. Kris has been setting this up—setting me up—all along. You know, feeding me the entire story. That's why I've been at all the right places at precisely all the right times.” And as soon as he said it, he realized what it meant. “This is not good, not good at all. Kris called because she wants me to witness whatever she's going to do to Janice.”
Like murder her, he thought.
Todd couldn't go any faster. The freeway narrowed from three to two lanes, transformed into Interstate 35, and became bloated with cars and trucks and semis. Todd swerved around a van, a tan thing packed with parents and kids and camping gear, undoubtedly a family unit returning from some northern lake. He charged past a long UPS semi. Then swerved around a red pickup. Someone leaned on the horn. Todd, after all, was going over eighty-five.
“Look at that,” said Rawlins, tapping the side window.
On the right, off to the west, the blue sky and billowing clouds gave way to a black band of clouds: the cold front. Solid and ominous, it was marching their way like some gigantic starship.
Todd glanced over. “Looks like the forecasters are going to be right for once.”
Yes, heavy rains. High winds. Thunderstorms and hail. A heavy mass of cold air was descending from the Canadian plains, sweeping across the Dakotas and descending upon Minnesota. Something big was going to hit, there was no doubt about that.
Something that was going to do its damnedest to bulldoze out the thick, tropical air now settled here. No doubt about it, this was primo tornado stuff.
Todd just hoped to hell they found Janice before it hit.
The urban sprawl finally gave way to corn, endless fields of green stalks as tall as a person and stretching as far as the eye could see. You could drive for days and days in almost any direction, Todd knew, and ninety percent of what you'd see in these midwestern plains would be corn, corn, corn. And the sea of green fronds didn't now simply sway this way and that in casual summer bliss. No. All of it was bent to the east in a forced bow to Mother Nature's prowess and the storm she was brewing for the area.
It was almost another fifteen miles to the Crow Island exit, and when they finally reached it Rawlins pulled out his gun and hunkered down beneath the dashboard. Using a sheet they'd brought along for this purpose, he covered himself.
Shooting down the exit ramp, Todd barreled down on a stop sign and slammed on the brakes. In a part of the country where entire regions from the Great Lakes on westward had been mapped out in a grid of vast and distinct parcels, Crow Island Road ran exactly east and west and exactly perpendicular to I-35. It wasn't much of a road of course. Two lanes. Something that now stretched in either direction from farm to farm to farm and, presumably, eventually to someplace with an island once inhabited by a tribe of that name, a tribe that had long been obliterated.
But there wasn't any gas station. Ahead and on the right was only one thing: more corn.
“Shit!” cursed Todd. “There's nothing here!”
“What?” demanded Rawlins, staying low.
He looked the other way, then said, “Hang on.”
Todd stomped on the gas and, tires squealing, sped to the left, passing beneath a bridge and the interstate's ribbons of concrete. Finally, there it stood, a white hulking skeleton of a gas station, now boarded up and rusting.
“There it is!” said Todd.
“Any cars? Anyone around?”
As he drove madly toward the building, his eyes swept the area. “No, not that I can see.”
A faded sign featuring a red flying horse still stood out front, but the business had long since died, the pumps long ago yanked, the windows long ago boarded over. Yet a much smaller, much newer sign posted out front pointed to the rear of the place: PHONE. U
ndoubtedly left active as a concession to the desolate area and this Jekyll and Hyde climate that flipped biannually from blizzard to tornado, it was a means to call for help. Just as Janice had so recently done.
Todd swooped down on the place, the rear of the Cherokee skidding as he drove off the road and around the building.
“There's the phone.”
“Take it easy, take it slow,” coached Rawlins, still crouched in hiding. “Any sign of anyone or anything?”
“No, nothing.”
He steered a definite arc toward the booth, then slammed on the brakes. Glancing quickly around, he then threw open the door and leapt out into the hot air.
“Hello?” called Todd into the thick, heaving wind. “Janice? Anyone!”
