She scoots away from me, her movement brought up short by an ankle hobble whose end is bolted to the frame of the van. She turns to stare out the window. Her shoulders heave as she fights for control over the emotional storm assailing her.
Marta’s high cheekbones and flat intonation indicate she’s at least part Native American. Hers is an institutional hatred, shaped and honed by tales of the not-so-distant past, a time before the reservation became their world and a generation was lost to drugs and alcohol.
What a relief! She doesn’t hate me, per se.
Strike three narrowly avoided.
“I’m not a cop,” I say quickly. “I’m Sara’s teacher, and I’m trying to find her. I hope you can help.”
She turns to look at me. Unchecked, silent tears stream down her face, smoothing away the hard edges, though anger still burns in her eyes. “Damn bastards! Nobody told me nothin’ until today, and it’s like, ‘Oh, by the way, Marta, your daughter’s missing. Now, tell us all you know about Joe’s drug operation.’ Like I’d tell those assholes anything!”
I want to pepper her with questions. How does she feel about taking the fall for Joe? Does she know of a connection between Joe and Robinson Hunt? What about the key?
But I hold back. Sloan’s interrogation gained nothing but Marta’s undying hatred.
I settle on a simple question: “When was the last time you heard from Sara?” I wonder how much of the girl’s painful past I should reveal.
Marta averts her eyes. “Not one word in four years. Joe, I can understand. He was on the run.”
“Before she ran away, Sara was seeing her dad,” I say. “For a while, we thought maybe they were together. We hoped she’d turn up for his funeral.”
“If she knew about it, she’d be here,” Marta says. “I carried that girl for nine months, but she’s always been Joe’s. But that one …” Her voice breaks, and she points to a car slowly pulling away, the one carrying her son back to his foster home. “He’s mine. He’s my baby.”
The yearning in her eyes is almost too much to bear. I blink back tears and take a shaky breath.
“I haven’t given up on my girl, though,” she says softly, all traces of anger gone. “She’ll come around someday.”
In stark contrast to the soft words, her eyes are hard, like obsidian stone.
“Do you have family in the area? Someone she might have contacted?”
She looks at me with an expression of disbelief. “Are you stupid? If I had family, do you think my kids would be in foster care?”
Oops. Properly chastised, I bite my tongue and wait. Marta studies me through narrowed eyes. Since my friendly puppy dog approach hasn’t worked, I try the opposite. I turn away from her and reach for the door.
Her barely audible words stop me. “Sara looks at me and sees the Indian part of herself. She can’t get past it.”
“Hard to take.” I put my hand on the door handle.
Sheldon grinds out his cigarette. He and the driver are shifting restlessly, glancing from time to time into the windows of the van. They’re ready to hit the road, and Marta knows it.
“It’s not right. You know my girl better than I do,” she says. Her tone is wistful.
I wrestle with my conscience. Marta deserves the truth, but I can’t bring myself to cause her more pain. Already filled to the brim, she has no place to put it. As Sheldon prowls the perimeter of the van, kicking the tires, I make my decision.
The words fairly tumble from my lips as I fill Marta in on Sara’s last few years, the abridged edition, emphasizing her scholastic achievement and plans to attend college. Without mentioning Sara’s gang rape and subsequent abortion, I talk about Sara’s recent mood swings, her involvement with Robinson Hunt, her letter to Nick, the mystery key. I ask no questions.
Marta listens without comment, her hungry gaze so intense I feel pinned to the seat.
Sheldon jerks the passenger side door open. “Time to hit the road, Marta.”
Marta has no choice, so I know the message is for me. I start to exit the van. I’ve learned nothing, but it doesn’t matter. If my hasty oral history gave Marta a few moments of happiness, that’s good enough for me.
I’d struck out. Period.
“Keep your damn shirt on,” Marta yells at Sheldon. “Let the woman get out first.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sheldon says with a dismissive glance over his shoulder.
When the driver opens his door, Sheldon asks him, “Wanna stop at Burger King for a bite?”
I’m halfway out when Marta plucks at my sleeve. “I like your earrings. Is that your birth sign?”
