by Susan Dunlap
Connie let out a long sigh, loud enough to stifle halfhearted conversation. “So, I take it you haven’t been in town before?”
“No. I haven’t seen Jeff since med school.”
Kiernan couldn’t read the woman’s face. Disappointment or disbelief?
“Well, at least not since Africa. We were both there during one of the Lassa fever epidemics.” Quickly she glanced around, hoping for a revealing nod. But no one reacted to Lassa.
“Africa,” the red-flanneled guy said. “Boy, that’s some place. I had a cousin back east who went on a safari—pictures, not shooting—had her own tent put up by the bearers. Had its own shower right in it. Servant washed her clothes every night. Only problem was he was a Muslim and he couldn’t wash women’s underwear—his religion and all—so Susan, my cousin, she’s no fool, you know what she did?” He didn’t wait for guesses. “She got herself some boxer shorts and wore ’em.” He guffawed, overpowering the modest laughs of his companions. Connie shrugged and walked off.
“If her Muslim was just doing her laundry, didn’t he catch on?” the old man asked.
“Guess not.”
“Maybe it really is just women’s unmentionables he can’t handle,” the other flannel shirt offered.
“So where’d he think the boxers came from?”
“Maybe he figured she had a boyfriend who slipped in at night.”
“Every night?”
“And forgot his underwear every time. Boy, Herb, your cousin must be some hot number.”
“Jeff Tremaine,” Kiernan said slowly, as if she had drifted in thought rather than seen the conversation drifting away. “He was great in Africa. Patients really warmed up to him.” She fingered her glass thoughtfully. “Maybe they’d never had a man listen to their problems like that.”
Milo bent down and came up with a can of spicy tomato. Both the flannels occupied themselves with their drinks. The couple, who had never made eye contact with her, just sat. Kiernan sipped her drink. The topic of Jeff Tremaine and women had probably enlivened many a Gattozzi weekend, but no one was going to open up in public.
Openings could be forced. Warnings could be dribbled out. “I remember when we were in Africa, standing over a dead body like that woman in Jeff’s office. The only difference was then we didn’t question whether she’d died of hemorrhagic fever, we knew she had. But this woman …”
It was one of the flannels who took the bait. “Hemorrhagic fever? You mean like Ebola, where your organs turn to mush?”
She shook her head. “Organs don’t turn to mush. Organs get too congested with dead cells to work. Blood cells and platelets fill up the arteries and veins. Fat dropules clog the liver. The heart gets too congested to pump. The cell walls fail, and blood seeps through the skin. So it looks like the organs have all melted into red goo—”
“Jeez!” The other flannel held out his palm. “Stop!”
But the elderly woman wasn’t deterred. “But is it like Ebola? I mean contagious?”
“There’s no way to tell without cutting into the body, sending specimens to a good lab. It wasn’t anything Jeff or I could do here. You need someone from Public Health and the CDC. But, yes, it could be very contagious. It may be nothing; it could be deadly.”
The woman edged back on her stool. “Well, where did she get it?”
Thank you! Kiernan thought. “What did Jeff say?”
“Not word one.” The blue flannel stamped his glass on the bar. Beer splashed over the side. The others ignored the gush as if it was not the first such episode.
“Jeff can be pretty closed-mouthed for a guy who grew up here.” The red flannel lifted his glass slowly, the movement announcing he was readying himself for the rest of his pronouncement. “Suppose that’s a good thing in a doctor.”
“Not if we’re talking epidemic,” the woman put in.
“Jeff had no business—” Suddenly the blue flannel was staring at his glass.
No business what? The words were almost out of Kiernan’s mouth when she caught herself. Dammit, this was the first promising thing any of them had said. And now the flannel had gone silent and the rest of them were studying their glasses like the amber liquids might hold arenaviruses. She was leaning an elbow on the bar, sitting facing them. Now she shifted, following the line of their vision in the mirror behind the bar.
She turned to face the room and saw the problem. Jeez, this certainly was her bad-luck day.
