Fifteen Years of Lies

by Ann Minnett

  Lark grabbed the cuffs of Rob's jeans and lifted the dead weight of his legs. "Zane, grab his shoulders. Help me before you go."

  Zane followed directions. They shifted the body onto the couch recently warmed by the shooter's body. The armrest cut behind Rob's knees.

  She said, "Pull him up."

  Zane struggled with the angle, circled to the far end of the couch and jerked the body by the armpits. Rob’s black head of hair came to rest on the armrest as if he read a book propped on his chest. His stocking feet hung over the end. She chopped behind each of Rob's knees to bend his legs into the confines of the couch.

  His body must seem comfy, she thought.

  Exertion inflamed her hives even more. The biting heat scraped through her core and limbs and up into her scalp.

  Mason had roused but hesitated. Nora pushed him. "Make sure you have those shears you brought. Everyone, look around for what you brought in."

  Used tissues clumped on the floor near one corner of the couch. Mason picked out a tissue along with a rifle from beneath. Lark forced herself to stick her hand into every cushion crevice around Rob's body. Sure enough, a cool damp tissue wedged near his hip. She detected a urine smell on him, the wet stain camouflaged by the thicker, darker blood.

  She tossed the tissues in the wood stove and placed another chunk of larch inside, buying time.

  Nora disappeared into the kitchen. "I'm dumping this coffee and turning it off. He wouldn't make a full pot for himself." She waved a dish towel. "What did you touch?"

  "Here, I'll do that. You find the three bullets."

  Nora hesitated. "I won't dig that bullet out of his belly, Lark."

  "It went straight through." Lark wiped the upper cabinets' elk horn pulls and the coffee pot handle. "It ricocheted down by the baseboard."

  Nora turned toward the wall behind the stove. "Bring me a knife or find a screwdriver."

  Zane pointed high up the wall. "Up there. I can reach that one."

  Lark reluctantly handed him the long screwdriver she found in the kitchen. "Zane, I'm so sorry." She had never seen him this pale. She wanted to hug her son, to reassure him, but he wouldn't accept anything from her, least of all affection.

  "You're going to tell me everything." He stepped away and excavated the plaster around the highest hole.

  In the meantime, Nora used a kitchen knife to dig out the bullet that punctured the stove pipe and lodged in the wall behind. She chipped a hole in the plaster, taking care not to burn her hand on the pipe.

  Once he'd extracted the first bullet, Zane took over for Nora. His shirtsleeve grazed the flue. “Shit!” He dug deeper and reamed the hole larger still until the bullet resembled a pencil lead at the tip of the coned hole.

  The fatal, well-aimed bullet proved harder to locate. Rob's body had deflected it down from impact, into the iron stove and finally shattering the flat screen.

  "Everyone go with Nora,” Lark said. "The keys, Zane." She snapped her fingers, knowing how he hated it. He snarled, but tossed her the car keys, a little too hard. They bounced off her jacket to the floor making a huge noise. Raven jumped as if they’d been thrown at her.

  Nora opened the front door onto the cold. "C'mon. Out, everyone."

  No one moved. All eyes turned to Lark, but Dee broke the silence. "Aren’t you coming?" Her voice was that of a small child, bereft, and ill.

  Lark shook her head. "I'll meet up with you all at your house. Now go, and Mason, tell no one." She walked to within inches of her son’s friend and jammed her knuckles into his narrow chest. Hating herself for it, she added, "You know what your father would do."

  Mason's complexion turned sallow.

  "No one, I mean no one, finds out about this." She turned to Zane but didn't touch him. "Not Katie. Not anyone."

  "Do you think I'm stupid?" Pain radiated from Zane’s eyes, slack mouth slobbering from the corners. His posture hinted he might collapse in tears.

  "Just go,” Lark whispered.

  Nora lingered after the others filed out. "We're on the same page?"

  Lark grimaced. Yes.

  "I’ll stay and help. Let Zane drive." Nora stepped away from the open door.

  "No, I can do this." The bad part was over. "You'll have your hands full."

  "I'll give you an hour after we get to Dee's." She checked her watch. "It's nine-fifty. One hour."

