Edge of Midnight (12 page)

The leaves turned slippery and black. He was running through a river. The water got thicker, turned red. Blood. It splashed when his foot hit down.

The body lay ahead. He ran. Turned the body over.

A battered, broken face grimaced with an empty smile.

Noooo!

 

14

Standing just inside the barn door, Cary listened. The smell of corn lay heavy in the hot air. No sound except the corn stalks sighing and whispering in the wind, murmuring spiteful and cancerous secrets that dropped to the soil where they decayed and disintegrated like dying leaves returning nutrients to the plants. She gathered newspapers from the car's trunk and closed the lid. Shoulders tight, papers clutched to her chest, she hurried to the house and dropped the papers on the kitchen table. After drinking a glass of water, she struck out for town.

Last night, she hadn't paid much attention, now she made note of landmarks so she could find her way back. Kelby lived on Wakarusa Road. She went north, turned right on the first wide-looking street, which was Hollis. Hampstead was a small town. How lost could she get? Ha. With
her
eyesight?

Sweat beaded her forehead and plastered the shirt to her back, her breathing came in a wheezy pull. Monterey Street made her think of California. She took another turn and found a small park. Berry Park. Trees, leaves changing to gold and red, lined a grassy bank. A clubhouse sat behind a play area with swings, slides, and jungle gym. The park was deserted, but there was a phone at the side of the building. If this were Berkeley, or even El Cerrito, the phone wouldn't be working. However, this was Hampstead and the phone appeared to be intact. Scooping a handful of dimes, nickels, and quarters from her pocket, she lifted the receiver, then hesitated. Surely there was no way this call could be traced. How could there be?

Mentally, she shook herself. Being careful was one thing, being paranoid was another. Why would anyone put a trace on a public phone in Hampstead, Kansas? Whoever heard of Hampstead? Or Kansas? More important, only Arlette knew she was here.

Her watch said seven-fifteen, two hours earlier in California. Arlette wasn't going to be happy about the phone ringing at five-fifteen
A.M
. After four rings, Arlette's recorded voice said she was busy and couldn't come to the phone right now, please leave a message. Cary hung up. Where was Arlette at five in the morning? Still asleep?

She thumbed coins in the slot and tried again. The answering machine responded. Stuffing the remaining coins back in her pocket, she trudged back to Kelby's. Oatmeal for her breakfast with milk that was just on the edge. As she sipped instant coffee, she thought with longing of a good cup of Peet's coffee. Nose almost against the page and maneuvering it to find her spot of sight, she read about the church rummage sale and the damages to crops and livestock caused by the heat wave.

After perusing the ads, she went up to Kelby's office, picked up the binoculars, and looked out at the wide-open spaces where the deer and the antelope roam. None were roaming at the moment, but in the distance blackbirds circled in the blue sky, just like they did in old westerns where the music grew ominous and the hero was about to die.

With the deck of cards from the desk, she went downstairs and played solitaire. In the middle of the afternoon, with the sun so hot on her shoulders she felt she might spontaneously combust, she made the trek back to Berry Park and called Arlette again. The answering machine kicked in. Nearly fainting from heat by the time she returned, she splashed her face with cold water and stretched out on the couch with the fan blowing over her. At nine in the evening, she tried calling a third time. Still no Arlette.

Maybe she didn't answer because she didn't recognize the number. Receiver in her hand, Cary dithered. She had to talk with Arlette.

“It's me,” she said when the machine beeped at her. “You there? Pick up!” She waited, she waited, the machine beeped letting her know her time had run out. Damn it, where was Arlette? Another try got her the machine again, and Cary said, “Call.”

Slapping at mosquitoes feasting on exposed flesh, she trudged through the summer night back to the house. The cornfield stirred in the wind. It was an unnerving presence and she felt it was watching her. The darkness was busy with rustling and scrabbling sounds. Small animals? She hoped they were small. Crickets chirruped, fireflies flickered, and somewhere in the distance a coyote yipped a forlorn cry. Maybe it had made the scream she'd heard when she was in the barn.

