Last Ragged Breath (19 page)

Bell moved past her into the living room, which is when she saw the couch and its mildly pummeled cushions. She'd received a text from Ben Fawcett shortly after the conclusion of her meeting with Serena and Royce Dillard:
she 8 lunch I let her out I cleaned up poop n backyard

Good to know.

She set down her briefcase. Goldie whined softly. Clearly, the dog wanted something. And the something, Bell suspected with dawning dread, was a walk.

“Can I change my clothes first?” Bell said. Then she realized that she was not only talking to a dog, but also expecting an answer. “I'll be right back,” she said. “Stay here.”

She began to climb the stairs. After three steps, she realized Goldie was following her. “No,” Bell said, turning to confront the dog. “No. Go back.”

Goldie's tail swished.

“I mean it,” Bell said. “Really.” She turned around and resumed her climb. From behind her, she heard the soft padding of a dog's paws.

“Fine,” Bell muttered. “You can come up while I change. But no cracks about the sweat pants I'm going to put on, okay? I've had them for years and they're kind of droopy and saggy.”

Now they stood once again at the front door. Goldie had been politely silent about the sweat pants, the ones Bell always yanked on after a long day, finishing the ensemble with a battered red T-shirt whose front featured a woodcut of a coal miner crawling along on all fours above the logo
I've Got Friends in Low Places,
plus a gray hoodie with a fleece lining, and tennis shoes. Rhonda Lovejoy had left her a leash. But Bell wasn't certain how the process worked. She wondered if there was a set of magic words she should utter to ensure Goldie's cooperation, such as, “Let's go!” or “Come on!” Would the dog walk calmly along beside her, or might Goldie bolt and flee? Presumably Goldie missed her home. Surely she'd make a break for it.
Sure as hell know
I
would,
Bell thought.

She stuffed a few plastic bags in the pocket of her hoodie, to pick up after Goldie when the necessity arose, and she and the dog headed outside and down the front porch steps. The air was even colder, the sky stained an intense violet; by now the sun had completely disappeared behind the mountains, giving up on this world for another day. Reaching the sidewalk, Bell stopped. Goldie stopped, too, and sat down. She seemed accustomed to a leash, ready to go in any direction Bell led. Which was both good and bad—good because it would make the walk easier, bad because it put all the responsibility on Bell to pick a destination. She flipped an imaginary coin and went left. Goldie followed.

The rest of the houses on Shelton Avenue were at lot like Bell's: venerable, well-worn, three-story stone structures set back from the street, sporting long front porches and a flourish of dormers, turrets, finials, and cupolas, jumbled together in a showy architectural mishmash. Most had been built in the late nineteenth century, when the streets were dirt and the choice of transport either a horse or your own two feet.

“Hey, Bell. Got yourself a pet, didya?”

She was passing Myrtle Bainbridge's house, a large, gray, decaying one with half of its shutters missing, bordered by a falling-down fence and topped off by a disintegrating roof. She hadn't noticed Myrtle up there on her porch, fussing around her flowerpots, getting ready for spring planting. Bell waved. She would've preferred to keep on walking, but living in a neighborhood brought certain obligations.

“Hi, Myrtle. Goldie's just visiting.” At the sound of her name, Goldie's tail engaged in a few energetic loop-de-loops.

“Well, that dog looks pretty happy to me. Might be a longer visit than you imagine.” Myrtle emerged from the shadows of her front porch and stood at the lip of it. Her short white hair rose from her scalp in a delicate little frizz, like the drawings of static electricity in science textbooks. She was vastly, unfathomably obese; her body comprised an almost perfect circle, as wide as it was tall, and her facial features joggled in a rubbery sea of fat. She wore an immense canvas jacket and carried a trowel in one hand and an empty clay pot in the other. “Can't wait for this weather to turn. Got big plans for my garden this year. I mean big.”

“Myrtle, you class up the neighborhood, no question.” Bell waved again and moved forward. A slight bit of pressure on the leash was all that Goldie required; the dog matched Bell step for step.
Sure wish Carla had been this easy to control,
Bell thought ruefully.
Or my ex-husband
.

