“No shit,” Frank remarked.
“What’s a bushing?” Helen said.
“It’s a little doohickey that allows you to run an electrical wire through the wall of the transformer,” Mike said.
“What’s so special about it?”
“You don’t know much about electricity, do you, Marshal?” Frank said.
“No. That’s what guys like you get paid the big bucks for, Frank.”
“It’s insulated,” Mike said. “Without the bushing, the transformer will short out. Maybe explode.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Possible,” Mike said. “We’d need to rig up a new bushing, with insulation, then re-run the wires.”
“Okay,” Helen said impatiently. “How do you do that?”
Frank and Mike had a short conversation that was rather technical, except they seemed unfamiliar with electrical jargon—there were a lot of “thingies” and “whatchamacallits” tossed around. Finally, Mike turned to Helen.
“We can make a temporary bushing with some aluminum foil and wax paper and oil.”
“Do you have the equipment you need?”
“Yeah, all except the foil, paper, and oil,” Frank said.
“Hilarious,” Helen said.
Mike grinned his yellow grin. “We can probably find all that stuff at the Trading Post.”
“How do you think this happened?” Helen nodded up at the transformer.
Mike slipped his hands into his coat pockets. “Don’t look natural. Bushings are pretty sturdy. They don’t just shatter for no reason. If I had to guess, I’d say someone took a wrench or something heavy to it.”
A rash of goose bumps broke out along Helen’s arms.
“Anyway, we can see about fixing this tomorrow,” Frank said.
“I’d rather get it done now,” Helen said.
Frank rolled his eyes. “The Pattersons are kinda old. They might be in bed already.”
“This early?” Helen scoffed. “I doubt it. Aluminum foil, wax paper, and oil. Like motor oil?”
“That would do it,” Mike said.
“Okay. You boys head on back to your trailer. I’ll get the stuff and come find you in a bit.”
“We’ll just go get it ourselves, since you’re in such a goddamn hurry,” Frank said.
“I’d rather you stayed put. I don’t want anyone running around that doesn’t need to be right now.”
“What are we, prisoners in our own home?”
“There’s been a murder, and now it looks like someone’s tampered with the electricity. This whole town is pretty much a crime scene.”
Frank snorted. “This ain’t no North Korea, Marshal. It’s America. You can’t tell us what to do.”
“You got a CCW for that gun in your pants, Frank?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. ’Cause if you don’t, you’re in violation of California penal codes governing the carrying of concealed weapons. That’s punishable by up to a year in county jail.”
“Don’t be a bitch, lady.”
Helen transferred her flashlight to her left hand. She drew her Glock.
“Call me a bitch again and I’ll shoot your dick off. I know it’s a small target, but I’m a crack shot.”
“Fuck off. You can’t just shoot me.”
“We’re in the middle of the woods, Frank. You’ve got a gun in your pants. Who’s to say what happened? Who’s to say you didn’t draw on me?”
“Mike’s my witness.”
“When I take out jerkoffs like you, I don’t typically leave witnesses. That would be sloppy.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. Frank stared at Helen for a moment, then laughed.
“Don’t get your tits in a wringer. We’ll wait at the trailer.”
“Give me the gun first. I’ll hang on to it for now.”
She slipped the flashlight into her pocket, held out her hand.
“Fucking bullshit,” Frank said.
Helen waited.
Frank glared at her long enough to demonstrate he wasn’t intimidated. Then he reached around, tugged the .45 from his waistband, and slapped it into her palm.
Yates watched from his front porch, fifty yards down Main Street, hidden in darkness. He was smoking one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking a Schaefer beer. It was his eleventh can of the day.
Yates didn’t sleep much—he usually woke up before dawn and had his first beer with breakfast. After that he spaced them out, one an hour or so. When he got to digging, he took a six-pack down with him, and worked till the six-pack was done. Some nights that took four hours, others, less than two. This evening, he’d climbed down into the mine after dinner, chipped away for a while, but just wasn’t feeling it. It was too goddamn cold and his arthritis made it difficult to hold the drift pick.
