Now the coppery taste was back in her mouth and the adrenaline pounded in her bloodstream. At Perkins? She shook her head. This was ridiculous. The restaurant was roaring with the dinner hour, six o’clock. The scent of greasy frying and the tasty smell of baking and roasting food drifted in the air. The evening was warm and still and the sun was just settling down towards the Front Range.
The restaurant was just off Interstate 25, surrounded by trees and residential housing. The houses were beautiful small Victorians, built for the middle-class workers of the eighteen hundreds. Across the highway and down in the valley stood the grand Old Dames, the priceless Colorado Springs Victorians with twenty rooms and cupolas and gingerbread so elaborate it looked like Battenburg lace. The smaller Victorians were once crumbling and in disrepair, but a whole generation of young couples had discovered they could afford them. Eileen could see half a dozen people with paint or shingles or lawn equipment, working on their houses in the warmth of the evening. A beautiful time, late August, heading into the incomparable days of Indian summer.
She took a breath and resolutely entered the door of the restaurant. There were two couples waiting for a table and a family taking care of their check at the cash register. A teenage host stood behind a little podium, working on the restaurant map. The carpet was clean. Eileen remembered this place as well-run and tidy.
“May I help you?” the host asked with a credible attempt at dignity.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Eileen said. “A man, Alan Baxter? Is he here?”
“Oh, yes, this way,” the host said. “Please.” His face was spotted with acne and his ears seemed too big for his head, but his eyes were bright and quick. He was trying hard to sound like a grand maitre d’. Eileen nodded gravely back, silently applauding the effort, and followed.
Alan Baxter had managed to get a booth, Eileen saw, in the nonsmoking section. His back was to her, but he was a tall man, white-haired, wearing a clean blue shirt. He stood up as the host appeared at the table and turned, and the turning seemed to take forever because Eileen recognized him.
The hair was white now where it once had been brown and the skin was weathered and wrinkled where it once had been smooth and fresh, but a three-year-old’s memory of her father does not go away. Besides, looking at Alan Baxter was a bit like looking in a mirror.
“Daddy?” Eileen said, in a tiny little voice. The man who stood in front of her, his eyes widening, the color draining from his skin, was her father. Until now, she hadn’t known his name.
“Oh my god,” the man said. “Eileen? Eileen?”
Then he stumbled a little, pitched forward, and Eileen barely had time to get her numbed arms up to catch him. His head narrowly missed slamming against the plastic of the booth as Eileen eased him to the carpet.
The teen host, his face dismayed and shocked, yelped and dropped the menu he’d been carrying for Eileen.
“Don’t fret, he’s only fainted,” Eileen said, her cold fingers feeling for the pulse in the old man’s neck. There it was, steady as could be. “Get me a cold cloth.” She noticed the sudden silence, the lack of conversation. All around her, people sat with forks in hands or bites of food in their mouths, still and staring.
“It’s okay,” she said loudly, with a forced amusement, to the restaurant at large. “He’s just fainted and he’ll come around in a minute. Don’t worry.”
Around her, the noise rose again like someone turning on a switch. People were generally very nice, Eileen thought. They were curious, and that sometimes made them appear mean, but they were mostly just nice. The man stirred under her hands. She became aware that she was smoothing the hair back from his forehead, and stopped. She told herself she didn’t feel at all like fainting. Time slowed and stretched. She could feel her heartbeat, thudding firmly. Her father’s name was Alan Baxter, and he was alive. She took a deep breath. She told herself she felt fine. She told herself that Alan Baxter meant nothing to her, that what really mattered was Jim Leetsdale and Krista Lewis and what information this man might carry. She knew she was lying to herself but that didn’t matter now. She had to get through this moment. Beneath her hands, Alan Baxter opened his eyes.
“Just stay still for a minute,” she said, more harshly than she intended. “I’ve got a wet cloth coming for you.”
“Did I pass out?” he said in a wondering voice, and Eileen nodded calmly. She recognized the voice now, too. It hadn’t changed a bit.
“You fainted,” she said. The man, Alan Baxter, blinked hard a few times. His eyes cleared.
“What a stupid thing to do,” he said. “I want up off this horrid carpet, please.” He sat up gingerly, then got to his feet. He brushed at the seat of his pants. Eileen rose silently next to him and brushed at her own pants. The carpet wasn’t really that bad. Alan Baxter looked better, though very pale.
“Let’s sit down,” he said, not looking at her. “I’m not sure if I look at you I’m not going to pass out again.”
Eileen sat down and watched as Alan Baxter slid carefully into the other seat of the booth. The teenage host bustled up with a cold cloth and two glasses of ice water, his face still frightened.
“You okay, sir?” he asked, his voice cracking. “You sure scared me.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Alan Baxter said. “Such a silly thing to do. Thank you for the cloth.” He took it and wiped his face, then handed it back to the boy with a smile.
Such a nice seeming person, Eileen thought. He looks like a nice person. The nice person raised his head and looked at her.
“Are you really Eileen Baxter?” he asked.
