The doctor nodded slowly. "To my knowledge he never left the state of Oregon. At least not until after he was released four months ago."
Chapter 20
William Hunter had gone through the entire condo, room by room. He stood in Greg Ott’s upstairs hallway, squeezed his eyes shut, and growled low in his throat. Where is that fucking bitch?
From the airport that morning, in a rented car, he had driven straight to the house on the hill, only to find her already gone. His next stop had been the home of her best friend. Although he knew the Meachams were in Hawaii, Hunter figured Alex would be in need of a safe haven. Upon finding no one at their house, he had gone on to the condo of the attorney.
"Where are you, cunt?" he screamed, kicking a large potted ficus tree down the stairs. Black soil and leaves flew in all directions, littering the tan carpet. The tree became wedged on the staircase.
Hunter took the steps in leaps and bounds and hurled himself over the railing at the bottom. In a low crouch, his head cocked, his eyes darting about the living room, he felt himself slipping. Felt himself being sucked down into the black hole. In an effort to control the rage, he breathed deeply, listened to the melodious gurgling of the two hundred-gallon fish tank, and forced his mind to become as blank as a plaster wall. As the minutes ticked away his rage slowly dissipated, drifting up and away like the rising bubbles in the tank.
Calmly now. Where is she? There was only one other place he knew to look. At her lover's place—her lover, the cop.
He opened his wallet and pulled out a tiny slip of paper. Scribbled in his angular handwriting was a rural address south of town. Hunter smiled, proud of himself. He had covered all the bases. From Alex's address book he had discovered where her friends lived. From the glove compartment of the cop's own car, when it sat in her driveway, he had copied down this address from the registration.
She was there. He could feel it in his gut. The bitch was going to suffer. She should never have crossed him. The rage began to build again. With an animalistic growl, he lifted a bronze bust of Chopin and hurled it at the center of the aquarium. The thick glass exploded. A tidal wave of water, sand, and tropical fish gushed out into the living room. Hunter cried out as a fiery pain ripped through his shoulder. The wound, where Alex had stabbed him with the hedge clippers, opened again, bleeding profusely.
He tore apart a throw pillow, pulled out the cotton batting, and, stuffing it under his shirt, covered the puncture on his left shoulder. She would suffer for that too, he reasoned. Before he made her his forever, she would suffer for all the wrongs she had done.
Harley Waincock fit the dummy key into the vise and tilted it into the cutter. It ground the metal away. He removed it, buffed the jagged edges, then handed the heavyset woman the new key.
"There you go, Mrs. Vicker," he said. "Now don't go putting it in the glove compartment. It don't do you no good if you can't get to it."
"I'll leave this one with Kurt. I always know where that boy is. Right there in that easy chair, eyes glued to the tube." She turned away, turned back. "Oh, Harley, I need some postage stamps. You got the ones with the seashells?"
"I believe I do." Waincock came out from behind the counter with the sign that read Waincock Locksmith — Emergency Service, and walked into a back room. A moment later he appeared at the gilded barred window. "How many, Mrs. Vicker?"
"The seashells?"
"Yes'um."
"A book should do it. I don't care for those ones with the flags. Not that I ain't patriotic and all that, it's just that they're so dang plain."
The word plain made Waincock think of Mrs. Vicker's daughter. "How's Lilly these days?"
"Fine. Fine. She'll be coming into the store to do the shopping this afternoon."
"Why don't she just call in what she needs? We can run it on out to her."
The woman seemed to blanch. She looked around to make certain they were alone. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Well, Harley, truth is she don't much like having that young man delivering the groceries."
"Will?"
"She says he has the devil in his eye. I know, I know"— she held up a hand—"that's silly talk. But he scares her. I'm sure it's all those scars that make him look so mean—'cause without them he'd be a nice-looking boy, but . . . well, you know. I have to confess he gives me a case of the jeebies too. Other folks feel the same.”
