Going to the Bad (26 page)

“Okay.” I started back toward the road.

“Wait. You can't just leave me out here.” Kincaid ran after me. “What about my bumper?”

I stopped.

Bouncer stepped to the front of the truck and evaluated the damage. “I think I can fix it temporarily. Just so you can get home.”

“How's that?” he said.

Bouncer pointed to the roll of duct tape still in my hand. “I told you we'd need it.”

After dropping Bouncer at his mom's store, I got on the freeway. For the third time in a day I drove north to the Kings' property.

The sun had risen and I could see Warner's electric fence along his side of the road. Still, the haze was coming on fast, and an
honest-to-goodness tule fog was almost a certainty now. Children in Bakersfield would wake up to stockings on the mantel, toys under the tree, and severely reduced visibility.

I continued on the public road and found the paved driveway leading to the mobile homes. After a quick U-turn I doubled back and parked behind the same transformer I'd used to hide the news van when Leanore had been with me.

Just as before, I set off on foot. I was lucky. The mist was thinner here and the Christmas lights Sally had strung so obsessively guided me like a beacon. I reached the back side of Mida's mobile home and gazed reluctantly up at the still open bathroom window. The room looked dark, but a soft sound could be heard from the interior.

I pulled myself up—not fun—and climbed in headfirst again. That's when I recognized the sound: moaning.

“Mida?” I jumped up and hurried into the hallway. “Mida, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Her fragile voice called from the bedroom, “Help me.”

Christmas Day, 7:42 a.m.

I
hurried into the dark bedroom. The smell drew a gag from
deep in my throat. I held my breath while groping for a light switch, but knew I'd have to breathe eventually. I shouldn't have worried about it. What I saw when the light came on made me forget the smell.

Mida was on the floor next to the bed. Her housecoat, the same one she'd been wearing earlier, had torn, and the fabric now rode up in a tangle over her head and arms. Her body was exposed. She'd soiled the bed, the floor, and herself. Muted sobs came from under the confusion of fabric covering her face.

I should have felt more for Mida, but the shock of seeing my first naked, elderly body momentarily diverted all other thought. Popular culture hadn't prepared me for the reality of breasts sagging to a woman's waist or skin covered in spots, gouges, scars, and plain old weird discolorations.

I snapped out of it and knelt at her side. “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?”

“Help me,” she cried.

“I can't until I know if anything might be broken.” I tried to gently lower the fabric and free her head.

She saw me and recoiled. “Who are you? Where's my mother?”

“I need to know where you're hurt.”

She turned her head back to the floor and wept. “I'm so cold.”

With the bathroom window left open, the entire trailer was freezing. I shut the window, turned up the heat, and found a clean blanket, which provided both warmth and modesty.

Mida had been lucky when she fell and hadn't broken anything.
Of course she'd need to follow up with a doctor, but there were no obvious problems other than a cut on her leg.

I found a fully stocked first-aid kit in the bathroom—probably left over from better times when Mida still had an aide. I cleaned the cut and taped a bandage over it. Her legs were thick and swollen. I didn't know what that meant, but it probably wasn't healthy.

I found a pair of heavy rubber gloves, sanitary wipes, and other cleaning items in a hall closet. Mida's bedding was filthy, not just from her recent accident, but from other accidents on other nights. I left it all in a pile in the living room. While I put on fresh sheets, Mida went into the bathroom. She'd wanted to do the more intimate cleaning herself, which I was grateful for.

I heard her coming and called out, “Mida, I'm in your bedroom. I'm the lady who's helping you after your fall.”

I'd feared that she'd forget I was there and start screaming when she saw me, but I needn't have worried. Mida accepted me without question.

“Thank you so much, dear. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

I finished tucking the sheet in. “I need to ask you a couple questions, if that's okay?”

“I'm sorry, dear.” Her hand went to her head. “I'm so sleepy.”

