“Kingston Findley. Got a message from Taylor someone wanted to see me.”
Ignoring the pain, she leaped for the handle, stubbing her toe. “Owww…Kingston!”
“Hey, now.” Kingston stepped over the threshold and caught her before she slid all the way to the floor. Iago lunged. “Whoa!” Kingston clutched her tighter.
“Down!” She pushed the dog away. “It’s all right. He’s a friend.” At least Lear hadn’t attacked. She didn’t know if she could have stopped the other dog. “Go away. Go lie down!”
Iago didn’t growl, but he turned a circle and went to sit by the stove, still on alert. Findley recovered quickly.
“Ha. Thought it might be you by the way Taylor described his woman. Lil, Lil. What’s going on?”
“Am I ever happy you’re here, man. I was trying to get to you when everything wrong happened.”
He helped her to the couch where she painfully lifted her legs to lay prone. He shucked out of his heavy coat and hat and squatted near. “You’re bleeding.”
She grimaced. “Yeah. Been happening a lot lately.”
“Shouldn’t let the frostbite blisters open up. Where does he keep supplies?”
“Kitchen, but he’s almost out. That’s one of the reasons he went into town.” She plucked at his sleeve when he started to rise. “Wait. I have to talk to you.”
THIRTY-ONE
Cam pushed open the door to the Freeman office, no longer wincing at the name of the local paper. “Hey, Matt, what’s happening?”
Matt Heuer was alone at his desk, frowning at something on a big-screen monitor. He looked up, graying blond hair awry, glasses halfway down his nose.
“Oh, hey, Taylor. You surviving out there in the woods?”
“Yeah. Outta juice for my phone, though. Would you mind if I plugged it in here while I go round up a ride home?”
“Help yourself.”
Cam helped himself to the outlet. “What’s the damage from the storm?”
Matt turned in the chair. He wore his usual red suspenders over a white shirt and jeans, cigarette in a round, lime green plastic ashtray near his elbow, mostly untouched, sending a wisp of smoke upward. He didn’t actually like to smoke, just wanted the smell, he’d once confessed. “Oh, stuff with the power outage, mostly. Surge when it went back on earlier at the bank caused the computers to go down. Stuff like that. The market’s having a sale. Coupla accidents. School canceled. Need some work?”
Cam grinned. “What do you have?”
“Do you have time to go around and grab some photographs? Human interest?”
“Sure.” If they didn’t run when they saw him coming. Dressed like everyone else, though, approaching folks for a picture shouldn’t be a problem. “Anywhere in particular?” he asked while Matt checked batteries and handed over the camera and bag.
“Downtown, over by the school. It’s so cold there’s not a lot of action. Unusual snow…I don’t know, whatever ’pears interesting. Take an hour if you can spare it.”
“Okay. Say, I overheard something.” Cam plunged on when Matt looked up. “About local child abuse. Maybe kidnapping. Know anything about that?”
The editor removed his glasses, slowly. He glanced toward the door then at the back of the room. “Where’d you come up with that? Trying to drum up headlines?”
“Good one.”
Matt laughed, but not his usual hearty guffaw. “There’s always abuse going on. Elder abuse, police brutality, patron abuse at Tweety’s Tap, spousal abuse. What did you hear?”
“Probably just rumors.” Cam paid close attention to Matt’s responses. Something weird was in the works. “Anybody hurt or missing around town?”
Leaning on his knuckles over his desktop, Matt stared outside the large front picture window. “Maybe. Police were busy yesterday. What do you know about it?”
“Not much. A woman I bumped into was worried about her nephew. Matter of fact, asked me to look around. See if I could find him, make sure he was okay.”
“Why you?”
“I don’t know.” That was a good question. “Maybe because she didn’t trust anyone else?”
“Who is it?”
Cam shifted his feet, which were finally thawing inside the boots. He unzipped his coat part way and clutched the camera bag. “I don’t know her name. The nephew is Kenny, lives at the trailer park with his mother, no father.”
“What does this woman look like? I might know who she is.”
