Five O’Clock Shadow

by Susan Slater

  “I hate to make you take me home in this mess.”

  “We’re not that far away. I think we can get there all right. Maybe I’ll impose on your grandmother to put me up for the night.” A chuckle.

  The Jag maintained traction up the short incline of the parking lot ramp that would put them on Fourth Street. Sam paused before turning to the right. Traffic was light, almost non-existent. The car slipped, then dug in and seemed solid in spite of the treacherous footing. They got on the interstate. He was probably going to take Paseo Del Norte. Pauly began to relax. He was a good driver and the sleet had turned to snow, big wet elephant flakes that collected along the wiper blades.

  Half a dozen cars turned before they did, making slow careful arcs onto the four-lane. The uphill curve didn’t bother the Jag. Sam straightened the car, settled into the middle lane and accelerated to twenty-five miles an hour. They were driving into the storm and the flakes stuck to the windshield, thickly limiting visibility.

  The pipe was in a pocket somewhere and Pauly could see the line of his jaw, taut and determined. Sam backed off the gas as a tangle of lights appeared on the right. A fender-bender. Both parties were standing by their vehicles.

  “Should we call someone?” His cell phone was on the dash.

  “There are probably so many calls, you wouldn’t be able to get through. They seemed to be all right.”

  Pauly turned for another look. Both men were obscured by a wall of dense white flakes.

  “Damn.”

  Pauly turned back as she felt Sam start to tap the brakes. This time the accident was in front of them and stretched across all lanes. Pauly leaned against the dash, gripping its edge, and peered out the windshield. One car was on its side. Several others fit together in an accordion-pleated zig-zagged line, headlights aiming all directions.

  Sam had almost stopped when the lights that swept across the interior of the Jag startled her, especially when they swung back to the right as quickly as they had first appeared. A car was spinning out of control, coming up fast behind them.

  Pauly leaned over the back of the seat in time to see the whirling car sideswipe an eighteen-wheeler, which jack-knifed, skidding sideways, tractor and trailer skating across the highway in slow-motion accuracy aimed at the back of the Jag.

  “Sam.” The scream was useless. There was nothing he could do. No place to go. Sitting ducks. They were going to be sandwiched between the truck and the pile of already wrecked cars in front of them.

  The squealing and gnashing of gears gave way to the grinding of tearing metal. At the moment of impact, the back window of the Jag exploded inward, spraying the interior with sparkling bits of glass. Then the back of the car rose in the air to perch against the truck’s radiator. They were pushed like a cow-catcher on the tilting Peterbilt to ram anything in front of them. The headlights and grillwork of the truck seemed to inhabit the back seat.

  Pauly hugged her legs to her chest, burying her head in her thighs, bracing for the next impact. She was beyond screaming. She opened her mouth but there was no sound. All of her senses were frozen. She didn’t look at Sam. There was no time. Only nanoseconds before the truck ground them into the pile of already twisted steel—the barricade that had been a line of cars just moments ago.

  Her seat belt snapped viciously into her chest and lap, but held, holding her rigid and upright even when the Jag’s roof caved in dangerously close to the top of her head. And then there was nothing, no motion, no sound. They were stopped. She was alive. She gulped in air and tried to stretch her legs, but she was wedged between seat and dash.

  Sam. He wasn’t moving. Blood spilled over his forehead, trickling unnoticed across his eyes, down his face. The cut across his forehead looked deep. She had to stop the bleeding. She had to move. She frantically pushed against the dash, and the seat gave way a couple of inches, allowing the glove compartment door to flop open. But at least she could put her feet down a little ways.

  She rummaged through the compartment’s contents, intent on purpose, fighting the hysteria that threatened to sweep over her, trying to shut out the smell of wrecked metal, of gasoline and fear, the feeling of claustrophobia that could make her crazy, make her flail against the smashed door, the collapsed roof as she sought a way out. No. She was needed. Sam could be bleeding to death. She couldn’t leave him. Surely there would be something, some piece of cloth she could use to stop the flow.

