Cold Black Earth Page 12

  She could see a figure silhouetted in the lamplight outside the door. She stepped closer. The figure moved, light from the halogen lamp high on its pole falling on its face.

  It was a girl, long black hair framing a pale face, dark eyes rimmed with black, a black scarf up to her chin, a black jacket. She had opened the storm door to rap on the glass of the inner door. Now she had sensed Rachel’s presence and stood staring through the window, wide-eyed. For a moment Rachel just stared back. Then the girl leaned forward, pressed her forehead against the glass, shading the side of her face with a hand, and said, just audibly through the door, “Is Billy there?”

  Rachel exhaled. “Just a moment.” She replaced the hatchet in the tool bin and then stepped back to the door. She raised her hand to the deadbolt. This close to the door she could feel the chill coming through the glass, seeping under the door. She hesitated a moment longer, then turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches, stopping it with her hip. An icy breath of wind hit her. She said, “Billy’s not here.”

  The girl was no older than twenty and looked as if she could use a good home-cooked meal. She was dressed in black from head to toe, wearing high leather boots with spike heels. Her face was deathly pale and she was shivering in the cold. She said, “Shit.” Beyond her on the gravel was a car Rachel didn’t recognize, some kind of muscle car.

  Rachel wondered if this was the girl whose underwear she had thrown away. She almost gave in to an impulse to pull the door open wide and tell the poor girl to come in out of the cold. Something in her vaguely disreputable look stopped her. She said, “Sorry.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “I couldn’t say. Billy doesn’t really check in with us. Do you have his cell phone number?”

  The girl just stared at her. Then she did something that puzzled Rachel: She looked to her left, off into the darkness at the side of the house, as if consulting someone. Rachel, uneasy, narrowed the gap in the doorway by a couple of inches. She said, “Do you want me to give him a message?”

  The girl turned back to her and said, “No, that’s OK. Forget it.” She turned on her heels and went tripping down the steps. She walked toward the car as Rachel closed and locked the door.

  When the girl reached the car she halted, turned, and looked again at something Rachel could not see. As Rachel watched, a man came into view, long-haired and leather-jacketed, slouching, with a furtive air. He looked over his shoulder at the door, and the face Rachel saw was a real bad-boy face, bony and feral, without Billy’s redeeming handsomeness. The man got in the driver’s seat and the girl got in on the other side, and after a moment the lights came on and the car spun around and went tearing down the drive and turned east on the road.

  Nice friends, thought Rachel. She stood there in the chill wondering why any friend of Billy’s would need to lurk just out of view. Then she thought of worse things out there in the dark, checked the locks and hastened away from the door.

  15

  “What the hell did you do to my hatchet?”

  Matt stood in the doorway brandishing it like a tomahawk, glowering at Billy where he sat at the kitchen table with Rachel. The dark stains did not look particularly gruesome in the morning light.

  Billy frowned at him, coffee cup halted halfway to his mouth. “Where’d that come from?”

  “The tool bin, where else?”

  “I found it when I was cleaning out the car,” Rachel said. She cast a guilty look at Billy; she had neglected to ask him about it, and now she felt obscurely at fault, seeing him in hot water with Matt once again.

  Matt was rubbing the blade with a thumb. “What’d you do, kill somebody with it?”

  “The turkey,” Billy said. “I took it to Pete’s at Thanksgiving, remember? Instead of a store-bought turkey he had one he’d been raising. And that’s what we used to kill it. Turned out to be harder than you’d think.”

  Matt stared at him with distaste. “Especially when you’re drunk, huh?”

  “Hell, we weren’t drunk yet. It’s just a big damn bird, that’s all. Put up a fight.”

  Matt looked at Rachel and shook his head. “He ditched the family at Thanksgiving and went off and partied with his buddies. He came back two days later, hung over.”

  “Didn’t do nobody no harm,” said Billy. “Except the turkey.” He shot Rachel a covert grin.

  “Well, you think you might have cleaned off my hatchet?” said Matt.

  Billy’s face went sullen. “I meant to but I forgot. I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll put it by the back door.” Seeing the look Matt gave Billy and the boy’s stony expression in response, Rachel had to suppress an urge to play peacemaker; she knew from experience that was an ungrateful role. What they really needed, she thought, was to have their silly heads knocked together.

  Rachel hadn’t been to the Quad Cities since she stopped seeing her orthodontist three decades before. Outside Illinois she had never come across anyone who hailed from there or who had ever heard of them, and yet here they sat, a cluster of industrial towns on a westward bend of the Mississippi that had merged into an urban area big enough to have a federal arsenal, a minor league ball team, and, Rachel hoped, a decent French restaurant.

  The restaurant was in downtown Rock Island, a few blocks from the big lazy river, and looking at the menu in the tastefully muted lighting Rachel realized that, provincial or not, this was going to cost Roger a pretty penny. “This looks wonderful,” she said.

  “You’re going to have to help me out,” said Roger. In his V-neck sweater over a striped Oxford shirt he looked like a man who didn’t dress up much, making an effort. “I’ve never had French food before.” He looked up from the menu, mouth twisted in a smile. “I figured this was my best chance, with somebody that speaks the language.”

