by Theresa Weir
“But, being Danny, he blamed himself,” Jo continued.
Cleo didn’t want to hear any more about Daniel Sinclair. Not because it was too horrible to bear; she’d seen horrible things, had lived through horrible things. No, it was because she didn’t want to know about him, about his personal life, his triumphs, his pain. She didn’t want to know him.
“Just shortly after that, Lucille died. Lucille once told me she wasn’t afraid of death, but she was afraid of what would happen to Beau if she died. So Danny moved back home to take care of Beau. But if you ask me, it was the other way around half the time. Danny was drinking. A lot. He’d stay drunk for days, and Beau would take care of him. So I offered Danny a job. It keeps him out of trouble most of the time, but he still goes on the occasional bender. Beau keeps me informed.”
To Cleo’s relief, they finally arrived at the police station, a one-story white building located next to the courthouse and across the street from the fire station. Jo swung the squad car into a parking place reserved for the chief of police. Then they made their way along a wide sidewalk, up a few steps, and through heavy double doors.
Inside, Cleo was introduced to Parker Reed, the secretary. “He keeps this place running,” Jo said.
And it was quite a place. In one corner was a potted palm that had grown all the way to the ceiling, had taken a turn, and was now heading toward a nearby window. In another corner were a recliner, a lamp, and a table with two potted and profusely blooming purple African violets. Underfoot were woven throw rugs similar to the rugs Cleo had noticed at the Sinclair house.
“I make these rugs in my spare time,” Jo said. “I take old clothes, old sheets, old blankets, even old plastic bread wrappers, and cut everything into strips, then weave it. I’ll show you my loom sometime.”
“Okay,” Cleo said vaguely.
Was it her lack of sleep that was making things seem so weird? First the creepy motel room and the bad dreams, now Jo and her police station that looked like an old lady’s living room.
“Danny’s office.” Jo flung open a door, revealing a cramped room with a single small window, a desk, a phone, and not much else-and, thankfully, no Sinclair. Next was Jo’s office, a more lavish and personal version of the front room. Mixed in with the clutter on her desk were small, cheap picture frames, the kind you could pick up at a discount store for a couple of bucks. On the wall were more photos, many of Jo herself shaking hands with this person or that person, none of them anybody Cleo immediately recognized. Something told her if she showed the slightest interest in anything in the room, she would end up getting a monologue about the item in question.
Jo crossed the room to a wall safe, dialed the combination, and opened the thick door. “Here’s where I kept the key,” Jo said, standing to one side in case Cleo got the notion to peer into the darkness.
“Does anyone else know the safe’s combination?” Cleo asked.
“You aren’t here to launch an investigation,” Jo said, seeming surprised by the direction Cleo’s mind had taken. “The obvious questions are my job. I just want you to concentrate on that key. I don’t want your head cluttered with extraneous details.”
“I’m simply trying to get an idea of what’s going on.”
“I want you to get some vibes from this vault, then we’ll go across the street and talk to Harvey to see if you pick anything up there.”
Never in her life had Cleo picked up anything from an inanimate object. There had been the missing little girl, but it had never required a conscious effort on her part. She’d never actively tried to get information. It had just come, unbidden.
Leaving the safe ajar, Jo went to her desk, sat down, pulled out a huge black ledger, wrote a check, and handed it to Cleo.
Five thousand dollars.
“Five thousand in advance, another five thousand if you come up with the key. Fair?” Jo asked.
Cleo carefully tucked the check into a pocket in the side of her bag. “Fair.” Oh, God. Why had Jo paid her now, when there was nothing more Cleo wanted than to get far, far away?
Cleo moved to stand directly in front of the safe, the dark, deep pit level with her face. She reached up and touched the cold metal of the door.
“Feel anything?” Jo whispered from just beyond Cleo’s shoulder, inches from her ear.
Startled, Cleo jumped, her heart racing.