He’d come back topside, only to discover the lights were off. That didn’t trouble him much. He didn’t watch TV or read before bed. And it wasn’t the first time the electricity went on the fritz. But rather than sit in his kitchen, drinking by candlelight, he’d come outside to finish the remaining beers. And he’d observed silently, from the shadows, as the marshal walked down to Frank and Mike’s trailer, then as the three of them made their way back up Main Street to have a look at the transformer.
Yates swallowed the rest of the beer, crushed the can, dropped it onto the floorboards of the porch. He picked up another can, the last of the six-pack, popped the tab.
He bristled at the exchange between Frank and the marshal. What in hell would induce Frank to give her his gun? She certainly had no right to be coming up here and disarming folks. Typical federal bully.
Yates, in addition to being a strong advocate for the Second Amendment, was a card-carrying member of the John Birch Society. He, like many other JBSers, believed in a global conspiracy of the rich and powerful to take away individual property rights and usher in a socialist New World Order. He also suspected the federal government was plotting to disarm recalcitrant citizens and place them in concentration camps run by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
He took a drag on his cigarette, sucked the smoke deeply into his lungs. It occurred to him that the lady’s story about coming to Kill Devil Falls to pick up Rita Crawford could be a load of crap. Maybe some shit-eating Sacramento state congressman in the pocket of the NWO had gotten wind of the mine and the marshal’s real mission was to do some reconnaissance. Lay the groundwork for claiming the mine as a federal asset. Just when he was on the verge of finding the gold that had eluded him all his life. Eluded his father, too.
Well, the lady was going to find him a whole heap harder to intimidate than Frank. No way he’d just roll over like that. She wasn’t taking his guns, and for damn sure she wasn’t taking his gold mine. Not without a fight, anyway. Not without a goddamn fight.
Helen marched briskly to the Trading Post.
Humbling Frank like that had been a risky move, but a necessary one. She was all alone up here. Establishing authority was a must. Otherwise, she was like a zookeeper locked in the gorilla habitat, equipped only with a squirt gun.
The moon cast an anemic light over Main Street and its double row of abandoned storefronts. The temperature continued to drop. Helen zipped her coat up to her chin. Frank’s .45 was tucked into her left coat pocket, the handle protruding slightly.
She stopped in her tracks when she heard a strange noise. Halfway between a snarl and a strangled cry. Her scalp tingled. Was that what a mountain lion sounded like?
She pictured an undead Franklin Stoppard watching her from a darkened window, his skin blistered and blackened, his nose and lips blown off, revealing white bone and rotten teeth.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This shit-town was getting to her. She kept moving.
So, according to Mike, the transformer was purposely sabotaged. The work of Rita’s killer? If so, why not just get out of town after the murder? Did he think it would be safer to make his escape under the cover of darkness?
&n
bsp; Or was he still skulking about, looking to complete some unfinished business?
And why smash the bushing? That seemed messy. Why not just cut the wires with the same knife used to kill Rita? Unless he’d ditched the knife in the woods. Or tossed it in a car trunk?
She still didn’t buy Lawrence as the murderer. Ten to one, it was Lee Larimer.
Helen reached the Trading Post and tried the front door. Locked. She knocked and waited sixty seconds. No answer. She stepped back into the street and looked up at the windows of the second floor. There was no electricity, but she was hoping to see at least the flicker of candles indicating the Pattersons were still awake. No such luck. The windows were black squares.
She walked down a narrow alley between the Trading Post and its neighboring building. Rounding the back corner, she found a small, grassy back yard, and beyond that, the edge of the forest. She swept her flashlight across the tree line. If Rita’s killer was still in town, he could be hiding a mere ten yards away and she would never see him.
Helen went to the back door, tried the doorknob. Locked. She knocked.
“Mrs. Patterson? Mr. Patterson? It’s Deputy Marshal Morrissey.”
She listened, but there was no response. Maybe they were asleep. She didn’t want to wake them. But she really needed the stuff for the doohickey.
