Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  “Could be.”

  “You married, got any kids?”

  He looked over at her and squinted. “What do you want to know that for?”

  “I don’t know. Most people your age have got kids.” Now she wondered if everyone had them. She wanted to ask people about their children, if they made their life more full and wonderful.

  “Nope, don’t have any kids. Or at least none I know about.”

  Bridget looked over at him, and he was laughing at his joke. The joke kind of gave her the creeps. She didn’t like the looks of his teeth. They didn’t seem very well cared for. She glanced down at the speedometer and saw that he was going nearly seventy miles an hour.

  “What’re you in such a hurry for?”

  “Got things to do.”

  “Is this out of your way, taking me to where Claire is? See, I didn’t think she was this far, I just thought you were giving me a lift to the park.”

  “No prob.”

  When he didn’t seem to be slowing down at the pullover, she pointed it out to him. “You can just drop me off.”

  “No, I’ll pull in.” He cut the wheel sharply and threw her against the side of the door.

  When he stepped on the brake, she pitched forward. Bridget pushed herself off the dashboard and yelled at him, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He just smiled at her and wiggled something he had pulled out of his pocket and was holding in his lap. She dropped her eyes down to the black object, and it registered as a gun.

  She was sitting in a pickup truck with a total stranger, and he was pointing a gun at her. It was a beautiful spring day with warm sunshine, and she had never been so scared in her life. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Just do everything I tell you.”

  20

  Darla walked up to her picture window and stopped, staring at the lake. Not blue today, more steel color. The ice had come off it only a few weeks ago, and it still surprised her to see open water. She was restless in the house, but couldn’t go back over to Landers’ yet.

  They should never have asked Landers for anything. She should have known better, but Fred had thought he could win him over. She needed to get into his house and make sure that the police hadn’t found the document. Maybe they would see it and not understand the significance of it, although that Claire Watkins knew a thing or two. City girl with a lot of training. Darla wondered what Claire thought had happened to Landers. And where was Fred? Was he off getting into trouble again?

  Dr. Lord had called and given them the results of the autopsy. He hadn’t said much, but she knew that man had never liked them. He would only give her the briefest of nods at church.

  Darla sat down and picked up one of her beer can hats. She hated the damn things. Only started them because it gave her something to do with all the empty cans Fred had drunk up. That was before recycling. Maybe she should give up making them now. Nobody bought the stupid things at the church bazaar anymore.

  The phone rang, and she grabbed it, thinking it would be Fred. “Hello?”

  Silence, then a voice she hadn’t heard in quite a while said, “Hi, Mom. Dad there?”

  “Teddy, is it you?”

  “Do you have another son I don’t know about?”

  She hated it when he was smart with her. A grown man and he still sassed back to his mother. When he talked to her at all. She answered stiffly, “What can I help you with?”

  “I’d like to talk to Dad. Is he around?”

  “Your father is out at present. Can I give him a message?”

  “Just tell him I know what he’s up to.”

  “Your father is not up to anything.”

  “Yes, he is. Anything you put him up to. It always comes back to you, doesn’t it, Mom? You are the troublemaker, and Dad’s the one who gets into trouble. Well, I’m onto both of you.”

  “Would you mind explaining that?” She searched her mind, trying to figure out how he could know anything.

  “What a waste of breath that would be. First off, you know what I’m talking about, and second, it wouldn’t do any good. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up, and Darla held the phone in her hand a few moments after she heard the click, thinking maybe he would pick up again and they could start over. But she hung up the phone when she realized there would be no starting over for her. It was simply too late.

  She remembered Ted so clearly when he was a young boy, about ten, when he still would hug his mom. He had soft blue eyes that changed color like the lake, and his skin was smooth and clear. He was a pretty boy and looked like her when she was little.

  She had thought he was the most precious thing in the world. She would have done anything for him, and then it all changed.

  It had started with that Rich Haggard and his comic books. She had found a pile of drawings and was shocked at what the two boys were up to. She saw pictures of humans embracing aliens; you couldn’t even tell the sex of many of the creatures they drew. It appalled her that those two boys could even dream up half the stuff they had written about. Didn’t take her a second to split the two of them up, but by then the damage was done to her sweet boy. And he never forgave her. Not for that or any of the differences between them that followed.

  Darla walked into the bathroom and stood and faced herself in the mirror. She needed to put some lipstick on. Her skin looked like an old piece of cowhide. This new wig was losing its pluck. She licked her lips and pushed her hair around. It was no good. She was having worse than a bad hair day. Maybe if someone had loved her, she wouldn’t be such a nasty old woman.

