by J. A. Jance
“Mom,” Jenny began, but Joanna shushed her.
“Why are you here, Mrs. Green?” Joanna asked, returning to her original line of questioning. “What do you want?”
“To talk, I guess,” the woman answered sadly. “To tell somebody my side of the story for a change. I thought, you bein’ a woman and all, that maybe you’d understand why I done it. Why I had to go an’ kill him. I sure enough did. He deserved it, though. That man was meaner ’an a snake. Some folks get nicer when they get old, sorta sweet and quiet-like. Not him, not my daddy. He just got meaner ’n’ meaner, only he was real mean to begin with.”
Saying that, Hannah Green subsided into a brooding silence Joanna found even more unnerving than her self-incriminating words. Jenny, eyes wide, shot her mother a questioning look. Grimly Joanna shook her head, hoping that single, unspoken warning would be enough to stifle any further questions or comments from her daughter.
As the Blazer rounded the last curve in the road and pulled into the yard, Joanna’s newly installed motion detector snapped on, bathing the whole area in light. Looking at Hannah Green over the top of Jenny’s frizzy blond head, Joanna saw a weary, grimfaced woman. She had to be in her late sixties at least. Her lank, shoulder-length iron-gray hair wriggled with natural curls as though from a recent, unset permanent. What must have been several missing molars gave her left cheek a hollow, crushed-in look. Her eyes stared straight ahead with the eerie stillness of someone under the influence of a hypnotist. Or of drugs.
Joanna looked out at the yard and at the dogs cavorting in happy circles around the Blazer, waiting for it to stop and for the passengers to climb down. Their ecstatic welcome did nothing to lighten Joanna’s growing sense of foreboding. Never had the High Lonesome seemed so isolated. Never had her neighbors seemed so distant. For all the good it did her, town could just as well have been light-years away.
Shutting off the ignition, Joanna removed the key. In the process, she gave Jenny’s knee what she hoped was a reassuring pat. In the passenger seat, Hannah Green sat still as death. Finally Joanna reached for the door handle.
“It’s cold out here,” she said, forcing into her voice a composure she didn’t feel. “We’d better go on inside.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Hannah said, heaving herself out the other side of the truck.
Joanna had hoped the process of opening the car door would force Hannah to remove her right hand from her jacket pocket, revealing once and for all whether or not she was armed. Instead, she once again let go of Jenny long enough to reach across her own body to manipulate the door. Then, after shoving it open, Hannah once again locked her puffy fingers around Jenny’s arm, dragging the unprotesting child with her across the seat. As the two of them exited through the right-hand side of the Blazer, Joanna was grateful that Jenny had sense enough not to struggle.
Knowing she had to keep herself focused and absolutely clearheaded, Joanna let her breath out slowly. She stepped down onto the ground only to be subjected to Tigger’s and Sadie’s ecstatic greetings. Wildly wagging and whining in welcome, neither of the dogs seemed to pay any attention to the stranger in their midst. Joanna could see the dogs’ primitive logic. Joanna and Jenny had brought the stranger home. Therefore, she must not pose any danger.
Thanks, guys, Joanna thought. Some watchdogs you turned out to be.
Joanna moved toward the tailgate. “We have groceries in the back,” she announced. “I have to get them out.”
“You go right ahead and do that,” Hannah Green said. “I come this far. I’m not in no hurry.”
With Jenny walking between them, the two women made their way from the Blazer to the fenced yard and up the walkway. It was cold enough for Joanna to see her breath. Both she and Jenny had been wearing warm clothing, even in the heated vehicle. Hannah Green had been outside in the terrible chill with bare legs and only that thin jacket.
She must be frozen, Joanna thought. How long had she been waiting there, I wonder?
Once on the back porch, Joanna had to put down the two bags of groceries. Mustering every bit of courage she possessed, she stepped forward, keys in hand, to unlock the door. That process meant turning her back on Hannah Green, and Joanna did it with an almost sickening sense of dread. It took three tries before she finally managed to fit the key in the lock. At last the door swung open. Joanna breathed a sigh of relief.
