Car coming up the driveway! Run! Before she could get herself into motion, a knock sounded on the door. With her heart tripping away like crazy, she crept into the entry way. “Who is it?”
“Ida. Talk to you a minute?”
Ida, the young woman she’d met on the bus. She opened the door and saw a police officer. Oh, God, Ida was a police officer! What had she said to this young woman? The dark blue of the uniform got blurry and Ida’s words fuzzed over.
Ida, thinking “Kelby” was going to keel over in a dead faint, stepped in to catch her, but she scuttled away like Ida had the plague or something. “Ms Oliver? Kelby? Are you all right?”
Cary sucked in a breath. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I got up too quickly and felt a little light-headed.”
Ida eyed her. Right. The woman was terrified. What was she hiding? Drug deals? Something else illegal? Ambling into the living room, Ida looked around. Nothing unusual in sight. Pile of books on the coffee table. “You have a sister?”
Again, this Kelby got a ghastly look, like Ida had come to haul her off to jail. Was she sick? Had a mental problem? The only people Ida knew with that kind of reaction to a cop were criminals. Okay, be careful here. The chief was not apt to give her any more chances. Mess up one more time and she was history. “Your sister—what’s her name?”
Cary started to say something, caught herself, and said, “Faye. Her name is Faye.”
“She’s worried about you. She called the department and asked us to check on you, make sure you’re okay. Maybe you could call her. Let her know you’re all right.”
“Yes. Okay. I will do that.”
Ida wanted to march this woman right over to the phone and have her call the sister now. Let’s see what happened then, but that might be one of those impulsive acts the chief wanted her to stop doing. “Well, thank you for your time. You let me know, now, if you need anything.” She took one last look around the room and took herself out. It ruffled her feathers to just walk away, but beating up a citizen to get her to spill her trouble was probably another one of those things the chief had warned her about.
* * *
From the front window, Cary watched Ida get in her car. What an idiot, nearly dropping in a faint and stammering like a retard. What does this cop think? Obviously, she noticed something was wrong. Cary paced to the dining room, looked out at the corn-field whispering in the wind like a malignant presence, sat herself on the couch, and tried to read. At ten Cary turned on the news to see if there was any mention of Arlette’s murder. Nothing in the national or local news. Earthquake near Los Angeles. Nobody hurt. California. The thought of home pulled at her. She shivered.
The beatings, the bruises and broken bones, thinking it was her fault. Arlette had made her see how sick that was, made her realize they had made a pact, she and Mitch. The first time he’d hit her and she didn’t jump up and down and yell and scream and walk out, she and Mitch had decided that it was okay for him to beat her up. It wasn’t okay any more. Only, he didn’t know that.
* * *
Susan glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Time to pack it in. She shut down her computer and tried to think what work she needed to take home. Ida tapped on the open door. Oh Lord, what now? Had her rookie nearly gotten somebody else killed? Motioning with her fingers to come in, Susan told Ida to have a seat.
“I went to see Kelby Oliver.” Ida perched on the chair. “There’s something wrong there.”
“Wrong how?”
Ida gave a quick shake of her head, like a dog bothered by a fly. “She nearly fainted when she saw me. And she wasn’t scared of me when I first met her.”
Ida explained that she’d taken her car in to get the brakes fixed and took the bus to see her parents. On the way back, she’d met Kelby Oliver. “We talked a bit. She didn’t say much, but she just seemed quiet, like she didn’t want to call attention to herself. Today she was white with fear.”
Susan wondered if Ida had come storming in like a tornado. “Did you ask her what she was afraid of?”
“Yes. And I didn’t do anything that might be scary. Honest.” Ida nodded to underscore the word. “She nearly dropped to the floor before I opened my mouth.”
Fatigue and a long day had Susan wanting to get home, take off her shoes, and stretch out on the couch with Bach in the CD player. Was this something she should look into, or was it simply a civilian opening the door and seeing a cop on the doorstep? First response, something happened to a loved one. “What did you say to her?”
