Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  Well, maybe some things, maybe a little. Who wouldn’t be scared of a psycho killer? Why had he killed Gayle anyway? Maybe Moonbeam should check out some of those dippy mysteries with gutsy female sleuths and get some pointers on how to find the bad guy. Who would want to kill Gayle? She didn’t have anything that was worth anything. Well, just look around this house. Was there anything here that was worth a dime? Of course, ugly old antiques were worth thousands sometimes. And the dirtiest and ugliest were worth the most. Her friend Monica’s mother found a table in the attic and it turned out to be worth a bunch of thousands of dollars. They remodeled the whole house and put on a second story and bought a humongous television.

  But that’s ridiculous, there’s nothing like that here. Was anything in the attic? Oh, shit, she was sorry she thought of it. Was that footsteps up there? No! No one was in the attic and no way she was going to go up and look.

  She wondered if Gayle had known something. Like, well, the big secret. Moonbeam snorted and the noise sounded so loud she scared herself.

  She rooted around to get more comfortable. Gayle had been dwelling on all that sad stuff about the fire and everything and the big fight she had with Vince right before he took off for Colorado and had that skiing accident.

  Then—Moonbeam squinched up her eyes to remember better—last month just before he left to go skiing, Vince was excited about something. Moonbeam squeezed her eyes tighter and rubbed her forehead to stimulate thoughts. The governor. Yeah, that was it. Vince said he had something to say to the governor. Or maybe he said he already said something to the governor. Moonbeam was sorry she hadn’t paid more attention, that she was so busy with her own shit and everything that she didn’t even listen. If only she’d been home, if only she hadn’t gone to the music festival, then maybe the psycho killer wouldn’t have bashed Gayle. She’d be still alive and—

  Tears, hot and painful, got all started and Moonbeam mashed her face in the pillow to bury the sobs.

  Something scraped against a window. Moonbeam held her breath, her heart flapped like a whirligig. Somebody on the porch?

  22

  After hours of struggle trying to get to sleep, Em got up, pulled on some clothes, got in her car and drove, just drove, through the black night, the little town of Hampstead, and into the countryside. Two hours later when she returned she was exhausted. Surely the nightmares that tormented her would be lulled, surely God would let her sleep now, but the torturous dreams were back as soon as she closed her eyes.

  Tired as she was, she plodded through her work at Garrett For America local headquarters and was thankful when her shift was over. She drove to the motel, turned off the ignition and just sat there, too tired to get out of the car. The wind whistling past the inch-open window frayed on her nerves. She was always tired now, sometimes so much she simply wanted to sleep, but when she went to bed, sleep eluded her. She started to worry she wouldn’t have the strength to accomplish her mission. That must not happen. She must be successful. For Alice Ann and all the others like her who couldn’t speak for themselves and had no one else to step up for them.

  With a deep sigh, she gathered her purse and the two bags of food she’d bought. She fumbled for her room key and had to put the bags down to find it. “Alice Ann? I’m home, honey. Sorry, I’m late. I stopped to pick up some food. Not that I’m hungry, but I guess I need to eat. Keep my strength up, like everybody always says.”

  She flicked on the light in the entryway, went into the small kitchen area and dropped the bags on the counter.

  “Who’s Alice Ann?”

  She spun around, heart pounding, knees going weak.

  Black kid. Teenager.

  For the blink of an eye, everything froze. Then it came rushing back, the noise of her heart, the rattle of the room’s heater, a car horn honking outside. The boy at the pawnshop. The one who’d scared her so, stolen her money. Sitting in the overstuffed chair by the bed. He held a gun. Passed it slowly back and forth from one hand to the other. Ran the barrel up and down his jaw. Grinned at her, teeth white in his dark face.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Wasn’t hard. All’s you need is put the key in the lock.” He dangled the room key for her to see.

  She hadn’t lost it after all, he’d stolen it when he grabbed her purse. “What do you want?”

  “Aren’t ya pleased to see me?”

