by Sara Blaedel
“Who the hell was that?” The man was leaning against the rear tire of his car now, crying. All of his tough-guy act was gone, and he looked like a boy. A big one, but still just a boy.
“She’s a nun.” She looked at his bleeding knees. The shots had been bull’s-eyes, both of them. She walked over to the open coffin, took out the lining, and tossed it over to him along with his wallet and phone.
“She was going to steal my car,” he said, whining now. “She just about shot me, again. But I got a flat. That’s why I pulled in. If I wouldn’t have gotten that flat, I’d never have run into you.” He made it sound as if it were all Ilka’s fault.
She had no pity for him. “You shouldn’t have robbed me.”
That angered him. “I needed the money. For a new tire. I can’t get to work without my car, and they’ll fire me!”
“Call nine-one-one, and get something wrapped around your knees.”
She pushed the coffin back into place. She felt his eyes on her back as she walked around the hearse and got in, but he kept his mouth shut. She glanced in the rearview mirror; he was wrapping strips of material around one of his knees.
She closed her eyes a moment and leaned her head back. Her phone beeped: a text from her mother. Ilka felt like calling her, she needed a shoulder to cry on, but she knew the moment she heard her mother’s voice, it would all come out. And that wouldn’t be good for either of them.
How’s the weather in Racine? Is it cold? her mother wrote.
No, the weather’s been great, and it’s lighter than it is back home right now. She sent a sun and a kiss, then she started the car and checked the side mirror, in the direction Lydia had disappeared.
The man with the bleeding knees was still sitting on the ground when she pulled out. Darkness was falling, and Key West still lay far away.
4
The next morning, after sleeping five hours, Ilka tossed the key card into the motel’s checkout box beside the reception door. She’d paid for the room in advance, so the night manager couldn’t have cared less when she left, as long as she dropped the card off. And when she had asked if she would be able to buy a cup of coffee early the next morning, he flashed her an indulgent look and said she couldn’t buy a cup of coffee there at any time. The motel offered no service, only rooms.
It had been dark yesterday evening when she’d pulled in, and what she’d seen of Georgia mostly were the reflectors on the road’s center line and the lights of Atlanta as she passed by. At first Ilka had planned on driving to Key West in one stretch, thinking she could handle twenty-four hours behind the wheel with a few breaks along the way. But that was before she’d read about the Baby-Butcher from San Antonio, before she’d witnessed Lydia rising up in the coffin and shooting out the robber’s kneecaps. After collapsing on the motel bed, fully clothed, she’d tried once more to pretend that none of what had happened concerned her. Unlike the day before, she’d almost succeeded. The day’s events had seemed so implausible that part of her brain refused to accept them.
It took a few moments to get the hearse started in the damp morning air. It wasn’t nearly as cold here as in Racine, but the dew lay heavy on the hood. The engine wasn’t much for waking up.
As she drove out, she was surprised to notice that the parking lot was almost full. If she hadn’t begun nodding off at the wheel last night, she’d never have chosen this dreary little motel. Again, she thought about telling the police that Lydia Rogers was likely headed for the funeral home in Racine. But something held her back. Not loyalty to the woman, definitely not, because Ilka hadn’t the slightest idea who she really was. But if she called the police, Ilka would be delayed even more; the cops would want to hear what she knew about the wanted woman.
She had about thirteen hours of driving ahead of her, if she drove nonstop and managed to avoid any rush-hour traffic. Which, she realized, was seldom the case. She needed a cup of coffee, but instead she rolled the window down and lit a cigarette. She thought about Artie. Did he know what Lydia had done? No way. She inhaled and focused on the six lanes of the interstate.
All morning long, chains of enormous semis boxed her in. The old hearse didn’t have enough horsepower to slip past them, so she resigned herself to the situation. Even though respect for the transport of the deceased wasn’t the same nowadays as it had been, the trucks gave her room when several hours later, with her heart practically in her throat, she weaved her way through three lanes and exited onto Florida’s Turnpike. She set course for Miami.
* * *
It was hot in the car. Ilka dangled her arm out the window. She had been expecting something else, something better from the Keys. She’d imagined a long stretch of surfer paradise with exotic, charming restaurants, but Key Largo wasn’t much more than old stores spread out along the highway and a single trailer park. Plus, hotels. Her disappointment lingered until she finally could see water on both sides. Then, for a moment, she was spellbound by the view opening up in front of her.
She still had over a hundred miles to go, but the uneasiness she’d felt since leaving Georgia early that morning was growing. She was nervous, to say the least, about meeting her father. And with every sunny bridge she crossed, it got worse. The magnificent view seemed to fade into the background, until she hardly even noticed the historic Seven Mile Bridge, standing like some old ruins, or the fishermen lining the bridges with their extended poles and large buckets, or the small roadside shacks selling clam chowder and renting out boats.
She was out of cigarettes when she finally pulled into Key West. She felt like absolute hell. What if her father wouldn’t have anything to do with her, or if he’d forgotten her? What if he was angry about her arriving out of the blue? What if he threw her out?
