Broken Angels

by Неизвестный

  “Better not to.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Kris pulled out her remaining cash and counted off three hundred and twenty dollars. “Buy the ticket in your name,” she said handing him the bills. “Get your boarding pass and stuff. They’ll ask for picture ID.” He nodded. “You give me the ticket and split.”

  “TSA’ll get you going through security,” he said.

  “I’ll buy a ticket to Seattle and get through security on that. I’ll get on the Juneau plane with your ticket—they don’t check ID again when you’re boarding, and Robin works for a girl’s name.”

  Robin dropped the clutch back in and drove around to the parking lot. They got out and Kris wandered over to the tourist board advertising Fairbanks hotels while he stood in line. Fifteen minutes later, he handed her the ticket.

  “Plane leaves in two hours. I got you a window seat.”

  “Thanks. Say hi to Ringer and Annie for me.”

  “Will do,” he said dourly and left.

  He wasn’t real happy about that, but screw him. In the end, all these counter-culture types were self-righteous farts who didn’t have the balls to do anything but whine.

  Kris had things to do before the plane took off, but she searched for a window that looked out on the airport and stood before it, vacantly watching the planes, fuel trucks, and baggage carts scurry, in unquestioning certainty, through the predawn light. Something Robin had said bugged her; it slithered in the shadows of her mind with the slippery frustration of a dream.

  McDonalds in Japan? Never being in the bush?

  No; something else.

  Kris rapped a knuckle against the thick glass. It was cold. A flat white truck trundled by.

  Was it something she’d said?

  BMW?

  No.

  Heels.

  __________

  A stewardess came on the PA system and told them they were fifteen minutes out of Juneau. The nose of the jet was pointed down.

  There was a clarity of purpose in Kris now. There were things she still didn’t understand, but she knew what she had to do.

  The seatbelt sign came on and, as she turned to grope for the loose end from between the seats, her side ached. If she’d been wearing a belt when that plane flipped…

  Her left side had a brutal-looking bruise where she’d hit the wheel, which looked like it should hurt more than it did. In an out-of-the-way women’s room she’d found at the Fairbanks airport, she changed her clothes and sponged herself clean with a damp T-shirt as best she could. Her hair was still a mess; twigs and needles had fallen out of it with each pull of a comb she’d bought from the airport store. She remembered her mother checking her ends and brushing her hair every morning before the spotted, desilvered mirror in their bathroom. Kris tied her hair back, glad that it was black so the remaining pieces of the northern forest hiding in it were invisible.

  The phone call to Annie was more difficult and she wavered in front of a bank of phones, gathering her courage. When Annie’s recorded voice came on the line she was relieved. There was too much to explain, and Annie wouldn’t like what she was going to do. After the beep, Kris explained where the pack was hidden at the library, asked them to send Johnny’s stuff up to him, and then said good-bye. It was too abrupt, but she’d call again when she got to L.A.

  The plane broke through the clouds and rain streamed across the window. Kris could see the line of lights that fronted the shore and the disembodied lights of cars moving across the blackened hillside above them. The plane made its strange turn and the flaps whined out from the wing. It flew over the salt marsh, and Kris realized that she still did not know why her mother had written her the letter asking her to come back to Alaska or even how, after nine years, she’d found her. It was something lost with Evie; she’d never know.

  Kris stood with the others and filed out of the plane. She cut down to the baggage area and walked up to the Hertz desk. It was a different woman, older, than the kid who’d given her directions to AWARE the night she’d arrived in Juneau.

  “I’d like to rent a car, please.” Kris was asked what kind and handed a form to fill out. When she was done, she pushed the form across the counter and pulled her bills out of her pocket. The woman shook her head.

  “We don’t take cash. Credit cards only.”

  “What’s wrong with cash?” Kris asked.

  “You’ve got to have credit to rent—” Kris turned away and walked angrily down the line of rental agencies. They all said the same thing.

  Kris pushed out the doors and looked at the line of cabs. Most had people climbing into them, but someone at the end of the line waved, and Kris walked down and got in.