“Come in,” she said, picking up the groceries and stepping over the threshold. Hannah and Jenny followed her inside, bringing the cavorting dogs with them.
“You must be freezing,” Joanna said as she switched on the overhead light.
“I am just a little cold,” Hannah Green replied. “Not too bad, though.” She stopped in the middle of the floor and stared down at the dogs, who were still milling around the room. Jenny dropped to the floor with them, threw both arms around Tigger, and buried her face in the flowing golden fur on the back of his neck.
“Daddy wouldn’t never let me have a dog,” Hannah was saying, as Joanna placed the bags of groceries on the counter. “He hated having animals inside the house. Said they was filthy.” For a space she stood there watching Jenny and the dogs. “What do you call ’em?” she asked at last.
When Jenny didn’t answer, Joanna did. “The bluetick hound is called Sadie. The funny looking one with the white patch around his eye is Tigger.”
“And they won’t hurt me?” Hannah asked.
“No,” Joanna said reassuringly. “They’re fine.”
The two women stood facing each other across the kitchen over the heads of Jenny and the dogs. Hannah’s hair hadn’t been washed in a very long time. Neither had the rest of her.
“You sure them dogs won’t bite?” Hannah asked.
“I’m sure,” Joanna said.
Tentatively, Hannah reached out her hand. “Come here, doggy,” she said. “Nice doggy.”
Sadie was the first to notice Hannah’s outstretched hand. With her head cocked to one side and with her nose quivering an inspection, she stood up and came over to where Hannah was standing. As Hannah ran her hand down the dog’s smooth, blue-black coat, a strange look passed over her bedraggled, wrinkle-scored face. It was a look of almost childlike wonder.
“I never knew a dog would be this soft!” she exclaimed.
Jenny pulled away from Tigger’s neck and looked over at Hannah with a disbelieving blue-eyed stare. “You mean you’ve never even touched a dog before?” Joanna cringed at the arch skepticism in Jenny’s voice. Joanna was afraid the very tone of it would upset the woman.
“Jenny,” Joanna hissed. “Mind your manners.”
Hannah, however, was so preoccupied with petting the dog that she didn’t seem to notice. Tigger, always eager to receive his share of attention, stood up and came to collect some petting for himself. While Joanna watched breathlessly, Hannah Green’s other hand emerged from the concealing pocket and came to rest on the second dog’s raised forehead. Only then did Joanna realize that Hannah Green wasn’t armed.
Her right hand didn’t hold a weapon—could not have held a weapon. The whole hand was horribly maimed. Useless, mangled fingers bent crookedly across a partially missing thumb.
“What kind of a dog is this?” Hannah Green asked distractedly as her crippled hand ran back and forth across Tigger’s silky blond head.
“Half golden retriever, half pitbull,” Jenny answered. “His owner died, and we adopted him. He’s real smart, except for porcupines. He keeps coming home with his face covered with porcupine quills. When that happens, we have to take him to the vet.”
Jenny faltered then. In talking about her dog it seemed as though she had forgotten the strained circumstances that surrounded the question. Remembering, she fell silent.
For Joanna, the realization that Hannah Green’s right hand didn’t contain a gun completely changed the dynamics of the situation. At first she wasn’t sure how to react. It was still possible that Hannah might be concealing another weapon somewhere else on h
er body, but somehow, watching her pet the dogs, Joanna doubted that.
Maybe what Hannah Green had told them in the beginning was true. Maybe all she really wanted to do was talk. To that end, the best thing Joanna could do was try to establish a sense of rapport, a sense of normalcy. She dropped her purse on the counter beside the grocery bags. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Just a piece of bread or two would be fine,” Hannah answered. “And maybe a little bit of jam if you have some.”
“I was going to bake a couple of pork chops,” Joanna said. “If you don’t mind waiting until they cook, I’m sure we’ll have plenty to go around.” She looked at Jenny. “While the food’s cooking, Jenny, you get busy with your homework. You told me you have a whole bunch of math to do for Mrs. Voland’s class.”
