“Slasher in New York, that strangler Sandman in Phoenix, some idiot calls himself a reincarnated Jack the Ripper over in Idaho. Can’t be a serial killer or mass murderer these days unless you give yourself a name.” He folded the paper and tossed it contemptuously into the sink. “Sick of it. I’m sick of it.”
John was astonished. Usually Trout reveled in such stories, spinning elaborate schemes to get these killers’ stories for another book. He wondered if his own work had anything to do with this about-face, or if something had happened he didn’t know about yet while he’d been gone.
“TV,” Lisse said, hands around a cup of coffee. “You don’t give them a name, they’re just like a bunch of others.”.
“It’s still sick,” George told her. “More, because I think you might be right.”
No one mentioned the dreams, the crows, the blue eyes, Levee Pete.
“It’s not like we’re all that sane around here, either,” the old man continued, leaning back, dangling his arms at his sides. “We got that Gillespie scum they think’s on his way. We got more than a dozen people going off the deep end. dancing naked in their yards, getting hauled off to the Psych Ward at Cornman—”
“What?”
George laughed, and explained about the epidemic of what he called the world enders, all ages, who’ve been driving the police up the walls. “Arn—that’s Chief Baer, my dear—told me something else, too. They go into the house, see if there’s drugs or whatnot, which there aren’t, and every one of them’s got that Bible thumper on TV when it happened.” He scowled, one eye closed. “Can’t think of his name.”
“Lanyon Trask,” John said quietly.
George blinked. “Right. That’s—Jesus, John, that’s the same guy that chased you up here, right?”
“Me or the Antichrist,” he answered with a false smile.
“So,” said Lisse to him quickly, “what’s the plan? You going home?”
He stared at what remained of his sandwich, swiped at his forelock, reached for the orange juice. “If they’re there,” he said, “it can only mean one thing.”
“Your boy is back?”
He nodded. “No one else knows them around here. Someone had to let them in. That could only be Patty.”
“Gathering the family around her,” George guessed. “Strength in numbers. But hell, John, no offense, but she’s already taken you for everything you got. Including the boy. What the hell else can she want?”
“Reconciliation,” he answered, looked up suddenly as he realized there was no hope for him in that word. Only a week ago he would have killed for it; now, back here, all he wanted was to see his son again. His voice was tight:’ “She’s out of money or something. She’s got no place to go-”
“She’s got her family,” Lisse said without looking at him. “She don’t need you, John.” She sipped at her coffee, grimaced, and set the cup down. “And what did you mean, took him?” she asked George. “He still has—”
Ace?
Startled, John looked behind him.
Trout pushed away from the table but didn’t rise. He looked around thoughtfully as one thumb hooked itself around one suspender strap. “I don’t know if it’s my place,” he said.
Ace, don’t let him.
He stood so quickly he almost knocked the chair over. “I have an idea.”
George looked at him oddly. “Are you all right?”
A shadow in the hall; John nodded that he was fine.
“Couple of years, maybe she does want to come home, you know?” Her face tightened. “Not that she deserves it. From what I’ve heard, that is.”
“A couple of years?” George’s head turned slowly. “My God, John, what did you tell her?”
Ace, please!
John started for the stairs, intending to fetch his wind-breaker from the suitcase in the bedroom. “I’ve got to get home,” he called over his shoulder. “Lisse, you want to come?”
He stopped when he heard Trout clear his throat. He knew that sound, what it meant, and he grabbed for the newel post and hung on.
Ace, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare let him!
“Patty,” he whispered desperately to the shadows at the head of the stairs. “Patty.”
“After all you two have been through,” George said, sounding disappointed, sounding sad.
“You gonna hint around all day or are you gonna tell me?”
Ace, if you let him do this. . .
John didn’t move.
“Their marriage was over a long time ago,” George said. “There was a party for Joey, big one, everybody came. Half the town, mostly her relatives. John doesn’t have anybody left, so we, his friends here, were pretty much it. It was supposed to be an attempt to keep things together. Obviously it didn’t work. Next day—”
Ace!
‘‘—she gets a hotshot lawyer from Chicago, paid for by her father, and raked John over the coals. He—”
Oh... Ace.
‘‘—lost everything. The house, his money ... you name it, she took it. At the end, when everything was signed, she let him rent the house so he could keep working. Can’t get alimony or child support if the husband doesn’t work, and he had a pretty good business going here. I told him, rent an office downtown, don’t be beholden to her, but he wouldn’t listen. Then ... then she left town with Joey, and they haven’t been back since.”
