Now she believed it all. She had seen it with her own eyes. The ravaged body of Hitch, the foulness of the nest he lived in, the stench of the drug he was concocting, she would never forget any of it.
Meg knew she would have nightmares about Hitch. Jared didn’t look so good, but Jared mainly just looked skinny and wasted. She didn’t know how Hitch could still be alive. His face
was pockmarked. He had few teeth left in his mouth. His breath was noxious. His eyes were sunken into his skull. He looked like the soul had been sucked out of him and all that was left was a few bones and tendons. No mind, no muscle, no spirit.
She wondered what Hitch had been like at her age, if he had played a sport, if he had thought of going to college, if he had had a girlfriend. Hard to imagine a normal life for him as he had truly become a monster.
She didn’t know how badly she had hurt him. She didn’t care. She hoped, for everyone’s sake including his own, that Hitch was dead.
She kept walking. The Maiden Rock was on the other side of the skeleton-littered field, past the trees.
Meg looked down at the square of tinfoil she was holding in her hands.
Methamphetamine.
What would it be like to try a little? Just to know what Krista had felt before she left the earth.
***
“Where we going?” Davy asked, poking a finger at Jared.
Jared was sitting next to Davy in his car seat and he had his feet stretched out under the driver’s seat, but he felt totally cramped. He had been trying to sleep, but for the first time since he had come off meth, he wasn’t tired.
Davy poked him again.
He poked Davy back. “I don’t got a clue.”
“You don’t gotta clue?”
“No clue,” Jared repeated.
Davy held up two fingers. “This is two.”
“How old are you?” Jared asked him.
Holding down his thumb and his pinkie finger, Davy managed to get three fingers sticking up. “I’m this many. I’m free.”
Jared had no idea where his mother was taking him or even what she was thinking. When he had been outside Hitch’s place, trying to figure out what to do after Meg took off, she had pulled up in her car. She grabbed Jared by the arm, and ushered him into the backseat. Without saying a word, she drove away. Jared hadn’t even tried to stop her.
His mom had locked the back doors, child safety feature on this car, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore.
His Nikes were sitting on the seat next to him.
He put them on and didn’t ask anything.
She was driving north on Highway 35. Not in the direction of their house. In fact, they were pretty close to Prescott. Maybe they were going to the cities. Maybe the Mall of America. But she drove through Prescott and kept going north. They were now heading toward Hudson, but he couldn’t figure out why.
He sat up. “Where we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“Mom, tell me.”
“A place I should have taken you long ago. You’re done with that meth stuff for the rest of your life.”
Meth, even the word made his heart race and his muscles tighten.
Somehow he had gone to see Hitch and left without any meth. A minor miracle. Or a major disaster. He wasn’t sure anymore.
All because of Meg. She had taken him there and then she had saved him from it. He hoped she was okay.
***
Rich tried to call Claire on her cell phone, but got no answer. Then, on the way to Curt’s house, Rich saw all the squad cars lined up along Highway 35. He pulled over and sat in his car, wondering if he should go talk to her.
An orange-suited person walked out of the house and Rich recognized Claire when she pulled off a full-face mask.
He got out of the car. She looked over at him and waved.
He could see the pressure marks from her face mask circling her eyes and mouth. Sweat beaded on her skin. Her eyes were wide open and her forehead wrinkled, deep lines between her eyebrows. Claire looked more anxious than he had seen her since Meg had disappeared. And now her daughter was gone again.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked.
“God, you don’t want to see it. Unbelievable. The pure squalor. I don’t understand how people can keep living as long as they do when they abuse themselves so much. But he’s dead now.”
“Who?”
“This dealer named Hitch. It’s been a nightmare. He had set up a shotgun trap and Amy opened the door and got hit by it.” “She going to be all right?”
“If she’s not, I’ll kill him again.” Claire was silent for a moment, then she spit out, “Fucked-up paranoid son of a bitch’s dead. Good riddance.”