“That her sister was worried and Kelby should call.”
A better approach would have been to ask about the sister first, before explaining why the visit.
“She said she would, but I got the feeling she only said that to get rid of me.” With one hand, Ida flipped hair up from her forehead. “Don’t you think only a criminal would react like that?”
“Is that what you think?”
Ida took a breath. “She’s afraid of something. And somehow cops play in.”
Susan told her to write up a report. When Ida left, Susan grabbed her shoulder bag, retrieved her keys, and headed out. A few hours’ sleep unmarred by dreams and she’d be a hundred percent. Before she could escape, the phone buzzed. She snatched it. “Yes, Hazel.”
“Bad news. The hospital just called. Tim Baker, the boy in Monday’s accident, died six minutes ago.”
24
God, it was hot. How did people live here? The heat must fry their brains. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, Mitch pulled the handkerchief from his rear pocket and swiped at his forehead, then stuffed the handkerchief back. He’d checked the phone book before leaving the motel. No listing for Kelby Oliver. Information told him the number was unlisted. What the hell kind of name was Kelby anyway? He drove around getting a feel for the place. This was some nowhere town. Main Street with a business section three blocks long, two blocks wide. The PD was one block over. He considered dropping in and telling them he was on their turf looking for this Oliver jerk-off in connection with a homicide back home. Might get him an unlisted number and an address. Naw. Too complicated. They’d want to accompany him, and that wouldn’t fly. They might even check with Manny in Berkeley, or some shit like that.
He drove past a big-ass church made from some kind of sandstone. Churches could be good sources to look for a missing person. Depending. Not Cary, though. Her religion was worshipped in libraries. Books books books. All the time reading books. He should have dumped the piles at home before he left. Bring her back to the house with all her books gone. He grinned at the thought.
The library turned out to be new-looking, red brick and glass. He angled into a parking slot and went inside. Tables with old farts reading newspapers, kids—probably students—studying. At the checkout counter, he smiled at the frumpy broad who asked if she could help him. He went into a song and dance about looking for Kelby Oliver, old friend, lost the address, just passing through, wanted to say hello. The bitch gave him the fish eye and told him they weren’t allowed to give out addresses or phone numbers.
This would be a lot easier if he could slap his ID in her face and demand answers, but he just nodded and got out of there. Even so, she’d remember him. That was the trouble with small towns, strangers stuck out. After the air-conditioning, the heat slapped him like a blast from hell. He rolled through town, up one block and down another, consulted the map, and took a drive down to the river, where he got out and stood on the sandy bank under some tall trees. Water moved along to wherever the hell water went. He didn’t get this nature shit. Seen one river, you’ve seen them all. He got back in his car and meandered through the campus. Spotting a BBQ place, he stopped for lunch.
A waitress slipped him a menu and he asked for coffee. She brought a mug and a coffeepot, plunked down the mug, and filled it from the pot, then set down a saucer with little containers of cream. He pushed that aside and took a sip from the mug.
“Haven’t seen you before. Here on business
?”
“You could say that. What’s good to eat?” With a badge he could just ask questions. Without it, the only way to go was play games and ease out answers.
“Can’t go wrong with a burger.”
He nodded and told her to put cheese and bacon on it and add a side of fries.
She wrote on her pad. “You staying long?”
“Just going from here to there.” He put his arm along the back of the booth. “Being so close, I thought I’d stop and see a friend. Name’s Kelby Oliver.”
She thought a moment. “Don’t know anybody by that name. Don’t you have an address?”
“Sure do.” He smiled with the old Black charm. “At home in my address book.”
She smiled back. “Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“The only thing I remember is it’s right by a big old cornfield.”
“I can help you there. East End. Just take Ninth Street. The one out front? Turn right and all the way to the end. Cornfield’s right there. You can’t miss it.”
