1990 - Mine v4 (57 page)

Twenty years fell away. She looked at her face in the mirror, and she saw the chick Lord Jack loved. He would love her twice as much now, when she brought him their son.

Mary was afraid. Seeing him, after all this time… the thought made her stomach churn, and she feared she might throw up in her terror, but she hung on and the sickness passed. She brushed her teeth twice, and gargled with Scope.

It was nearing six o'clock. It was time to go to Freestone and find her future.

Mary pinned the Smiley Face button, her talisman, on the front of her sweater. Then she took her suitcase out to the Cherokee, the sky just beginning to turn a whiter shade of pale. She went back for Drummer, pushed the new pacifier into his mouth, and hugged him close. Her heart was the drummer now, pounding in her chest. "I love you," she whispered to him. "Mama loves her baby." She left the key in the room and closed the door, and then she limped to the Cherokee with Drummer in her arms.

Mary started the engine in the silence of the dawn.

Seventeen minutes before Mary Terror turned the key, a Cutlass with a new radiator had roared past the community of Navato, thirty miles south of the Lux-More Motel. Laura was speeding north on I-101 at seventy miles an hour. The green hills of Marin County rose before the highway in the faint violet light, hundreds of houses nestled in their folds, houseboats on the calm water of San Pablo Bay, peace in the misty air.

There was no peace within Laura. The flesh of her face was drawn tight, her eyes glassy and sunken in her skull. The fingers of her right hand had cramped into a claw on the wheel, her body numbed by its all-night ordeal. She had slept for two hours in the office of Marco's Garage, and popped the last Black Cat between Sacramento and Vallejo. Electricity had surged through her when she'd seen a sign pointing the route to Santa Rosa. Just to the west of Santa Rosa was Mary's destination, and hers as well. The miles were ticking off, one after the other, the highway almost deserted. God help her if a trooper got on her tail; she wasn't slowing down now, not even for Jesus or the saints. Sacramento had been her last gas stop, and she'd been flying ever since.

So close, so close! God, what if Mary's already found him! she thought. Mary must've gotten there hours before! Oh God, I've got to hurry! She glanced at the speedometer, the needle nosing toward eighty and the car starting to vibrate. "Take it easy on 'er," Marco had urged before Laura had pulled out of the garage near seven-thirty. "Once a clunker, always a clunker! You go easy on the gas and maybe you'll get where you're goin'!"

She'd left him four hundred and fifty dollars richer. Mickey, the retarded kid who liked Batman, had waved at her and hollered, "Come back soon!"

SANTA ROSA, a sign said. 14 MI.

The Cutlass hurtled on as the orange ball of the sun began to rise.

WELCOME TO FREESTONE, THE HAPPY VALLEY TOWN.

Mary drove past the sign. Orange light streaked the windows of small businesses on the main thoroughfare. Grassy hills rose around the town, which had not yet awakened. It was a small place, a collection of tidy streets and buildings, a flashing caution light, a park with a bandshell. The speed limit was posted at fifteen miles an hour. Two dogs halted their sniffing on the sidewalk, and one of them began to bark noisily at Mary as she eased past. Just beyond the caution light there was a gas station — still closed, at this hour — with a pay phone out front. She pulled into the station, got out of the Cherokee, and checked the phone book.

Cavanaugh, Keith and Sandy. 502 Muir Road.

Hudley, N. 1219 Overkill Road.

No home-number listing for Dean Walker, but she had the address of his auto dealership Hudley's wife had given her.
Dean Walker Foreign Cars. 677 Meacham Street
. Was there a map of Freestone in the phone book? No, there was not. She looked around for a street marker, and found one on the corner under the caution light. The street she stood on was Parkway, the cross street McGill.

Mary tore out the listings for Cavanaugh and Hudley, and returned to the Cherokee. "Going to find him!" she said to Drummer. "Yes, we are!" She got back on Parkway, and continued slowly in the direction she'd been going. "He might be married," she told Drummer, and she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. "But that's all right. See, it's a disguise. You have to do some things you don't like to fit in. Like at the Burger King where I used to work. 'Thank you ma'am.' 'Yes sir, would you like fries with that sir?' Those kind of things. If he got married, it's so he can hide better. But nobody knows him like I do. He might be living with a woman, but he doesn't love her. He's using her to play a role. See?"

