Cold Black Earth Read online

  A look of great weariness passed over Billy’s face. “Fuck, Aunt Rachel, I don’t know. Why do I have to do anything with my life? I ain’t hurting nobody. If all I ever do for the rest of my life is party, who gives a shit?”

  They looked out the window together for a time, just watching the snow drift gently across the land. “I think this is where I’m supposed to give you the lecture,” Rachel said. “But having screwed up my own life to the point where I’m blubbering in the attic at age forty-three, I don’t think I have a lot of credibility. So I’m just going to ask you for another drink.” He handed her the flask and she drank. “Maybe adulthood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “That’s the impression I’m getting.” He took the flask back. “So, who stabbed you in the back? Your husband?”

  “Yeah. I started to get the picture when I would come home to Beirut on furlough and find other women’s cosmetics in the bathroom.”

  “Damn. Welcome home.”

  “Yeah. I guess I pretty much asked for it. I knew when I married him, or I should have known, that I wasn’t marrying into a culture that valued a woman’s career prospects. When I put my career first, that was pretty much it for the marriage. And then I went and flushed the career down the toilet, too. So now where am I?”

  “Sitting in the attic getting drunk with your no-good nephew.”

  Rachel had to smile at that. “There are worse fates,” she said, holding out her hand for the flask.

  When Matt came in he stopped in his tracks by the back door to stare at them sitting at the kitchen table, cards and small change scattered over the tabletop. “What you playing?” he said, taking off his coat.

  “Gin rummy.” Billy was dealing. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I just gambled away the farm.”

  “Suits me.” Matt pulled out a chair. “Let somebody else worry about it for a while.”

  “Aunt Rachel says she’ll let you stay, long as she gets that rent check in Paris every month.”

  “Should just keep me in that nice little flat on the Île St. Louis,” Rachel said, deadpan.

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “You two been drinking?”

  They burst out in giggles and Rachel knew she was cutting a poor figure for a grown-up woman, but she didn’t care. “Couple of God damn schoolkids,” said Matt. “Well, is there any left?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Billy. “We killed the bourbon. But I think there’s beer.”

  Matt shook his head and went and got himself one. Rachel gave him a sheepish look. “What can I say? Never could hold my liquor.”

  Matt opened the bottle and sat down. “Well, while you two been sitting here getting drunk, there’s a manhunt going on out there.”

  That killed the mood fast; Rachel and Billy exchanged a look and then Billy tossed his cards down on the table. “They coming up with anything?” he said.

  “I don’t know, but there’s cops all over. The word is, they found a place where he might have been hiding out, over toward Regina. There’s an abandoned house right by the strip mines down there where they found signs somebody’d been in there in the last couple of days. There was food and stuff in there, and a couple of blankets, and somebody’d built a fire in the fireplace.”

  “That doesn’t mean it was him,” said Billy. “There’s a million abandoned houses around here. People get in there and do drugs and shit. Or just camp out. There’s homeless people out here in farm country, too, you know.”

  “I know. I’m just telling you what the grapevine’s saying. Ron McKay’s brother farms down there, and he had state cops out beating the bushes behind his place.”

  “The grapevine. You been hanging out with the geezers at the Snack Shack again?”

  Matt gave Billy a cool look and Rachel tensed, but after a moment Matt smiled. “I’m one of the geezers now, boy. Watch what you say. Anyway, hanging out with the geezers is how you get the news around here.”

  Billy let it go. “Seems like all they got to do is look for that truck. There can’t be too many of those old Fords still around.”

  “Yeah, and if he’s still around that’s probably how they’ll spot him. I think they got tire prints from Ed’s place, and I bet the state cops are smart enough to compare ’em with anything they find.”

  Billy frowned, fiddling with coins on the table. “What would he be doing hanging around here, anyway? If I was him, with a set of wheels, I’d be in fuckin’ Mexico by now.”

