Strangers (3 page)

I said, “Cody?” even though I knew it must be. He had a somewhat chunky body type inherited from his father, and his mother's eyes, facial bone structure, and reddish-gold hair. But he bore no resemblance to Doug Rosmond. I wondered, fleetingly, if Cheryl had told her son how and why his uncle had died. I wouldn't have, in her place.

“Yes. The largest was taken last year, just before his high school graduation. He's … good-looking, isn't he.”

He was if you discounted the straggly soul patch and chin whiskers, the spiky disarray of his hairstyle, and a faintly sullen cast to his mouth. I said, lying, “He favors you.”

The compliment got me a wan little smile. “I remember you like beer,” she said. Playing the good hostess, even in these circumstances. “I don't usually keep any in the house, but Matt brought a six-pack with him.…”

“Thanks, no. Nothing.”

She sat on the far end of the sofa, first switching off a fringe-shaded floor lamp—self-consciously concerned, maybe, that the bright light would be unflattering—and folded her hands together in her lap. I remembered that posture, not unlike that of a little girl, and it tugged at me. Seeing her again had been difficult after all. Not because of any lingering personal feelings, but because of what she was now—hurt, lost, afraid, edging toward the end of hope.

The sofa was worn and the lamp's shaft pitted; the rest of the furnishings had the same well-used look. Judging from that and the house itself, and the fact that she was still living here in Mineral Springs, her late husband hadn't left her very well off. “I can't pay you much,” she'd said on the phone, “at least not right away.” My fee in this case didn't matter to me, but it did to her.

I wanted to ask her what she did for a living. And how long she'd been a widow. And who her husband had been and how he'd died, and if Matt Hatcher had been pursuing her ever since. But all of that was curiosity and not germane to the matter at hand. There were much more important questions to ask.

“Why didn't you tell me about the harassing phone calls?”

“How did you … oh. I don't know, I guess I didn't want you to think the situation is any worse than it is.”

“How long? How often?”

“They started after word got around that Cody had been arrested and charged. Five or six calls.”

“Threats? Obscenities?”

“Some dirty words, but not exactly threatening. Calling me an unfit mother, saying my son and I are a disgrace to the community—that kind of thing.”

“Any idea who's doing it?”

“No. The same few people, I think. One of them could be a woman who complained about poor service at the restaurant where I wait tables. Nasty old biddy. She almost cost me my job.”

“Which restaurant is that?”

“The Lucky Strike.” Then, as if she felt the need to justify the same kind of work she'd done in San Francisco, “Jobs, good jobs, are scarce for women here.”

There was nothing for me to say to that. “About the harassment. Anything other than the phone calls?”

She hesitated, working her tongue over dry lips, before she said, “Somebody threw rocks at the house two nights ago.”

“Is that what happened to your porch light?”

“Yes.”

“Report it to the police?”

“The sheriff's department, yes, but there wasn't anything they could do. It happened in the middle of the night.”

“Vandalism is a pretty serious offense, Cheryl. Cause for concern.”

“The sheriff didn't think so. Kids acting out, he said. Once public outrage dies down, I won't be bothered anymore.”

I said what I was thinking: “Some town you live in.”

“It's not as bad as it might seem. Nothing much happens here. Until the rapes, theft was the only serious crime. You can understand how upset and angry people are, even if they're wrong about Cody.”

Sure, but not when the anger was misdirected and volatile. Guilty until proven innocent in her son's case, guilt by association in hers. That kind of small-minded, senseless rush to judgment by a few idiots and its effects and consequences make me burn inside.

I said, “You mentioned Sam Parfrey. Who's he?”

“Cody's lawyer. His card is on the table there.”

I glanced at the card before I pocketed it. “So he's local.”

“I couldn't afford anyone from Reno or Salt Lake or even Elko, and I didn't want a careless public defender. Sam is the only one here who would represent Cody and he's doing his best, but he … well, criminal law isn't his specialty.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

“Yes. He'll give you as much help as he can.”

