by Unknown
“Yeah? What-all you plan to show him?”
“Obviously not my beauty pageant sash,” Stella said, sighing. “How bad off am I?”
Goat looked at her with one corner of his mouth quirked down and the other up; like his eyebrows, his mouth appeared to have a mind of its own when it came to expressing mixed feelings.
“Well . . . ,” he said slowly. “Considering they hit you hard enough to put you out for a few hours, I guess I’ve seen plenty worse. I mean, not on a girl . . . I mean, a woman . . . or anything . . . not that you look any worse than a guy who’s had the crap kicked out of him—”
“Jesus, Goat, shut the fuck up and get me a mirror.”
Goat folded his arms across his chest and stared at her with a squinty expression. “You sure that’s a good idea? You know, you’re just damn lucky you’re not in worse shape. Dr. Guevera says you’re in a lot better health than she expected. Heart like a teenager.”
Great. Better than expected . . . it wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for her appearance. It was nice to be judged healthy, but Stella already knew she was in basically superb shape—her job required it. Under her curves were muscles she never knew existed until a few years ago. There was a reason she spent an hour every day on the stupid Bowflex and ran her ass off a few times a week. “Really? What kind of health did she expect me to be in?”
“Oh, come on, Dusty, don’t get all prickly. I’m sure she just meant—well hell, you know, we’re not spring chickens here, me and you. Be happy, you’re on top of the curve. Besides, you look fine to me. You always do.” He looked away, reddening. “How about we talk about what you were doing down at the golf course, instead? And who your little playmates were, that decided to show you such a nice time.”
Stella rolled her eyes, which turned out to be a bad decision, since it made the ache in her head turn into more of a symphony of pain. “How should I know who they were?” she demanded. “It’s not like they wrote their names in my yearbook before they took off.”
“Well, let’s back up a little then. What did you do after we talked yesterday? What kind of rocks have you been turning over, looking for beetles?”
Stella was sorely tempted to tell Goat everything that had happened: breaking into Pitt Akers’s apartment, with all that extra cat food. The trip to see Benning, his threats, spotting the shed at the back of the lot, the evidence of his living-it-up lifestyle. The call from Darla and Stella’s suspicion that Tucker might be marking time in nothing worse than a pissed-off girlfriend’s house—in which case she’d stirred up the mob pot for nothing and bought herself a mess of trouble in the bargain.
There was something about having the tar beat out of you that made a big strong man with a badge and a gun seem strangely comforting.
But the risks were too great. So far she’d seen no trace of Tucker at all, and she had to get more leverage before she could take a chance on pushing Benning any harder.
Not to mention the stakes being raised by his thugs. It had to be the guys Arthur Junior had seen in the shed that day. Stella wished she’d gotten a look at them, but the only one she’d have a chance of even recognizing again was the man on the bench. Stella would lay odds that was Funzi himself, since he seemed to be older than the other two, and a little thicker, and probably didn’t move quite as fast. Plus, he looked pretty comfortable directing the action while sitting on his ass.
If Stella told Goat everything now, he would have to act. But now that she knew how far Funzi and company were prepared to go, she was more frightened than ever of what they might do with Tucker, if for some reason the boy had ended up in their clutches. If they got wind of an AMBER Alert or a cross-county search or something, Stella didn’t doubt they would make the boy disappear forever.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and was reassured to see that it was only a little after nine o’clock. There was still time to keep her date with Darla—Roy Dean’s date, actually—if she could just find out who and where Darla was. Tucker had to be there. He had to.
“Well, let’s see,” Stella said. She’d play along now, then try to get rid of Goat so she could figure out her next move. “Chrissy and I had lunch over at Roseann’s, and then we minded the shop and sewed all afternoon. We’re making a quilt for little Tucker.”
“That so? You conveniently left out the part where you went to the beauty parlor first.”
“Where I did what?”
“Went to the beauty parlor. For a facial and a full-leg wax. Your social secretary told me.”