  “Watch your language, will you? Who knows how a sick mind like that works? Maybe he’s got old grudges to settle, or thinks he does. You know Ed Thomas grew up near Regina and knew the Ryles, right?”

  Rachel and Billy stared at him. “Listen to you,” said Rachel. “Pulling that out of your hat, like you knew it all along. Who told you that?”

  “That’s what Ron says. He says not too many people remember the Ryles because they lost their land and moved away a long time ago, like forty years ago, but according to him, and he says he got it from his dad, the Ryles and the Thomases knew each other back in the day and didn’t get along too well.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I don’t know. All Ron said was, they didn’t get along. Ed’s father and Bessie’s husband had some kind of a feud or something, way back in the fifties. That’s all he knew.”

  “Ron told the police this, I’m assuming.”

  “Oh, yeah. I think they’re all over it.”

  Billy said, “So the guy comes back forty years later to whack old Ed? Dude’s got a long memory.”

  “Hold on,” said Rachel. “Otis Ryle was just a little boy when the fifties ended. I’m having a hard time believing he would have even known anything, much less cared, about some feud his, what, grandfather had? Bessie was his grandmother, right? And it doesn’t sound like he was exactly invested in the Ryle family honor or anything. I can’t see it.”

  Matt spread his hands. “Yeah, I don’t know. All I’m telling you is what Ron told me. That’s the scuttlebutt. Make of it what you will.”

  Billy shoved back from the table. “Sounds like a lot of horseshit to me. I think the dude went off on Ed because Ed propositioned him. And now the dude’s long gone. The cops are wasting their time poking around people’s barns.”

  “Ron said they got all the meth cooks in the county upset. They’re not used to cops going around turning over rocks.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Billy headed for the hall.

  “I hope not,” said Matt. “I certainly hope not.”

  14

  Rachel found her Aunt Helga in another resident’s room, bending over an old man with twisted limbs lying on his back in bed, staring up at her and thrashing feebly. His eyes watered and the tendons in his neck strained with the effort to speak. On the wall a television was blaring, a studio audience shrieking with laughter. “Don’t wear yourself out, Ralph,” Helga was saying. “I know. I hear you.” She clasped one withered hand in hers and squeezed, then detached herself and pushed away from the bed, leaning on her walker. Her eyes met Rachel’s, and Rachel was startled to see the anger that blazed there.

  They made their way slowly back to Helga’s room. “That’s what a stroke does to you,” Helga said when she was settled on her chair, panting a little. The anger was gone, replaced by a haunted look. “That poor man lies there all day and can’t even tell the girl when he’s wet himself. The television’s on day and night, driving him crazy, and every time I turn it off the staff comes and turns it back on again. He’s got a sister who comes and reads him devotional passages every day. That would be enough to make anyone into a pagan. I had Steve bring me a volume of Zane Grey stories so I could go in and read him something different once in a while, but the sister put an end to that. She said he couldn’t follow the stories anyway, which any fool can see isn’t true. His mind’s still there, which is the real tragedy. I hope God’s got a nice place reserved for that poor man when he finally goes, because he’s
in hell now.”

  She was breathless when she finished, and Rachel sat and watched as the heaving of her sunken chest slowly subsided. At last she said softly, “What about you, Aunt Helga? Are you in hell?”

  Helga appeared to consider the question seriously, but when her answer came it was with a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no, honey. I’m all right. I’d rather still be at home, but then I’d be completely dependent on people who have their own lives to lead, and that’s not very agreeable, either. I don’t like it, but I can’t say I don’t belong here. It’s just another thing to make the best of.”

  Rachel nodded. She wasn’t sure why she was here; it certainly wasn’t because she had expected laughter and high spirits. Maybe it was because she had sensed Helga could help her make the best of things. “Are you lonely?” she said.

  Helga gazed at her for a moment. “In here, you mean? No more than I was before. I’ve got children and grandchildren, and a telephone. But from the look on your face I’d guess you are.”

  Rachel looked out the window. “Not yet. But I’m afraid of it.”