  WHEN CLAIRE WALKED up to her house with Stuart and Rich and saw Bridget’s car in the driveway, her heart lifted. To have her sister by her side would help. Bridget would understand. She loved Meg too. Claire knew it was Bridget’s day off, and she had probably decided on the spur of the moment to come down for a visit. But when they all went into the house, Bridget was nowhere to be found. Where had she gone to? Probably down into town, and she’d show up in a few minutes.

  Stuart helped himself to a drink of water from the tap. Claire felt Rich watching her. She knew her body was moving in a different way. Over the months, she had begun to relax in this village in the country, but now she felt herself falling back into her rigid pose, holding it all in. She kept her arms tight to her body, her fists clenched, her shoulders pushed forward, her chest tucked in, her face empty. The only way to move through the world after you had been assaulted was without points or rumples, or things would catch you up and you’d never escape the pain. Claire knew. There was no way she could explain any of this to Rich, for that would be too big an extension of herself. She needed to stay tight and tucked in.

  Rich said, “We’ve got something here.” Claire’s heart pounded as she saw him pointing to the front yard. Claire spun on her foot and looked out the front window. No sign of Meg, and then she saw what Rich had pointed at—the bus.

  Claire watched the big orange school bus pull up in front of the house and wished with all her heart that her daughter would step off the vehicle. She remembered a couple winters ago a little boy had fallen asleep at the back of the bus and had missed his stop. No one knew he was back there, and it had been twenty below zero. But the bus driver had done his job. When his shift was over and he had pulled the bus into the parking lot, he had gotten out of his seat and walked down the aisles, looking for anything the children might have left behind, before he got off the bus. And so he found the small boy, curled up in the back, and probably saved the boy’s life.

  Meg liked her bus driver. Claire watched him walk up the front steps. He was young, twenty-four, still lived at home. His folks had a farm near Bogus Creek. Meg told her that she thought he was cute. Bill was his name, and Bill was so good-looking it hurt Claire. She wanted to rush out to him and say, “Why couldn’t you have stopped it? Why didn’t you keep her with you, where she would be safe? Don’t you know how dear she is? How could you have let her step o
ff the bus and into such horrible danger?” But when he got to the door, all she said was, “Thanks for coming over. I hope this is nothing, but Meg hasn’t gotten home, and we’re terribly worried about her. She never showed up at her baby-sitter’s house.”

  The young man stood on the front steps, and his face twisted as he heard the news. “I knew it was bad when I got the message to come over here. I can’t believe anything would happen to Meg. She’s such a good kid. I mean, at least you know she didn’t take off or anything. She is so well behaved. Best kid on the bus.” Bill smiled at Claire.

  “Thanks, yes, she’s a good kid. Listen, did anything unusual happen today—either on the bus or when Meg got off?”

  “Actually, now that you mention it, Meg dropped her books. No big deal, but she’s not a klutz and, I don’t know, it surprised me.”

  Claire felt light for a moment. Maybe there was a logical reason why her books were beside the road. Maybe she had gone to a friend’s and was planning on coming back for them. “Did she leave them there, on the road?”

  “No, she stepped off the bus, dropped her books, and then picked them up. Then she waved at me and started up the hill. I watched her for a second, and then I pulled away.”

  “Was there anyone around? Any cars? Any people on the street? Did you notice anything?”

  “Yes, there was a pickup truck parked halfway up the hill.”

  “There was? Right in front of Swanson’s house?”

  “I don’t know the Swansons, ma’am, but on the right side of the road as you’re going up the hill.”

  “Was there anyone in it?”

  “Not that I noticed. I just figured it was parked there. Somebody doing some work close by.”

  “Did you notice what color it was?”

  Bill thought for a moment. He turned and looked back toward the hill where the pickup truck had been parked. “It was parked in the shade, so it seemed kind of dark. I’d say it was a gray pickup truck. I’m kind of guessing, but that’s what I think when I see it in my mind.”

  “License plates?”

  “Sorry, I really didn’t notice anything about them. Couldn’t tell you if they were Wisconsin or Minnesota. Just didn’t pay any attention.”

  “Sure. Anything else you could tell us?”

  “Nope. You want me to help look for her?”

  Claire nodded her head. “That would be great. We need to find her.” Claire stepped away from the door and waved him into the house.

  “I didn’t think anything of that truck,” he said. “A pickup truck, hell, that’s as common as a five-cent nickel around here.”

  A few minutes later, deputies started to drive up. Most of the squad had showed up, in uniform even if they were off duty. It was a rule in the department. If you were called in to work for an emergency, you still took time to put on your uniform. It prevented confusion when deputies stepped in to break up a fight or help someone. The uniform allowed them to be identified.

