Devil's Oven (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lila stripped off her nightgown and panties and put on the delicious spa robe Bud had bought for her on their last trip out west. She checked the bedside clock—she was way overdue for another sedative. Her back and neck muscles were tight with stress, but a good hour in the hot tub would help with that. Though she had begun to think it was possible she would never feel clean, never feel human again.

Her cell phone sat nearby in its charger. Bud had reminded her to turn it on, and she had, but as soon as he was out of the room, she turned it off again. Her parents were freaking out, begging her to come and stay with them in the city “until that horrible killer is caught.” God knew how many messages she had from Tripp.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw one of two things: Claude Dixon’s lump of a body in the blinding relief of her headlights, or Tripp’s face—or what was supposed to be Tripp’s face staring down at her as he carried her from the woods. But that pinched mask, with its unfocused eyes, creased jowls, and gray, hollowed cheeks, couldn’t have been the man she had been sleeping with off and on for the past year. The man she trusted almost as much as Bud. What in the hell had happened to him? He had called her by that slut’s name.
Jolene
.

In her heart she knew he hadn’t messed with the girl, but she suddenly wanted to be free of him. It was as if Claude’s murder had woken her from some spell Tripp had cast over her.

He had always been on the strange side, with his computer geek friends and the way he’d stayed away from sports in school. If any of the girls she had hung out with at school found out she’d been sleeping with him, they would laugh.

But then.

She couldn’t help herself after he pursued her for almost a year, showing up on her walking route, at the few restaurants in the area, at the grocery store, at the gym. Never pressuring her, but letting her know she was looking good, that he was there. Ready when she was. As old school friends in a small town, no one seemed to think it was unusual that they would spend fifteen minutes chatting, having coffee. Not even Bud. When she finally let herself fall into it, fall into
him
, it had felt familiar and wonderfully new at the same time. She didn’t even have the excuse of being unhappy with Bud.

Tripp had been good to her, hadn’t he? Almost as good as Bud, in his way. She had been a shit to them both.

It didn’t matter now, though.
This
Tripp was a different person.

If she dumped him completely, would he tell the police in revenge that she’d been at the cabin that night? And if he was a different person, had he become the kind who might murder someone? No, she didn’t think so. He had been standing on the porch when Claude’s body came shooting out of the woods. But if she hadn’t seen it for herself?
Maybe he was still capable of it.

•  •  •

In the kitchen, she pinched off a still-warm corner of the banana nut bread Danelle had baked that morning, and made a snack of wheat crackers and honey with a few baby carrots on the side. She ate more when Bud was around because he seemed to worry if she didn’t eat as much as he thought she needed to. Since she’d hit the down side of her thirties, she had begun to notice she couldn’t eat like she had only a year earlier. But she was hungry even now, stressed out as she was.

She called for Danelle, just wanting to know where she was, and that she was working. When she got no answer, she padded from room to room in the spongy terry slippers that matched her robe. Tripp had bought her a pretty red silk robe at a lingerie store in a mall. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that, like many redheads, she didn’t much like to wear red.

She found Danelle hanging sheets on the clothesline that was hidden in the corner between the maid’s tiny apartment—they never were able to find a decent live-in—and the back of the garage. Air-dried sheets were among Lila’s favorite things. Because Alta was well away from any coal plants or paper mills, the air around Devil’s Oven was always clear. Always perfect.

She left Danelle to her work. The woman was distractible enough, and Lila wanted to get some time in the hot tub before she had to meet Bud for lunch. He had told her that he didn’t think it was right to be seen out enjoying himself after what had happened to Claude, but she had convinced him it was okay. It wasn’t like he killed Claude or they were related or even that they would run into Claude’s poor wife (that shrew—Lila felt mean thinking Claude was probably better off now without her). Getting out was for Bud’s peace of mind. And hers.

