Money Creek

by Anne Laughlin

  “I wasn’t,” Mona said. She reached into her breast pocket for cigarettes and lit up.

  Freya peered at the living room area and saw twin toddlers, their faces smeared with banana. They stared back at her.

  “How do you know he’s gone?” Ben asked.

  “All the stuff of his that he moved last night is gone, his clothes, his toiletries, his favorite yo-yos. He has a huge collection of them and you can see some were pulled out of the display case. I can show you.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Freya tried to swallow the moan in her throat. She was convinced Stingy had Clare. The timing was too perfect. “It’s very important that we find him,” Freya said. “Can you think of anywhere he might have gone? A favorite campsite or vacation spot? Anywhere that has special meaning to him?”

  Mona and Kirsten looked at each other blankly and shook their heads.

  “Did he leave you any note or hint as to when he’d return?”

  “Nothing, that bastard. I don’t know if he’s gone for good or not. Do I have to wait seven years for a divorce if he’s abandoned me?”

  “We wouldn’t know about that,” Ben said. “What was the make and model of his car? License plate would be great if you have that.”

  “He drove a dumpy old Honda Civic,” Mona said.

  “Don’t know the license number, but it was silver,” Kirsten added.

  He looked at Freya. “Do you have anything else?”

  Freya took a business card out of her wallet and handed it to Kirsten. “Please contact me if he surfaces.”

  They made their way back to the Jeep and drove toward Money Creek.

  “Shit,” Freya said. “I’m sure he has her now.”

  “You might be right.” He called the sheriff to get an APB put out on Stingy. “I doubt he’s still in the county.”

  “Roger that. They’re long gone.” Fear began to take hold. She didn’t think Stingy would be one to prolong doing what he meant to do. Clare might already be dead. Her throat tightened as she tried to hold back tears. She would not let Ben see her crying.

  * * *

  Freya called Henry back into the interview room. She was grasping at straws. She hadn’t yet asked him about Clare’s drug use. Hadn’t wanted to know and still didn’t, but there might be something there that would lead to her location. He waived having an attorney present. Elizabeth wasn’t available and she was glad they wouldn’t have to wait for her.

  “Henry, I want you to tell me about selling drugs to Clare. When did that start?”

  He looked hopeful, as if there was still a chance he could talk his way out of jail. “Soon after she arrived in town, I think. I know she was looking for a connection. We weren’t the first to sell her drugs, that’s for sure.”

  “We?”

  “It was Evan she made contact with first. She found him on campus and he brought her to me.”

  Evan had lied about selling drugs from the apartment. “What was she looking for?”

  “Speed, mainly. That was her drug of choice. Valium and Oxycontin to manage the speed. I was able to fix her up.”

  “How much did she buy?” Things became worse with every answer. Clare had told her about using drugs, but it was different hearing it from Henry. More real and more sordid. She didn’t know the real Clare. Hadn’t even been introduced.

  “She bought whatever I would sell her. I had to wait for shipments from my associates, so a lot of times she couldn’t get nearly what she wanted. Then we stopped getting speed altogether and she started using meth.”

  Clare hadn’t told her that part. Freya felt the bottom drop out, as if any hope of salvaging something of their relationship had just fallen out of sight. “You sold her meth?”

  Henry shrugged. “I’m in business. Was in business. We supply what the customer wants.”

  “And your business included Evan?” She wondered why he was admitting to drug trafficking. Elizabeth would be upset.

  “He’s sort of my right-hand man. He wasn’t a principal in my association with Ray and Bobby.”

  She turned to Ben, anxious now to wrap up the interview. She hadn’t thought of Evan, had only met him to get DNA from him, which had been clean. But the killer was unlikely to have drunk any beer while he was there. “Do you have anything else to ask Henry?”

  “Not if you don’t,” Ben said.

  They left the interview room and stood in the reception area. “We need to find Evan. He might have Clare.”

  “Agreed.” Ben nodded.

  “Will you assemble a team? I’m going to run over to Clare’s one more time. Maybe she’s home and we can avoid a raid. I’ll call her office, too.”

  Ben left for the sheriff’s office while she moved quickly out the door to her car. Clare wasn’t home, she knew that. She could be at Henry and Evan’s and she wasn’t going to waste a moment getting there. She drove at speed and parked across the street from the apartment house. She knew theirs was on the first floor. The blinds were drawn in front, but she could see there was a lamp on in the living room. Her heart beat a little faster.

  The house sat on a lot with a long front yard. On either side were single family homes. Gangways on both sides led to the rear of the property. She got out and closed the car door as silently as possible and then walked to the north side gangway. The bottoms of the side windows were forehead height and the blinds were all drawn here as well. The second living room window had a broken slat that gave a ruler sized view into the room. She grabbed the cement window ledge and pulled herself up, her feet dangling above the ground. She had a partial view of the living room and kitchen and could see the bottom half of a chair with legs tied to it. Clare. She let herself down and crept toward the back of the building where a rear exit led to the small backyard and garage. The door was unlocked and led her into an enclosed area with stairs going up one side and the entrance to the first-floor apartment in front of her. She slowly turned the knob and exhaled as the door opened with only the slightest noise. One of the advantages to law enforcement in Money Creek was that doors were seldom locked. Evan might not have even thought of it.