Waincock was silent for a moment. He looked down and said, "There's plenty for him to do around the store. I'll be doing the deliveries myself from now on.”
Mrs. Vicker nodded, paid for her stamps and the new car key and hurried away.
More problems, he thought. Would the good Lord ever grant him, Harley Monroe Waincock, total absolution for his sins?
Welcome to Haller, Drive Friendly, the sign read. In the right-hand corner riddled with BB shot was Pop. 995.
Justin slowed the rented Chevy Citation, pulled sharply into the gravel driveway of what looked like the only gas station on the west side of town, and eased to a stop at the pumps. It appeared to be a full-service station; gas, tires, parts, and repairs.
"Afternoon. How much you need?" the lanky attendant asked. He leaned down, looked at Justin with heavy-lidded eyes.
"Afternoon. Could you tell me if Harley Waincock still owns the store here in town?"
"Yeah. He does."
"About ten years back do you remember a Lora Hunter and her son William? Lived on a farm somewhere around here?"
"You got the wrong place of business, fella. I'm running a gas station here, not an information center. Chamber of commerce is that place that looks like a teepee on the other end of town."
"Why don't you fill it up for me?"
"Happy to."
Justin stepped out of the car, stretched his legs, stared down the road toward town. "Nice town you have here.”
"No different from any other town with a population of seven hundred.”
"Thought it was closer to a thousand?"
"Gets smaller every year. Old folks die, young folks get the hell out. I remember that woman you were asking about. Never met her, or the boy, but I remember them. Some kind of fire out there back about ten years ago. Mother was killed. The kid was taken in by relatives or something. He just moved back on the farm, I'm told.”
"Have you seen him around town?"
"Sure. He drives Waincock's delivery wagon. Comes in for gas." The attendant replaced the nozzle in the pump.
"Hey, thanks for the information."
"No problem."
Justin cruised Main Street slowly. Waincock's Market was situated in the center of town. He drove on by. The teepee building that housed the chamber of commerce was on the east end. Making a U-turn in the parking lot of a defunct restaurant, he headed back to the market.
After inquiring inside the store, Justin walked around to the back. He approached a man who was unloading cases of canned goods from a flatbed truck, tossing one case after another, without breaking stride, onto the loading platform.
"Harley Waincock? Fellow inside said I'd find you out back. Name's Holmes. Justin Holmes.”
"What can I do for you, Justin?" Waincock neither stopped nor looked up.
"Like to ask you a few questions about Lora Hunter and her son.”
The broad back stiffened. The biceps bulged, flexed involuntarily. The man dropped the box, straightened, and stared at Justin with fierce black eyes set in a flat, brown face. Waincock was built like a gorilla.
"Who are you?"
"The law." Justin showed credentials. "Reno, Nevada.”
"Will?"
"Afraid so. Can we talk?"
"Damn." Waincock's face and body went slack. "What'd he do?"
"He's wanted for questioning in the death of a Reno woman. She was bludgeoned, her house was set on fire—with her in it.”
Waincock tipped his head. Stared at Justin. "Know much about Will and his mother?"
"Just what Dr. Penndulbury at Westgate told me. A little about t
he son. Practically nothing about the mother."
"Let's go for a ride.” Waincock tossed the last case on the platform. "Hop in.”
Two miles north of town, Justin saw the small white farmhouse at the end of the dirt lane. It looked lonely and oppressive. He felt cold. It's just a house. A little house with green shutters smack-dab in the midst of this beautiful scenery, he told himself. There are no fire-breathing dragons. No monsters waiting to leap up through the cellar steps. No ghosts.
"I'm curious,” Justin said. "The gas-station attendant in town didn't seem to know much about the Hunters and what happened here ten years ago. I thought people in small towns knew everybody's business.”
"They do if it concerns townsfolk. The farmers are isolated. Unless they got kids going to school, or they don't mind folks knowing their business, things stay private with them. Aside from myself and the late Sheriff Archer, who was a man of few words, no one else knows exactly what happened out here that day."