“I’m Eileen Reed,” she said, trying to sound level and calm. “Funny for us to run into each other like this.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “After all the years I looked—”
“Look,” Eileen interrupted. She felt icy calm and completely in control. “Whatever happened is in the past now and I don’t want to talk about it. It was a long time ago.”
“But I’m your dad,” Alan Baxter said in a bewildered voice.
“I already have a dad,” Eileen said.
Into the silence the waitress arrived, coffeepot and cups in hand.
“Coffee for you too, ma’am?” she asked, and poured expertly at Eileen’s nod. She filled a cup for Alan Baxter as well. “Feeling better, sir? I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.”
Off the waitress went. Eileen met Alan Baxter’s eyes levelly. He nodded at her, his own expression smoothing out. It was eerie to see a face that looked so much like her own, controlling emotion the same way she did. Her calmness wavered like water for a moment and she forced it back.
“All right,” he finally said. “Let’s not talk about the past. I’m glad to meet you, though.”
“Okay,” Eileen said. The man (her father, her mind whispered) stirred cream into his coffee and took a healthy sip.
“We met to talk about Major Leetsdale, Miss Reed—er, is it Miss?”
“Detective Reed,” Eileen said, and felt a thin trembling in her stomach. Could that be pride? How ridiculous.
Alan Baxter smiled at her, an uncomplicated smile of happy pride, pride that he had no right to feel or express. He must have seen her reaction because he stopped smiling and took another sip of his coffee. Carefully, he opened his menu and gazed at the contents.
Eileen opened her own menu, knowing that she couldn’t choke down a bite of food. She picked a chicken salad and shut the plastic menu with a snap.
“Why do you want to talk to Major Leetsdale?” she asked. “Is Krista Lewis with you?”
“Krista Lewis is the reason I want to talk to Major Leetsdale, and no, she’s not with me,” Alan Baxter said grimly, closing his own menu and setting it carefully on the table. “She’s dead, Eilee—Miss Reed. She was murdered in the San Luis Valley. She was a friend of mine, and she was working with Major Leetsdale up here in Colorado Springs. I thought I might be able to talk to him—”
“He’s dead too, isn’t he?” Alan said.
“Murdered, Mr. Baxter,” Eileen replied. For a moment, her relationship to this man forgotten, she contemplated him over the rim of her coffee cup.
“How interesting,” he said dryly, and picked up his own cup. His hands were shaking enough to slosh the coffee back and forth in the thick restaurant mug. “You wouldn’t have a murder suspect, would you?”
“No,” Eileen said.
“Would you—would you tell me about Major Leetsdale? I’ll tell you about Krista Lewis in any case, but I would like to know about Leetsdale. Sheriff Gonzalez is going to want to know—”
“Gonzalez? You’re working with the sheriff’s office?” Eileen interrupted. “What do you do, Mr. Baxter?” He couldn’t be—was he a police detective too? That would be too much, she thought remotely. It just couldn’t be true.
“I’m a retired English teacher, Miss Reed,” Alan said apologetically. “I’m not a deputy or anything. I ended up talking to the sheriff because I identified Krista’s—Krista’s body.” He swallowed hard and finished his coffee.
“Oh. Okay. Could you tell me about Krista Lewis, then? I’ll tell you what I can about Major Leetsdale.”
“That’s a deal,” he said.
“Ready to order?” the waitress said brightly, startling them both.
“Ready,” Alan said.
“Ready,” Eileen said.
12
Briargate Subdivision, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Hey!” Joe said in surprise, as Eileen thumped solidly into his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into the curve of his neck. For a moment he was sure she was weeping, but when she lifted her face for a kiss, her eyes were dry. “Well let’s get inside and close the door, at least. The neighbors, you know.”
“Very funny,” she said, her voice not entirely all Eileen-sounding. Joe frowned but knew better than to pry. He wondered if this had something to do with that Teddy Shaw guy, the psycho child-killer that Eileen had shot. Joe desperately wanted to talk to Eileen about this, to give her his opinion on child-killers and what should be done with them, but she wouldn’t talk to him. It was frustrating.
He loved her. He’d loved her when he told her, over a year ago. Eileen loved him back, he was certain. At least, he knew when they were in bed together. When they were making love she was entirely there, entirely open, entirely his. At other times she would cloud over, turn away, and hold him away with her words. He’d realized months ago that he felt like the girl in their relationship, which made him laugh at the same time it made him furious. He was determined to make her trust him, not just with the fragile length of her glorious body but with her heart and mind. It would happen eventually, and then he could stop biting back his “I love you.” When she was ready, she would be ready.
“Talk to me,” he said, making his voice light and teasing. “Tell me about your day.”
“Rough day,” Eileen said. She allowed herself to be shuffled down the hallway so he could close the door.
“If you’re going into barnacle mode, we’re going to have to sprawl out. Bed okay?”
“Sure,” she murmured against his chest. He was certain her eyes were closed. He picked her up—that would be twice this week—and carried her to the bedroom. When he collapsed on the bed with her, her head bounced on his chest.