  CHAPTER 20

  Lark and Raven watched the truck's tail lights dim, bumping up Rob's drive to the county road. Then his dog trotted to Rob's body, dragging the leash through thickened blood. Raven circled, sniffed Rob’s bloody shirt, and circled again—protective instincts that worried Lark. She latched onto Raven's collar and led her to the Subaru. Raven finally gave in to being pushed into the back seat. Lark removed the bloody leash, slammed the door, and carried it back into the house.

  Her plan? Burn down the cabin, but where would a fire normally start?

  Lark walked directly into the master bath and tried to start a fire in the bathroom’s gas heater. Bath towels smoldered, but nothing flamed. A bath mat melted into the grout on the floor. She threw dirty t-shirts into the bathroom's blazing gas heater, but nothing caught. In growing panic, Lark set fire to flannel shirts hanging in Rob’s closet. Visions of Rob's cabin burning to its foundation under the watchful eyes of the Olney Volunteer Fire Department vanished. The shirts scorched, but the fire poofed in the next second, forcing smoke into her eyes. She collapsed on the carpeted floor of his spartan, if spacious, closet. Frustration and smoke-stung eyes brought her to tears.

  Piercing screams of a smoke alarm screeched from the bedroom.

  "Shit." She covered her ears and kicked in frustration at Rob’s built-in cabinet. A spring-loaded drawer snapped open from the kick plate at floor level. Her bloody fingers pried it open and immediately covered her ears again. The noise punctured her jaw, her temples.

  It took a moment to comprehend what nestled in the shallow drawer: a fat manila envelope, two handguns, and several boxes of ammunition. She recognized both guns—a Ruger mountain gun, six inch .44 caliber. Sky carried a huge revolver like this one on hikes. He let her fire it once. Its powerful kick nearly broke her wrist. The other, a 9mm Smith & Wesson, resembled the gun she had owned until six-year-old Zane stacked his toy box on top of a chair, climbed and leapt like Spiderman at her highest closet shelf. He had pulled down her sweaters and the handgun when he tumbled.

  Lark gave the 9mm to Dee for self-protection.

  Dee used it to kill Rob.

  Think!

  She ran past Rob's body and out into a snow storm toward her car, muttering please please please all the way. The car door creaked open, and Raven lunged to escape. Her fingers hooked the red bandanna at the last second, and Raven's strength wrenched her wrist. But her cellphone did not rest in the cup holder where she'd left it days ago—at least it seemed like days, not hours, ago. She slammed the car door as Raven barked and lunged at the window. She ran back inside, leaving the front door ajar for a quick exit. Her survival depended on the laughable gesture.

  The outline of Rob's phone padded his shirt pocket. Lark forced herself to approach his body. The phone fit snugly, forcing her to squeeze his breast pocket from the bottom, like toothpaste. It slipped into her outstretched hand.

  After several rings, her call to Sky went to voicemail. She disconnected and punched his number again. She stepped onto the porch.

  "What is it?" he answered. "And do you know what time it is?"

  "No, I don't." Any time after dinner was too late for him. "I have an emergency."

  He cleared his throat. "Lark? Whose phone is this?"

  "Never mind. If someone threw a bullet onto a fire, how long would it take to explode?"

  Dead silence on his end.

  "Are you there?" she shouted above the alarms.

  "A bullet?"

  "Yes." She stepped off the porch onto trampled snow, squinting at Raven's snout pressed against her cracked windshield. "Probably a han
dful of bullets." The cabin's smoke detectors blared. She wondered if they automatically alerted a fire department somewhere or the sheriff.

  A woman’s voice spoke on the other end, and Sky responded, “It’s Lark. Go back to sleep.” To Lark he said, "You sound like you're in a war zone.”

  “Someone’s with you? I thought you and Melanie were working things out.”

  “Christ!” he shouted. “Melanie is right here. Now, what the hell's going on?"

  Her head pounded. "Just a smoke alarm. What about the bullets?"

  "Not that I recommend it," he said sarcastically, "but what caliber?"

  "Oh, for God's sake. Ballpark!"

  "I'd say lead would start flying in a couple of seconds."

  "Dammit!"

  "What have you done?"

  She heard him fumble on the other end and raise his voice to Melanie who talked nonstop in the background. Something crashed.

  “Whose phone is this?”