“My what? You mean Chrissy? When did you—”
“Hell, Stella, when you didn’t come home by midnight that gal went through your address book and called me on my cell phone, got me out of bed. Had me out driving around all night until I got the call that they hauled you out of the pond and brought you here.”
“You . . . were looking for me?”
Stella tried to keep a dopey little grin from settling on her face, but the thought of Goat driving around town, worried about her, made her feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.
“Well Christ, it was easier than listening to that young lady carryin’ on. She’s out in the waiting room, you know. Been there ever since they brought you in, sleeping in a chair, far as I can tell.”
“She is?”
“Yup, and as soon as I’m done with you, you can visit with her. But I’m in here on police business, and so far you haven’t been giving me much, so I suggest we ramp up the confessin’ so we can both get on with things. I’ll take up where you left off, and you can just lie here and get better.”
Yeah, right, like that was going to happen. Stella intended to get herself out of the bed and back into the action as soon as it was humanly possible—but there was no sense advertising the fact. “Well, you got the story from Chrissy, you know where I was all day. Last night I got a call, around ten or so, from someone saying that he had information about Roy Dean and would I come meet him out at the golf course.”
“So you just went, eh? Didn’t think about maybe meeting him in, I don’t know, a public place? Maybe giving me a call first?” Goat leaned forward aggressively and glared at her, and Stella thought, Oh yeah, here it comes. Leave men out of the action and they can’t stand it. They just have to be the ones who do the stomping around and spitting.
“Well, how was I supposed to know what they were gonna do?” she demanded. “All I’ve done so far is give the girl a place to stay. I don’t know why anyone would get all het up over that.”
“Yeah. And you didn’t bother to take anything along to protect yourself? I don’t know, Dusty—in the past, you’ve proven yourself to be a resourceful woman in that regard.”
Any levity in Goat’s expression was gone now, and Stella felt her throat go dry as she let his words sink in. Ollie—he was talking about Ollie.
“Did you take some sort of weapon with you?” he demanded, his voice low. “ ’Cause they didn’t find anything when the EMTs went out to get you. Come on, Dusty, this isn’t about me trying to get your permit in order or give you a time-out for nonregistration. I need to know what you had on you.”
“I—nothing. I have pepper spray in my purse, but I left it in the car,” Stella said. Then she told a bigger lie. “I don’t even know how to shoot.”
Goat worked his lips, evidently trying to figure out a response, but ended up saying nothing. Stella held her breath until he eased back a little.
“So, you’re still sticking to just hand tools,” he said, irritation evident in the creases between his brows. “Maybe you ought to carry around a screwdriver or a hammer with you, at least. Maybe you could have pounded a nail into one of those guys.”
Stung, Stella said nothing at all.
She couldn’t believe Goat would make such a casual reference to the wrench she’d used to kill Ollie—even though she knew everyone in town talked about it. Made jokes, even. She’d bet that half a dozen housewives watched their husband under the sink tightening up a pipe
seal and thought about the wrench he held in his hand, wondering what it had felt like when Stella, not even fully aware of what she intended to do, brought it crashing down across her husband’s forehead.
She blinked hard. That was a memory she had sealed up under the tightest security.
For the longest time, she couldn’t remember any part of it. After the funeral, she’d come home, and other than letting the ladies from church help her box up Ollie’s things for charity, she’d just gone about her days on autopilot. When she thought about that day, she remembered Sheriff Knoll taking her gently by the arm and helping her up, and she remembered looking down at Ollie, slumped on the floor, and thinking that it wouldn’t do for him to ignore their company that way.
Later—much later—little bits and pieces would come to her at the oddest times. Sitting in a hot bath the following winter, she remembered closing her hand on the wrench, picking it up from the top of the stove where Ollie left it after tightening up a loose bolt on the range hood. A few weeks after that, she was cracking eggs for an omelette and she remembered the peculiar sound he made as he crumpled to the floor, a whispered, nonsensical protestation.