“You okay?” he asked, seriously this time. She nodded, still limp against him, and he shrugged. When she was ready, she would be ready. After ten minutes, her weight became heavy and her breathing slowed. He eased her to his side and waited, grimacing, for his left arm to come back to life. Then he cautiously reached out and snagged the television remote. As long as she was sleeping, he could catch up with preseason football.
At the end of the third quarter, he realized Eileen’s eyes were open. She was watching the game.
“They’ve got a good linebacker prospect,” she said, in a very Eileen-sounding voice.
“And a new receiver too,” Joe said. He picked up the remote and turned off the television. “But it’s preseason, so who cares. Talk to me, my woman. It is the price I demand for watching football with me.”
Eileen sat up and smoothed her hair back with both hands.
“It was a tough day,” she said. “I met this guy at Perkins, over off the Bijou exit, and he knew Krista Lewis. The late Krista Lewis.”
Joe flipped the remote in the air and caught it. Then he gently set it down. When she was ready, he reminded himself.
“Was she murdered too?” he asked.
“Yeah. She was found down in the San Luis Valley, two days ago. Same day Jim Leetsdale was snuffed. Hers didn’t look like a suicide, though. According to Mr. Baxter, this guy I talked to, she was laid out like one of those cattle mutilations they get down there.”
“Cattle mutilations,” Joe said darkly. “Was this guy one of those UFO freaks?”
“I guess not,” Eileen said. “He was visiting some friends down in the valley. Anyway, he says the whole place is about to boil over with talk of alien abduction and UFOs and stuff like that.”
“Oh, great,” Joe said. “Just what you need to screw up your case.”
“You don’t believe in UFOs?” Eileen asked with a teasing little smile. When she smiled like that, it made Joe want to leap right on her and lick her like a big ice cream cone. A strawberry ice cream cone.
“UFOs?” he said, bringing his mind back with an effort. “No way, man. UFOs are for sad, stupid people with nothing better to do. What a bunch of idiots.”
“So what about your simulations?” Eileen asked. “Have you figured out what Leetsdale does—er, what he did, yet?”
“I think so,” Joe said. “Maybe. I’ll know tomorrow morning.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. At 4:40 A.M., to be exact, he was going to know if the incredibly crazy theory he’d developed was correct or just a bunch of UFO-like hot air. “So if you don’t have anything better to do tonight, you want me to order pizza? You want to work up an appetite for it?”
Eileen’s eyes went so dark for a moment he was sure he’d said something wrong. Then she grinned like a little girl.
“You betcha,” she said. “I’ve got lots of things to do tonight. But nothing better than you.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Joe said, loving her so fiercely he didn’t care if she ever told him she loved him back. He picked up the phone and hit the speed-dial number for pizza.
La Veta, Colorado
Alan Baxter pulled into the Texaco for gas and sunflower seeds. Sunflower seeds kept him alert and awake while driving, even though they made the sides of his mouth sore after a while. Tonight, he didn’t care. Every inch of him felt sore.
After his daughter had left the Perkins parking lot, Alan had sat in his Bronco for almost half an hour, unable to move his hand to start the engine. Everything in him was paralyzed with exhaustion. She looked just like him. That was the thought that kept returning to him. He’d comforted himself for years with the thought that his daughter would look just like Linda when she grew up and would probably act just like her too. That her loss was inevitable and predetermined from the moment he married Linda Doran.
He had slowly leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against the plastic of the steering wheel, there in the Perkins lot. It felt good against his hot skin, like a warm hand. She looked just like him. The height, the shape of the eyes, the cheekbones that made him handsome had made her absolutely beautiful. The only touch of Linda in her was her dark red hair, a beautiful sweep to her shoulders. She’d had it cut indifferently, which only made her more outrageously beautiful. Alan wondered if she’d gone to her high school prom, and the thought sent a spasm through him
so sharp he clutched his middle with both hands.
The spasm passed. Eventually, he found the energy to start his Bronco. He had told his daughter he was staying at the Rodeway Inn, but he was planning to register only if he had to. The place he wanted to be right now was the Williams’s Ranch. Pulling into the bright glare of the Texaco station in La Veta, he found himself longing for his white bedroom, for Beth Williams, for Susan and Frank. How strange, that the Williams’s Ranch was so much like home. His spare little two-bedroom house in Pinedale, Wyoming seemed like a relic from another life.
At the Texaco station he walked slowly into the store, trying to stretch muscles that were stiff from tension and exhaustion. The interior of the building smelled like boiled coffee and smoke, a nauseating mix that almost made him decide against a cup of coffee to help the sunflower seeds. The clerk was settled deep into his chair with a thick fantasy novel, something with swords and cloaked soldiers and ram-headed monsters on the front. He didn’t look up when Alan put his credit card on the counter, but Alan saw the man was holding the book with only one hand. The other was under the counter, probably resting comfortably on a shotgun fully chambered with the safety off. A veteran night clerk.
“I’m going to fill up, pump six,” he said. The clerk nodded, eyes on his book. Alan loped out to the Bronco and filled the tank, trying not to think about Eileen Reed. If the clerk had decided to shoot a hole in his belly the size of a dinner plate, he could have tried not to think about that either.
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