His eyes ran over the glass booth—or what remained of it—then scanned the building. Hurrying forward, Todd saw a couple of huge, rusty barrels, a door with a padlock on it. A small boarded window. Some paper flapping, tumbling along. And behind him and just off the concrete apron of the old filling station, corn as thick as an Amazon jungle.
What the hell was supposed to happen now? Could someone be hiding in the building? Crouched in the corn?
“Janice!” he shouted as loud as he could.
He turned back to the phone booth. Was he supposed to wait for a call and further instructions? Stepping closer, he saw it flapping there. A small piece of paper. Todd tore forward.
“Don't!” shouted a huge voice behind him.
Todd froze.
Emerging from the Jeep, Rawlins said, “Don't touch anything!”
“But …”
Todd looked back, saw Rawlins, his gun pulled, scanning from side to side as he rushed over. Yes, of course. Fingerprints. Perhaps a shred of clothing. Footprints. Something to later prove what had already happened here today. But who cared what might be important later. Right now there was only one preeminent thing: finding Janice.
Todd took a deep breath, tried to gather his patience, and said, “Kris left something.” He saw it trapped between the receiver and the hook. “A note.”
Rawlins, flipping into training so thorough it was instinctual, moved quickly over, scanning the ground, the building, the phone booth. With knowing, professional eyes, he checked the small structure with the broken-glass walls. Lastly, he spun around, his eyes beating the stalks of corn. Satisfied, he slipped his gun back into his shoulder holster, then pulled a tissue from the pocket of his shirt.
Todd moved after him, but Rawlins held out his hand, saying, “Let me do this.”
Todd watched as Rawlins slipped into the booth, careful not to touch what was left of the sliding door or the walls. Grasping the receiver with the tissue, he then slipped out the note, holding it gingerly between two fingers.
“What's it say?” demanded Todd.
Rawlins slipped back out, then flipped the paper open. Todd rushed to his side, seeing a mere few words and then a pattern of lines.
The note read: Come here if you want to see Janice again.
Todd's eyes fell downward, realized what the pattern was. “That's a map. That's Crow Island,” he said, pointing to the most major of lines. “And there, you go up Crow Island about a mile to that road, take a left. Then a right.” His heart was pounding so hard it seemed that he could hear it. “Come on!”
“Oh, God …” moaned Rawlins, not moving. “Oh, dear God.”
“What?”
“This isn't good. Not good at all.” Rawlins closed his eyes, then opened them and looked straight at Todd. “It doesn't say to go there if we want to see Janice alive again.”
Todd realized the terrible difference, just as he realized the deep, hard pounding he was hearing wasn't his heart.
No, it was the approaching storm.
44
The smell of rain.
Janice got a whiff of it as soon as the man slid open the door of the van, the air rich and earthy and seductive. Ozone, some said. The scent of positive ions, claimed others. Whichever, it had been one of Janice's favorite smells ever since she was a little girl, so evocative that it immediately whisked her back to her grandmother's lake house, summer camp, and a canoe trip all at once, all at the same time. Now, of course, all of those jewellike memories would be wiped out. If she somehow survived this afternoon, a small, wise part of Janice presumed the smell of impending rain would flash her back to here and now, terror on the prairie.
Her nose told her the rain was coming even before her ears, even before she heard it, the deep churning. Now listening, at first she thought the deep roar was that of a jet, a huge one, perhaps a 747, blasting and thrusting its way into the sky, one of the summer tourist junks heading toward Thunder Bay, taking the northern shortcut over polar lands to Amsterdam. But the grumbling continued like the beat of great drums. And that, Janice realized, wasn't a plane soaring into the heavens, that was the heavens about to beat down on them.
Lying there on the floor of the van next to the open door, she heard then felt him reach in and grab her by the ankles. With one quick movement—a knife?—he popped the tape off her legs. And she was free, at least somewhat so.
“Come on, your other pal back here isn't going anywhere,” he said.
What did that mean, silently begged Janice, that Kris was in fact dead?
“Out—now!”