While making her way through the long string of islands, she had come to realize that what she most feared was rejection. But she’d told herself that she had at least as much right to walk away from him, if she didn’t care for the person he’d become.
And she was angry too. Hugely angry, she kept telling herself out loud, hoping that the feeling would shoo away some of her anxiety. She tried to convince herself that she was the one in control. That she was there to give him a thorough cussing-out, that it didn’t matter how he reacted. Thirty-three years was a long time, but he was still a father who had abandoned his daughter, and he owed her an explanation. So said the voice in her head. An explanation of what actually happened back then, as well as what the hell he had been thinking this time, disappearing again and dragging her back into his life. She did feel a sense of relief, though, at the prospect of getting some answers to what had happened since she arrived in Racine.
Many of the houses lining both sides of the street resembled majestic old Southern homes. Traffic was now so heavy that Ilka assumed she was close to downtown. She had no idea how to find Artie’s house, so when she noticed a man tying a short surfboard to the back of a scooter, she parked and leaned across the seat.
“Main Street?” she called out.
He walked over to the hearse and eyed her T-shirt and jeans, then he raised his eyebrows at the sight of the coffin.
She ignored his unspoken question. “I’m looking for a gallery. Or at least a place that used to be a gallery.”
“Most of the galleries are down on Duval Street.” He pointed straight ahead. “Just keep going into town, you can’t miss it. It’s where all the tourists hang out.”
Ilka thanked him and took off. It had been a long time since she’d seen so many motorcycles on a town’s streets. There was a vacation atmosphere in the way people walked around, most of them wearing shorts; Artie’s Hawaiian shirts would fit in perfectly here. When Ilka reached Duval Street, she was momentarily astonished by the crowds of people on the sidewalks, all the souvenir shops and bars, with a gallery on every street corner, literally. And not a parking space in sight.
The hearse was proving much too large as she crept down the street, desperately looking for anywhere to park. Sh
e finally found a space, but only after she’d driven far out from the crowded part of town. It felt somehow rude, disrespectful even, to leave behind a coffin in a tourist parking space, but she decided it would be almost as bad on a residential street, where BED-AND-BREAKFAST signs had been set out in front of most of the beautiful wooden houses.
She decided to leave her travel bag in the car, even though she was very much aware of having slept in the clothes she was wearing, and that it had been a while since her last shower. It wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined she would look when she and her father met. She found a pack of wet wipes in the glove compartment, and pulled one out to swipe her face and throat. They weren’t particularly fresh, but she felt it was better than nothing. She took off in the direction of Duval, pushing herself to walk fast so she wouldn’t have time for second thoughts.
Once she was out on the street, Ilka heard “Born to Be Wild” booming from speakers inside a bar. She knew she was stalling when she walked over to a food stand and ordered a hot dog and cola, but she couldn’t think straight until she ate something. She also needed to rinse the taste of tobacco out of her mouth. Maybe she ought to go back for her bag and find a hotel room anyway, then start out fresh and clean in the morning to find her father.
She paid and chugged half the cola. She ate the hot dog on the way. It amazed her what was being sold as art on Duval Street; there were practically no limits. The one thing the displays in the gallery windows had in common was the artists’ enthusiasm for wild colors. Yellow, green, blue, and red were the favorites, preferably a combination of them all. There were paintings on coconuts and on tiny wooden surfboards, paintings of fish, flamingos, turtles.
She finished the hot dog and decided to walk over to Art Gone Wild and ask if anyone knew a gallery formerly known as Artie the Artist, but before she could toss her ketchup-smeared napkins into a trash can, she saw the sign.
Across the street stood a wooden house painted turquoise, with a red roof and a driveway almost hidden between palm trees. A sign hung on the front above the plate-glass window: ARTIE THE ARTIST, carved into weathered wood. It looked as if it had been hanging there forever. A gate closed off the driveway, and another sign in the window informed her that the gallery was open by appointment only.
Ilka walked over and peeked in the window. She recognized the style from the work she’d seen in Artie’s house. A lamp base carved from wood, intricately carved frames, and elegant wooden animals, as if a Scandinavian hand had guided the design. Which set them apart from everything else in the surrounding shops. The colors in Artie’s gallery were muted too.
She stared a long time before stepping over to the door, which of course was locked. The sign said as much. She walked to the gate, opened it, and yelled out, “Hello!”
She called out once more before walking around the house. A hammock was tied between two trees, and a boy’s bicycle lay on the ground. A clothesline had been strung at the far end of the backyard; dresses and several sets of underwear, panties, and bras hung from it, along with striped boys’ pajamas and a light-blue T-shirt. Ilka leaned against the house. The noise from the bars and the crowds on the street faded out. She gazed at a soccer ball and a skateboard lying beside the house. Lives were being led here that she knew nothing about. Finally, she steeled herself and walked to the door. A table and four chairs stood in the middle of a small patio, and beside the wall was a big electric grill, though not as big as the one at Artie’s house on Lake Michigan.
She knocked on the back door; no answer. She knocked harder. At last she sank down onto the back step. The late-afternoon sun wasn’t nearly as warm as before, and Ilka rubbed her bare arms. She felt empty. And alone. There was no sign of her father, only of this woman with a child who seemed to be living in Artie’s house.