  He got up and came toward her. She backed away until she was trapped in the corner of the L-shaped cabinet in the kitchen area. “You took all my money. I don’t have any more.” That wasn’t true, but if she gave him the rest, she might as well just lie down and let him kill her because she wouldn’t be able to finish without money. If she couldn’t get to the governor here, she’d have to follow him when he left, watching, waiting for her chance. Get airline tickets, rent cars, hotel rooms. If she couldn’t kill Jackson Garrett, nothing mattered. “How did you find me?”

  He shrugged. “Address on the key.” He laid the gun on the cabinet, but kept his hand around it. “Who’s Alice Ann?”

  “My daughter. She’ll be here any minute. So you just better go.”

  He gave her a cocky smile and shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think so. I think you’re here all by yourself, ’cause there’s only stuff here for one person.”

  “You went through my things?” She felt all the starch drain out. Had he found her money?

  “What’s it matter? Got something hidden you don’t want me to see?”

  He was either going to kill her, or he wasn’t. She wasn’t afraid to die, but she wanted Governor Garrett to get what he deserved before she did. If God didn’t want that to happen, if He wanted her to die right here and now, then that was the way it would be.

  “If you went through all my belongings you know what I have and you know I have nothing of value, so you might as well go.”

  “I could kill you before I go.” He aimed the gun at her head.

  “Well, make up your mind,” she snapped. “Either shoot me or put that thing down. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’d like to fix something to eat.”

  “It’s your gun.” There was amusement along with menace in his voice. He set it on the cabinet like he was daring her to pick it up. “Isn’t it what you wanted?”

  She studied his face. He was probably around thirteen. In all her years of teaching, she’d learned a lot about kids. This one was a hood, probably a long sheet of burglaries, break-ins, and assaults in his background, maybe even some kiddie jail time and the Lord only knew what else. “What’s your name?”

  “Tyrell.”

  “All right, Tyrell, I hope that’s a good gun, because it cost me a lot of money.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It cost all I had.” She eyed him with her teacher’s displeased expression.

  A grin played around his mouth. “Yeah, it did that, didn’t it?”

  “You hungry?”

  “Why?” he said suspiciously.

  “Good.” She rummaged through the bag, found an onion and pulled out the cutting board under the counter. She plopped down the onion, opened a drawer for a knife and put the knife beside it. “Slice,” she said, wondering if he might just pick up the knife and slice her.

  “What?”

  “Slice the onion.”

  “I don’t do that stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bitches do that stuff.”

  “Really? What do you do when bitches aren’t around?”

  He shrugged. “McDonald’s.”

  “Way too much fat and way too much salt. It’s bad for you.”

  He looked at her like she was nuts. And probably she was, she hadn’t been really sane since Alice Ann died. Digging for the pack of gum at the bottom of the bag, she opened it and handed him a stick.

  “What’s this for?” He looked at the gum like it might explode.

  “Chew it while you slice and you won’t cry so much.”

  “I don’t cry.” And no doubt he
’d pound anyone who suggested he did.

  “You should. It’s therapeutic. There’s something in the chemical makeup of tears that is healing.”

  “You cry over Alice Ann?”

  She turned on him. “There is one subject you don’t dump on and that is it.”

  “How come you get so twisted about her? She in trouble or something?”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you sometime. Right now, slice that onion. Cut off both ends and peel it first.” She turned her back on him, shoulders tight, feeling like there might be a big red X painted right between the shoulder blades. She peeled the wrapping from a package of cream cheese, put it on a plate and found a bowl for the bagels.

  “Okay, I’m done.”

  She looked over at the large chunks Tyrell had hacked off. And despite his macho claim, there were tears in his eyes. “Right. Now slice these.” She handed him two tomatoes.

  “My eyes sting. Like tear gas.”

  She didn’t ask him how he knew about tear gas. “Yes. It’s very nearly the same. Slice.”

  Handling the knife like a stabbing weapon, he attacked the tomatoes.

  “How come you don’t just go to McDonald’s? Beats all this slicin’ and shit.”

  “This tastes better.” She put on water for instant coffee. “You want some orange juice?”