  “Yes, it is the most terrible thing there is, isn’t it? But you did the right thing. You came home.”

  “Yes. Just in time for a murder.”

  “You mean Ed Thomas.” Helga searched her face. “Steve told me you found him.”

  “I found him, yes.”

  “You’ve not had an easy time recently, have you, child?”

  “I’ve had better months.”

  “And they think it was the Ryle boy? Otis?”

  “He seems to be the main suspect. Did you know him?”

  “Knew the family. But Otis would be, let’s see. He would be in his seventies by now, maybe eighty. He was only a few years younger than me. I’m surprised he’s still alive, the kind of life he led.”

  Rachel frowned. “You must be thinking of the father. The one who escaped from prison is in his fifties.”

  Helga’s eyes went a little vague. Rachel had opened her mouth to explain further when Helga said, “Otis had a son? I never knew that.”

  “Yes, but apparently he abandoned him, dumped him with his mother, Bessie.”

  “Bessie Ryle, goodness. There was a nasty woman. I remember Ruby Hart telling me about Bessie screaming at her in the general store in Regina because she thought she had cut in front of her. I don’t think Bessie was quite stable. And Otis left his son with her? Poor child.”

  “Yes. But she gave the boy up to foster care after a few years. And he never came back until they brought him to the prison here.”

  “Another Otis Ryle, imagine that. One was enough. He was what they called a hell-raiser. But I never heard anything about him after he went out to California, goodness, must be sixty years ago.”

  Rachel waited for more, and when nothing came she said, “Aunt Helga, what do you know about a feud between the Thomases and the Ryles?”

  “Oh, goodness. I don’t know. Seems to me I remember hearing something about that, but I couldn’t tell you what. Something to do with land, probably. That’s what farmers fight about around here, when it isn’t women. I remember hearing that Bessie claimed the Ryles were cheated out of their land. But nobody seemed to take that seriously. As far as I ever knew, they lost the land to the bank because they weren’t very good farmers. Why, do they think that has something to do with what happened to Ed?”

  “I don’t know what the police are thinking. It doesn’t seem likely to me. This Otis Ryle was just a little boy when all that was going on. But who knows?”

  “You never know about people. I always felt sorry for Otis’s sister.”

  “He had a sister?”

  “Yes, and she wasn’t like the rest of them. I didn’t know her very well. But she seemed nice. And a little ashamed of the rest of her family. She came to our church a few times, I remember. She married somebody up Kalmar way, if I recall, and I never heard any more about her.” Helga seemed to drift away again. “So many people over the years. I’ve lived a long time.”

  I could live another forty-three years, Rachel thought, terrified. That’s a long time to be alone. “Can I bring you anything? Is there anything you miss, anything you need?”

  Helga came back from wherever she was and focused on Rachel. “Just all those years, child. If you could bring them back I’d be the happiest woman on earth. But you can’t. Nobody can.”

  “I’ll let the detectives know, but I don’t think it means much,” said Roger. “That was a hell of a long time ago and Otis Ryle was just a kid. I can’t see it. I think it’s a coincidence.”

  Cell phone to her ear, Rachel stared out through the windshield of the Chevy at drawn blinds at the back of the nursing home. “OK, I just thought I should pass it along.”

  “I appreciate it. We can use all the help we can get.”

  “No progress, huh?”

  “Just if eliminating possibilities is progress, which I guess it is. We’ve covered just about all the abandoned farmsteads. Found a few things people didn’t want us to find. But no Ford pickup, no Otis Ryle.”

  “Maybe he’s far away.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping. But we’re not ready to sound the all clear. The fact remains that whoever killed Ed Thomas is still at large. And there’s absolutely no guarantee he isn’t still in Dearborn County somewhere. There’s a lot of square miles out there, with a lot of places to hide. So keep your doors locked.”

  “OK, thanks, Roger.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you called.” There was a brief pause. “Say, Rachel?”

  Something in Roger’s tone of voice made her heart sink. “What?”

