Idaho Code

by Joan Opyr

  “I can’t take your sofa anymore. I feel like I spent the night in traction.”

  “I think you know,” she said slowly, “that you won’t have to.”

  “Then let’s go,” I replied, pushing my chair back. “It’s a long drive.”

  “Wait.” She laid her hand on my arm. Reluctantly, I sat back down. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, something I want to explain. It’s about my father.”

  “Are you going to tell me the whole story?”

  “What do you mean?” She pulled her hand back and put it in her lap.

  I thought for a moment, trying to put feelings and impressions into words. “If what you saw was real,” I said at last, “if you didn’t imagine it, or dream it, or just wish that it were so, then I think your mother had more than one reason to kill him. He did more than just pinch the back of your neck and shove you around, didn’t he? Your mother wasn’t just afraid for herself, she was afraid for you. You were in some danger.”

  “Go on,” she said quietly.

  I shrugged—I didn’t know any more. She sat very still. I reached across the table and held my hand out to her. She looked at it for a moment before she took it. Suddenly she seemed far away, and I wanted to bring her back to me. I touched her chin, lifting her face up so I could look at her.

  “It’s all right, Sylvie. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “How did you know?”

  I laced my fingers with hers. “Intuition. I was afraid of your father. I’ve also been wondering what it would take for me to kill a man, the father of my child, and never look back. I’d probably want to murder someone who beat me up or killed my dog, but would I do it? It had to be something more.”

  She said, “On the day he died, I accidentally knocked my father’s motorcycle over in the driveway. I broke something on it, and he choked me until I passed out. I don’t remember anything after that, except what I saw that night. My mother knew we had to get away from him.”

  I nodded slowly. “But a divorce couldn’t guarantee that. He might fight it or try to get joint custody.”

  “Or kill us. I think that’s why your mother helped that night. She’d been trying to get my mother to leave for a long time. She knew we couldn’t just walk out; we had to go somewhere that he couldn’t find us.”

  She looked away. I held her hand tightly, squeezing it until she returned the pressure of my fingers. When she looked at me again, her eyes were clear. That made me sadder than if she’d been weeping uncontrollably. It also made me angry. Sylvie had learned to hide her feelings, to push them down out of sight where no one could find them and use them against her.

  I looked down at our hands resting entwined on the table.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”

  Chapter 22

  As much as I wanted to be with her, I wasn’t looking forward to the drive back. I suddenly felt very tired. Outside of Spokane, the highway was dark and windy. Occasional gusts shook the truck, and by the time we were halfway home, fat drops of rain were pelting against the windshield.

  “Only forty-five more miles,” I said with mock cheerfulness.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I looked at her. It was dark, but the dashboard lights caught the glow of tears on her cheeks.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’m always a jerk when I’m driving.”

  She wiped her eyes and then laughed. “It’s not you. I just haven’t had to talk about this for a very long time. It’s hard.”

  I cast her another quick glance. The rain was coming down harder, and if it continued, we’d have to pull over. “When you want to talk about it again, I’ll listen.”

  She sat up and blew her nose into a handkerchief. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be all right. Once a month, I tell it all to a well-paid therapist.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “That’s enough. I’m okay, really.”

  Her hand rested momentarily on my shoulder, and then she leaned back against the door. The rain slackened, so I let the speedometer creep back up to fifty-five. I switched my brights off and made do with the low beams, as they didn’t reflect as badly in the fog that was drifting over the fields.

  “Do you want to listen to some music or something? It’s still a ways back to Cowslip.”

  “Sure. Something quiet, maybe?”

  I located a soft jazz compilation and slipped it into the cassette deck. Sylvie closed her eyes and stretched out her legs. In five minutes, she was asleep. The rain slowed us down quite a lot, and it was after midnight when we got back to her apartment. I pulled into the parking lot and switched off the engine.

  “Sylvie, we’re here.”

  She stirred and opened her eyes slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant to keep you company. That’s a long drive all by yourself.”

  “It’s okay. I need to get you upstairs, though, before you fall asleep again.”

  “I’m awake,” she yawned, “but would you mind carrying me up?”

  I smiled. “No problem. I’ll just sling you over my shoulder.”

  We dragged ourselves up the steps and paused at the front door while Sylvie dug around in her pocket for the key. The apartment was dark and quiet.

  “Looks like Nancy’s out again. I expect she’s gone for the night.”

  “I don’t believe you have a roommate. Nancy’s imaginary, like Harvey the rabbit.”

  “As long as she pays her bills.”

  I followed Sylvie down the hallway and into her bedroom. She opened a dresser drawer, and I flung myself down on the bed, flat on my back.

  “Bil . . .”

  “I know. Do you want me to go?”

  “No.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow. “It’s okay, you know. We’re both tired and upset. I can keep my hands to myself, but I’d like to stay. I don’t want to drive home, and . . . and I want to be with you.” There, I’d said it, and there was nothing I could do about it now.

  She nodded quickly and turned away. “Pajamas? I think I have a pair of flannels in here.”