  “First and Main,” she said and didn’t respond to any of his prattle about the lousy weather they’d been having, lousy even for November. Rain fell from black clouds that lumbered up the channel and smothered the peaks of the black mountains that pressed against Juneau. The cab pulled up to the curb by the Sealaska Building. Kris paid him, pushed the door shut, and hiked up the hill to Seventh Street trying to ignore the rain blowing into the parka and dripping from its hem onto her pants.

  Justin was the last person she wanted to see, but if she could sneak his car away for an hour, it’d work just fine. It wasn’t on Seventh and she walked down to Sixth. It wasn’t there either. She tried Fifth and then all the cross streets. There were plenty of parking spaces; he was probably at a friend’s for dinner.

  Ben had a truck, but he didn’t leave his keys in it, and she wasn’t ready to see Ben yet. Kris hiked back up to Seventh and climbed down the steps to Justin’s apartment. A light was on. She knocked and then, impatient, turned the knob and pushed it open.

  Justin was half out of his chair when she walked in. His mouth dropped open in a little O. On the kitchen counter behind him, was a plate with a stripped drumstick on it.

  “Relax,” Kris said. “I know you told Barrett everything. Forget it.”

  Justin dropped back into the chair.

  “Where’s your car? I need it.”

  He was still digesting her arrival. Kris waited.

  “I don’t think you should use it, Kris.”

  “I only need it for an hour.”

  “Barrett’s looking for you,” he said.

  “Yeah, me, and not the person who killed my mother.”

  Justin paused then said unexpectedly, “Vern Jones killed her. I left a message at the station for Barrett, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

  “Not even close,” she said.

  “No, listen to this,” Justin said, a little too eagerly. “It was too much of a coincidence for your mother to be murdered the day before you arrived unless the killer knew you were coming. The only person who knew was Vern because no one else had read your letter to Evie. I traced it from AWARE to Montana Creek. A volunteer at the shelter gave it to Alvilde Lambale to give to Evie. I called Alvilde and she said she’d given the letter to your mother, but she saw Vern take it out of Evie’s hands before she’d opened it.”

  “You’re forgetting the wool fibers and the leaves you found.”

  “I found?”

  “The twisted-up leaves by the stream—the ones with the holes in them.” Kris could see his mind engage and then he looked at her sharply.

  “Do you know who did it?” he asked.

  “Where’s the car?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to have a talk with Evie’s murderer. Then I’ll call Barrett.”

  Justin was silent.

  “Justin, it’s no big deal. Let me use the car.”

  “It’s at the subport,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “The free parking down by the Coast Guard station, across Egan from Centennial Hall. ”

  “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Kris,” he said as she opened the door. She turned impatiently.

  He started to say something, then stopped. His
eyes held hers for a second, then she closed the door, and ran up Justin’s steps, down Main to Fifth, took the stairs down to Willoughby, cut through the parking lots that were scattered around the office buildings there, and jogged across the highway into the subport. Justin’s car was easy to find; the lot was almost empty.

  Rain splatted on the windshield. The road out to the valley was black, rain-slicked, and without cars. There was a pair of taillights way ahead of her and nothing in her mirror. Would she be there? Or would she be out for Thanksgiving dinner?

  The highway veered left after it passed the industrial valley. Would Justin go to the cops? Barrett was probably still in Fairbanks looking for her, but if Justin called the station, they’d send someone after her.

  Give me a break, Justin.

  All she needed was an hour.

  __________

  Barrett’s daughter was in bed. His wife sat stiffly in front of her computer, silently and petulantly protesting his distraction, which had deadened Thanksgiving dinner. Barrett sat in an easy chair staring at her rigid back; spread on his lap was the forensic report on Lambale’s Mercedes and the auditor’s report of Lambale’s accounts both of which he’d found on his desk when he got back from Fairbanks yesterday evening.

