Full Circle

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  ‘And you believed him?’ she asked.

  Elizabeth looked back at Megan, and shook her head. ‘No, not really. I know that Mom and Dad, I mean . . .’

  ‘Let me ask you something, Liz,’ Megan said, her hand still on her sister’s face. ‘Which makes more sense? That Mom and Dad, along with Mrs Luna, conspired to kill your entire family and, failing to get Aldon, killed some poor runaway and put him in Aldon’s place, or that this asshole you met online is bullshitting you?’

  Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s face. ‘Bullshit,’ she said.

  ‘Damn straight,’ said Megan. ‘Tell me exactly what he told you.’

  So Elizabeth did, detailing the stuff about J. Patrick Reynolds and the Utility Commission and the Railroad Commission, and everything else Tommy/Aldon had said.

  Megan moved to the computer and turned it on.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Elizabeth demanded.

  ‘Don’t worry. If he IMs you, I’ll ignore him. I just want to check out his story,’ Megan said, finding a link to Texas government. Sure enough, J. Patrick Reynolds was the Texas Railroad Commissioner, former Codder County Utility Commissioner. He had been instrumental in trying to get the county utility hooked up to the only nuclear power plant in the area. He was a Republican (surprise, surprise, thought Megan), and was married with two children, one a son in high school, the other a daughter in college. His wife was a homemaker and he had formerly belonged to the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanas, the Galveston Chamber of Commerce, and was past president of the Galveston JC’s. Before moving to Codder County and becoming utility commissioner, he had owned an insurance agency in Galveston and had won the prestigious Canary Award from the American Independent Insurance Agency Association. According to Wytopia, J. Patrick was lily white and squeaky clean.

  Megan checked all the other listings for Reynolds on Google and found only listings for newspaper articles mentioning him, speeches given by him, and speeches given about him by his buddies. As far as Google could tell her, J. Patrick Reynolds was fiscally, socially, morally, and personally conservative.

  She read all this to Elizabeth.

  ‘OK,’ Elizabeth said, ‘so what does any of that mean?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Megan answered. ‘There wouldn’t be any dirt here, and if the guy was involved in this big conspiracy ten years ago, I doubt it would be mentioned on Google.’

  ‘So what do I do?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘You mean what do we do, right?’ Megan said.

  ‘I don’t want you involved in this, Meg,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Forget that noise. I’m involved. Where you go, I go. Got that?’

  Elizabeth started crying again. Megan left the desk chair and sat on the bed next to her sister. Putting her arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders, she said, ‘If you don’t stop the blubbering, I’m going to smack you.’

  BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999

  The next day I spent five minutes at the Codderville News-Messenger trying to get the editor to retract the story stating that the Lesters’ death had been a murder-suicide. I explained that it wasn’t murder-suicide – just murder, that Roy Lester did not kill his family. I told him flat out there was someone else out there who might kill again. His only response was, ‘Do you have any proof?’

  Royally pissed, I threw my arms up in the air in frustration and said, ‘No I don’t! But I’m going to get some if I have to hire a private detective!’ And with that Bessie and I were out the door.

  Imagine my chagrin the next morning when I picked up the Codderville News-Messenger and saw the following article on the front page:

  Mrs E.J. Pugh, neighbor and executrix of the Lester family estate, claims that Roy Lester did not kill his family and then himself, as police sources have indicated. Mrs Pugh cites possible cover-up by the Codderville Police Department. ‘At the very least,’ Mrs Pugh said, ‘they’ve dropped the ball on this one.’

  Vowing to hire a private detective, Mrs Pugh claims there is evidence to prove the Lester family was killed by outsiders. Mrs Pugh lives at 1411 Sagebrush Trail in Black Cat Ridge and is the wife of Willis Pugh of Pugh Oilfield Engineering Consultants in Codderville.

  I was incensed and scared shitless at the same time. It’s an interesting feat to accomplish, but then I’m a talented woman. Willis, however, was not amused. I, single-handedly, had just blown the contract he was working on that meant we might be able to eat the rest of the year. He turned his back on me and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

  That’s why I decided to take the kids to the movies mid-afternoon.