Jenny shot her mother a surprised look. “But Mom…”
“No argument, young lady.” Joanna abruptly stifled Jenny’s objection before the child could reveal that her teacher’s name was really Mrs. Harper, not Mrs. Voland. All Joanna could do was hope Jenny was smart enough to take the hint. Take it and act on it.
“No argument at all,” Joanna finished. “Get now. And take the dogs with you. They’ll just be in the way. Mrs. Green and I need to talk.”
Without further discussion, Jenny took the dogs and her school backpack and retreated to her bedroom. Relieved that, for the time being at least, Jenny was out of any immediate danger, Joanna turned to the everyday task of putting away groceries. After the unnerving terror of the preceding minutes, the little kitchen seemed impossibly warm and homey. Despite Hannah Green’s still ominous presence, folding the empty paper bags and putting them in the bottom drawer gave an air of mind-bending domesticity to the proceedings.
Hannah Green slid onto the bench in the breakfast nook and slouched there. The despair emanating from her was almost as powerful as the stink of her great unwashed body. Her flat, vacant features could never have been considered remotely attractive, but she seemed at home in her placid ugliness.
“Before you and I say anything more, Mrs. Green,” Joanna cautioned, “you must understand that I’m a police officer. Since you’re a suspect in the death of your father, you probably shouldn’t be talking to anyone—me included—without first consulting an attorney and without being read your rights.”
“Don’t care none about my rights and can’t afford no fancy attorney,” Hannah returned morosely. “All’s I’ve got with me is just what I had laid by in my underwear drawer. Five hundred fifty dollars and some change. I don’t reckon that’d go any too far in hirin’ me one of them there lawyers.”
“If you can’t afford an attorney—”
“Besides,” Hannah continued, seemingly unperturbed. “Don’t much want one anyways. I already tol’ you I kilt him. And if’n they send me to jail, leastways I’ll have food to eat and a roof over my head. It serves him right, my daddy. He allus said I wasn’t smart enough to rub two sticks together. He allus said that without him I’d just up and starve to death. Well, I reckon I won’t. Nobody’ll let me starve in jail, will they?”
Joanna had pried the plastic wrap off the pork chops and begun to season them, dropping them into a cast-iron skillet and browning them before placing the skillet in the oven. “No,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose they will.”
“See there?” Hannah said. “I’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Joanna could think of nothing to say in reply.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?” Hannah asked a moment later. Joanna shook her head. “I’m gonna tell you anyways. You see, I just wanted to change the damn channel. That’s all. Daddy wouldn’t never let me watch what I wanted. It was just pure meanness on his part. That’s what made me so mad. He didn’t want to watch nothin’ else. Didn’t care about no other channel so long as I couldn’t watch what I wanted. He just got up and went outside and took that clicker with him. I coulda changed it on the set, but I wanted to use the clicker like a regular person.
“He went out and I went chasin’ after him, tellin’ him to bring it back—to bring it back right now. But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t no way. Jus’ kept right on walkin’—didn’t even have no coat on—and I kept right after him, yellin’ my fool head off, tellin’ him to give it back. And then somethin’ happened. He musta tripped and fell and didn’t get up. The next thing I knowed, I was standin’ over him with a rock in my hand, bashin’ the back of his head in, all the while screamin’ at him at the top of my lungs. ‘Give it to me. Give it back!’”
Hannah Green told her story with a minimum of emotion, delivering the details with a chilling dispassion that seemed to imply she was still more upset about the loss of the remote control than she was about her father’s death.
Maybe she is crazy, Joanna decided.
Sitting there hunched in the breakfast nook, with her multiple chins resting in her good hand and with the ruined one once again back in its concealing pocket, Hannah Green didn’t appear to be a danger to anyone. Still, Joanna recognized that she would need help in dealing with this woman. She could go through all the motions of playing hostess, of feeding her unwelcome guest and warming her. But somewhere along the line, the charade would come to an end. Joanna knew that when that moment arrived, she would need back up. Had Jenny understood or not?
