by Sue Grafton
The door to the utility porch was open. That room wasn't insulated and the air pouring out of it was frigid. Ray's mother went about her business as if unaware of the chill. An early-model washer and dryer were arranged against the wall to the left. Tucked between them was a battered canister-style vacuum cleaner shaped like the nose cone of a spaceship. "I'm about to hop in the shower, Mrs. Rawson. Can I give you these?" I asked.
"There you are," she said. "I was just loading the few things Laura give me. You can call me Helen if you like," she added. "My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels."
I watched as she felt for the measuring cup, tucking her thumb over the rim so she could feel how far up the side the detergent had come. "I've been considered legally blind for years, and my eyes is getting worse. I can still make my way around as long as people don't go putting things in my path. I'm scheduled for surgery, but I had to wait until Ray come home to help out. Anyway, I'm just yammering on. I don't mean to keep you."
"This is fine," I said. "Can I help with anything?"
"Oh no, honey. Go ahead and get your shower. You can keep that robe on 'til your clothes is done. Won't take long with these old machines. My friend, Freida Green, has new and it takes her three times as long to run a load through and uses twicet the water. Soon as I'm done with this, I'm going to put some corn bread together. I hope you like to eat."
"Absolutely. I'll be out shortly and give you a hand."
The shower was a mixed blessing. The water pressure was paltry, the hot and cold fluctuating wildly in response to cycles of the washing machine. I did manage to scrub myself thoroughly, washing my hair in a cumulus cloud of soapsuds, lathering and rinsing until I felt fresh again. I dried myself off and pulled on Helen's robe. I slipped into my Reeboks, my fastidious streak preventing me from walking around barefoot on floors only marginally clean. I'm generally not vain about my appearance, but I could hardly wait to get back into my own clothes.
Before returning to the kitchen, I used my telephone credit card to put in a long-distance call to Henry. He was apparently out somewhere, but his machine picked up. I said, "Henry, this is Kinsey. I'm in Louisville, Kentucky. It's after one o'clock here and I've got a flight out at seven. I don't know what time we'll be heading for the airport, but I should be here for the next couple of hours. If it's possible, I need to have you meet me at the airport. I'm almost out of cash and I don't have a way to get my car out of hock. I can try borrowing the money here, but these people don't seem all that dependable. If I don't hear from you before I leave, I'll call you as soon as I get to Los Angeles." I checked the telephone number written on the round cardboard disk in the middle of the dial, reciting Helen's number to him before I hung up. I ran a comb through my hair and moved back into the kitchen, where Helen put me to work setting the kitchen table.
Ray and Laura came back with my blazer, in a clear plastic cleaning bag, and an armload each of groceries, which we unpacked and put away. I hung my blazer on the knob just inside the bedroom door. Laura followed me, moving on into the bathroom to take her shower. The wash must have been done because I could hear the dryer rumbling against the wall. As soon as the load was dry, I'd pull my clothes out and get dressed.
In the meantime, Helen showed me how to peel and mash the yams while she cut apples and onions into quarters and put them in the frying pan with butter. Like a fly on the wall, I kept myself quiet, listening to Ray and his mother chat while she put supper together. "Freida Green's house got broke into here about four months ago. That's when I had all them burglar bars put on. We had a neighborhood meeting with these two police officers, told us what to do in case of attack. Freida and her friend, Minnie Paxton, took a self-defense course. Said they learned how to scream and how to kick out real hard sideways. The point is to break a fellow's kneecap and take him down. Freida was practicing and fell flat on her back. Cracked her tailbone big as life. Minnie laughed so hard she nearly peed herself 'til she saw how bad Freida was hurt. She had to set on a bag of ice for a month, poor thing."
"Well, I don't want to hear about you trying to kick some guy."
"No, no. I wouldn't do that. Makes no sense for an old woman like me. Old people can't always depend on physical strength. Even Freida said that. That's why I had all them locks put in. Summertimes, I used to leave my doors standing open to let the breeze come through. Not no more. No sir."
