Authors: Carlene Thompson
Michael looked at the body closely. “You’re right.” He glanced at Christine. “Is this how it looked when you were here earlier?”
“I didn’t notice,” she said in a small voice. “I was so shocked, I didn’t really look at anything except her face.”
“But you didn’t rearrange the hay?”
“No.” Christine’s voice grew a bit stronger. “Of course not.”
“Maybe by accident?”
“No, Deputy Winter. I didn’t touch her body. Only her head.” Christine felt all over again the cooling blood that had seeped into Patricia’s beautiful hair from some kind of head wound. She looked at her hand, which was stained dull red. She hadn’t even noticed her own hand. “Only her head,” she said again.
None of them had heard another car drive up, but suddenly Ames Prince stood in the barn a few feet away from them. His thin body was rigid. He stared at Patricia’s body for nearly ten seconds, his angular face expressionless. Then he turned his cool gray eyes on Christine and said in a venomous voice, “My God, girl, what have you done now?”
Later Christine could only replay that afternoon in her mind as she would a nightmare, not a real event, because she couldn’t bear the reality of Ames’s frigid gaze or the lash of his voice. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t realized for a few seconds that the paramedics and Michael Winter were all staring at her.
Michael broke the silence: “Mr. Prince, we’re not certain what happened here—”
“Patricia died, that’s what happened here,” Ames snapped. “Anyone can see she’s dead. She died suddenly and violently and—” He broke off, made a sound between a gag and a cough, turned quickly, and strode out of the barn.
Christine ran after him. “Ames, slow down. Ames, please. . . .”
He whirled on her. “What on earth could you
possibly
have to say to me?”
“That I’m sorry about Patricia. That I don’t know what happened.”
“That you’re not trying to tear apart what’s left of my
family? That you didn’t mean to give my daughter’s private, deeply personal diary to the police for everyone to read and snicker over? That my daughter didn’t disappear just a week after you blamed her for the calling off of your engagement? That I just saw my wife, whom you detested, lying dead on a concrete barn floor with you standing over her? That—”
“Mr. Prince, you’re upset,” Michael Winter’s commanding voice cut him off. Ames’s head snapped toward the deputy. “I think it would be wise for you to not make accusations, especially to Miss Ireland, that you will later regret.”
“I haven’t said anything I’ll regret. And I would suggest, Deputy, that your efforts would be better spent on investigating my wife’s murder than playing white knight to Miss Ireland. I assure you that she’s a master at taking care of herself.”
Abruptly Ames turned, got in his Mercedes, and flung gravel as he sped away from the barn. Christine stood with her face slack, hating the burning tears she felt welling in her eyes. “Does he think I killed Patricia?” she whispered in disbelief.
Michael stared as the Mercedes reached the house and turned in the driveway. “He’s furious because you gave me Dara’s diary. As for Patricia, maybe he’s just lashing out.”
She looked at him. “Maybe? Do you mean
you
think I did something to her?”
“No, I meant—” He broke off and Christine could almost feel him wrap himself in a cloak of professionalism. “We don’t know what happened here yet. I need to call in and get some crime scene people out here. You should wait up at the house.”
“
Ames’s
house? He wouldn’t let me in the door.”
“You’re probably right. It’s not a good idea for you to be around him right now anyway. He’s too angry. Go
home for now. And stay there. I’ll need to question you in a little while.” Michael started back inside the barn.
“Deputy, I don’t want Jeremy to see any of this or to be around Ames, either,” she said. “He’s working at the sandbagging operation, but he could come back any minute. May I go look for him so
I
can tell him what’s happened? I’ll take him straight to my house and I won’t go anywhere the rest of the day until you’ve come to question me.”
Michael looked at her, clearly mulling over the possibility that she would simply take off, leaving town to escape any police interrogation. The idea that he doubted her inexplicably stung her feelings. Then good sense stepped in. He barely knew her. Why should he trust her?
“Okay,” he said finally. “Go find Jeremy. You’re right—he shouldn’t be involved in this. I’ll come by your house later.”
