“You think I killed the woman? Come on, Lou, that’s crazy. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to get information.”
“Information about what?”
Lou opened his notebook and scanned stuff he’d written there. Mitch thought he wasn’t really reading, just making it look like he was searching for something important that would throw a noose around Mitch’s neck.
“You want to know my theory, Mitch? My theory is whoever killed the woman, didn’t go there to kill her, he—I say ‘he’ because it probably was a man, women don’t usually beat somebody to death—wanted information. And this Coleridge broad didn’t want to give it to him. He started pounding on her. And he kept pounding.”
“You think he got what he wanted?”
“Could be. Could be she died without saying a word. Gutsy lady, I’m told. You ever been known to hit a woman, Mitch?”
Mitch pulled in air that tasted like stale beer. “Should I be getting a lawyer here, Lou?”
“You think you need one?”
Mitch could feel the hold on his temper getting slippery. “I need you to stop whatever shit game you’re playing and tell me straight what’s going down.”
Lou tapped a pencil against his neat desktop. “Like I said, we got this tip.”
“Who called it in?”
“Anonymous.”
“Oh, right, anonymous. And on the strength of this tip from somebody who wouldn’t even leave a name, you’re pulling me in like I’m a suspect.”
“Just talking to you.”
“Man or woman?”
“Tipster? Whisperer, like he or she was trying to disguise the voice. The tech guy said a woman.”
Cary! Holy shit! Cary was in Topeka. How big was the place?
“Let’s try that question one more time,” Lou said.
“What question?”
“Who do you know in Topeka?”
“Not a soul. Not a goddamn soul.” Except one. His lawfully wedded wife who had run away from him and was causing all this trouble. He would make her pay. “Keep me in the loop on this one, will you? She was Cary’s friend. I’d just like to know.” Mitch stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“What does ‘caw’ mean to you?”
“Caw? You mean a bird sound?”
“Never mind.” Mitch stood up. “Any suspects in the Coleridge homicide?”
Lou rested his elbows on the desk, picked up a pencil, and held it between two upraised forefingers. “Some reason you want to know?”
“Yeah, like I told you. Because I knew the woman.” Not because I iced her.
“Beaten to death, that’s about all I can tell you. We’re looking into her cases. See if clients felt she didn’t do right by them, handled the case wrong, charged them too much. Hell, you know, whatever it is that gets people mad at their attorneys. ADA told me she was a tough opponent. Fights for her clients.”
“Maybe she got some bastard acquitted and the family, loved ones of the victim, whatever didn’t appreciate it.”
Lou leaned back and looked at him. “I’ve done this sort of thing before, you know.”
“Yeah. I’m just, like I said, wanting to know, because she was Cary’s friend.”
“You talked to her when Cary … disappeared?”
“She was the first one I talked to.” Careful, you’re getting into deep shit here. “I heard she was friends with Kelby Oliver.”
“Who told you that?”
Damn it, just shut up. You’re making Lou suspicious. “Cary.”
Lou cleared his throat. “We’re putting in hours on this. Nothing about her whereabouts yet.”
Mitch snatched a pen from the bunch in the cup and rolled it through his fingers. Lou looked pained, like he wanted to grab the pen and put it back. Most obsessive-compulsive type Mitch ever knew.
“Who’s Kelby Oliver?”
“No idea. Just that Arlette knew a Kelby Oliver. Oliver left town and Arlette is killed.” And my wife is missing. Three people who knew each other, two missing, one murdered.
“Where can I find this Oliver guy?”
“Don’t know.” On his way to his desk, he saw Paula hauling in a burglary suspect. Didn’t he have a drink with her once and she told him she was from Kansas?
“Hey, Paula, got a minute?”
She looked up. “Sure. If you can wait till I take care of this jerk.”
“Yeah.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat at his desk and waited.
It was nearly twenty minutes before Paula came in. “What’s up?”
“Aren’t you from Kansas?”
“Yeah,” she said warily. “Why?”
“What does ‘caw’ mean? And I’m not talking about birds.”