After a moment’s hesitation, Helen got down on her knees and examined the door panel. The lock was a standard Kwikset, nothing unusual or complicated. Easy enough to pick. Doing so was, strictly speaking, breaking and entering, but she decided to worry about that later.
She removed a key ring from her coat pocket. In addition to keys, the ring held a basic lock-pick set in a foldable frame, similar to a Swiss army knife. She worked a medium hook in the lock tumbler. It took her two minutes to spring it. She opened the door and entered the vestibule.
“Hello?” she called out, shutting the door behind her. “It’s Deputy Marshal Morrissey!”
Still no answer. She opened the door leading to the back of the restaurant, poked her head through. It was empty. She turned, glanced up at the stairs. She assumed the Pattersons’ bedroom was on the second floor, as Jesse had fallen down those steps after his nap. It just seemed ridiculous to wake them up for some foil and paper—better to take the things she needed and settle up later.
Helen passed through the restaurant and into the market. She scanned the aisles with her flashlight, located a box of wax paper and aluminum foil on a shelf next to cheap pie tins and tupperware. There was no motor oil, but she discovered a can of WD40, took that. She scouted around, found a package of small paper bags. She opened the package, removed a bag, put the wax paper, foil, and oil can inside, and folded down the top. She left the market, went back through the restaurant, and slipped into the vestibule.
Helen was about to sneak quietly out the door when she heard a thump and a groan from above. She paused, listened. A moment’s silence, then a yelp. Sounded like someone in pain.
She set the paper bag on the floor and went to the foot of the stairs. Could be nothing. The house settling. Jesse Patterson rolling over in bed, moaning over his injuries. Or maybe … maybe it was something else.
Helen tiptoed up the stairs, hoping she wasn’t about to walk in on Mr. and Mrs. Patterson having kinky sex. A vision of Mrs. Patterson in leather riding a handcuffed, ball-gagged Mr. Patterson popped unbidden and unwanted into her mind.
On the second floor was a hallway with doors to either side. The door to her immediate right was closed. Another, halfway down the hall on the left, was open. Light flickered within. Helen crept forward.
“Hello?” she said, at a half-whisper.
She leaned in for a quick glance through the open doorway. It took her a moment to process the bizarre scene within.
Thick white candles on tall stands bathed the room in a soft glow.
A low table along the right wall was devoted to Mrs. Patterson’s eclectic jewelry collection. Earrings were piled in a huge stone bowl. Rings were heaped in a square chest with a red velvet interior. A sturdy metal necklace stand literally drooped under the weight of dozens of necklaces, thickly clustered with charms, crystals, and gewgaws. A variety of small jewelry-making tools sat atop the table—tiny needle-nose pliers, an awl, scissors, a metal hole punch.
Along the opposite wall were racks holding a dozen glass terrariums. A heat lamp was clipped to the top of each terrarium. Minus electricity, the lamps were dark.
But what really drew Helen’s attention was a plaster statue at the back of the room, positioned beneath a wooden arbor, the kind you might buy at a gardening store. The statue was about four feet tall and depicted a woman in a flounced skirt and tight bodice that covered her torso from the waist up, but left her breasts exposed. A tall crown sat atop her head. Her arms were raised, bent at ninety degree angles, each hand grasping a snake that was displayed in a zigzag posture, like a bolt of lightning. She wore another snake around her waist like a belt. Two more snakes drooped over her shoulders and encircled her breasts, each of them enclosing a nipple in their fangs. The statue was painted with bright, garish colors—red, blue, gold.
Offerings were placed at the statue’s feet. Bowls of fruit and flowers. A bottle of whiskey. What appeared to be a large phallus carved of stone.
Helen stepped into the room, shined her light on the terrariums. She saw long, sleek bodies inside. Snakes. Some were small, the width of a finger. Others, thicker than a man’s forearm. Helen didn’t know much about snakes. Which were harmless. Which could kill you with a single bite. She wasn’t particularly frightened or disgusted by them, though, like some people. Just the same, she was glad they were on one side of the glass and she was on the other. Although the radiator was turned up full blast, she figured they must be cold minus the heat lamps.