"Hey, Ma. Before I forget. You have any mail here for me? I think my buddy in California might have sent me a package or a letter in care of this address."
"Well, yes. Now you mention it, I did receive something and set it aside. It come quite some time ago. I believe it's here somewhere, if I can recollect where I put it. Take a look in that drawer yonder under all the junk."
Ray opened the drawer, pawing through odds and ends: lamp cords, batteries, pencils, bottle caps, coupons, hammer, screwdriver, cooking utensils. A handful of envelopes was crammed in at the back, but most were designated "Occupant." There was only one piece of personal mail, addressed to Ray Rawson with no return address. He squinted at the postmark on the envelope. "This is it," he said. He tore it open and pulled out a sympathy card with a black-and-white photograph of a graveyard pasted on the front. Inside, the message read:
And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shah bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. Matthew 16:19.
Thinking of you in your hour of loss.
On the back of the card, a small brass key was taped. Ray pulled it off, turning it over in his hand before he passed it to me. I studied first one side and then the other just as he had. It was an inch and a half long. The word Master was stamped on one side and the number M550 on the other. Shouldn't be hard to remember. The number was my birthdate in abbreviated form. I said, "Probably for a padlock."
"What about the key you have?"
"It's in the bedroom. I'll get it as soon as Laura's finished in there."
Supper was almost on the table when Laura finally emerged. It looked as though she'd made a special effort with her hair and makeup despite the fact her grandmother couldn't see all that well. While serving dishes were being filled at the stove, I stepped into the bedroom and picked up my Swiss Army knife from the pile of my belongings on the bed table. I slipped the jacket from the cleaners bag and used the small scissors to snip the stitches I'd put in the inside shoulder seam. I worked the key from the hole. This one was heavy, a good six inches long with an elongated round shaft. I held it closer to the table lamp, curious if this was also a Master. Lawless was stamped on the shaft, but there were no other identifying marks that I could see. Master padlocks I knew about. A Lawless I'd never heard of. Might be a local company or one that had since gone out of business.
I returned to the kitchen table, where I sat down and handed the key to Ray.
"What's that for?" Laura asked as she took her seat.
"I'm not sure, but I think it goes with this one," Ray said. He laid the skeleton key beside the smaller key in the middle of the table. "This one Johnny left taped to the inside of his safe. Chester found it this week when they were cleaning out the apartment."
"Those are connected to the stash?"
"I hope so. Otherwise, we're out of luck," he said.
"How come?"
"Because it's the only link we have. Unless you have an idea where to look for a pile of money forty-some years after it was hid."
"I wouldn't even know where to start," she said.
"Me neither. I was hoping Kinsey would help, but it looks like we're running out of time," he said, and then turned to his mother. "You want me to say grace, Ma?"
Why did I feel guilty? I hadn't done anything.
The supper was a lavish testimony to old-fashioned southern cooking. This was the first food I'd had in days that wasn't saturated with additives and preservatives. The sugar, sodium, and fat content left something to be desired, but I'm not
exactly pious where food is concerned. I ate with vigor and concentration, only vaguely aware of the conversation going on around me until Ray's voice went up. He had put his fork down and was staring at his daughter with a look of horror and dismay.
"You did what?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"When did you talk to her?"
I saw the color come up in Laura's face. "When we first got here," she said defensively. "You saw me go in the other room. What did you think I was doing? I was on the phone."
"Jesus Christ. You called her?"
"She's my mother. Of course I called. I didn't want her to worry in case Gilbert showed up on her doorstep. So what?"
"If Gilbert shows up, she'll tell him where you are."
"She will not."
"Of course she will. You think Gilbert won't charm the socks off her? Hell, forget charm. He'll beat the shit outta her. Of course she'll tell him. I did. Once he started breaking fingers, I couldn't wait to unload. Did you at least warn her?"
"Warn her of what?"
"Oh, jeez," Ray said. He rubbed his palm down his face, pulling his features out of shape.
"Look, Ray. You don't need to treat me like a nincompoop."
