by Bill Cameron
Past Olympia, when the lights of the city are behind us and the night closes in, I hear her crying softly.
“Sweetie?” I squeeze her hand where it rests on my leg and she draws a breath. Then she starts talking.
“A few years after Biddy died, I ran into his father. I was working at a place in Cincinnati called the Highland Coffee House. I was just a barista in those days, barely holding my shit together. I’d never told him about the baby. I know that’s not fair, but at the time, I could hardly admit it to myself. When Biddy died, it was like everything else. Something to put in a box and pretend never happened. Huck and I talked for a while. It was nice to see him, but awkward too. He tried to get me to take him home, back to my crap apartment in Walnut Hills.” She shakes her head sadly. “I knew he couldn’t take me to his place. He was already married to Clarice by then.”
“What did you do?”
“I kissed him on the cheek and told him to go home to his wife. But something woke up in me that night. All these people who’d had such a profound affect on my life had moved on. Jimmie was in San Francisco, Bella was on that island. Huck and Clarice were making their own babies. I quit my job and moved in with Mrs. Parmelee. I went to Sinclair Community College for two years, then transferred to Wright State. After I graduated, I moved out to San Francisco to stay with Jimmie while I looked for work. It was a nightmare living with him. This shadow always hung over us. I should have told him about Dale, but the more time that passed, the more difficult it became. It was always going to be tomorrow. I’d visited Portland—all the west coast cities, but Portland felt the most comfortable—so when he offered the money to start Uncommon Cup, I took it and ran.”
She thinks for a moment. “It’s possible the money was my Grammy’s. Jimmie’s guilt money for killing Dale, my guilt money for never telling Jimmie what really happened. I was so angry he left me out there that night.”
“But you made a life. You got past it.”
“Yes. I did. I made a life. I quit making bad choices.” She laughs a little. “Oh, maybe Pete was a bad choice. I don’t know. I did love him, and I know he loved me.”
“He wasn’t a bad choice.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” She gazes out the car window at the stars. “Poor Pete. He saved us, and we couldn’t help him.”
“That bastard had already hurt him bad. Saving us might have been the last thing he was able to do.”
She cries through Centralia and Longview. I drive. “Everything was going well. The shops, you …” She shakes her head. “I missed you as soon as you left for the beach. I know it was me who made you go, and I’m glad you did. But I wanted you back immediately.”
“Then Dale showed up.”
“Yes. Dale showed up.” Her voice transmits a shapeless dread, and her hand trembles under mine. She draws a deep breath, and when she lets it out the trembling stops. “He wanted to know what happened to his things that night—not that he came out and asked. He tried to be clever about it, pretending he was happy to see me and playing on my sympathy by complaining about his health.” She shakes her head. “I always thought he sold Grammy’s ring. It had never occurred to me to look inside those toolboxes.” Unspoken is the fact Dale would have been thinking about the money too. As Chase, he must have realized Bella never got the money or the ring. And perhaps on some level she did recognize the long lost Dale—if only unconsciously—and saw the wreck he’d become, realized he never had the money either.
Not like we can ask either one of them now.
“So you went back to Farmersville to find the ring.”
“I thought it would be a there-and-back trip. Drive out, visit Mrs. Parmelee, spend a few days digging in the woods. I didn’t know that house had been built, didn’t know no one would be home.”
“The ring wasn’t there.”
“No. That’s when I knew Bella must have somehow gotten it. Maybe it’s in her house, or maybe she sold it twenty years ago.” Her tears return. I have a feeling there will need to be a lot of tears. “That fucker had no right to do this to us.” I don’t know if she’s referring to Dale Whittaker or Robert Earl Perry, but either way, she’s right.
We pull onto my street as the first limb of sunlight peeks over the shoulder of Mount Hood. Ruby Jane doesn’t want to go home yet. She wants to rest first, get her bearings. And I want to keep her with me. I park, and lead her into the house. We almost trip over three more days worth of mail. I collect it all and add it to the stack Susan created on the coffee table. Ruby Jane goes back to the bathroom and closes the door. I hear the shower. While I wait, I get a tall glass of water and a short one of Macallan, then sit on the couch. Most of the mail is bills, the rest bullshit. But one padded envelope gets my attention. Hand-addressed to only “Kadash,” with no return address. A San Francisco postmark. I pull the zipper tab opening, allow a small, old-fashioned skeleton key and a half sheet of note paper to fall into my hand.
Kadash, Roo will know what to do with this.—James
I have the note in one hand, the key in the other, when Ruby Jane joins me on the couch. She’s wearing my bathrobe, and has wrapped her hair in a towel. She smells like Irish Spring and apples. Somehow, Ruby Jane always manages to smell of apples. She drapes an arm across my back, lowers her head gently onto my left shoulder.
“Does this hurt?”
It does, a little. “Not a bit.”
She takes the note and studies it. Lets out a long, slow breath.
“Oh, Jimmie.”
“Do you know what it goes to?”
“I think so.”
“Are we going back to Ohio?”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I want to.”
