Understory

by Lisa J. Lickel

  Okay. He swallowed. Naturally, since his oldest sibling was gone, he’d go over to check on Berta who didn’t have a phone right now.

  Made sense to him, so it should to anyone else. Art took a deep breath, finished the coffee, and drove to his trailer trash stepsister’s place. And prayed the brat came back and froze like a bratsicle next to his dead mother.

  Art knocked. For a show in case the neighbors cared, he cupped his eyes and peered through the filthy window. He tried the door handle. Locked. Had he locked it yesterday on his way out?

  He couldn’t remember. Should he break in? How would that look?

  First guy on the scene is always the best suspect, right?

  He rattled the door again, checked left and right, and thought the curtain next door twitched. He waved, went back to his car, and called the police station on his cell phone. Not 911. That would be too suspicious since there was no emergency.

  “Barter Valley PD, how may I direct your call?”

  “Mary, this is Art Townsend. I’m at my sister Berta’s trailer. I, uh, thought I’d check on her, but there’s no answer.”

  “Transferring you to an officer. Hold please.”

  Art frowned at the phone. Mary White had been two years behind him in school. Way too uppity and hoity-toity, as always. She probably thought he was a—

  “Officer Deegan. How can I help you?”

  Deegan, the new guy. Figured. “Uh, hi, there, Officer. Art Townsend here. I’m sorry to bother you, but I ran into a little problem here. I know you’re all busy, but I didn’t want to just break in on my own.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Since my sister moved away, our other sister, Berta, Berta Masters, that is, is alone with her son. She lives at Buenaview. The trailer park.”

  “I’m familiar with Buenaview Mobile Home Court.”

  “Yeah. Well, I came over this morning to check on her and her son, and there’s no answer. I couldn’t get in.”

  “You tried calling.”

  Of course he would have. “She’s not answering.”

  “The door is locked, you said? Did you look inside through the window? Is there any reason to believe she or the son—how old is he—are in danger?”

  Art stifled the annoyance beginning to build at the wasted time. Maybe he should have called 911.

  “I’m worried that with no heat, she and the kid—he’s in grade school—might freeze to death or something. Can someone come over and check it out? I didn’t want to break in or anything.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Fifteen minutes later, while Art waited in the car running expensive gas for the wimpy heater, a Barter Valley PD squad pulled up. No lights. That was a good thing. By now, faces lined windows on the trailers facing Berta’s. When the officer drove in, the complex manager must have gotten a case of the nerves. The greasy-looking little fellow roared across the court on a smoking Polaris a few ticks later. Art had met him twice before, once when he’d come in answer to a complaint of loud voices.

  Before Deegan could speak, the manager cut to the chase. “What’s the trouble? Why didn’t you call me first?”

  “No trouble that I’m aware of,” Art said, annoyed for not thinking of it. “I just called Officer Deegan here because I was worried about my sister Berta.”

  “Worried how?” The guy headed for Berta’s door.

  “And you are?” Deegan asked.

  “Bill Mahoney. I manage the joint.”

  “Wait right there,” the officer ordered. “Both of you, step back, please.”

  Art watched him bang on the flimsy metal screen door. “Ma’am? Miss Masters?” He turned to Art. “What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Kenneth. Kenny.”

  “Kenny? Can you hear me? This is Officer Deegan. Can you open the door?”

  Distracted by movement in the corner of his eye, Art turned to the trailer next door, a long, low-slung place that contrasted unfavorably with the purity of the snow. A woman stood in full view, talking on her phone. She met his stare, spoke into the phone, then folded it and stuck it in her pocket. She continued to watch the scene.

  “Ma’am, we’re coming in.” Deegan opened the screen door and raised his stick to break the lock on the cheap, dented metal door.

  “Wait! Let me!” The manager jingled a key ring.

  Of course he’d get all bent over having to replace a lock. Art sighed while the man tried three keys before finding one that worked. He followed them inside where he stood in the cold living room watching his breath steam.

  ELEVEN

  Kenny?

