Joe glanced over at me, but I couldn’t read his face. He turned back to Marchenko.
“I didn’t mean to disrespect you, Demyan. It’s just . . . we want to make a deal.”
Marchenko’s grin returned, and his eyes swung onto mine. “Continue, please,” he said.
I took my cue. Swallowed my fear and my disgust and took a step forward. “I need your help,” I said. “I need to find a man.”
“Easy now, Detective, buy me a drink first.”
Another eruption of laughter, another grand unveiling of yellow teeth. I saw red and reached out to grab hold of his leather jacket but Joe stopped me.
“Calm down,” he hissed, his face flushed and inches away. I stepped back, my fingers twitching at my sides.
Marchenko said nothing for a moment. Then, “It must be difficult for you. To come to me like this. To ask for my help. To beg.”
“Demyan,” Joe said.
“No, let him have his moment. It will not last long. He wants to fight me? Let him fight me. He may even win. Although if he did, I would not be in a position to help him anymore.”
“If there were any other way,” I said, “I wouldn’t be here.”
“Then I am glad there is not another way.” Marchenko walked forward and patted me on the shoulder. Like a dog. “If you want my help, you will have it. At a cost.”
I reached under my jacket and his men jumped. I pulled out the plastic bag of money and pressed it against the Ukrainian’s chest.
“There,” I said. “That’s my cut of the robbery. It’s yours if you help me.”
Marchenko took the bag from me and smiled. “This is a fine gesture, Detective. Only it is not enough.”
“What?”
“Money is just part of it,” he said, and handed the bag to one of his men. “The other part, it is more valuable to me.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your obedience.”
I thought briefly about telling him to go to hell, but then I thought about Mary. And I thought about Simon, and what I would do to him when I had him.
“Alright,” I said.
Marchenko laughed then. “Relax, Detective. This is not personal. This is just business, remember? Now, please, who are you trying to find?”
I went back. When I was older. Back to Eudora.
Rookie never asked how the story ended. I figured he just didn’t care; that, or he assumed it was over when my mom came to take me away. And it was, mostly. But mostly isn’t all, and there’s still a little bit left to tell. An epilogue, you might call it. A bookend to my grandparents’ messed-up lives that started that fateful day when Eddie picked up that first bucket of red paint from the hardware store.
I used to wonder how he chose it. Imagined him standing in the aisle, staring up at the rows of crimson and maroon, trying to decide whether Cranberry Crunch sounded too lively for what he had planned. Or whether Raspberry Bellini would clash with the steel hook and wrist restraints.
Years had passed since I’d left. My mom was six feet deep, had been for a long time.
So I went back. Back to the sticky heat and the gentle hum of the cicadas and the house on the edge of the cornfields. I got there just before dusk. When the light was amber and the shadows long.
I waited in that cornfield for hours. Stood and watched the glow from the living room flicker and change; Nancy was watching television. I imagined her rubbing that stinking paste over her gnarled fists and I smiled and peeled an ear of corn and ate it for dinner. They would find the cob afterwards, find a whole bunch of them, all piled up next to a patch of trampled crops, and they’d know that whoever did it had waited here for the light to fade and the house to settle.
I never saw Eddie. Not then, not when I was in the corn. I knew he was there—his rusted SUV was parked outside—but I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of him. When he was unaware. You can learn a lot about someone by watching them when they think they’re alone. People don’t pretend then. They’re real.
When darkness finally came it was as black and enveloping as I’d remembered. I watched the light blink out in their bedroom, waited another half hour just to be sure, walked the short distance around the house to the rear porch, took the spare key from under the loose board, and let myself in, moving through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the utility room where I knew Eddie stored his hunting rifle—leaning in the corner just in case he had to grab it quick, like he was some sort of frontiersman—and I picked it up and a box of ammunition, too, loading it slowly, careful to keep the noise down before I left the room, creeping along the hallway and up the stairs, rolling the soles of my shoes on the wood to stop it from creaking, and as I stood outside their bedroom door I had to wipe my palms down the front of my jeans I was so sweaty, so nervous, like the first time I’d had sex, and when I stepped into the room I saw their sleeping forms and their faces lit by the moon and I remembered the animals I’d placed there and how Nancy had screamed when she’d woken and how she’d slapped me over and over and I gripped the rifle tight and I saw her stir, saw her eyes twitch, saw them open, saw them focus, saw them widen, and when I finally squeezed the trigger the right half of her face jumped onto the wall.
Eddie woke then. Of course he did, the thunder of the rifle in the quiet room was enormous, and when he saw what was left of his wife he started screaming. Turned out he wasn’t so tough after all.
I wasn’t sure if he knew it was me. It was dark and he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so I stepped up close and let the moonlight fall upon my face and I saw recognition—horrifying, disbelieving—blossom in his eyes. He was screaming still, this awful, high-pitched, feminine yowl that was more like a dying cat than a big, strong man, and I jammed the barrel of the shotgun in his open mouth and pushed it back so far he started choking on it.
I led him down the stairs. Half dressed and with his fat stomach hanging over his pajama pants. His bare feet sliding on the wooden floor. His hands trembling as they gripped the banister. He was still making noises, only now it was this guttural clucking sound which was fucking irritating but at least it was quiet.