She was enjoying herself. That surprised her. She knew what running did for her, even though she rarely got around to it anymore—but walking? Bell had been a runner in high school and college, and relished her time on the track team; she knew the enveloping pleasure of a good long run, the way the endorphins crashed into your system and temporarily chased away fears, anxieties, everything but a sense of the body's brisk motion. Walking, though, brought a subtler satisfaction. She walked every day, of course; her life was spent in motion. But for Bell walking, like driving, typically meant getting from one place to another as fast as she possibly could. Having a destination in mind. A goal. And a timetable, a deadline. This kind of walking—loose, easy, with a dog trotting along beside her—was new, and, to her surprise, nice. It was also conducive to thinking.

What the hell did Edward Hackel do to push Royce Dillard's buttons? With what did he threaten Dillard? How could he possibly have goaded him into a lethal attack? A shadow moved in the back of Bell's mind, like something she had glimpsed a while ago but now could not quite recall, could not put her finger on. A tiny, crucial piece of information floated just an inch or so above her conscious thought.

I'm missing something. It's right there. I can feel it.

Her cell went off. The ringtone told her who it was. She kept on walking as she answered.

“Hey, Shirley.”

“Guess I'm the last to know. What's the deal with the dog?”

“Good Lord. Yes, I have a dog. Not sure why everybody's so damned surprised by that fact.”

“I lived with you, little sister. Remember? I know the hours you keep. Last I heard, dogs need a little more attention than two minutes in the morning while their owner's rushing out the door, late for a court date.” Shirley tried to start another sentence but was thwarted by a cough. She'd put a hand over the mouthpiece but Bell could still hear the massive, gravelly racket. “Jesus,” Shirley said, voice still strained. “Sorry 'bout that. Hope I didn't split your eardrum.”

“Don't like the sound of that cough.”

“I'm fine.” Shirley's tone closed down the debate. She was six years older than Bell but in recent years it was Bell, not Shirley, who had functioned as the older sister, the protector, the advice-giver, a circumstance that did not exactly thrill Shirley. After some initial difficulties they had settled into a better place, a place that could usually withstand the sudden gusts from the past that came sweeping by, threatening to tear down the fragile peace they had built.

“Yeah,” Bell said, “you sound fine, all right.” She knew she shouldn't meddle, but she couldn't help herself. She was not naturally nurturing—except when it came to Shirley.

Her sister's voice was curt. “So when was the last time
you
went for a checkup?”

“I don't smoke.”

“Yeah. And nobody ever died of anything else, right? Look, before we get too far off topic—I left a message at your office today. For you to call me back. You ignoring me or what?”

Bell winced. Goldie seemed to sense her dismay; without slowing the pace, the dog looked up. Bell rewarded her with a head pat.

“Sorry. Busy time, Shirley. No excuses—I clean forgot. What's up?”

“Just needed to confirm the dog rumor. Couldn't believe it. I mean—this is a real, live dog we're talking about, right? Not a stuffed animal? And not just a
picture
of a dog? We're talking about a living, breathing creature, correct?”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Bell said. “Yes. A real dog. Her name's Goldie.” Once again, the tail reacted to the familiar syllables.

“And the dog's still alive, right? I mean, you didn't, like, tie her to your back bumper and then forget all about her and just drive off to work this morning?”

“Hilarious. Yes, she's doing fine.”

“That's a relief. Now I don't have to call the authorities. Report animal cruelty.”

“I am the authorities,” Bell shot back. “My turn to pry. How're you doing?”

She kept her tone light, same as Shirley had, but she needed to know. Right after Shirley's release from prison, she'd had a hard time finding a job, and an even harder time finding the balance between sudden freedom and the self-discipline necessary for a meaningful life. Shirley had run wild. Then she had settled down. They didn't get together often—Shirley and her partner lived in a garage apartment thirty-five miles away—but she and Bell knew things about each other that no one else on earth knew.
Or would ever want to,
Bell always reminded herself, when contemplating their early days, riven as they were with trauma and sorrow.

