Cold Black Earth (21 page)

You need to sleep for about a week, Rachel told herself.

She had just topped a rise when the tire blew, the sudden juddering and the tug on the wheel unmistakable. Rachel swore, corrected the swerve of the car, and coasted to the bottom of the hill. She came to a stop and sat in shock for a moment, looking out at the little patch of road and ditch in the radius of her headlights and the vast blackness outside it. “Shit,” she said.

From the feel of it, it was the left front tire that had gone. A few seconds’ reflection told her that drunks barreling home along country roads were still a more likely peril than escaped madmen, and she pulled the car to the side of the road, two wheels in the shallow ditch. Now it was decision time.

On the morning she had cleaned out the car, she had made sure there was an inflated spare in the trunk. What she had neglected to provide was any kind of light. She was going to have to change the tire in the dark, by touch, on a deserted country road not too many miles from where a psychopath had cut a man’s throat by the side of the road a few days before.

Call Matt. Rachel pulled her purse across the seat toward her. He can be here in fifteen minutes.

Matt’s drunk. He’s passed out in bed by this time.

Call Dan. Dan lives less than two miles from here. Rachel reached into the purse.

She had the phone in her hand when she stopped. If she called Dan, it was an admission of weakness. It was relying on a big strong man for help. And in the past Rachel had sweated blood to prove she could handle a crisis.

Change the damn tire, she told herself.

Rachel let go of the phone, turned off the headlights and cut the ignition. The world became very dark and very quiet. Remembering the drunks, she turned on her emergency flashers. You are going to have to get out of the car and do this, she thought.

She opened the glove compartment and took out the revolver. She held it in her lap, telling herself that the odds against Otis Ryle coming along in the old blue Ford pickup just as she was changing a flat tire were overwhelming. And there was nothing about schizoid personality disorder and psychopathic narcissism that made a man bulletproof. And yet the night was black and Rachel knew that the things it hid were real.

Get out of the car and change the tire.

She popped the trunk and got out of the car, leaving the gun on the driver’s seat and leaving the door slightly ajar. She looked up and down the road; there was just enough light from a feeble moon, reflected by the snow, to show her the lay of the land. A stream passed under the road through a culvert just ahead; the streambed was wooded, brush and small trees black against the pale slope beyond.

A man could hide in there, Rachel thought.

Heart pounding, Rachel moved to the rear of the car and raised the trunk lid. She shoved junk aside to get at the cover of the wheel well. She froze when she heard the car approaching, behind her.

Rachel spun to see the glow of headlights over the rise. She watched for a few seconds, long enough to determine that the car was coming along slowly, unlike a speeding drunk.

Like a man cruising for victims? Rachel hurried to the driver’s side, tore open the door and snatched the gun off the seat. The car was a few seconds from topping the rise.

Get in the car and lock the door, Rachel thought. Then she had a vision of roadside collisions and after a second’s hesitation ran around the car and made for the ditch. The car was just topping the rise when she hopped across it and, in full panic now, made for the streambed.

Rachel slid down the short slope toward the stream and, lying on her belly, twisted to watch the approaching car come slowly down the hill. She held the gun out in front of her, aiming at nothing, her thumb on the hammer ready to cock it.

You are a fool, Rachel thought. Your imagination has run away with you.

In the next instant she thought, He will follow your footprints in the snow.

The Chevy’s flashers were lighting the night in hypnotic pulses. The other car slowed and eased to a halt behind it. Rachel exhaled heavily and let her head sag. The rack of emergency lights and the sheriff’s department logo shone intermittently in the flashes.

She watched the driver get out and walk along the side of the Chevy. A flashlight came on and played over the inside of the car. The man holding the light walked to the front of the Chevy and shone the light on the ground in front of it, then beyond, over the verge of the road. In his other hand he held a gun at his side.

Rachel had regained her voice. “Officer?” she called.

The light jerked toward her. “Rachel?”

Rachel let go a single sob of relief. “Roger? Oh, God.”

21    

Rachel clambered up out of the streambed.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I was just scared. I had a flat tire.”

“I can see that. Do me a favor, will you? Just take your finger off the trigger of that gun, will you?”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry Roger, I was scared. Here, take it if you want it.” She held it out toward him, grip first.

“That’s OK, I just don’t want any accidents.” Roger holstered his gun. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was on my way home from the interstate. Oh, God, am I glad to see you.”

She was close enough now to make out his features in the eerie light; he was peering at her with concern. “You sure you’re OK?”

“I’m fine. Let me . . . let me put this away.” Rachel went and put the gun in her purse on the car seat. “I was going to change the tire and then when I heard you coming I got scared. I mean, maybe it’s silly, but . . .”

“It’s not silly.” Roger was shining the light into the brush across the road. “It’s not silly at all. He’s still out here somewhere. You got a spare?”

