She immediately fell back to sleep.
Chapter 8
"Leave me alone.”
Blackie was licking Alex's eyelid. The rough raspy tongue sent shivers of pain through her tender, heavy head. She opened her eyes a little at a time and took in the light room. Why did the mornings always have to be so bright in Nevada? And the sun so persistently available? She was on the couch with her head resting on a small throw pillow. She sat up sluggishly, lifting the afghan that covered her.
Except for Blackie, she was alone. Traces of a dream teased at her brain. No, not a dream, she thought—recall, a mental impression. As much as she wanted it to be a dream, fragments of reality tore into her like bits of shrapnel. The calls . . . the fear. She rubbed her eyes and something scratched her face. Holding out her hand, she examined the Band-Aid on her index finger—she remembered that part too.
Where was Holmes?
She rose slowly, holding onto the back of the couch for support, then went into the kitchen. After washing down an aspirin with two glasses of icy tap water, she fed Blackie and let him, out. It was seven-thirty. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep away the misery in her head and body. Todd was due in around eleven A.M. His girlfriend, Tracey, would pick him up at the airport. Alex didn't expect to see him until late afternoon, and then only for a short time before he had to dress and leave for Tracey's school dance. Today he belonged to Tracey. Tomorrow- he was Alex's. Then it was back to California for him.
The note was on the breakfast counter. As she poured a glass of orange juice, she leaned down and read the message through squinted lids. Each word stabbed at her brain.
Will call you approx 10 A.M.
Jus
She took her juice and headed down to her bedroom.
At the same moment that Alex was reading Justin's note, he was knocking at the door of his daughter's house in Huntington Beach.
Yvonne answered. Justin noticed she was dressed, hair done, face freshly made up. He remembered her as being a late riser. She invited him in and led the way into the living room.
"Is Casey all set?" Justin asked.
"Has been for days now. Last night she slept with her backpack. Perhaps I should say she took it to bed with her. I doubt she slept a wink all night."
"Could you get her, please?"
"She's not back yet."
"Not back from where?"
"Her paper route. Dan took her in the car this morning so she could be done before you arrived. You're early.”
"What paper route?" Justin felt a slight irritation.
This was the first he'd heard about a paper route. Yvonne smiled complacently "She's had a route since the beginning of summer."
"Christ, Yvonne, she's only ten.”
"At least you didn't say 'Christ, Yvonne, she's a girl.’”
"That was coming."
"She wanted to make some money, and you know what a tomboy she is. She loves it. It's good for her.”
He wanted to bluster, condemn, but he knew Yvonne was right. He suspected his nose was slightly out of joint because he hadn't been informed —consulted actually.
"Yeah, well . .. paper routes are hard work. I know, I had one. Is she walking or biking?"
"Walking. That is when Dan's not taking her. He's overprotective, like you."
That did nothing to assuage Justin's crimped ego. "How about a cup of coffee?" Yvonne asked, moving into the kitchen.
"No thanks. I'll pack the car while I'm waiting. Where is everything?"
"In the garage. I'll show you."
Justin followed Yvonne as she crossed the kitchen and went through a door into the garage. A small pile of camping paraphernalia sat on the floor just inside the door. He bent down and began sorting through the stuff. Tent, two sleeping bags, a lantern and flashlight, fishing poles and tackle box, ice chest, an assortment of cooking utensils and dry goods—he had told Casey they would shop for groceries on the way out of town. As he took inventory he sensed Yvonne staring at him. She was leaning against the wall of the garage, her hands slowly moving up and down along the tight denim of her thighs. Without looking up, Justin asked, "Does Casey have hiking boots or good walking shoes?"
She moved away from the wall and came around behind him as he knelt. He felt her fingers lightly touch the hair at the back of his neck. Pretending not to notice, he brushed his hands together and stood.
"Any decent tennis shoes will do," he said lamely.
Her arms went around his waist. Coming up on her toes, she whispered in his ear, "You're lookin' good, Jus.”