He eyeballed the other diners while he waited for his lunch. Mostly blue-collar working stiffs, just like he was. For all he knew, the waitress could be lying and one of them could be this Kelby guy. When his burger and fries came, he ate, and left a generous tip, figuring he might want to come back with more questions. He headed to the east side of town, food heavy on his stomach, and the heat making him slightly sick.
And then he saw it. By God! The cornfield! Jesus, it was a big sucker. He smacked the steering wheel. Was he smart, or what? A road bordered the field and he followed it until he came to a dirt road that right-angled into the cornfield. He turned. Car wheels kicked up a cloud of dust. Miles of corn stalks higher than the car started to creep him out. No way to turn around. Two choices, keep going, or back all the way out.
Christ, was there no end to this corn shit? He’d never suffered from claustrophobia, but he sure felt weird when he couldn’t see anything but corn stalks. Eventually he came to an intersecting road and he gave that a try. After following it for miles, he started to think he’d been kidnapped by aliens and dropped in a maze for use as a lab rat. Finally he came once again to the real world. Not sure where he was, he had to drive around some to orient himself. He had the guy now, the bastard who was sleeping with his wife. It was only a matter of narrowing in, knocking on a few doors.
* * *
It was taking longer than he thought. All afternoon he asked questions, going house to house, getting damn sick of it.
The next house on his route was in need of a good coat of paint. A dog, tongue lolling, came loping up, barking enough to raise the dead. Which was what this Kelby guy would be as soon as Mitch found the bastard. A rangy woman in jeans and man’s white shirt, tails flapping in the wind, came out to the porch and stared at him. He started to get out of the car and the dog snarled. He wanted to get out of this damn heat and he wanted a beer. Maybe he’d just kick the damn dog’s head in.
“Help you?” she asked.
He rolled down the window. “I’m looking for a friend who lives around here.”
“What address?”
“That’s my problem. I left the address and phone number at home.”
“Friend got a name?”
“Kelby Oliver.” What happened to all that Midwestern hospitality people talked about? Weren’t these people supposed to be friendly? This was the most unfriendly bitch he’d run into yet.
“Never heard the name. Sorry, can’t help you.” She snapped her fingers at the dog and he went running. The two of them stood on the porch and waited until he left.
Long way between houses out here. God, you couldn’t even hear your neighbors if they shouted for help. The next house was in better shape, fresh paint, flowers and shit in the front. No dog either. He went up on the porch and rang the bell.
“Good afternoon.” A woman opened the door and smiled at him. Her teeth were too big, but at least she didn’t look at him like he was a murdering rapist.
He smiled back, the smile that got them every time, and went into the song and dance about forgetting the address.
“Kelby? Sure I know that name. Moved into the old Applegate place.” She gave him an address and directions to get there. He repeated them to make sure he got it right, then thanked her.
He started up his car and drove back the way he’d come. After one wrong turn he found the place. A long gravel driveway led to an old farmhouse, looked a million years old. Two-story wood frame, big old porch on two sides. Stone barn and other outbuildings behind. Nobody came out on the porch. No dog sounded the alert. As soon as he got out of the car he knew why those fucking birds were circling. Something was very dead out there somewhere, and the smell came riding in on the wind. He went up the porch steps and pounded on the door. No response.
A scrap of paper was caught between the door and the jamb. He yanked on it and tore off a corner. Piece of newsprint. He pounded again. Nothing. He hesitated, wanting to kick in the door. Or break a window. Maybe just wait right here. He looked up at the birds, big suckers flying around the barn. What was in there? He clattered down the porch steps, followed the stone path, and rolled the door open.
The stone barn would probably last forever. The house was going to crumble into dust one day. Showed what kind of priorities whoever built them had. The best for the cows, the rest for the people. Probably had a wife who was unfaithful. He stepped into the dim interior. Dust floated in the sunlight that slanted in. A car sat inside, California license plate. He pounded a fist on the hood. Kelby’s! The son of a bitch who talked his wife into going away with him. Just the thought of what he’d do to the fucker made his heart pick up a beat. Car door unlocked. Maps in the glove box.