Eventually, she remembered it all. Remembered it, and made her peace with it. But she still kept it tightly hidden in a corner of her mind. It shouldn’t be coming out like this—not while she was in this vulnerable state, lying here in a thin hospital nightgown with her face slashed and resewn, while the man she longed for tried to drag out her secrets.
She felt the barriers go up, the invisible ones, the walls that would keep Goat and everyone else as far away from her as she needed them to be. Chalk it up to emotional exhaustion, but she didn’t have the energy to juggle her conflicting desires. It was time to compartmentalize. There were evildoers walking the earth who badly needed to be dealt some justice, and Stella knew she was the only one who could keep dealing it until they got Chrissy’s boy back.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked, letting her eyelids slide down, setting her lower lip aquiver.
“I’ve been out to talk to Roy Dean’s parents,” he said. “They seem to think their son’s just taken the boy for a little father-son time. You know, camping, fishing, like that.”
“Funny,” Stella said, frowning as much as her stitches allowed. “He never struck me as the type.”
“Well, they say their boy’s quite the outdoorsman. They’re getting me directions to a little cabin he sometimes stays in, down near the lake.”
Had to be the trailer, Stella thought. “What else you got?”
“I’m planning to call on some people Roy Dean’s evidently been doing business with,” he said. “Evidently he’s been dealing in auto scrap. Plus I’ve got Mike and Ian out talking to Roy Dean’s neighbors, his friends, his parents. We’re on the lookout for his car, but so far nothing. We’re looking into phone records. You know—all the usual.”
Stella nodded. Just what she expected. “You must be exhausted,” she said, turning up the sweet in her voice. “Running around all night. I’m so sorry to have caused you all this trouble. I guess you best get home and get a little sleep before you start your day.”
Goat frowned. “Only one needing to rest here is you. I spoke to Dr. Guevera, by the way, Stella, and she says she’s keeping you another night to keep an eye on your head. They don’t take these concussions lightly.”
Stella nodded, keeping her expression as neutral as she could.
Dumbasses—didn’t they realize she’d taken her own concussions plenty seriously, waking up on the kitchen floor or sprawled across her bed, blood congealing from where Ollie’d split her lip or busted her ear, wondering if this would be the time she couldn’t avoid the hospital? She’d been lucky that way, if you could call it luck—it had seemed like luck at the time.
Because Ollie had never actually broken anything. She never had to go to the emergency room and make up excuses for why her arm or shin was bent at a strange angle. She never had to pretend to have fallen down the stairs or tripped over a laundry basket.
No, she dealt with all her injuries the old-fashioned way—at home, with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a stack of bandages and a hell of a lot of CoverGirl concealer.
So one more concussion didn’t scare her all that bad, thank you very much.
But there wasn’t any reason to share that information with Goat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said meekly. “I’m actually feeling pretty tired myself, to be honest. Maybe I’ll see if they’ll give me a few more of those Tylenol, and take a nap.”
“That sounds like a good plan. I’ll tell Chrissy to come on back on my way out, so you all can have a short visit.” Goat stood, then hesitated, gazing down at her. “I’ll call you later in the day, let you know what I come up with. I don’t want you worrying. We’re going to find that little boy.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Stella said.
Goat stared at her a moment longer, and then, moving so fast she couldn’t even jerk out of the way, he slid one big callused hand under the thin blankets and ran his hand up her leg, letting his touch linger somewhere north of her knee.
“Tell you what, Dusty, I think you best get your money back for that wax job. You’re about as hairy as a polecat.”
Chrissy took one look at Stella and dropped her purse on the floor. Her hands flew up to her face, and she let out a little choked gasp.
“Oh shit, Stella, look what they done to you!”
So she was frightening people now. . . . Stella guessed she should be grateful that Goat had handled his horror so well.
“Just give me a mirror, will you?” she demanded, not bothering to cover her crankiness.
Chrissy nodded and blinked tears away. She picked up her purse and rummaged around in it, coming up with a plastic-handled makeup mirror, but she didn’t give it to Stella right away. Instead, she sat gingerly on the side of the bed and patted Stella gently on the top of her head and then on the shoulder, so softly it practically tickled.
“I’d hug you but I’m afraid I’d just hurt you worse,” she said miserably.
“Oh, come on, Chrissy, I’ll be fine. You and I both know—well, we know we’re tougher than people give us credit for. Right?”
Chrissy paused and mulled that over, then nodded decisively and leaned down for a big hug, smashing Stella’s tender ribs and pulling at the stitches. But Stella let her, and even tried to hug back a little.
When Chrissy finally pulled away, she handed Stella her little purse mirror. It was so small that Stella couldn’t see her whole face at once, and after squinting at herself for a few minutes, she figured that was probably a blessing.
She couldn’t get over how darn colorful she was. Two black eyes—but the flesh was actually shades of purple and gray and a sort of green, a rainbow of bruising all around the sockets. The stitches were done with neat little knots in black suture thread, and the path they traced made a sweeping curve, so it almost looked like some kind of tattoo, like the ones made to look like barbed wire that the kids were so fond of.
The shaved part of her scalp was almost a perfect square, and Stella couldn’t figure out whether that was a good thing or not. She tried pushing her hair over the patch to hide it, but the curls sprung right back the way they were, leaving the bald flesh exposed. She’d have to work at that with a little gel or something.
One thing she hadn’t noticed earlier—her bottom lip was split and swollen and stuck out all puffy, like a movie-star collagen job gone terribly wrong. Jeez.
She handed the mirror back and tried for a smile, which hurt like a bitch. “Guess I’m not going to get on American Idol anytime soon.”
Chrissy shook her head slowly. Then she took a breath and leaned in. Her eyebrows lowered and a flush of pink washed over her cheeks.
“We need to get out and get those sumbitches,” she said fiercely. “Stella, if they gonna do you like this, why, I don’t think they’re just babysitting little Tucker.”
“Oh,�
� Stella said. “Oh. Uh . . . Chrissy, see, I haven’t maybe told you every last thing I’ve found out.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“No, no, calm down,” Stella said as she saw Chrissy tense up, the tendons in her jaw standing out.
“Don’t tell me to calm down, Stella, it’s my—”
“No, listen. Some of it’s, you know, maybe good news. I mean, not good but, er, not terrible.”
“Stella, you tell me and you tell me right now.” She inched over on the mattress a bit, her hip bumping painfully against Stella’s aching side.
“Well . . .” Where to start? With the most hopeful possibility, Stella guessed. “You know that Darla gal that called? She was talking about having something of Roy Dean’s over at her house. Wouldn’t say what it was, but the way she was carrying on, I got to thinking it might just be Tucker.”
“Tucker? She’s got my baby boy over her house?” Chrissy said, voice escalating incredulously. “What’s she done with him?”
“No, now, I didn’t say for sure he was over there, just that the way she was carrying on, saying have Roy Dean meet her there today because she didn’t want the responsibility for—um, whatever it is he left there.”
“Well shoot, let’s go!”
“But now see, the problem is, she didn’t say where she lived. Or what her last name was. I have a feeling I might have a description of her, seeing as it might be a woman somebody saw Roy Dean with the other day.”
“How do we find out?”
“Hang on, sugar, let me tell you the rest first. This Darla’s expecting Roy Dean at noon. She’s gonna get us instead. We just got to figure out where she’s at. But there’s a little more I need to tell you.”
“Like what?” Chrissy demanded.
“Well . . . you know how you said Pitt was visiting at your place when Roy Dean came over . . . and you went out in the back yard for that hibachi, and then he was gone when you got back in the house?”
“Yeah . . .”
“And how he thinks Tucker’s his baby and all?”