  “T-shirt and boxer shorts, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.” She turned around and leaned against the dresser, smiling. “It’s what I wear, with the exception of the boxer shorts, anyway. I prefer jockeys, myself. Do you want the first shower?”

  “I’d like a shower, but . . .” I looked down at my trousers.

  “Don’t worry. My mother gave me a three-pack of boxer shorts. The other two are still lying folded and new in the top drawer. In the meantime, you can use my robe. I’ll fetch that contact lens case from Nancy’s secret stash.”

  I showered quickly, giving my hair only a cursory scrub. When I got out, not only was the lens case lying on the vanity, so was the toothbrush from my night on the sofa. I hadn’t even heard her come in. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and wrapped myself in the thick, white bathrobe.

  When I came out, Sylvie was leaning against the wall outside the bathroom.

  “All yours.”

  “Thanks. If you hear water running an hour from now and I still haven’t come out, it means I’ve fallen asleep and drowned.”

  “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’ll beat the door down.”

  “My hero.”

  T-shirt, boxers, and, in case I wanted them, a pair of socks were waiting for me on the bed. I put on the shirt and shorts. Assuming Sylvie preferred the side of the bed nearest the alarm clock, I climbed in on the other side and fell quickly and completely asleep. I was vaguely aware of someone coming in and lying down next to me. She might even have kissed me. I couldn’t be sure.

  I woke up at a ridiculously early hour. Sylvie was still sound asleep, so I wrote her a note explaining that I’d be back in time to take us both to class. Then I got dressed in my borrowed jeans and her leather jacket, and drove to campus. The closest space I could get to the library was still half a mile away, so I fished aro
und behind the seat and dug out a wool ski hat. It was hideous. I only kept it for emergencies.

  I figured it was because I had the hat on that I ran into Naomi.

  “Are you Doug or Bob Mackenzie?”

  “Neither, hosehead. What the hell are you doing on campus?”

  She sniffed and rubbed her nose. I was pleased to see that it was red and puffy. “Library research. Hats are for wimps, you know. You need to toughen up.”

  “That’s right, only the weak get frostbite.” The wind was chafing my hands and cheeks, but I was trapped in a prairie-woman standoff. I’d be damned if I’d admit I was cold before Naomi did. “You seem to have a cold.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with the weather.”

  “Of course not. What kind of research are you doing?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been asked to do some pro bono work.”

  “Who for?”

  “Your crowd, Stop the Prop.”

  I stared at her in amazement. “Well, fan my brow.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “I’ve agreed to do it because it’s good for my career. In a couple of years, I’m blowing Cowslip and heading straight for D.C. Sarah and Ruth might be happy whiling away the hours in this Podunk, but I’m on to bigger and better things.”

  “Like what, Lambda Legal Defense?”

  “Who knows? If you’re smart, you’ll quit standing there with your mouth hanging open. Between the hat and the mouth, you look like you’re in training to be the village idiot.”

  I closed my mouth. “Is there any particular reason why you’re so cross? Batteries give out on your vibrator?”

  “If they did, I’d just raid your room for spares.” She sighed heavily. “Actually, it’s nothing to do with you or Stop the Prop. I’m changing jobs at the end of this month.”

  Naomi worked at the law firm of Fitzroy, Fitzroy, and McAnulty. They were the largest firm in Cowslip, and, by those standards, prestigious. Naomi had crowed for weeks when they’d hired her. I couldn’t picture her leaving voluntarily.

  I said, “Why? Is something the matter at Fuck, Fuck, and McNutt?”

  “Everything is the matter,” she replied, flinging her arms out for emphasis. “As you know, Fitzroy the Second kicked the bucket last spring. George McAnulty should have become the senior partner, but there was an office coup, and Fitzroy the Third got the jump on him.”

  “How’d he manage that?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Third is a sneaky weasel bastard, that’s how. It’s impossible to work for him—he’s such a liar.” She shoved her hands deeply into her jacket pockets. I was pleased to see that the wind was beginning to get to her, too.

  “A lying lawyer, imagine that. What’s your new job?”

  “You’re now looking at a Lewis County Public Defender.”

  I allowed my mouth to hang open again. “You? Law and Order, Hang ’em High Hardy? What happened to your life’s ambition to be richer than Croesus?”

  “Politics, sweetie. Didn’t I just explain that to you? I need a broader range of experience than I’m getting at Fitzroy. I’d rather work for the county prosecutor’s office, but this will do for now. It’ll give me some criminal experience.”

  “No shit,” I laughed. “It’ll give you chance to defend the Sams and Francies of the world. They’ll take away your Republican Party membership, you know.”

  “I voted for Ross Perot in the last election.”

  “Then you really are crazy. Does Emma know about this yet? She must be wetting her pants.”

  Naomi smiled, which made her look like the Grinch. “I haven’t told her yet. Are you going to be home tonight? You can have a front row seat.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got other plans. You’ll have to videotape it for me—she’ll be delighted. She’ll paint her ass blue and dance the fandango.”

  “No doubt. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Are you off?” I asked innocently, suppressing a shiver.

  “Of course,” Naomi replied. “It’s freezing out here.”