She went into the backyard, balancing her plate, a decorating magazine, and a mug of tea. When she was settled, she pulled up some Sarai on her mp3 player, rested it on a towel, and put in her earbuds. Finally, there was some sunshine, and she could feel spring trying to break through. It seemed that the days since Claude’s death had been filled with fits of mist and rain and cold. She was desperate for more spring. For light. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

•  •  •

He saw her from the trees. She sat in the water with her eyes closed, all but a few stray curls of her red hair wrapped in a chocolate-colored towel. The breeze brought him the smell of her sweat. It was nothing like the sour smell of Claude Who Was Not Food or the stench of sickness that came off Thora. It was sweeter, like something from the woods. But as much as it attracted him, it was the smell coming from the kitchen that drew him past her and into the house.

He walked in an arc behind her, keeping to the bushes, not because he was concerned she would see him, but because it was the easiest way to the kitchen. She was what he had come for, but she could wait.

The house felt familiar. It was more than the smell of the nutty loaf he found cooling on the kitchen counter. It was the feeling of space—of tile and painted walls; rich cabinetry; vast, open ceilings; and shining floors. He recognized these things and found them pleasing. He picked up the loaf and broke it into halves. He bit into one half, then stuffed his mouth full of its sweetness. But as he ate, his hunger grew instead of faded, as though his gut were being quickly emptied. By the time he was finished and licking the last few crumbs from his fingertips, he was trembling all over. Thirsty, too. He looked around for something to drink.

“What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

A woman—not the one he had come for—set the basket of laundry she was carrying on the floor. She was much shorter than he, reaching only to the middle of his chest. With her gray hair and lusterless white skin, she was like Thora. The tang of her fear made his nose itch.

“You get yourself out of here,” she said. He watched her eyes slip to the knives hanging above the massive stove.

He caught her in the front hallway, first grabbing her by the shoulder, then getting hold of the roll of fat around her neck. She died quickly. He had taken one of the smaller knives, and, standing over her, he thought of the other yellow apple in his pocket, of peeling the skin from it with the blade, and raising the blade with the skin of the apple to his teeth.

•  •  •

He could hear the teacher calling from maybe a hundred yards away at the other end of the orchard. The three of them—Anthony, Marcus, and David—made an awkward triangle around Allan. Shy Allan who couldn’t speak, and would only sign with David, or his aide, who was home sick that day.

“You’re it, Allan,” Anthony said, right into Allan’s face. “You know how to count to a hundred, don’t you?” He thought hide-and-seek was stupid and that they were too old to play it, but the field trip was boring and the teacher had left them on their own for the last twenty minutes. Anthony hated the country. There were probably killer snakes around the orchards—copperheads, the pit vipers the science teacher was always talking about, or maybe someone’s escaped pet python.

“He’s deaf, not stupid, you moron,” Marcus said.

“Bite me, asshole,” Anthony said.

Marcus was always out to make him look stupid. Marcus wasn’t afraid of anything because his older brother Nikko always came around to settle his problems. He had seen Marcus, his girly pink lips pressed together in a smug smile, stand behind Nikko as Nikko beat the shit out of another eighth grader who had cut ahead of Marcus in the lunch line.

“Take a joke, moron,” Marcus said. “Anyway, it’s your turn. Allan goes last. He always goes last.” Marcus wasn’t going to let him make an issue of it.

Allan folded his arms and croaked out something that might have been “yeah.” But he wouldn’t meet Anthony’s eyes.

David didn’t say anything, either, which meant he was with Marcus. As always.

“I’m only counting to fifty,” Anthony said, turning around. “And don’t even think about leaving me here, assholes.”

They had been climbing up into the trees to hide from both the seekers and the orchard staff, who had lectured them about staying close to their classmates or the farm store when they were done picking their bucket of apples. Anthony had already given his apples to Leeza, a sixth-grade girl he liked.

Anthony walked slowly through the orchard, listening, but at the same time keeping a watch out for snakes.