  Before she entered the apartment, she took her boots off and left them outside the door. She pushed it open as slowly as she could, praying there wouldn’t be any creaking sounds that would travel to the front. It opened silently. She drew her weapon and crept down the hallway, adrenaline pumping through her system. At the end of the hallway she flattened herself against the wall and listened.

  “How could you have to piss again?” Evan said. “It’s not like you’ve had much to drink.” He sounded annoyed, maybe at the end of his rope.

  “What can I say? Nature calls.” Clare’s voice sounded strained. She must be terrified. Freya risked a peek into the living room where she saw Evan removing the ties around her ankles. There was a gun on the floor beside him. She waited for him to free Clare’s legs before stepping into the room with her gun trained on his midsection.

  * * *

  Clare didn’t really have to pee again. But she couldn’t stand one more minute in that chair and this was the only method she could think of to get out of it, at least for a little while. Evan put his gun on the floor beside him as he went down on a knee to cut the plastic ties from her ankles. When he was finished she stretched her legs with a groan as he rose, gun back in hand. She felt wonderful after having her legs tied to the chair legs for hours. Happiness was circumstantial and wouldn’t last long, but for the moment she was grateful.

  She caught movement from the hallway and nearly choked when she saw Freya standing there with her gun drawn. Evan’s back was to her for the moment and she held her finger to her lips in the universal sign for shut the fuck up. She stepped into the room.

  “Police! Put your gun down and raise your hands above your head.” Clare watched wide-eyed as Freya barked her orders. Just as Evan turned with his gun, she kicked him square in the balls with her booted foot and he crumpled to the floor. His gun hit the hardwood and disch
arged. Freya collapsed, grabbing low in her abdomen. Clare got up from the chair and ran to her, praying she was alive. She didn’t care about herself—all she cared about was Freya. She knelt beside her, her hands still cuffed in the back. There was blood smeared on the floor. It was oozing between Freya’s fingers as she held her hands to the wound.

  “Get his gun,” Freya hissed. “Hurry.”

  Clare awkwardly got to her feet, but it was too late. Evan had retrieved his gun and now had it pointed at her. “I guess the decision’s been made about what to do with you.”

  “Wait! Don’t do this, Evan. I’m not worth it,” Clare pleaded.

  He dropped his arm slightly. “It’s too bad, Clare. I think we would have been good together.”

  A shot rang out and Clare’s heart seemed to stop. She saw Evan fall to the floor. Freya was sitting up, her weapon in her hand. Her normally olive complexion was white with pain. Clare went over to Evan and picked up his gun. Then she nudged him with her foot. There was no response and she wondered if he was dead. She ran back to Freya.

  “I have to get you some help. Where’s your phone?”

  “Jesus, this hurts.”

  “Where are you hit?”

  “I think he broke my pelvis. I hope my lady bits are okay.”

  Clare laughed, despite herself. “I think you’ll live, and that’s all I care about.”

  Just as she put the gun down and pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, Ben burst into the room with several deputies right behind him, all with guns drawn. It was over. Now she could cry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Six weeks later

  Clare made her bed shortly after waking at six. Military corners, perfectly smooth sheets and blanket. There was something soothing about doing it. She was still sorting out what made her feel good or bad. Sometimes one of the other women in the sober living house would tell a story that plunged her into an anxious depression that made her want a Valium in the worst way. Triggers were everywhere, but she realized there were more good moments now. They stood out like iridescent pearls—rare but obtainable. It beat the way things had been before.

  The house in Bloomington was a halfway point for many women between rehab and real life. It was an old, sprawling frame house where five original bedrooms had been turned into ten, where the living room had turned into a twelve-step meeting place, where the women in the house were meant to understand and support each other. That was the goal, anyway. She still had a hard time believing she was living there.

  She watched her roommate struggle awake. Her name was Stacy and she’d moved into the house the evening before. As she threw off her covers, Clare could see she’d slept clutching her purse, not trusting it wouldn’t be stolen in her sleep. Now that she’d been living in the house for two weeks, Clare left her bag in the middle of the nightstand cabinet. It was too exhausting to be paranoid and it did nothing to help her make friends.

  “Good morning,” she said to Stacy, who looked up at her blankly. “Breakfast is between six and nine and you make your own. If you come down with me, I’ll show you how it works.

  Stacy groaned and got up. She was fully clothed, her off-shoulder blouse looking defenseless against the early spring chill. She reached into her bag and pulled out a red pack of Marlboros.

  “Can’t do that indoors, I’m afraid.” Stacy’s sullen face showed a flash of irritation. Clare sighed and led the way downstairs. She’d been told that the best way to feel better about herself was to be of service to others. Stacy was making it a challenge.

  At the base of the staircase was a large foyer adjacent to the living room. Lisa, the house manager, watched as they walked down the stairs. “Stacy, why don’t you go into the kitchen? One of the women there will show you where everything is.” Stacy went where she was pointed.