“Good. I'll talk to him first thing in the morning. Joe Felix?”

“The county sheriff. He's…” She broke off, lowered her eyes to her clasped hands. “Well, you'll meet him and you can judge for yourself.”

She was afraid of him, that was plain enough. Hard-nose, probably, I thought. And hoped I was wrong, guilty of a rush to judgment of my own; members of the despotic breed of rural law officer can be hell to deal with under the best of circumstances. As she'd said, meet him and then judge him.

“Cody's being held here in Mineral Springs then?”

“In the jail at the county courthouse.”

“Arraigned, and a bail amount set?”

“Arraigned, yes, but bail was denied.” Her mouth twisted. “The heinousness of the crimes, the judge said.”

“Has Felix let you see him?”

“Once, just after he was first arrested. That's all.”

“Talk to him on the phone?”

“No.”

So only his lawyer had access. It was possible but not likely that Parfrey could get me an interview with the kid. Worth whatever effort he could put in to make that happen.

The hard part now. I said, “The rapes. You said there were three?”

“Yes. Three.”

“The first one how long ago?”

“About six weeks. An Indian woman who lives alone at the edge of town, not much younger than I am. And my God, one of the other women is in her fifties. Why any young man would want to…” Cheryl swallowed the rest of it, shook her head.

“Rape isn't about sex,” I said, “it's about power and control over the victim.” Plus a deep-seated hatred of women, I thought but didn't add. “The rapist was masked?”

“Yes. He broke in late at night, attacked her in her bed. Threatened to kill her if she resisted … he had a knife.”

“Was the MO, the method of operation, the same on the other two rapes? Women alone, late night break-ins by a masked intruder with a knife.”

“The same, yes.”

“I have to ask you this. Do you know if Cody knew any of the victims, had any dealings with them prior to the attacks?”

Cheryl hesitated, and then sighed and said, “The third victim, yes, but only because she lives nearby and works in an auto parts store where he sometimes shops.”

“How close nearby?”

“Close enough … too close. The Oasis Mobile Home Park.”

“The one in the next block?”

“Yes. But that doesn't have to mean anything, no matter what Sheriff Felix thinks. The woman's husband works nights in one of the mines. So does the second victim's husband. And none of the three has any children or other relatives living with them. That's how the rapist, whoever he is, is targeting them. He knows they're going to be alone. He could be someone who works in the mines, too, couldn't he?”

“Yes, he could.” I had my pen and notebook out and was taking notes in my own brand of shorthand. “Were any of the women able to provide a description beyond the fact that the attacker was young?”

“No. All three assaults happened in the middle of the night, with no lights on in the bedrooms. All the women could say was that he was young and strong and very angry.”

“What exactly led the law to focus on Cody?”

She looked off into the middle distance for a time before she said bitterly, “A witness claimed to have seen him in the vicinity of the Oasis. Running away from it, supposedly, right after the woman was attacked.”

“Reliable witness?”

“Sheriff Felix thinks so.”

“But you don't agree?”

“No. Sam Parfrey doesn't, either. The witness is … well, strange.”

“Strange in what way? Who is he?”

“His name is Stendreyer. He lives in the desert, in what's left of an old ghost town. Keeps to himself, mostly. There are rumors about him.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“Oh, you know the kind. That he's crazy, that he is or was some sort of criminal, that he'd shoot you dead if you trespassed on his property.”

“If he lives in the desert, what was he doing in this neighborhood in the middle of the night?”

“Passing through on his way home, he claims. He'd been in Elko for some reason and had just gotten back. That's possible, Yucca Street is the way to Lost Horse. But he's either mistaken or lying about seeing Cody, he
has
to be.”

“What does Cody say? Was he anywhere near the Oasis at the time?”

“He swears he wasn't.”

“Here at home, then?”

