Sam leaned toward Marta Adams. “What was it that made her leave all of a sudden?”
“We didn’t say all of a sudden,” Ray Ben said.
Sam smiled gently. “Middle of the school year. It’s cold out, she’s fifteen years old. Must have been something.”
Ray Ben shrugged.
Marta Adams looked at the floor. “That was just Selma. She did stuff like that.”
39
The principal’s office of Jack’s Creek High School was a square box, the walls concrete block, the floor overwaxed linoleum. The yellow pinewood desk was cluttered, and one of the filing cabinets hung open. The chair behind the desk was undoubtedly the most comfortable in the room, but it was empty.
Sonora sat in a straight-back wood chair next to Sam, waiting for the next teacher.
“Get the feeling she wasn’t much liked?” Sam was saying.
Sonora nodded. The principal had been new and young, and did not know Selma Yorke, but he had lent them his office and instigated a parade of teachers who did.
Someone knocked at the door.
Sam looked at his watch. “Last one.”
The woman was past retirement age, tall and broad shouldered, with well-rounded hips but no extra weight. She wore a blue print dress that hung loosely to mid-calf, thick cotton socks, and scuffed deck shoes. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Her hair, gray and white, was thickly plaited and hung down her back.
“I’m Ms. Armstead, the art teacher.”
Sam stood up and shook her hand. “Specialist Delarosa, and this is Specialist Blair.”
Armstead nodded at Sonora and sat down. She inclined her head toward Sonora’s recorder. “Are you taping this?”
Sam smiled at her. “We record all our interviews, it’s standard procedure.”
Sonora leaned forward. “Ms. Armstead, the principal talked to you already, didn’t he, about a student named Selma Yorke?”
“I don’t remember all of my students, Detective, and this was over eleven years ago. But the fact is, I do remember Selma, very well.”
Sonora and Sam exchanged looks.
“Why very well?” Sam asked.
“I’m an art teacher, and Selma was very talented. Talented and … tortured.”
Sonora settled back in her chair. “Why do you say that—tortured?”
“I’m speaking internally. Let me give you a for instance. We always do a unit on portraiture—one student models and the others sketch. Selma couldn’t do it, she could not draw another human being. Sometimes she would sketch a number, instead of a face. It was weird, it made the other children uncomfortable. She was not well liked. She tried, I’ll give her that. I saw the child sit there, time after time, pencil in hand. She would break the lead, tear the paper. One particularly bad day she went to the restroom and … and cut off her bangs.” Armstead’s voice went breathless. “I went to her. I took her aside, but she was a difficult child to get close to. I will tell you honestly that I did not like her. But I did respect her talent. I haven’t had another student like Selma.”
Good, Sonora thought. But Armstead looked bereft.
“Had she done anything like that before? Gotten mad and cut her bangs?” Sam asked.
“When I gave them the self-portrait assignment, Selma couldn’t even begin. She got very angry, then came in the next day, bangs chopped right off, the same thing. She was very apathetic. Said she’d take a failing grade for the project, moped around the room while the others were working. Then she came to me and asked if she could draw Danny instead.”
Sonora looked at Sam. “She mentioned a Danny. A couple of times.”
“Tell us about him,” Sam said.
“Daniel Markum: He was older than she was, twenty-two, twenty-three. His brother went to school with Selma, and he worked the family farm and ran a repair shop from the house. Some of the teachers thought he shouldn’t have been fooling with a girl as young as Selma, but she was crazy about him.”
Sonora leaned forward in her chair. “Did she do it? Draw him?”
Armstead nodded. “A very credible job; she was talented. She did him, but never anyone else.”
“Have you seen her since she left? Heard from her?”
Armstead shook her head. “I did what I could when she was my student, but we were not close. I kept things, some of her work, locked away in my private cabinet. Would you like to see?”
A bell rang just as they left the principal’s office, and the hallways flooded with kids in blue jeans. Armstead led them past a thinly populated trophy case, through double doors into 101-A—the art room.