“Caw?” She looked puzzled. “I don’t have the slightest idea. Why?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
She started to leave, then turned back. “Are you talking about the Kaw?”
“What’s that?”
She smiled. “It’s a river. The Kansas actually. Locals call it the Kaw. I have no idea why, they just do.”
“Thanks.”
A small town near the Kaw river. What he needed was a map. On his way home, he stopped at the Triple A office on University Avenue and got a map of Kansas. When he got home, he shoved aside dirty dishes with the remains of fast food and spread the map across the kitchen table. He popped a beer tab and took a swallow. Cary was a wiz with maps. She loved them. Everywhere she went she had to have a map first to see what the place was all about. Then she got books and read about it.
He peered at the goddamn map, looked it up in the little squares with the numbers and letters and still he couldn’t find it. Wait. There it was. Kansas River. Shit! It went for miles. Dozens of towns. How was he going to figure out which one? He leaned back, drained the beer, and opened a second. The anonymous tip came from Topeka, so it made sense that Cary was in some little town near Topeka. He studied the map again. How the hell was he going to find the right place? He couldn’t spend the rest of his life driving from one small town to another along the Kansas River.
The Velma broad. Talk to her again? Get more information? He didn’t think she had any more. When he got up to get another beer, a lightbulb went off in his head. A grin pulled tight across his teeth.
If you want to disappear, you don’t ever go anyplace you went before you dropped off the world. You don’t take anything with you, and whatever you liked to do in your previous life, you never do again. You like the beach? You never again set a foot on the sand. You like horse racing? You don’t go within fifty miles of a track. You like sailing? You never get near the water. All your old footprints have to get washed away like tide swept over the sand.
Tilting his head, he guzzled beer, set down the can and rummaged around in the drawer under the phone for a pad and pencil. He made a list of towns, plunked the phone on the table, and started calling libraries. Cary could no more stay away from libraries than she could stop breathing.
He identified himself as a Berkeley, California, police officer and asked if a Cary Black had a card at that library. When the answer was no, he asked if a Kelby Oliver had a card. He checked off each town on his list. It took forever, and around four o’clock he started getting a recording reciting the hours the place was open. He wondered why they all closed up so early until he remembered the time change. It was two hours later there.
As soon as he got home the next afternoon, he started in. Nobody ever asked why he wanted to know. If anybody had, he’d have just said he was working a case and tracking down a lead. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was five minutes to four. Shit, this was going to take forever. Didn’t matter, he had patience. He told himself one more call, then he’d order Chinese. He dialed Hampstead and went into his song and dance. Bingo! No Cary, but they did have a Kelby Oliver.
After shift the following day, he went in to see the lieutenant
and asked for some time off. Request granted without hesitation. He was headed for Hampstead, Kansas, where he would question this Kelby creep and see what he could learn about Cary.
22
Dreaming.
Help me! Please help me!
Running. Running.
Her voice grew fainter.
Faster, or he’d be too late. The ground got spongy. Rotted leaves slipped and slithered as Joe struggled to keep on his feet. If he fell, he’d never make it.
Wake up. It’s the only way out.
It hurts! Please make him stop.
A sickly, sweet smell rose from the leaves. He knew that smell. Death, decay.
Phone ringing. Wake up. Answer.
No. Don’t answer. If you answer, you’ll die. Only safe as long as you don’t pick up the phone. She was safe.
Help! Please!
Danger. Waiting for him up there. Stay in the darkness. Phone ringing. Wouldn’t stop. If the noise didn’t go away, it would pull him up. He’d be in such danger, he’d die.
Why didn’t she answer the phone?
Help. Why won’t you help me?
Losing ground. Needed cleated shoes. Her voice was moving away, he could barely hear her now.
“I’m coming.”
His lungs were on fire, his breath coming hard. When his ankle twisted, he fell and rolled through rotted vegetation. Rolled through mud, getting it on his hands. He rubbed them against his white shirt. Bloody palm prints appeared. The blood ran and swirled and dripped red letters spelling her name.
