Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  He eased back thinking he had been seen. His shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat and streaked in dust, and he hoped there wasn’t a nosy K-9 up there straining against its leash. The guard rail was only a few feet away and he was half-tempted to run, but any sudden movement would arouse the officer and he would be arrested before he counted to three.

  He looked over his shoulder to study the car behind. A small Honda Civic and a driver with his nose pressed to his cell phone. He appeared to be taking no notice of a man wedged between a Peterbilt and a jeep trying to grasp whether it was worth sliding down a steep slope all the way to the river.

  Flynn had to be quick and he had to do it now because the officer would soon be making strides toward his car. He took a few agonizing steps, sucking air between his teeth, and then a few more. He was over the guard rail, shoes sliding over loose gravel as he half-legged it, half-plummeted twelve feet down before barreling into a concrete support column. His shoulder took most of the impact, almost slipped out of its socket and he screamed, more out of frustration than pain. He came down on one knee dragging the other leg behind him.

  The air rushed out of his lungs and dark shadows blurred the edge of his vision. He knew he was close to vomiting with all the coughing. He tried to stand but everything went gray and hazy and all he could hear was a rattle of breath in his chest. The pain began to focus him.

  A shout. Then another.

  Flynn winced and tried to stand, feet slipping on gravel and sand. Dust swirls gyrated around him like a troop of Tasmanian devils and he had to cover his eyes to keep the sand out.

  Run!

  He was sliding down the slope as two officers vaulted over the guard rail. There was a culvert feeding into a six foot pipe. It was his only chance and he rounded toward it glad to be out of the wind. It took all he had to stay quiet, shoes squealing as he dragged one after the other along the channel until he was out into the sunlight beyond. Thigh-high grass swayed like a shifting sea as far as the eye could see and something told him to go left along the ditch bank.

  He never looked back, strides longer now as he doubled back under the overpass, hearing the faint trickle of water. There was a rumble of traffic above and the echo of law enforcement behind him. He hid between a forest of concrete columns and covered his mouth to keep from dislodging more soot from his lungs. The old lust for life was coming back, the clear blue skies he remembered from childhood and the laughter he’d thought he’d lost.

  It was early afternoon when he found a short bridge straddling the river and leading to a main road. He knew East Highway 66 was one of the main arteries running through Gallup and there were railway cafés and pizza places along the strip. But he wasn’t hungry enough to be seen. Keeping his head down, he slogged along Verdi Street as far as East Aztec Avenue, taking signs to Mossman High School. There was a gaunt stand of pines behind a redbrick structure and he collapsed against a tree, backpack pressed between him and a gnarly trunk. He rubbed his calves if only to relieve the pain in his feet. If he removed his shoes, he’d never get them back on again and they were probably bleeding.

  It wasn’t right for Jesky to get mixed up in all of this and Flynn tapped out a short text. Not tomorrow. I’ll tell you when. The detective thought he was the most evil person on the planet. Now he was probably sure he was.

  Jesky had the sense not to text back. He wouldn’t worry much either. As far as he was concerned, Flynn would work it out, find somewhere to go and stay safe. He might recall a time when Flynn went on a school trip to the mountains with best buddy Dennis. Mr. Fleming assured them there would be harsh punishments if any of the kids got lost, kept them all on a tight leash, made them walk in single-file like a row of prison inmates. He would have shackled them too if it hadn’t been against the law.

  It ticked off Dennis and you could see the cogs in his head doing wheelies and other stuff too. He triple-dog dared Flynn to do a runner with him when no one was looking. If only to prove Fleming didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. Unfortunately, Fleming did.

  He found Dennis in a hole he’d dug under a tree. Gave him a walloping right there in front of the camp fire. But Flynn was up that tree and too scared to come down. If it hadn’t been for Dennis’ roving eyes which continually flicked skyward, Flynn would have won the dare.

  Even through the cold, Flynn smiled for the first time in days. He missed Dennis and his grubby fingernails, missed the infectious laugh he had. He regretted not having visited the gravesite for well over two years. But the truth was, Dennis wouldn’t care.