The walls were covered with vibrant masks of papier-mâché, bright greens, yellows, blues. Armstead went past a paint-streaked sink and opened a locked cabinet. Her head disappeared, and Sonora heard rustling noises.
A girl peered in the doorway and looked at Sam. She grinned and left.
“Here we are.” Armstead brought out a fabric case and unzipped it over her desk, took out a canvas, and held it up.
It was thickly painted with throbbing, dark color.
“Selma loved to paint. Disturbing things, hot hard colors as you see here, very abstract. The other students, the other teachers, thought it was just splatters on canvas. Ignorance.” Her voice sounded clipped and irritable. She rummaged in the satchel and pulled out a square of canvas paper. “This is the sketch she did. Danny Markum. The likeness is good.”
Sonora held the sketch by the edges. It had been done in charcoal, by a hurried, almost frantic hand, and something about it disturbed her. The likeness to Keaton Daniels was superficial, but marked. She passed it on to Sam.
He looked up and caught Armstead’s eye. “What happened with her and Danny?”
Armstead winced. “She did this just before the … that business at the river.”
“What business at the river?” Sonora asked.
“You don’t know?”
Sam shook his head.
Armstead settled slowly into the chair behind the small square desk. “Nobody really knows for sure what happened that night, and there were a lot of versions flying at the time, let me tell you.” She looked out the window, seeming far away. “I told you Danny had a brother, Roger, and he was in Selma’s class. Selma was jealous of Roger. She was jealous of anybody that went near Daniel, but Roger in particular.
“The two of them, the brothers, had a habit of going night fishing once a week. It was a sore point with Selma. She had a thing about the river. Anyway, Selma was always agitating to tag along, but Roger usually talked Daniel out of letting her go. This one night, Roger said Selma came anyway, fought with Danny, then stormed off. The story goes that after Selma left, Roger went back to the car for more beer. And when he came back, Danny was gone. Nothing there but his fishing pole and bait, and a half-empty beer can.”
“They doing a lot of drinking?” Sam asked.
“Probably. More than they should, no doubt. They dragged the river and found Daniel’s body. The official ruling was that he waded out over his head and drowned. He couldn’t swim. Most of the kids around here can’t.”
“Then the rumors started,” Sonora said.
Armstead propped her chin on her elbow. “More than just rumors. Roger made a big fuss. He said Selma came back and pushed Danny in. But the sheriff let it go. He said that Selma loved Danny and, after all, she was a little thing, and Danny was a solid six foot. But they … they found one of Selma’s earrings in the mud. Selma said she lost it the first time, when they had words.”
Sam looked at Armstead. “The first time? She said that?”
Armstead nodded. “I heard her say it, here in class.”
“You tell the sheriff?”
“I … yes.” Armstead traced a finger across the desk. “Roger wouldn’t let it be.”
“Is that when she left?” Sonora asked.
“Not exactly. Not long after that, Roger had an accident. He was working late in the family tobacco barn, and a fire
started. He didn’t make it out.”
Sam spoke gently. “Any ruling on how the fire started?”
Armstead spoke through clenched teeth. “Someone emptied a gas can that was there for the tractor, and then dropped a match. Roger never had a chance.” She looked up at Sam. “Everyone said Selma did it. And that was when she left.”
Sonora and Sam exchanged looks.
Armstead took the canvas paper from Sam. “It’s a very focused sketch, don’t you think?”
Sonora thought obsessed would be a better word. “Ms. Armstead, do you think Selma killed Roger? Do you think she killed Danny?”
Armstead raised a hand in a gesture that looked hopeless and tired. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t know. I will tell you that after Danny died … she tried to draw him, but she couldn’t.”
40
Sonora looked up at the fifth floor of the Board of Elections building, saw that all windows were lit. She looked at Sam.
“Go home, babe, see your kiddo. How’s she doing?”