She checks the rearview mirror. The men continue to shoot the breeze as the engine roars to life. Marta stares into my eyes and then looks down at her hands resting in her lap. My gaze follows, and I see her index finger curl, inviting me back in.
“Yeah, it is,” I say.
I scoot across the slippery vinyl seat to give her an up-close view of my left ear and its unremarkable earring. “Gemini, the twins,” I say.
“Cool,” Marta says. She leans in for a closer look and, in a breathy whisper, delivers the goods.
I slide back across the seat. “When’s your birthday? I’ll send you a pair.”
“July,” she says. “Thanks.”
I hop out. Before I close the door, she says, “Tell that big bastard to find my daughter; then we’ll talk.”
The heat is back in her voice. I presume Sloan is the “big bastard.” I grin and assure her I will. In fact, I can hardly wait. The van pulls away, with Marta looking straight ahead. I wave at her rigid back.
I look around for Sloan and Nick. They’re gone, along with my truck. The car keys are in my tote, and Sloan seized my tote after patting me down—an extremely thorough job I might add—on the off chance I harbored plans to stab the guard with my nail file and go on the lam with Marta.
I’m building up a head of steam when a window zips down on the only car left, the object of Sloan’s affections, the hearse. Its driver, a beetle-browed man clad in a slate-gray chauffeur’s uniform calls to me. “Sloan said he’d drop off your nephew and meet you back at the funeral home for debriefing. Hop in.”
Debriefing? Fat chance! Sure, eventually I’ll share Marta’s revelation with Sloan, but Nick’s first in line.
Back at the funeral home, the driver pulls behind the building and looks pointedly at his watch. Various and sundry folk dribble out of a private back entrance and head for their cars.
“Must be quitting time, huh?” I say in an effort to make conversation. Damn you, Sloan!
“Yeah. Night shift will be here soon.”
“Night shift?” The very thought creeps me out.
“Viewings, body pick-ups. You know, stuff like that,” he says.
Thinking to interject a bit of death humor, I say, “Well, I guess the grim reaper doesn’t keep office hours. Hope he gets paid overtime.”
I laugh hysterically. The man knits his hairy brows. “The grim reaper? Who’s he?”
His stomach growls ferociously. Mine joins in. We lapse into uncomfortable silence.
Finally, I say, “Look, maybe you could drop me at my house.”
He shakes his head. “No can do. He said to keep you here.”
I draw an offended breath and swell up like a puffer fish in peril. Just then, Sloan zips into the parking lot, hops out of the Ranger and offloads two pizza boxes. I exhale. Life’s too short to be angry, and pizza sounds damn fine.
I exit the hearse. Sloan ignores me and trots around to the driver’s side. The guy steps out, and the two of them confer in low voices. Sloan hands him a pizza box, and, if I’m not mistaken, money changes hands. Grinning happily, the driver wastes no time on farewells. He peels out of the parking lot in a dusty green Kia, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a giant slab of pizza.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Sloan says, opening the passenger door and guiding me onto the seat.
“Are you nuts? You
want to go joyriding in a hearse?”
“You mean you’ve never had a pizza party in a hearse?”
He slides behind the steering wheel with a chortle of merriment and turns the key. I start to speak, but he holds up his hand for silence. He cocks his head to one side and listens to the big engine purr.
My jaw drops in amazement. Sloan caught in the throes of joy is a sight to behold. I’ve experienced the sneer, the smirk, and the teasing half grin, but for a man like Sloan, this is all-out, heel-clicking giddiness. Who am I to rain on his parade?
Ten minutes later, we’re on a hilltop with a sweeping 360-degree view. Vista Valley is nestled into the rain shadow of the Cascades and ringed by gray, softly mounded foothills. Mount Adams looms to the south, Mount Rainier’s snowy peak to the west. The few remaining orchards appear as lush green patches in our crazy quilt of a town, crowded out by tract housing with spotty green lawns.
The one exception is Robinson Hunt’s neighborhood, Paradise Point. Verdant stands of trees shelter luxurious, multilevel homes cut into the hillside far above the common folks’. I think about Heather Hunt trapped in her expensive cage and hope all is well in her world, though I suspect it isn’t.
