Move to Strike

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  As she sat on the couch, stretching and unstretching her legs, a car pulled up across the street. She looked out.

  One of those generic Tahoe pickups. Big. More than that, she really couldn’t tell because their block had no streetlamps, which was basically a good thing, at least for tonight. She heard the car door slam, then nothing.

  Then footsteps around the house.

  She froze.

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, but softly, muffled by the bed of pine needles, crunching when feet ran into leaves. The feet made an entire circuit, stopping briefly outside Daria’s window, then moving on.

  They climbed up the steps to the front door. But no knock came.

  She tried to swallow. A dry throat, a desert in there. Who could it be? The magician, looking for Daria?

  The voice?

  She leaned around the window, craning to see who was standing at the door, but the windows were too close to provide a decent view if someone stood directly in front of the door.

  Fright got her up. He might . . . “No!” she yelled. She stood in front of the door, but immobilized, she could not make her hand undo the latch.

  Her hand moved. Her thumbs made contact with the cold brass of the knob, then her fingers. She willed her muscles to tighten, to get a grip. She opened the door.

  But the man was running, running into the woods.

  He had seen Bob with the shovel.

  CHAPTER 15

  UNABLE TO SINK his crotchety bones and plaster cast into the hot tub at Caesars, Paul sublimated with chicken satay at Sato’s, skipping the rice to devote himself entirely to the delicate peanutty flavor. Late on a weeknight, the restaurant was uncrowded. He sat at the table with his back to the wall, facing the doorway, as he always did, with the deeply inculcated paranoia of an ex-cop.

  He was thinking about the pass he had come to and the sense that things were deteriorating on him, the business, the leg, Susan. Ah, well. Such things were all in a day’s work for the Lone Ranger. He would get back on the horse and ride into another satisfying adventure any minute now.

  Pushing his plate away, Paul finally wiped his lips with a napkin and consulted his watch. Late. Too late to go anywhere, except to a casino.

  Back in his van, he turned right onto the highway, then swerved onto Pioneer Trail, continuing almost all the way up the dark road until the turnoff on Jicarilla Drive.

  He parked across the street. Hmm. No porch light. That suggested Nina and Bob had gone to bed. Up in the second-story window, he thought he saw a glimmering. Pushing his crutches out before him, he worked his way out of the car and up the stairs to the front door in cool night air. Stars flooded the high-altitude sky. He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked louder. Wild barking ensued.

  Within seconds, a sleepy-eyed Nina appeared. She held a bathrobe around her, silk, very soft, very lived-in looking, which parted somewhere below to reveal the white knobs of her knees. She was holding her big black dog by its collar, half choking it.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.

  “I shouldn’t have come so late. It’s a school night. Sorry. There’s nothing wrong. I just stopped by on my way back to the hotel.” She was standing there, nailed like she’d been hit with a hammer, looking at him.

  He looked behind him. Nobody was there.

  “How come you keep calling me so late and coming over late?”

  “Too busy during the day.”

  “Is that really it?”

  “What else would it be?”

  Then she saw his cast. She gasped and looked from the cast to his face.

  “You’re hurt! Why didn’t you tell me . . .”

  “Didn’t want you getting any ideas about hiring someone else.”

  “Oh, Paul. What happened?”

  “I hurt it skiing.” He held out his hand to the dog and when it came over, began stroking its furry head.

  “In summer?”

  “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were busy.”

  “How long with the crutches?”

  “Doctors no longer prognosticate, did you know that? They give odds, they speak in tongues. Their language now resembles their handwriting.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, come in, come in. Can I help you?”

  He waved her away and came stumping in and lowered himself onto the couch.

  Nina went to the Swedish fireplace in the center of the room and opened the grate. Paul watched as she leaned over with the stick she used as a poker, stirring up the wood, which flared up and sent a heat wave toward him. She seemed uncomfortable.

