No one had found the keys to the Volkswagen. The engine might have been off when the train hit it. Buried somewhere in my subconscious I had known the answer to those two riddles almost when I had heard about them. But I would not allow myself to remember, I'd kept insisting that the wreck had been an accident.
I made it to the phone, dialed Skid's number.
“Hello, Melissa,” I said after a moment. “Let me speak to Skid, please.”
“Dr. Devilin? Is that you? You don't sound like yourself. You still having that spell?”
“Please, Melissa,” I said softly. “Just let me talk to Skid.”
“Okay.” She sounded worried.
The line was silent a moment. Then:
“Fever?” Skid's voice was rich with concern.
“I found what I was looking for. I know what happened.”
“Sorry?”
“The
girls.
” I sat on the arm of the sofa. “It didn't have anything to do with drugs. We were wrong about that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hiram Frazier,” I began.
But before I could say anything more, lightning and thunder exploded simultaneously and the house was plunged into darkness.
The phone was dead.
My breathing quickened, and I could feel the pulse at my temples.
I hung up, a little numb.
Brief power outages were so common on the mountain that I kept several oil lamps, matches, and a flashlight in the kitchen pantry.
I stood up just as another bolt of lightning snapped, attendant thunder shaking the windows.
I moved quickly to the kitchen, fetched the lamps, lit them, and pulled out the flash light.
I checked the front door again, even though I knew it was locked. I went to each window, made certain the locks were tight.
Outside, black as pitch, the rain began to pummel the roof. I pulled all the curtains, went back to the kitchen.
Hot tea seemed the right idea. It was for just such occasions that I had kept my old gas stove.
I struck a match, turned on the gas, and instantly flame leapt into a comfortable circle barely smaller than my silver kettle. I thought peppermint tea would be best, nothing with caffeine. I was jangled enough. The oil lamps made the kitchen butter-bright, and I felt better.
I had gotten the tea, pulled a mug out of the cupboard, and found the honey before I realized that I was retreating.
I knew I had to go immediately into town to tell Skidmore my revelation. I couldn't hang about the darkened house, afraid to go out, seriously attempting to avoid the thoughts in my mind. The impulse to light the lamps and have tea was a boyhood regression, a retreat to all the times I'd been alone in the house when I was seven, and ten, and fourteen, with no idea where my parents were, or when they would return. I was stunned at how instantaneously I had fallen into the pattern, as quickly as the thunder had followed lightning. I was disappointed that the pattern was so ingrained, down to the peppermint tea I'd drunk as a boy.
I turned off the flame under the kettle, blew out both lamps. A thin ghost rose up from each and quickly dissipated, my mother and father, leaving the house once again.
I grabbed the flashlight, scooped up my jacket, and headed for the door, keys in hand. The rain was pounding harder and I thought about the umbrella I'd left by the door, but I didn't want to be hampered by it. I could just make a dash for the truck, stay dry enough.
Out on the porch, flashlight under my arm, I locked my front door, checked it twice, struggled to get my jacket on.
I ran the flashlight's beam over my truck and around it. Everything seemed fine. I twirled my keys absently on their ring.
Rain pierced the air with a thousand silver spears. I drew in a breath and stepped off the porch, lurching the ten or twelve steps to where I'd left the truck.
Another lightning bolt momentarily turned the pitch sky to pale day. Before I completely realized that I had seen the man's shadow move around the side of the porch, he was upon me.
I was plunged backward into the black lake of night, dead to the world.
I came to on the front porch with Eppie Waldrup standing over me, a fistful of my jacket in his right hand.
“Sorry to scare you, Doc,” he said in his eerie high voice. “But I got to know what you're doing.”
“Doing?” I could barely breathe.
Clearly he had wrestled me to the ground; I had passed out. I was certain that my neck had a railroad spike somewhere in it.
“I know you went to talk to Sheriff Needle,” he said, his face like a red pumpkin, close to mine. “I got eyes and ears everywhere. I need to know what did you say to him.”
“About you?” I managed. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.” He pulled on my coat and I sat up, my nose touching his. “See, that's a problem. Remember our deal? You was to explain to Sheriff Needle that I need my space. I thought me and Bruno made that clear. Need my
space
, you hear me? Now I have to whup your ass, you understand?”
He tightened his grip on my jacket and cocked his other arm back. A fist the size of a ham hovered over my face.
“No!” I said, coming more conscious. “I don't understand!”
My right hand flew up and grabbed his thumb, snapped it backward as hard as I could.
He dropped me, squealing.
I scuttled back, out from under him, and got to my feet before he stood up straight.
I kicked his kneecap, like kicking a soccer ball.
