by Mary Logue
The oil blotches on the cement floor reminded her of the spongelike appearance of the morels. The gift of the morels had surprised and pleased her. A man bringing her the bounty of the land. A strong man with good intent offering her what he had found in the forest. There was something wonderfully romantic about it, and just basically good.
She had found the morels strong and earthy, rich and warm. What did they taste like? How to describe a taste? Like anchovies without the salt, like chocolate without the sweet, but not bitter either. An undelicate delicacy. Bruce had hated them. He tried to hide the feet; he even ate them all, but she could tell by the way he let them sit in his mouth before he swallowed. Bruce was pretty much a meat-and-potatoes guy, didn’t even like ordinary mushrooms.
She didn’t know what Rich was, what he liked to eat, what he liked to do. She knew so little about him. On one hand, she found that exciting, but on the other, it scared her. She was a cop; she knew how weird people could turn out to be. Rich had strong opinions about what was happening down on the river. Not everyone liked him. But Stuart and he were best friends, and Stuart seemed like a good guy.
She also had to admit that it had been good to see Bruce last night and spend some quiet time with him. When they’d met at the bar in Red Wing the time before, he had stormed off, angry at her because she didn’t want to resume her affair with him. In their long partnership together, she had watched him go through so many women. She didn’t want to be one of them. She knew that if they had continued to be lovers and he had dropped her like all the rest, they would never be friends again. Not a good way to lose someone.
Claire knew she should never have slept with Bruce the one time. Right after her husband’s death, rather than shutting down, she had opened up to everything. She wanted to catch the men who had killed her husband and kill them herself. Shoot them or strangle them. Anger coursed through her like mercury pushing skyward in a tube. Hot summer. Bruce had been the only person in the world she had trusted. She wanted him to work as hard as he could to catch the guy. In some odd, twisted way, she thought if she slept with him, he would leave their conjugal bed and bring her the head of the murderous man on a platter with breakfast and a rose.
The truth was that when she woke in the morning, she had a great fear that she would lose the only other man she loved by sleeping with him. She had deeply loved Steve. She would always love him. Guilt overwhelmed her, as if by loving Bruce too she had caused Steve’s death. She had cut the affair short. Let it go no farther. Bruce had been angry, but he kept speaking to her. And last night he was relaxed and pleasant, hadn’t put the move on her at all. Maybe she could let down her defenses a bit.
Now, if he would only do the impossible and catch the killer and put him behind bars, she could get on with her life, however she wanted it to be, whoever she wanted to have in it with her.
The phone rang next to her elbow, and she answered, “Jail, Claire.”
“Informative.” Sheriff Talberf’s voice growled over the line. “Listen, it’s fine if you want to give Anderson’s place one more going-over. I did check with the lawyer, and the brother has inherited the place. So when you’re done there, you can let them do what they will.”
“You don’t think we should keep it under lock and key a little longer? This man was murdered, and who knows what might be hidden in the house.”
The sheriff was silent, then he said, “I think this whole case might be a lot easier than you’re making it Maybe someone accidentally killed Anderson.”
“Then why didn’t the person report it?”
“Scared, not sure what happened, who knows?”
“What if I find something?”
“Like what?”
“A will. A letter. A threat.”
Sheriff Talbert harrumphed. “We’ll deal with that if it comes up.”
After the phone call, Claire got up and walked down to the end of the cell block. The drunk stirred as she approached him. Without even appearing to wake, he rolled up and stared at her from a sitting position. Maybe he had just been pretending to sleep, but that snoring had been awfully real.
“Keep waking myself up with my snoring,” he said. He sounded fairly sober. There was no detox center out in this little Wisconsin town, so they kept the drunks overnight, and if they didn’t have a friend in the police department they were charged with reckless driving.
“How are you feeling?”
“Worse than bad.” He held his head in his hands and slowly moved it back and forth. “Wish I had never had that last drink.”
“You might want to think before drinking the first one next time.”
“Is the lecture free?”
“Just part of the package deal, here at Club Jail.”
“Wish you’d go away.” He curled back up in a ball on his bunk.
Claire walked toward the desk. Her mom used to tell her, “Wish in one hand, spit in the other, and see which gets full first.” Claire had quit wishing a while ago. Funny all the things you wish for when your life goes along in a rut, but when calamity explodes in your face and the ground drops from beneath your feet, you wish, you beg to be back in the rut—the feel of solid earth, the same road to take every day, the calm that comes from knowing that the worst you fear is boredom.
ONE OF THE things Red liked about cocaine was it made him see better, he thought, sitting in the borrowed pickup truck. He could see it all: the roads covered with leftover sand from winter, the grass dry and brown, the trees waving their empty limbs like a bunch of old ladies. He took a last puff on his cigarette and tossed it out the side window.
