by Nevada Barr
Listening, staring at the crushed horizon remaining to her, she waited. Crawling out was not an option, not till the sun rose and drove all the creatures of the night back into their lairs.
This decision was a wise one. The footsteps were coming back, coming back for her and for the dog. Heath chose not to be taken as a whimpering crippled lady. One thing Colorado had plenty of was rocks. Feeling around she found a jagged chunk of granite with a sharp edge, half again as big as her fist.
Wiley sensed the change in her. He eased from beneath her, the hair on his back running stiff and spiky beneath her hand. A killing rumble grew in his chest.
“When I say, Wiley,” Heath whispered into his ear. He froze in a half-crouch as if he understood. Sly, whispering, cold as snake’s scales the footsteps slithered over the sandy soil. Around the RV. Soft as moccasined feet, bare feet, cat feet, little girls’ feet.
Near the front tire on the driver’s side they stopped.
“Now,” Heath screamed and both she and her dog struck long and low from beneath the vehicle.
twelve
Anna was having second thoughts about this visit. It was after nine. People were, if not already in bed, settled in for the night. She’d intended to come earlier but had gotten roped into an acrimonious campground dispute over a prime site and couldn’t decently get away till eight. Having driven too far to give it up, she pulled into the dusty little RV camp where Dr. Littleton and her niece were reputed to be staying.
Only two of perhaps a dozen sites were occupied, one by a recreational vehicle so big a camera was mounted on the rear to facilitate backing up. The other Anna recognized as Dr. Littleton’s. So they wouldn’t rake rudely across the camper’s windows, she switched the lights off in her 1999 Honda Accord—a wedding present from Paul. He had, and rightly so, been concerned the battered Rambler American she’d driven over two hundred thousand miles might not make one more cross-country trip.
Littleton and Jarrod’s vehicle was dark. Anna would be waking them. For a moment she sat behind the steering wheel deciding whether or not to turn around and drive back to Estes Park. She was reaching for the ignition key to do just that when the peculiar sculpture between picnic table and van came into darkling focus. An overturned chair, wheel to the sky. The window in her car door was down and Anna could hear the absolute stillness of the night and nothing else. Where the hell was the helper dog? Why wasn’t he announcing her in proper canine fashion? Again the crucified mice danced in her head. How much of a step from mice to dogs, dogs to women? A bad feeling crawled up her spine and tightened the skin at the back of her neck. Moving quietly, she took her old Colt .357 from the glove box and eased from the car.
Her leather-soled moccasins almost silent on the packed earth, she walked over to the RV. There was a smell of burning, a small blanket thrown aside. Taking blind corners with care, she walked around the vehicle.
At the driver’s side window she stopped to look inside. A shriek stopped her heart and a screaming pain shot up from her foot. Anna threw herself backward. Rolled. Belly flat to the earth, elbows locked, she trained the Colt on the blackness beneath the vehicle.
“Out,” she yelled. “Come out now. Hands first.” A second of dark silence froze in her ears, then:
“Ranger Pigeon?” And a dog’s head poked out of the inky shadow. The juxtaposition of voice and whiskered jaws disconcerted her. For the briefest of instants she thought Wiley addressed her.
“Ms. Jarrod?” she returned when the instant thawed.
“Yeah.”
The dog crawled out on dog elbows and knees. Rather than rising to all fours he continued to crawl over to her, then licked her fingers where they curled around the butt of the gun. He smelled of singed hair and kerosene. Jarrod didn’t appear, so Anna didn’t put away the revolver though it was hard to maintain a killing edge with a scruffy hound slathering one’s trigger finger.
“You alone under there?” Anna demanded.
“Yes, I am.”
Anna waited a bit but nothing transpired. “Are you coming out?”
“Yes, I am.” This, reluctantly. “Wiley’s leash has me tangled up.”
“You want help?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” Anna sat up and took a long and careful look around her. There was nothing but low scrubby bushes and not many of them. In a rolling countryside cut with ravines, she knew a man could hide himself even without what would normally be considered cover.
