Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (19 page)

Lauren said in a small, thick voice, “Tamara, I don’t feel so good.”

The child was still in her arms, burrowed up close. Tamara tilted her body back so she could see her face. Didn’t look so
good, either. Sweaty, pale, moist-eyed, coughing in little dry hacks. Running a fever? Yeah—her forehead felt overwarm.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Damn. Bathroom in here or not?

Turned out there was, a cubicle with a toilet and a sink and a rusty shower stall so tiny Horace would’ve had trouble squeezing in sideways. She set Lauren on her feet, lifted the toilet lid.

Kid said miserably, “I hate to throw up,” and leaned over the bowl with Tamara holding her and threw up.

When she was done, Tamara pushed the lever and the toilet flushed all right. Septic system. And a well for drinking water, judging from the mineral-brownish color of what came out of the sink tap, so that shed outside was probably a well-house. There was a towel hanging from a rack next to the sink, not clean but not filthy either. She let the cold water run until it more or less cleared, then wet the towel and used it to clean off Lauren’s face.

“Better now, honey?”

“Thirsty.”

“Me, too. Must be glasses here somewhere.”

Not in the bathroom. She picked Lauren up again, carried her into a dinky kitchen. Dining alcove in one corner, another sink, a propane stove, one of those pocket refrigerators, three wall cabinets and a pair of drawers on either side of the sink. Two of the cabinets were padlocked. The other one was full of plastic—plates, bowls, glasses, the kind of cheap pastel-colored crap designed for picnics. She rinsed out two of the glasses, filled one for Lauren, the other for herself. The water eased the dryness in her mouth, but it sloshed in her stomach and kicked up sharp hunger pangs. No food except a Slim•Fast shake and a Slim•Fast chocolate bar in, what, almost twenty-four hours?
Last night Lemoyne had brought a sandwich and a glass of milk for Lauren, but nothing for her. Kid had tried to share the sandwich with her—what a sweetheart she was—but she’d refused. Take food out of a hungry, frightened child’s mouth? No way.

Lauren drank all of her water. Tamara asked, “More?”

“No. Can I lie down now? I still feel sick.”

“Sure you can.”

The trailer had two bedrooms, but she couldn’t bring herself to put Lauren in either of them. The smaller one had either been the real Angie’s, or Lemoyne had outfitted it that way. Bedspread with little pink animals on it. Couple of dolls and a box of toys on the dresser. Small closet full of child’s dresses, playsuits, other stuff—some new, some that looked as though it had been worn. Keep Lauren out of that room as long as she could.

The only other place for her to lie down was a dusty two-person couch in what passed for a living room. She set the little girl on the cushions, got her comfortable, found a blanket in the larger bedroom to cover her. On a stand nearby was a small TV that had to be older than she was. Television: the great babysitter. Was the electricity turned on? She tried a table lamp, then the TV. Not yet. So much for that idea.

But it didn’t matter anyway. When she looked at Lauren again, the poor kid was asleep.

All right. Now she could prowl.

Five rooms altogether, none of them more than about ten feet square. The only door to the outside was the one they’d come through and the lock on it was a heavy dead bolt. Forget that. Each of the rooms had a window, but only three—kitchen and the two bedrooms—were of any size. Two-by-three feet,
about, the kind that split into two overlapping panes, one half stationary and the other half on a track so you could slide it open. Lauren would fit easily enough through the one half, but a grown woman with chubby buns? Be a tight squeeze, if she could manage it at all.

But the big problem was, all three windows were covered by thick, metal-framed mesh screens screwed to the wall on either side, top and bottom. You could poke fingers through the mesh far enough to release the window catch and slide the one half open—Tamara did that on each one to let fresh air in—but when she tried to animal the screens loose, they wouldn’t budge. Screwed tight to the wall . . . all except the lower right-hand corner of the screen in the smaller bedroom. That one corner pulled out a half inch or so before the screw bound up and held it in place. If she could find something to use as a pry bar . . .

No tools of any kind in the kitchen, not even knives and forks. Locked up in one of two padlocked cabinets, probably, along with anything like a hammer or screwdriver. Dude didn’t take any chances, even if the only victims he’d brought here before were six-year-old girls.