  Willis and I met in the early eighties at the University of Texas in Austin. It was our junior year and we fell madly in love fairly fast. One night toward the end of our first month together, we went to see a revival of Bullitt at the theater on the drag. Afterward we took Willis’s 1968 VW to the parking lot of the football stadium and practiced 180-degree turns at high speed. Willis never did get it right, but I was great. I had that VW spinning like a dreidel every time I tried it.

  There is a reason for this journey into the past of the Pugh parents. The kids and I had been to the movies in Codderville and were coming back in heavy rain. We were on Highway 12 heading towards Black Cat Ridge. The rain was coming down in sheets, my windshield wipers were on phase two, and the kids were arguing as usual. Well, Graham and Megan were. From what I could see in my quick glances in the rearview mirror, Bessie was sitting quietly between the two, walking her Ernie doll across her knees.

  We were nearing the bridge crossing the Colorado River that separated Codderville from Black Cat Ridge when a black van pulled up beside me on the four-lane road. At first I paid no attention. When he swerved, hitting my left front fender, my attention was gained.

  I stepped on the brakes, slowing the wagon down, only to have the van slow down and swerve into me again, pushing me towards the bridge abutment. A second’s glance into the window of the van showed me only my own reflection. All the windows appeared to be heavily tinted.

  Flashing back to my Bullitt training, I hit the brakes as hard as I could, cut the wheel, and pulled a true 180, heading down the highway in the wrong direction. With two of the three kids screaming in my ears, I bumped over the divider in the highway, getting to the correct side, the van more slowly following my example.

  I had a fairly new American wagon. It weighed a couple of tons and therefore does not go fast. But somehow, at this point, I got it up to ninety, hightailing it back to Codderville and civilization. I was hugging the inside lane when I saw the van moving up fast behind me. When we were almost level with the entrance to the last exit to Codderville, I cut the wheel ninety degrees and went sideways across the highway, bumping over dividers and grassy shoulder to get to the feeder road into town. The van kept going straight. The next exit wasn’t for fifteen miles.

  I pulled in front of the Codderville Police Department, slammed on the brakes and killed the engine, jerking open the doors and grabbing the kids in one smooth move. We were inside before even they knew what had happened.

  I told my story to three different uniforms in three different sittings at three different desks on three different occasions. On Saturday evening in Codderville, Texas, nobody seemed to be in charge and none of the uniforms really seemed to care.

  ‘Call Detective Luna,’ I said to anyone who’d listen. Finally someone dialed her number and handed me the phone.

  ‘Luna,’ she said upon answering.

  ‘Hi, it’s E.J. Pugh.’

  There was a sigh on her end. ‘Yes, Mrs Pugh?’

  ‘My kids and I just got run off the road by somebody who must read the Codderville News-Messenger.’

  ‘Details.’

  So I gave them to her.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘At the police station.’

  ‘Stay. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.’

  I hung up and called my husband.

  ‘Hello?’ />
  ‘Willis?’

  Silence.

  ‘I know you’re not speaking to me but you really don’t have to. Just listen. A big van tried to run us off the road by hitting my car.’

  ‘Jesus! Honey, are you OK? The kids?’

  ‘Well, I’m a little shook up and so are the kids, but we’re really OK. Nobody was hurt.’ I grinned. ‘Willis, remember Bullitt?’

  There was a silence while he slid back in time. ‘Jeez, Eeg . . .’

  ‘Pure one-eighty,’ I said. ‘It was beautiful!’

  He laughed. ‘Woman, what am I gonna do with you?’

  I grinned again. ‘I’ll tell you when I get home.’

  ‘I’m on my way now to pick you up.’

  ‘That’s OK, babe,’ I said. ‘The car’s still drivable.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his Master of the Universe voice showing. ‘We’ll change cars. Throw them off.’

  I grinned again and hung up.