Rich listened to her swear. She didn’t do it often, even though he knew it was not uncommon language with the deputies, so when she did the words hit him hard. “Sounds like it.”
“His full name was James Hitchcock. You know him?”
“Just heard of his brother, like I told you.” Rich watched Claire. “What happened? Overdose?”
“No, he got help. A knife in the back. I hope it was some deal gone bad.”
He could tell from her face that she wasn’t telling him something. “What else could it be?”
“Well, we think he might have been the guy who gave Krista the meth.”
“And?”
Claire looked up at him, worried. “What if someone else found that out? Someone who loved Krista?” “Like who?”
“Oh, Rich.”
She grabbed his hand and leaned into him, avoiding looking at him. He didn’t like this. “What?”
“I picked this up in this house, on the floor right by the door.” She opened her hand and showed him Meg’s friendship bracelet.
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you supposed to have that in an evidence bag?” “If it’s evidence,” she said quietly. “What’re you going to do with it?”
She jingled the bracelet in her hand, then tucked it away in her pocket. “I don’t know.”
R
ich left, telling her he was going to talk to Curt, assuring her that he would find Meg wherever she was. Claire couldn’t stand the thought that her daughter had been to see Hitch, that she was mixed up in this mess in any way.
After checking on Speedo again, she told the other deputies that she was going to talk to the neighbors. Mr. Bagley lived across the street. She didn’t know him well even though she had lived near him for years. A widower, he kept to himself. While he was probably in his late eighties, his house and yard were always immaculate.
Looking down the street, she could see him in his yard on his riding lawn mower, studiously minding his own business despite all the cop cars.
She pulled off her orange suit and dropped it and the mask in the back of the Hazardous Materials truck.
It was getting dark out and her daughter was missing again. If only Claire had been there for dinner tonight, if only Rich hadn’t gone to the Fort—but they couldn’t watch Meg all the time. She was fifteen years old. Around the world girls were getting married off at that age, having babies.
Claire allowed her mind to slip into a place she didn’t want it to venture: what if Meg had had something to do with Hitch’s death?
She knew how devastated Meg had been by Krista’s death. But she had to keep reminding herself that Meg didn’t believe in killing—not anything. Her daughter walked wasps out the door on Kleenex, rather than squash them. If a bat flew into the house, she opened all the doors and windows until it found its way out again.
When they had first moved in with Rich, Meg had explained, “No need to hit it with a tennis racket. We’re on the same side. We want the bat out. The bat wants out. All we need to do is help.”
As Claire approached Mr. Bagley’s house, he was riding his lawn mower into the garage. She yelled to him to let him know she was there so she wouldn’t startle him. He was wearing a John Deere baseball cap with wisps of white hair sticking out behind his ears, and clean jean overalls over a plaid shirt.
When he saw Claire, he got off his mower and walked over. “Hopefully the last time I’ll have to mow this year. Put it to bed, I say. Not often that I mow in November. Still pretty warm for this time of year.”
“That’ll change.”
“You can count on it.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “What’s going on over there?”
“I’m Claire Watkins, a deputy with the sheriff’s department.”
“I know who you are. It’s about time.”
“What’s about time?”
“For someone to check on that house.”
“Did you call the sheriff?”
“I was getting ready too. I try to mind my own business, but there’s no good going on there.” “Like what?”
“Too many cars. Lights on all night long. People coming and going at every which hour. I’ve had my suspicions.”
Claire understood Mr. Bagley’s hesitance to report on a neighbor, but she didn’t want to argue about that. “Well, you were very observant, Mr. Bagley. Have you been watching that house today?”
“Can’t help but see it. It’s right out my kitchen window. Where I eat dinner and watch my little TV I got set up on the counter.”
“Can you tell me what went on there today?”
“Sure, come on in the house and I’ll show you my view.” Mr. Bagley turned and walked up the back steps into the house.
Inside his small house was as neat and tidy as outside. The living room was immaculate with a couch and two chairs. A print of Jesus praying with his hands coupled together hung over the couch. Claire followed him through into the kitchen.