As Waincock pulled to the back of the house, Justin's hand moved toward the gun under his arm.
Waincock glanced at him. "Ain't nothing out here can hurt you.”
Justin's hand dropped back to his thigh.
They climbed out of the truck and walked to the huge elm tree. Waincock bent down, picked up a rock, then pitched it through the tire swing suspended from a branch of the tree.
Justin took in the house, the old lopsided barn, a wooden shed. A red tractor, its tires long ago rotted down to metal rims, sat under a veneer of black, white, and green bird droppings.
"Who owns this place?"
"I do. Bought it on the auction block shortly after Will was committed. The money went into the trust for him. Never thought he'd ever want to come back here. But when he did, I let him stay. No one else has lived in it for ten years. It's a good farm. There's a creek over there. Waincock pointed toward a copse of trees. "Good fishing. I grew up on a farm like this."
"Me too," Justin said. "Great place for a kid to grow up."
Waincock looked away. "Yeah. He was a good kid. Minded everything his mother told him. And she was good to him. Baked him cookies, played games with him. Taught him to read and write. Showed him plenty of love and affection.
"He always seemed happy to see me when I dropped the groceries off. Maybe it was just the mail he was eager about. I brought that from town too. Like I said, he was a good kid. But she never left us alone together. It was like she was afraid I might say something I shouldn't say to the boy."
Without looking at Waincock, Justin said, "Like tell him there were no monsters under the house? Or that she kept him a prisoner because she was afraid to go out? That she was robbing him of his childhood? That there was a good chance he would go crazy and become a murderer all because of her? Is that what she was afraid you might say to him?"
"Don't talk about her that way.” Waincock hurled another rock through the tire swing. "You didn't know her. I did. I saw her at least once a week for twelve years. Her life wasn't easy. She was just a kid when she moved into this house. She delivered that baby herself. Wouldn't even let me take her and the kid in to the hospital afterwards. She didn't know anything about taking care of a baby. I didn't either, but I brought her books. She learned fast. It was a couple years before I realized she never went outside. And by the time I realized what she was doing to him— the books she'd been ordering through the mails were no longer reference books or fairy tales—he was already seven or eight.”
"And you just kept quiet? Minded your own business?"
Waincock smashed his fist into the tire swing. It leaped about, jerking. "I loved her, goddamn it. She was so beautiful—a natural beauty, not that phoney made-up kind. Do you think someone as pretty as her could ever love someone like me?" He pounded his chest with both fists. "Well, do you?" When Justin made no comment, Waincock slumped and looked away. His voice softened, "I felt honored to be let into the house. Sometimes she offered me a cup of tea and some of her homemade cookies and we'd talk. Once in a while she'd ask me to repair something. Most of the time I just volunteered. I 'specially looked for things to do inside. She'd sit and talk with me while I worked. I never worked so slow in my life. It was one of those times, when the boy was about eight, that he asked me had I ever seen any of them in the yard? And how come I wasn't afraid of them? I didn't exactly know what he was asking about, but I got the gist of it. His momma just shushed him and sent him outta the room. I tried to talk to her about him —about what she was doing to him. . . ."
"What did she say?" Justin asked after a time. Waincock had stopped talking and was staring absently at a dilapidated shed.
"She said she knew what she was doing. I was to mind my own business or I'd be very sorry. That's when she started to drink. I know because I brought the bourbon to her each week. Four years later I took the garden hose, stuck it through the bedroom window and put out the flames on Lora and her bed. Then I followed a trail of charred grass to that shed where I found Will, covered in blood and kerosene, one hand burned black, completely out of his head.
"I owed it to that boy to help him. What happened was my fault. Because I loved her I turned deaf, dumb, and blind. I killed her and destroyed him."
"He works for you now?"
"Yeah. In the store. Delivers, stocks the shelves, unloads the crates and boxes. Odd jobs. He even helps out with the locksmithing."