  The name followed Cam into dreamland. A boyfriend, probably. The woman wore no wedding ring. An abuser? She was obviously afraid of something by the way she’d called out “No!” Something this Kenny had done? Or threatened?

  Cam kept his own bed after all, once he’d decided there was no fever. She must have been having an almighty nightmare. This Kenny had to be the reason she’d run. Judging by her stubbornness, though, Cam knew there were always two sides, at least, to every story.

  No way was he getting in the middle of a domestic dispute. He let her stay on the couch, but left his bedroom door open. He needed to, anyway, for the heat to circulate.

  In the bleakness of what would have to do for morning, Cam rose and started coffee, using an old blue speckled pot. He let the dogs out, groaned at the amount of snow and height of the drifts, and grabbed more wood. After the coffee perked, he’d use the hot spot over the firebox to fry a breakfast of eggs and bacon. Would she want anything?

  The sooner he got outside to see how hard it was going to be to get into Barter Valley, the better. She was bound to experience a lot of pain when she woke up, and he wanted to get her help as soon as possible.

  A thump from the living room made him catch his breath and plunge through the swinging doors.

  She sat on the floor, grimacing and holding her hands in front of her, for all the world like a girl who realized the nightmare she’d been experiencing hadn’t been a dream.

  “Good morning. Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

  Her face was ashen, stricken, her eyes still wide with mistrust and pain.

  “Look, I know you can speak—”

  At her wider-eyed horror, Cam sighed. “Relax. You didn’t spill any terrorist plots or state secrets in your sleep.”

  She cocked her head and bit her lips as she blinked at the stove. Awkwardly, she moved as if to stand. Cam walked toward her, hesitant to offer help. As he figured, she sent a warning glare, halting him outside her personal space.

  “How are your feet?”

  Her glance toward the front door, then the bedroom, gave him a clue what was more important. She made it, albeit stiffly, from kneeling to standing.

  “You shouldn’t be walking yet. You may cause additional damage to your toes.”

  She stared at him, lips pressed together.

  “Yeah, go ahead. Your life. It’s in the bedroom. I’ll bring you some warm water to wash with. I can offer you a clean shirt if you’d like. No shower, though. Sorry.”

  The last was said to her back as she turned.

  The dogs whined at the front door, and Cam let them in. Iago shimmied before bounding right up to the woman, who palmed his ruff and let him help her through the bedroom door, which she closed after shooing Iago out.

  Cam shook his head. Iago almost acted like a guide dog, something Cam decided he’d check on sometime. The paperwork he’d gotten from the shelter when he’d adopted the dogs hadn’t given more than give a brief health history.

  By the time the woman emerged, wearing one of his faded Northern Central College sweatshirts, he’d set the table for two with flatware. The blue spotted enamel handles matched the coffee pot which made Cam chuckle. Uncle Wally’s taste in details like dishes had been fussier than the old man let on.

  His guest shuffled to the woodstove and held out her gauzed hands to the warmth. He watched her
through the kitchen doors he’d left wide open. He was going to have to call her something other than ma’am or hey, lady.

  He ignored her attempt to scare him off with her glares when he came into the room. “Sit down. Get off those feet. In fact, I’m going to elevate them. And I want to look at your hands.” The words snapped harder than he’d meant, but he was getting tired of her constant challenge.

  He herded her, noticing she smelled faintly of his sea breeze deodorant, to the sofa, where he set a cup of coffee on the side table. He gathered the extra blanket from the floor, bundled it, and gently placed it under her feet. “I’ll be right back. That coffee’s hot, so just wait a minute, okay? I’ll help you, but first I want to get something, a clean towel.”

  He returned, relieved she hadn’t tried to hold the hot mug. “May I?” He gestured toward her lap. At her terse nod, he settled the clean towel and indicated she should set her hands there. “I need to unwrap the gauze.” He gave her his best no-nonsense professor eye and grasped her wrist. “By the way, what should I call you? I have an idea if I don’t hear a better one from you.”

