by Mary Logue
He wondered what the weather would bring them. It was dropping down to under ten degrees tonight. He hoped that Claire wasn’t out in the cold. Then he thought about how he would have to warm her up when she got home. He watched the clouds drift through the satellite skies. He set his cup down and closed his eyes as the woman with the soft voice told him how cold the northern tier of the United States would be. Below zero. Nasty cold. Icy.
Snooper tucked her head into Stephanie’s thigh and whimpered as they pulled out of the parking lot. The silky fur of the small dog reminded Stephanie of a lamb she had petted once on her grandfather’s farm. A small comfort.
“I know it’s cold. I’ll get you home soon,” Stephanie promised the tightly curled-up dog.
A few minutes ago two guys had come into the bar, saying that a car had gone through the ice down the road a ways. Didn’t look good, they said. Stephanie called Buck, but all she got was his answering machine. She decided to head home and check out the accident on the way.
As she drove down Highway 35, she heard a siren, and then a cop car went sailing by her. She was glad she hadn’t had anything to drink in case she was stopped. She didn’t want to have to explain anything, certainly not why she was interested in the accident. As she rounded a curve in the road, she could see down to the lake and the tangle of cars and trucks that were lined up by the point.
She pulled off the road and watched what was going on. Not wanting to be in the way, she pulled off the track she had turned onto so that any vehicle could get by her.
She knew it was Buck who had gone through the ice.
She knew it before she saw the large, familiar body stretched out on the ground, before she saw that it was his old Chevy Nova they were trying to pull out of the lake. Before she saw how everyone moved around the body, not really paying it much attention, she had known he was dead.
She had always known she would never get to stay with Buck. He was a gentle soul whom she didn’t deserve. He had treated her like she was worth something, and she had tried to push him away. Now she was sorry that she hadn’t pushed harder. Because of her, Buck was dead.
Jack had killed Buck. She didn’t know how he had done it; she hated to think about that. She knew it as well as she knew her own name, as well as she knew that someday he would kill her too.
She had to freeze herself. She had learned how to do that many years ago. In order to get through the beatings, the fear, the relentless waiting, she had learned how to turn her mind off and make her body move forward. That part of her that cared about people, she needed to disconnect it from the rest of her mind. It had never done her any good anyhow.
Stephanie reversed out of her parking spot and turned back onto the highway. Get home, she thought.
When she pulled up into the driveway, she saw that the porch light was off. Maybe it had burned out. She tried to tell herself that as she got out of the car and walked up to the house, Snooper following at her side. Then the little dog stopped and relieved himself on some bushes.
“Come on, Snooper,” she called, needing to hear the sound of her voice in the still air.
The dog wagged his fluffy tail and carefully stepped over the rocks in the driveway. Stephanie walked up the steps to her house and tried her door. It was locked—a good sign. She inserted her key and slowly opened the door. Nothing. She reached inside and turned on the outside light and the light in the kitchen. Empty. Still nothing. She stepped into the house and let Snooper come in behind her.
Before she could do anything else, she needed to check out the house. She walked through the kitchen and into the living room. Everything as she had left it. The rug she was working on was sitting in the corner behind the couch where she had put it, red and green for Christmas. She had thought it might be nice under the Christmas tree. It all seemed like an odd dream—the holidays, Christmas, presents for Buck, good cheer, ho-ho-ho—what had she been thinking? She was halfway done with the rug, and now she might never finish it.
Then she checked the bathroom, pulling the shower curtain to one side to see into the bathtub. Finally her bedroom. Nothing looked disturbed.
She went back into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and stared out into the night. She needed to go to bed. She would go to work in the morning. She would work until payday on Wednesday and then leave on Thursday, which was Thanksgiving. She would tell no one anything about where she was going—not her mom, not anyone. This time she would completely vanish.
Snooper was sitting in the middle of the kitchen, his nose pointing up at the sink.
“What do you want, Snooper? You need a drink of water?”
He stood up and wagged his tail, happy at her ability to communicate with him.
She reached up and got down a bowl and filled it with water.
“You’re going with me. I need a buddy.”
It was three in the morning. If she was going to be in any shape for tomorrow, she’d better try and get a few hours of sleep. No one would be in very good shape at the factory once they heard about Buck. He had been well liked. She thought of the locket he had given her. She kept it in her jewelry box. She would take that with her. But she would take little else. Only what she could pack in the car.
She walked down the hallway to her bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she started to shake. Don’t, she told herself. Don’t think. Just go to sleep.
She stood up and pulled back the covers, ready to crawl into bed in her clothes, when she saw the red. Something red was all over her sheets.
She dropped the sheets and screamed.
Then she saw what it was.
Rags. Red rags. From her weaving. He had come into her house, taken a handful of the rag strips that she used for her rug, and put them in her bed just to show her what he could do.
She knew what he could do.
He would kill her, but not tonight.
And maybe if she planned well and went farther than he would even dream of her going, she could get away before he got her.