  The compartment’s tiny light was a help. She pawed at the contents. The gun nestled in the back was a semi-automatic with extra clip. No surprise. Lots of people carried guns. The car’s manual was in a plastic zip-locked pouch, loose papers, registration, insurance papers on top of it, not even a packet of Kleenex. But there was a deck of playing cards rubber-banded snugly together.

  Pauly started to toss them aside, then stopped. The card on top was face up. Hadn’t she seen enough of this sort of thing? Numbly, she slipped off the rubber band. They weren’t playing cards but carefully matted photos of young children. Ten of them, two of girls, maybe one was five at the most. They looked like miniature advertisements. The statistics on the back gave particulars about each child. Particulars that would appeal to someone interested in children for sex. She fought nausea, swallowed and thumbed through them again. She didn’t recognize any of the children.

  Suddenly the accident was forgotten. Quiet terror settled over her. Sam. With a jolt she remembered what he had said earlier. What had eluded her at the time, what she knew wasn’t quite right because there was no way that he could have known unless he had masterminded the attempt on her life or was an avid reader of the El Paso newspaper. He had said she’d been lucky not to have been killed in the fire. He had used the word fire. How could he have known someone had torched the building if he hadn’t been the one who had ordered it done? But why? Why did he want her dead?

  Panic. She wanted out of there. She slipped the gun and clip in her purse and glanced at the man slumped behind the steering wheel. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell unevenly. The flow of blood had slowed, coagulating along the hairline. She fought back hysterics. She couldn’t stand to be with him one more minute. She raised her two gloved fists and beat against the unyielding windshield, then screamed as hands on the outside cleared a rounded space and a face stared in at her.

  “Take it easy. We’ll get you out.”

  She hadn’t heard the man crawl over the hood. He must be helping people.

  “We’ve got to bust the windshield. Cover your face.”

  Pauly did as she was told and didn’t even think of Sam.

  The spray of glass covered her hair, her jacket.

  “Are you hurt?” The man leaned down to look at her huddled in the Jag’s squashed interior and continued to pull away chunks of shattered glass caught behind the wipers.

  “No.”

  “Grab my hand. Try to lie down, stretch out and ease yourself onto the hood. That’s right. Come on. I don’t want to frighten you, but we might not have too much time.”

  Fire. He’s afraid of fire. Engine smells of oil and gasoline were pungent now. Pauly quickly wiggled free of the Jaguar’s seats and, hanging onto her purse, pulled her body across the dash, then out into the open. The snow felt fresh. The big flakes were fast blanketing the scene of destruction. With the help of the man she slipped to the ground, wobbling only a second on unsteady legs.

  “Okay, now?”

  She nodded. He turned to run his flashlight beam back across the Jag’s front seat.

  “Jesus. You didn’t say there was someone else. How bad’s he hurt?”

  But Pauly didn’t answer. She was already jogging along the perimeter of the pile-up, towards the edge of the highway, the fields beyond. She had to get out of there.

  “Hey. Come back here.” The man’s voice was muted by the soft whiteness that quickly enveloped her, leaving only the crunch of her footfalls in answer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pauly was three miles from the B&B. Th
e snow was five inches deep and sticking to her boots and pants legs, making walking laborious. Should she have stayed? Not left the accident and made sure that Sam got help? She shivered and not from the wet and cold. This man could have masterminded everything. He was in a position to set up Randy and her grandmother, but who was in it with him? She was fairly certain that Hofer had a part, and Sosimo. But what about Steve? Or Archer and Tom?

  She left the highway and climbed the steep embankment that put her on Rio Grande Boulevard. The snow was letting up and it would be darker now as she got further from the muted halogen glow of the arcing lights that loomed over the highway. Rio Grande was lighted intermittently with older, smaller street lights that cast an eerie shadowless illumination straight down in irregular, round patches along the side of the road. It was like walking from one spotlight to another.

  She’d follow the road to where it ended at Alameda, then cut over to the bridge and leave the pavement and lights to follow the path along the river back towards the house. She’d stay off of Paseo de Norte. She hadn’t planned on sneaking back to the B&B unnoticed, but maybe this was best. Was her grandmother in danger? She stopped. She hadn’t seen her grandmother since yesterday. Grams hadn’t been up that morning, and she hadn’t been there when Ed had found the things in the motor home. Pauly started to jog but was just too tired to keep it up in the clinging snow.

  Of course, there could be a simple explanation. Grams could have gone shopping. It was possible that she was in town. Hadn’t Ed said she’d gone for supplies? But it was also possible that she was being held against her will. Pauly couldn’t let herself think that Grams might be injured or worse. She stopped to knock the snow off her boots and take a couple of breaths. This kind of thinking wasn’t getting her anywhere. She had to stay calm.

  A pickup with chains clinked past, disappearing into the feathery dark. If she’d been noticed, there was no indication. She thought of walking up to one of the houses along Rio Grande Boulevard and calling. But call whom? What did she have to say? There was a lot that she hadn’t shared with Tony, but most of her so-called information was supposition. Circumstantial evidence, at best. What did she really have on Sam? Nothing he couldn’t worm out of. She was certain of that. For starters, he could just deny ever having said anything about a fire in El Paso. And the pornographic cards? He could always just get rid of them. Had it been stupid not to take them, Pauly wondered?

  No, any real answers rested with Grams. Grams could tell her about Sam. Pauly picked up her pace. The bridge was a quarter-mile away. The snow had stopped but not until it had given extra height to the bridge railings in fat white mounds, clinging even to the still cables overhead. Pauly only paused a second before sliding down the embankment to walk along the path by the river.

  She hadn’t meant to search for it, but her eyes sought the cross at the base of the cottonwood nearest the water. The monument to Randy, to his death just twenty feet from where she was standing. The snow banked against the tree’s trunk and covered two-thirds of the marker.

  She started out again. The wet had seeped down the tops of her boots and through the eyelets for the laces. Stopping only made her aware of how wooden her toes felt. But she was close now, she’d be able to get out of her sodden clothing soon.

  From a distance the house looked abandoned, not a light on. Which didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be more than seven. Where was her grandmother? Hadn’t they served a meal in the dining room? Her eyes swept the studio above the garage. Was Steve back? The apartment was dark.

  Suddenly, she felt hesitant. Some sixth sense? She couldn’t shake a feeling that something was wrong. That she might be walking into a trap. She slowed, finally stopping in the last stand of fledgling cottonwoods at the right of the drive. The motor home was gone, but someone might have just pulled it around to the garage. What was bothering her?

  Then she focused on the field beyond the garage. Of course. The trailers, motor homes, tractor-trailers, everything was gone. The carnival had left. They had just gotten back at noon. How could they be gone? Was there some New Year’s show somewhere? But that was almost a week away. She’d swear no one had told her about another show. Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. But it gave the scene in front of her a particularly lonely feel. The B&B seemed abandoned. Was there anyone in the house? Like Grams? She had said she wouldn’t travel over the holidays.

  Pauly couldn’t continue to stand out there in the cold. She needed to change clothes, get something to eat. She took the gun out of her purse and slipped it into her jeans pocket. It was almost an automatic reaction and the right one somehow. It gave her the courage to go forward. But could she use it? If she absolutely had no choice? She’d handled guns before. But shooting frogs with a pellet gun was a far cry from aiming at a human being, let alone pulling the trigger.

  She stayed hidden by the trees and circled to the right so that she’d be able to approach the house from the back, completely in the shadows, hugging the windowless north side before rounding the corner and going in the back door. Her heart was pounding. She wasn’t overreacting. Something was wrong. She stopped twice, peering into the dusky shadows. The two mounted yard lights overlapped territory, concentrating their light in one area with a radius of about fifty feet. Beyond that, it was impossible to distinguish shapes.