“They’re still running tests, Sonora. Always running tests.” He chewed his lip. “Naw, I better—”
“Go home, Sam.”
“Go home, okay. Call if you get something.” He leaned across the seat and kissed her cheek. “You’re looking tired, Sonora.”
“I am tired, Sam.”
He watched her walk from the car to the side door—cop watching cop in at cop headquarters. Sonora glanced up at the video camera in the doorway.
The elevator was slow. She rested her head against the wall, thinking she would like it if Sam kissed her more often.
Her phone was ringing as she walked in. She almost passed it by, then thought it might be Stuart or the kids.
“Homicide, Specialist Blair.”
“Hello.” The voice was high and fluting, vaguely familiar against a noisy background. “This is Chita Childers. You know, from Cujo’s?”
Sonora’s heartbeat kicked in hard and heavy. Tell me she’s there, she thought. Tell me she’s there.
“He’s here.”
Sonora leaned against her desk. “He?”
“Yeah, um, that guy, you know? The one in the picture?”
Sonora felt a chill, then her heart settled. Keaton, of course. “Solid build, dark curly hair?”
“Yeah.” Chita was chewing gum, which over the phone sounded like a wad of plastic in her mouth. Sonora wanted to tell her to spit it out.
“Thank you, Ms. Childers. I appreciate the call.”
“Should I try to keep him here or something?”
“No. He’s not a suspect.”
“Just a law-abiding citizen having a drink, huh?”
Sonora pictured Chita Childers behind the bar, hands on her slim hips.
“You might want to know that he’s asking after her. That blonde in the jean skirt. He’s not a cop, is he?”
“Did he say he was?” Sonora asked.
“No.”
“He’s not.”
“So I shouldn’t have called, huh?”
“Certainly you should have. I appreciate it.” Women always needed to be reassured, Sonora thought. “If you see the other one—”
“The girl?”
“The girl. Don’t approach her, and call me right away.”
“Will do.”
Sonora called home. “Stuart? Don’t wait up, I’m going to be late. Can you stay?”
“Bartender went home with the flu twenty minutes ago. I was going to wait till the kids went to bed, then take off. You think they’ll be all right, or you want me to stay?”
“They should be all right, just make sure they’re all locked up and the alarms are on.”
“No problem. Case breaking?”
“Side issue. Trying to keep John Q. Public out of trouble.”
“Maybe John Q. wants trouble.”
“He’s going to get it, he doesn’t watch out.”
41
Sonora ran a pick through her hair and reapplied her makeup, smearing Sulky Beige heavily across her lips. She looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing she could do about the hard exhaustion in her face and the newly acquired slump to her shoulders. She straightened her tie when she parked the car, then changed her mind and stuffed the tie in the glove compartment.
Cujo’s was winding down—it was late, a weeknight. Sonora wondered if Selma was around, watching him, watching her. She paused in the doorway, and people stared. Something about her always said cop. Keaton sat by himself a few feet from the bar where he could see the front door, the restrooms, and the television. He was close to the end of his beer. His khakis were wrinkled, but his shirt was freshly pressed and he had shaved after five. He looked tired and pale and wonderful.
Sonora rested a hand on the chair across from him. “Hello, Keaton Daniels.”
“Sit down. I saw you on the news tonight, and I was wondering about all those developments you mentioned.”
Sonora sat and smiled sadly.
“It’s all hype, isn’t it?”
“It’s hot breaking yet, I won’t lie to you. But it’s moving and picking up speed. And I will catch her.” She tilted her head sideways. “Provided you don’t beat me to it.”
He smiled, and she liked it that he didn’t try to deny it. “Am I in trouble?”
“You got a gun, Keaton?”
“Yeah, you mind?”
“Got a permit? Know how to use it?”
He nodded.
“Then no, I don’t mind. Just don’t take it to school with you.” She leaned back in her chair. “Been here a long time?”
“Since eight.”
“Long night.”