As Joanna continued with dinner preparations, she wondered if it would be possible for her to find some plausible excuse to slip into her bedroom. There, in a matter of seconds, she could dial 9-1-1 and call for help. What Joanna feared, though, was that once Hannah’s suspicions were aroused, she might fly into the same kind of murderous rage that had overtaken her when she killed her father.
“And then,” Hannah went on, taking up her story again after a long, thoughtful pause, “when I knew he wasn’t movin’ no more, I turned him over on his back and left him there. Left him starin’ up at the sky. Even if he was dead, I wanted him to see my face afore I left. I wanted him to know it was me and nobody else ’at kilt him. Then I pulled ’at there remote right out of his pocket and went back home. But my program was over by then. It was a special about Judy Garland, and I missed the whole thing. Course, it could be on the reruns later. Maybe I’ll have a chance to see it then. Do they have TVs in jail?”
With the meat in the oven, Joanna started peeling potatoes.
“They do,” she answered without conviction. Even if television sets were available to inmates, it didn’t seem likely that Hannah Green’s fellow prisoners would be any more interested in a Judy Garland retrospective than Reed Carruthers had been.
How is it possible, Joanna wondered, that this whole thing started over a stupid television remote control? How can that be? Was that all there was to it? Was a simple argument over a television channel enough to send a murderous Hannah Green hurtling through the cold desert night?
What Hannah said next chilled Joanna to the bone. It seemed almost as though the woman had peered into her skull and heard those unasked questions.
“It wasn’t just the TV, neither,” Hannah Green continued doggedly.
“It wasn’t?”
Hannah shook her head. Removing her damaged hand from her pocket, she held it up to the light, examining the bent and useless fingers. “I did it because of this here, too.”
“Because of your hand? Are you saying your father did that to you?”
“I was gonna to leave oncet, but he didn’t want me to,” Hannah recalled. “Mama was real sick, you see. Daddy needed someone to stay there and take care of her. He slammed my hand in the car door so as I couldn’t go.”
“When did that happen?”
Hannah shrugged. “A while back,” she said.
“How recently?”
“Not recent. It was after my husband divorced me and I came home to Daddy and Mama’s place.”
“When?” Joanna urged, thinking as she asked the question that if Reed Carruthers had attacked his daughter, Hannah might be able to enter
a plea of self-defense.
“Nineteen sixty-five or so, I guess,” Hannah Green answered after a period of frowning consideration. “That musta been about when it was.”
“More than thirty years ago?”
Hannah shrugged. “That’s right. Like I said, it’s been a while.”
Somewhere at the far end of the house, the dogs began barking. The chorus was stifled almost immediately. Daring to hope that help was at hand, Joanna carefully rinsed the potatoes, put them in the pressure cooker, added water and salt. As she placed the potatoes on the burner, someone began pounding on the seldom-used front door.
Concerned that any intrusion might upset the woman, Joanna glanced at her warily. “Someone’s at the door,” Joanna said.
The woman nodded but didn’t move.
“I’ll have to answer it.”
Hannah nodded. “You go ahead,” she said.
By the time Joanna had crossed the kitchen to the doorway into the dining room, Jenny had already opened the front door. Detective Ernie Carpenter burst into the living room, followed closely by Dick Voland.
“We’ve got the house surrounded,” Ernie barked. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen,” Joanna said, motioning in that direction. While Ernie pushed past her into the kitchen, Dick Voland slid to a stop beside Joanna.
“Are you and Jenny all right?”
“Yes,” Joanna said.
From out of nowhere, Jenny suddenly squeezed between them and grabbed Joanna around the waist. She clung there, saying nothing.
“Is she armed?” Dick asked.
“I don’t think so,” Joanna managed.
The flood of relief that washed over her then took her by surprise. One moment she was laughing. The next, laughter unaccountably changed to tears.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Jenny asked, peering up into her face. “I called Mr. Voland. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”
That was the precise instant when Joanna’s knees buckled and would no longer support her weight. If Dick Voland hadn’t been right there to catch her, she might have fallen all the way to the floor. She was still sobbing as he took her gently by the shoulders and steered her to one of the dining room chairs.