"Yvonne,” he said quietly, "knock it off."
"I was such a fool," she said, as if he hadn't spoken. "Dan's a nice guy, but it's you I think about when we make love."
"I was a nice guy, too. Who did you think about when we made love?"
She kissed his mouth. Her arms went around his neck, her body pressed against his. "I've never cheated on Dan. But I would, in a minute, for you."
The lies never stop, Justin thought. They come so easy to her. Is it possible she believes her own lies?
"Oh, Jus, you always knew what I liked. What made me crazy. Touch me, Jus. Touch me like you used to."
Justin sensed that he could have her now, right here in the garage of the house where her husband and daughter lived. Wouldn't that be a kick, to have Dan walk in and find his wife and her ex screwing on a pile of camping gear. There were a few snags, he thought: he wasn't into revenge; Casey was too precious to him to ever hurt; and he simply didn't want Yvonne anymore.
"Yvonne, let's cool it, shall we?"
"Jesus, I love the way you smell." She nibbled his earlobe. "I know you feel uncomfortable here. But I’ve been thinking. I'll come to Reno next week. Stay at your place."
Looking soberly into her eyes, he said, "Not here, not Reno, not anywhere." He reached out and poked at the button for the automatic garage-door opener. The door began to lift. Yvonne pulled away from Justin just seconds before Dan's pickup swung into the driveway.
Justin saw Casey bouncing up and down in the cab, grinning and waving.
Ten minutes later he was on the road with her, heading for the mountains and the Coldsprings campgrounds.
At ten-twenty A.M. the phone rang. Alex reached over and lifted the receiver on the night-stand.
" 'Lo." It was all she could manage at the moment.
"Alex?" Justin's voice.
"I think so."
"How are you feeling?" His voice sounded cheerful and far away.
"You don't want to know." She massaged the back of her neck. "It may put a damper on your good mood, Sergeant?”
"Try me. And my name is Justin."
"Okay, Justin. First though, a question."
"Shoot."
"Last night . . when I was asleep . . . did you beat me about the head and body with a blunt instrument?"
He laughed. "That bad, huh?"
"Owww;' she groaned. "Please."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
"Take a couple of aspirin and crawl into bed."
"I took an aspirin. I'm in bed."
"How's the finger?"
"It's the only part of me that doesn't hurt. I haven't looked at it yet. It's all I can do to breathe and talk. I'm not prepared, mentally, to cast my eyes on torn and mutilated flesh."
They were silent for several moments. "Thanks for tending my cut last night . . . and for staying with me," she said. "Did you get any sleep?"
"A little." A pause. "Listen, I've arranged to have your number changed to an unlisted one. The phone company will be out to your place Monday morning. I want you to call the station sometime after four that day and give me your new number. I should be back in town by then. If I'm not, just leave a message that you called, don't give out your number, okay?"
"You don't trust the police department?"
"The fewer people who know that unlisted number, the better."
"Where are you?"
"A gas st
ation in the San Bernadino Mountains. More commonly known in these parts as Big Bear."
Alex heard a child's voice in the background say, "C'mon, Daddy. It's starting to get cloudy."
"Coming, baby—Alex, when I get back we're going to have to have a long talk. I can't do my job if you continue to withhold information from me. I'll want a list of your male acquaintances."
"What do you mean by male acquaintances?"
"Men you've dated, are presently dating. Men you've seen on a regular basis for one thing or another for, say, the past twelve months. For instance, your doctor, Hawkins, anyone that does a service for you. Got that?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Oh, by the way. I had to use your front-door key to lock up after myself this morning. I didn't want to leave the door unlocked. Will you need it before Monday?"
"No, I have others."
"Take the phone off the hook at night. And, please, for God's sake, use some caution." He hung up without saying goodbye.
Before going back to sleep, Alex called Margie and related the events of the previous night. Margie offered to bring one of Bob's twelve-gauge shotguns by later in the day. Alex gratefully accepted.