He watched the lights go on throughout the house, leaving a trail of her movements. He wondered if she would stay in the house when she found what he had left her. If she went anyplace, he would follow her. He would not let her get away this time. It had taken him all too long to track her down.
A roaring filled his ears. Anger at her bounced around inside his belly. He hated the thought that that stupid fucking punk had touched her body. It would never happen again. No other man would ever touch her.
He was the only one who had any right to her.
He had been her first lover, and he would be her last. He would see to that.
A woman was supposed to be faithful to her man.
They were born for each other. He had told her that forever.
His eyes focused on the bedroom. He could see so clearly in the dark. He had left the shade partly drawn up in her bedroom so he could watch her. He loved watching her when she didn’t know he was doing it.
She turned on the light in the room, looked around, and left.
His eyes could see everything. They could pierce her skin and go into her mind. He always knew what she was thinking.
He was working on controlling his anger, not letting it control him. It made him very powerful, his anger, and if he could use it the way he wanted to, he would be able to do anything.
The key to this control was steady breathing and holding in. He did not always give in to his sex drive when he felt it. He often let it build up inside him just to feel the steam of it swirl around.
But still, he needed other women. He could not hold it back forever. That was not his responsibility.
He watched her come back into the bedroom. When she pulled back the covers, he saw her face. The shine of holy fear. She was worshiping him again.
He would not go to her tonight. She would want him, but he would hold back. It would bring him more power. He would have her again soon enough. And then he would have her forever. She was his.
&nb
sp; When Claire walked in the door at four in the morning, she heard the gentle drone of the TV and found Rich slumped over in the recliner. His face was tilted to the side, and his mouth was slightly open, letting a soft whistle escape as he breathed. He didn’t look all that comfortable.
She hoped he hadn’t been there all night. She felt enormous relief to see him in her house.
How comforting to come home to a sleeping man.
She was beyond tired, hungry, cold, thirsty, and sad. She wasn’t sure how she would face the day that would begin all too soon. This case needed to be attended to immediately. Her mind began to whir at what she would have to check into in a few hours when she went to work: Stephanie, autopsy, the checks for Mrs. Tabor, the car, Buck Owens’s parents.
Claire stood in the middle of the room and put her hands to her temple. Let it go. You need to sleep. It will all happen soon. She shook herself and then looked again at her sleeping lover.
After turning off the TV, she walked quietly over to where he sat in the chair and knelt in front of him. She reached out her arms and laid them on either side of his waist, and then she bent over and put her head in his lap. He was warm from sleep. She felt him stir, and then she felt his hands smooth back her hair.
6
DAMP, thick clouds hung low over the lake, obscuring the bluffline across the water. From the window in her bedroom, Claire looked out. Clouds had settled into the crooks of the coulees on the far side of the lake, resembling lost sheep. The inside of Claire’s head felt like how the sky looked—muffled and woolly—but at least she was up and moving around.
She had slept until nine and eaten a large breakfast, knowing she would need the calories to get through the day. Rich, bless him, had already gotten Meg off to school without waking her. He had made her breakfast and told her not to worry about the dishes. If he was trying to make himself indispensable, she thought, he was doing a darn good job of it.
As she came down the stairs from her room, she saw he had his down jacket on and was ready to go out the door.
“Arctic out. It’s not even above zero yet,” he told her.
She groaned at the thought of the cold day ahead. The brutal cold made everything harder to do.
“What are you up to today?” she asked.
“Going over my books.”
“Counting your pennies?”
“That’s about it. Nothing as exciting as what you will be doing—looking at another man’s naked body.”
“Don’t forget, I’m also having pie with an older gentleman.”
“And I thought a cop’s life was tough. I’m going to have to meet this Dr. Lord sometime.”
They kissed an easy kiss, and she waved him out the door.
She called in to the department before she left the house to tell them she was on her way, and Julie warned her that the sheriff wanted to see her as soon as she got in. This came as no surprise. Claire had called him last night from the scene when she realized that the car going through the ice was not an accident, that they might be dealing with a murder. He had listened, and when she told him that the car was out of the water and they were ready to load the body into the ambulance, he said he’d be right down. He wanted to see the scene himself.
Claire stopped by Stephanie Klaus’s house before she drove on to work, but there was no sign of anyone. No car, no dog. She had knocked on the door of the small house just to see if a dog would bark, but she had heard nothing. Could another Stephanie have been seeing Buck Owens? One way or another, she needed to find out today.
Half an hour later, when she walked into Sheriff Talbert’s office, he seemed in a decent mood. Even though he was in some ways a figurehead, with Chief Deputy Swanson doing the hands-on in the department, he made his presence known. He had hired her, and they had always gotten along.
“Mighty cold last night,” he commented, then added, “Glad I could make the party.”
“Always glad to have you,” she told him.
He lifted his mighty eyebrows and then let them fall. It was a good sign. “Steve’s already talked to me. I know you’re on top of it. I’m not complaining. Don’t get snarly with me, Claire.”