“In the trunk. I can change it. I just needed a light.”

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.” He went to the back of the car and shone the light into the trunk.

“I can do it, Roger.”

“I know you can. But I’m happy to do it for you. Here, hold the light, will you?”

Rachel obeyed; she was not in a mood to stand on feminist principle. She watched as Roger got out the spare and laid out the tools.

“This tire’s had it,” he said.

“It’s an old car. They’re probably all about to go.”

Roger bent to his work. Rachel held the light and occasionally looked off into the darkness, up and down the road and off into the trees. She was reassured by Roger’s presence but her nerves were still twanging. “I thought you worked days,” she said.

Roger grunted softly, tugging to loosen the old tire. Rachel wondered if he had heard her and was about to repeat the question when he said, “We’re all working overtime these days.” He pulled the damaged tire free, pushed it away and looked up at her, squinting in the glare from the cruiser’s headlights. “Extra patrols. Us and the State Police. Especially at night.”

Roger stood up, his knees making a cracking sound. “Because that’s when he comes out,” he said.

Matt was gone when Rachel came down in the morning. Sleep had attenuated the hallucinatory quality of the previous evening. Today she was just a woman under stress who had added the complication of an affair to a life in disarray. She felt neither remorse nor elation regarding her roll in the hay with Dan; she had needed it and it would probably happen again and when the time came it would be over. Her feelings for Dan had survived the night unchanged; there was a connection there, but she had no illusions. It was a fling, and a well-managed fling could do a woman a lot of good. The trick was the management.

She ate breakfast in front of the television set, surfing the news shows. The national and international news was depressing and the local stations had nothing new on the Dearborn County killer. Rachel looked out the window at the sunlit, wind-scoured landscape and found that the terrors were manageable.

Rachel cleaned up and then went upstairs to Billy’s room. In a closet she found a canvas tote bag and then foraged for the things she had promised to bring him. When she had found them she paused, looking around the room. The books on the shelves were a motley assortment of science fiction, graphic novels and high school classics; a rack held a few dozen CDs whose covers looked like advertisements for tattoo parlors. A computer sat on a makeshift desk formed by an old door resting on milk crates. A baseball bat and glove rested in a corner, traces of a boy who had vanished.

Rachel sank onto the unmade bed, distracted. Her heart was heavy with what had happened to her family. She had grown up with the unshakable idea that the Lindstroms were successes: They had a prosperous farm, they were pillars of the community. They did well in school, married well and lived to a contented old age. They produced no black sheep, suffered no tragedies.

Rachel knew that her obscure feeling of guilt was irrational; her parents would have died, her sister-in-law would have killed herself and her nephew would have gone off the rails even if she hadn’t gone halfway around the world to marry unwisely and fail in her career. But the idea she couldn’t shake now was that she had run away and failed her family.

She sighed and rose; she could start atoning by making sure Billy had what he needed in exile. She went and found his toothbrush and put it in the bag. On her way out, she took a flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen and put it in the glove compartment in the car.

She made good time down the interstate to East Warrensburg. In daylight the town was no more prepossessing than at night, though she could see there was a nicer end of town like anywhere else, where the houses were a little bigger, a little better kept. People had to live somewhere. She managed to find the street that dead-ended at the railroad embankment and pulled up in front of the slovenly ranch house.

It didn’t take much to make a slum, Rachel thought, looking at it. What passed for a yard showed bare patches and crushed beer cans; a car muffler leaned against the side of the house next to a stack of cinder blocks and a stray tarp crumpled haphazardly. The Dodge Challenger was gone, replaced by a big Silverado pickup that had seen better days. A curtain in one of the windows moved and fell back. Rachel grabbed the tote bag and got out of the car.

She spotted a doorbell but before she got close enough to push it the door opened. Rachel was not surprised to see the girl standing there; she had been topping the list of Rachel’s guesses. She looked better without the heavy makeup, a little healthier at least, but she didn’t look especially friendly. She still looked underfed and her hair could have used a wash. Today she was wearing an oversized white T-shirt over purple tights. The shirt came almost to her knees and said
SEX REHAB DROPOUT
in big letters. “You’re Billy’s aunt,” she said.

“That’s right. I’ve got some things for him.”

“I’ll take them.” The girl held out her hand.

Rachel hesitated. Looking past the girl she could see a couch with a TV remote lying on it, and beyond that a life-sized liquor store cardboard cutout of a woman in a bikini brandishing a six-pack of beer. Some trailer-trash Rembrandt had added nipples and pubic hair with black marker. “Can I talk to him?” Rachel said.

“He’s still in bed.”

“Ah.” Rachel nodded. She was on the point of handing over the bag and fleeing, but suddenly she was irked: She was not going to be turned away by this slattern without getting a sense of who her nephew had taken refuge with. “I’m sorry, do you think you could go wake him up? I’d really like to talk to him.”