"Daddy, are you sure you know how to do that?" Casey asked. "If it starts to rain now . . . bum-mer."
Justin was inside the tent holding it up with his shoulders and head as he tried to erect it. One side went up and the other came down. "Where the heck'd you get this piece of sssh—?"
"I borrowed it from the Connell brothers next door. They go camping all the time.”
"Couldn't you have bought us a new one? One with instructions."
"Eddy Connell said this one was all broke in. Besides, I thought you said putting up a tent was second nature to you."
"This isn't a tent, it's a Chinese puzzle." Justin grunted. "I could use some help. Come in here and hold it up in the middle.”
Casey giggled. "Oh-oh," she said, stepping through the nylon opening. "I just felt a big, fat rain drop"
"You really know how to apply the pressure."
An hour later the tent was up—listing slightly westward—and equipped with the bedrolls. They had gathered wood and set up camp. A circle of rocks and an old oven rack constituted the combination cooking facility and campfire. They'd each gone in search of ideal roasting sticks for wieners and marshmallows, and Justin, taking his pocket knife, had whittled his to a point, then had done the same for Casey's forked twig—which she claimed was perfect for doubles. The prepared sticks they set aside until dinner.
Justin hung the lantern on the branch of a fir tree. He then turned, surveyed the site that would be their home for the night, and nodded approvingly. "Looks great, huh, kid? Fit for a king. We'd better put the food up so as not to encourage the bears."
"Bears?" Casey let fall an armful of firewood and looked up, alarmed. "You didn't say anything about bears."
"Little guys," her father said quickly. "Won't hurt you. We'll keep the food in the trunk of the car, then they won't get at it."
"Let 'em have it, Dad. I don't want them coming in our tent while we're sleeping, scrounging for it."
"Don't worry, your ol' man will protect you." He tugged playfully at the gob of hair on top of her head; it reminded him of Pebbles Flintstone's hairdo—without the bone. "Get your pole. It's time we went after our dinner."
"Let's make a bet," Casey said casually. "A buck to the one who catches the first fish."
"And a buck for the biggest fish."
"And a buck for the most fish."
"You're on."
Justin had ended up forking over three bucks to Casey. Her two pan-sized brook trout had been their dinner, along with a can of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli, fried potatoes, and roasted wieners. He had Casey make up the dinner menu. Over the open fire—a blazing inferno hot enough to warp the soles of their walking shoes — they'd toasted marshmallows for "s'mores" and sipped instant hot chocolate as they listened to "Mystery Theater" on the car radio.
In the middle of the night, when they were snug in their sleeping bags, the storm clouds that had been building ominously all day finally let loose. Rain came down in a torrent.
Lying on his back, the smell of wet nylon sharp in the chilling air, the steady patter of rain lulling him, Justin, though exhausted from his sleepless night with Alex Carlson, could not sleep. He thought about Yvonne and her play for him in the garage. The first few years after they'd been divorced, he'd stayed away from her as much as possible. Not because he'd feared she would come on to him, but because it hurt too much to be near her. The past couple of years he had finally come to accept her with indifference. She was a beautiful woman, sexy as all hell, but she did nothing for him now. Absolutely nothing. Women like her had no substance. Women like her . . . like the one with the haunting eyes—like Alex Carlson—women like that had looks, sex appeal, but .. .
"Daddy?" Casey whispered when the rain began to pound on the top of the tent.
Just turned his head toward her voice, "Yeah, baby?"
"Is this thing waterproof?"
"Sure."
"Ohhh, I don't think so, Daddy." Justin could hear Casey moving around, struggling to get out of her bag. Halfway out, she tumbled over, said "Shit," and knocked against one of the poles. The tent caved in on her side. Justin groped for the flashlight, finding a shoe, a hairbrush, and the lamb's wool-stuffed animal Casey slept with still, but no flashlight. Suddenly light exploded in his eyes, blinding him. Casey had found it. She was standing in a crouched position, the sleeping bag up to her waist and twisted about her ankles, the tent a damp shroud around her head and shoulders. Rainwater, leaking from a faulty seam, was dripping from her nose and chin onto her Minnie Mouse sweatshirt. Her face was beginning to scrunch up.