  “Thought I saw a light,” he said to get the ball rolling.

  “You did.” Walking into the kitchen, she pulled two cups out of the cupboard. “Darjeeling okay?”

  “Got anything stronger? I’ve been drinking tea all night.” While she found a beer in the refrigerator and poured it into a cup, he made a decision of his own. He couldn’t take the physical shock of seeing her. This would be the last case for him and Nina. Like a stupid bird, he kept flying into her glass door, hurting himself. He couldn’t stand being close but not close, and he had no intention of revealing the things that would bring them together. Case closed on that front, he thought with a rush of feelings that included only a little relief.

  She handed him the cup. “Sorry. I haven’t run the dishwasher in a while.”

  She seemed to be taking his visit well, as if she might have been feeling the teeniest bit lonely herself. He ran his eyes around the familiar kitchen, enjoying the bits of painted pottery on the window above the sink and collection of unique cups that told him things about her. He hadn’t ever seen much of her domestic side, and it was another side he liked.

  “Sorry about the prelim,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I went to the clinic and talked with people there, some new patients and some postsurgical ones hanging around waiting for checkups. Dr. Brett’s got a lot of fans.”

  “What about his alibi?”

  “After meeting his wife, who was as lovely as described, I could see Dylan Brett home cuddling with her that night. He certainly should have been.”

  “People that perfect irk me,” Nina said. “A bad flaw in me, I know.”

  “Even more important, I found out he comes from money. He doesn’t need the clinic financially. He just loves what he does. I can’t see why he would off his partner who was about to retire.”

  “Is it possible he was involved with Beth?”

  “Well, that’s the interesting part. I did talk with one nurse who praised him to the skies, then admitted that our good doctor can be a real flirt, especially around Beth. All harmless fun, according to her, but the first scratch in his shiny exterior. So, I’ll say it is possible he was involved in some way. I get the impression all was not right in the Sykes marriage. On the other hand, the Brett marriage appears solid. They grew up together, were high school sweethearts. They appear close.”

  “Hmm,” Nina said. “It’s strange how, even while you say that, you don’t seem to believe it yourself.”

  “Maybe I find the concept of a perfect marriage difficult to buy,” he said lightly. “My secret flaw.”

  “A scratch in your shine? That leg must really be bothering you.”

  He smiled a little and decided to leave it at that. “Tell me more about Linda Littlebear,” he said.

  She filled a teapot with water, turned on the gas, and sighed. “It’s sad. She’s trying to destroy herself.” She told him about the conversation in more detail, and Paul said thoughtfully, “It’s a decent description. We should be able to find the man with Sykes. I can’t see how it could be Dave LeBlanc, if he sounded like a foreigner, but I’ll keep that possibility open anyway.”

  “I know how Linda feels because I felt just like she does, Paul. I don’t know what would have happened to me,
except that I still had Bob and my work.”

  “What’s happened is that you are stronger than ever,” Paul said. “It’s remarkable to watch.”

  “You think so? I hope that’s true.”

  “You still worrying? Having those bad nights?”

  “Oh . . .” She made a motion as if to brush the question away.

  “Anyway, we have leads,” Paul said. “I need more of Wish’s time. Is it all right to put him on the payroll for a few extra hours?”

  “How many?”

  “About five hundred bucks’ worth.”

  “I’ll check it out with Beth Sykes, but I’m sure she’ll okay it.”

  “I’m going to ask to see what’s left of the plane early next week. The investigator postponed the appointment.”

  Nina said, “I suppose I’m dreaming up links that don’t exist. The two deaths must be coincidence.” She had her back to him, making her tea. In her kimono, her hair tousled, her hands making the graceful movements of pouring and stirring, she seemed so remote and self-contained that Paul felt a suffocating despair creep over him.

  If only . . . he would have tried again with her, he could see that now, once she was over her husband’s death . . . maybe she would have turned to him again.