The floor in front of her rippled. Helen took a step back, directed her flashlight downward. She saw long, tubular black-and-white splotches. Turds. And slithering among them, snakes.
She scanned the floorboards quickly. Half a dozen of the snakes were loose, a couple on the move, others corkscrewed into tight little spirals.
Helen heard a muffled bang. She whirled to face the doorway on the opposite side of the hall. Another bedroom? A bathroom? Dear God, don’t let it be Mr. Patterson suffering a bout of constipation.
Helen crossed the hall, listened at the door. Nothing. She knocked lightly. “Hello?”
Another bang. A thump.
Helen drew her Glock, turned the knob, pushed open the door.
The room smelled like a cheap plastic shower curtain, piss, and sweat. She raised her flashlight, took in the porcelain sink, toilet, tub. A man in the tub. Blood splatter on his face, a cloth stuffed into his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” Helen said. She rushed to the man’s side, set the flashlight down on the edge of the tub. It was Jesse Patterson, his eyes swollen, a sliver of white showing through a nasty gash across his eyebrow. She pulled a saliva-soaked wash cloth from his mouth.
“What happened?” she said.
He coughed, tried to speak. His eyes looked past her, over her shoulder. She saw the fear in them. A dog anticipating a clout from his master’s shoe.
Helen turned. The bathroom door swung shut, revealing a man standing in the corner. Stupid, she thought. You are so, so stupid.
It was too dark to make out his features, but she saw all too clearly the barrel of the enormous gun pointed at her face.
10
HELEN COULDN’T PRY HER eyes away from the giant round hole at the end of the revolver. It was as large as a dinner plate. A subway tunnel. It was sucking her in, like an ocean vortex.
She raised the Glock. The man reached out and struck it from her fingers, effortlessly. One minute it was there, the next it spun away, landed in the tub on top of Jesse.
Helen froze, her brain experiencing an overload, a synaptic blowout. The one conscious thought running through her mind was I’m going to die.
Reflex circum
vented her gray matter, hijacked her body. She watched with surreal detachment as her left hand slapped the man’s gun to one side, her right catching his wrist, bending the revolver back toward his chest, twisting counterclockwise. The man cried out and the revolver joined the Glock in the tub.
The intruder wrenched his hand free, shoved Helen into the edge of the sink. He swung a fist. She ducked, felt the edge of his knuckles skim the top of her head. The mirror in the medicine cabinet shattered.
Helen lunged, driving a shoulder into the man’s solar plexus. They both careened into a wall. The man bent over, wrapped his arms over her back and around her waist, levered her off the ground, threw her into the tub on top of Jesse. Helen scrambled for the Glock, Jesse flailing beneath her. The intruder reached out, grasped the front of her coat, tossed her sideways through the air. She hit the bathroom door, heard a crack as the cheap wood splintered. The man lifted a foot, kicked her. Helen managed to turn and block the brunt of the blow with her arm, but the force of the kick smashed her straight through the door, particles of wood flying across the hall. She plopped onto the floor.
She rolled to her elbows and knees, scrambled to her feet, sprinted for the stairs.
The intruder snatched a glass candleholder from a shelf above the sink, stepped out of the bathroom, hurled it. It struck Helen in the back of her head. She stumbled, danced on chicken legs, tumbled down the stairs.
She came to a stop halfway to the first floor, sprawled on her back, head pointed down, feet up, like St. Peter inverted on the cross. She lay stunned, unable to move.
The intruder stepped around the bannister at the top of the stairs. He was breathing heavily. And he was carrying her Glock. She registered the military fatigues, the clipped, gray-speckled hair. Sgt. Fix-it.
Now, suddenly, she could see the mug shot resemblance. Same crooked nose. Same heavy brows, deep-set eyes. Lee Larimer. Of course.
She struggled to sit upright. Lee aimed the Glock at her face.
Helen patted her hip holster by reflex, even though she clearly saw her gun in Lee’s hand. Shit. Unarmed, ass-backward. About to be murdered by her own service weapon.
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