When we finally reached the red room—straight past the kitchen and on your right—Eddie turned, started making noises like he was trying to talk only he’d forgotten how. I forced the barrel of the gun into his mouth until he quit. When I took it back he threw up all over his bare feet. Nancy had made spaghetti for dinner.
I wasn’t sure if I’d need to break the lock to get in, but as we stood there together—one man half naked and sobbing, his feet covered in drying puke and blood and his own teeth; the other calmly waiting—as we stood there together I saw it swinging from his neck. The key on the silver chain. I wondered if he’d used it since I left. If he preyed on the young boys from town or if he liked to drive out farther afield to avoid suspicion. I pictured him parked outside a school, or a church, or a playground on a hot day, the air-conditioning blowing cool air as he sat in his rusted SUV with the window down and his sunglasses on. Pictured him with ice cream and bags of candy and promises of rides home and I reached over and yanked the key from around his neck and the chain snapped clean in two.
I unlocked the door and swung it open. The room hadn’t changed much. Walls of bright red, the same cross still on the wall. He’d upgraded the chains that hung from the ceiling. They gleamed in the dim light, as though they’d been polished.
He begged then. Nothing that I could make out, just general blubbering. I pushed him inside wordlessly. Set the rifle down to one side and strapped him into the restraints. He started screaming when I did that, started pulling back with his arms and shaking his head from side to side, sending flecks of blood back and forth across the room like a garden sprinkler. His feet danced a merry jig as he struggled and I almost broke out into a song. I wasn’t worried about him escaping. Eddie had spent his life building this prison.
So I watched him squirm and howl and cut his wrists as he jerked and scratched, and he made one he
ll of a racket but that was alright. It was ten miles to the nearest neighbor, and I would be long gone before they came sniffing around.
I stood in the cornfield for a while afterwards. The warm breeze ruffled my hair a little, and for the first time in my life I had to force myself to leave that place. But before I did I heard a wailing sound; a long, high note drifting on the wind. Just the once, and right toward the end. Course it was hard to hear much of anything over the sound of the fire, and looking back now I figure it was as likely a nearby prairie dog as it was Eddie, but I sure did like the idea of him screaming as he burned.
Chapter Forty-Two
I didn’t have to wait long. Blurry eyes told me it was just after 5 a.m. when the call came through. I’d been asleep for less than three hours, and yet I’d never been more awake.
Revolver and recorder; I was packing light. I’d get a confession out of Simon if I had to slice it out of him. I’d slept in my shirt and khakis and I didn’t bother getting changed. Grabbed my coat and my keys and gunned it down the street to the edge of town.
The weather had only gotten worse in the few hours I’d slept. Thick fog drifted between the low-rise buildings, the sky scraping along the ground. My headlights didn’t stretch more than a few yards. I might have been driving into a brick wall. I might have been driving into nothing. Cooper didn’t have long left.
Marchenko and Joe were waiting for me, side by side. The cartel boss yawned as he sucked on a cigarette. Tossed it away half smoked as I squealed to a halt.
“Where is he?” I demanded, pulling on my coat.
“In the trunk,” Marchenko said, and one of his men popped it open. I leaned over to peer inside and there he was. Bound at the hands and feet, gag tied around his mouth. His eyes were closed, blood pooling from a fresh head wound.
“He alive?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, Detective. He’s alive.” Marchenko smiled at me and I didn’t like that. “Although I look in your eyes and I wonder for how long.”
“I’m no killer,” I said.
“Neither was I. Until I was.”
“Help me get him in my car.”
Two of Marchenko’s men helped me lift Simon’s unconscious body from one trunk into another.
“Thank you,” I said, somewhat grudgingly.
He nodded. “Please, it is my pleasure. I just hope you remember the terms of our arrangement.”
“I remember.”
“I will be watching, Detective. From Omaha I will be watching. And soon I will call on you, yes? When I need your help. I will call on you and you will answer.”
“I said I remembered.”
Joe had been standing watching the entire time, a look on his face like he didn’t know what was coming next. I was about to get in my car and drive off when I thought of her.
“You need to go check on someone,” I said to Joe, and told him about Mansfield.
“Jesus,” was all he said. I think that was maybe the first time he realized I wasn’t planning on coming back. He held out his hand in a peace offering. I stared at it for a moment, then turned the ignition and vanished into the mist.
I drove for a long while. Emerging out of the gloom and onto the highway where the sky was clear. Foot down, engine screaming. Behind me, Cooper was engulfed in fog. A great column of it rising up and into the sky. The morning sun seemed to shimmer along its surface, wrapping itself along the grooves and curves until the entire town was lit up like it was on fire. I tracked it in my rearview mirror until it burned my eyes, and I didn’t look back after that. I didn’t want to see whatever came next.
Ahead of me I could see the bulge in the horizon that marked the start of the Pine Ridge. I thought of how Mary had described it. Canyons and rivers, full of color. Cottonwoods that went orange in the fall. A strange oasis of beauty in an otherwise flat land. A beauty Mary would never see again.