  “Got any Coke?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Yeah, orange juice.”

  “In the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

  He grabbed the carton and started drinking.

  “Not that way. Get a glass.”

  “You’re some bossy.”

  “Where do you live, Tyrell?”

  “Here and there.”

  “You have a home?”

  “Course, I got a home. Everybody got a home.”

  Not everybody, Em thought. “What about your mother, will she worry about you?”

  “Doubt it. She’s in jail.”

  “Your father?” Em put the bagels in the tiny oven to warm.

  “Don’t know where he is. He left before I even knew I had a father.”

  “There are some dishes in the cabinet right there. Not very fancy ones, I’m afraid, but you can take them to that small table by the window.”

  He grumbled about bitches work as he took out mismatched plates and more or less pitched them at the table. She forked lox on a plate, took the bagels from the oven and got a fork for the salad.

  He scooped up a mound of cream cheese and sculpted it onto a bagel. With the look of a food critic, he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad,” he said.

  “It’s delicious,” she said. “Eat some salad.”

  “Don’t like salad.”

  “It’s not polite to say so. Eat it anyway, it’s good for you.”

  He picked out two or three pieces of lettuce and put them on his plate. “Why you want the gun?”

  “To protect myself.”

  He studied her while he chewed. “Naw. You’re wantin’ to kill somebody. Who is it?”

  She shook her head and concentrated on gathering up stray crumbs. “Now why would I want to kill somebody?”

  “Is it this Alice Ann you was talkin’ to?”

  She stiffened. “I told you, we won’t talk about her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My daughter.”

  “You live with her?”

  “She died.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was shot.”

  “I had a sister once,” he said. “She was shot, too.”

  “Who shot her?”

  He shrugged. “Accident. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged again. “Happens.”

  Not where she ever lived, it didn’t. Where she lived a well-brought-up young man beat up his pregnant wife, was arrested, acquitted, went out and bought a gun. Deliberately, he shot and killed his pregnant wife, there was no accident about it.

  From the amount of food he consumed, Em wondered when Tyrell last had a meal and didn’t eat much so there’d be more for him. When the food was gone, she told him he had to help her wash the dishes.

  “What? I never do no dishes.”

  “Then it’s time you did.” She filled the tiny sink with hot water and detergent, washed a plate and handed it to him to dry.

  “How come you’re not yellin’ and screamin’ and callin’ the cops and tryin’ to get me out of here?”

  “I don’t know, Tyrell. Maybe it’s because I might like you if I got to know you.”

  He picked up a plate and vigorously rubbed it with the towel. “Somebody like you like somebody like me?”

  “Why not? You seem like an intelligent young man.”

  He didn’t have any parents, didn’t seem to have a home, probably didn’t have any adult who paid attention to him. Because she treated him like an individual and didn’t simply dismiss him as a dangerous young criminal, he stayed, helped fix the meal, ate, helped wash the dishes. She didn’t know why he’d come. Maybe he didn’t know either. To kill her maybe, or steal whatever was valuable, or maybe just for something to do. She was afraid when he decided to leave, he’d take the gun with him. In his life, a gun must resemble power. She wanted it, she needed it. How was she going to convince him to leave it with her? Offer to buy him a car? Ha, if he wanted one, he’d probably steal one.

  “What do you like to do?”

  “Play basketball. Hey, looka here, you didn’t get this one clean.” With glee, he pointed out a spot of smeared cream cheese and handed the plate back.

  She washed it again. “You any good at basketball?”

  “The best!”

  She smiled. “Why am I not surprised. You like to travel?”

  “You mean like go someplace?”

  “That’s usually what travel means.”

  “Don’t know. Never did any.”

  “Would you like to?”

  He shrugged. “Never thought about it.” He dried the last glass and put it on the shelf.

  Buying him an airline ticket to somewhere like Disneyland obviously wasn’t going to work either. What did this child want that she could give him in exchange for the gun?

  “I get off work around four tomorrow,” she said. “I’d like it if you came for supper.”

  He grinned. “Do I have to chop?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “I have to go.” He tossed the dish towel on the counter. “Have to be somewhere.”