  "A friend’s. Sorry I woke you… And Melanie." She disconnected, and although he dialed back immediately, she didn't answer. She ran inside, stoked the wood stove, and weighed her luck against flying bullets. She snorted at her chances.

  In Rob's closet, she emptied a box of 9mm ammo into a wicker basket Rob used for his wallet, keys, and change. Looking around, she thought to take the envelope which likely contained his important documents. Maybe she'd learn more about the man they had killed. Her fingertips stuck to the paper, leaving perfect blood-crusted fingerprints.

  The envelope weighed practically nothing.

  The gun's magazine ejected easily, revealing several bullets. She reracked the magazine, wrapped a t-shirt around the 9mm, and added it to the basket. She kicked the secret drawer closed and carried the loaded basket back to the body.

  "He's already dead. It doesn't matter now." She said it again and again because she couldn't do what she had to do without convincing herself first.

  Kindling filled a bucket beside the wood stove. She grabbed a handful and built a miniature teepee beside the couch, tented around wads of newsprint. "He's already dead," she told herself and lit fire to the paper. Flame touched the sticks, and a minute later burned a growing hole in the rag rug.

  She glanced around the cabin, patted her pockets. She had Rob's phone, the keys to her car, the envelope.

  Think!

  The piercing alarms prevented clear thinking. Nora had taken Dee's gun but left the rifle they had found under the couch. Everyone was safe at Dee's house and waiting for her, counting on her to take care of it.

  She called Nora who answered immediately. "Where the hell are you?"

  "I've run into problems but will leave in the next five minutes."

  "Hurry." Nora's voice lowered. "I don't know how long I can keep Zane and Mason here."

  "Get Kirk to help."

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, of course. Call Kirk.”

  Lark wiped Rob's phone on her bloody shirt and wedged it between the couch's cushions. Her zip-up turtleneck was drenched in sweat, but she didn't dare remove her coat. She crumpled more paper, ringing the scorched kindling, but she knew the paltry fire wouldn't burn long enough to catch.

  Rob’s cell phone rang. She dug it out to check. A Restricted Flathead County number. The alarms had addled her brain. They were wired to a fire department, and she'd have firefighting company soon.

  The tented flames had expired. She pounded the floor in exasperation.

  She had to get out.

  The muffled tones of his phone sounded again. Lark ignored it, crawling to the stove. Wipe down the stove handle and the tongs. Pulling her sleeve over her left hand, she rubbed the handle to erase her prints. She stood, picked up the tongs, and searched the inferno for a good-sized ember. She snagged one the size of her fist and placed it on the charred remains of the kindling. She scooped up two more embers and arranged them in a triangle on the scorched braided rug.

  She choked back a gag reflex when the coals set fire to the cloth under Rob's feet. Soon, the coals would burn through to his dead flesh. She hastily rubbed the tong handles with her jacket's hem and removed the 9mm from the basket. Covered in cloth, the gun was difficult to grasp and rack the slide. It slipped from her grip but worked on the second try. She freed the barrel from the flannel, pointed at Rob’s belly, and looked away.

  "He's already dead," she said aloud.

  She couldn't do it—couldn't shoot him in the abdomen as she had planned. She raised the gun and fired a round which splintered the couch's wooden frame. She leaned over Rob and stuffed his gun in his armpit. His body sighed.

  She yelped and jumped back. She held her breath for a moment as the fire grew, staring at him to detect the slightest twitch, but he didn’t move.

  Finally, Lark balanced the ammo-filled wicker basket on top of the coals. She snatched up the envelope on her way out, slamming the heavy front door against premature rounds that might ignite and shoot her in the back. She made it to her car in frantic silence and safety.

  Snowflakes drifted onto her windshield.

  She told herself he was already dead.

  Raven jumped on her, desperate to escape. The dog’s nails gouged her arms. Lark pushed her off with all her remaining strength. Raven's bark in the closed car assaulted her damaged ears, but she sensed the engine crank and start. Lark's hands trembled violently, unable to grasp the wheel, and for a moment leaden arms refused to lift.

  Crack! A shot made her flinch, disrupting her stupor. She thought she heard furniture crashing, but couldn't be sure. When a second shot shattered a cabin window, she backed all the way to the road, running on pure nerves. A faint pop-pop-pop may have sounded after she turned onto Star Meadow Road.