  “I’ll try to steer you to something good.” Conversation on the half-hour drive up 74 had been just a touch strained, sticking to banalities and avoiding any mention of murder or police work. Despite the awkwardness Rachel’s spirits had been raised just by moving, seeing countryside go by. “Do you like seafood? Coquilles St. Jacques are good.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the expert. How in the heck do you pronounce this, anyway? I’ve always wondered.”

  He goggled in disbelief at Rachel’s pronunciation of hors d’oeuvres and failed to replicate it; Rachel talked him out of ordering beer and then felt bad watching his face as he looked at the prices on the wine list. “Usually if you ask, you can get a cheaper house wine by the glass,” she said.

  Roger smiled, handing her the list. “Heck with it. Order us a good bottle and don’t worry about the price. Money’s no object tonight. I got nobody to spend it on and it just piles up.”

  All right, pal, you asked for it, Rachel thought. She negotiated the ordering process, and when they each had a glass of a mid-range Pouilly-Fuissé in hand, they clinked glasses and drank. “Mm. That’s good.” She set her glass down and said, “Roger, this is so nice of you. But before we go any further I really have to make one thing clear. I’m just not in the market for romance at this stage of my life. I’m home for a few weeks to rest and catch up with my family, and then I’m leaving again. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but it almost certainly won’t be here. So I’m happy to revive a friendship, but that’s really all it’s going to be. OK?”

  He looked grave for a second or two, and then nodded. “I appreciate your being frank, Rachel. I don’t know if I gave off the wrong signals or what, but I never intended to come on too heavy. I always liked you, I won’t deny that, and when you came back I might have gotten a little excited, but I’m a grown-up and I understand where you’re coming from. Far as I’m concerned, it’s just a pleasure for me to go out for a nice dinner with a pretty woman and hear about all the adventures she’s had. So there’s no strings attached to any of this, and I’m just glad for the company and the education.”

  Rachel returned his smile, feeling the tensi
on ease a little. Up to this moment she’d had her fears about how this was going to go. “Well, the education goes both ways. You’ve got expertise in things I’ve never dreamed of, I’m sure. More practical things than ordering a bottle of wine.”

  “Like how to break up a bar fight? Yeah, I’ve pretty much earned a graduate degree in that at this point.”

  They laughed and the easier mood carried them through the Coquilles St. Jacques and into the Sole Meunière. Rachel did most of the talking, Roger following intently as she covered her trajectory from college language major to Foreign Service recruit to experienced officer with half a dozen countries under her belt. “Your turn,” she said after a lull. “How did you wind up on the sheriff’s department? I would have thought you’d be farming, like your dad.”

  Roger washed down a mouthful with wine and sat frowning at the glass. “Long story,” he said. “Family feud, is what it boils down to.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Who’s got your dad’s land?”

  “Somebody I don’t even know. I haven’t set foot on it in twenty years.” He looked up at Rachel and the corner of his mouth twitched, just a little.

  “What happened?”

  “Remember my sister Marcia?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, my dad gave her power of attorney when he got sick. Her, not me. Just because she’d gotten her degree at U of I and I’d dropped out. I guess he figured she was the smart one.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Well, I didn’t think too much of it. Until she sold all the farmland about a week before Dad died.”

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “How could she do that?”

  “She had power of attorney.”

  “I mean, ethically, how could she do that to you? Without consulting you?”

  “Oh, she consulted me. She sat me down and told me she didn’t think I was responsible enough to run the farm. See, I’d been running around a little bit right before then, doing some traveling and sowing wild oats or whatever. My idea was to get all that out of my system before I came back and took over the farm, ’cause I knew Dad was fading. But Marcia said I’d shown I wasn’t steady enough to take the place over and I’d be better off taking my share of the proceeds and investing it and finding something else to do. Of course, what that meant was, her share was bigger. Because the will said I was supposed to get all the farmland, she was supposed to get the house, and we were supposed to split any money in the bank half and half. Well, there was a hell of a lot in the bank, but it was all from the land I was supposed to get. And she got half of it, and there wasn’t any land left. And then she went and sold the house, too.”

  “But that’s outrageous. Couldn’t you contest it?”

  “Well, I got a lawyer, and all he did was charge me thousands of dollars and negotiate a little money back from Marcia. But it was all done aboveboard, perfectly legal.”

  Rachel just stared wide-eyed for a few seconds, and then she put a hand on his arm. “Oh, my God, Roger, I am so sorry. How could she do that to you?”

  He shrugged, lifting the glass. “I always figured it was her husband’s idea. I never did think much of him. They took their half of the cash and went to Texas and we don’t communicate much anymore. Last I heard, she’d divorced him after all that.”

  Family conflicts over land were not unheard of, but Rachel had never seen one this ugly up close. “You got screwed.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. But I did have the money, and I used some of it to go back to college, and that’s where I met my wife, so I guess it worked out. I did a couple of other things for a few years and then applied to the department and here I am.”