No!
Ripping off the shirt, he flung it away and scrambled to his feet. The smell was getting worse.
Rotten leaves. That’s all it was, just rotten leaves.
The ringing was pushing against the misty darkness in his mind. Soon it would push through and there’d be no hope.
Answer the goddamn phone!
She couldn’t. Gone. Everything gone. He had nothing. Except one last thing he had to do.
The leaves got slippery, turned into black liquid. It got thicker, turned into blood. The body was just ahead.
Breath whistling in his ears, heart banging in his chest, he ran. Crouching beside the body, he turned it over. A battered and broken face grimaced with an empty smile.
* * *
The ringing shattered the dream. He groped for the phone. Receiver against his ear, he muttered, “Yes.”
“Good morning,” a voice said. “It’s seven o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
Joe hung up and scrubbed hands over the stubble on his face as he looked around and tried to remember where he was. Motel room somewhere. Motel rooms were all alike and blended together once left behind. Gray light filtered through the curtains. He was covered in sweat and knew he’d dreamed again. The same dream, over and over, tortured him every time he slept. It got so he hated to close his eyes, which left him averaging around three hours a night. He needed more, so he could function, think clearly.
Pain gripped his stomach and he folded his arms over the rage. His life was over. He was just moving an empty shell around until he could kill her. No decision yet on how he would kill her, he’d decide when he looked the place over. See how things went, figure the best way. Swinging his legs around, he planted his bare feet on the brown carpet and waited for his brain to realize his torso was upright, then stood and rummaged through his bag for a pair of jockeys. He found the Aleve bottle and shook two tablets into his palm, plodded to the bathroom, ran water in a glass, and swallowed them. He turned hot water on and stepped in the shower, washed away sweat, dirt, and fatigue.
He pulled out a clean shirt and put it on with the jeans he’d worn yesterday, then shaved, staring at a face that was familiar, yet the face of a stranger. The person behind the face he’d known all these years wouldn’t be planning the torture of another human being.
23
Cary got very little sleep Monday night. She curled in on herself and berated herself for getting Arlette killed. Beautiful, quick, smart, brave, sure-of-herself Arlette, who stood right up there and looked people in the eye. If she hadn’t been Cary’s friend, she might still be alive. “I’m sorry,” Cary whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
At six on Tuesday morning, she got up, showered, and dressed. Standing at the mirror to comb her hair, she looked at her image and saw dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a face blotchy and red from crying. She thought about using some of Kelby’s makeup, but decided it was too much trouble.
Another scorcher of a day. The thermometer on the porch had the temperature reaching for eighty, and it wasn’t yet seven.
Stephanie, stuffing texts and spiral notebooks in her backpack, gave Cary a glance. “She’s cranky now. I hope you can cope. I’ll be home a little later today. Study group after class. I hope that’s okay.” Stephanie swung the backpack across her shoulder and trotted out.
Cary walked into the bedroom and said good morning to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth glared at her and grunted. “Sss?” Peering like there was a sign painted on Cary’s forehead, Elizabeth licked her lips. “Sad,” she blurted, and she awkwardly patted Cary’s hand.
“Breakfast, then a bath.” Cary escaped to the kitchen before Elizabeth’s attempt at comfort had her collapsing into tears.
She started coffee. While it was dripping through she scrambled eggs and made toast, then peeled an orange, arranged slices on a plate, and put everything on a tray. She laid a towel across Elizabeth’s chest and offered a forkful of egg. Feeding another person was awkward and messy, but with a straw, at least coffee didn’t dribble down her face.
When the food was gone, dishes washed, and Elizabeth bathed and dressed in a clean nightgown, Cary picked up the biography of Katharine Hepburn and read to her. The struggle with words was worse than usual. Cary’s vision was blurred this morning, probably because of all the crying. Or her tunnel of sight had shrunk.
“Nooo.” Elizabeth shook her head.
“You want me to read something else?”
Elizabeth pointed to the bookcase against the wall opposite the foot of the bed.
“You want something from the bookcase?”