CHAPTER 21
“AH, SHERIFF FOX!” KIERNAN flashed him a smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Fox’s round Bürgermeister face froze. Had he not recognized her from the back, or had she derailed a plan of attack of his own? He hesitated only a moment—she suspected no one else would have caught even that—and started toward her.
“What’ll you have, Sheriff?” she asked. Not taunting, not quite.
Fox nodded to the bartender—clearly the signal for a standing order—and pulled out his wallet.
Money or not, she’d staked her ground here. And now to force his hand and make him alert his citizens. “We were just talking about the body in the morgue. You probably figured that, right?”
Fox extricated a five and held it between his fingers.
“Is she really the start of an epidemic, Sheriff?” the elderly woman asked.
So Fox was not local or sociable enough to be called by first name. Less so than Jeff Tremaine, who kept his own counsel. The two flannels had edged back as if there were outstanding warrants for them. Even Connie was silent. Fleetingly Kiernan wondered what had brought Fox to this isolated little town.
Fox took his glass—Scotch with a splash—paid and waited for his change. She wondered if he was considering his answer or waiting for someone else to jump in. No one spoke. The entire room was silent. “There’s no epidemic.”
The silence resumed. Kiernan leaned back against the bar, ready to nudge Fox if she had to. But much better if questions came from the townspeople, who would have knowledge she didn’t.
Finally the red flannel asked, “Did Jeff say that?”
“What’s he say she died of?” his emboldened friend added.
“Jeff’ll be sending the body down to Vegas tomorrow for autopsy.”
“Then he doesn’t have any idea what’s wrong with her, right?” the woman demanded.
Fox occupied himself with his drink.
Connie slipped back in between the flannels and nodded at Milo, who about-faced to the bottles behind him. He moved slowly, slipping the glass into the ice bucket, pouring the liquor, all the time watching the show behind him in the mirror.
Kiernan eyed Fox. Time for a nudge. “You must have some idea who the deceased is.”
“Not yet.”
“Are you circulating her picture? Someone must have seen her?”
“Not necessarily,” he snapped. He was glaring at her as if they were alone; as if the room full of his constituents didn’t matter. Perhaps sheriff was not an elected office in this county.
Connie was not about to be ignored. “Well, Sheriff, what does this woman look like? Maybe we’ve seen her.”
Fox shot her a scowl. Her compatriots flinched, but Connie held her ground. Still, the tension between them was so sharp and formal, it was clear even to Kiernan that this was not their first skirmish. The flannels, the elderlies, Milo, and the rest of the drinkers leaned in from their safe distance like prizefight fans at ringside.
“Well, Connie, she’s small, thin, could be Mexican …”
“How old?”
“Hard to say once she’s been sick enough to die. Ages you.”
“Twenty? Sixty?” Without taking her eyes from the sheriff’s face, Connie accepted her glass from Milo. She was enjoying this.
Fox was not. “Mid twenties, but that’s just a guess. I’m surprised you don’t have an opinion.”
That, Connie just shrugged off.
Fox leaned in toward her like a boxer readying the knockout punch. Milo put down his
rag. The room was so silent, Kiernan could hear the clock ticking. The door opened and an icy draft smacked the drinkers, but none of them shifted their gaze to see who had left. They watched and waited.
Then Fox pulled back. No communal gasp followed, but every face in the bar looked as if it had just seen him throw the fight.
Don’t think you’re just going to walk away! “Sheriff,” Kiernan said, “didn’t the dead woman have an ID? It’s odd to have absolutely nothing.”
“Not if you’re dropped off. Not if someone’s taken it.” As soon as the words were out, his face tightened in irritation as if this was the punch he’d just avoided. He tossed back his drink, too fast, leaving a spray on his lips. Despite the feverish move, the process seemed to calm him. He set the glass down, leaned against the bar, and studied Kiernan. “What are you, some kind of high-paid smuggler? I don’t know where this woman’s from—Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala. Did you pick up just her in Vegas, or was your car full of illegals? Were you dumping them on us here, or taking them to Ely or Reno? Were you—”
“Just a minute! Because a woman looks Hispanic, you’re labeling her an alien, illegal at that? Show me proof.”
“You looked at her body. You saw the tattoo on the back of her shoulder.”