  Winner takes all. I decided not to gloat. “I’m actually on my way to the library as well. I’ll walk you over.”

  “If you must.”

  Naomi made for the staircase as soon as we were in the door, which saved me the trouble of dumping her so I could talk to Sarah alone. Just as I’d expected, my sister was working the reference desk.

  “Hi, Toots. Any messages for me?”

  She reached under the desk and pulled out a fat manila folder. “You’re in luck, pal. That’s two hours of my precious time. I hope you appreciate it.”

  “Believe me, I do.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting for my Chinese dinner.”

  “Name the time, and I’ll be there.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, I will. So, infant, what’s up? Your absence at the dinner table last night was noticed. No need to fret, though—your favorite sister covered for you.”

  “Even if you hadn’t been my favorite before, you would be now. What were you doing at home on a Tuesday? Didn’t you have a date?”

  “I did,” she said, “but that was later. I wanted to check up on Sam, so I ate dinner with Emma and Hugh and then met my date at the Art House. They were having a Marlon Brando festival.”

  “Does this date have a name?”

  “Gary Smart.”

  I nearly swallowed my own tongue. “My abnormal psychology professor?” She nodded, and I said, “Does he know I’m your sister?”

  “He does,” she replied, “and now I know that you’ve missed more classes than you’ve attended. I covered for you there as well. I told him all about our family and our recent difficulties with Sam, and he said you could make up any work that you’d missed.”

  I gave her my sincere thanks. “Would you mind going out with a few of my other professors? I skipped three classes yesterday.”

  She shrugged. “Depends on who they are. I’ve been on mercy dates before, but never for the sake of a sibling. Now,” she glared at me intently, “fair is fair. Where were you last night?”

  “Behaving myself,” I answered carefully. “I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.”

  “Fine with me,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Whenever.”

  “So, what’s in the folder?”

  “You’ll have to see for yourself. Contemporary articles from the Herald-Examiner and a couple from the Spokane papers.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  She nodded. “Aren’t I just? Now, you have to pay my price. You have to tell me if you want all this information because Emma still has you working on Sam detail.”

  “I thought your price was a Chinese dinner.”

  She shook her head. “This is different.” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Look Bil, I know you get really involved in all of Sam’s dramas, but I wouldn’t worry too much about this. Naomi says they don’t have a case. If possession of some shiitake mushrooms means you might have poisoned Burt Wood, then everyone who makes stir-fry is a suspect.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Do you have any pictures of Datura plants? While I’m here, I might as well . . .”

  “Fine,” she laughed. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I’ve got time. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Librarianship—it’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

  I got back to Sylvie’s apartment at eight-thirty. She answered the door dressed and ready for class.

  “Have you missed many classes this semester?” I asked.

  She frowned. “A couple. How about you?”

  “I’ve missed more than I’ve attended, but I have a secret weapon. Let’s go sit down.”

  I led the way to the living room, and we sat down on the engulfing sofa.

  “What’s up?”

  I showed her the manila envelope. “I think we should bag class and start putting two and two together. We can read through all of this stuff I just got from Sarah and maybe match it up with what w
e learned from Mr. Brown.”

  “I’m with you,” she said, “even if it means blowing off classes tomorrow as well.”

  There were only ten articles. Sylvie and I took five each and then traded. They all said pretty much the same thing. The police believed Burt Wood and Frank Frost had left Cowslip in one another’s company. Only two of the articles stated directly that Frost and Wood might be homosexuals. The Cowslip Herald-Examiner didn’t mention it.

  I found the details of Wood’s disappearance interesting. According to several sources, he and Frost had a standing date every Fourth of July. No matter what day of the week the Fourth fell on, Wood and Frost made a weekend of it. It was a tradition they’d started in high school. They met in Spokane on the Fourth, rented a room in some dumpy hotel, and then spent several days touring the sleazy strip bars. On July third, 1978, Wood was supposed to drive his motorcycle up to a bar in Spokane called Clyde’s Corner, where he’d arranged to meet Frost. Wood had booked a room at a motor inn called the Fifth Wheel—a room with two double beds, the Herald-Examiner carefully pointed out. The reservations were for the third through the sixth. The Fifth Wheel usually did a booming hourly business, especially on holidays, so, when neither man showed up, the manager let the room to someone else.

  Some of the articles gave details about each man’s height, weight, and distinguishing features. Similar builds, similar features; they even had matching mustaches. They could have been brothers. Or Castro clones. They also described what each was last seen wearing. Details about both cases were sparse, and the missing money was only mentioned in connection with Frank. There was a brief flurry of articles over the course of two weeks, and then it all stopped. The power of gossip and Mayor Frost, I suspected. People thought they had an answer to what had happened to the two men, and Frank’s father’s money effectively closed the official investigation. Vernon Young, now Lieutenant Young, was in charge of both cases.

  “Did you get to the part about Vernon Young?”

  Sylvie nodded. “He’s the one who called my mother to make the identification. Hoping to clear up an old case, I suppose.”

  “Or hoping for some free publicity during his run for sheriff.”