Janice felt herself pulled sideways. Then she herself swung her legs around until they dropped out the door. She sat up, perched there for a second, her hands achingly bound behind her back, her mouth stuffed with silence, her eyes wrapped tight like a package bound for a long, bumpy journey in the U.S. post. And then she stood. She thought for a second that she might fall, not because she was faint, not because of the oppressive humidity that seemed to bear down on everything, but because her feet, which had been bound so tightly just above the ankles, had gone to sleep. Hobbling, she took one shaky step, another.
“You know why you don't want to do anything stupid?” he asked. ” ‘Cause I got a gun. Just don't make me use it sooner than later.”
She of course couldn't say anything, and with her fingertips she felt the side of the van behind her, then leaned against the vehicle. If this was it, if the end of this journey—and her life—were near, she just wanted one thing: to get rid of the fucking gag. The heat wasn't so bad. It was the humidity, the dew point, whatever. Here in the countryside that spread so wide and far, it was as if she needed gills because everything was so close, so clammy. And all she wanted was a few good, deep breaths.
Janice felt tears come to her eyes. No, you can't lose it now. Somehow, someway, there might be a chance. You gotta stay sharp. You gotta butch it up, babe. You gotta search real hard and find the bull dyke in you. Don't give up, don't let the bastard do this to you!
At first Janice didn't know what he was doing. Above the beat of approaching thunder she couldn't really tell. But she could hear him moving. She could hear the sound of material shifting this way and that. A zipper. He was, she realized, changing clothes.
And then he laughed and said, “And now for a totally new look.”
Listening to him approach, Janice's body went rigid, every muscle tightening, every limb locking. Whether he was going to shove her to the ground or merely punch her again, she didn't know, but perhaps this was it. Perhaps he was simply going to execute her right up against the side of the van, gangland style.
“Oh, baby, baby,” he said, sounding like the devil—and knowing and loving it too. “This is going to hurt!”
Expecting a blast of a gun or a slash of a knife, Janice bit down on the gag, her teeth clenching the folds of material as hard as if she were birthing a baby. He grabbed her by the head. She screamed, but of course next to no sound emerged. She tugged with her neck, tried to pull away, but couldn't. He grabbed at her hair. And ripped. Dear God! Her body blistered with sweat and pain. Her eyes blistered with light and tears. She stopped biting on the gag, opened her mouth in some impossible way, and emptied her lungs.
Yes,
light …
He'd torn off the blindfold of packing tape. Torn away hair and skin, eyelash and eyebrow. But, yes, through the shrieking pain she could see light. Or more precisely, squinting, she could see black sky.
And, yes, she could see him.
Raising her sullen head, she saw some guy who was about her height. More than that, however, she couldn't really tell, for he wore not only dark old gloves, a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and blue jeans, but also a navy-blue face mask, the likes of which nearly every Minnesotan possessed for the depths of winter. Everything about him was hidden by clothing, as if it were twenty below instead of ninety-five above.
Janice took a breath, closed her eyes. Opened them again. Yes, she could see. Him. A field of corn as thick as the one she'd once gotten lost in as a child. A sagging, faded red barn with a decrepit concrete silo clinging to one end. An old farmhouse, once white, now raw with age. And sky, one half rich and blue, the other as black as a death curse. Was it, she wondered, about to start pouring any second, or was this the kind of storm that lingered for an hour or two before pouncing, a death cloud as patient as a cat caging a trapped mouse?
Telling her the answer, the thunder growled. Not one quick rumble. No, long and deep and continuous, on and on. Janice turned, gazed past a decapitated windmill—the blades of the fan long blown away, surely by some previous storm—and saw the black sky pulsing with strobelike lightning. It would be upon them within minutes.
Janice turned and stared at the masked head, saw sweat bleeding through the wool. And thought, Die, you fucker.
He reached back into the van, picking up what he'd momentarily set aside—a gun—and said, “We're going up to the house. And nothing funny, all right?”
Janice turned, quickly glanced into the vehicle, and saw Kris's lifeless body lying on its side, her hands taped together.
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