The Debt Collector

by Lynn S. Hightower

  Baby smiles and soft promise. No doubt Joy and Carl Stinnet had done the same with their three children, everyday ordinary parenting, everyday ordinary family. Dad coming home from work, teenage daughter in the kitchen getting a snack for the two-year-old, while Mom did laundry in the bedroom and watched over the baby. It happened every day, everywhere. It was the arrogance of murder that stunned Sonora, the older she got.

  Plastic curtains billowed sideways from the cubicle, and Gillane was the first of a handful of medics, spilling out like ants from an anthill. A woman in pink headed in. Cleanup time, toe tags and the morgue.

  Not the hospital morgue. Sonora would have to make arrangements. Medical Examiner and four autopsies.

  Gillane was looking around. Looking for her? He did an abrupt change of direction when he saw her, and their eyes met. He was heading her way.

  It was a thing sometimes between a man and a woman. Unspoken and understood, like the silent p in pneumonia. Sonora used to think that one party or the other had to actually say something, to sort of make it official, or the attraction could just all be in her mind.

  She knew now to trust her instincts. When it was there, it was there. It didn’t even mean you had to do anything about it. Better not to, sometimes.

  “That crap all over your hands, is it hers? Not yours?” He was herding her, not waiting for an answer, moving her toward his private room, where he could hang out or see patients, do paperwork or play the harmonica. The room, she knew from past experience, would hold a guitar, a laptop computer, a Hohner harmonica, and most likely a box of Twinkies.

  “I’m mango crazy right now,” he said. “Want some fruit?”

  “What, when I’ve got you?”

  The smile flickered.

  “I’m waiting for Sam,” Sonora said, but somehow she was walking beside him down that green tile corridor.

  “I ain’t exactly on break.” He punched the code in on his door, opened it, flicked a look at her over his shoulder. “Your shirt’s ruined.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Gillane took her elbow and shoulder and pushed her to the sink, started the water running. He squirted pink spearmint-smelling soap from a wall dispenser into his palms and lathered her up.

  “I’ve never understood why a woman in your profession always wears white.”

  “I look cute in white.”

  “You’re the only cute homicide cop I know. Well. There was this one down in Houston. But he was short.” Gillane looked up at her. “I am kidding.” He took folded paper towels and patted her hands dry. She stood still for it; she did not quite know why. She needed to go. Get to work. A million things to do.

  “What are you holding in your hand, Sonora?” He peeled a long gold strand from her palm, rinsed it off, held it up. A small golden cross dangled from a gold chain no thicker than a fine strand of wire.

  “It belonged to her. Joy Stinnet.”

  Gillane nudged her toward the slender bunk. “Sit down, sweetie.”

  It was a tiny room, smelling strongly of microwave popcorn and old coffee, spare and functional with a bunk, a desk, a sink. A shelf with a microwave oven parked next to a Gibson acoustic guitar. Absolutely nothing on the walls except a calendar from 1997. A horse calendar. Arabians.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “One cup of coffee, you owe me that. I want to know details.”

  He pushed, she sat, still not sure why she wasn’t up and on her way. Sam would be looking for her. Still, a girl had the right to get the blood washed off her hands, put on a new coat of lipstick.

  “What are you looking for?” His back was to her; he was pouring coffee into a gray mug that said Kentucky State Police, filling it with cream and some kind of powdered chocolate.

  “My lipstick.”

  “Hang on, I’ll get you mine.”

  She never was quite sure when he was teasing.

  He handed her the coffee, picked up a white thermal blanket that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and tucked it around her shoulders. She realized that he was treating her for shock.

  She wasn’t sure she minded. The blanket was very soft, the coffee warm in her hands. She took a sip. Not too sweet and definitely chocolatey. “God, this is so good.”

  “If I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”

  “Gillane?”

  He sat beside her. Began rubbing her shoulders. Tiny firm motions with strong fingers. He was a tall man, long-legged, and up this close she could smell some kind of soap or aftershave, spicy and slightly sweet.