Lying on the living room sofa, she waited for Arlette's call. It got later and later. She dozed. Arlette didn't call. Daylight crept in before she fell asleep. When she woke, she knew where she was without that sickly period of confusion.

Bread and strawberry jam for breakfast with another cup of instant coffee. She showered and put back on the same clothes she'd worn when she left on Monday. She looked through the
People
magazine on the coffee table. Already she could tell her sight was slightly worse. As her field of vision closed, she felt this urgent compulsion to read. Read, read, read every moment while she still could. Did Hampstead have a library? Probably. So what? She didn't have a card, or any way to get one.

All morning she paced and watched snatches of television, fighting the pull of clean clothes. Midafternoon she gave in, went to Kelby's bedroom, and found underwear in the top drawer of the chest, a short-sleeved knit shirt and a pair of jeans in the closet. Feeling like the worse kind of scum, she showered—long, and using a lot of soap and shampoo. When she stepped out of the tub, she rubbed herself red drying off. Kelby's clothes, even too big, felt luxurious. She might be scum, but at least she was clean scum.

Gathering her smelly garments, she carried them to the basement. Nervous and halfway expecting something to jump out at her, she stuffed clothes in the washer, added soap from the box on the shelf above and spun the dial. While the washer took care of dirt, she paced the living room again and watched more television. She wanted books. She threw clothes in the dryer, wandered from living room to dining room to kitchen. Maybe Kelby had a library card. Surely, stealing a hostess's underwear was worse than borrowing her library card.

She raced upstairs and looked in Kelby's purse. No library card. Credit cards, driver's license, checkbook, money. Nine dollars and two cents. She took the driver's license and the money. Superficial likeness at best, but maybe okay, unless someone really looked carefully.

Using the keys in the purse, she locked the kitchen door behind her. Heat rose up like a blast from opening a furnace door. She struck out walking. In a town this small, if she couldn't find the library, she could ask. Someone would tell her. Kelby's house was so isolated it took a minute or two of walking before she came to the nearest neighbors. By that time she was dripping sweat and her spirits were flagging.

The homes were mixed, some large old farmhouses, some newer, wood frame or brick. Trees spread blazing red and gold colors against the vast sky. The sun burned against the back of her neck, but movement felt good, even with the hot wind blowing in her face. More houses, different neighborhoods, some beautiful old Victorians with gingerbread and fancy windows.

When she reached the business area, her feet hurt and she felt the pull of muscles in her calves which hadn't been used so much in days. Many of the commercial buildings were made of creamy stone, giving the place an old look, like it had been around a long time.
And so it probably had, dummy.

The downtown area was only two blocks long, department store, bank, church, boutiquey places, hardware store, something called Feed and Grain, fabric shop, antique shop, and, to her joy, a bookstore. She would investigate that later. Outside the bank was a phone. Scooping coins from Kelby's purse, she lifted the receiver and thumbed in coins and punched the number. The phone rang four times and the answering machine kicked in. Damn it!

Cary looked at her watch. Idiot. It was only three-thirty Friday afternoon. Arlette was still at work. Call there? Cary punched the work number and was told Arlette wasn't in. She declined to leave a message. The urge to call Mitch came on strong, just dial the number because it was familiar and she was so scared, and so alone, and she didn't know what to do.

No!

She flipped pages in the phone book and found the library. Iowa Street. “Excuse me,” she said to a woman coming from the bank stuffing money in her wallet. “Could you tell me where Iowa street is?”

“Sure.” She pointed. “You go down that way. I think one block. Or two. Then left at the picture-framing shop and continue until you come to it. You can't miss it.”

With her eyesight? She could miss a marching band if it weren't making any noise. Aiming herself in the direction the woman had indicated, Cary ran right into the police department. Or, at least, her path took her straight past. She kept going. Half a block farther, she stopped at the magazine shop and picked up the
San Francisco Chronicle
. And there was her picture. Right on the front page for all the world to see.