  The snow had started again, lightly this time, just flecks, mere shadows of their former selves. Pauly paused. She had to step into the light to get to the back door. Was someone watching her? She felt like there were eyes everywhere. She took a deep breath and admonished herself for being frightened. Wasn’t finding Grams as important as her own safety?

  She stepped forward, rounded the corner, and willed herself to concentrate on getting to the back door by simply walking normally, not slinking along afraid of her shadow. A warm bath, food, dry clothes, she tried to concentrate on the positive. She had no proof that her grandmother was in trouble. Just an overactive imagination.

  She reached the back door and felt for her keys in the bottom of her purse, then stopped and put a hand on the gun. That quieted her. It didn’t necessarily give her an advantage, but it kept her from totally being the underdog. She put the key in the lock and turned the door handle. Open. She stepped into the hallway and pushed the door closed behind her.

  “Nasty out there,” Hofer’s voice boomed from the kitchen doorway.

  Pauly almost screamed, but didn’t. She collected herself. Waited for her breathing to return to normal. He was just standing there, a hulking shadow with the hall nightlight illuminating his knees and keeping his face hidden. She’d forgotten how big he was. But he wasn’t moving toward her. Wasn’t threatening her in any way. She kept her hand on the gun in her pocket.

  “Where’s Grams?”

  “Turned in early. Sicker than a dog all day. Must be a bug.”

  He was almost loquacious, friendly even. Pauly turned to go up the stairs.

  “There’s no reason to check on her.” He’d taken a step forward. Pauly paused on the bottom step. “She said she’d see you at breakfast. I think she must have taken a little something to get some sleep.”

  “Okay,” Pauly called over her shoulder, then added, “Where’d the carnival go?”

  “Pulled out before the storm. They’ll be in Bernalillo for the week. Wouldn’t have gotten there if they hadn’t started early.”

  “Is Steve back?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Doubt if he’ll get back tonight in all the snow. The six o’clock news said they’d closed the interstate, north and south.”

  She heard Hofer go back into the kitchen. Chat over. Was she relieved? Yes. But a lot depended on how she found her grandmother. If it was just the flu, then she was being silly. If it wasn’t.… She kept her hand on the gun and continued up the stairs.

  Her grandmother’s room was two down from hers. She had no intention of not looking in on her. She hurried along the hallway and stopped in front of Grams’ bedroom. She pre
ssed an ear to the door. There was no sound coming from the other side. Pauly turned the door handle, slowly, quietly. Locked. Her grandmother never locked her room. Well, at least, Pauly didn’t think she did. Certainly as a child, she remembered the door was always open. But maybe later, after she’d opened the B&B.

  A locked door didn’t necessarily mean that there was a problem. Pauly walked past to her own room but couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. If she could just talk to her grandmother, just see her. If she’d been sick, maybe she needed her. Pauly flipped on the light and took in the comforting, familiar shapes of her furniture. Then turned and locked her door.

  First order of business was peeing. She crossed to the bathroom, pausing to pull a turtleneck sweater from a dresser drawer, along with a pair of heavy wool socks. Dry clothes were important, too. And seemed to make a difference.

  She didn’t linger in the bathroom. Dressed, she crossed to the light and flipped it off. In case Hofer was watching, flushing the toilet, running water in the sink, and now the lights might make him think she was going to bed.

  But she had already formulated a plan. She could not stay in the house with Hofer. Irrational, maybe, but she simply couldn’t. And she had to make certain that her grandmother was safe. She added a flashlight to a pocket in her jacket opposite the gun and the keys to the truck. After one last look around, she walked to the French doors that opened onto a cedar deck that faced the mountains, but more importantly curved around in front of her grandmother’s bedroom.

  She opened the door a crack before stepping out. The night was quiet. Everything might as well be wrapped in cotton; the snow muffled all sound. But that part, at least, was on her side. She padded quietly around the corner, staying close to the side of the house. Her grandmother’s room had identical French doors that opened onto the deck. An assortment of patio furniture that hadn’t been stored in the fall took on surreal humpbacked shapes. An umbrellaless table flanked by snow-laden plastic chairs was pushed up against the house.