Sloan turns the Caddy around and backs it within five feet of the cliff. Moving swiftly, he transforms the business end of the hearse into a makeshift picnic table. I keep track of his progress with surreptitious peeks over the seat back. He shakes out a pile of quilted pads and spreads them over the metal framework designed to hold the coffin in place during transport, and voila: Dining alfresco!
Because of the ick factor, I plan to hold out. But when he lifts the lid on the pizza box and releases the tantalizing aroma of Italian spices and herbs topped with bubbling mozzarella cheese, I all but leap out of the car and sprint to join him. He’s thoughtfully included paper plates, a bottle of white wine, and plastic cups.
I’ve been to worse picnics. Sitting side by side in the open hatch of a hearse enjoying the view and eating pizza—veggie, topped with black olives, mushrooms, and fresh tomatoes for me; meat lovers’ supreme for him—is not in my realm of experience, but the quirkiness is growing on me.
When I come up for air, I say, “You really know how treat a girl.”
“Third date,” he says. “Had to do something special.”
“Third date? How do you figure?”
He wipes tomato sauce from my chin and raises a finger. “Number one: Joe’s body at the river.”
Another finger shoots up. “Number two: Karaoke night at Mystic Meadows.”
He leans over and nuzzles my cheek. His breath is fragrant with pizza. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the galloping gurney.”
I turn to look at him, my face hot with remembering. “Oh, yeah, that.”
“Yeah, that,” he repeats. “Makes this number three.”
With hunger no longer my body’s driving force, slumbering hormones awake with a gleeful cry and shout, Hey, he’s sitting right next to you, and he got us all riled up with that full body search. Why the hell not?
I lick my lips and tilt my head. Sloan cups my face in his hands and stares hungrily at my mouth. He lowers his face toward mine. When our lips are inches away from touching, he murmurs, “What did Marta tell you?”
I roll my eyes, pull away, and reach for the wine bottle.
“Oh, she had a very special message for you.” I repeat verbatim Marta’s “big bastard” remark.
“Anything else?”
Sloan gazes intently into my eyes. Too intently. I sip my wine and look out over the valley. A red-tailed hawk soars in the distance, scanning the earth below with its binocular vision. It’s dinnertime everywhere.
“She wanted to know all about Sara. That’s pretty much it.”
He takes hold of my chin and turns me to face him.
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say with a snotty little huff of exasperation. “Oh, wait. She liked my earrings. I’m going to get her a pair.”
I know he doesn’t believe me, but, short of torture, he’s not getting any more out of me.
“In that case,” he says. “Consider yourself debriefed.”
He sweeps the remains of our makeshift dinner into a garbage bag and tosses it into the front seat. Moving with an economy of motion, he plucks me from my perch, and I land, yelping with surprise, astride his lap. His hands slide down to clasp my buns, pulling me into full frontal contact. Unfortunately, I now face the long, long cargo area of the hearse. The abyss. My clamoring hormones note our surroundings and lapse into silent reproach.
Sloan’s expression, however, is that of an astronaut climbing into a space shuttle praying for a successful launch. Totally focused on his yet-to-be-completed mission, the man is a sensual blitzkrieg, all warm, moist lips, and knowing hands. A firestorm of erotic energy. He knows what buttons to hit and how hard to press.
My perspective undergoes a radical change. Viewed through my lust-filled eyes, the back end of the hearse is now a cozy love nest. The quilted pads are down-filled comforters, the smell of pizza an aphrodisiac.
Still, a token protest is in order. “We can’t do it in a hearse,” I gasp.
“Why not?” says the ever practical Sloan as he unzips my pants. “It has curtains.”
An hour later, we’re in my Ranger and I wail, “Please tell me I didn’t have sex in a hearse.” I stomp on the accelerator, and Sloan’s head snaps back.
He braces his legs and fastens his seat belt. “Last time, you said ‘the best sex of my life,’“ he says, gripping the door handle.
“Fine,” I snap. “Please tell me I didn’t have the second best sex of my life in a hearse.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Think about it, Sloan. The last time was in the basement of a retirement home. What’s wrong with us?”