He found David easily because he had been dumb enough to try to hide without taking off the bright red down vest he was wearing. Sometimes Anthony wondered who was dumber: David or Marcus. He was pretty sure David’s old man had dropped him on his head when he was a baby. The two of them found Allan in a graying wooden crate the pickers used to dump the apples.

This time they heard the teacher’s whistle blow, which meant it was the last call.

“I’m done with this shit,” Anthony said. “Let’s go.”

“We gotta get Marcus,” David said. “Where’s Marcus?”

“Screw Marcus. I’m going to get some more of that cider stuff,” Anthony said.

Allan shook David’s arm, signed, and pointed to the western side of the orchard, which ended in an overgrown field.

“Allan says Marcus is over there.”

“You find him,” Anthony said.

“You’re such a pussy,” David said. “Marcus always says you’re a pussy.”

Anthony knew David was baiting him, but he bit anyway. He’d been thinking he might be able to take on Marcus’s brother if he had to. There was a hunting knife he had lifted from a sporting goods store that he’d been practicing with. It was big, though. He would have to be wearing his boots to get it into school.

David and Allan watched him go into the overgrown pasture. The grass and weeds were all at least two or three feet tall and hid everything except the top of a rusting sedan and a piece of farm equipment that was in similar shape.

“Marcus!” Anthony shouted. “Come out, you asshole!”

He looked in the sedan first. All of the glass was broken out and a bush with red, leafless branches grew up out of the backseat floor. He climbed up on the collapsing hood of the car, almost losing his footing on its pitted surface.

David yelled for them to come on. From behind them, Anthony could hear the shrill scream of the teacher’s whistle getting closer.

He saw a flash of Marcus’s yellow T-shirt against the brown grass and jumped down. He ran. He could get in at least three or four good punches before David or Allan could even get out there.

Later he would hear that the mangled thing Marcus was hiding under was called a haybine. He had heard of combines, but this was something different. It wasn’t his fault that some lazy farmer had left the stupid thing half taken apart out in the field, its tines and bale spear hidden in the tall grass.

Springing onto the hitch end of the haybine, he walked along the metal arm like it was a balance beam. When it shifted beneath his feet, he heard Marcus cry out. He froze.

“Shit, oh my god!” Marcus sounded terrified, amazed. “I’m dead!” Then he made a croaking sound that made Anthony want to laugh until he realized it was the real thing.

Anthony couldn’t move. The teacher’s whistle blew. He heard his name, but who was calling him? Now it came over him. That feeling of happiness. That feeling like warm sunshine that filled him when things were going just right.

Anthony jumped, rocking the busted heap of metal. Marcus was crying. Crying like a baby. He jumped again and again until the haybine shifted again and he fell off. From where Anthony lay in the tall grass, he could see one of Marcus’s arms. Finally, Marcus stopped crying and let out a burst of air like a punctured tire. He went silent.

•  •  •

It took Anthony a minute to find the refrigerator, disguised as it was to look like the rest of the cabinets. The smells from inside it rushed at him: meat, asparagus, wine, ripe cheese, sugar. Lots of sugar. He wiped his bloody hands on one of the bright green dish towels lying on the counter before he scooped his fingers into a crockery bowl of pudding topped with meringue.

The pudding was vanilla, and there were cookies and slices of banana at the bottom of the dish. Taking a second scoop, he got cookie crumbs wedged beneath his shallow fingernails, but it didn’t bother him. Then he peeled a fleshy layer of meringue off the undisturbed side of the bowl. He put a chunk of it in his mouth and closed his eyes, standing still as it melted on his tongue. Finally, the smell of banana and sugar overcame the smell of the woman’s blood coming off his clothes and skin. When the bowl was empty, he opened a jug of milk and drank, nearly choking himself with the flow.

“Red? You home?”

He had never heard the man’s voice, but his words brought the smell of him through the big front hallway into the kitchen and he knew. Still, it wasn’t time to kill the man. Not yet.