“What tattoo?”
“Don’t try to bluff me. Capital L, for Luis Vargas, the smuggler. Vargas is violent, unscrupulous, and doesn’t ask twice. I don’t want Vargas or his people here in my territory. Get it?” He hadn’t moved, but his whole body had stiffened with the challenge.
Kiernan met his gaze and for a moment was suffused with the foolishness of the public staring contest. Foolish, but so much of life was. She was willing to bet he truly didn’t know the woman’s identity and it was driving him crazy. But did he have any idea how serious a danger she might be? Could anyone here in safe up-country Nevada, who hadn’t seen fever-dead bodies lined up in makeshift morgues? It would be almost impossible to believe—until it was too late. “Rigor was still in force this afternoon,” she said. “You couldn’t have lifted the dead woman’s arm to look for tattoos. Are you saying you turned the whole rigid body?”
The room had seemed silent before, but now not even breath moved. Every eye was on Fox, every ear waiting for his answer.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and if you take it as a warning, all the better.” He picked up his drink and strode determinedly to a table, marked possession with his glass, and headed into the men’s room.
The room was dead silent. There was not even a communal exhalation when Fox disappeared. She could tell by the uneasy way they leaned against the bar or held their arms just off the tables, that a vote in this room would go for Undecided. Much as they obviously distrusted Fox, that didn’t speak well for her. No one here was going to go out on a limb for her.
Finally she shrugged. “Guess I won’t be asking the sheriff to borrow his car.”
They laughed, all of them, in ragged waves as those farther away got the relay. Nervous laughter. The morning Greyhound was beginning to look real good.
Connie slipped in beside her at the bar. Softly she said, “My friend with the vehicle’ll be here in an hour. Whether he’ll sell is another issue.” She glanced in the direction of Fox. “Keep it quiet till then.”
“No question about that. And thanks,” Kiernan said, taking ridiculous comfort from this minor effort at goodwill. She turned to face Connie, effectively shutting out the rest of the listeners. “You sure didn’t hesitate to tackle Fox,” she said approvingly.
She expected Connie to shrug off the compliment. Connie downed the rest of her drink and said, “My family’s mined land around here for over a hundred years. You saw that picture he’s got displayed like the flag in his office, the one of the old Pioche lockup?”
Kiernan nodded.
“Two of the first men to die outside it were my ancestors—probably not my brightest ancestors,” she added, shifting to face Kiernan. “I’m not about to let some guy come out of nowhere get himself appointed as our sheriff and carry on like he’s the CIA.”
“Has he hassled you?”
It was a moment before she said, “Not yet.”
“What about Jeff Tremaine?”
Connie started, reached for her glass, realized it was empty, and signaled Milo. “Jeff? You mean does Fox hassle him?”
“I mean, what’s their relationship?”
“Jeff’s a closed-mouth kind of guy. Knows everyone. Hell, the guy’s a member of the Carson Club)—”
“Carson Club?”
“Big Men in the State and junior Big Men. Not the first thing you’d guess for a small-town doctor, is it? But he’s a fifth-generation Nevadan.” She accepted her fresh drink and sipped slowly, staring into the glass. When she put it down, she glanced at Fox, who was still sitting by the jukebox, back to the wall, gazing straight ahead. For the first time she lowered her voice. “Jeff’s gone. No one knows where. But he didn’t go to Vegas for the weekend.”
“And you think—”
“No one … knows.” Without a glance at her nearly full glass, Connie turned and walked out.
Kiernan took a long swallow of her Dickel, her gaze on Connie’s departing figure. She liked this no-shit woman who was clearly worried about Jeff Tremaine. She turned to Milo. “If Fox’s likely to be in here for a while, I’ll go somewhere else and grab dinner. Anything open?”
“Bar on the far side of the morgue’s got burgers. Better than going hungry.”
Kiernan handed him a twenty. “For my friends.” To them she said, “See you in an hour.” As she hurried to the door, she gave a last look at Sheriff Fox, now sitting by the jukebox sipping his Scotch. He looked as if he was settling in for the night.
Jeff Tremaine was gone. Sheriff Fox was lying about the body. And she had only an hour to find out why.