He turned and walked back inside the barn without a good-bye or even a hint of a smile, but Christine felt remarkably better considering the circumstances. He’d clearly made a decision about her character—a favorable one. Now all she had to do was find Jeremy and break the news.
Streak Archer’s sweaty, shaking hand dropped his key twice before he was able to unlock the door. When it swung open, he nearly fell inside his house, slamming the door shut behind him, leaning against it, and trying desperately to draw breath into lungs that seemed to have shrunk beyond life-sustaining capacity. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his dirty face and his shirt was soaked, clinging to his chest and back like a wet suit.
How long ago had he left the sanctity of his home? It seemed like days. But the clock said it was two in the afternoon. What a risk he’d taken. He could be rolled up in a ball shaking and spinning totally out of control right now. That would have been a hell of a note. But he’d taken the risk. And he’d beaten his demons. Sort of. He’d had no choice.
Streak went straight for the kitchen, ran water into a Dixie cup, fumbled among a number of prescription bottles in a cabinet, and withdrew the Valium. He gulped a ten-milligram, refilled his cup, and took a second. He hated his dependence on antidepressants and tranquilizers, but he didn’t think he could function without them. His psychiatrist agreed. And who cared if he was addicted? He wasn’t exactly a role model for any young people.
He sat down at his chrome-topped kitchen table and glanced around the room. From the outside, his house looked like a quaint country stone cottage. The inside was a tribute to modernistic minimalism. His mother hated all the white and black and chrome. Ames never actually said anything, but his facial expression conveyed volumes of distaste. Only Jeremy liked the place. He said it looked like the inside of a spaceship. Streak smiled wryly. Jeremy was right. For Streak, the house was an escape from the day-to-day reality in which he had so much trouble existing. In here, he had created a comfortable virtual reality.
Streak needed his stark lair now more than he had for a decade. He’d been experimenting too much with the outside world lately. It hadn’t worked. Not three years ago. Not now.
Someone knocked on his front door and he had a wild urge to crawl under the table and wait until she went away. But he knew that knock. It was his mother, and she would stand out there knocking until her knuckles bled.
He opened the door and Wilma Archer looked at him
as if he’d turned green. “What’s wrong with you? Are you in a bad way? I’m taking you to the emergency room!”
“No, Mom, please,” Streak said quickly, panicked at the mere thought of going out again today. “I’ll be fine. Just come in. The light outside is blinding.”
Wilma looked up at the overcast sky. “You have a migraine. I still think we should go—”
“I’m not going
anywhere
!” Wilma drew back. “I’m sorry. Just please come in. I need to lie down. I’ll be okay in half an hour.”
Wilma stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Go stretch out on that white board you call a couch and I’ll fix you some orange juice.”
“I don’t want juice.”
“A soft drink. Milk.”
“Coffee,” Streak said. He didn’t want coffee, but he knew his mother wouldn’t let up. Wilma Archer was at least fifty pounds overweight because she believed food and beverage could cure all ills. “I’ll lie down. You make the coffee, Mom. You know where I keep everything.”
“Your father and I have been worried sick about you!” Wilma called from the kitchen as Streak lay down on the “board” of a couch with no pillow under his head. “You haven’t called for ages.”
“Mom, you talked to me the day the body was pulled out of the river.”
“I called you. You didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t know we were keeping track of who called whom.”
“I keep track. I’m your mother.”
“All right. I’m sorry. I just don’t like talking on the phone.”
“No, all you want to do is fiddle with your computers and play on the Interstate.”
“Internet, Mom, although at the moment playing on
the interstate doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe I’d get run over and my head would stop hurting.” Streak did not have a migraine, but for some reason, his mother understood headaches better than anxiety attacks. “I need rest. Quiet.”
Wilma marched into the living room and stood peering down at him, her hands on her hips. “I still say you need to go to the emergency room.”
“Where I can sit in misery in a waiting room full of people for at least an hour until someone gets around to seeing me, pronounces I have a migraine, prescribes a couple of pills that will not help in the least, and then sends me home with a huge bill?”
“You have insurance.”