“I’ll try not to.”
A smile crept onto his face. “Wish I would have been there a little earlier. I would have liked to see you go for a little swim.”
“Scott fished me out pretty darn quick.”
“He said it looked like someone had tied this guy up and then drove him into the lake.”
“Yes, I’m going over to get the results of the autopsy in a few hours, but I think it will just confirm what we saw.”
“What the hell’s going on? Any ideas?”
“Yes, sir, actually I am formulating something.”
“Care to share?”
Claire hesitated only for a moment, knowing that Sheriff Talbert kept a closed mouth as well as anyone. “Well, I could be all wrong, but there’s a woman in Fort St. Antoine who appeared to have been beaten up pretty badly last week.”
“I remember you asking around about that.”
“Right. From what I learned last night, there’s a chance she might be Buck Owens’s girlfriend.”
Sheriff leaned his head in his big hands and squeezed. “Shit. Not a burning mattress type-a-deal?”
“It’s a possibility. I don’t want to rule it out.”
“You’ll know soon.” It should have been a question, but the sheriff didn’t let it come out as one.
“I plan on finding out the girlfriend’s name and talking with her sometime today.”
“Keep me posted.”
Before she even went back to her desk, Claire tried to run Scott to ground. Julie said he had been in and out. Bob said he was in the computer room. She finally found him coming out of the john.
“How did his parents take the news?”
Scott leaned against the wall in the hallway and winced, remembering. “I hate that part of being a deputy.”
“No one likes it.”
“I like giving out tickets.”
Claire was glad someone did. “What was their reaction?”
“Let’s see. The mom sat right down on the floor and cried, and the old guy cracked his knuckles and swore.”
Claire felt her heart break a little for this couple she hadn’t even met. “Did they say anything about a girlfriend?”
“They said they knew he was seeing someone, but they had only met her once. They didn’t remember her name.”
“Did they tell you anything we didn’t know?”
Scott shrugged and then repeated, “They said everybody loved Buck. No one would ever want to hurt him.”
The map of the world was always pulled down near the front of the class, and Meg found her eyes drawn to it. She would imagine herself in a plane flying all over the world. She thought about all the places she would travel to when she got older, after college. Maybe her mom could come with her to some of the places: they could eat Chinese food in China, buy a kangaroo for Rich in Australia, shop for lovely lace in Switzerland. But the places she really wanted to visit were those little islands in the middle of nowhere. The most middle-of-nowhere islands were the ones in the Pacific Ocean, like Wake or Johnston or Midway. She wondered how big they were, and if you could walk across them in a day. She imagined that some of them, in a really bad storm, like one of those tsunami waves, maybe would get completely washed over with water.
“Meg, do you see something by the blackboard?”
“I’m just thinking, Mr. Turner.”
“Working on your math problems?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he said.
She bent her head over her math paper. She was behind again. The time was almost up, and she had ten problems to do. She raced along and managed to get five more done before Mr. Turner began to collect the papers. But with five problems not finished, she couldn’t expect to get an A, probably not even a B. What was happening to her this year?
At l
east another school day was over. Everyone was getting ready for the bell to ring. She didn’t even feel like taking her homework home. She knew she had a bad attitude, but she wasn’t getting anywhere with Mr. Turner. She didn’t seem to be able to please him. She grabbed her history book, her math book, and her worksheets and headed for the door.
“Meg?” Mr. Turner’s voice stopped her.
“Yes.”
“Is your mother going to be able to make conferences?”
Meg felt her stomach drop. Conferences were the week after Thanksgiving. What would he tell her mother? “I think so.”
“I know she works during the day. I could schedule her to come in toward the end of the day.”
“You should probably talk to her.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.” Even the way he said that made her stomach turn. Maybe that’s why his name was Mr. Turner.
Mrs. Tabor was waiting for dinner. What was taking Lily so long?
Lily knew she liked to eat a big meal at lunchtime, right at noon. That’s when she had always eaten her big meal. When her husband was alive, she often baked biscuits, some kind of meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. He had never said much, but from the way he wolfed down the food, she knew it was appreciated. Once or twice a week, she’d try to make a pie. Herman had loved his pie. His favorite was raspberry. For a few weeks in the summer, she would go out and pick raspberries and make him pies.
She didn’t know what Lily did some days. Nothing seemed to get done. Then other days, she would whirl around and clean the kitchen and make a fine meal.
“Lily?” Mrs. Tabor thought of getting out of her chair to see if she could help.
“Don’t fuss, Mrs. Tabor, it’s almost ready.”
Mrs. Tabor put her watch under her magnifying glass. Nearly one o’clock. No wonder she wanted her dinner.
Then Lily came in, carrying a tray. “There you are.”
A pile of yellow—must be corn. A mound of brown—probably meatloaf. Then a blob of creamy white. Her favorite, mashed potatoes. Her dentures had been bothering her lately, so she was glad to eat mushy food.