  “I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

  Oh, God, Rachel thought. Why me? She groped frantically for an excuse. Seconds went by, and she knew her paralysis had gone past the point of mere surprise and into awkwardness. Roger said, “Just dinner. No pressure, no nothing. Just to catch up a little bit.”

  She could hear the tension in his voice. Put him out of his misery, she said to herself. And then she caved. As she said it she knew it was cowardice and cursed herself, but she said, “Sure. That would be nice.”

  “All right. What about tomorrow night? I’ll take you to that French place in Rock Island if you want.”

  A French place in Rock Island? Rachel couldn’t picture it. But having already conceded the essential, she had no grounds for resistance. “That sounds nice, Roger. What time?”

  When Rachel was a small child she had been afraid of the dark because it might be hiding anything she could imagine. Now she was afraid because she knew exactly what it was hiding. In daylight she felt merely shaky, fragile, as if she were getting over the flu. With sundown the dread returned.

  I am going to go mad, Rachel thought. Isn’t somebody supposed to offer me counseling? Where are the solicitous social workers, the psychologists, the grief counselors and the therapists? Where is that pompous little pastor?

  Rachel knew if she needed help she was going to have to go looking for it. And she didn’t know where to start. Once she had had a husband who would have taken her in his arms and comforted her, but that was all gone. Matt was being kind, dancing around the edges of her distress like a good stolid Scandinavian brother, but there were limits to what he could do. Rachel was on her own.

  Matt had gone to bed, fatigued after a day’s labor in the barn, surveying and staking out the location of his milking operation. Billy had not been seen all day. Rachel put on a nightgown and bathrobe and flopped on the couch with the TV on. She wore out the remote surfing channels and then gave up, killed the TV and picked up The Crystal Cave, which she had pulled off the shelf hoping for escape. She read a few pages but could not focus and tossed the book down on the couch beside her and put her face in her hands.

  By way of distraction she returned to her annoyance with herself at failing to fend off Roger. She had said nothing to Matt about Roger’s invitation, and then been irked by her own embarrassment
. She had had enough practice in her life deflecting come-ons, especially in the brutally skewed male-to-female ratios she had been used to in Iraq, that it should have been child’s play to put Roger gently back in his place. But she had said yes.

  Tires purred on gravel outside and lights swept over the snow on the yard as a car turned into the drive. Rachel was mildly surprised at the small leap in her spirits at the thought of Billy coming in. She waited for the sound of his key in the door.

  Instead, after half a minute or so a sharp rapping sound came from the back door. Rachel froze. She had managed to forget escaped madmen and butchered farmers for a few minutes, but now her heart was suddenly pounding. She waited for Matt to stir, to come out of the den and take charge, but there was no sign of him.

  The knock came again, half a dozen quick raps on the glass. Rachel rose from the couch. Homicidal maniacs don’t knock, she told herself as she started down the hall. This is Karen Larson come to see if I need company, or Dan Olson, come to take me to the bar again.

  Dan would have called, she knew. Probably Karen Larson would have, too. And what better way for a homicidal maniac to gain entry than simply to knock?

  Rachel stopped in the dark hallway. Where was Matt? She nearly turned around to go and wake him.

  And then she was angry at herself again, for playing the helpless female. The door was locked and there was a window in it; she could see who was standing there without putting herself in danger.

  The thought of Otis Ryle standing at the door, patiently knocking, halted her in her tracks. He could smash the window in her face, reach through and seize her by the throat.

  The knocking came again, tap-tap-tap-tap on the glass. She was closer now, and its proximity made the sound more mundane. You are being a fool, she told herself. Go and see who is at the door.

  The kitchen was dark, but she made no move to turn on the light; she wanted to be looking out into the lamplit yard from darkness. She felt her way through the kitchen carefully and went down the three steps to the entryway. As she passed the household tool bin that lay at the foot of the steps, she reached down on impulse and grasped the first wooden handle her hand fell on. She came up holding the hatchet she had put there after cleaning out the car.