“Doing great,” Shirley said.

“You always say that.”

“'Cause it's always true.”

“How's the job?”

“It's a job. That's about it.”

Shirley was a cashier at an auto parts store in Blythesburg. Not ideal, she'd told Bell, but until she could find something better, this would do. She had tried to make a living as the manager of her boyfriend's band, but it was hard to make ends meet on what he picked up from playing in bars.

“If you need anything,” Bell said, “like a loan, maybe I could—”

“We're fine, Belfa. Fine.” Shirley cut her off instantly. They'd had this conversation before. Almost word for word.

“I just want to be sure you know that—”

“I know.” Shirley cut her off again, but not harshly this time. “I do. I really do. Appreciate it, Belfa. But I got this. Okay?”

Bell had reached the end of Oakmont Boulevard. The intensifying darkness persuaded her it was time to head home; she was grateful for the porch lights popping on at random throughout the neighborhood. She executed a wide, sweeping turn, like a battleship with new orders. Goldie turned along with her.

“Okay,” Bell said. She crossed the street, so that Goldie would have fresh ground to sniff.

“So we're good?”

“We're good.”

“Okay.” Shirley hung up. Yes, it was a too-abrupt end to the conversation, but Bell was used to that; Shirley's long years in prison had sliced the manners from her personality, the way you'd trim excess material when hemming a pair of pants. In a place like Lakin Correctional Center, where Shirley had spent more than half her life, manners were a liability. A sign of weakness. Weakness could get you hurt or killed. In a perverse way, then, Bell was grateful for Shirley's lack of please-and-thank-you habits. It had ensured her survival. Brought her back here.

“Love you too, sis,” Bell said into the phone, knowing that her sister was long gone, but saying it anyway.

 

Chapter Nineteen

The name was ridiculous. It was stupid and juvenile, like something you'd call a ninety-proof beverage concocted in a backwoods still.

Yet there it was—
MOUNTAIN MAGIC
—emblazoned in red letters on a white vinyl banner that proudly spanned the stupendous length of the construction trailer, tied off at either end with a big red vinyl bow. Bell could see it from a long way off, and it set her to wondering: How many arrogant, overpaid, squash-playing, Jaguar-driving, latte-slurping advertising geniuses had gathered in a fancy New York City office to come up with
that
embarrassment of a name?

She further wondered what Edward Hackel had thought of it. He must've had to say “Mountain Magic” a hundred and fifty times a day, give or take. He was the one, after all, charged with hyping the project, with chatting it up, with luring investors and keeping them happy and excited, and then lining up the real estate that would accommodate the hotel and the restaurant and the casino and the golf course and the pools and the riding stables and the helipad. He was the one who had kept the entire project racing along—until it hit a speed bump.

A speed bump known as Royce Dillard.

It was Thursday morning. The sky was the color of polished pearl. Five days had passed since Hackel's body was found in Old Man's Creek; two days after that, Dillard had been formally charged with his murder. And yet Bell still had no real sense of Hackel. No way to gauge how far he would have gone to make the resort a reality, and if his zeal had somehow brought about his death.

Bell parked in front of the trailer. It was surrounded by an alert-looking assembly of shiny SUVs and two-ton pickups in primary colors. Her Explorer was the only vehicle on the lot that could have benefited from the immediate services of a car wash. The others all looked as if they were washed and polished once an hour, with touchups at the thirty-minute mark.

She hadn't come alone, but she might as well have, for all the company Deputy Oakes had provided. He was still smarting from having lost the argument over who was going to drive. Bell had prevailed, because the department's Chevy Blazers both happened to be in use this morning. Oakes, the visible embodiment of a bad attitude, had pitched himself into her passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind him with as loud a bang as he could manage to make. Arms crossed, chin turned to the window, he'd barely said a word during the entire trip. He'd edged perilously close to Royce Dillard territory when it came to being uncommunicative.

“Ever been out here?” Bell asked. She reached round and fetched her briefcase from the backseat.