  Snap!

  Flynn tensed, lowered his chin and looked through tall stalks of grass. He heard a yelp, a high-pitched sound tearing a jagged hole in the stillness. A coyote perhaps. Then all went quiet... above the rustling leaves and the creaking branches.

  He sat there for a while studying a freshly mowed path leading to a football field. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw moonlight gleaming on silvery white buttocks. Murmurings. Lovers coupling under the stars when they should have been spending the night at home. Hot and sweaty, and too busy to know they were being watched.

  Flynn began to shiver, pressing his hands into the warm nook under his arms, staring at the ground like a naughty school boy who had been caught looking at something he shouldn’t. If he moved they’d only hear him and call him a Peeping Tom. He was trapped, that’s what.

  The man rolled over on his side and sat up. He might have heard something, might have needed a break. Shoulder length hair slicked back over his head, he stood and pulled up his pants. Walking behind a tree, he took a leak and the spatter of urine against the leaves irritated Flynn as well as the abrupt parting as if the loving act didn’t matter anymore. A hand combed away two errant strands of hair from his face and he seemed to give the woman a cursory glance.

  “Aren’t you going to get dressed?” he asked.

  Her voice was childlike. “I can’t find my clothes.”

  “They’re right there. On the blanket.”

  “I can’t see. I can’t see anything.”

  A deep sigh and the man sauntered over to the girl, pulling her to her feet. Fifteen, sixteen, too young to be with a flinty old man.

  “Hurry,” he said, pulling on a sweater before staring at the blue screen of his cell phone. His face was covered in whiskers and there were lines around his mouth. “It’s her.”

  She snatched a deep-cupped bra, fastener hanging by a thread as if the man couldn’t wait to undo those tricky little hooks. Flynn could hear the snap as she pulled on a pair of lacy underwear highlighted by the beam of the phone. She sighed as she gathered clothes strewn around the grass and twice she wiped away a tear. She appeared nervous.

  Flynn watched them saunter along the path toward the football field, disappearing into the gloom that hovered between the goal posts. There was a neat row of houses on the far side where Flynn could almost make out a solitary figure in one frame of light. A mother at the sink looking out into the night. Waiting.

  He struggled to stand, leaned against the tree and sighed loudly. There was nowhere else to go unless he hotwired a car in the neighborhood and made it out to Holbrook. A streak of blue lit up the ground where the lovers had been and he limped toward it, reaching into the long grass before it went out.

  A cell phone. Certainly not the man’s judging by the pink Animé wallpaper and a text from mom asking if she was on her way. It didn’t seem right keeping the phone, nor did it seem right to let an old man hurt a little girl like that.

  Flynn staggered away from the clamminess of the woods and followed the mismatched couple along a dark gray street.

  EIGHT

  Temeke turned to the visitor, who had been signed in by the impact sergeant, wooden clogs clacking through the lobby. Linda Quinn took the tissue he offered her and dabbed one eye. She felt for the chair before sitting down and then proceeded to study him through a pair of square rimmed glasses.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,
Mrs. Quinn. He was a brave man. We’d like to do something—”

  “Nah, forget it.” The comment was not dismissive, more brusque as if she appreciated all they had done. Taking off her glasses she wiped away a steady stream of tears. “You know the irony of it all? Ed was dying of cancer. What could be worse? Fire or chemotherapy?”

  Temeke asked if she wanted to continue and he assumed so by a rapidly nodding head. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  Temeke produced a china mug and blew a film of dust off the rim. “I’d give you a shot of whiskey, only some jerk’s gone and filched my last bottle.”

  “You tired?”

  The question took him by surprise. “Haven’t even been home for a bath.”

  “Bath? Who takes baths?”

  “We Brits do. We like our baths.”

  “Aha,” she said with a sigh as if it was something that had been troubling her for some time.

  “I gather you and Mrs. McCann were close?” he asked.

  “She and I had a goof.” The tissue was now wadded up in a fist and black eyes stared directly at Temeke. “I liked her. We had a lot in common. I bet you dollars to donuts Flynn knew nothing about the guy with the tie.”