  But seven months before, after a moment that took no longer than it takes a lizard to leap toward the sun, he had cut himself off from her forever. She would never understand what he had done. She would shudder and turn from him in horror. She’d turn him in.

  “No. This time I think you’re right,” he said, trying to strike an appropriately casual note in spite of what he was feeling. Good old lighthearted Paul.

  “You actually agree with me on something?” She turned around and gave him a puzzled smile. She was wondering what the heck he was doing there. With her there was always a subtext.

  Paul said, “I do agree. There’s a link between the crash and the murder. Why is LeBlanc missing? It’s a red flag. I talked to Connie Bailey on the phone again and she hasn’t heard from him either. She’s determined to prove Skip Bailey wasn’t responsible. She’d be hiring me if you hadn’t.” They talked on for a while, gossiping about Matt and Andrea and the kids until Paul looked again at his watch. “I better let you get to the sandman.” He got up.

  “See you tomorrow.” But the puzzlement never left her eyes. She couldn’t place him here in her house or anywhere in her life.

  Probably that thought was what compelled him to do one final supremely stupid thing before leaving. He intended only to touch her arm, offer a little physical nourishment.

  “Nina,” he said, and her name came out sounding like it tasted in his mouth, sweet and thick as butter-scotch. He pulled her into his arms, slipped his hands inside the robe and around her back, felt her breasts pillow against his chest, breathed in her hair, and kissed her.

  When he let her go, she closed her robe and handed him his crutches. “You stand up pretty well without them when you want to.”

  “Briefly,” he said. “All too briefly.”

  “Is that why you came tonight?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Good thing,” she said, “or maybe I would fire you after all.”

  After Paul left, Nina took another compulsive walk around the house, snapping the windows and locks closed, making sure all was secure. She considered leaving Bob’s room alone—sometimes he slept so lightly—but found she couldn’t.

  Tiptoeing in, she moved toward the window, twisting the lock just enough to make sure all was well. From Bob’s window, she could see Paul’s van. Acting in place of the moon, the truck’s dome light illuminated his every awkward move. Paul had managed to open the van door, but had not managed to get himself inside yet.

  His touch reminded her of how lonely she was. There was comfort in Paul. But, she thought, I never should have brought him back up here. It’s finished. She began listing again all the reasons why: His anger sometimes blasted beyond all boundaries. He said he didn’t want kids. He was too unpredictable.

  Their liaison was knotty and emotional and full of trepidation on both sides. It bore no resemblance to the simple, unbridled love she had experienced first with Bob’s father, Kurt, and later with her husband. With these thoughts rumbling around in her mind, she petted Hitchcock’s head so vigorously the dog’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

  Paul’s engine started up. His headlights came on, and she heard his gears grind as he shifted into drive.

  Turning back toward the door, which she had left open a sliver, she glanced down at Bob’s bed intending to kiss him perhaps, intending to straighten his loose covers . . . ultimately it didn’t matter what she had intended, because what she did was quite unplanned. She screamed.

  “Bob!” She ran around the kitchen and bathroom, ran upstairs, scanned her room, and ran back into the living room. “Bob!” He had been sleepwalking lately, she told herself. He had to be here somewhere.

  She cried out again, but there was no answer. The house, so small, did not have many places that might conceal a boy his size. Still screaming his name, she flung open the front door. Maybe she could catch Paul. Hitchcock ran outside, barking frantically.

  She didn’t have to worry. Paul had heard her, and was rushing along on the crutches back toward the house.

  “He’s not in his bed. He’s gone! Just like before!”

  “Come back inside,” Paul said, taking her arm.

  “No!” The empty house frightened her, because it was the only witness, and if it spoke, she didn’t think she could bear listening.

  Noting the lights coming on in the house across the way, Paul pushed her back inside. “Calm down. This isn’t like last time. He can’t have gone far. When did he go to bed?”