  “She didn’t have a chance in hell, did she?”

  “You think I could have saved her and didn’t bother?” It was a measure of his confidence that he did not seem offended.

  “No. But we didn’t find her for a while. She was under that bed, scared and whispering, and we were all over the place.”

  “Drink your coffee. No, sweetie, she had an eight-centimeter gash in her liver, and even if I’d had her in here the second after she got that gut wound, those small liver lacerations are hard to contain, you can’t stop the bleeding. It wasn’t a nice death, but if she hadn’t gone then, she’d be hanging on for another twenty-four hours, going slowly from peritonitis, and that’s nobody’s idea of fun. Survive that, and she’d have worn her colon in a bag on her hip.”

  “I see.”

  “They used to tell us in medical school—and you never really know if they make this stuff up, do you? But supposedly. In medieval times. They get a victim with a wound like this, they feed him onion soup.”

  “Onion soup?”

  “Then you sniff the wound. If you can smell the onion, you know your patient’s a goner.”

  Sonora remembered the leak of IV fluid from the wound.

  “What happened out there?” Gillane asked.

  Sonora took a breath, knew she was starting up the rumor mill. “It was some kind of home invasion. Two men and an angel broke a pane in the kitchen window, surprised the teenage daughter and toddler in the kitchen. She—the mom—was in a back bedroom, doing laundry and watching the baby.”

  “I saw the baby.”

  “She’s okay. Everybody else, dead. Nobody went nice. Slit the daughter’s throat. The little boy—God, Gillane, a two-year-old, maybe three. We found him in the living room with his neck broken. Quick though. Sometime in the middle of all this the father came home. They took a chair out of the kitchen and tied him up with the drapery cords. Looks like he witnessed a lot of it, his wrists were torn to shreds. And they had a dog. They killed him too.”

  “Did you say an angel?”

  Sonora shrugged. Took another sip of coffee.

  “Are you still seeing that Jerk?”

  “What?”

  “Not my word. Sam’s. He ratted you out. I heard you were pretty hot and heavy.”

  “Nope, that one’s history.”

  “Good. I’ll call you.”

  “I’m not going to have one second to spare for you or anybody else, and by the way, your timing is absolutely crappy.” She put the coffee cup down on his desk, balled up the blanket.

  “May I offer you a Twinkie before you go?”

  It gave her pause. The Jerk would never have offered her a Twinkie. He seemed to derive his greatest pleasure from doing without. Food eaten cheaply, no frills, simple nutrients, gave him more happiness than a really good meal. He would have made an excellent religious fanatic, a fabulous monk. In the boyfriend category, of course, that sort of thing didn’t rate.

  “Actually, yes, I would like a Twinkie.”

  Gillane bent down and pulled an open box from under the bed. Tossed her a cellophane wrapper that had two Twinkies, nestled side by side. “I’ll call you.”

  “I won’t be home.” She opened the door to the hallway.

  “Sonora?”

  “What now?”

  “You said she was under the bed whispering? What was she whispering?”

  “Hail Mary,
full of grace.”

  “Ah. Her catechism.”

  “Yes. Her catechism.”

  10

  When Sonora walked out of the automatic doors of the ER she saw Sam heading in the other way, Taurus parked at an angle by the curb.

  “How is she?” Sam asked.

  “In a far, far better place than you and me.”

  “You and I. We got Joy Stinnet’s next of kin, local anyway. A great-uncle—lives out in Indian Hill. Next-door neighbor says they’re pretty close. Crick wants us out there tonight.”

  Sonora nodded. Scooted past Sam and slid behind the wheel of the Taurus.

  “What?” Sam said. “I always drive.”

  Sonora adjusted the seat all the way up. Raised it so she could see over the wheel. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, thinking that she looked very steady.

  Sam slid into the seat beside her. “You keep fiddling with that, I’ll never get it back where I want it. By the way, change lanes, you’re headed for the wrong exit.” His radio crackled. He still didn’t have his seat belt on. “Delarosa … yes, sir.”