She thought for a moment she was about to get the door slammed in her face, but after stiffening and throwing a glance behind her the girl shrugged and stepped back, beckoning Rachel in. “I can try,” she said.

She closed the door behind Rachel and walked back through a kitchen divided from the living room by a counter, disappearing through a door. Rachel had halted by the door, staring at the man who was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. She had last seen him sneaking out of the shadows near her back door, casting a glance over his shoulder. Light did not improve his looks; he had long stringy blond hair and pale sleepy-looking eyes. Prominent cheekbones and a massive jutting jaw gave him the angular rough-hewn cast that had struck Rachel; he had a face made for mug shots.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Make yourself to home.” He had the drawl, and a blaring voice that he didn’t bother to modulate much.

Rachel took a few steps toward the kitchen, taking in the living room as she went: a television set the size of a small billboard, an armchair with multiple burned spots and a coffee table on which a deck of cards lay scattered in a pool of spilled beer. The place depressed her; it smelled of smoke, beer, dope, unwashed laundry and dirty dishes. It was overheated and she was uncomfortable in her coat. “I won’t trouble you too long,” she said.

“Ain’t no trouble. Want a beer?” He had one going in front of him, in a can, not the first of the day to judge by the empties on the counter. He was wearing a flannel shirt open over a T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos in blue ink on his forearms.

“No thanks. I’m driving.”

He laughed. “That don’t never stop me.” His heavy-lidded eyes had looked sleepy at first; now, as they sized Rachel up from head to toe, they looked impudent. “You’re his aunt, huh?”

He scared Rachel a little, but she was getting used to being scared; she had also had plenty of experience with men trying to intimidate her, from sour old deputy chiefs of mission to thuggish tribal sheiks. She looked directly into the pale eyes and said, “I am. And who are you?”

“Me? I’m what the cat drug in.” He sucked on the cigarette.

Rachel nodded, giving him her coolest smile. “You live here?”

“Shit, no. I been thrown out of here. But the lady that done the throwing ain’t here right now.”

“I see. Who does live here?”

“You’re kinda curious, ain’t you?”

Rachel returned the stare. “Yeah. I’m curious.”

He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “I guess Billy does, now.”

“With her?” Rachel nodded toward the back of the house.

“Her and her mom. The Bitch, we call her.”

Rachel nodded, looking around. “I can see why you like it here,” she said.

She thought for a moment that she had made the mistake of mocking somebody who was smart enough to get it. But he only said, “It ain’t bad. You should come around some time when you can stay a while.”

And Rachel realized with a shock that the sleepy look was not intended to intimidate so much as seduce; this specimen was coming on to her.

Her astonishment struck her dumb until the door at the back opened. “He’s getting dressed,” said the girl, coming back into the kitchen. Her eyes flicked from Rachel to the man and back.

“Thanks.” Rachel turned. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

“Shit, sit down and have a beer,” said the man. “Don’t be that way.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Rachel said, making for the door. “I’m in kind of a rush.” She let herself out.

Outside in the cold she shook her head. You have got to be kidding me, she thought. Do I look like the type who sleeps with Neanderthals? The enormity of his presumption appalled her, then made her stifle a laugh. She thought of Dan suddenly, six three and two-hundred-something, linebacker sized.

I have a man who could wipe the floor with you. Rachel leaned on the car, surprised at the atavism of her reaction. Cavemen fighting over a woman, she thought. But it felt good to think of Dan, swatting the punk like a fly. It felt good to think of him, period.

The door opened and Billy came out. His hair flew in the wind as he came to meet her. “Jeez, thanks. I appreciate it.” He took the bag.

“Billy, who the hell is that guy?”

He gave her a shamefaced look. “That’s Randy. I know, he’s kinda hard to take sometimes. Did he say something to piss you off?”

“No, he was pretty friendly, actually. Would his last name be Stanfield by any chance?”

Billy nodded. “My dad warned you about him, huh?”

“He mentioned him. Who’s the girl?”

Billy shrugged. “Just a friend. Kayla. She’s cool.”

Rachel nodded vaguely and they stood looking at each other, Billy shivering in the wind. “Billy. My offer stands. You come up with a plan to change your life, I’ll fund it. I’ll loan you what you need to get started somewhere else. I haven’t done anything else for this family for twenty years, so it’s time. But you have to have a plan.”

He stared gravely at her for a long time, then his eyes fell. “I ain’t going nowhere till my court case comes up. But I’ll be thinking about it. And I really, truly appreciate it, Aunt Rachel. Believe me, I do.”

“All right, then.” Impulsively she grabbed him in a quick hug.

His arms went around her briefly and then he pulled away. “Thanks for this shit.”