"Casey?" Justin tossed off his bag and reached for her. She was about to cry, and it was all his fault. It had been his idea to go camping. She had never been out all night in the wilderness like this, sleeping in a tent, cooking over a campfire, relieving herself in the bushes. What an idiot he was to take her in October instead of the summer. He had scared her with his mention of bears. And he had forgotten to warn her about poison ivy - which he was certain she had tromped through on her way down to the creek. Even something as innocuous as roasting marshmallows had had dire consequences for her when she had attempted to blow out one that had caught fire only to have it stick to her lip, burning her. And now this. She was wet and scared and having a miserable time.
Sputtering sounds came from her and her shoulders shook. "Daddy," she said, and burst out laughing. She pounced on him, laughing, squealing as she rolled over him to a dry spot on his other side.
"Casey . . . ?" Justin began, before also breaking up in laughter.
"I'm . .. having the best time . . . ever. But next time . . . let me . . . put up the tent,” she squeaked between bouts of laughter. "I put it up . . . by myself . . . in the back yard in no time. And .. . and . . . and it stayed up."
"Why, you little rascal. You stood there and let me make a fool of myself and you didn't even offer to help."
"Momma said to let you do it. She said men had to show women how nacho they could be."
Justin laughed. "Macho, monkeyface, not nacho. And your mother was right. There was no way on this earth I would've let you pitch the tent."
By morning the storm had passed, leaving behind crisp, radiant verdure, bright with reflecting sunshine.
At eight o'clock Sunday morning, Alex looked in on Todd. He was sleeping soundly, one leg and one arm hanging out of the bed. She crept in quietly and began to pick up the formal clothes he had tossed around the room only hours before. As she hung up pants and jacket, she thought back to the night before and how great he'd looked in a white tux. Todd was tall and thin, with Alex's dark brown hair and gray-green eyes. He had his father's clear olive complexion. Her son, she reasoned with the objectivity of a mother, was more than just handsome and charming, he was wonderful. The best. "Mom, I'll do that,” Todd sa
id, his eyes still closed.
"Go back to sleep. It's early."
His eyes opened. "Naw. I don't wanna blow my whole day in the sack. I can sleep on the plane going home." He sat up and roughly rubbed the palm of his hand along his jaw as a man with a morning beard would do. His cheeks were smooth, nearly hairless.
"Breakfast?" Alex asked. "We have bacon, ham, or sausage. I’ll make eggs, hashbrowns, and English muffins."
"You know what I've been craving since I left home, Mom? Some of your famous crepes. Real crispy around the edges like only you can do. Rolled with strawberry jam and covered with powdered sugar. Is that too much trouble?"
"I've missed them too. It's not something I'd make for just me." She tousled his hair. "Half an hour."
After breakfast Todd insisted on doing household repairs. He fixed a toilet in the downstairs bath that had been running for months. Now it no longer ran, but to flush it, Alex had to hold down the handle. A clicking noise in the kitchen ceiling fan compelled him to tear it apart. When he couldn't get it back together again, Alex assured him that, without doubt, it had been on its last leg.
She kept him out of her bedroom. The carpet still bore the insult of black spray paint and the long gash on the dresser top was still visible after repeated efforts to rub it out. Todd would want to know how those things had happened. It was better that he never did.
Todd took his mother out to dinner. She chose Roma's, an Italian restaurant near the airport.
Sitting at a window table, they watched the traffic on Plumb Street. "I'm going to miss you—again,”' Alex said.
"Yeah, me too."
"I'd forgotten how handy you were around the house," she teased.
He chuckled. "That's a ploy we men use. Act helpful, screw up a few jobs, and we're home free. Dad taught me that."
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