Oh, the things she and Jack would teach their son about life and the world would be miraculous!

The next cross street was Meacham.

One block to the right, beside a Crocker Bank, was a brick building with a fenced-in lot that held a couple of Jaguars, a black Porsche, an assortment of BMWs, and various other imports. A sign with blue lettering said DEAN WALKER FOREIGN CARS.

Mary pulled up to the front of the building. It was dark, nobody at work yet. She took the revolver from her shoulder bag, got out, and limped to the building's plate glass window. On the glass-fronted door was a sign that told her the place opened at ten and closed at five. She decided that today it would open three hours and thirty-eight minutes early.

She smashed the door glass with the revolver handle. An alarm screamed, but she'd been prepared for that because she'd already seen the electric contact wires. She reached in, found the lock and twisted it, and then she pushed through the door. In the small showroom stood a red Mercedes. There was a couch with a coffee table where car magazines and brochures were stacked. On either side of a water cooler were two doors with nameplates. One said JERRY BURNES and the other said DEAN WALKER. His office was locked. The alarm was going to wake this sleeping town up, so she had to hurry. She was looking for something to batter the door open with when she saw a framed color photograph on the wall, above a row of shining brass plaques. Two men stood in the photograph, smiling broadly at the camera, the larger man with his arm over the smaller one's shoulder. The caption read: "Freestone Businessman of the Year Dean Walker, right, with Civitan President Lyndon Lee."

Dean Walker was big and fleshy and had a slick salesman's smile. He wore a diamond pinky ring and a power tie. He was black.

One down.

Mary limped back to the Cherokee, its engine still running. Dogs were barking, it seemed, all over town. She drove away from the car dealership, passing a garbage truck that had pulled over to the curb, two men getting out. She turned to the left at the next cross street, which was named Eastview. She went through a stop sign on the following street — Orion — but she hit the brake when she saw the next street marker coming up: Overhill Road.

Which way? She turned to the right. In another minute she saw she'd made the wrong choice, because there was a dead end sign and a stream that ran through a patch of woods. She turned the Cherokee around again, heading west.

She left the business section of Freestone and entered a residential area, small brick houses with neatly manicured lawns and flower boxes. She slowed down, looking for addresses: 1013… 1015… 1017. She was going in the right direction. The next block started with 1111. And then there it stood, in the golden early sunlight: the brick house with a mailbox that had 1219 Overhill on it.

She turned into the short driveway. Under the carport's canopy were two cars, a small Toyota and a midsize Ford, both with California plates. The house was similar to all the others in the neighborhood, except for a birdbath and a wooden bench in the front yard. "Trying to fit in," she told Drummer as she cut the engine. "Playing the suburban role. That's how it's done." She started to get out, but raw fear gripped her. She checked her makeup in the mirror again. She was sweating, and that fact dismayed her. The house awaited, all quiet.

Mary eased out of the Cherokee and limped toward the white front door, leaving Drummer and her gun behind. She could hear the faint, distant shrill of the dealership's alarm, and dogs barking. A couple of birds fluttered around the birdbath. Before she got to the door, her heart was beating so hard and her stomach was so fluttery she thought she might have to stagger to the ornamental bushes and retch. But she forced herself on, and she took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.

She waited. Cold sweat slicked her palms. She was shaking like a girl on her first date. She pressed the buzzer again, miserable in her impatience. Oh God, let it be him, she thought. Let it be… let it be… let it —

Footsteps.

A latch was slipped back.

She saw the doorknob start to turn.

Oh God… let it be him…

The door opened, and a man with sleep-swollen eyes peered around its edge.

"Yes?" he asked.

She couldn't speak. He was a rugged-looking, handsome man, but he had a froth of curly white hair and he was probably in his mid-sixties. "Can I help you, miss?" Irritation had sharpened his voice.

"Uh… uh…" Her brainwheels were jammed. "Uh… are you… Nick Hudley?"

"Yes." His brown eyes narrowed, and she saw them tick toward the Smiley Face button.

"I'm… lost," Mary said. "I'm looking for Muir Road."

"That way." He motioned to his right, farther along Overhill, with an upttlting of his chin. "Do I know you?"