CHAPTER 22
TCHERNAK SQUEALED TO A stop in front of Villas de las Palmas. He forced himself to sit in the Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo he had rented and get a sense of what he was about to charge into. Two-story cement slabs sat around a hard-dirt courtyard with a hole where a palm tree might have been. Twenty units were divided between two facing rows of five up, five down. Tchernak had banged on doors like these the summer between his sophomore and junior years in college, before he’d made his splash on the field and got enough of a scholarship to live on. Encyclopedias were what he’d been supposed to be selling then, the gift of knowledge, fast lane to the better life for your kids. Just a few hundred dollars, a few hundred more than any of those, or these, people had. He knew what he would find inside: twelve-foot-square living rooms with a wall heater for decoration, ten-by-twelve kitchens with dinette sets by windows overlooking the walkway. In the back there would be bathrooms and bedrooms with high aluminum windows over the parking lot. Tenements laid on end, the Sun Belt’s answer to poverty.
Some building owners tried to buck the tide with courtyard swimming pools, colored lights, landscaped gardens. Not here. Cement-slab stairs to the second-floor balcony were chipped and the bottom one was gone entirely. In the front upstairs apartment a broken window had been boarded on the inside.
He was wrong, this wasn’t encyclopedia turf; this was one of the places the sales manager would have gone right by. These tenants were not savvy enough to know well-managed property from bad. Or maybe they were too desperate.
In the courtyard, plants in plastic buckets pushed out fragile blooms. Yellow, purple, green, and red streamers wove around a pole that might once have sported a flag. A row of school-painted shoe boxes stood under the broken mail slots, like boxes on a rural route. The tenants were doing what they could. Even so, windows and doors were shut tight, and the only sound came from the televisions. Apartment 1 was dark. Apartments 2 and 3 showed lights only from their televisions. Number 4 was dark, 5 lighted.
The boys’ apartment was the corner unit nearest him. Unlike their neighbors’, their shades were up, their dark rooms bare to the courtyard.
They weren’t there! Damn! This was his only lead; they had to be here. Tchernak forced himself to ease out of the Jeep and walk, not run, to their door. A big Anglo like him, he’d seem threatening even if he were wearing a Bozo nose, much less stalking over like a repo man. He stared through the window into a kitchen that screamed, “Teenagers home alone.” There couldn’t have been a plate, glass, or cup left in the cabinets. He knocked. They could be asleep in the back. But of course they wouldn’t hear him.
Loiding the lock would be a snap. If he hadn’t been so desperate to get inside, he would have been grinning at the prospect, picturing Kiernan left at home this time missing all the fun of defenestration, or whatever they call it with a door. He took out his wallet and extricated the plastic strip.
He reached for the door, but caught himself before slipping plastic between wood. Would the neighbors call the cops? Bet on it. Someone in those nineteen units would be on the horn before he could pass the threshold.
He would have to make one of the neighbors his ally. All he’d need to do was tell them the truth, that these kids were missing, and that any way you looked at it, they were in a heap of danger.
Five steps and he was at Apartment 2. No sound came from inside; no light shone from the television that had been on minutes earlier. He knocked gently. Needn’t have knocked at all, he thought. Not like they don’t know I’m here.
The light had gone out in Number 3 too. Number 4, he recalled, was already black, and the tenant in 5 chose to ignore him with more flair, leaving the television going and the lights on while he didn’t answer the door. There was no way to tell them he understood fear of authority in a strange country, not when he looked exactly like their picture of an enforcer of that authority.
There was a whole floor above to try, and the units on the other side of the courtyard to tackle. He could either spend another forty minutes or leave now, the only difference would be that the tenants got a better look at him. He was fingering the ’loid when he spotted the girl on the sidewalk.
Cecil McGuire spotted it a block away: Big gold Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo was a real sore thumb in this place. Park wheels like that in this neighborhood, sheesh, you might as well drive it to the border yourself. And the thing was clean. He pulled up behind. A rent-a-car, sure. God, this guy of Adcock’s was some kind of novice. Why didn’t he just get a sign made: Know nothing Dick, for hire cheap.