Chita Childers leaned across the bar, trying to get their attention. “Last call! Either of you want anything?”
“I was thinking about toast,” Sonora said. It was out of her mouth before she had time to think. Bad girl. No can do. Brother of victim. Be smart.
Keaton stood up and took the jacket from the back of his chair.
God he looked good, she thought.
Chita Childers stared at them. “Going to call it a night, huh?”
Keaton smiled at Sonora.
“I’ll follow you home,” she said. See him in safely, she thought. Yeah. Right.
The streets of Mount Adams were lined with parked cars, giving the neighborhood a tight, squeezed feeling. Keaton took Sonora’s hand and led her up the walk to the front porch. He fumbled with the house key, and Sonora wondered if he was nervous. She was.
“You ever get those locks changed,” Sonora asked. She looked over her shoulder. Scanned the dark streets.
Nobody, no movement, no car out of place. Selma couldn’t be everywhere at once, one person couldn’t do twenty-four-hour surveillance. Maybe she wasn’t out there.
And maybe she was.
“Yeah, I got the locks changed. We’re safe.”
The house was dark, just a light over the sink in the kitchen. Keaton headed for the lamp, but Sonora put a hand on his arm, and he left it dark. The blinds were open, and the streetlights gave the room a shimmer of illumination. Keaton closed the front door and locked it.
He took Sonora’s hand and led her to the edge of the couch. “Stand close to me, like you did the other night.”
Sonora let her purse slide off her shoulder and drop to the floor. She draped her blazer over the arm of the couch, then moved toward him, not quite touching. Was she really going to do this? She studied his face, shadowed by darkness. Yes. She was.
Keaton put his arms around her, and she stood on her tiptoes and dipped her tongue into the hollow of his throat, a butterfly flick. He kissed her, swiftly and hard, and after a while she broke free.
They stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. Keaton put his hands on her hips and pulled her tight against his body. She closed her eyes, feeling his warmth, his hardness, the beat of his heart against her chest.
He traced the line of her neck and shoulder with the thick pad of his thumb. She placed a finger agains
t his lips, parting them slowly, touching his tongue, lightly grazing the bottom edge of his teeth.
With her other hand she unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt and unlatched the front hook of her bra. She arched her back, felt, her hair slide across her shoulders, bit her bottom lip when he bent forward and put his mouth on her breast.
They shed their clothes quickly, awkwardly. Light spilled in from the street and turned their flesh milky white.
Sonora sat on the couch and pulled him close in front of her, took him into her mouth. He wrapped a hand in her hair and said her name so softly she thought she imagined his voice.
His breath came in short gasps, and the hand tangled in her hair tightened into a fist.
“God.”
Sonora laughed.
“Come upstairs,” he said.
The stairs were bare wood and caught the light. Sonora’s hand slid against the banister on the way up, and Keaton guided her through the open hallway toward his bedroom.
Outside, a car door slammed.
“You okay?” Keaton asked. He stroked the small of her back.
“Just jumpy.”
It was dark in the bedroom, blinds drawn tight. Sonora saw the white glow of a digital clock. Keaton put both hands on her shoulders and pressed her back against the edge of the bed. He pushed her legs back till her knees were high, then traced the inside of her thigh with his tongue.
She grabbed the headboard and shut her eyes. His touch made her jerk, and he paused for a moment before he resumed, relentless and slow. He moved on top of her, his mouth over hers. She grabbed his shoulders.
“Keaton.”
She shut her eyes and tried to hold him back. Now was probably a bad time to tell him she wasn’t on the pill. She relaxed and let him resume, just once or twice more, and then she thought of pregnancy and babies and how easily she got caught.
“Keaton, I can’t—”
He kissed her neck. “Yes, you can. Yes, you can.”
“Keaton, I get pregnant at the drop of a hat.” The words came out in a strangled rush. He stopped moving inside of her and raised up on his arms. “So to speak,” she said.
“Sorry. Should have asked.”
Flashpoint Page 21