  “Is everything all right?” Clare said as she joined Lisa. She saw the concerned look on her face and was fearful for the first time in a few weeks. Her life had become so simple. Get up, do her assigned chores, go to her new job at Starbucks, go to meetings. When she stayed put in the present, she had nothing to fear.

  “I hope it is,” Lisa said. She handed her a large envelope. “This was in the mail slot when I came down this morning. Is that the law firm you work at?”

  Worked at, past tense, was more like it. She looked at the envelope and saw Nelson & Nelson on the return address. She was technically on unpaid leave from the firm. She doubted they were contacting her to reinstate her position. She opened the envelope and found a second envelope inside, from the Illinois State Bar Association. There was also a letter from Elizabeth.

  “Thanks, Lisa. I’ll take this up to my room to read.” She climbed the creaky staircase slowly, as if to the gallows. Whatever was said in the letter would affect her future profoundly. She closed the door to her room and threw herself onto the bed. Her hands were trembling as she took out Elizabeth’s letter.

  Dear Clare,

  I hope this finds you healthy and doing well in your temporary home. I so admire how you are fighting your addiction, something I understand is very difficult. Everyone here at the firm sends you best wishes. I, especially, want only the best for you.

  I’ve enclosed a letter addressed to you from the state bar. As your employer, we received a copy of their ruling on your case. You may want to take a look at it now, before continuing with this letter, but the gist of it is they’ve suspended your license for two years. This leaves us no choice but to terminate your employment. I’m sorry to have to do this, but you can understand how, even after the two years, we could not have a lawyer with your history on our staff. Not in a town as small as Money Creek.

  Clare, you’re a talented lawyer. I hope you find a way to continue to practice. I will feel the absence of you here.

  Most sincerely,

  Elizabeth

  Clare dropped the letter to the floor and put a hand over her thumping chest. How could she feel so devastated by something she completely expected to happen? She would have been much more sanguine had Nelson & Nelson sent a formal termination letter. It was Elizabeth that now made her squirm in her bed. It was the good-bye she’d been dreading.

  Her shift at Starbucks started in half an hour. She scrambled to get into her uniform and make herself presentable, when all she wanted to do was throw the covers over her head. There was no room for that kind of indulgence at Horizon House. The residents were meant to stay busy and get on with things. She threw her jacket on and got out the front door without anyone seeing her.

  The weather was flirting with spring, allowing the occasional warm breeze quickly followed by blasts of cold. She warmed up the Subaru and got to the coffee shop with five minutes to spare. It wasn’t too far from the university, with plenty of students and professors setting up shop to study or grade papers. She was at the cash register, with her favorite co-worker making the coffee. Remo was an art student whose arms were covered in unusually beautiful tattoos. She was sharp, gregarious, and frequently flirty with Clare. She had no interest in pursuing anything with Remo, but the attention made her feel, if only for a few minutes, as if there was hope.

  The morning rush seemed to go on a long time. As it began to tail off she thought of taking a break and having a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked since law school, but she was seriously thinking of starting. It seemed like the only thing she could do to take the edge off that wouldn’t break her sobriety or make her fat. Her mind was far away when the next customer stepped up.

  “Hello, Clare.”

  Her eyes snapped into focus at the sound of the voice. Freya stood before her, her credit card in one hand, the other holding a cane. They had not seen or talked to each other since Freya was shot. She’d tried to visit her in the hospital, but Ben turned her back, saying Freya didn’t want to see her yet. She understood. At the very least, they needed time away from each other to figure things out. Clare had still been in too much of a stupor to fight for the relationship. She didn’t know anything in
those first few days of sobriety, so shocking was it to not have drugs in her body. Now she looked at Freya across the counter and tried to determine whether she was happy to see her.

  “Freya. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d buy some coffee, but then I saw you. Not sure what I’ll do now.”

  Clare tried out a smile. “I’m about to go on break. Can I get you some coffee and talk with you a bit?”

  Freya still looked uncertain. “I guess. I’ll grab us a table.”

  Clare watched her limp across the room and fall into a seat at the farthest table. She poured a couple of cups and told Remo she was going on break. Freya still had her coat on when she reached her table. “Coffee black. That’s how I remember you taking it.”

  Freya glanced at her before looking down at her cup. “That’s right.”

  “Tell me how you are. It seems like so long.”

  “I’ve moved back to Bloomington, waiting to get well enough to work again.” She seemed uncomfortable, almost squirming in her seat.

  “You got hurt saving my life. I’ll never be able to thank you properly.”

  Freya looked at her for a while. “I thought you might be going back to work for the Nelsons.”

  “No. I just heard today that my license has been suspended and they’ve officially fired me.” That reality seemed a step or two removed. She couldn’t feel it yet.

  “What will you do?”

  Clare took a sip of coffee and made a face. She never did like Starbucks’ roast. “I have no idea. And that’s a good thing. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m currently living in a sober house and, as you see, working here. That’s about all I can handle at the moment.”

  “I haven’t heard a word about you other than you’d gone into rehab. Does this mean you’re doing well? I mean, living in a sober house?”