“I don’t get it,” Lisse said. “I mean—”
“That was almost four years ago, my dear. Two years ago, she pulled that particular rug from under him, too. Evicted him just about the time he started writing those articles, then gathering material for that book. He couldn’t go home, Lisse. He doesn’t have one.”
Ace. You bastard.
Still gripping the polished wood, John swung around until he sat on the steps, legs stretched into the hall. He heard Lisse’s questions, heard George’s soft answers, but he didn’t listen to the words. He wanted to think of a way to reconcile George’s story with the one he’d been telling himself for nearly half a decade, and when he failed, miserably, he shuddered in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling.
See you around, Ace, you stupid son of a bitch.
Lisse called him; he didn’t move except to turn his head and look down the hall, into the kitchen. She was no doubt angry, but it didn’t show on her face. No pity, either, and that made him smile. Not much, but he smiled.
“John, get in here,” George said with a brusque wave.
Slowly, his muscles and joints aged a hundred years, he pulled himself to his feet, rubbed the back of his head, and returned to the kitchen, where he leaned against the door jamb, one hand in his pocket.
“You didn’t tell her everything,” he said. And waited for Patty’s ghost to say something, to interrupt.
“John, you all right?” Lisse started to rise, but he gestured her back down.
Waiting for the ghost until he realized it was gone.
“So. . . what else is there?” she said, trying to be serious and light at the same time. “What are you hiding from me, Yank?”
When the wall phone rang not far from John’s head, they all jumped so hard the dishes and cups rattled on the table, and John nearly slid off his feet. *
“Jesus,” he said, one hand dramatically patting his chest over his heart.
Lisse laughed nervously; George scowled and mimed that he was the closest so answer the damn thing.
John shrugged and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Daddy,” said Joey with a giggle. “Welcome home.”
The phone went dead.
* * * *
2
The roan snorted its impatience; there was still green grass out there in the vast back pasture and she wanted some. Les, however, wouldn’t give her her head. The leg seemed all right, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Walk,” he told her. “It’ll do you good.”
The horse tossed its mane, snorted, but d
idn’t test him.
Fran rode beside him on a gray with as many years as the roan, enjoying the warm sun and the cool touch of the air. “It’ll be just fine,” she said as they made their way north across the pasture. “A little tight, but we aren’t broke yet.”
Les supposed she was right, but he sure wished they had more horses to board, or riders to teach or take along the trails he had made around Vallor. Reassuring words and bright smiles worked on him just fine, but the bank account was deaf and blind.
He checked back toward the outbuildings, frowning concern.
“They’ll be okay,” his wife assured him. “Rafe’s a good man.”
He knew that. He just didn’t like the idea of Sharon and her boyfriend on his property while that killer of a father was still loose. Suppose he came here? Suppose he—
“Les, stop it,” she scolded gently, with a smile. “Let’s, just do the check and get back, okay?”
Midway across the pasture the ground dipped into a long, steep grade. Coming up to it, the land beyond was cut short, and more often than not, like now, you couldn’t see the other horses grazing out there. As a kid he’d always thought it a little spooky—seeing nothing for the longest time, then suddenly seeing a head pop up over the edge as a horse or, in his father’s day, a cow made its way up the slope.
Spooky.
When they reached the end of level land, the first thing he did was make a swift headcount. Ten, and Royal. No one missing. Most of them were in the center of the lower pasture, using the trees that lined Oakbend Creek for shade while they drank or ate. The others were scattered, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Then Royal raised his head, shook his mane, and turned to face the slope.
The roan backed up a step and pawed at the ground.
“Hey,” Les said quietly, patting the horse’s neck. “Hey, it’s all right.”
“What is with that damn thing?” Fran said, staring angrily at the palomino.
“Beats me.” He jerked his head. “Let’s go on in.”
She didn’t argue, and the roan seemed more than eager to obey. When they reached the fence, Les took bridle and saddle and set the horse loose in the paddock, along with Fran’s mount. As they lugged the equipment back to the tack room, he heard Royal out in the pasture.
Calling.
* * * *
3
John dropped onto the porch’s top step as he struggled into his windbreaker. Lisse had taken one of the pullovers she had found in a dresser, too large but comfortable enough. She paced up and down the walk, the breeze taking her hair and veiling across her eyes. George sat in his chair, legs crossed, pushing back every so often as if it were a rocker.
“How did he know?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. A gesture toward the car. “I mean, how could he know?’’
His right hand trembled, and he grabbed his knee with it.
The voice. That voice.
welcome home, daddy.
“I got another one for you,” he said.
She stopped on her way to gate, turned, and waited, arms folded under her breasts.
“She called me once. In New Orleans.” He looked over his shoulder and George raised his eyebrows. “I was in the lobby, the phone rang, there was no one around, so I picked it up, and it was her. I didn’t say a word, and she knew it was me. She said give it up, it was too late. Then she hung up.”
George stared at him; Lisse’s cheeks colored.
“No,” he told them irritably, “I wasn’t drunk. I hadn’t had my first drink yet.”
Lisse swiped at her hair. “Then how did she know?”
“Too late for what?” George wanted to know.
“How did Joey know?” John countered. He scrubbed his face, blinked rapidly several times, and wished he could find Casey. He would know what was going on. He would have the explanation, would know what to do. How he knew that he wasn’t sure, but he did.
A lie, Prez, he told himself then; that’s a lie and you know it.
“ESP, something like that,” said Lisse. When George snorted, she scowled. “You think that’s funny?”
“I think,” George answered, “that it’s a beautiful afternoon, the sky is clear, the sun is bright, and talking about ESP is best reserved for campfires and dark nights.”
“ESP,” she retorted, “doesn’t just work in the dark.”
John stood, took a deep breath, and stretched his arms out to his sides. George was at least partially right—it was indeed a beautiful day, Halloween was on its way, Thanksgiving just around the corner. And nothing, ever, would ever be the same again.
“Where are you going?” George asked suspiciously.
“For a ride.” He dug the keys from the jacket pocket, asked Lisse if she wanted to come, and started for the car. “You’re welcome to join us,” he called to his friend.
“I told you, I’m not leaving this house again. This porch is as far as I go.”
Lisse opened the passenger door and turned. “I thought you didn’t believe in ESP?”
“It’s more than that, my dear,” he answered grimly. “A lot more than that.”
John ignored the look she gave him, and when she was ready, he backed out of the drive and aimed the car for the bend. Moving not much faster than a walk.
“Where are we going?”
“You can’t wear his girlfriends’ clothes all the time. I thought we’d head into town, do the Dove’s thing.” An apologetic laugh. “Dove’s, see, is the largest department store in town.. When you go shopping, even if you’re not going there, you do the Dove’s.”
“No money,” she said, pushing the sweater’s sleeves up to her elbows. “You, either.”
“No, but I still have George’s credit card.”
A smile, a nod, and, “I suppose we’ll just happen to pass your house on the way?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“John.”
“I want to know,” he said quietly, “why that kid on the ferry had Joey’s eyes. I want to know why I can make people so afraid of me they jump off buildings.” He looked at her, hard. “We’re going to find out what’s going on, Lisse.” He looked back at the road. “We’re going to find out now.”
* * * *
As they approached the bend, he began to tap the steering wheel with one finger. “The first house you’ll see will be down on the left. That’s the Gillespie place.” He nodded to her unasked question. “Rod is Annette’s husband. Used to be, that is, until she divorced him after ... it happened.”
“I would’ve killed him.”
“Believe me, she wanted to. Still does, probably.”
The road curved, and he held his breath for a moment when he saw a cruiser parked in front of the house, facing west, a deputy inside. The man looked up at the sound of John’s car and opened his door.
“Oh my,” Lisse said quietly.
“Someone’s home,” he guessed as they drove past. He didn’t look at the cop, hadn’t recognized him, but he didn’t miss the way the man kept his hand on his holstered gun. “Annette’s probably still at work. Used to run an insurance office. Phil is the son, about twenty-three, twenty-four, I don’t know what he does. I’ll bet it’s Sharon. She’ll be a senior now, I think, and stayed home from school.”
Once the house was behind him, he exhaled loudly, but he didn’t speed up, glancing in the rearview mirror to watch the cop watching him. A flicker of bright light made him blink back to the road ahead, the over-lacing branches cutting the sunlight into patches and bars, chilly one second, warm the next.
He pointed out the Yerman house, on the right, and a hundred yards later, a large clapboard house clearly deserted for quite some time, its hedge overgrown, the windows black where they didn’t catch the light. He couldn’t remember who used to live there; the place had been empty for at least a year before he left.
“Where’s your—” She stopped, wincing.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Coming
up on the right.”
She reached over and touched his arm, squeezed it once, quickly. “Nobody’s next to each other out here.”
“Yeah. You probably didn’t notice, but past the creek and that ranch you saw yesterday, they’re a little closer together. Out here, they sometimes call it Football Road, because there’s a football field’s length, give or take, between each place.”
In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02] Page 24