  SEVEN

  BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, PRESENT

  I feel sorry for them, really. They pretend that they’re just one big happy family, when anyone can tell they’re just acting! My Bessie isn’t happy, that’s easy to tell. She wants out and I’m going to give her an out. The pitiful thing is I know these people, both the mother and the father and the two kids, aren’t going to just let her go. They’ll try to follow us, sic the police on us, search for ‘their’ Bessie until I do something about it. So that’s why I have to do something about it before we even go! I’ll do only what I have to do. Kill them all. I won’t enjoy it, but it has to be done.

  E.J., THE PRESENT

  All went according to plan the next day. Myra was released from the hospital and I offered to help Christine get her home. What with crutches, a suitcase, and a whole bunch of flowers, plants, balloons and cards, I figured Christine could use some help. Since my Volvo was bigger than Christine’s car, I picked her up at the garage apartment behind the Canfields’ house. The Canfields were a family at the church who lent out the small apartment every year to the day-camp director. Although they never rented it the rest of the year, I’m sure they took a healthy chunk off their income tax for those three months. Or maybe I’m just projecting.

  Myra was looking her usual adorable self when we got there, with just the addition of her crutches. She’d ordered them special from the medical supply company and they’d just come in that day: brushed aluminum with pink patterned covers over the underarm cushion and the hand cushion. She had a matching ribbon tied around her perky blond ponytail. She had on tight, short blue jean shorts, and a white camp shirt tied at the waist. One pink thong adorned her one uncasted foot.

  We helped her with all her stuff, which included two stuffed animals – a pink and blue teddy and a correctly colored giraffe. Myra didn’t shut up from the time we walked into her room until I pulled up in the Canfields’ driveway.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad to be out of there!’ Myra said. ‘You just can’t believe the food! I know they try, they really do, but it’s just so hard to fix tasty food for so many. I know it’s nutritious though, it says so right there on the thing you fill out for your food. You know, the thing that says what you can order for breakfast, lunch, or dinner? It tells you how healthy the food is. So I know they try. But you know, some people can’t have salt, and some people can’t have sugar, and some people can’t have fat . . .’

  And on, and on, and on. My ears were sagging by the time we got to her apartment. If I’d been wearing earrings, they would have fallen out. Unfortunately, the Canfields’ garage apartment is, as most are, on top of the garage, which meant a flight of stairs. I held the crutches while Myra used the handrails and jumped up each step. Since she only weighed about ninety pounds, I’m sure it wasn’t that much of an ordeal for her. Christine carried up the suitcase and the stuffed animals, and one of us would go back down for the flowers, plants, balloons and cards. My vote was on Christine.

  This was the first time I’d been in the Canfields’ garage apartment. I’m sure the bare bones of the place were just that: one large room with a partitioned-off bathroom and partitioned-off closet. Between those two partitioned areas was the kitchen: two cabinets on either side of the smallest stove-top and oven I’ve ever seen. Underneath one of the countertops was a dorm-sized refrigerator. A bar with a single sink cut off the kitchen from the rest of the area. Two bar stools were tucked under the bar. The living room held a futon couch that doubled as the bed, and one old, used armchair and an ottoman. Myra’s touches were evident: a small bookcase crammed full of religious texts and romance novels, a tiny TV set balanced on an even tinier yellow plastic table, brightly colored throw pillows on the futon and the floor, a beaded curtain behind the futon that hung from the ceiling and, when the beads were all lined up, displayed the picture of an angel with wings spread wide. Behind the beaded curtain was a desk and chair. Whether that came with the apartment or was brought from home I was undecided about.

  Two walls had windows covered in mini-blinds (came with the place, I’m sure), but framed with draped gauzy material, one in purple, the other in bright orange. The wall space not used up with windows was covered with framed and unframed posters and pictures, the subjects of which I would expect: angels, kittens, babies, and a last supper poster where the apostles were played by dogs but Jesus was, thankfully, still Jesus.

  Christine turned the futon into a bed and I helped Myra get settled. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’ I asked Christine.

  She pointed to a sleeping bag almost hidden behind the easy chair. ‘I’ve got my sleeping bag and Myra has a float I can blow up and use. I’ll be fine. I love to camp out,’ she said, showing that smile that made her almost pretty. ‘Why don’t you stay with Myra for a minute, while I go down and get the rest of the stuff?’ she added.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Myra said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You’re going to the day-camp, right?’ she asked Christine, who nodded. ‘So I’m going to be alone then! No reason for Mrs Pugh to stay with me!’

  ‘Myra, E.J., remember?’ I said.

  ‘E.J. Right.’ She banged herself on the head. ‘Nothing up here, I swear!’ she said and laughed. I wondered what they had her on.

  I leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘OK, then, I’m going home. But if you need anything, you have my number, right?’

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘Yes, I do! And thank you, E.J., you’ve been a peach. And to think I used to think you didn’t like me!’ Her smile was so bright and so white I felt like shielding my eyes.

  ‘Now what would ever make you think that?’ I said, wondering if I always gave that much away, or whether, despite her perkiness, Myra Morris was a little more astute than I gave her credit for. Waving and smiling I made it out the door before she could give me a blow by blow on how openly hostile I’d been to her over the years.

  Christine was at the trunk of the Volvo, loading up her arms with the remaining items from Myra’s hospital room. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ I asked her.

  ‘If you’ll just put that potted plant on the top here, I think I can get it all,’ she said.

  I did as she asked and as she headed up the steep flight of stairs, I called to her, ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  She breathed out an ‘OK,’ as she made it up to the landing. I got in the Volvo and headed home.

  GRAHAM, THE PRESENT

  I think I’m seeing way too much of Lotta. In both ways – I’m with her every day from like eight in the morning until six in the evening. And then there’s the other way: like she’s in this skimpy bathing suit half the morning. How’s a guy supposed to concentrate? We can’t have sex until she graduates high school. That’s what she told me. So OK, I’m a nice guy. A respectful guy. I’m not pushing her, but how much am I supposed to take? At least she could wear shorts over her bathing suit, and a T-shirt maybe. That would help.

  Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on Liz, and I’m telling you, this is getting old. N
obody’s roaming around the woods with binocs, spying on the shrimp. And I doubt that she’s even thinking about it. She seems to be having a good time. The kids love her, and Christine gives her special little projects all the time, so Liz is basking in the glory. And I’m stuck babysitting when I could be out in the world making some bucks. I have to save every nickel I get to take Lotta out on her night off, which leaves me with nada when me and my boys go out, know what I mean? Can’t even buy a Coke. I’m too old for this crap!

  ELIZABETH, THE PRESENT

  Alicia is a pain in the ass. I feel sorry for her and all, but she never wants to DO anything! She just wants to sit in my room in the air-conditioning, and play games on my computer. When I told her what happened to me last spring, she just shrugged! Can you believe it? I mean, I was kidnapped, for God’s sake! I guess with her history, a little kidnapping is no big deal. I want to stop answering the phone when she calls because I don’t want her coming over here, but she’s a foster kid, ya know? What am I supposed to do? Maybe I’ll try to be more assertive and insist that she go do something with me. Something indoors. Mom could drive us to the roller rink in Codderville, or we could go to the movies, or just hang out at the mall! Anything but sit in my room every day staring at that damned computer! I’ve had more than enough of that to last me a lifetime.

  E.J., THE PRESENT

  As the week went on, I fixed a little more dinner than usual and took casseroles and sundry over to Myra’s house. I figured Christine had enough to do; she didn’t need to have to cook on top of it.

  While grocery shopping on the Thursday of that week, the store had their own fully cooked briskets on sale, along with a free pint of mashed potatoes, a free bottle of gravy, a free can of green beans, and a free roll of store-brand crescent rolls. I picked up two of everything and had one bagged separately and headed over to Myra’s garage apartment. Christine kept the door unlocked so Myra didn’t have to get up every time someone came over, which, according to Christine, was often. So I carried up the separate bag of goodies and knocked on the door as I turned the knob, hollering out, ‘Myra! It’s E.J.!’ and walked in.