He brought his leg up involuntarily, a bad move.
Eppie tumbled away from me, down the porch steps, his head thudding in the wet ground of my yard.
I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon.
But Eppie was down and couldn't quite manage his way anywhere else. Breath knocked out of him, he was momentarily immobilized. His legs rested on my steps, his left hand held his right thumb, and he was moaning like a sick cat.
“Here's my decision, Eppie,” I snarled. “I'm going to get in my truck now and run over your head as many times as it takes to pop it like a tomato.”
I jangled my keys, which were, amazingly, still in my hand. I'd had my index finger through the key ring, and the keys had stayed with me.
“What?” he said in disbelief.
“You just lie right there,” I told him.
I took a few quick steps and jumped over him, landing on the ground close enough to his head to scare him significantly. He covered his face with his arms and sucked in a breath.
I turned and squatted down.
“You understand what a strange person I am, right, Eppie?” I began persuasively.
“Uh-huh,” he croaked, face still obscured.
“You ought to know better than to threaten me twice in one day. I'm used to being picked on by all sorts of bullies; I take as much as I can and then I snap. Like a dry twig. And when that happens, I have no idea what I'll do. Sometimes I black out and people have to tell me what I did. I'm not proud of it, but I have no control, you understand. If I run over your head right now with my truck, for example, I wouldn't be held responsible. In the first place, you attacked me and I was defending myself. And in the second place, I'm not
mentally competent. Everyone knows that, just like you do. So I'm going to start my truck now.”
Eppie's hands were trembling. He started thrashing from side to side, trying to get himself up.
“Christ Almighty, Doc,” he sobbed, “you got to come to your senses. You love my music. You remember that? My music? I don't deserve to get my head run over.
Damn!”
I stood.
“You have to get this, Eppie: I'm not going to do a thing for you. If you send your dog after me, I'll kill it. If you mess with me again, I'll kill you. I'm in the middle of something that's disturbing my entire cognitive field, and I'm
not
in the mood for any more crap from you.”
I heard a car. I was hoping it was Skid, coming to see if I was all right. Headlights momentarily illuminated the surreal scene at the bottom of my steps.
“Somebody's coming,” Eppie said, hysteria electrifying his words. “You
can't
do anything to me now.”
“It's probably the Sheriff,” I told him. “I was talking to him on the phone when my power went out. Good. I don't have to run over you, I can just have you arrested. Trespassing, assault, what else?”
“Ohhh,” Eppie whined, “everything happens to me.”
The car pulled up behind my truck. It was as far away from a police cruiser as an automobile could get: a spotless white Mercedes two-seater, lower to the ground than most sports cars, looking fast even when it came to a stop.
Lights still on, the driver threw open his door and jumped out.
“Are you all right, Dr. Devilin?”
I was momentarily disoriented by the size and sound of the man; it took me a second to respond.
“Yes, Mr. Newcomb,” I said, stepping back from Eppie. “Thank you for asking. And how strange to see you here.”
“Who's your friend?” Orvid said, standing behind his car door.
“Eppie,” I said to the man at my feet, “do you know Orvid Newcomb?”
Eppie held up his uninjured hand.
“Help me up, would you, Doc? I ain't about to cause you no more trouble. I'm happy that ain't the sheriff.”
I exhaled, planted my feet, and offered Eppie my hand. It took some doing, but the big man came to his feet. He turned in the direction of the headlights.
“I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” he said, wiping his forehead.
“Orvid,” I called, “this is Eppie Waldrup, owns the auto junkyard near Pine City with which you are passingly familiar.”
“I've met your dog,” Orvid said, amused.
“What?” Eppie was completely confused.
It appeared to me that he had never seen Orvid.
“He's met your dog,” I repeated to Eppie.
“Is that a little boy?” Eppie asked me under his breath, squinting, trying to make out the form behind the door.
“No,” I said. “Mr. Newcomb isâwhat? A figment of your imagination.”
On cue, as I'd hoped he would, Orvid stepped from behind his car door and into the illumination of his lights. He made a striking figure, slightly backlit, hair matted to his head from the rain, a primal image. Without warning he drew the long blade from his cane and held it high over his head, with attendant mad expression and a low growl.
“Jesus Katy!” Eppie shrieked, staggering away from the vision.
I stepped close to Eppie, whispering.
“Your idea is that fear is motivational,” I said through clenched teeth. “Makes a person do what you want, right?
“Yes,” was all he could say, eyes wide and white.
“Well, it doesn't work quite that way with me. Fear makes me mad. Fear makes me want to hurt the person who's frightened me, any way I can. That's my story, and you know I mean it.”