I knew I wouldn’t return to Cooper; I doubted there would be anything left to return to. Nothing but dirt and highway and those cornfields, and whispers of something that once was and maybe would be again. Cooper had served her purpose, though if you were to ask me what that was, I couldn’t tell you. You might listen to this and think I’m crazy, and that’s alright. I suppose that’s as valid a theory as any.
Chapter Forty-Three
I drove for nearly an hour before we got there.
It was gradual at first. The land rising slightly, the cornfields giving way to the trees. All of them bare except the pines. Those stood tall, towering over my car as I snaked farther into the quiet woods.
It felt right, being here. I lowered the window and let the morning air wash over me. If everything had to come to an end here, in this place, then I thought I could accept that.
I was pretty sure that Simon was awake. At one point I could have sworn I’d heard him banging and yelling back there, but it might just have been the Impala on her last legs. My final trip in her and I didn’t even say goodbye. In any event, you turn the radio up loud enough and it solves all sorts of problems. KBBN Rock Radio: when country music can’t quite mask the screams of a man tied up in your trunk.
I turned off onto a side road. The morning sun blinking through scattered branches above us. When the road started to rise steeply, I pulled over and killed the engine. Climbed out, the roadside gravel crunching beneath my shoes.
It was going to be a beautiful day. One of those real winter stunners that creeps up out of nowhere. I could smell pine, crisp and fresh on a light breeze. It was like I’d been locked away and was being released for the first time. I’d never known it could all be so breathtaking.
I was calm then. Calmer than I thought I’d be. After everything I’d done since I’d got here, torturing a confession out of a killer didn’t seem so bad. But shit, ask me that again when I’m finished. Maybe you’ll get a different answer.
A sharp thumping erupted from the trunk. I looked over and started to undo my shirt. The wind on my bare skin making me shiver. I strapped the recorder to my belt. Ran the delicate wire up my back and let it dangle over my shoulder. Slipped my shirt back on and threaded it carefully through a buttonhole. When I was done, it was practically invisible. I pulled out my Smith and Wesson and cocked the hammer. Walked around the car and stood next to the trunk. Took a breath, unlocked it, and swung it upward.
Simon was awake, alright. He stared up at me through a pair of cool, blue eyes, but his hair was a mess and I was betting it wasn’t from keeping still. I hoped he’d been writhing around in there for the last few hours. Like a snake. A glance at his crotch and I was disappointed to find he hadn’t pissed himself.
I waved the gun at him to make sure he knew who was in charge, then reached into the trunk and rolled him out. He landed heavily on the gravel, wheezing sharply through the dirty rag tied over his mouth. I pulled my switchblade and sliced the ropes binding his legs, closed the trunk and leaned against it patiently. Waited for him to stumble to his feet. When he did he turned and stretched his neck lazily, his expression blank. I blinked and saw him in Mary’s bedroom, sitting patiently on the edge of her bed as she rinsed her hair in the shower, and I rolled the gun around in my hand and struck him across the face with it. He grunted and dropped to one knee. A little blood splattered onto the road. When he looked up, I think he might have had understanding in his eyes.
I pointed the gun at him. “Move.”
We left the road, trudging upward between the trees. I kept a few paces behind him, the barrel of the revolver aimed square at his back. Underfoot, the forest floor was soft and littered with needles. The earth here so unlike the frozen ground of the cornfields.
The climb was slow. Whether Simon was genuinely finding it difficult or he was just stalling I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t warm but I was tense. By the time we reached the top I had broken out into a sweat.
From up here, you could see out across the surrounding hills. Pine trees that stretched from rocky outcropping to canyon edge. It felt like another world com
pared to what I’d just driven through.
What happened next was stupid. I should never have relied on Marchenko’s men to tie his hands. I should have checked them myself when I let him out. Bastard had almost an hour to loosen his bindings, and what he didn’t manage in the drive and the short hike, he did while I was standing there admiring the view. I wasn’t even looking at him.
Footsteps and labored breathing from beside me. I turned just as Simon threw his body against mine. I cried out, falling sideways, my revolver tumbling into the woods. On my back now, my hand scrabbling for the switchblade in my pocket but he was already on top of me. His strong legs straddling my chest, my knees thumping uselessly against his back. I swung for him but he batted me away. Delivered a blow to the side of my head. My vision swam and I tasted blood in my mouth and then he hit me again and I felt my nose break.
I howled. Then his hands were on my throat. I clutched at his mouth, my fingers scrabbling for his eyes. His big, blue eyes. He stretched his neck back, keeping them just out of reach as he tightened his grip. I could feel my entire body weakening, my strength failing. He was still gagged and there was blood trickling from his forehead where I’d struck him.
It happened quietly. A gurgling in my throat and the rustle of pine needles under my back. I stopped fighting. My hands fell away as everything around me faded to black.
Chapter Forty-Four
I remember waking. Briefly, and before he really got started.
The first time I was moving, my face scraping along the forest floor. Pine needles stabbed at my skin. The smell of them burning my nose. He was dragging me, both feet under one arm and a stout branch over his shoulder. I twisted, tried to grab hold of something solid. My fingers scrabbling at the earth.
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