“That's just it … no. I'm a light sleeper, I always hear him when he comes in. No, he was driving in the desert, alone—he does that sometimes when he's too restless to sleep. He'd been out with a friend earlier, but he took her home around midnight.”

“Her?”

“Alana Farmer. His … girl.”

Disapproval in Cheryl's voice? Sounded like it.

I asked, “And he couldn't account for his whereabouts when the other two rapes happened?”

“No. But that's pure coincidence. He … he's a restless boy, often stays out late. There's so little for young people to do here.”

“Hatcher said he was wild. You don't agree?”

“Absolutely not. Cody … well, he's done some things he shouldn't have, like a lot of teenagers, but he was never in serious trouble before this.”

“Does he have a job?”

“He had one, at the Eastwell Mine, but he lost it five months ago—a conflict with his shift supervisor. He hasn't been able to find another.”

The way she said that, hesitantly and with an undercurrent of disappointment, told me something about the kid that marked him down a notch. Indolent, maybe lazy; careless and at least a little selfish. It was plain that Cheryl was supporting the two of them on a shoestring income and in need of the extra cash a second regular job would supply. But Cody had been fired from the only one he'd had for what sounded like insubordination, and was allegedly looking for another that he couldn't seem to find in a boom economy.

I said, “Let's get back to this man Stendreyer. Did he come forward voluntarily?”

“Yes, the next morning.”

“Why would he do that, if he keeps to himself and lives out in the desert? Why get involved?”

“He drove into town for supplies and overheard talk about the third rape, when and where it happened. Violence against women is a crime he can't abide, he said.”

“How does he know Cody by sight?”

“He claims to have seen him before, driving in the desert.”

“Can you think of any reason Stendreyer might have for falsely implicating him?”

“No. Cody has never had anything to do with the man.”

“All right. What else does the law have on your son? Did any of the victims ID him, however tentatively? Physical details, voice?”

“No, thank God. They all said Cody was the right age and size, but of course they couldn't be sure it was him. The rapist didn't say much to any of them and what he did say was muffled by the ski mask he wore.”

“So the primary evidence against Cody is what?”

“What the sheriff found in his Jeep. A black ski mask and a hunting knife like the one the rapist used. But he swears he's never seen the mask, that somebody must have planted it there to frame him.”

“What about the knife? Does it belong to him?”

“He had one like it, yes. But he lost it last summer. Lots of people here own hunting knives, it could belong to anyone.”

“Why does the law believe it's the one the rapist used?”

“There were traces of blood on it. Human blood, they think. The last victim was … cut.”

“They think it's her blood? They don't know?”

“Not yet. They're waiting to find out. That, and if Cody's DNA matches the rapist's. It won't, but Sam Parfrey says that even without DNA evidence, they may still have enough to convict him.”

“The rapist didn't use a condom?”

“He did, but not … carefully. They found traces of semen in one woman's bed.”

“When do they expect to have the test results?”

“Next week sometime. Forensic tests take time in Nevada—”

Sudden crashing noises from the back of the house. Glass shattering, a loud thump as of a hard object slamming into something solid like a wall.

Cheryl cried out, “Oh, God, that came from the kitchen!” and something else that I didn't listen to because I was already on my feet and running.

There was a hallway on my left, a swing door beyond a small dining alcove to the right. I shouldered through the door into the kitchen. Rock the size of a grapefruit and fragments of glass on the linoleum floor. Nothing left of a curtained window over the sink except jagged shards in the frame like broken teeth. And through the gap I could see flickers of yellow-orange light staining the outer darkness.

Jesus! Something on fire out there.

 

3

The back door was locked. I fumbled at the dead bolt, yanked it free, and charged through into the rear yard. A small outbuilding behind the portico, a shed of some kind, was what was burning; red-orange flames licked low along the near side wall and around the corner at the back, sending up thin streamers of blackish smoke. Not burning fast or hot yet, just crawling upward in little jumps and spurts.