"Locksmithing?" Justin's skin seemed to ripple.
"Yeah. He took a real interest in that. Wanted me to teach him everything about it. Said it was probably because he'd been locked up — at home and in the institution — all his life."
Waincock stared at the back of the house, at a window that was boarded over. "I found a fancy paperboard box behnid the dresser in her room. Smoke stained, but okay. There was some odds and ends and papers in it. I gave the box to Will. Hope I didn't do the wrong thing."
"Did you read the papers?"
"No. I don't think Lora would've wanted me to."
"Harley?" Justin's voice sounded strained.
"Yeah?"
"Did Lora ever mention an Alexandra Carlson?"
"Not to me. But Will said something about an Alexandra. Except I think the last name was Benson—no, Bently. Was that the woman he tried to burn up?"
"No. Lora and Alex were sisters."
"I remember him saying that this Allie was all that was left of his family. Said he wanted to kindle warm family ties with his last blood kin. Wanted to share his life with her."
"Kindle? He used that word?" Justin asked, thinking of Klump and looking again at the charred siding around the boarded window of the farmhouse.
Waincock looked to where Justin was staring. He nodded, his thick brows furrowing.
"Where is he now?" Justin asked.
"Gone. Back to Reno. I thought you knew. I took him to the airport this morning."
"Ahhh, shit.”
They both began to run.
"How fast can this sonofabitch go?" Justin called out as he reached the truck and pulled open the door.
The lights flickered. Beverly Capucci glanced up at the overhead dining room light, then turned her attention back to Alex. For the past twenty minutes she'd been pumping Alex about her personal life. Although they were on a first-name basis, and Beverly's tone was light and chatty, they were nowhere near to being friendly and comfortable with each other.
"How long have you known Justin?" Beverly asked the inevitable question.
"Not long."
"How well do you know him?"
“Well enough."
"He's something, isn't he? 'Course he's not the steady, settle-down-with-one-gal kind of guy, y'know?"
"And I'm not the steady, settle-down-with-one-guy kind of gal, you know?"
"Glad to hear it. One less heart to be broken.”
"Did he break your heart, Beverly?" Alex asked lightly, wanting to slap the little bitch silly.
Beverly's answer was a smug smile.
The telephon
e rang. Beverly answered.
"Hey, Sarge, how's it going? No, no problems. Alex and I were just chatting. You know how women are — but of course you do, what a foolish question.” A few seconds later she held the receiver out to Alex. "It's Justin, calling from the airport in Portland."
Alex took the receiver. "Hello, Justin.”
"Alex, how are you holding up?"
"I'm fine. Did you find out anything?"
"Yes, but I'll wait till I see you to fill you in. I should be at the house by seven-thirty or eight."
"How about taking me out to dinner. Your fridge is barren. I peeked."
"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," he said somberly.
She felt the hair at the nape of her neck stiffen. "Justin, what is it?"
"Nothing," he said softly. "It's just that I can't wait to see you . . . hold you."
"I can't wait either," she said and glanced at Beverly. Beverly sniffed, looked away, her mouth hard.
"Put Capucci back on."
“Okay. 'Bye.”
"Goodbye, hon."
"He wants to talk to you again." Alex handed the receiver to Beverly. Then she stared out the window at the flashes of lightning and wondered if he was going to break her heart too.
"Sure I understand," Beverly was saying. "Yes, I promise to call in if we see or hear anything. Locksmith? Jus, there's no way he could know where she is. Everything is fine, really. So long." She hung up, turned to Alex. "He's concerned about us being here all alone. Thinks we should have a few more uniforms come out.”
"What do you think?"
"I'd say there's nothing to worry about. Justin will be here in less than two hours.”
"But . . ."
"Hey, if you're uptight.” Beverly snatched up the receiver. “We'll call.”
"No," Alex said almost too quickly. She realized she was twisting her hands together nervously. She stopped, examined a fingernail casually and added, "No, you're right."
New Title 1 Page 26