I remembered overhearing Sally and Brandon's argument. “You took some cough medicine.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I think your daughter gave it to you.”

“But Sally's a little girl.” She stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

I swallowed. “No, she's not.”

Mida hesitated. This indicated that at least some part of her knew it was true. “I don't . . . How old is Sally?”

“Fifty, maybe.”

Terror sprung to Mida's face. “How old am I?”

“I don't know.” I pulled the clean sheet and blanket back. “Why don't you get into bed?”

She did and I covered her with the blanket. It only took moments for her to forget our conversation about Sally's age, but judging from her agitation, the pain and upset remained.

I reasoned that if someone had punched me, and I immediately forgot it had happened, I'd still have the ache and bruising where the blow had made contact, I just wouldn't know why.

After I'd got her a requested glass of water, I sat down on the bed. “I know you want to get some sleep, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

“Did you give Sally some jewelry?”

“Maybe.” Her eyes wandered around the room looking for a clue that would fill in the blanks of her memory. “I don't think I have very much. Just some pearls and things.”

I shook my head. “I'm talking about two brooches. They were Russian military medals. One of them had diamonds.”

She turned quickly to me and her eyes thinned. “I don't know anything about that.”

“I'm describing the jewelry your brother stole.”

“I don't know about that,” she said with more passion.

Was she lying or unable to remember, and how would I know the difference?

I decided to try more recent history. “Sally fired your aide because there was no more money. Did you give her the jewelry so you could have an aide again?”

“You're lying.” She started to sit up. “There's plenty of money. Cousin Leland always takes care of me.”

“It's okay.” I tried to get her to lie back down. “You can trust me. I'm Bud Hawkins's niece.”

“If that were true, then you'd already know.” She lay back in bed and covered her head with the blanket. “Go away. You're the reason I'm having so much trouble.”

“Mida, please,” I said, but she refused to answer or come out from under the blanket.

I retrieved the rest of the cleaning supplies and went to work on the floor where she'd fallen. Soon she dropped into a rhythm of deeper breaths and even a few snores.

There was no way around it. I would have to call social services when they opened on Monday. I felt bad for Brandon. I hated the way Sally and Kincaid had forced him into making the meth. If those activities were discovered because I'd called the authorities about Mida, he'd get a long prison sentence.

Ironically, Sally as a user instead of a manufacturer would get a much lighter sentence. But the word
user
seemed a good description of her. She'd fed off her mother's money and indulgences her entire life. Now she was feeding off her son. If she'd been forced to stand on her own and get a job, would she still have fallen into addiction?

The floor was close to being finished when I heard a car. I almost jumped out the bathroom window and ran for it, but without Mida's screaming for help like before, I reasoned I was safe.

The car stopped between the two mobile homes. I peeked out the living-room blinds and saw a black SUV like the one Erabelle had been driving earlier. A man got out and removed something from the backseat.

The door to the other mobile home burst open. Sally, in pajamas and a robe, ran to the man. I didn't hear words, but her joyful squeals and giggles sounded as innocent as a little girl's on Christmas morning.

The man said something and turned to hand her a bulky object. It was Frank, Warner's head of security. I recognized the object as a turkey—fresh not frozen, judging by how giddy it made Sally. After a few more words between them, Sally pointed to where the paved driveway ended and the dirt road began. Frank got back in the SUV and drove into the interior of the property.

Only one thing was at the end of that road: the farmhouse.
What would Frank need to see Brandon about? A bribe? Were they buying the Kings off the way they'd tried to buy me? More important, did this have something to do with Rod's absence?

“Crud.” I doubled back through the house. I grabbed the cleaning supplies and threw them in the closet. I left the dirty linens in the pile in the living room and climbed back out the bathroom window. I tried to run to my van, but the fog had got worse. I had to head for the highway and then follow that to the transformer.