“Should I be worried about what’s out here with me, or were you and Wiley just hanging out under there for the hell of it?” she said to the darkness under the RV. Now that the excitement was over, Anna’s foot had begun to throb where Heath Jarrod had smashed it with whatever she’d smashed it with. Pain made her cranky.
“You should be worried,” came the disembodied voice.
“What the heck are you doing under there? Don’t get dressed on my account.”
“Balls.”
“What should I worry about?” Anna came to her knees and watched out over the undulating landscape to where it skirted the bones of rock.
“That’s a little hard to say.” Finally the scuffling became directional. First Jarrod’s hands came out, then her head, as she dragged her weight over the ground. Wiley left off sucking up to Anna and went to his mistress. Taking her collar delicately between his teeth he began pulling, helping her move. Anna had not seen anything like it since Lassie had pulled Timmy out of everything from dry wells to abandoned mine shafts. She sat down again, the Colt held loosely in her lap, legs folded tailor fashion. With her empty hand she squeezed her injured foot. The counterpressure seemed to alleviate the throbbing from within. Anyway, it was something to do.
Eyes completely adjusted to the darkness, a bit of moon climbing in the east and more stars than God could count, Anna could see with surprising clarity. Fascinated, she watched Heath Jarrod, with the help of her faithful dog, work her way painfully out from under the chassis, inch by hard-won inch, a small berm of dirt plowed up by her chest, the dark hair sticking to her forehead in sweaty curls despite the chill of the night.
Questions piled up in Anna’s mind, starting with why she and the dog were under the RV and what was worrisome but hard to speak of. With forced discipline, she held her tongue. There would be time enough when the woman was done with her extrication. Besides, Anna could see how much the work was costing. Jarrod would have little breath to spare for talking. The energetic ministrations of the dog coupled with Heath Jarrod’s grunting gave the scene a cartoon quality that made Anna smile.
Jarrod caught her at it. “Enjoying yourself?” she gasped.
“Pretty much,” Anna admitted. “Except for my foot. I think you might have broken some of the little bones in my toes. There’s no treatment for that, you know.”
“I feel your pain,” Heath panted sarcastically. “Or used to.”
She’d gotten herself out as far as her hips. By rolling over and using the front tire for support, she managed to sit up. From that position, and again with tug and tooth thrown in by the faithful Wiley, she was able to grab hold of her legs and drag them out in front of her.
“Shit,” she sighed when she was done. She leaned back against the tire and closed her eyes. “Check Wiley. Check my dog. I think he got burned. I know he got burned. I saw the flames. There’s a flashlight in my saddlebag.”
Anna fetched the flashlight. Wiley stood patiently, stoically, while she checked him. Heath stroked his head. “Fur’s burned but it doesn’t look like it got to his skin,” Anna said at last.
“I reached him pretty quick.”
Anna didn’t ask how. Her foot ached with the swiftness and power that still resided in this former climber’s upper body. “Give him a bath and a clip to be sure, but he looks good.” Anna had been a ranger and an emergency medical technician for too many years to let anyone suffer in silence—or peace. “Let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
/> “It’ll just take a second.” To her surprise, Heath didn’t continue quarreling but held both her hands out, palms up. They were filthy, of course, but other than a bit of slight blistering along the edge of her left palm and little finger she was more roughed-up than burned. The front of her shirt was scorched over an area about the size of a dinner plate and burned through just below Heath’s left breast. “Mind if I unbutton your blouse?”
Heath didn’t open her eyes. “Get me my cigarettes and you can take the damn thing off,” she said. “They’re in the saddlebag, same side as you found the flashlight.”
Anna got up and limped around the front of the truck again. “Might as well bring the chair while you’re up,” Heath called. “And watch out for broken glass.”
Anna did as she was asked. As she was righting the chair, she could hear the other woman softly calling her dog. Fear she must have been keeping out of her voice in her exchange with Anna rattled the timbre, a creak of underlying tears trying to break through. Knotted to the arm of the chair was the dog’s leash. Heath hadn’t been tangled in it. She’d been scared to come out from under the RV. She was terrified and she’d kept it hidden so Anna wouldn’t know.