He hadn’t driven down to the school today, now that he knew the routine. The little girl either got off the bus or she didn’t. If she did, he was parked halfway up the hill she climbed to get to her baby-sitter’s. He’d pop out of the car at the right moment, say the right words, and she would be his. Then he’d make sure she could tell no one what she had seen when his truck hit her father.
Nobody was around in this podunk town. Streets were empty. Made his job all the easier. Out here in the boonies, people still left their doors unlocked. He bet he could walk into half the houses in town without breaking a window. ‘Course, once he got in, there wouldn’t be much there to steal. Unless you were in the antique business. Not him; in his youth he had done a bit of the sleight-of-hand, taking cash, jewelry, small TVs, and stereos. Now he’d go for computers and CD players. Glad he was out of that racket. Nickel-and-dime business. Now he was into the real money.
Coke was where it was at as far as he was concerned. Hardly touched the stuff himself, but he had done a bit today. Thought a little extra energy would help with this job. He could feel it pulsing in him. When he took it, whatever he was doing made sense. He never doubted himself. Great drug. Perfect drug to retail. He had been hearing about these factories where naked women filled glass vials with the white stuff. They kept ‘em naked so they couldn’t steal any. He had to see that sometime. A roomful of naked women. Just thinking about it got his bone pushing at his pants.
He usually traveled to Miami to get the stuff, then sold it in the Twin Cities. That was his market, didn’t want to lose it. That’s why he didn’t want to relocate. Hawk tells him to get out of town for a year, just too long. Can’t stay away from the suppliers that long. He managed to get someone to cover him for a good chunk of time, but now he was back and he was staying back. Hawk was putting the twist on him, telling him they needed him to relocate again. Now, if it was Miami, that would be one thing, but he was talking Kansas City. Cow town. Not his idea of a move up in the world. He’d just as soon stay put and rake in the money they were making in North Minneapolis. He knew the territory. He needed to take care of that guy. He was getting fucking bossy, and Lord knows he was ready for a fall.
Here came the bus. The angle he had set his side mirror at allowed him to see it perfectly. He was slouched down in the seat, so from the road it would look like the truck was empty. The little girl, Meg, w
aves to the driver as she steps off the bus. Then she trips and sends her books flying. Takes her a moment to collect them all. He can see her in the side mirror. Skipping up the hill. Where do kids get all their energy? He’d take some of the stuffing out of her. Maybe take her to Chicago with him. Go see if he could find the naked ladies. Maybe he could apprentice her off for slave labor.
She was steps away when he made his move. He swung his door open and said, “Hey, Meg, your mom told me to come and get you.”
She smiled up at him and took another step. Suddenly the smile vanished. Her eyes dilated, and her mouth opened. She dropped her books again. But this time she didn’t pick them up. She ran.
“Shit.” Red let the word slide out under his breath as he scrambled out of the truck. By the time he was on the street, she was nearly to the top of the hill.
Red took off after her. She ran like a deer and had quite a start on him. He tried to reassure her. “Hey, hold on. Your mom said I’m supposed to take you home. Give me a chance to explain.”
She turned for a moment and looked at him, then ran faster. What was the matter with her? Usually the word mom soothed any child. The gravel spun beneath his feet as he dug in and tried to catch her. This hill was fucking steep, and he was wearing these goddamn cowboy boots. He had to grab her before she got to the neighbor’s house.
Red ran toward the house, and the little girl veered off. She ducked into a grove of trees, and he followed. She sprinted through the tree trunks, and he was gaining on her when suddenly a branch loomed out of nowhere and caught him under the chin. Gulleted. He went down on his side and heard her running. He couldn’t yell, wanted to attract no one’s attention. Pushing himself up, he ducked low as he rose and barreled ahead. At the other side of the trees was a field, stubble from corn breaking the soil. He stopped in his tracks and scanned the area.
Shit, she was gone. It was like the earth swallowed her up. Where was there for her to go? She had run out into the field and now she was gone. He took several steps back into the shadow of the trees. Squatting down, he kept his eyes scanning. She was someplace. She would move, and he would see her. He was between her and all the houses. There was only the field, the woods, and the bluff rising up to the sky. She couldn’t climb that. He had her cornered; now he’d just have to wait her out He couldn’t let her go. If he did, he’d never get another chance at her. And this time, there was no question that she had seen him.
MEG COULD SEE two ants trying to pull a leaf over a branch. She watched them for a few seconds, and then she knew she needed to move. He had fallen in the trees, and she had climbed down into the ditch that skirted the field and led to the woods. That’s where she needed to get to, the woods that hugged the bluff.
She pushed herself up into a crawling position and moved forward slowly, knee by knee. Her socks were ruined, her dress was ripped. Tears fell from her eyes and hit the leaves below her. What if one hit an ant, she wondered, would it be like a huge storm?