  “The guy with the tie?”

  “Came round sometimes. Course she kept chicky, lookin’ up and down the street in case anyone saw them. Ex-boyfriend is what she told me. I asked her if they was up to no good and she just grinned. Said Flynn had the paper tiger.” Linda leaned forward a little, catching the frown on his face. “Couldn’t get it up.”

  “Was this a regular thing? The guy with the tie?”

  “Yeah. Ed said it happened after Flynn left for work. He’d stay a couple of hours and then leave. Ed and I reckoned he was loaded. We used to guess how much them suits cost.” Linda pursed her lips and then raised one eyebrow. “If you must know, I went in the back yard and watched them over the wall. They was smoking and laughing and carrying on.”

  “Smoking cigarettes?” Temeke asked.

  “It was one of them glass tubes with a bobble on the end. I said to Ed that’s drugs. He said nah, it’s one of them glass stirrers from a chemistry set. I knew better. Flynn had no idea it was happening in his own house. I heard him on the phone not that long ago. Over the wall and all. Said he was worried about how much she was spending. So? I thought. She’s got money to burn. Get over it. But now... now I feel bad.”

  It was Linda’s heavy accented voice that had made the initial 911 call that night. “We thought you should know Mr. McCann’s done a runner,” Temeke said. “Truth is, the state police saw a man running through scrub and tumbleweed and lost him somewhere near the Puerco River and the I-40 flyover. Without dogs at the scene it was impossible to track him.”

  “Well, whaddya know. It was Arizona, wasn’t it?”

  “Actually, it was—”

  “I asked him once. Where would you live if you had the choice? He said Sedona.” She teased a strand of gray hair on her forehead, eyes glancing up at the clock.

  “What’s in Sedona?” Temeke asked.

  “His biological dad. Never met him. Said he wanted to get to know the man who’d given him life. Can’t blame him, can you? I mean, it’s easy for us ’cause the rest of us know our dads.”

  Temeke vaguely remembered his and he was glad it was vague. “Did he have any other relatives?”

  “Who knows. Never said. Well, not for nothin’ but he’s obsessed with money. It’s always some weasel deal with him. He lived in a junkyard, for crying out loud. Made everything with his bare hands. Nice parents. Met them at Thanksgiving.”

  “Did Tarian ever mention any heirlooms, valuable pieces they might have had in their house?”

  “She liked them Barbie dolls. Odd for a woman of her age. She was much older than him. He didn’t seem to mind though.”

  The file mentioned a ten year age gap, which in Temeke’s mind hinted at a possible mother wound. As far as he understood it, mothers were the pivotal player in a child’s upbringing and where unresolved grief and resentment resulted in broken hearts. The more Temeke thought about McCann finding his father the more sense it made.

  “So they were good natured?” he asked.

  “Yeah, for the most part.”

  “Not flashy then?”

  “Nah. He’d cry like a damn baby when she went shopping. Thought she was going to come back with the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  Brooklyn, that was it, Temeke thought, listening to the repeated phrases. He was warming to Linda Quinn with her machine gun answers and clipped voice. There was something heroic about her generation; retired nurses who had once scrubbed bedpans and prepared bodies for the morgue. There was nothing she hadn’t seen.

  “What do you think of Mr. McCann?” he asked.

  There was a friendly glint in her eye even when she pointed a finger. “I liked him. Mark my words, it’s never easy living with a tidy freak. She liked it just so. He couldn’t care less. I heard them arguing the day before the fire. She called him a skank-ho. Can a man be a skank-ho? Maybe he can, I dunno. But she slapped him a few times, pushed him against the wall. He didn’t fight back. Should have. Makes it tough to stay in a good mood.”

  “Do you think he hurt her?”

  “Maybe he flipped. Couldn’t take any more. Pity you didn’t put one of those ankle bracelets on him. You’d have found him by now.”

  “We saw no reason to hold him, ma’am,” Temeke said, realizing the air had suddenly thickened with all mention of Flynn McCann.