  Rachel held his gaze for a few seconds; she felt freer to like Roger now that she was confident the terms of their friendship were clear, and she was conscious of a certain reservoir of affection she had had for him since that single slightly awkward prom date, which could have gone so much worse. Roger had been good-humored and perfectly gallant, and at the end of the night he had gratified Rachel by making clear both his gratitude for her company and his awareness that there would be no sequel. “Matt said you have a daughter.”

  “Yeah. Lindsey. Wanna see a picture?” Roger dug in his hip pocket and produced a wallet, from which he extracted a school picture of a freckled blonde girl on the cusp of puberty.

  “Oh, she’s pretty. How old is she?”

  “Twelve. She’s in seventh grade. Out in Colorado Springs with her mom. I don’t get to see her more than a couple times a year.” He gazed at the picture for a couple of seconds before stowing it away. “That’s kind of hard.”

  “What happened with your wife?”

  Roger shrugged. “Night shifts, strange hours, missed dinners. She didn’t want to be a cop’s wife. Not out in corn county, anyway. She was from some suburb of Chicago and she hated small towns. She wanted to go out west. So she found a guy who would take her there.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s life. What about you? What killed your marriage?”

  Rachel told him about Fadi and the nightspots of Beirut, which took them through dessert. “And here we are,” said Rachel.

  They smiled at each other, but Rachel was careful not to maintain the eye contact too long; she knew it was the wine that was making her so big-hearted. She pushed her plate away and tidied her napkin. “Thank you, Roger. This has been wonderful. I’m glad we had a chance to reconnect.”

  “Me, too.” He was frowning now, fidgeting a little and looking uneasy, and Rachel guessed he was beginning to think about the three-figure tab. Abruptly he said, “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this killing. I hope it’s not affecting you too much. You seem like you’re doing OK.” He looked almost shamefaced.

  You sure know how to round off a romantic evening, she thought. “I’m OK. I’m just sorry for Ed,” she said.

  Roger’s look sharpened. “He didn’t suffer too much. He really didn’t. The autopsy established that. The blow to the head killed him. All the rest was . . .” He waved a hand vaguely.

  “Yes, well. We don’t really need to think about that tonight, do we?”

  “No, sorry.” Roger threw up both hands. “Shouldn’t have brought it up. It just bothers me, that’s all. I won’t be able to rest easy till we catch the guy.”

  “Me, neither,” said Rachel, drily. “Believe me.”

  Roger was starting to realize the dimensions of his gaffe. Flustered, he looked around and said, “What do you have to do to get ’em to bring the check?”

  And that, thought Rachel as she watched Roger’s taillights draw away down the drive, was one of the stranger evenings I’ve spent. She threw the deadbolt and turned to face the empty house, sagging back against the door.

  She had known the house was empty as soon as Roger turned into the drive. Neither the pickup nor Billy’s Dodge was in sight, and the two lights that were on, one in the living room and one in the kitchen, were the ones Matt always left on when he was out. If he had been home, most of the first floor would have been lit up.

  Roger had sensed her uneasiness and asked if she would be OK; by reflex she had said sure, not wanting to prolong an evening that had run its course. Now, listening to the empty house, she wished she had asked him in.

  There is nobody here, Rachel told herself. There is no sign of forced entry. There is no reason to believe that the man who sawed Ed Thomas into pieces is waiting for me at the end of that hallway or at the top of the stairs. I have come home to this safe, familiar house when it was empty many times in my life, and I have never been afraid.

  Rachel’s heart had accelerated and her knees had gone weak; her breathing was shallow and rapid. She strained to listen and heard, at long intervals, the faint random creaks that are always there in an old house. She had lived with them for years. Now each one sounded like Otis Ryle’s soft tread.

  You are being childish, she told herself. Still, she dared not move. She listened for another minute. That, surely, was
a careful placement of a foot in the upstairs hall. And yet there was nothing after it, only silence.

  I want a gun, thought Rachel. I want Clyde Larson’s gun. With a gun I would not be afraid to march through the house, opening doors, looking in closets.

  Leave, she thought. Run out to the Chevy, jump in and drive to where there are people. Drive down to the Larsons’. Karen will give you hot chocolate and Clyde will give you a gun.

  16

  “I know it’s irrational,” said Rachel. “But I couldn’t stay there. I was too scared.”

  “It’s not irrational at all, dear. Good Lord, with that man still on the loose? I’ve been scared to death myself the last few days.” Karen Larson was in her bathrobe, hair in a net and ready for bed, but she had rallied to the cause. “I am so glad you came over.” She set the mug in front of Rachel and squeezed her shoulder. Rachel closed her eyes, on the verge of tears, overcome with gratitude. Mother me, she thought. Please mother me.

  The chocolate was too hot to drink. She slurped a little and set the mug down. “I’ll call Matt and find out when he’ll be home.”

  “You can stay here as long as you want, honey. Spend the night if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I think I need to get back on that horse. Let me see if I can raise Matt.” She rummaged in her purse until she came up with her cell phone. When Matt answered she said, “Hey, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the bar, where I’m supposed to be. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Larsons’. I was too scared to stay in the house after Roger dropped me off.”

  “Why, did something happen?”

  “No, I was just scared to be in the house alone. I’m just still a little freaked out, that’s all.”