  She struggled for a moment, grappling with the question, then felt her mind reengage. “When I did. About nine-thirty.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  She hadn’t checked. Hurrying back to his room, she searched for one, tossing bedclothes on the floor, pushing papers off his desk and to the ground, and found nothing except his school notebook. Bringing it back with her into the living room, feeling the cold creeping up her bare legs, she set it on the table and began leafing frantically through. “There’s got to be something . . .”

  “Think,” Paul said, an oasis of calm in a world that had suddenly fallen into wreckage. “Where would he go? You have to think.”

  Closing her eyes, she tried to reach inside the deep well of her mind. Bob had seemed happy lately. He and Troy spent weekends messing around on the computer or riding around on skateboards and playing hockey. He talked about school very little, but talked incessantly about joining a band.

  Nikki’s band. She opened her eyes, slamming the notebook shut. “He’s at Nikki Zack’s. Yes, that’s where he is.”

  “Nikki’s?”

  Nina let her robe slip to the floor, pulled a sweater and a pair of jeans out of the dirty clothes basket and pulled them on, while Paul watched.

  “Will you come get him?”

  “We could call over there.”

  “Of course.” She ran for her address book and punched in the number. “No answer,” she said. “But where else would he go?” She called Andrea and said a few words, then hung up. “When I find him, I’m going to—”

  “Let’s go over to the Zack house,” Paul said.

  She grabbed her keys and wallet. “I’ll drive. You should be able to get that cast in the Bronco.”

  “Nina,” Paul said, “excuse me for being so dense. But you say she’s Bob’s friend. Are you afraid she’s dangerous to him?”

  By now they were on the porch. Nina locked the door, trapping Hitchcock inside. “I don’t know what to think. Listen, maybe it would be better if I went alone. I mean . . .”

  Paul was already climbing in.

  Nikki didn’t wait to consider the consequences. She ran down the hall into Daria’s bedroom, pulled the covers off her mother, and shook her. “Wake up, Mom! Ge
t up!”

  Daria’s eyes opened. She blinked twice to clear her vision, then said, “Oh, now suddenly I’m ‘Mom’ again.” Sitting up, she fluffed a pillow behind her back. “Why did you wake me, honey? What’s going on?”

  But Nikki had her mother’s jacket in her hands and was shoving Daria’s arms inside. “You’ve got to go outside. Bob’s in trouble.”

  “Bob’s here?”

  “He’s outside. We have to be quick. Listen to me.” She stood by the bed, her attention riveted on the black hole of window where she thought she saw a flashlight glowing. Two flashlights . . . “When I went to Uncle Bill’s that night, I took something, something of his that I thought might be ours.” The words spilled out all over the place. She didn’t have time to plan what to say. She didn’t have time to explain. “Oh, forget that! Doesn’t matter.” The impotence she felt at the moment, that was important. Telling her mother this thing she never meant to tell, that was important. “Damn it!” she said.

  “You were really there that night. Oh, Nikki.”

  “You know I was!” Nikki shouted, noting her mother’s lack of real surprise, but putting the information aside immediately. She couldn’t deal with Daria or what she had done, not now, not ever. They had to move forward and not look back. “Anyway, so I took this thing from Uncle Bill’s and buried it out back before they put this ankle thing on me. Tonight, about ten minutes ago, Bob went out there to dig it up for me because I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t do it myself. Then this man came.”

  All dullness left Daria’s narrowing eyes. “What man?”

  “That’s just it! He’s a total stranger! It must be the same one who called me. He—he knew about the bag and he wanted it. I told him I didn’t have it. I never expected him to come here tonight! It must be him! He saw Bob out there!” Nikki couldn’t help herself. Tears flowed. “I can’t go out there. I can’t do anything.”

  Daria leaped up. Pulling a pair of dark leggings up over her nightgown, she stepped into a pair of shoes and moved fast across the room to the closet. She reached up to the top shelf, flinging clothing down to the ground around her feet.