  There was no way to tart up the facts, especially the papers which dressed up everything in black and white and a little red in between. An article confirmed the master bedroom smoke alarm was devoid of batteries and that someone must have disarmed it. He wasn’t going to remind her of that. Nor was he going to tell her how Tarian was killed. She’d hear about it all on the news tonight.

  “Did Tarian drink?”

  “Not much.” Linda ran her forefinger around the rim of her mug and gave a shrug. “A glass of wine at dinner. Drank coffee mostly. Them specialty things from around the corner. Five bucks a pop.”

  “How often did you visit them?”

  “Two, three times a month. She was good to us. Bought Ed a brand new hedge trimmer last year. Those things are expensive!”

  Temeke decided to steer the conversation to the restraining order. “Did you ever see Mr. McCann beat his wife?”

  “Nah. But she showed me a bruise on her lip about two months ago. Kept it covered with make-up mostly, but you could see it was swollen.”

  “Did it surprise you?”

  “She told me he was jealous. Didn’t like it when she went out with her friends. I suggested they had counseling. Well, that never happened because he was always working. Hey, not for nothin’ but I think he was avoiding her. Probably got sick of the arguing.”

  “You did the right thing... telling her to have counseling. You were a good friend. Any other friends visit?”

  “Yeah, several. There’s one we’ve got a soft spot for. Face like an angel. Ed knows every car. Hollers at me when she comes.”

  A warm flutter ran through Temeke’s gut as Linda’s voice seemed to run out of steam. Truth was, she wasn’t ready to give Ed up yet, didn’t want to be left behind and part of her must have been dying inside. The easy chair by the window was vacant now—a neighborhood watch chair—and it was likely Ed had left his imprint in the cushion. Funny how dead people leave a residue long after they have gone.

  “Can you describe this woman?”

  “Medium height. Stylish. Her name’s Rosie. I saw her a week ago now. Came to the house to deliver an envelope. Seemed like she was in a hurry.”

  Temeke could see Linda’s face had drained to the color of the wadded up tissue she was holding, a shade lighter than her hair. He fumbled with the thought of why this woman would have come to the McCann house for the sole purpose of handing Flynn a letter and then hightailing it out of the neighborhoo
d. Perhaps Flynn saw Ed looking. Perhaps he hoped the old man hadn’t caught the exchange.

  “Tarian wanted to leave him,” Linda said. “She said she should never have married a wuss. I told her not to beat herself up, told her to pack a few things so she could get away if she needed to.”

  Temeke wished Tarian had left Flynn. It would have saved her a terrifying death. “When did she tell you this?”

  “Last Thursday morning. I remember because it was Ed’s doctor’s appointment.” Linda spoke so quietly Temeke had to lean forward to take in what she was saying. “She brought a suitcase and left it on my stoop. I told her to come and get it when she was ready.”

  Temeke felt a small twinge of excitement at the base of his neck. “Do you still have that suitcase?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s in my garage.”

  NINE

  Flynn knocked on the door and leaned against the frame, studying the name Symonds on the mailbox. He’d rehearsed the lines nine times and each time sounded worse than the last. Broken down car? Baloney. They’d only want to drive out and find it, and the damn thing had likely been impounded. As for his feet, he could hardly stand and he didn’t expect to find a nurse to give him first aid.

  The pink phone... He’d read most of the texts on the way to the house. Fifteen sick, twisted texts from a sick, twisted man. He’d pop him if he could, cut off his—

  “Yes?” A woman answered the door, hair all mussed and tied up on the top of her head. The smell of cigarettes hung thick in the air.

  Rail thin with a thick daub of white makeup. Not pretty, but not unattractive either. She had the type of memorable features battered women got after years of trying to make themselves invisible.

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” Flynn let out two long pants for good measure. “My car was stolen outside the Golden Nugget. It had my phone—”

  “Come on in. There’s a phone over there.”

  The phone excuse came tumbling out in a mass of nervous drivel and it took him a while to close his mouth. He stood in a narrow kitchen, cupboards once white had turned a tea-stain yellow and there was a rancid stench from the drains. On the stovetop a layer of fat had formed a moat around the burners and a fly buzzed behind the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling.