by Sam Reaves
“Four hundred.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal. Did you sign a lease?”
“Yeah. He said it was just boilerplate off the Internet. He offered to let me have somebody review it, but I read through it and it seemed OK. I signed for a year.”
Lisa Beth shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine.” She wandered to the foot of a flight of stairs at the back of the room. “This goes up to the house?”
“Yeah.” Abby came to stand beside her and looked up the steps to a closed door. “He seemed pretty concerned about my privacy, actually. He took me up there to show me he’d installed a bolt so there’s no way he can open it from that side.”
Lisa Beth smiled. “I think your virtue will be safe. The McLarens were a pretty straitlaced family.” She moved away from the stairs. “Though young Ned is a bit of a mysterious story.”
Abby followed her toward the door. “Really? How so?”
“Oh, I’m just retailing old gossip. Apparently he was a bit of a wild youngster. But he seems perfectly presentable now. Ready to go?”
When they went up the steps at the side of the house they found Jerry Collins and Ned McLaren sitting on canvas director’s chairs on the covered porch. Collins wore his sport jacket; McLaren looked freshly showered, his curly hair still wet. He had changed into white cotton trousers and a guayabera shirt, his feet in sandals. “Did the premises pass inspection?” he said to Lisa Beth.
“Very nice,” she said. “Looks like I won’t have to include you in my exposé on local slumlords.”
McLaren laughed softly. “You want slums, go check out some of the frat houses over on South Street.” He looked at Abby. “Settling in OK?”
“Fine. I think I’ll be very comfortable.”
“We’re taking Abigail here to the Azteca,” said Jerry, rising from the chair with an effort. “Want to come along?”
Abby suddenly tensed. Was this all a setup? But McLaren shook his head. “Nah, I’ve got plans. I have a little card game scheduled here with some local ne’er-do-wells. Have a good time.”
“I am shocked, shocked to find gambling going on here,” said Lisa Beth. She laughed harshly and they went down the steps. They got into a dark-gray sedan parked at the end of the drive, Jerry behind the wheel. He snaked down the lane and turned north on Jackson. Lisa Beth twisted to talk to Abby over the seat. “There’s not much in the way of fine dining around here, I’m afraid. You have to drive to Indianapolis if you want anything really upscale. But the Azteca’s not bad, if you like Mexican food.”
“That’s fine. I wouldn’t have expected to find a Mexican place here.”
Jerry laughed. “Oh, we’ve got Mexicans. Do we ever.”
Lisa Beth said, “The Midwest is changing. We’ve got about three thousand Mexicans in Lewisburg. Nobody knows how many there are for sure, because ninety percent of them are illegal.”
“I had no idea. In New York we tend to think of the Midwest as just cornfields as far as the eye can see.”
Jerry said, “We’ve got the steel plant, some big corporate farms. The employers like Mexicans because they don’t skip work and they don’t file workmen’s comp. Everybody knows the IDs are fake but nobody polices it. It’s too convenient for all concerned.”
Abby watched residential blocks give way to a strip of commercial buildings with old brick façades, none higher than three stories, a couple of banks, a Carnegie library, a Masonic temple, a courthouse on a square with a Civil War-vintage cannon in front. “Downtown Lewisburg,” said Jerry. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
“Here’s where I work,” said Lisa Beth, pointing as they passed a storefront with a sign that said HERALD GAZETTE. “Not exactly the Gray Lady, but we try to keep the local populace informed of who’s stealing their lawn mowers. Every once in a while a real story comes along.”
“Like the drunken police chief,” said Jerry. “Or the embezzler at the college.”
“The store owner busted for tax fraud and money laundering,” said Lisa Beth. “Even in Middle America, turn over a rock and you’ll see nasty things squirming.”
To Abby it looked like a movie set, four blocks of small-town America. They turned onto a broad commercial strip with the franchise outlets that made everywhere in the country look the same: the burger joints and the auto parts store and the chain drugstores. And then they were on a highway heading out of town past scattered gas stations and liquor stores; Abby couldn’t believe how fast the town had vanished.
“Here’s the Azteca,” said Jerry, slowing. “Looks like a pretty good crowd. We may have to wait for a table.”
It was a long low building in the middle of a gravel parking lot nearly full; a neon sign flashed the name in red and green. Inside it was aggressively air-conditioned with tinny mariachi music overhead. They were greeted by a young Mexican woman whose delight at seeing them was a bit thin but who duly led them to a table in a corner and gave them menus. Abby glanced at hers but was more interested in looking at her fellow diners, her new neighbors. She saw a couple of Mexican families: stolid parents and squirming children. And here were the Hoosiers, running the gamut from a trio of prim elderly ladies to a man with a mullet who had come out on a Friday night date in a spotless white wifebeater, tufts of underarm hair on shameless display.
Lisa Beth snapped her menu shut and laid it on the table. “The quesadillas are good. The margaritas are terrible, but tequila is tequila, and they work.”
“I like the enchiladas, myself,” said Jerry. “Should we get a pitcher of margaritas?” He raised an eyebrow at his wife. “That would be cheaper if you’re planning to down your usual amount.”
“Why not? You’re driving.”
“I might just have a beer,” Abby said.
A waitress arrived and took their orders. Small talk occupied them until the drinks and then the food came. Mexican was not Abby’s favorite cuisine, but she was hungry and the chiles rellenos went down fast. Lisa Beth worked her way steadily through a pitcher of murky green booze, eating little and tossing in the odd acerbic comment as Jerry Collins held forth, around mouthfuls of food, on the history, traditions and peculiarities of Tippecanoe College.
“Oh, my,” said Lisa Beth over the rim of her glass, peering toward the entrance. “Look who’s here.”
Abby cast a look over her shoulder and saw a couple following the hostess down the room toward them. The man was big and broad shouldered, his polo shirt stretched by a swelling gut, an ex-jock going to seed. He had neatly groomed gray hair and a rakish goatee. The blonde walking a step behind him was still an eye-catcher but was getting to the stage of life at which cosmetics bore an increasing share of the burden.
“Looks like he’s got a new one,” said Lisa Beth. She set down her glass and leveled a steely glare at the man as he approached. “Hello, Jud,” she said as he reached them.
“Lisa Beth.” The man halted at their table, the blonde at his side, an uncertain smile on her face. “Please don’t tell me you’re hot on the trail of a story. Because I’m just here to have dinner. Jerry, how are you?”
“Jud,” said Jerry, reaching to shake his hand. “How’s that boy of yours? I understand he’s got a shot at a starting spot this year.”
A broad smile blossomed on the man’s face. “That’s what they say. We’ll see. It’s tough at that level, but he’s hanging in there.” His gaze lingered for a second or two on Abby before he gave Lisa Beth a look of mock gravity and said, “Saw your big story in the paper the other day. About the cows that got out onto the road. Cutting-edge journalism, great work.” He smiled at Jerry and proceeded toward his table, the blonde trailing, her smile fading.
“Asshole,” said Lisa Beth under her breath.
Jerry smiled at Abby’s puzzled look. “Jud Frederick. Local real estate guy. He’s got a son down at IU on a football scholarship. Terrific athlete.”
Lisa Beth said, “He’s bad news.” She drained her glass and refilled it from the pitcher, concentrating o
n her hand-eye coordination. “I wasn’t joking about that slumlord exposé. That’s public enemy number one. He owns a trailer park and a bunch of tumbledown houses on the bad side of town. He also owns a lot of commercial property, including the Tarkington Motor Inn, so if you want to complain about the bedbugs, now’s your chance. He has a reputation for playing fast and loose, flipping properties with cosmetic remodeling that hides code violations, stuff like that.”
“But mostly he just bugs you because he’s rich,” said Jerry. He winked at Abby. “My wife the Bolshevik.”
“He bugs me because of the sense of entitlement.” To Abby she said, “He’s part of that Alpha Male club, the Guys in Charge bunch. I’m sure you know the type. The frat guys, the jocks. I hate jocks.”
Abby nodded. “Yeah. They can be a pain.” She sensed it was time to lighten the mood. “Though I have to say, I was kind of a jock myself. I did cross-country in college. Just Division III, but we worked hard. We went to the NCAAs one year.”
“Well, that would account for the trim figure,” said Lisa Beth. She smiled. “Don’t mind me, I’m just jealous. I have the nonathlete’s grudge against people who are good at sports. Gym class was hell, and then I discovered cigarettes and booze.”
“All I can do is run,” said Abby. “Though I haven’t done much recently. I need to get back to it. I’m hoping to find some good routes around here.”
Jerry said, “Well, I can tell you where the college cross-country people go. They go out South Street past the frat houses and out into the country southwest of town. They run to the Hainesville bridge across Shawnee Creek and back. I think it’s about five miles round trip.”
“My God,” said Lisa Beth. “They’re all here. It’s sleazeball night at the Azteca.” She was looking toward the entrance again. This time it was a slender man in a blue blazer, tieless, with a head of gray hair that was just a little longer than currently fashionable and thick black eyebrows that gave his long-jawed, cleft-chinned face a fierce look. He was by himself, and he was scanning the room. When his eyes lit on Jud Frederick he waved and started toward him. “Oh, wonderful,” said Lisa Beth. “They’re together. They’re here to scheme and plot mischief.”
Abby was beginning to be entertained. “OK, who is this?” she said.
“This is Rex Lyman. Our top criminal-defense lawyer. All the burglars, drug dealers and drunk drivers in the county know his number by heart. He’s the go-to guy for the local lowlifes.”
“And a respected member of the local bar,” said Jerry. “Everyone deserves competent counsel, right?”
“Of course. But you wonder about a lawyer who seems to enjoy rubbing elbows with his clients.” Lisa Beth leaned toward Abby and lowered her voice. “Lyman owns a bar out on Lafayette Road, the kind of place where there are a lot of motorcycles parked outside and a lot of fights on a Saturday night. And the rumor is, that’s the place to go if you want to get a lot of money down on the Super Bowl or March Madness. He’s been running a sports book for years, but nobody’s ever been able to nail him.”
Jerry shook his head. “He fired a bartender for gambling a few years ago. Nobody’s ever proved he profited from it.”
Lisa Beth snorted. “Oh, please.”
“And he gives a lot of money to the United Way and the Community Foundation, so he’s fairly well viewed around here.”
“Tactical charity. You know he’s greasing a few of the right palms under the table as well.”
Jerry rolled his eyes and winked at Abby. Lyman had to pass their table on his way to join Frederick. He made the same quick survey the other man had, giving Abby a slightly longer and more interested look, before making eye contact with Lisa Beth. “Ah, the press is here,” he said with a grin. “I have no comment at this time.”
“You never do,” said Lisa Beth.
Lyman went on past and joined Frederick and the blonde. “The slumlord and the sleazy lawyer,” said Lisa Beth. “Wonder what they’re cooking up now.”
“Maybe they’re just having dinner,” said Jerry.
“I am professionally suspicious.” She gave Abby a rueful smile. “I know, it’s pathetic. I dreamed of covering congressional hearings in Washington, DC, and I wound up here in Lewisburg, yawning at city council meetings.”
“That’s what you get for yoking yourself to me,” said Jerry. “You should have taken the job in Cincinnati.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Believe me, I question the decision constantly.” To Abby she said, “We met in grad school in Bloomington. When I got my degree I was offered a job on the Cincinnati Enquirer, but I was married to him by that time. So instead I followed him here.”
“Much to her regret,” said Jerry. He was smiling, but Abby sensed one of those encysted grievances married couples learned to live with.
Lisa Beth looked at Abby and said, “You managed to avoid romantic entanglements in graduate school, did you?”
A sudden pang took Abby’s breath away. She poked at the refried beans on her plate. “Not entirely,” she said. “I just ended a relationship last year, actually.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Just ignore the question. I’m professionally curious, too, and it overcomes my manners sometimes.”