"No." She turned away, began hurrying to the Cherokee.

"Hey!" Hudley called, coming out. He wore pajamas and a green robe with sailboats on it. "Hey, how do you know my name?"

Mary slid behind the wheel, closed the door, and backed onto Overhill Road. Nick Hudley was standing in his yard, and two birds were fighting for dominion in the birdbath. Dogs howled, finding the alarm's note. Mary drove on, following her star.

A quarter of a mile from Hudley's house, Muir Road branched to the right. Mary took the curve. Marching toward the hazy ocean were green hills dotted with redwood houses spaced far apart and set back from the winding road. Mary looked for names or numbers on the mailboxes. She came around a long curve where pampas grass grew wild, and she saw the name on a box that had a blue whale painted on it:
Cavanaugh
.

A crushed-gravel driveway led twenty yards uphill to a redwood house with a balcony looking toward the Pacific. In front of the house was a copper-colored pickup truck. Mary guided the Cherokee up behind the truck and stopped. Drummer had started bawling, upset about something. She looked at the house, her hands clenched on the wheel. She would not know for sure until she knocked at the door. But if he answered, she wanted him to see their son. She put the bag over her shoulder, picked up Drummer, and got out.

It was a pretty, well-kept house. A lot of labor had gone into it. A sundial stood on a pedestal in the yard, and red flowers that looked like shaving brushes grew in beds around it. The air was chilly, a breeze blowing from the distant sea, but the sun warmed Mary's face and its heat calmed Drummer's crying. She saw a sign painted on the driver's door of the pickup: YE OLDE HERITAGE, INC. Below that, in script, were the Cavanaughs' names and the telephone number.

Mary held the baby tightly, like a dream she feared losing, and she climbed the redwood steps to the front door.

There was a brass door knocker in the shape of an ancient, bearded face. Mary used her fist.

Her guts pulsed with tension, the muscles like iron bands across the back of her neck. Sweat sparkled on her cheeks, and she stared fixedly at the doorknob as Drummer's hand found her Smiley Face button and plucked at it.

Before she could knock again, she heard the door being unlocked.

It opened, so fast the movement made her jump.

"Hi!" A slim, attractive woman with long, light brown hair and hazel eyes stood there. She smiled, lines bracketing her mouth. "We've been looking for you! Come on in!"

"I'm… here to…"

"Right, it's ready. Come in." She moved back from the doorway, and Mary Terror stepped across the threshold. The woman closed the door and motioned Mary into a large den that had a vaulted ceiling, a rock fireplace, and a grandfather clock. "Here it is." The woman, who wore a pink sweatsuit and pale blue jogging shoes, unzipped a satchel that was sitting on the den's beige sofa. Inside was something in a lustrous wooden frame. "We wanted you to see it before we wrapped it," the woman explained.

It was a coat of arms, two stone towers on either side of what resembled a half horse, half lion against a field of flames. Across the bottom, in the same ornate handwriting as was on the pickup truck's door, was scrolled a name: Michelhof.

"The colors came out very well, don't you think?" the woman asked.

She didn't know what to say. Obviously the woman — Sandy Cavanaugh, Mary presumed — had been expecting someone to come pick up the coat of arms that morning. "Yes," Mary decided. "They did."

"Oh, I'm glad you're pleased! Of course, the family history's included in the information packet." She turned the frame around to show an envelope taped to the back, and Mary caught the glint of her wedding and engagement rings. "Your brother's going to love this, Mrs. Hunter."

"I'm sure he will."

"I'll get it wrapped for you." She returned the coat of arms to the satchel and zipped it up. "You know, I have to say I expected an older woman. You sounded older on the phone."

"Did I?"

"Uh-huh." The woman looked at Drummer. "What a precious baby! How old?"

"Almost a month."

"How many children do you have?"

"Just him," Mary said, and smiled thinly.

"My husband's a fool for babies. Well, if you'll make out the check to Ye Olde Heritage, Inc., I'll go downstairs and get this wrapped. Okay?"

"Okay," Mary said.

Sandy Cavanaugh left the den. Mary heard a door open momentarily, and the woman's voice: "Mrs. Hunter's brought her baby. Go say hello while I wrap this."

A man cleared his throat. "Is it all right?"