“Blond, average height. Green eyes, thin.” Worried skinny, he wanted to say. Eyes like the mossy bank beside a trickling stream. Stubbornness that would solve every problem, a mind that could fix any mistake. Caring nature that put others above self, as evidenced by her suicidal tendency to run for help for someone else’s child.
“Could be any number of folks,” Matt replied. “There’s too many single mothers to count out at the trailer park.”
“Nice. Guess I might take some pictures out that way, especially if there’re kids home from school,” Cam said. Matt knew something, obviously. Rosalind had a reason to trust no one. But would Matt trust him enough to let him in?
“Where’s this woman you met?”
Cam re-zipped and slung the camera over his shoulder. “I’m not sure.” He hoped she was either at the kitchen table or on the sofa at his cabin, but he couldn’t be sure, could he? “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Oh, by the way, I had some vandalism out at my place. Someone slashed my tires. Probably punk kids, but I wondered if there were any other reports.”
“You call the police?”
Cam nodded toward his phone. “No.”
Matt narrowed his eyes but kept his peace. “I’ll let you know if anything comes across my desk.” He sat down again and waved over his shoulder. “Later.”
* * *
Kingston’s jacket sleeve was rough under her palm where the bandages were unraveling. She let her hand fall away, not wanting to add blood to the mess she was making. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I want to take care of this,” he said. “Blood first.”
“Oh, man. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
His lion-mane eyes focused on her, and she was right back at Barter Valley Community High, saying yes to prom. “Tell who what?” He grinned, and she wanted to smack him, but pulled back at the thought of the pain.
“Cameron Taylor. You didn’t tell him my name, did you?”
“He didn’t seem to know, and I didn’t feel the need to enlighten him.” Kingston rose to his full height and looked down on her. He stretched and turned slowly, checking out the place.
“You never been here before?”
“Nah. So, where are these supplies? Can’t have you leaking all over.”
“Thanks.” She pointed to the kitchen. “In there. I think. Should be a box or something with supplies. He told me he was a medic in the army, that’s how he knew what to do.”
“No kidding.” Kingston raised his brows and bore his smirk into the kitchen. “Pump handle? No plumbing?” His voice floated, muffled, through the swinging half doors.
“No.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“It’s not.” Lear watched her from his place guarding the door. Iago crept toward her on his belly, flashing her pleading puppy eyes and barely audible piercing whimpers. “It’s all right, boy. C’mon.” She gingerly patted the place next to her and he got up, nails clattering on Cameron’s floor.
“You’ve got a friend.”
She glanced up at the edge in Kingston’s voice. He leaned over the kitchen doors, watching them and holding a roll of gauze, the ointment he’d given Cameron, and a washcloth. “Yup.” She gestured toward her feet. “Bleeding here.”
He pushed off and sauntered over. “I’m heating up more water on the stove out there. For tea. Hope it’s okay.” Pushing the dog a couple of inches, Kingston knelt and unwrapped her left foot. “For crying out loud, Lil, you been tramping barefoot out there or what? How come you’re all
crazy spy game now?”
“What do you know about the Limms?”
She waited for her answer as he carefully blotted blood from her frostbitten toes, trying not to jerk her foot away.
“At least you have sensation. That’s a good sign,” Kingston said. “Numbness might mean nerve damage.”
“Yeah. About the—”
“My neighbors? What do you care about them?” He wasn’t giving her face time while he dabbed on the ointment, studying her toes like an artist deciding where to place the next brush stroke. “I am a genius,” he said. “This balm will heal you sure. I ought to get some pictures, use them as a testimonial.”
Snorting, she said, “I think the Limms are into some seriously bad business, and I wondered what you’ve seen.”
A brief glance was all he offered before setting her foot down and picking up the right one. “Bad like what?”
“Come on, Kingston. Maybe they don’t care what you grow on your own property. I mean, nobody should, right? States all over are legalizing the stuff. I’m not talking about that.”
He peeled away the bloody wrap without warning her and held tight to her heel when she hissed and flinched. “We don’t get together for high tea or any social visits. We’re neighbors, that’s all. They keep to themselves. They leave me alone.”