  Sonora could hear the voice on the other end, wrapping information around static.

  “Sonora?” Sam said. “You get anything out of Joy Stinnet?”

  “Never regained consciousness.”

  Sam muttered into the radio, looked up. “Where the hell are you going?”

  “What did Crick say?”

  “They’re looking for the Jeep, they have an APB out. White Grand Cherokee, Marine Corps sticker on the back window.”

  “Guy was an ex-marine?”

  “Maybe he just thought the sticker looked pretty. Are you—What the hell? You’re heading home?”

  “You want me to go notify next of kin with the woman’s blood all over my damn shirt?” It was a good excuse, for something she’d thought up on the spur of the moment. She had to check the kids, see them in person, make sure they were both okay.

  “I told Crick we were on the way.”

  “We are.”

  “Why don’t you just button your jacket over the blood?”

  “Number one, it’ll ruin my blazer, and number two, there’s too much blood to be covered up anyway.”

  Sam folded his arms. Stared out the window. Still no seat belt.

  She felt weird turning down her street. Everything familiar, but different. She pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, left the engine running.

  “Stay put, I won’t be just a minute.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, just go.” He got out of the Taurus, headed for the driver’s seat. “It’ll take me that long to get the seat back.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Sam looked startled. Sonora felt the same way. She shrugged, shook her head, and ran for the garage, feeling for the opener in her purse, catching the button with her thumb. Saw, too late, the next-door neighbors sitting on the front porch, their faces hard to make out in the dark, though she could tell that their heads were angled her way.

  “Good evening, how are you?” Her voice was polite, friendly. She did not wait for a response but wound through the garage, past two bags of garbage, an ancient green tent that started life as navy blue, a box of precious family pictures that should have been moved inside a year ago, a red canoe, sideways, under a white metal bunk bed, and a bag of old maternity clothes she was terrified to throw away.

  Something rustled on the left.

  Clampett met her in the kitchen, tail wagging, happy to see her. Mothers and dogs. Unconditional love.

  She went to one knee and hugged him. He did not smell very good. His worn red bandanna was gone. He had probably taken it off and eaten it. It was his way.

  She was immediately inundated with the look, smell, and overwhelmingly depressing feel of a dirty, sticky kitchen. Pork roast on the cutting board, rice still stuck to the bottom of a pot on the stove, a mound of lettuce leaves, tomato ends, mushroom bits, onion skins in the sink, beneath the bits of pork, rice, and bread the children had dumped from their plates.

  The kitchen window was wide open, blinds hanging down to the sill, rippling with the breeze.

  The men who had brutalized Joy Stinnet and her family had come in through the kitchen.

  Sonora shut the window, locked it. Saw the milk spilled on the counter, the napkins on the floor, shredded by Clampett. She looked at the dishes, the open bottle of catsup. The numbness cleared, like headlights in a fog, and she felt a surge of happiness. Her world was still intact.

  Outside, a horn honked. What the hell was Sam thinking, at this time of night?

  Sonora washed her hands, lemon-smelling Palmolive dishwashing liquid in her palms making soft white bubbles that spattered atop the food leavings clogging the sink, adding a clean smell to the scent of vegetables and cooked meat.

  She ripped three paper towels from the dispenser, much too hard, and the roll kept coming, paper towels rippling over the countertop and settling in a pile on the floor. A pink and blue picture of a cottage with a heart that said Bless Our Happy Home. Heather had picked it out. She was into paper towels, and she favored the expensive brands.

  Sonora scooped up the pile of paper towels, opened the cabinet under the sink, and tossed them into the trash can.

  Something leaped out at her and Sonora screamed, fell backward, lost her balance, and hit the floor. The mouse, a big one by mouse standards, took off across the kitchen floor, with Clampett in pursuit.

  Sonora stayed on the floor, letting her heartbeat slow. Remembered the rustling noise in the garage.