“I do.” I could barely hear him.
“Where did you park?”
“I saw his truck back there,” Orvid called. “It's the tow truck?”
“Tow truck,” Eppie affirmed, nodding, unable to look at Orvid. “Up the road.”
“Haul yourself up to it, then,” I concluded, “and get the hell away from me, permanently, or Mr. Newcomb and I will pay you a visit in your sleep. Understand?”
“Yes,” Eppie shot back, moving sideways away from me, putting my truck between himself and Orvid, and eventually waddling past the crest of the road into the night.
Still, I'm certain he was not out of earshot by the time Orvid and I had begun to howl with laughter.
Â
Moments later Orvid and I were standing in my kitchen, oil lamps lit, tea kettle ready. We'd used half a roll of paper towels to dry ourselves. We'd heard Eppie's truck thunder away, and I'd invited Orvid inside.
“I was talking to Skidmore on the phone,” I said, lighting the eye under the kettle once again, “when I lost power and the phone went dead.”
“That must happen a lot up here,” Orvid said patiently.
“It'll be back on in a while.” I got out the tea. “I was going to have peppermint tea, then I thought better of it and decided to talk to Skid in person.”
Orvid grinned. It was an eerie expression in the light of the oil lamps. It made his face more innocent.
“Peppermint tea.” He sighed. “I used to drink that when I was a kid.”
“Yes,” I said, avoiding our similarity. “But I realized I needed to get down the mountain to Skid, finish our conversation. It was important. I'm going to do that in a second, but I have to know why you're here.”
“It was important?” he said, leaning on his cane. “What you were going to tell him?”
“I know what happened to the girls,” I blurted out.
I realized I'd been bursting to say that sentence to someone. I didn't quite know why I'd said it to Orvid Newcomb, but it suddenly
seemed it would be a great relief to be able to express my theory out loud.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he said, heading for the kitchen table.
“Of course,” I stammered, “I'll be telling Skidmore everything in a moment, you realize.”
I got out a second teacup and then followed him to the table.
“What do you think happened?” he said before we sat.
“I believe that a man named Hiram Frazier waited at the railroad crossing, stopped the girls' car, asked them for money, and when they didn't give him any, he reached in and took the keys out of the car.”
“Oh, my God.” Orvid looked down, staring at the red Formica of my tabletop. My brief speech had startled him, but I had the impression he might have somehow heard the theory or thought of it himself.
“What?”
“Please go on,” he said, obviously shaken.
“He kept the keys,” I continued a little hesitantly, “and said he wouldn't give them back until the girls gave him money. Tess was driving; Rory was wearing headphones at the time of the accident, listening to a CD.”
“I may have seen this man.” Orvid's face was stone.
That was it.
“You saw Hiram Frazier?”
“Of course I didn't know who he was that night,” Orvid said, his eyes far away. “All in black, a scarecrow. Nearly transparent in the moonlight. He did something to the car?”
“No, I'm saying he took the keys,” I said again. “The girls were laughing, trying to figure out what to do. It wouldn't have occurred to them to be frightened or angry, at least that's the portrait I have of them from Lucinda. Tess was dealing with Hiram Frazier, Rory had music blasting in her ears. By the time they realized a train was bearing down, they didn't have any hope of getting out of the car.”
“Or they were so disoriented by the strangeness of the situation,” Orvid added, “that they didn't even quite realize the danger they were in.”
“Very possible,” I said, an involuntary shiver icing up my spine. “I've been in close proximity to the man, and it's hard to pay attention to anything else when he's nearby.”
“I see,” Orvid said slowly.
His eyes appeared to be taking assessments. I felt he must be trying to decide if I had a fear of wandering vagrants to match my terror of dogs.
“If you don't believe me,” I said, “I can take time to lay out my reasoning, but if you think I'm right, that would be a waste of time at the moment.”
He locked eyes with me, staring past the pupils.
“I believe you,” he said after a moment. “Do you mind if I call Judy just for a moment?”
The kettle responded by whistling.
“Go right ahead.” I got up to answer the kettle.
Orvid pulled out a cell phone, hit speed dial, and murmured into the speaker.
“Hey,” he said softly, “I'm with Dr. Devilin, and what do you suppose he told me? The man who caused the train wreck is named Hiram Frazier ⦠. Yes. I thought so too. I love you.”
He closed his cell phone.
I tried to pretend I hadn't heard his conversation, attempting to give him the illusion of privacy.
“I have to tell Skidmore about this, as I was saying,” I told Orvid, my back to him.
“Want to borrow my phone?”
“I'd rather speak to him in person, considering his state of mind. It's my impression that you'd just as soon
not
go along with me.”