“Spontaneous?” Sloan offers.
I shake my head. “Nuts. Creepy. Kinky.” I shoot through an intersection as the yellow light turned to red.
“Pull over,” Sloan orders. “I’ll drive.”
“Hell, no, it’s my truck,” I snarl.
Sloan’s the kind of man who can’t relax unless he’s behind the wheel. When we returned the hearse—I’d insisted on opening the windows to blow out the smell of sex and pizza—I offered to drop him off. He dug my car keys from his pocket and headed confidently for the driver’s side. I knew I’d lose a verbal wrestling match. Instead, I slipped between Sloan and my beloved truck and pulled him in for one last, lingering kiss, after which I snatched the keys from his hand.
He’s still pouting. “You drive too fast,” he grouses.
“You’re just mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let you drive,” I say. “What’s your problem? Big, tough cop like you scared to let a girl drive?”
On that note, we part, Sloan stomping toward his car in the DEA parking lot, I heading home for a shower before sharing Marta’s information with Nick.
Chapter 21
In Wakanda?” Nick shakes his head in disbelief. “All this time I’ve been looking in Vista Valley. No wonder I couldn’t find it.”
“Number forty-two, Wahconda” was Marta’s hastily whispered message.
“Makes sense,” I tell Nick. “Marta’s Native American. Wakanda’s on the rez.”
Nick’s eyes sparkle. He’s ready to roll.
“We should probably wait until morning,” I say in a halfhearted effort to head him off. Wakanda after dark is not the place for a white woman and her even paler nephew. But, with Joe Stepanek’s funeral and Sara’s fate weighing heavily on my mind, I’m also eager to discover the contents of the storage locker.
Susan is out, so I make Nick leave her a note. Wisely, he omits any mention of Wakanda and writes, “I’m with Aunt Allegra.”
I’m curious about Susan’s absence. “Your mom got a date?”
“Nah, she had to go to Seattle.”
“You want to stay with us tonight?”
; “Oh, she’ll be back later.” His smirk is a carbon copy of Sloan’s, and it makes me just as apprehensive.
“What’s the big secret?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Will I like it?”
“Dunno.” He climbs into the Ranger and zips his lip.
At the edge of town, we head for an interchange that leads through a gap in the long, sloping ridge that separates the northern border of the reservation from the town of Vista Valley.
The lower valley is an olio of ethnicities that seemingly coexist peacefully on the reservation. Agribusiness—and its white owners—flourish on fertile Indian land that’s been sold or leased. The hefty demand for day laborers has brought in Mexican farm workers who migrated to the valley and stayed on with their families. In the summer, roadside stands laden with fresh produce from Filipino and Japanese truck gardens attract our yuppie neighbors from west of the Cascades, locally known as “Seattle people.”
Nick remains silent as I merge onto the highway known as Blood Alley. Dotted with white crosses, the route is infamous for fiery crashes involving Native Americans who refuse to wear seat belts. Their act of defiance, though deadly, is perfectly legal on their reservation, deemed a sovereign nation by our federal government.
It’s fully dark when we turn off the highway at Wahconda’s only stoplight and onto a main street lined with small, grubby markets catering to its mixed population. Equal opportunity vendors plaster their windows with weekly specials, featuring low-low prices on beer and cerveza.
I drive through the entire heart of the town, a distance of four blocks. Traffic moves slowly in Wauconda, most of it heading toward the highway in search of a livelier place to spend Friday night.
After a couple of wrong turns, we find the storage building, a shabby structure on the east edge of town. Several blocks of darkness separate it from its nearest neighbor. I pull up and kill the engine but leave the headlights on. A single bulb on the front of the building casts a sickly pool of yellow light.
Neither of us makes a move to get out as we check out the dimly lit facility consisting of two long buildings facing each other, the far end secured by a high concrete wall. Directly in front of us, the only attempt at security is a chain stretched across the opening, each end permanently affixed to metal posts and fastened in the middle with a combination lock. We can’t drive in, but scouting out number forty-two will not be a problem.
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 15