Gutsy little woman, Anna thought approvingly. Though at five-feet-four inches she was not taller than Heath and at one hundred fifteen pounds couldn’t have outweighed her by much, Anna never thought of herself as little and was usually taken aback when someone else described her that way.
She returned with chair and smokes. Wiley was tucked right beneath Heath’s arm. Seeing Anna, Heath rubbed her face in the fur on the dog’s bony skull. Mopping away tears, Anna guessed.
She handed the cigarettes to Heath and took her former place. Heath lit up, took a drag and sighed the sigh Anna had heard over the phone from her sister for the past thirty years: the joyous exhalation of the confirmed nicotine addict.
Heath’s bra was scorched a bit but otherwise intact.
“There’s a blister about the size of a nickel on your ribcage,” Anna said. “Everything else looks okay.”
“Check my legs,” Heath said. “The lap rug caught.”
The trousers were filthy and scorched. With Heath’s permission Anna cut open the legs with her pocketknife. Damage was minimal. A couple places a little bigger than postage stamps were going to blister. Regardless of what had happened—and Anna was getting more interested by the moment—Heath had gotten off easy.
Anna clicked off the flashlight and sat down tailor-fashion again.
Wiley went off a little ways to relieve himself. Heath’s breathing evened out. “So what’s with the playing under rolling stock with your dog at night?” Anna asked.
“I don’t suppose you could bring me my wine first? My glass is on the table. You can have what’s left in the bottle.”
Anna shoved herself back to her feet. Though pushing fifty, she could still stand up from a cross-legged sitting position without using her hands but, with the adrenaline gone, she was too tired to perform party tricks. “Sure I can’t get you a sandwich or chips and dip while I’m up?”
Heath laughed. “Just the drugs, ma’am. Just the drugs.”
Anna returned with the half-full wineglass and the bottle. The table had been strewn with what looked like the remains of a shattered lamp, but the wineglass was upright and undamaged.
“Might want to feel around in this for broken glass,” she suggested as she handed it to Heath. The bottle she kept. It had been offered. Sometimes Anna righteously forbore the demon of drink. Tonight she didn’t.
The wine went well with the night and the circumstances and Heath’s story: all three seemed unreal.
Heath spoke in the calm tones of the sane, but childish tormentors without corporeal form and sudden explosions of fire were not standard fare outside of movie theaters and mental wards. Anna asked no questions, made no interruptions, but listened quietly till Heath had said all she was going to. Unlike most people, Heath Jarrod stopped talking when she’d said her piece. Though Anna didn’t jump in immediately, she let the silence lie, not filling it with unnecessary recaps, explanations or extrapolations.
Anna was both surprised and grateful. A story such as this required thought. “Wow,” she said finally, summing up her thoughts and emotions.
“Do you believe me?”
There was no trace of pleading in her voice but Anna knew the question mattered. With wild tales such as the one Heath just told, lowest on the credibility scale were women, children, drunks and invalids. Heath qualified at least nominally for three out of four. There was a part of Anna that wanted to write the story off to alcohol and hysterics, maybe guilt for getting tipsy, breaking the lamp and lighting her own dog on fire. She could suggest, sotto voice, to Dr. Littleton that a couple of Xanax might not be amiss, shake her head knowingly and scoot back up to the mountains, duty done.
“I believe you,” Anna said and meant it. “The chief ranger and I were up to New Canaan today. It’s one disturbing town. A place where spirits are warped for the greater glory of somebody. Probably Dwayne Sheppard. They’ve got this whole Christian fundamentalism going, with a layer of Mormon fundamentalism to keep the sex plentiful.”
“Plentiful for the aforementioned Dwayne Sheppard?”
“That’s my guess. But Mrs. Dwayne, who I suspect is Mrs. Sheppard number one or two, got on about demons, Satan, Halloween. The whole ball of wax and I don’t doubt for a moment that she was sincere.”
“Are Mormons big on the demon thing?” Heath asked.