“No, it’s all right.” Abby flashed her a smile. “It wasn’t meant to be. Our paths diverged, you could say.”
“Well, independence has its advantages,” said Lisa Beth, reaching for her glass again.
“Yes,” said Abby. “That’s what they say.”
Abby went up the steps at the side of the house, treading carefully in the dark, crossed the porch and walked to the end of the driveway, tucking her key into the waistband of her shorts. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten and the air was cool. The gentle rustling of the trees was the only sound. She stooped to tighten the laces of her left shoe, straightened and began jogging gently down Hickory Lane, the houses on either side still dark with only a few porch lights shining.
Abby had not run in a week, and the need to work idle muscles was getting urgent. She had gone to bed early, exhausted after several anxious nights, and consequently come wide awake well before dawn. It was darker than she would have expected at five in the morning; in New York the sun would be gilding the eastern faces of the buildings, but here at the western edge of the time zone it was still dark. Finding no excuse for staying in bed, she had risen and dressed in her running clothes.
There were no cars moving on Jackson Avenue. She jogged up toward the campus at an easy warm-up pace. It was pleasant to be loping quietly through deserted streets. Abby usually ran alone, and often at odd hours. In New York or Cambridge she would not have dared to run alone in the dark, though in Cambridge she had known a man who always ran just before dawn, swearing it was the safest time because all the criminals were in bed.
She reached South Street and went left, the campus spreading out on her right, isolated lights showing through the trees. Just past the campus was a line of fraternity houses, Greek letters just visible in the glow of the streetlamps. Lights shone in a handful of isolated windows.
By the time Abby had left the frat houses behind she had broken a sweat, settling into a comfortable pace. She passed the college baseball field and was abruptly in a neighborhood of ramshackle houses, the town thinning. The street became a road, the curbs and the streetlights disappearing. The houses fell away, replaced by woods on her left and a deserted industrial plant behind a high wire fence on the right. The road curved to the south and began to dip into a hollow.
The sun was still below the horizon. The road was taking Abby down into darkness, trees looming now on either side and something massive and black rising against the sky as she descended. She slowed, suddenly uneasy, but the grade was steep and her momentum was hard to resist. The shape in front of her cut across her field of view, blotting out the sky. She was almost to the bottom of the slope when she identified it as a railway viaduct arching across the road, a solid wall of stone fifty feet high with a tun
nel cut through it for the road, and a stream that converged with the road from the left and then passed under the road before flowing through the arch beside it.
Abby quelled a little flutter of alarm. She had expected the road to pass quickly into open countryside, but instead she had run blithely into a dark hollow where a dog or a rapist could jump out of the bushes at her and nobody would see or hear. And since the day Evan died she had not even considered bringing her phone with her on a run. The thought of her phone buzzing at her waist in the middle of a run terrified her.
She quickened her pace, just able to make out the road rising to high ground again at the other end of the short tunnel. Just before the viaduct, the road went across a bridge; the stream below it was invisible in the dark. Abby pressed the pace, entering the tunnel. It was a mere thirty or forty feet long, but it smelled of dank and dead things. She was nearly sprinting as she went through it.
She came out the other end unscathed and slowed as the road rose and curved west again, climbing steeply out of the hollow into a lightening sky. The hill exhausted her. She had to slow to a walk just before the crest and she rested for a hundred feet or so, walking with her hands on her hips, before breaking into a trot again.
Here was the country she had envisioned, flat tractable farmland opening out in front of her in the growing light, a line of woods in the distance and open fields and farmsteads nearer at hand. Recovered, Abby reestablished her pace. She crossed to the left side of the road, realizing that it was still dark enough that she would not be easily visible to a person at the wheel of a car.
She ran for another half mile past farms and isolated houses and stopped at a crossroads, panting, dripping with sweat. There was probably a circuit that would take her back to town, but she wanted to look at a map before she went wandering down side roads. She estimated that she had come something over two miles, so retracing her steps would make a leisurely four, not bad for a first time out after a layoff. She turned around and began to jog again, toward the sunrise. The eastern sky was an exquisite shade of pink and her spirits rose.