“You’ve never seen anything…odd? Like, strangers…or—”
“You’re asking me to define ‘odd?’ What do you really want?”
“I need your help. At least, I thought I did.” Oops. She hadn’t wanted to say it like that, but now she wasn’t sure what to do. Of all the people she knew who’d not think she was crazy, she’d trusted Kingston.
“They stay out of my business, and I don’t question theirs. What kind of help did you expect from me? I’m not into sneaking—”
“My stupid brother’s gotten himself into some deep mess with a plan my crazy father’s involved in. They wanted me to interview for some job I have no qualifications for. I looked up their website, but I’m not that—”
“Wait. From inside the pen? A job for what?”
She backed off again at the derisive laughter in his tone.
“I never figured you for a conspiracist.” He was shaking his head and rocked back on his heels. Iago growled low in his throat.
“Iago! Look, Kingston, I can take care of myself. It’s Kenny. I overheard Art on the phone with someone. I can’t tell—I can’t say for sure exactly, but it sounded like they wanted to kidnap him.”
“Why didn’t you just go get him yourself? Or call the cops?”
Because I was pretending to let my brother talk me into some interview so I could circle back sounded bizarre—crazy. In the middle of the blizzard. “I needed backup I could count on—someone who wouldn’t think I was nuts.”
Kingston backed toward the stove. He opened the door and fed it the old gauze and another chunk of oak. “If you’re so worried about my neighbors, why did you come for me?”
The kettle’s piercing whistle shrilled from the kitchen. He gave her a sardonic look and went to other room.
She squeezed her eyes tight and wanted to bang her fist on something solid. She’d never been very good at arguing. This conversation was going about as well as prom had. And she was no closer to making sure Kenny was all right. Or figuring out if Kingston was aware of Cameron’s slashed tires.
THIRTY-TWO
Good thing Barter Valley wasn’t more than twenty blocks in any direction. Cam trudged around, face mostly covered, snapping photos at will. Old guy at 342 Locust on his garden tractor outfitted with a blade, chugging away, happily pushing snow into piles. Puffing away on a pipe, white whiskers, red cap—obvious, but he was plenty happy to have his picture taken, even by Cam. Wife made the suit. Yeah, they did the Claus circuit during the holidays. Don’t forget to add the phone number to the picture. Name’s Hodelsen. Two e’s.
Three boys pulling a pug dog on a sled down Rambler Street. Norman Rockwell was here.
Perhaps it was easier to talk to him while he was outfitted much like them, but Cam found a few people downtown willing to yak about how the storm affected their daily lives. Complaints and praise over the lack of power and its restoration seemed about equal. Gordy Timball got his hand caught in the snow blower, same as last year. At least he only lost part of one more finger.
Cam stopped at Lou’s for a take-out coffee and a couple of quotes, all the while gradually making his way toward the trailer park.
He stood a little to the side of the busy cash register helping himself to a mint toothpick, listening to the banter echoing in the filled room. A baby cried for a second, cut off, silverware tinkled together, thick china clanked, the usual sounds.
“…there are no jobs, I tell ya.”
Cam perked up, swiveling subtly in the direction of the conversation at the corner table behind him but trying not to draw attention.
“Pshaw…everyone thinks the Limms are fishy.”
“Shh! Don’t say that.”
Two men sat there, trying to hide behind different sections of the State Journal. Cam knew the one who mentioned the Limms first—Rune Johnston, local agent for Neighbors Insurance. His own agent, no less. Didn’t recognize his tablemate.
“…disappeared.”
“So what? Every year…” the other guy said.
“The head guys told me to report any more…”
The already disjointed conversation was cut off when another family dinged the bell over the door as they came in. Cam plunked his money down and grabbed the take-out cup of coffee he’d ordered. Report any more what? swirled as he left to take more Happy Snow Day pictures. Maybe he could visit Rune later. He wasn’t going to report the tire slashing. He’d rather avoid the many awkward questions and possibly involving the authorities, besides getting stuck with higher rates. Maybe he should reconsider. He repeated Limms, disappearances, insurance reports several times to set it into his memory and then hiked the few blocks to the trailer park.