"You still don't get it, do you? That guy's going to kill me. He's going to kill you, too. He'll kill Kinsey, your grandmother, and anybody else who gets in his way. He wants the money. You're just the means to an end as far as he's concerned."
"How's he going to find us? He won't find us," she said.
"We gotta get out of here." Ray got up and threw his napkin down, giving me a look. I knew as well as he did that once Gilbert got confirmation of our whereabouts, he'd be here within the hour.
"I'm with you," I said as I pushed my chair back.
Laura was aghast. "We haven't even finished eating. What's the matter with you?"
He turned to me. "Get your clothes on. Ma, you need a coat. Turn the stove off. Just leave this. We can take care of it later."
His panic was contagious. Helen's gaze was drifting around the room, her voice was tremulous. "What's happening, son? I don't understand what's going on. Why would we leave? We haven't ate our ice cream yet."
"Just do what I say and get going," he snapped, hauling her out of her chair. He started turning off burners. He turned off the oven. I was not dressed for flight. All I had on were my Reeboks and Helen's chenille bathrobe. I crossed to the utility room, nearly knocking his chair over in my haste to reach the dryer. Laura protested vigorously, but I noticed she was moving as fast as the rest of us. I pulled the dryer open, grabbed an armload of hot clothes, and headed for the bedroom. I flipped my shoes off, pulled on socks, bra, and underpants, pulled on my turtleneck and jeans, and shoved my feet back into my Reeboks, breaking down the backs. God, here I was again, going for the gold at the Throwing Clothes On Olympics. I put on my blazer and started jamming personal items in the pockets: cash, credit cards, house keys, pills, picks. From the kitchen Laura let out a shriek, followed by the sound of a bowl smashing on the floor. I moved into the kitchen while I crammed the last of the odds and ends in my jeans pockets.
The room was dead still, Helen, Ray, and Laura unmoving. The bowl of mashed yams lay on the floor in an orange splat of puree and broken china. It didn't matter at this point because Gilbert was standing in the door to the dining room with a gun aimed right at me.
Chapter 17
* * *
Gilbert no longer wore the Stetson. His hair was disheveled, still bearing the faint indentation where the hat had rested. His pale blue denim jacket was lined with sheepskin, the fabric saturated in places and stiff with dark red. "Maria sends greetings. She would have come with me only she wasn't feeling that good."
At the reference to her mother, Laura started to weep. She made no sound at all, but her face got patchy and red and tears welled in her eyes. She made a barely suppressed squeaking noise at the back of her throat. She sank into a chair.
"Hey. Get up and get your hands up where I can see 'em."
The gun in his hand encouraged compliance. I certainly wasn't going to argue. Laura rose slowly, not looking at him. She let out a breath with an audible sound and tears ran down her cheeks. She'd brought this down on us with every poor choice she'd made. She'd taken the risk and now the rest of us would pay. I saw everyone in the room with such clarity: Ray had his jacket on, his car keys in hand. He'd managed to hustle his mother into her coat. She stood close to her place at the table, hands up, bundled up in her woollies like a kid on a snowy day. Five minutes more and we might have been gone. Gilbert must have been eavesdropping for some time, of course, so it probably didn't matter. The fact that all of us now had our hands in the air gave the scene a slightly comical air. It looked as if we'd been caught in the middle of a spiritual, with our hands waving toward heaven. In a western, somebody would have jumped Gilbert and grappled for the gun. Not here. I kept my gaze pinned on his face, trying to gauge his intent. Helen's gaze wandered the room, eyes unfocused, settling nowhere, roaming across the gray haze with its motionless dark shapes. I thought she'd be confused or upset, but she said nothing, sensing perhaps that the situation wouldn't be served by questions. She did quiver almost imperceptibly, the way a dog trembles standing on the groomer's table.
The air still smelled of fried pork chops and milk gravy. The remnants of the meal remained on the plates, cooking pots piled in the kitchen sink. Maybe Freida Green would come in and clean up in a few days... after the crime scene tape had been removed and the premises unsealed.