  The techs had found nothing unusual about the car except more dirt and dried mud on the driver’s side floor carpet than one would expect of a man who wore smooth-soled shoes and several dog hairs on the driver’s head rest and nowhere else. The Lambales didn’t have a dog, and dogs tend not to sit on headrests. The hairs could have come from a ruff, but it was too warm to be wearing parkas yet.

  The auditor claimed that all the money in Lambale’s accounts was accounted for. When Barrett had called the auditor at home this morning, telling him that he didn’t believe the report—Lambale was a banker and could hide anything—the auditor had been unequivocal: Lambale’s financial records, which included his wife’s except for her gallery, were meticulous and transparent; it was not possible that he had made an unrecorded payment of between two to three thousand dollars in the last six months.

  Barrett dropped his eyes from his wife’s unyielding back, to the reports in his lap. He leafed through the financial statements. If Lambale hadn’t given Vern the money, who had?

  And why—his mind had stubbed against this again and again since he’d first read the report—why had Lambale written a check for thirty-five hundred dollars to a detective agency in Seattle?

  His cell rang.

  “Kris is here,” Justin said. “She took my car. She says she knows who killed Evie.”

  __________

  Except for a token light, the Lambale house was dark. Both outside doors and the sliding glass doors opening onto the deck were locked. Kris leaned against the handle on the glass door; the lock couldn’t be that substantial. She braced her back against the rock retaining wall at the side of the house, put her foot against the handle, and pushed. Her body vibrated as she forced her leg straight. The lock gave with hardly a sound and Kris ducked inside, sliding the window shut again. Lights were on at the neighboring houses, but they were screened by trees. No one could have seen her.

  Kris searched the house. It didn’t take long to find the gun.

  She checked the light switches by the front door, unscrewed the bulb in a floor lamp, and sat down on the sofa in the living room to wait.

  __________

  Twisted leaves.

  Barrett pushed the loose pages of the Gabriel file away from him. Without asking, Justin reached over his desk and scooped the papers into the manila folder and set it on his lap. Barrett suppressed his irritation. If forensics had found any twisted-up leaves at the site, they hadn’t put it in the report. Justin said he had found three different sets on what he thought was the path Evie and her killer had taken through the brush from the trail to the stream. Justin had been clued in by the footprint with the crepe sole—obviously not a police print. It had been Stewart’s, who’d shown the police his boots and his path down and back from the stream.

  “Twisted?” Barrett asked.

  Justin nodded, his head bent over the file.

  “Screwed-up like someone was putting out a cigarette butt?”

  Justin looked up.

  “Or like someone was trying to destroy something?” Was it Stewart covering his tracks?

  “A couple of leaves had holes in them,” Justin said.

  “Holes?” Barrett repeated, perplexed. “Were there holes in the soil underneath?”

  “I didn’t look, but somebody twisting his foot back and forth would have plugged them up anyway.”

  “I need to talk to Stewart.” Barrett rose.

  “Kris didn’t go there,” Justin said, “she wouldn’t have needed my car.”

  “I know that.” Barrett was testy. “But Stewart’s hiding something, and I want to know what it is.” He started out from behind his desk, then stopped. “Lambales,” he breathed. “She’d have to drive out there.”

  Justin closed the file. “Oh yeah, I found out how Vern got Kris’s letter. Alvilde picked it up at the shelter to give to Evie and Vern took it from her.”

  “Jesus shit! How long have you been sitting on that?” Barrett leaned over his desk glaring at Justin. Before Justin could open his mouth, Barrett added sarcastically, “Do you think Alvilde’d run out to Montana Creek in her fucking Mercedes to drop off a letter for a drunk?” He stared at Justin, his mind churning. What the hell was Alvilde doing in this? Vern needed to kill Kris to keep control of Evie. That made sense. But was it Alvilde who’d told him when Kris was flying in? Did she know that Vern would kill Kris? Did she want Kris dead, too? For God’s sake, why?

  Barrett sat, stunned. Nothing made sense.

  Then he got a piece of it.