  TWELVE

  The single-wide didn’t need much of a search. Four minutes was all Deegan took before he decided the dwelling was unoccupied.

  That much Art figured for himself. While the officer radioed in to the station, Art continued to stare at the last place he’d seen Berta’s body. On the floor, right there, between the chipped coffee table and the ratty sofa. No blood stains. The coffee table stood straight to the sofa, which wasn’t the way he’d left it.

  Mahoney jingled the keys, rubbed his hands, and shifted from foot to foot. “Lots of folks in trouble with no heat,” he mumbled. “She might have gone somewhere else, you know. It’s not like you can make a fire or nuthin’ in one of these here units.” He pulled the dusty curtain aside to check out the window to the trailer next door. “At least they better not.”

  Ooooh. Art was too busy plotting his next move to waste time laughing at the little scary manager.

  Where would she have gone? Who helped her and what did Berta say? If she squealed anything, she’d pay with more than a broken nose. He’d slice her good, shut her up. Maybe cut out her filthy tongue. “Sorry, Officer. I’m just so worried…what did you say?”

  Deegan looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t know when she might have left the premises? You can file a missing persons report on the boy if you want, but you have no reason to believe he’s not with his mother, am I correct?”

  “Yeah. What should I do next?”

  “I run a clean place,” Mahoney said, jingling those keys again. Art was ready to stuff them down his throat. “No police calls for three months. That’s not typical. Like I said—”

  “Understood, Mr. Mahoney,” Deegan said, and addressed Art. “Sir, I recommend you sit tight. Call around to her friends, ask if she’s there, but there’s a lot of people trying to make do without power right now. We’ll keep our ears open.” He replaced his hat. “Let us know if you find them.”

  “Say, you don’t have an idea when the power’ll be back on, do you?” Art asked.

  “Sorry,” Deegan said. “I don’t. A lot of lines are down.”

  Mahoney wiggled in hyperactive monkey fashion after Deegan drove off. “You wanna do a door-to-door search?” He asked, jingling the keys. “I can help ya.”

  Art shook his head, blinking away the desire to start shaking the idiot like a rag doll and not stop. “Appreciate that, man. Uh…maybe you know who Berta was friends with?”

  The sloppy grin on the man’s face reminded Art of the rabid coon.

  “She’s friendly pretty much all over, if ya get my drift.”

  “Yeah, I get it all right.” Art kept his tone even, and even though he knew the score and wasn’t about to defend his stepsister, he couldn’t afford to let this little punk think otherwise. He took a step toward Mahoney and watched the sly smirk shift directly into fear. “That’s my family we’re discussing.”

  “Right, right.” Mahoney looked to the floor for more inspiration then back up, squinting. “Didn’t mean nuthin’. Let me think. Ginger Ramirez…she’s down three units. I seen ’em hanging out at the laundry. We—you, I mean—you can check wid her. Number seventy-four. Black shutters.”

  “Thanks.” Art paused.

  The little guy stood there. What did he expect? A tip? “That’s all.”

  “Oh! Oh, okay. I got it. I’ll, uh, just lock up again. After you.”

  “The door can be pulled shut, Mahoney. I’ll lock it after you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mahoney scurried out, muttering something Art was sure would earn him some loose teeth if Art could have heard it clearly.

  With the door closed once again, Art stood very still, listening. Berta couldn’t have moved herself. Would that neighbor woman come here on her own? Now he wished he’d made Mahoney talk more. Like, did that Ramirez woman live alone? How hard would it be to get her to talk?

  If Kenny came back here and helped his mother, Art severely underestimated the boy. What exactly had the kid seen yesterday? The syringe…Deputy Doogood obviously hadn’t noticed it. Then again, there was no reason to suspect or search for drug paraphernalia, and even if he had, this was Berta’s house. Art shifted slightly, turning his head, looking for it. The struggle…

  Rustling noises came from the hall.

  Art held his breath and tensed.

  THIRTEEN

  Rolling off the sofa had not been her greatest start to another day in captivity.