Anna took a swig of Merlot from the bottle, a tacit salute to the demons of the real world. “I don’t think so. I think the New Canaanites’ belief system is a hybrid. The worst of a number of worlds. Still it’d make sense. Using the images that scare them to try and frighten you off. Bring the girls down—maybe Proffit’s version of religious play—wait till you’re alone. It’s dark. You’re a few glasses down. Makes for a pretty good show.”
“Do you think that’s all it was?”
Anna heard the fear in Heath’s voice. It was too great to hide.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I’d hang on to that rock you smashed me with if I were you.”
For a while they said nothing more. She thought. Heath smoked. Wiley lay between them, chin on Heath’s ankle, feet pushing against Anna’s knee, as if keeping them safe and out of trouble was his life’s work. Replaying Heath’s story slowly in her mind, Anna marshaled a few facts—alleged facts. According to Heath there had been three distinct childish voices: the limpet, Heath was sure of; Alexis, fairly sure; the third, not recognized. The voices taunted and threatened. Heath had heard footsteps running around the RV. This Anna had to take on faith. The other two facts were provable: the kerosene lamp had been broken and Heath had been jabbed repeatedly by a stick or some such object. There were fresh contusions on her back, forearm and neck.
The rest—who had wielded the stick, broken the lamp, organized and transported the children, why it was so important Heath leave the children alone, why Beth—the limpet, who seemed psychologically dependent on Heath—should turn on her with threats of violence, whether this incident, bizarre as it was, had anything to do with the girls’ weeks’ AWOL or with their reappearance in bras and panties, was up in the air.
“Before I leave, remind me to check around with a flashlight, see if anything jumps out at me,” Anna said. “Tomorrow, when the sun’s up, I’ll come back and look again. If we’re lucky, we may get a usable track or two but I doubt it. This dirt’s been packed down over the years till it’s almost like pavement. I hear Colorado’s in a drought.”
“Drought’s normal,” Heath said. “It was the last twenty freakishly wet years that screwed us. Zillions of people moved here. Now that the weather’s back in its real pattern there’s not enough water to go around.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.”
Another piece of quiet formed between them.
“Three voices,” Anna said finall
y, coming to the crux of the matter.
“Three. Definitely.” Heath sipped her wine. By the gentle unshadowed light from the night sky, Anna watched her chin and cheeks stiffen as she held the wine in her mouth for a time before swallowing it. A trick practiced by connoisseurs for the taste and alcoholics for the anticipation. “Well, as definite as life is these days, anyway,” Heath said when she’d swallowed. “The surreal is getting more real all the time. Do you know I thought I kicked off that burning lap robe? Actually felt my legs and feet kicking, felt its weight flying off, the relief of the cold air on my ankles. Then I looked down and zip. Nada. Dead doornails. Lying there like wieners under the broiler. Weird.”
Heath took a deep drag on her cigarette. By the sudden glow of orange light Anna saw a startled—almost comically so—look on her face, as if in sharing even that one fragmented feeling about her physical state, she’d taken herself utterly by surprise.
“Weird,” Anna agreed. The glow moved as Heath reached out to tap ash. Anna would never know how Heath felt about this minor breach in the walls she’d constructed around herself. “Are you thinking the third voice was the third girl, Candace Watson?” Anna asked.
“Who else?”
“Me too.”
Heath stubbed out her cigarette, worked the remaining tobacco out of the paper and tucked the filtered butt in the rolled cuff of her trouser leg. If one didn’t count hunters—and Anna never did—there weren’t a lot of backcountry enthusiasts who smoked, but over the years she noted the few who did tended to be scrupulously tidy about it, perhaps in hopes that when the day of reckoning rolled around, the karmic gods of nature would mark it down in their anticancer column.
“So Candace is alive and well and back in New Canaan?” Heath asked.
“Given how little Mr. Dwayne Sheppard wants strangers—particularly strangers with badges—poking their noses into his little hornet’s nest, that both makes sense and doesn’t. Why pretend she’s lost? It only makes us pester him more.”
“The limpet said Candace never went with them, that she stayed with that Robert Proffit guy. I wish he gave me the willies.”