Peering into the darkness, Cleo put a hand on either side of the safe and closed her eyes. Careful to keep her expression blank, she silently counted to twenty, all the while thinking about the five-thousand-dollar check in her bag. Five thousand dollars. In her mind’s eye, she pictured a home. Nothing lavish. She didn’t ask for much. Just a tidy room with waxed floors and sparkling windows that let the sun in. In her imagination, there were no cockroaches or creepy landlords or crackheads living in dark hallways. In her daydream, the sun was warm on her face.
She turned the corner and found herself in a kitchen. There, above a stainless-steel double sink, was a potted geranium, its red blooms cascading happily down the green tiled backsplash. Near the back door, sweaters and jackets hung from pegs.
Five thousand dollars would get her such a place, at least for a while.
Cleo let out a heavy sigh and slowly opened her eyes.
“Well?” Jo asked expectantly.
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you feel anything?”
“I need time to digest the images.”
Jo shut the heavy door and gave the lock a couple of spins. “Let’s go talk to Harvey. Maybe you’ll pick up on something there.”
They found Harvey polishing the fire truck. On the surface, he seemed like your average middle-aged guy. But when he began talking, it quickly became apparent there would be no sidestepping the issue. His lazy drawl might have been southern, but his unblinking, no-time-for-bullshit attitude was pure New York City.
“I didn’t take your damn key,” Harvey said, wiping his hands on a towel. Damn was pronounced dai-yum. Key was pronounced with a long a.
Jo went on as if he hadn’t spoken, introducing Cleo and explaining her position in the entire conundrum.
“Howdy,” Harvey said grudgingly. He probably would have been halfway polite under normal circumstances.
After the reluctant hello, he turned back to Jo. “You know I don’t believe in that bullshit.”
“You don’t have to believe. She’s going to do all the work. I want her to pick up any vibes you might be giving off.”
“Like a human lie detector.”
“You could say that.”
“You’re pissing off the whole damn town,” he told Jo. “You know that, don’t you?”
“That’s your opinion. Cleo?” She motioned for Cleo to step closer. “Stand in his aura.” She sniffed and made an arrogant face. “If he even has one.”
Take the money and run.
Cleo stepped closer.
Harvey wasn’t an especially tall man. Not much taller than Cleo, which would put him at about five-eleven. His eyes were very brown.
Jo put a hand to Cleo’s shoulder and shoved. Cleo took a stumbling step, and she and Harvey stood nose to chin. “Um, okay.” Cleo closed her eyes and counted to twenty. When the time was up, she opened her eyes and stepped back.
“Well?” Jo asked in a repeat of their earlier performance. “Get anything?”
“I don’t know,” Cleo said, putting a limp hand to her forehead. “I’m suddenly feeling very tired.”
“I’ve heard that can happen. That clairvoyance takes a lot out of a person.”
“I’m going to have to rest and absorb the information.”
“I understand.” Jo gave Harvey a final glare, took Cleo by the arm, and led her gently from the fire station.
Cleo looked back to see Harvey shake his head and return to his polishing.
They were crossing the road, heading back to the police station, when someone in a blue sport utility vehicle honked and waved, the vehicle swinging into
a parking space in front of the courthouse.
“There’s Dr. Campbell.”
“ Burton Campbell?”
“You met him?”
“I saw his signs.”
“ Burton ’s done a lot for this town. Got a good head on his shoulders.” There was respect in Jo’s voice. It was the kind of likable awe reserved for those special few people who were just a little bit better than everybody else. It was the kind of reaction you saw in small towns. It was the kind of reaction Cleo’s mother had cultivated.
“He’ll want to meet you.” Jo flagged him down even though it was obvious he’d stopped to talk to them.
Dr. Campbell was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, his teeth bleached, his hair cut to perfection. He was a man selling himself with his Dale Carnegie handshake and his smooth, practiced greeting. Handsome and slick, he was the kind of guy Cleo avoided.
“Hello, Miss Tyler. Welcome to our little community of Egypt.” He held out his hand. Cleo had no choice but to take it.
His grip was just right, not too firm, not too limp, his fingertips like smooth, cool stones. And while he gave her arm a little pump, he looked directly into her eyes and smiled his winning smile, a smile that had poor Jo smitten even though he had to be twenty years her junior.
“ Burton is not only the mayor, he’s the best dentist in town,” Jo said, proud as punch.
The only dentist in town, Cleo recalled.
While praise for the good doctor rolled off Jo’s tongue, a black car cruised past. The vehicle was fairly new. Four doors, with Egypt Police Department stenciled on the driver’s side. At the wheel was Daniel Sinclair. He gave them a lazy wave, his bare arm and elbow hanging out the open window. There was a smile on his face-or was it a smirk?-as he took in their cozy little chatfest. Cleo gave him a feeble smile in return, wondering if he was thinking about the cavity thing.
Jo didn’t miss a beat. “Burt’s initiated so many new things in Egypt.” A few minutes earlier she hadn’t been able to stop talking about Daniel. Now she was waving to him as if he were a distraction. “He’s brought a new vitality to the town with his Revitalize Main Street project, the Downtown Business Organization, and the KKOD.”
The black car stopped at the intersection then moved on. “KKOD?” Cleo asked, trying to sound interested, but failing.
“Keep Kids Off Drugs. We hold meetings at the youth center where people bring the family and we talk to the kids and the parents about keeping kids busy so they won’t turn to drugs. Yep, Burton ’s brought a sense of pride back to Egypt.”
Dr. Burton Campbell was basking in her praise, smiling with an aw-shucks attitude. “I didn’t do it by myself,” he said. “Sometimes people just need to be pointed in the right direction.” He turned to Cleo. “So, are you free for lunch?”
His forwardness took her by surprise, and she tried to avoid reacting in an obviously negative way. “Actually, I thought I’d start trying to piece some things together.”
“You have to eat,” he said, still smiling. “There’s a little place about five miles from here where they have the best catfish. You can fill me in on your plans for finding the missing key.”
“Thanks, but I’d really like to just jump right in, if you don’t mind.”
His smile didn’t change. “Certainly. Maybe we can do it another time?”
“Yes. Maybe so.”
Give the guy a break, Cleo tried to tell herself. The only reason she disliked him was because he was a guy her mother would have adored.
Chapter Six
Cleo sat on the edge of the bed, hands between her knees, staring at the fingerprint-smudged wall. She wasn’t the damn queen or anything, but they could have put her up somewhere other than this cockroach-infested hole that was giving off twenty years of bad vibes. It had her karmic balance all out of whack.
To hell with it. She was getting out of there.
Cleo left the offensive room in search of a just-as-offensive manager. She found him outside in the smothering heat, sweat glistening on his forehead as he contemplated the trash-filled pool.
“Could I bum a ride to town?” Cleo asked. “I need to go to the bank.”
“I don’t know.” He scratched at his belly through his tank top. “I’m pretty busy.”
“I’ll pay you. How does twenty bucks sound?”
Like a done deal. That was all it took to pull him away from the pool. And anyway, it seemed as if the mere contemplation of cleaning it had already exhausted him.
“My name’s Willie,” her driver said, pulling the boat of a car onto the two-lane that led into town. He popped in a CD. Sly and the Family Stone blared while Willie slapped the red steering wheel and sang along.
In town, Cleo cashed the check at the bank. A quick stop at the Tastee Delight, and they were heading back to The Palms. In the motel room, Cleo got half her vanilla shake and five fries down before throwing up.
This place is bad.
I have to get out of here.
Now. Right away.
Before she changed her mind about leaving, or before something happened such as an unexpected visit from Daniel Sinclair, she put in a call to Beau. When he answered, she quickly told him she needed to stop by to get her dog.
“What?” he asked, his voice conveying shock and panic and a number of things she didn’t think she could deal with at the moment.
“I need to get Premonition.”