  Stuart was dividing people into groups of two and sending them out. He had a map of the town and was marking off where people were going. Claire stood by him and watched, but it seemed to be happening to someone else. She hated the idea of not being at the house in case Meg might come home.

  Claire looked out the window, as she did every minute or two, and saw that Ramah was walking over. Claire went out to meet her. The thin old woman looked like a crane when she walked, her hip-bones swinging forward from her legs in a very animal-like fashion. She carried a handkerchief that she usually kept tucked in the sleeve of her blouse, close to her lips. As Claire got closer to her, she saw Ramah was nervously patting her face with the handkerchief.

  “No news of Meg?” Ramah yelled before they met.

  Claire shook her head and yelled back, “Not yet.”

  Ramah bent low and walked faster. They intersected at the end of Claire’s driveway. “I can’t tell you—” Ramah started. Her hands were flying around, waving the handkerchief.

  Claire grabbed the bony fingers and held them in her own. “No, and I’m sorry I was short with you. It’s not your fault, Ramah. You did the right thing. No one could have handled it better.”

  Ramah looked up and smiled, letting the hand with the handkerchief fall to her side.

  “I have a favor to ask of you, Ramah. Would you stay at your house and watch for Meg? Because she might come to your house. She might show up there, and I want you to be there, waiting for her. Maybe she just went to a friend’s. I might have to go out again and look for her.”

  “Your sister came by,” Ramah told Claire.

  “Yes, her car’s still here.”

  “Someone came to get her.”

  Claire was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “A man in a pickup truck.”

  Claire let go of Ramah’s hands. She felt as if someone had poured another bucket of ice water down her back. What was going on here? “A pickup truck. Was it gray?”

  “A dark color. She got in the truck with him, and then he drove away.”

  “HOW CAN YOU see when you’re fucking crying like that?”

  Bridget wiped the tears away with the back of her hand while keeping her other hand on the steering wheel. He had made her drive the truck so he could keep the gun trained on her. She was on 35 heading north, going back toward the Twin Cities. A few cars passed them on the road, and she thought of swerving out in front of one of them and causing an accident, but it seemed too risky. She didn’t want to endanger anyone else. “I often drive and cry at the same time.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, quit.”

  He hadn’t said much since she had started driving, and she decided it would be good to keep him talking. She needed to be a real person to him, not just some woman he picked up. “I can’t,” she told him.

  He raised the gun, then seemed to think better and lowered it to his side.

  Bridget decided to tell him the worst of it. “See, I’m pregnant.”

  “Shit,” he said. “You’re pregnant? You don’t look pregnant.”

  “Well, I’m about seven weeks along. My hormones are doing wild things to my brain. I’m sick, I puke, and I cry a lot.” She turned and looked at him. He was awful skinny. She bet she could take him in a fight, but not when he was holding a gun in his hands. Bridget glared at him. “You made a mistake when you picked me up.”

  “You made a mistake when you got in the truck.”

  “Your mom made a mistake when she gave birth to you.”

  At that, Red stuck the gun into her ribs and poked her. Bridget drew in her breath. He said, “You leave my mom out of this.”

  Okay, she thought to herself. You’ve got one of his weak points. Back off. “Sorry,” she said with a half-smile. “I’m sure she’s a nice lady.”

  “None of your business.” He pulled the gun away and turned and stared out the window.

  “So what are you going to do with me?” Bridget asked.

  “I’m just doing what I was told to do. You’ll see.”

  “Someone told you to pick me up. But no one even knew I’d be at Claire’s. Did you come to get Claire and get me by accident?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “What the hell are you doing asking all these questions?”

  Bridget watched the road slide under the truck. He was awfully nervous. Then she asked, “You on something?”

  He jerked up in his seat. “What’s it to you?”

  “Well, you seem irritable, and your pupils are large. I would assume that you’ve been taking some form of a stimulant, possibly cocaine. Am I right?”

  “What’re you, a doctor?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

  “I don’t do much of that shit.”

  “But you decided to take a little snort today, huh?” She wanted to know, because it would help her assess what she needed to do to handle him. “It seems like it’s made you a little jumpy.”

  “Shit no, coke
don’t hardly touch me.”

  There it was—coke. Bridget went over what she knew about the street form of cocaine. It was a fairly pure form of the coca, often cut with a little strychnine, which caused a little paranoia, but maybe she could use that. “How pure is your stuff? You cut it with anything?”

  “It’s the best stuff on the market.”

  “So only a small amount of extraneous material goes into it.”

  “What the fuck is with you? If you don’t shut up, I’m going to tie you up and toss you in the back.” He reached out and touched her hair. “Pretty hair. I like long hair. Gives a guy something to hang on to when he’s bucking away on top. Know what I mean?” He wrapped a lock of her hair around his fist and yanked at it.