  “Holes?” he said, softly.

  Justin didn’t answer; he looked sullen.

  “Give me the file.” Barrett reached over his desk and pulled it out of Justin’s hands. He ransacked it, sliding the papers and reports across his desk until he found the sheet he was looking for. At the top of the page was the number; he punched it in. The phone rang four times and voice mail picked up. Barrett slammed the receiver down and ran for the door, grabbing his pistol and coat off the hook as he passed.

  “Where’re you going?” Justin was right behind him.

  “You stay here,” Barrett said without slowing. He pushed through the station’s doors and ran through the rain to his car.

  “I’m coming with you,” Justin said, panting, catching up with him in the parking lot.

  “No.” Barrett pulled the car door open.

  Justin ignored him and ran around the hood, splashing through a puddle backed up against the curb, and pulled the passenger door open and climbed in.

  Barrett didn’t argue. He squealed onto Marine Way. It was the family car. No lights or siren, but it had a police radio slung under the dash. He keyed the mike and reported into the dispatcher. Rehooking the mike, he turned to Justin, his face grotesquely yellowed by the sodium streetlights racing past.

  “You do everything I say. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  __________

  Upstairs the phone rang four times and quit.

  Kris felt sweat prick through her skin.

  The blackened windows opening onto the deck reflected a blinking green, reversed “12:00” from a DVD display in another room.

  Alvilde wanted Kris dead. That was the only reason why she’d have given Kris’s letter to Vern. She knew that Vern would kill her. Kris knew why Vern had wanted her out of the way. But why would Alvilde? What difference could Kris make to Alvilde?

  Kris stared at the blinking clock. How did Alvilde even know Kris existed? Evie, Ben, and Vern were the only people in Juneau who had ever heard of her.

  The heavy weather seals of the outer door sucked against the doorjamb as it was pushed open. Someone entered the outer entryway. Kris heard the quiet unconcerned scrape and click of shoes on the t
iles. The person moved as if she felt at home. There was a clink of hangers from the closet.

  Kris rose quietly from the sofa, propped the shotgun against the armrest, and pressed herself against the wall behind a floor lamp wondering if it were Alvilde and what she would do if it weren’t. She touched the paring knife that she’d taken from the kitchen and stuck in her back pocket, and then pushed her palms down the sides of her pants to wipe off the sweat.

  A key slid into the lock on the inner door and turned. The door pulled back into the entry and light fell onto the carpet in a crooked rectangle. Into it stepped a woman in a long skirt, loose blouse, and heels. The light was at her back and her face was hidden in her own shadow, but Kris knew it was Alvilde. Erect and contained, she stepped into the room. Tucked in one hand was a small purse and in the other an empty salad bowl. Alvilde touched the light panel on the wall and the light in the entryway went off, but the living room remained dark. She rocked the light switch several times, then pulled the door closed behind her, and strode across the room toward a lamp on a low table in the far corner.

  Kris stepped away from the wall. She heard fabric rustle as Alvilde bent down to reach for the switch. The lamp clicked on, flooding the corner of the room with a cone of light. Alvilde turned, pulling off a thin pair of gloves, and spotted her standing in the shadows.

  Alvilde regarded her without surprise and in the second that she stood watching her; Kris felt her shift from distant appraisal to expectation, as if she were demanding better service of a waiter.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “We have some things to talk about,” Kris said.

  “Not this evening, Kris. It’s late.”

  “You killed Evie.”

  Alvilde regarded Kris coolly. There was no concern, no agitation, no fear in her face. “I think you’d better go,” she said.

  “We’re going to talk.”

  Alvilde picked up her purse and the salad bowl, which she had placed by the lamp, and walked across the carpet toward the kitchen. Kris followed.

  Over her shoulder, Alvilde said, “I’ve asked you to leave, Kris.”

  Kris pulled the paring knife out of her pocket, grabbed Alvilde’s arm, spun her around, and pricked the point of the knife into the hand holding the dish. A drop of blood welled out, beading on her skin.