  With any luck it was just the one mouse, and Clampett would take care of it.

  She stood up, shoved the garbage can back under the sink, did not stop to look into the dark caverns behind but headed down the hallway to check the kids.

  The house was quiet, except for Clampett, who had run headfirst into the couch and was now crouched, waiting.

  Sonora checked Tim’s door. Locked. Heather’s too, the brats. She took the bobby pin she kept in the bathroom door, picked the lock, opened both doors in seconds.

  Tim was sprawled across a bare mattress in a room as aromatic as a school gym. His hubcap collection was growing. He always told her he found them by the side of the road, but she was beginning to worry. She closed the door, moved on to Heather’s room, found her daughter asleep in a tangle of blankets, a Hanson CD—evidently set on repeat—playing softly.

  Happy music.

  She stood in the hallway, saw that a dark stain had rubbed off the bottom of her Reeboks and streaked the carpet. Blood.

  Sonora peeled the shirt off and balled it up to throw away. Scrubbed her stomach with a washrag. The bra was bloodstained too. She took it off and threw it over the shirt. Dammit. She found another bra hanging from the closet door, put on another white cotton shirt. She threw the washrag into the pile of bloody clothes, felt a tingle of something like anticipation or, God forgive her, excitement at the base of her spine. She was the good guys. It was good to be the good guys.

  Sonora closed her bedroom door to inhibit wandering mice, wondered when she would get back home again, took what cash she had and put it in the emergency money box. She filled Clampett’s water bowl. He accepted a pat on the head but stayed by the couch, hunting the mouse.

  Sonora took one last look around the house. Locked the doors, headed down the driveway to Sam, on his cell phone, probably talking to his wife.

  He stuck his head out the window. He had slid across the seat to the driver’s side. “Took you long enough. You stop to make a meat loaf or something?”

  Sonora shook her head. “There are fifty-seven frozen Lean Cuisines in the freezer—this time I’m prepared.”

  “I heard you yelling.”

  “I have a mouse.” Sonora got into the car. Closed the door softly.

  Sam fiddled with the seat adjustment, going ostentatiously forward and backward, a pained look on his face.
He looked at her across the driver’s seat. “I got news for you, Sonora. It’s not an it.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a boy mouse or a girl mouse.”

  “That’s not the point. They don’t travel alone, Sonora. You don’t have a mouse. You have mice.”

  “It was only one, Sam.”

  He did not contradict her but he laughed, which was worse.

  11

  It spoke to Sonora, that the closest living relative Joy Stinnet had was a great-uncle who lived way out in Indian Hill. As a child she had taken the spread of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins for granted. The Fourth of July and Memorial Day picnics were semiduty, semifun.

  Her family was scattered now, her mother and brother dead, grandparents hardly a memory. She worried about Tim and Heather, growing up with only her.

  And Clampett of course. The world’s best dog.

  “Do you see your family much?” Sonora asked Sam. She knew that he did, she just wanted to get him talking about it.

  He squinted through the windshield, and she knew that look, the look of a man who would rather die than admit that he was lost.

  “My family much? Don’t I go home every night?”

  “No, like aunts and grandparents and cousins and stuff.”

  “Every major holiday of my life.”

  “Hard to imagine, all those pickup trucks in one place.”

  Sam squinted his eyes at her. “You have been in a bad mood for seven months.”

  “My record is a year and a half.”

  “Yeah, Sonora, but don’t you get the significance? Didn’t you meet that guy seven months ago?”

  “The Jerk? So? I’m done with him. Sam, you missed the turn.”

  “That wasn’t our turn. I think we were supposed to turn back at that T section. Did it say Cricket Lane?”

  “How the hell should I know, it’s dark outside.”

  “You ever hear from him?”

  “No.”

  “You call him?”

  “No. You think I should?”

  Sam stopped, backed the car sideways, started out the other way. “No, don’t do that, you’ll break Gruber’s heart.”