Her jaw clenched. She held it close to pick out the headline.
WIFE OF BERKELEY POLICE OFFICER MISSING
. Fear touched a cold finger to her spine. She glanced around, feeling instantly recognizable, like the whole world was watching, pointing, saying, “There, there, that's her, she's the one.”

She threw money at the counter and fled. Outside a man came toward her and she quickly tucked the paper under her elbow and hurried in the other direction. Slow down! Nobody runs in this heat. Sure way to call attention to yourself.

She turned and asked if he knew where Iowa Street was. He gave her better directions. She thanked him, went two blocks, turned left and found the library, a surprisingly modern building, red brick with lots of glass. Just inside the door, she stopped and took a deep breath. The musty, dusty, slightly mildewy smell of books. The best smell in the world. It calmed her, raised her sagging spirits.

The librarian, soft brown hair held together at the nape of her neck with a butterfly clip, sat behind the checkout counter. A teenage girl slouched at one of the small tables that dotted the room, consulting a book and scribbling notes, an elderly man read a newspaper. Fear froze her throat. When she saw it was the local paper, she managed to swallow. At a far table, she spread out the
Chronicle
and stared at her picture. Taken at their wedding. Mitch looked handsome, dashing and just a little dangerous.

She'd aged since then. In body and spirit. The girl in the picture looked young and happy. Untested. Gazing out at a future with the joy and unawareness of youth. Bending close to the page, she read the article.

Wife of twelve-year police veteran Mitchell Black still missing after four days. The day she disappeared she planned to go grocery shopping at the El Cerrito Plaza. The distraught husband, greatly worried about his missing wife, asks anyone who saw her that day to please come forward.

Missing. She felt suddenly dizzy. The air got too thick, the room seemed to shift. The small print on the paper looked like lines of marching ants. Clenching her fists, she dug her fingernails into her palms and waited for the room to settle.

When she felt she could walk without collapsing, she went to the new book section, where she collected eight books without much looking at them. Had someone recognized her from the picture? Was at this very minute calling the police?

A reward. There was a reward out for her. Like she was a criminal. Would her photo be up in the post office? Would people study it? Memorize her face?

In a mad flurry of recklessness, she carried the books to the counter to see if she'd be recognized. She said she wanted a library card. A form was handed over. She dutifully filled it out, using Kelby's name and address.

“Have you anything with your address?”

Cary slapped Kelby's checkbook down and waited to be denounced as an imposter.

The librarian made out a card, used it to check out her books, then handed her a slip of paper with a list of the books and the date they were due. Cary grabbed her books and hustled out. She got as far as the entryway when her knees threatened to buckle. To give herself time to gather starch so she wouldn't melt in a heap on the floor, she stopped and looked at the notices pinned on a bulletin board. Lost dog. Car for sale. Cat needing new home. She could have a cat now, if she wanted. There was no one to tell her she couldn't. Piano lessons. Ballet lessons. Business cards pinned up by gardeners and people who did housecleaning.

Companion wanted, light cooking, cleaning. Call Stephanie Farley.

Could she get a job like that? Lord knows, she could cook and clean.

“She really needs somebody,” the librarian said. “She's desperate. I can give her a call if you like.”

Cary turned and found the librarian watching her. “Uh … thanks, that's okay—”

“Only take a second.” The librarian punched in a number. “Hi, Steph. I've got somebody here who's just who you're looking for.” She listened a moment, smiled at Cary, then said, “I'll send her right over. Her name's Kelby Oliver.”

“Oh … uh no, it's…” Oh Lord, after using that name to get a library card, what would happen if she now said she wasn't Kelby?

Cary accepted the note with the address and asked for directions. Newspaper and books clutched to her chest, she trudged through the heat. She didn't have to go. She didn't know anything about being a companion, she didn't think she'd be good at it.

You need a job
. Should she or shouldn't she went back and forth in her mind until she got to Carson Street.

The house, an old Victorian, sat on a slope, porch along the length of the front, door painted a bright yellow, half-circle of stained glass above. The second story had small arched windows with yellow trim. The grass needed mowing and weeds had sprung up in the flower beds. Next door two young children were squabbling about whose turn it was on the swing.