This appeared to be the room where he spent most of his time. A small television set was sitting right under the cupboards. Mr. Bagley could sit at his formica table and watch TV and look out the window at the same time. He had a clear view of the gingerbread house.
“You know, they’re renters. That’s part of the problem. Renters never care about anything. They don’t mow the lawn, they don’t water. They figure it’s not their problem. I’ve tried to stay out of their way. To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid of that bunch, motorcycles and all.”
“So who actually lives there?”
“That’s a good question. A woman from California bought the house. She stayed there this summer and fixed it up. Nice lady. Then she left and rented it out to some woman. That’s when all the problems started. I don’t know if that woman is even there anymore. People come and go. I try to stay out of their way. But I’ve had a suspicion that they’re selling those drugs over there.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“You don’t say.”
“So tell me who all was there today, please.”
“Well, this real skinny guy’s been staying there the last week or so. He rides that motorcycle. Geez, I hate those things. Don’t they need to have mufflers on them? They’re so loud.”
“Okay, I know who you mean. That would probably be James Hitchcock.”
“What is he some kinda outlaw or something? Anyway, today it’s been kinda quiet over there until late afternoon, this old Ford pickup truck pulled up. A young girl was driving. Didn’t even look old enough to drive.”
“Dark hair?”
“Yeah, you know her?”
“I think so. Go on.”
“And some skinny kid got out of the truck too. They went in to the house, then the girl came out, followed by the boy. They argued. After that the girl left. Alone.”
“They argued?”
“Yeah, the girl talked to the kid, grabbed something away from him, then she started running and jumped into the truck and tore away. The kid came after her, but she didn’t even slow down.”
“Can you describe the boy?” Claire wondered who had been with Meg. It could have been Curt, or Jared. Rich said that Meg had called Jared before she left the house in the truck.
“Dark hair. I’d say about six feet tall. Real thin. Oh, and the funny thing, he wasn’t wearing any shoes.”
“No shoes? A little too cold to be going barefoot.”
“He wasn’t barefoot either. He had on socks.”
“But she left him there?”
“Yeah, then almost immediately another car showed up. A woman about your age got out, grabbed the boy, pushed him in the backseat of her car and drove off.”
“What did this woman look like?”
“Dark hair, stocky, about your age.”
Claire supposed the woman could have been Jared’s mother, Arlene. “Was that it?”
“Nope. About fifteen minutes later a fairly new Buick drove up—a farmer’s car if there ever was one. A couple got out of the car. A man and a woman. I don’t know what they were doing there. Seemed like nice normal people. They went into the house. Weren’t in there very long and they came out again. It looked to me like the woman was hunched over, crying. Couldn’t be sure. They turned around and drove back toward Nelson, heading south.”
Claire didn’t have a clue who that could have been. Then she remembed the car that the Jorgesons had driven to the funeral. A burgundy Buick. “Do you remember what color it was?’
“Dark. Could have been maroon, could have been navy.”
“That’s it?”
“No, then you.” Mr. Bagley rested both his arms on the table. “Now, I want to ask you a question. What the hell’s going on over there?”
“You were right. Looks like they were small-time dealers. They were only making enough meth for themselves and to sell on the side. Not that that makes it any less illegal and toxic.”
“I hope you throw them all in jail.”
“Well, James Hitchcock, the dealer, is dead. He was alone in the house when we got there. It looks like someone killed him.” “Someone killed him today?” “Yeah, I’m afraid so.” “One of the people I saw.” “Most likely.”
“You’ll find out who did it?” “Yes, I’m sure we will.”
Mr. Bagley stood. “I’m sorry it’s come to that. A death and all. I should have said something sooner. That’s a bad place. You need to shut that place down and burn it. Good for nothing.”
***
Roger counted the cherry stems. Six of them. They had each had three Brandy Manhattans. More alcohol than they usually drank in a month.
“We’ve had a good marriage,” he said to Emily.
“Better than most,” Emily agreed.
“Whatever happens, I’ll take care of everything.”
“You’re a good husband.”