He clambered up the ladder to the loft, stared at a bunch of hay bales stacked in the corner, then climbed down and went back out in the sunshine. Behind the barn, a flagstone path took him toward a tall octagonal building. Jesus, must be forty feet high. He craned his neck looking up. Made of wood, crumbling with wear and neglect. He was headed down a slope toward trickling water when the heat got to him. Dragging in air that felt too wet to breathe, he went back to his car before he died of a goddamn heart attack. What he needed was to get out of this fucking heat and around a cold beer.
Now that he knew where she was, there was no hurry.
25
Cary felt eyes watching her all the time. Whenever she left the house, she had the sensation someone was following her. Never anyone she could spot. Ha. With her vision, she’d miss anyone who wasn’t wearing flashing neon antlers, but the creepy feeling of eyes staring at her back went with every step. Returning after being out brought panic that Mitch had found her, was waiting inside. Even once she was in and had checked all the little slips of paper placed at doors and windows, she didn’t feel safe.
She dreamed Mitch was chasing her through the cornfield. The wind slapped the blades in her face as she tried to escape. Thursday night she didn’t fall asleep until around four, then slept so hard she had trouble pulling herself from bed in the morning. She showered and dressed like the natives, in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. Stuffing two library books in a tote bag, she went out to the screened porch and looked around before descending the steps. Just that small exertion had her sweating and the T-shirt clinging to her back.
She wanted to go home. She wanted Arlette. Swallowing hard, she blinked rapidly. Tears wouldn’t bring Arlette back. An awful smell blew in on the hot wind. For several days she’d been getting that smell. Deep in her heart, she knew what it was, but wouldn’t allow her mind to accept. Today the smell was so strong she couldn’t pretend. It was the smell of decay, death.
Slowly, she crossed the dirt road and approached the cornfield. Wind tossed the stalks and they rattled menacingly. Heart picking up speed, she took a step into the field. Strong smell. Not of decay, of corn and dust. Stalks rose three feet above her head, shutting out the light. She took small steps, squeezed around a plant and into the
next row. With her poor vision all she saw was tossing blades leaden with fat ears of corn. After weaving through two more rows, she realized they didn’t run in a straight line and she didn’t know how to get out. Panic seized her. She ran. Dust rose with every footfall.
She stumbled and fell, breathing in fast gulps of dusty air. Stop, she told herself, just stop. Don’t move, breathe in, breathe out. The sun, where is the sun? The house is east. Even though she’d only ventured a short distance, it took an hour, luck, and a strong sense of direction to find her way out. She needed another shower before she went to work. Because she was in a hurry, she dropped the shampoo bottle. It hit the floor, the top rolled off, and shampoo spread everywhere. After she cleaned that up, she couldn’t find her shoes, then she did her thing of placing slips of paper in strategic places.
The sky was a cloudless blue that stretched forever, and the temperature was around ninety-five. People said this heat was unusual, that it got hot in August but not this hot. They also said September was usually worse. Stephanie, moving even faster than usual because Cary was late, gathered an armload of books, kissed her grandmother, said her last class had been cancelled and she’d be home early, then dashed off.
Elizabeth restlessly plucked at her nightgown. Probably felt as sticky and hot as Cary did. Cary gave her a sponge bath, and the entire time Elizabeth kept trying to say something. Occasionally her words were understandable, which was a good thing, and Cary encouraged her, but nagging worry pointed out that, if she could talk, she could tell the world about Cary’s lies.
When Elizabeth made motions like she was writing, Cary found a pad and pencil. Pencil clutched awkwardly in a fist, Elizabeth drew a C and then an A. Fear squeezed into Cary’s throat. Somehow Elizabeth had found her out, and was writing her name to let her know. Suddenly, the effort seemed too much and Elizabeth tossed the pencil. She slapped the pad with her palm. “Ca-ca…”
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