One of the kitchen drawers yielded a saucepan and a frying pan with a fairly slender wooden handle. She took those into the smaller bedroom, went to work with the handle of the saucepan on the loose corner. Pretty soon the screw pulled a little more, widening the gap, but not enough to slip the frying pan handle between the frame and the wall. She kept at it, streaming sweat, the muscles in her arms tight and aching. Squeaking noise and the screw pulled a little more . . . but the saucepan handle had begun to bend and she couldn’t get any more leverage. Another try with the wooden handle. Almost got it wedged in . . . yank on the mesh with one hand, wiggle
the handle with the other . . . there, eased the tip of it in, just like Horace the first time he—

Car sound outside. Lemoyne coming back.

She yanked the handle free, used the pan to shove the screw back in so that the corner was more or less flush again. Scrapes and gouges in the metal wall, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t matter anyway if he didn’t leave her alone in here again . . .

She hurried out to the window next to the front door. Here he came, bouncing along the rutted track, the sun throwing up needle glints of light from the SUV’s hood and windshield. She could see him behind the glass, and the hate that surged into her throat almost choked her. Her fingers clenched around the handles of the saucepan and frying pan.

Frying pan. Heavy. Weapon
.

The thought, sweet and hot, drew her lips in flat against her teeth. She watched the SUV rattle to a stop a few yards away, Lemoyne get out and walk around to the passenger side and open that door and lift out a couple of plastic sacks. Grocery store was where he’d gone. He carried both sacks in his left hand, a ring of keys dangled from his right.

She stepped over to the door, to the far side so she’d be behind it when it opened inward. Put the saucepan down and took a two-handed grip on the wooden handle of the frying pan, holding the pan close against her chest.

He was right outside the door now. Keys jingled; one of them rattled in the lock. She raised the pan above her head.

To, asshole, come and get it!

Only he didn’t open the door, didn’t walk inside.

His voice, loud, came through it instead. “It’s open, Dark Chocolate. Step out here where I can see you.”

She hesitated, frustration a sudden heavier weight than the frying pan, then slowly lowered her hands. Why the hell couldn’t he be stupid, careless, the way she’d been? Make one little mistake?

“Come on, hurry it up. Don’t get me pissed off.”

Nothing else she could do. She put both pans back where she’d found them, went on out to where Lemoyne stood waiting.

A
fter lunch, he took Lauren away.

Not in the SUV—on foot into the woods.

He seemed to get the idea all at once. He was sitting in the only chair in the living room, a ratty recliner, not saying anything, just watching Tamara clean up in the kitchen. Slave girl: make sandwiches, cook soup, wash dishes, tend to the kid. Mammy Tammy. And all the time watching her, never letting her get closer than a couple of feet, specially when she had a bowl of hot soup in her hands. Watching Lauren, too, sometimes with that tenderness in his eyes, sometimes with a funny sort of speculative look as if he didn’t have any idea who she was. Child was still pale and feverish after her nap. Thirsty, but wouldn’t eat much. Lemoyne didn’t like that; he kept urging her to eat her soup and scowling when she said, “No, I don’t want any, I’m not hungry.” A couple of times he reached out and patted her in a kind of rough paternal way; both times she shrank away from him, and that made him scowl even harder.

Then all of a sudden he was on his feet. “You, Dark Chocolate. That’s enough in the kitchen. Take Angie into the bedroom, change her clothes.”

“Her clothes? What for?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

“She’s sick, man, she’s running a fever. Can’t you see that?”

“No. She’s all right, she just needs some fresh air. It’s hot in here.”

“I tell you, she’s sick. Feel her forehead, she’s burning up.”

“You have kids of your own?”

“What? No, but—”

“Then don’t try to tell me about my kid. Go on, pick her up, take her in the bedroom. Put her in those pink shorts she likes. And the white top with the little rabbits on it. She looks real cute in that outfit.”

Tamara felt the hair crawl on her neck. “It’s not warm enough outside for shorts.”

“Bullshit. Plenty warm enough.”

“Listen to me, man. She’s just a child, she’s only six years old.”

“So? You think I don’t know that?”

“You don’t want to hurt her . . . your own daughter.”