  She let the dish water drain from the sink, very aware of the gun sitting by Tyrell’s elbow. Would he take it with him?

  Giving her a sly look, he picked up the gun and shoved it in his pocket. “See you around,” he said.

  Her heart floated on despair. He was going to walk out with her gun and she’d never see him or it again. “Are you taking the gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you leave it and come back tomorrow, I’ll give you two hundred dollars.” She didn’t know if that represented a large amount of money to him or not.

  He looked at her a long moment. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow. You can have it for four hundred.”

  “No,” she said and was surprised to hear steady firmness in her voice. “Take it and don’t come back or leave it and come back tomorrow. I’ll give you the money and fix supper for us.” If he took it, she’d have to think of something else. Maybe she’d simply have to legally go through the fifteen-day waiting period and track down Jackson Garrett wherever he was at that time.

  He thought a moment, then pulled the gun from his pocket and put it back on the cabinet. “Three hundred,” he said, to let her know he was still in charge.

  She nodded.

  When he left, her shoulders slumped in relief. She touched the gun with her fingertips. Hard and cold. Gingerly, she picked it up and held it flat in her palm. Heavy.

  Hers. All she needed now was to get close enough.

  23

  Billions
of stars sparkled with cold light in a black velvet sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. The moon, a slim crescent, rode low over the shallow hills. Sean asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing wandering away from the safety zones and drifting into the unchartered areas of the natives. Chasing a whim, that’s what he was doing. He’d seen the town car with Wakely Fromm and the kid who took care of him driving off somewhere. Sean was guessing Fromm went to the house he owned, the one where the campaign committee stashed him when he’d be a liability if taken out in public. Too drunk, or too belligerent.

  Sean couldn’t say why he wanted to talk with Fromm—old reporter’s deep down feeling that something was lurking under the surface. Long ago, he’d learned to trust those deep down feelings. With his boss pushing for something over and above the rehash of what the TV cookies were doing, now seemed a good time to have that chat with Fromm. If the man could be found, and if he was able to talk. With Fromm, timing was all. Solid sober and he wouldn’t open his mouth, too drunk and he was incoherent, so it was crucial to catch him with just the right amount of liquor in his gut.

  The governor was supposedly spending a quiet Tuesday evening with his campaign people. More likely making phone calls. Speaking of phone calls, Sean ought to call his parents. Talk to his mother, talk to Hannah, tell her he loved her. What was going through her six-year-old mind, her mother taking off with a karate instructor and her father chasing wild geese out here where the deer and the antelope roam. In the eerie green of the dash lights, he squinted at the directions the kid at the hotel had given him.

  South on Main 1 bl. R on Gulch Creek Dr 4.1 mi. R on Wakarusa .8 mi. L on Cimarron Rd to stone pillars. R on dirt road .3 mi to 3-way split. Take leftmost fork .5 mi to stone fencepost on L with 3 names attached. Western. Kettner. Kale. Take R and go .7 mi to Walnut tree with sign that reads Kale. Turn right immediately around birch tree even though path looks too narrow for cars. Go 1.1 mi.

  You can’t miss it.

  Just when he wondered if this was a variation of the old snipe hunt trick natives played on outlanders, his headlights picked out a tree with a sign nailed to it. It was so dark he had to use a flashlight to read names. Western, Kettner, Kale. So far so good. He turned onto the dirt road and the rental car jounced along jiggling his kidneys, tall bushes on both sides scratched at the car like imploring fingers. He kept a close eye on the odometer and after clocking off .7 miles, he began to wonder if he’d made a wrong choice somewhere and would end up in the middle of a Kansas pasture. Probably with a homicidal bull that would fatally gore him and trample his carcass. No way could he turn around here, this cow path was too narrow with thick brush close on both sides. The options were keep going and hope for a wide spot or back all the way out. Just when he’d decided the kid giving directions had deliberately led him by the gullible nose to the middle of nowhere, he spotted a sign on a tree. And the sign said? He shined the flash on it. Kale. Okay.