  She’d been dreaming, obviously, something about visiting Dad, and Kenny running along the corridors of the prison, dodging hands outstretched through barred cells. Only that wasn’t right. The prison where her father was incarcerated had all single cells with closed doors and windows.

  Kenny!

  And then, the full-on pain rushed in. Along with the jarring of her spine radiating in both directions came a scalded feeling across her fingers and toes. She looked at her hands, surprised they weren’t actually on fire.

  That was how Cameron found her, stupefied…or just stupid. The pain rolled over her like a tank on studded tires that left her numb. Yes, she was fine, though somewhat shaky and in desperate need of the bathroom. He came toward her.

  Don’t!

  She wasn’t afraid of him—not that. More worried he would find out and treat her differently. Yesterday, every time he touched her brought mind-boggling pain that she couldn’t let out. Couldn’t…from pride? She was over it now. Wasn’t she?

  No pride now in rolling to her knees.

  Definitely no pride in keeping him out of her mess of a life. She was afraid of what she might do if she reached out for those shoulders or tucked her head under his slightly raspy chin. He’d undressed her yesterday. Just how far had he gone? He hadn’t given her the look that said “freak” so maybe she was still safe.

  The dogs distracted her from further thoughts, and after Iago gave her a hand to the door, she nudged him back and shut the door. In the sanctuary of Cameron’s bedroom, she sank to the braided rug and let her forehead rest on her knees. She couldn’t rub her eyes to stem tears. She couldn’t flex her toes which felt like they were permanently stubbed and puffed like tater tots after her shuffling walk. Aspirin!

  Cameron knocked on the door. She waited to the count of ten, for she wasn’t about to tell him to come in. Politely, he rapped again, entered, and set a dish of warm water, a washcloth, and small towel on the floor within reach then left. She couldn’t face him for fear of finding a leer, anything that told her how much he knew about…about why no guy wanted her once he saw. The med student in college lasted one date, and he’d been the only one she could stand to show the ravages of her condition, someone she’d prayed would not only understand but accept. Seeing his curiosity turn to revulsion ended her romantic fallacies for good.

  Move along…how was she supposed to wash herself?

  She studied the water’s curling, ste
amy invitation. She was nothing if not inventive, using the inside of her elbow and her knees to hold the cloth and towel, as her fingers were like sausages. Tots and sausages…she must be hungry.

  Ten minutes later, she hobbled back to the living room having not tried the child-proof cap on the aspirin bottle she found next to a framed picture of an older woman.

  Cameron’s bedroom had grown chilly with the door closed. Man, that wood stove was heaven. It was like having a fireplace with a window so she could watch the flames. Maybe when she got her own place she’d get one—nothing like the utilitarian, plain black monstrosity Dad bought for the basement at home. The pain of her toes had numbed to bearable, but her fingers had that slapped feeling. She stretched them out to the stove when that Cameron guy started ordering her around.

  She glanced at him, unnerved and mad but not sure how to express herself. What happened to that soothing tone he spoke with yesterday? Like a croon. He’d made her safe despite her being so out if it, so confused.

  Staying mute was going to cost her dignity in order to keep her business her own. Why couldn’t she have made it to Kingston? Wally Taylor was a neighbor, if she remembered right. How soon could she get out of here? She’d risk a couple of toes for Kenny. Could she try to call from Cameron’s phone as soon as he went outside or something?

  And, gag, how much longer was she going to have to use that bucket? Gross. Embarrassing.

  Sigh. That coffee smelled amazingly delicious. Her mouth was so dry…hurry up and get back here. Could she lift the mug with the heels of her palms?

  At his return, she nodded him close enough to set a towel in her lap. He was going to hurt her some more when he unwrapped her hands. Coffee first, please? A little fortitude? She tried raising her brows and sent a longing expression toward the cup.

  A name? He wanted to give her a name. Of all the ones he could choose, he had to come up with…

  Rosalind? Did she really look like a Rosalind? Get real.

  Kenny would laugh his head off.

  She swallowed and took a deep breath. Where was the little guy? Was he safe?