She knew who that man was. He had red hair, and he had a wild look in his eyes. The wild look was from killing a person. Once you killed a person, you could never get that look out of your eyes. It was like a badge you always had to wear, and she had seen it. She knew he was the man who had run down her father. And now he was after her, probably wanted to kill her too.
Meg kept crawling forward, slowly and quietly, as low to the ground as she could be. The sides of the ditch were grown up with ragweed and cockleburs. She hated those things; they scrunched up your clothes permanently if they got tangled in them. But Meg had given up on what she was wearing. She could not save herself and take care of her clothes, so she had to forget about her clothes. It was, as her mom told her, knowing your priorities.
She couldn’t let the man catch her, because he was mean and there was no telling what he would do with her. But also, her mom wouldn’t be able to handle it. Meg was all her mom had left in the world, so she had to stay okay.
Meg could see the woods if she tilted her head up so she was getting close. Right before the woods, there was a little opening that she would have to run through. She would have to stand up in a crouch and scoot along the ground. She reached the end of the ditch. The weeds still grew up to the woods, but they wouldn’t completely hide her.
Meg thought back to the movies. She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her white socks, then put her shoes back on. Her sweater was green, and that might camouflage her. She rubbed her face with dirt.
Even if he saw her, she still had a good chance to make it to the fort. If she got to the fort, she would be all right. She could go into her secret hiding place, and he would never find her. She knew because she had looked at it from the outside, and it was completely concealed.
Meg felt her heart scrambling around inside her chest like a chipmunk. Maybe she should roll. Very slowly roll her way to the woods. She inched out of the ditch and lay like a corpse on the ground. She heard nothing. Facing the sky, she could see a plane leaving a white trail behind it. She wondered if anyone up there could see her down below, stretched out on the ground. Hansel and Gretel had left bread crumbs. Meg took off one of the barrettes she was wearing and left it in plain sight on the ground. Maybe her mom would find it.
Slowly, Meg began to roll toward the woods. Her dad and she would roll down this one hill by their old house together, they would have races, their hands tight against their sides, their feet held together, and she would laugh all the way down the hill.
Daddy, she thought in her mind, if you are looking down from heaven, don’t let him get me. Daddy, save me. She rolled a little faster until she finally hit a tree. She was at the edge of the woods.
Meg slid up behind the tree and looked back over the field. She knew she shouldn’t do that, that it would be better just to run, but she couldn’t stop herself. She needed to see where he was. His red hair stood out like a woodpecker’s crest. As her eyes found him, his head turned toward hers and he stepped out into the sunlight. She turned and ran through the dark trees.
19
Claire thought of picking up Meg from Ramah’s while she searched Landers’ house, but changed her mind. She didn’t need another body tromping around inside this small house before she turned it over to Fred and Darla. It wouldn’t look good if Meg played with something and broke it. Although that would never happen with her daughter, she thought with a chuckle.
Claire opened the door to Landers’ house and smelled the disuse of it: food rotting in the fridge, stagnant water, old air. She carefully stepped on the mat inside the doorway and wiped her feet, then she stood still and looked around, a scan of the room before she moved into it.
She laughed again, thinking about Meg. No, her daughter was almost too perfect. Meg’s room was always clean. Claire didn’t know how that girl could slip out of her bed and have it look like she had never slept in it. Meg lined up her plastic horses along the top of her dresser. She folded her clothes a certain way. Meg actually picked up after Claire. Once Claire had told her not to dress her bed, it made her feel too guilty to come home to find her daughter had cleaned her room.
Claire stepped onto the linoleum floor and decided she might as well start with the kitchen. Not the obvious place to store secrets, but you never knew where someone might stick a letter or a note.
Even though it was her job to be in this house and rifle through all the drawers and boxes, Claire felt like an intruder. Maybe she was just being obstinate, trying to keep Darla and Fred out of this house one more day. She hadn’t a clue what she was looking for. But it seemed to her there was a history that seamed through this murder, like a streak of gold that would lead to the answer.
She pulled out the first drawer next to the sink. Silverware in top drawer, lift up the silverware box. Nothing. Utensils in second drawer. Phone books in bottom drawer. She pulled those out and placed them on the table. They might be worth a look-through. She would come back to them.
After opening and closing all the cupboards
in the kitchen, she moved on to the living room. Claire sat down on the floor and looked at the bookshelves. The Tontine by Thomas Costain, Immortal Heart by Irving Stone, the whole collection of Sandburg’s biography of Lincoln. She pulled a couple of books off the shelves, held them by the front and back covers, and flipped the pages upside down. Nothing dropped out of the books.
Be methodical, she had been taught, when exercising a search warrant. Don’t skip anything, because you won’t get a second chance. She started on the top shelf and went down through the books. People stuck things in books. That was a fact. She remembered her grandmother kept a zillion newspaper clippings about her dad in the Bible. Report cards from school, the works.