  Surely some of those rounds would mutilate his dead body. Maybe some of it would burn.

  He was already dead anyway. Wasn’t he?

  * * *

  Raven stopped barking once the car crossed Logan Creek, about four miles from Rob's cabin. She panted and gave off a musky odor.

  “Don’t be scared.” Lark reached to stroke the dog’s head, but Raven cowered.

  Lark pulled off the highway onto the bump-out overlooking Spencer Lake. Her muscles had cramped painfully with vigilant fear of sliding off the road in newly fallen snow. As soon as she stopped, the terror of what she had done, what they all had done, overwhelmed her.

  Reluctant to turn off the Subaru for fear it wouldn't restart, she surrendered to the image of Rob's slack face before she squeezed the trigger. She couldn't even cry. The terror dug deeper than tears. Her sole connection to reality rested in her right leg shoved against the brake pedal so hard that her knee buckled. Her thigh burned. Teeth clenched, yet they chattered. Her ungloved hands touched hot air vents. The old Outback couldn’t generate enough warmth to sense. She'd never feel warm again.

  Lark found stale cigarettes in her glove compartment and lit one while Raven silently turned circles in the confines of the back seat. She inhaled deeply and blew smoke out the open car window. The dog nosed her ear and whined. If Lark released the frantic animal even this far from the cabin, she'd simply run back. Better to release her in town where a kind soul would find the dog and keep her safe.

  At 11:00 p.m. Lark drove slowly through the darkened streets of Whitefish. She turned right on Central Avenue, away from the two blocks of bars stretching to the train depot. A few folks walked the sidewalks down there, but most still partied inside. Their night was young. A handful of cars parked in front of the retail shops she drove past, long since closed at 5:30 in this waning ski season. She had this end of Central to herself. She circled the block twice where Ozzy's held down the corner spot. At the far south end of the block, a residential neighborhood quieted for the night. The few shining windows and porch lights renewed her spirits, for a moment. No one walked the street. She pulled into the alley behind Ozzy's, alongside Patty's shop.

  Raven’s bark squeaked as she spun in the back seat. Lark caught the dog’s bandanna
before she opened the back door to prevent the dog from bolting, but Raven had little fight left in her. The two crouched between her Subaru and the shop’s back door.

  "I am so sorry, Raven." The dog sat, alert, but now still. "I know you'll be fine." She adjusted Raven's scarlet bandanna, thinking how fortunate that the color would save this dog from being mistaken for a black bear or wolf to some frightened townie.

  Lark didn't want to let her go. But she did.

  Raven sat on her haunches. Her shining eyes flicked, her body rigid in Patty’s darkened doorway.

  Lark got in the car and shut the door as quietly as possible. She and Raven, almost at eye-level, each took the measure of the other.

  “You first.” No movement. “Run away, dammit.”

  Raven’s head twisted in canine bewilderment.

  Lark started the engine and eased into first gear. Raven stood but didn’t follow as the old Subaru turned left onto Third Avenue, then right on Baker, and chugged across the railway overpass toward Dee’s house. She drove the whole way with one eye on the deserted roads behind her.

  Raven hadn’t followed.

  She lit another stale cigarette, contemplating the loss of her moral compass. Abandoning the dog had touched her far more deeply than burning the man’s body.

  The Subaru coasted to a stop in front of Dee’s house five minutes later. Silhouetted in the storm door, Zane’s hand brushed hair away from his face. He pushed the glass door open, expecting Lark to come inside, but she couldn’t move. Not yet. Lark closed her eyes and leaned into the headrest. She dreaded the next few hours like none she had ever experienced. She had known loss before, but the inevitable estrangement of her son threatened to be the most difficult.

  She visualized him as the little boy who loved her. Only her. Once they had climbed onto the roof of a cottage she rented on Third and watched the Fourth of July fireworks over Whitefish Lake. The shingles warmed their backs.

  Her car door opened, and the interior light flashed orange through her eyelids.

  "C'mon, Mom." Zane's hand circled her arm above the elbow, and he eased her out and into his embrace. She finally cried, and after a minute, they walked arm in arm into the house. Nora and Kirk sat at Dee's small dining table, the hanging lamp casting long shadows down their weary faces. Mason lay face down on the rug with a throw pillow under his head.