There was a long silence. Then Beau said, “Does he have to go? I thought he could stay with me for a while. He likes it here. He sleeps on the end of my bed-and yesterday I bought special dog dishes for his food and water, and even a mat to put underneath, with paw prints on it.”
As he spoke, Cleo’s heart sank. Daniel had been right. She shouldn’t have let Beau keep the dog, but she’d had no idea they would become so attached to each other in just a day or two.
“He’s happy here,” he said.
He’s happy here. It was true. Premonition was happy there. He’d taken to Beau immediately.
“Can I keep him? Just a few more days?”
Cleo swallowed and gripped the receiver tightly. “Yes,” she said, her voice tight, tears threatening. “Yes, you can.”
She hung up then sat on the edge of the bed staring at nothing. Beau and Premonition adored each other. And Cleo lived a nomadic, unstable life, with no real place to call home. At Beau’s, Premonition could have a home, a routine, a big backyard, and all the attention he wanted. And Beau would have a friend who would return that unconditional love.
They were made for each other.
Outside, a whistle blew.
A train. And a train meant train tracks. She would leave her suitcase behind and follow the tracks to the nearest town where she’d catch a ride to…somewhere. She’d figure that out later.
If she sat there another second, she’d change her mind about Premonition.
In a flurry of activity and no deep thought, she stripped down to her bra and panties, then slipped on a black knit top and pulled on a loose pair of jeans. Over that went a flannel shirt.
While she knew nothing of covert operations, she’d seen enough movies to know if she wanted to leave town without causing a stir she’d need a disguise. She didn’t want to attract attention, she just wanted to slip away without notice.
Worried that her hair might attract attention, she tried to tuck in under a green University of Oregon cap. It wouldn’t fit. She remembered the scissors she’d borrowed from Daniel.
She whacked off her hair just above the shoulders, trying to ignore the chunks dropping to the floor. Finished, she stared at her reflection in the murky bathroom mirror. Her hair was ragged, the left side shorter than the right.
What had she done?
First Premonition, then her hair. Was she losing her mind?
Don’t think, she told herself. Just act. She shoved her remaining hair under the cap. In the bedroom, she rolled up a black skirt and stuffed it in her bag.
Before leaving the room, she opened the door a crack and checked to see if anyone was around, then she slipped from the room. Jamming her hands deep into the front pockets of her loose jeans, she adopted a head-down posture, walking with long, loose strides, so anyone seeing her would think she was a teenager just bumming around.
She headed straight for the train tracks, intending to follow them to the nearest town.
As she walked, the parallel rails disappeared into shimmering heat waves. Sun beat down from above, baking her inside the flannel shirt. Her scalp, under the cap, began to sweat and itch.
It took less than an hour to reach a town called Shanghai City, and in that time Cleo didn’t see a soul. Fortunately, the tracks ran behind a gas station on the edge of town, and she could see what looked like restrooms on one side. She left the tracks, sliding down a gravel incline. Ducking under welcoming shade trees, she crossed the blacktop parking area and slipped inside the door marked Women, locking it behind her.
It was a small, square room with a single toilet and a deodorizer so strong it burned her eyes. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her hot face then cupped her hands for a drink.
She turned off the water, kicked off her sandals, and shed her baggy jeans. With the cement cool under her bare feet, she wiggled into the black skirt, then slipped her feet back into her sandals. Dressed, she removed her cap, pulled her hair back, applied makeup, then checked her reflection in the cloudy mirror.
Not great, but okay. She shoved her disguise in the trash container. Then, with her bag slung over her shoulder, she left the restroom to follow the sidewalk to the front of the gas station.
“I’m looking for someone to give me a ride to the St. Louis airport,” she announced as soon as she stepped inside.
The space was occupied by three teenage boys, and from the way they were looking at her, she guessed they would have helped her for nothing, but she made an offer. “I’ll pay a hundred dollars, plus expenses.”
All three clamored for the job.
They ended up drawing straws plucked from a broom.