That pissed him off. His eyes got smoky; veins bulged in his neck. “Don’t say that to me, you bitch. Fucking bitch. Don’t ever say that to me.” The Saturday night special was shoved down in the front of his pants; he jerked it free and waved it at her. “You do what I told you, take her in there and get her dressed. And you keep your mouth shut while you’re doing it or you’ll be the one I hurt.”

Again, no choice. One thing to vow to protect the little girl, another to stand here helpless looking down the muzzle of a gun. He’d shoot her or start beating up on her if she didn’t do what he said. And what good would she be to Lauren then, dead or all busted up?

The girl moaned when Tamara picked her up, carried her into the smaller bedroom. Skin all hot, sweaty—temperature
must be over a hundred now. Tight-mouthed, she shut the door behind them. It stayed that way; Lemoyne let them have that much privacy, at least.

The pink shorts and rabbit T-shirt were in one of the dresser drawers. Took some coaxing to get Lauren into them; she kept saying, “I don’t want to, I don’t feel good,” and when she was dressed she looked down at herself and started to cry again.

Tamara wiped away the tears. “Listen to me, Lauren. You have to go with him, have to keep pretending you’re Angie and he’s your daddy. Do whatever he tells you, no matter what. Don’t make him mad or he might hurt you bad. Okay? You understand?”

“Yes, Tamara.”

“Good girl.”

Hugged her, hard, then took her by the hand and opened the door and let the crazy son of a bitch have her.

She watched them from the front window, walking slow toward the barn, him pulling her along by the hand and Lauren stumbling on the uneven ground. When she couldn’t see them anymore she ran into the smaller bedroom, picked them out again from that window. And watched them vanish into the woods.

Quickly she retrieved the frying pan and managed to jam the handle between the wall and the loose corner of the window screen. Pried, yanked, wedged it in farther, slanting a look out the window every now and then at the place where they’d gone into the trees. Afraid the noise she was making was loud enough to carry and he’d hear and come running out. More afraid that he’d come walking out alone.

The screw wouldn’t tear loose. Her arms and shoulders
began to cramp up. She mopped off sweat, did some upper body aerobics to loosen her muscles, and went at it again. And this time . . . starting to loosen a little? She yanked harder, twisting the pan. Yeah, it was starting to pull. She managed to wedge the pan in more tightly, yanked again—

Movement outside.

She caught it out of the corner of her eye. Quit rocking the pan and stood still, staring out through the window.

Lemoyne coming out of the woods. Carrying Lauren with one arm, slung loosely up across his shoulder, head wobbling, thin arms dangling.

Dead, he killed her!

The thought brought on a surge of emotion so intense her whole body shook. But then, as Lemoyne plowed through the tall grass toward the trailer, she saw the child’s head move, one arm slide upward and the small hand clutch at his shirt collar. Sweet Lord Jesus. Not dead, but . . . hurt? Couldn’t tell from here—

New thought: Don’t let him see you at this window.

Tamara pulled the frying pan down, backed off quick. Scrapes and gouges on the wall . . . if he came in here, he’d know right away what she’d been up to. Nothing she could do about it, except try to keep him out of here.

She ran into the kitchen, set the frying pan on the drain-board, splashed cold water on her sweaty face. There were a couple of raw scrapes on her fingers, too, she saw then. Make up an excuse if he noticed them. She washed away the dribbles of blood, used the dish towel to dry off.

Lemoyne was out front by then. Through the kitchen window she saw him come into view, still carrying Lauren in that careless slung-up way. Maybe this time he’d just unlock the
door and walk right in and she could cave in his skull with the frying pan. But she knew he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.

She heard his key rattle in the lock. Then, “Come on out here, Dark Chocolate. Bring some mineral water with you. Two bottles.”

She put the pan away in the drawer. He’d bought half a dozen plastic bottles of Crystal Geyser at the store, sucked on one all through lunch. She took two more from the fridge, opened the door, and stepped out onto the tiny porch.

He’d set Lauren down on the bottom step, was standing off a few paces with a cancer stick hanging out of his mouth. The little girl sat slumped, her face sheened with sweat, the residue of what looked like vomit around her mouth. She perked up a little when she saw Tamara, scooted over, and clutched at her pant leg.

“Kid’s sick,” Lemoyne said. But not as if he was concerned about it. Flat voice, no feeling in it at all. “She puked out there in the woods.”