Just as he thought, there were a bunch kids hanging out, rolling giant boulders to make a snow fort. He snapped some pictures, got their names, and offered to help. After setting up the base of a fort in a ten-foot circle, chatting about school and recess and the latest superhero, he was ready to ask.
“So, I was also sort of wondering if any of you know a kid who lives around here named Kenny? Ten years old?”
* * *
Art spilled out of the Limm vehicle onto the icy crunch of his driveway after tripping on the door frame of the SUV. He yanked his heel away in time to miss getting squeezed as Shawn whammed the door shut.
Lying on the layer of fresh powder, he reveled in the cold numbing the mess of his fingers. He grabbed a handful and rubbed it gently over his swollen nose, nibbling on some that slid into his opened mouth.
“Hey, you all right, there, then?”
Art groaned at the thought of answering his neighbor Roger’s questions. Guy was worse than his mother. Art contemplated a theory that part of Marge Masters’s spirit got caught in Roger on the way up. Yup, same worry lines, black square glasses—not the cool kind—rimming watery eyes, head completely covered in a faded blue hat with ear muffs. Roger Rabbit. “You should try this sometime. Cools ya off.”
“Ha, ha. Good one. Sheesh. What’s happened to yore face? Them bad guys in the black car with the tinted winders beat ya up? What’s to do, then? Should I call nine-one-one?”
Art sat up slowly, dizzy with the temporary relief of the kind of fear that occasionally came from work stress, the kind that worried a man who was responsible for locking and unlocking doors for a living. “Thanks, pal, but no. They just brung me home.” He blinked at the fussy little neighbor man who stared out his front windows all day long, looking for but hoping nothing exciting would happen. “I fell.”
“Ha. Yeah, another good one.” Roger held out one hand engulfed in a hand-knit blue mitten. Art envisioned a string through the sleeves of his coat, attached to the
other one. What was he supposed to do? Pull the guy down into the snow next to him? He shook his head and rolled slowly and carefully to his feet.
“Where’s your sister’s car?”
“Uh, yeah. I forgot. I shudda had them drop me back downtown.”
“I kin drive ya.”
“’S all right, buddy. Only a coupla blocks. I got it.” He stumbled toward the door of his house. “Thanks, though. Later.”
“Well, all right then, there, hey. See ya round, then.”
“Yeah.” Art lifted his hand. Fumbling with his keys, he managed to unlock the side door and wobble inside, wearing Roger’s stare the whole time.
It wasn’t that late. He opened the refrigerator without bothering to shuck his coat. Steak sauce. Some fancy mustard. Milk he knew was sour. Neither of them had gone shopping before she took off. The cupboard held slim pickings too. A half box of multigrain cereal crud. He ate it dry. Saltines. He wolfed a stale quarter pack. Water. At least the power was on so he could get some fresh from the faucet.
No coffee left. He slammed the plastic cup on the counter with only the satisfaction of a dull thud and not the rush of broken glass. What was he going to do without cash?
Lou might let him eat once or twice, if he said he forgot his wallet. He hadn’t tried that one before. The car. He’d have to go get it. Glad there was some gas left. Not a lot, though.
Enough to drive to the trailer park. He fingered the keys. He still had Berta’s place to plunder. She probably had something to eat. Frozen, but it would thaw. Worth checking out. He needed to go over to the job, fill out all that stupid paperwork. He could stop on the way.
In the bathroom mirror, he studied the effects of the Limms’ work. Not much he could do about the nose. They’d helpfully pushed it back into place. His eyes were getting pretty black. The hand…ow. No doctor, though. A doc would ask questions. He flexed an experimental grin at himself. Maybe he’d claim an altercation at work, just now showing. He hadn’t thought it serious enough—no sufficient evidence of purposeful violence—to do the paperwork.
Nah, they were pretty strict about filing reports.
Understory Page 13