“Bbboot—tt…”
“Bottom shelf?” Cary crouched and started reading titles.
Elizabeth made exasperated, impatient noises. “Wh-wh … horse!”
“A book about horses?” Cary didn’t see a book about horses. All the agitation Elizabeth was showing made Cary uneasy. With no training taking care of the sick, would she recognize symptoms that needed immediate medical attention?
Getting more and more frustrated, Elizabeth made stuttering noises Cary couldn’t interpret. “Book book book!”
“Yes, book, I’m looking.” Cary worried that Elizabeth might have another stroke.
“Lit-el lit-el.”
“Lit-el,” Cary repeated.
With a doubled fist, Elizabeth hit the mattress at her side. “Lit el!”
Understanding dawned. “Little. A little book.”
Elizabeth nodded and said “lit-el” again, as though anybody with half a brain would have known.
“Smaller than little.” Paperback maybe? Cary ran a glance over the shelved books and saw a stack of pamphlets. She pointed. Elizabeth nodded. Cary pulled out the whole stack and carried it to the bed. She went through them one by one, showing each to Elizabeth. When she came to a pamphlet titled “Leading the Way,” Elizabeth jabbed at it with her clawed hand.
Cary read it from beginning to end, three pages. Miniature horses trained to lead the blind. Why did Elizabeth want her to read this? Trying to say she was so blind she needed a horse to lead her around? If she couldn’t even read, what good was she? Take your blind eyes and go away, with or without a horse? Was she going to get Stephanie to find someone else? Someone who could read smoothly?
No, please no. Cary couldn’t lose this job. Where would she get another one? She was keeping an accurate account of money she spent that belonged to Kelby. As soon
as possible, she’d pay it back, every penny. How could she do that without a job?
With sounds and gestures, Elizabeth made known that she wanted to hear about Cary’s friend. Cary hesitated. Because she had no one else and because she needed to talk about Arlette, Cary complied. Elizabeth couldn’t speak beyond a struggling word or two. Putting together an understandable sentence was beyond her. Maybe her speech would return—it was getting better all the time—and maybe talking about Arlette wasn’t smart, but Cary thought it should be okay, as long as Arlette’s name wasn’t mentioned.
When Elizabeth had dozed off, Cary poured herself another cup of coffee, took it to the living room, and sat on the couch reading a book of clinical psychology. Later, she fixed Elizabeth’s supper, then got her settled for the night and put a movie in the VCR. When the film was ending, Stephanie arrived and Cary told Elizabeth she’d see her in the morning. Elizabeth jabbed a finger toward the bookshelf where the guide horse pamphlet was. Not knowing what that meant, Cary nodded and left for home.
Walking through the clinging heat, she thought about how she’d slid into Kelby’s life and taken over everything. Name, money, clothes, even thought of Kelby’s house as home. Identity theft. How much longer was she going to let this go on? Standing under one of the large trees, she watched the house. Whenever she returned, she had this clutch of fear that Mitch had found her, was inside hiding, waiting for her like a large, patient cat.
Shoulders hunched, she went up the steps to the rear porch, squinted closely at the piece of paper she’d slid between the door and frame to make sure it was still there, that no one had gone in while she was gone. She unlocked the kitchen door and went inside. She waited, listening. Heart beating fast, she went around checking each little piece of paper she’d placed at all the strategic points. All were just as she’d left them.
She kicked off her shoes, turned on the fan, and sat in the easy chair with a library book. Tucking her feet up, she tried to read, but her mind always found itself with Arlette. When the phone rang, she jumped. The answering machine kicked in and a woman said, “This is Faye. Your sister? Remember me? Call!”
Was it her fault, whatever happened to Kelby? Like Typhoid Mary, did she spread death wherever she went? How long was she going to let this go on? Call the police! She dug fingers into her hair. And say what, when they asked who she was, and why she was using Kelby’s name and taking her money and living in her house? She bent over, hands clutching her shoulders. If Kelby hadn’t agreed to help her, would she be here in her own living room sitting on her own couch?
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