“I have pain. You’re making it worse. Mom, for the love of God, sit down, calm down, and speak softly. Quit nagging.”
Wilma sighed. “I’m going to check on that coffee.”
“Please do.”
Streak loved his mother. He thought she probably had more capacity for love, kindness, and generosity than four-fifths of the population of the world. But he could not bear hovering, and Wilma Archer had a gold medal in hovering.
While she was in the kitchen, Streak listened with comfort to the sound of his humming computers. He had a computer in every room except the bathroom, where he kept a laptop. Three computers sat in the living room, all connected to a server, and four more computers in an upstairs room that had once been two large bedrooms, until he’d had the dividing wall torn down.
Throughout the house he had five televisions, the one in the living room being a thirty-six-inch flat-panel high-definition television monitor mounted on the wall. Accompanying it was a state-of-the-art stereo system
with four towering speakers Christine once said made her feel as if she were in a temple with pillars erected to exotic gods. Of course, Christine had been in his house exactly twice. Streak did not encourage visitors, and most people respected his desire for complete privacy. Most people.
Wilma tramped back into the living room holding a gigantic thermal mug of coffee with an elbow straw bobbing around the top.
“What’s with the straw?” Streak asked.
“I don’t want you to spill this down the front of you and burn your chest.”
“Gee, maybe you should get me a bib, too.”
“I’m going to ignore that remark because you feel so bad. But one cranky remark is your limit. You’re not too big for me to—”
“To what?” Streak interrupted, suddenly amused. “Turn me over your knee?”
“Don’t get too sure of yourself, mister. I have substantial knees. Now tell me what’s set you off like this.”
Streak’s amusement faded. “You know nothing has to
set me off
, as you put it. I get these anxiety attacks and headaches out of nowhere.”
“No. Not anymore. When you first came home from the war, yes. For years after that, yes. But not for a long time. There has to be a trigger. Now tell me what happened and you’ll feel better.”
Streak glanced at one of his computers. The screen blanker showed a house at night where lights came on in various windows, a moon sailed overhead, a black cat crept across the lawn, bats flew blithely against the dark sky. My head, he thought. That’s the inside of my head.
“I went down and helped with the sandbagging operation,” he said.
“You did
what
?”
“We’re having a flood. I helped put sandbags in place. I did my civic duty.”
Wilma looked appalled. “But you don’t do that kind of thing!”
“My civic duty?”
“Not with all those people around. You know better than to try something like that.”
“I do now. I thought maybe things had changed for me during all these years. Maybe I could be around more than four people at a time without freaking out. Guess I was wrong.”
“Well . . .” Wilma twisted her wedding ring. “There wasn’t . . . I mean, you didn’t . . . well . . .”
“Cause a scene? Make a spectacle of myself? No, Mom. I went down this morning and helped for a while. Then I left like a normal person. At least, I think I
looked
normal.”
“This morning? But it’s afternoon. How many hours did you spend at the river?”
“I don’t know. A couple, maybe three—”
“Three? You made it through
three
hours?”
“Maybe it only seemed like three. I didn’t keep track of time. I just worked alongside Jeremy for a while and a couple of other guys I used to know real well and—” Streak’s hands started jittering again. He shivered, set his coffee mug on the floor beside the couch, and closed his eyes. “Mom, I appreciate you coming by and making coffee and all, but I don’t think I can keep talking. I have to try to sleep off this headache. Do you mind?”
“You’re cold. You need a blanket over you. Where’s that afghan I knitted for you?”
The one in neon colors she said looked cheerful, Streak thought. “Upstairs somewhere,” he said vaguely. “I don’t want a cover over me. I’m sweating. I just want to sleep.”
“Can’t you sleep with me here? I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
“That’ll be the day,” Streak said dryly.
Wilma laughed softly. “My boy. You know me too well.” She bent and kissed him directly on the scar on his forehead, the place where a bullet had entered his skull and figuratively, if not literally, taken over his life thirty years ago. “You call me if you need me. Sleep tight.”
“And don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he murmured, closing his eyes.