Once inside, I started the news van and drove as fast as I dared. I knew the relative distance and tracked it on my odometer. The first time by, I missed the Mountain Dew bottle I'd left by the side of the road. I pulled a U-turn—dangerous in the fog—and found it on my second pass.

I zeroed the odometer and entered the property. The trail of flattened weeds again led my way, but visibility was down to several feet. I crept along at a snail's pace. When I'd gone a quarter mile, I stopped.

If my calculations were correct, the trees on the ridge above the farmhouse were just ahead. I couldn't risk driving any closer and plummeting over the edge. I reached into the back to grab Bouncer's duct tape.

There was movement under the tarp again. “Thing!” I couldn't even remember when he might have stowed away, but there was no denying the dog liked me.

“I don't have time for you right now,” I called into the back. “You should have gone with Freddy to the TV station.” The dog's playful movements continued under the tarp. He was almost as stubborn as I was.

I got out and secured the tape to the front of the van. I took one last moment to orient myself before following the crushed weeds on foot. With each step I let out more tape. I reached the end of the roll, but still hadn't found the ridge.

I glanced back into the fog. If I let go of the tape, I might not
be able to find my way back. Visibility was nonexistent. I could be inches from the van and not know it.

Even more discouraging, I couldn't hear Brandon's heavy-metal music. What if I was nowhere near the farmhouse? What if I'd made a wrong turn and was lost somewhere on the Kings' barren land? And how long had it taken just to reach this spot? Frank had probably completed his business and was already gone.

I tightened my grip on the cardboard circle. It had previously been the duct tape's hidden core, but now the last of that flat, silver material ran off the end and disappeared into thin air. This was my lifeline. I had come far for Bud and for myself, but it was time to go back.

Instead, I let go. What if Rod was in trouble? I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him.

Three steps. Four. Ten. Twenty. Then I heard it—an engine running. I tried to identify where it came from, but the fog bounced the sound as if it were a rubber ball let loose in a box.

Nothing to do but go forward. Five more steps. Ten. Then I saw it. A tree trunk to my right. I rushed to it like an oasis in a desert.

Unlike the last time I'd looked down the ridge, a car was parked in front of the house. I could hear the engine and make out the dark outline of the vehicle as the fog shifted.

Other sounds emerged from under the engine's mechanical rumbling. Sharp, quick stabs followed by shuffling clumps. Digging? Why would anyone be digging in this remote spot?

A grave? Fear gripped me. Was it possible that they'd actually killed Rod? Had Frank been dispatched to hide the body?

I felt my way down the hill as quietly as possible. At least twice I slipped. The second time I made noise grasping for weeds to steady myself.

The sound of digging stopped. “Hello?” It was Frank's voice.

I froze. My chest heaved from exertion, but I tried to quiet my breathing.

“Hello?” he said louder. “Who's there?”

I heard a door open. “Are you calling me?” Brandon must have come out the farmhouse's front door. “Is everything okay?”

“I heard something,” Frank said. “But it was probably just an animal.”

“There are a lot of those out here.” Steps on the porch. “I'd come out and take a look with you, but I'm in the middle of some delicate work.”

The digging sounds resumed. “The less I know about what you're doing in there, the better, kid.”

Frank actually had the gall to sound judgmental. Frank! The man who'd kidnapped me last year and who'd made an entire career out of breaking laws for Leland Warner.

If Frank's hypocrisy had tweaked Brandon's pride, he didn't let on. “How much longer?”

“I'm almost done. The digging was much easier than I thought.”

“My mom dug that entire area up a couple weeks ago to get the jewelry. The dirt was probably still soft.”

Kincaid had said that the gold brooch was black and filthy when Sally traded it for meth. Mida must have told her it was buried out at the farmhouse. Had the diamond star been buried with it?

“Whatever the reason, I'm thankful.” Frank paused to grunt as he exerted himself. “I'm not as young as I used to be.”

Brandon laughed. “Neither am I, and I'm only twenty-two.”