Gilbert held the gun in his right hand, using his left to reach into his jacket pocket. He took out a roll of duct tape. "Here's what let's do," he said conversationally. "Ray, why don't you just take a seat in that chair. Laura here is going to wrap you up in duct tape. Hey, hey, hey, babe.
Goddamn it. Quit with the crying. Nothing's happened yet. I'm just trying to keep everything under control. I don't want anybody jumping out at me. Don't want this gun going off or somebody might get hurt. Grammy's not going to look so hot with a hole in her head, brains all spilling out, Ray with a big old hole in his chest. Come on, now. Help out, just to show you still care."
He tossed the roll of silver duct tape to Laura, who caught it on the fly. She seemed frozen, standing immobile as the seconds went by. "Gilbert, I beg you –"
"Tape him up!"
I flinched at his sudden screaming. Laura didn't bat an eye, but I noticed she was now in motion, crossing the room to Ray. Slowly, hands still lifted, Ray eased himself into the chair Gilbert had indicated. Laura was weeping so hard I'm not even sure she could see what she was doing. Tears washed the makeup from her cheeks, exposing the old bruises like an undercoat of paint. Tendrils of red hair had come loose, trailing around her face.
Gilbert's focus moved to Ray. "Make any trouble, I'll kill her," he said.
Ray said, "Don't do that. Be cool. I'll cooperate."
Gilbert flicked a look at me. "Why don't you pass me the keys? I'd appreciate it," he said.
I reached for the keys still sitting on the kitchen table. I hated to let go of them, but I couldn't think what else to do. I placed them in Gilbert's left palm. He glanced at them briefly and then tucked them in his jacket pocket.
Ray said, "Listen, Gilbert. This is an old score. It's got nothing to do with these three. You can do anything you want with me, but keep them out of it."
"I know I can do anything I want. I'm already doing it. I don't care about them two, the old bag and this one," he said, indicating me. "But I got accounts to settle with her. She ran out on me." He looked over at her, frowning. "Could you get busy with that tape like I said?"
"Gilbert, please don't do this. Please."
"Would you knock it off? I'm not doing anything," he said peevishly. "What am I doing? I'm just standing here talking to your dad. Go on now and do what I told you. Ray's not going to pull any funny business."
"Can't we just leave? Get in the car and go, just the two of us?"
"You're not done. You haven't even started" Gilbert said. He was beginning to sound exasperated, not a good sign.
Ray's expression was soft, looking at Laura. "It's okay, hon. Go ahead and do what he says. Let's see if we can keep everybody on an even keel here."
Gilbert smiled. "My thoughts exactly. Everybody take it easy. I want his ankles taped to the chair legs. And let's get his hands behind him, bind 'em up nice. I'm going to check on you, so don't you be thinking you can pretend to tape him up and then not do it right. I hate when people try to fool me. You know how I am. Blow your nose and quit sniveling."
Laura fumbled in her pocket, took out a tissue, and did as he said. She tucked the tissue away and pulled out a strip of tape, the adhesive making a ripping sound as she tore it loose. She began to wrap the tape around Ray's right ankle, first folding his pant leg against his shin, then threading the tape around the chair leg in several layers.
"I want that tight. You don't get it tight enough, I'm going to shoot him in the leg."
"I am!" She flashed a look at Gilbert, and for a moment there was pure fury in her eyes instead of fear.
He seemed to like it that he'd gotten a rise out of her. A slight smile crossed his face. "What's that look for?"
"Where's Farley?" she said darkly.
"Oh, him. I left him in California. What a worthless sack of shit he turned into. All the mewling and pissing. I really hate that stuff. Here's the long and short of it: The man ratted you out. It's the truth. He gave you up. Farley told me everything, trying to save his own skin. I do not admire that. I think it sucks." He edged over to the chair where Ray was sitting. He kept a close eye on all of us, making sure no one moved while he squatted by the chair and checked the tape. He got up, apparently satisfied with the job she was doing. "When you get done with him, you can do her," he said, meaning me.