She thought about her father. What if he suddenly walked around the corner, what would she say? She no longer knew. The air had gone out of her balloon now that there was no sign of him here. She’d been naïve to believe Lydia, especially now that Ilka knew the woman had reasons aplenty to protect herself—she would have sent Ilka practically anywhere if it could help her vanish.
But Lydia had also wanted to go to Key West, she recalled. Though again, it could have been something she’d said just so Ilka would take her along. She might have run off anyway, once they were far enough away from the men hunting her.
Ilka was surprised how shaken she was at seeing a woman’s clothes on the line. She’d never considered that Artie might have a life she knew nothing about, or that he might know a boy with a skateboard, who let his bike fall to the ground.
She imagined Artie’s face, the line running down along his cheek, and suddenly she felt tender, bruised inside. She glanced around the empty patio and realized how keyed up she’d been about seeing her father, and how little she now believed it would ever happen. She stood up and walked away.
* * *
After closing the gate behind her, she headed farther into town. More people were milling around, standing in flocks listening to music or checking menus. Couples walked along, their arms around each other; older couples held hands. Everyone was with somebody, in the middle of a dream vacation. Ilka stood off to the edge on the sidewalk to let a small family get by. Suddenly all she could see were kisses and smiles from people who belonged together. People hugging; a man carrying his wife’s beach bag. She belonged nowhere, and her loneliness was suffocating as she strolled down Duval Street. She knew she would never fit into this picture. It struck her that she would always feel alone, always a bit adrift.
At first, she thought about asking around in the bars and restaurants, if anyone had ever seen her father or possibly knew of him, but she decided against it. She turned down a side street with no idea of what she was looking for.
A few houses down she noticed a dimly lit bar with no loud rock music or tourists. Three or four roosters strutted around in the dusty entryway. A man, late middle-aged maybe, stood behind the bar and greeted her when she walked in. The place was nearly deserted. She ordered a beer, then laid two one-hundred-dollar bills on the bar and asked for change to play the slot machine beside the door. All she wanted was to forget herself, head out on some back road accompanied by John Denver’s “Country Roads,” the song playing in the bar.
The bartender nodded and picked up the bills. He pointed at the row of beer taps and asked which one, and if she wanted a small or large.
“Large. And it doesn’t matter, choose one for me.”
He handed her a small stack of tens. The machine also took twenties, he said.
“Do you sell cigarettes here?”
He shook his head, but he reached under the bar, brought out a pack, and offered her one. A man at the end of the bar was eyeing her, but she ignored him. She grabbed her beer and the money and walked over to the machine.
After feeding it thirty dollars she took a long swig. It had been quite a while since she’d drunk beer, and she closed her eyes for a moment while the bitter taste spread inside her mouth. She took another drink, then she laid the glass aside and turned to the one-armed bandit. Its arm had been amputated and replaced by several large buttons. Though it wasn’t the same, she didn’t really care. She began playing.
Ilka nodded and held out her glass when the bartender came over and asked if she wanted another one. The cigarette he’d given her was on the windowsill, and he handed her a lighter and brought over an ashtray.
“Is it okay to smoke inside?” she asked, her eyes still glued to the colored fruit and crowns whirling in front of her.
“Not really.” He flicked the lighter. “But once in a while I make an exception. Where are you from?”
“Denmark.”
She sensed somehow that he nodded.
“I thought so,” he said.
Ilka turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“You two look like each other. Tall, those blue eyes. A person wouldn’t think you’re Viking stock, though, you’re both too
skinny.”
“Us two? Who are you talking about?”
“You look like that Dane who got hurt.” He held his hand up high to indicate they both were very tall.
She set her glass down. “What Dane?”
“This old guy who showed up here several months ago. I sure don’t mean to offend you, it’s just that you both have this way about you.”
“Do you know him?”
The bartender nodded and said that at first, he hadn’t known the man had come from Denmark. “I found out when he tried to explain that crazy game they have going. Or maybe it’s more like a contest, I never really did catch on. He asked if they could do it here, he thought it would be good for my business. I told him I didn’t want to get involved in that sort of thing, stupid me. People love it, and he was right, it brings in the customers.”
Ilka was standing now. “Do you know where he is?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I think the man is my father.”
He nudged the ashtray and moved her glass before sitting down in the windowsill. “Are you the one who handles the racehorses, or the one who takes care of his wife in the wheelchair?”
Ilka glanced out the window a moment then shook her head. “Neither one. I’m his daughter from Denmark.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “So you came all the way from Denmark to visit him?”
Ilka nodded. “How is he?”
“Now that he’s got a cane and gets around by himself, he’s doing better. He’s a social type of guy, always a crowd of people around him. At first, he mostly stayed at home, though. When he asked if he could use my patio, he said he needed a few hours’ nap every afternoon. I didn’t want to pry too much. It sounded like he hurt his head, maybe a bad concussion. But there’s nothing wrong with his spirits, and he sure has lit a fire under the seniors down here.”
He laughed and shook his head. “They’re probably getting after it right now.”
“Getting after it?”