“I’m glad.” Outside, I can hear a wren claiming my front yard as his own. Another retorts from further away. The chattering voices, for all their challenge and response, bring a calm to me. Ruby Jane lets out a long sigh and settles more firmly against my arm. My shoulder aches, but I wouldn’t trade the sensation for anything. “Skin, I should have let you come with me from the beginning.”
“Let’s not worry about that. I’m with you now.”
“Yes.” Another sigh, contented and soft. “Yes, you are.”
— + —
Notes and Acknowledgments
County Line had many sources of inspiration, but I’d like to draw attention to one in particular.
In May 2010 central Tennessee, including Nashville, experienced a flood of disastrous proportions. Homes and businesses were destroyed and many lost their lives. Damages reached $1.5 billion. In response to this disaster, three Nashville writers—Myra McEntire, Amanda Morgan, and Victoria Schwab—organized a benefit called Do the Write Thing for Nashville. They invited writers, editors, publishers, and literary agents to donate items and services for auction, with the proceeds of the sales going to Middle Tennessee flood relief. I had the privilege of offering a set of my books and naming rights to a character in County Line, then a work-in-progress. The response was both thrilling and humbling. The winner of my package, K.D. James, chose to honor the city of Nashville with the character she named. Hence, Chief Nash was born.
Myra, Amanda, and Victoria are amazing, inspirational women. You can learn more about Do the Write Thing for Nashville at: http://dothewritethingfornashville.blogspot.com, and from there, you can find your way to their own web sites where you will learn they are amazing writers as well.
Many locations in this story are real. I attended Valley View High School in the late 70s and relied on both my memories and on family photos from the time in my descriptions of the school. I lived on Preble County Line Road not far from certain events in Ruby Jane’s life.
Though I have many memories of the Farmersville/Germantown area—I ate pizza at both the Village Inn in Farmersville and the Pizza Palace in Germantown, and ran the bleachers at the stadium—those thirty-years-past recollections could take me only so far. Alas, a visit in person to re-acquaint my
self with my former haunts turned out to be impractical. So I did the next best thing. I asked for help.
I owe thanks to Chief Jon Schade of the Jackson Township Police, who chatted with me both by phone and email. Chief Schade offered helpful details about law enforcement in the area. In 1979, I spent about an hour in the Farmersville police station waiting for my mom to pick me up after being caught in the act of stealing a Chicken Bristle Road sign. I didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings, since I was too worried about what my step dad would do when he found out his screwdriver and wrench had been confiscated. As it happened, a friend’s father—and teacher at Valley View—picked me up instead, the tools were returned, and no one else had to find out about this particular act of teen shenanigans. Since my memory of the police station is fleeting, the descriptions in these pages came from imagination. But hopefully my broader descriptions of Jackson Township and Farmersville law enforcement are a credit to Chief Schade.
I also want to thank Chris Brown, who provided on-site research and many helpful photos of contemporary Farmersville. These images not only reinforced my memories, but showed how much the town has both changed and—in some ways—remained remarkably familiar. To the extent the Farmersville area in these pages fails to match reality, the blame lies with me. Chalk it up to author’s license, author’s impertinence or author’s error. But wherever I got it right, it’s thanks to Chief Schade and Chris.
Thanks go to Dr. Steven Seres, who provided valuable medical information, and to Jeff Auxier, who offered his insight into the game of basketball. If I made medical or basketball-related errors in these pages, they’re all on me.
Courtney Summers, amazing author of young adult novels, read and commented on an early draft of Ruby Jane’s story. Her books are brilliant, and her insight into the minds of young women was a great help.
Thanks as always go out to Janet Reid for her hard work on my behalf—I raise a shot, nay, a bottle of whisky in your honor. And to Meredith Barnes, Fine Print Godsend Extraordinaire, thanks for your energy and kooky creativity.
Thank you to Tyrus Books publisher Ben LeRoy and editor Alison Janssen for continuing to believe in me and in the adventures of Skin and Ruby Jane. I remain humbled to be part of the of Tyrus family.
As always, Brett Battles, Rob Browne, Tasha Alexander, and Kelli Stanley—friends and fellow writers—are there to help me stay (relatively) sane. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
I thank my good friends and fellow writers Candace Clark, Andy Fort, Corissa Neufeldt, and Theresa Snyder, who read County Line in progress and offered invaluable critiques.
And last, but not least, I thank my lovely wife Jill, who makes me sleep in the backyard when I kill off her favorite characters, but who loves me anyway.
— + —
About the Author
Bill Cameron is the author of dark, Portland-based mysteries featuring Skin Kadash: Lost Dog, Chasing Smoke, Day One and County Line. His stories have appeared in Killer Year, Portland Noir, West Coast Crime Wave, and the 2010 ITW anthology First Thrills. His books have been finalists for multiple awards, including three times for the Spotted Owl Award for Best Northwest Mystery. Cameron lives in Portland, Oregon, where he is at work on his next novel.
Learn more at http://www.billcameronmysteries.com.
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Table of Contents
About County Line
County Line Title
County Line - Copyright
Dedication
Part One - Skin
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two - Roo
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part Three - Biddy
Chapter 42
Chapter 43