Fifteen Years of Lies

by Ann Minnett

  If Lark could just keep Dee in line and Mason from talking, they might be safe. But the other five conspirators maintained radio silence. When Lark called, Dee said she cut hair all day, swore she was exhausted, and just wanted to get in bed early. She coughed junk up from her lungs and kept her comments brief. You'd think they had nothing to discuss. Nora and Kirk went totally MIA. Lark had texted several times and tried to call Nora twice. Had she turned off her phone? Kirk's went to voicemail during the time he usually dealt poker. If Kirk was working, he was the only damn one of them to behave normally. Well, Zane, too. She supposed Dee.

  Oh, hell. Define normal. McCord's. Lark had no energy to drive, much less walk, to McCord's to see if her friends were hanging out, but a beer with friends would have been normal.

  She wondered what Lulu was up to but didn't dare call her. Little sister was undoubtedly out with a crowd, listening to music, dancing, attracting the next man. Just to torture herself, Lark looked in the mirror. Swollen red eyes leaked. Make that a swollen red nose as well. Her upper lip resembled a raw moustache. Had she brushed her teeth today? Running her tongue over her front teeth reminded her of the texture of suede. Dark circles bruised under her eyes. Unwashed hair and no makeup. Yes, self-inflicted torture was her game. She envied Lulu's effortless beauty and her ease with men. Her sister sort of rolled with whomever she dated—druggie or software gazillionaire—like a sexy chameleon. "Love the One You're With" came to mind, and it wasn't a wicked jab. The weirdest part? Lulu remained friends with her lovers after the inevitable break-ups. She simply held no grudges and lived for the moment.

  Why think of Lulu now?

  Lark had lived easy like that before Dee's rape. Now, with her life and health in the crapper, she mused why she and Nora had so completely internalized Dee's pain back then. Zane's birth certainly had something to do with it—the time-consuming joy and responsibility of caring for a baby. But why couldn't Lark trust a man when she'd known many good ones among the sleaze balls. How had she remained emotionally numb all these years? Taking a cue from Dee, Lark stuffed tissues up her nostrils. She turned on the TV, drank two Blue Moons left in her fridge by Kirk, and fell asleep to a sappy Ryan Reynolds movie that made her cry.

  She didn't wake up when Zane came in, but he was asleep in his bed when she awoke around two in the morning. Her fever spiked. She ached everywhere, and yet she shook from the cold. She piled on the blankets and got in bed, watching the clock for thirty more minutes. If she stayed awake this sick, she'd crater into absolute despair, and she knew it. She found the Nyquil bottle in the dark and gulped. Almost an hour of misery elapsed before she lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 24

  Rob knew Axel, the suspicious old buzzard, had questions. So when Axel was scheduled to arrive early Saturday morning to help load a few possessions in Rob’s truck and close the house, Rob was already ten miles away on Farm to Market Road, heading toward Kalispell. Axel would find the gate padlocked, Rob’s truck missing, and the house quiet. Hopefully, Axel would shrug and decide None of my business.

  Rob smiled, thinking how much he liked Axel—admired the guy’s Montana values.

  He shifted gently in his seat, relishing the fact that few things mattered in the long run. He had walked away from the cabin—he’d miss it a little, and the mountains—retrieving only his possibly damaged laptop, his phone and wallet, a couple thousand in cash he always kept on hand, and one change of clothes.

  He already knew where he’d live next, the location and new identity established years ago. Fleece vests and Carhartt coveralls wouldn’t serve him there.

  He turned up the heat and allowed himself to fantasize about warm sun healing his body. He cradled his side where the wound’s stitches pulled tight, reddened with infection. He had to take care of it soon. And his ribs felt stiffer than two days ago.

  Visions of ocean waves vanished.

  Three things. Just three small details to address before leaving for good.

  First, Raven. Rob was driving to the animal shelter right now, assured that his dog had been turned in Friday afternoon. Raven was caught chasing goats in a field near Whitefish. She was lucky the farmer hadn’t shot her, luring her in with food instead. They tracked her chip. “She’s waiting for you,” the volunteer had announced over the phone.

  Second, his souvenirs. Someone—probably Lark—stole the souvenirs Rob had earned over the years. They weren’t important to anyone but the man who took one from each of his conquests. What could she do with them? He wanted them back.

  And last, revenge. He didn’t give a shit about that cow who shot him… the owner of his second souvenir, if he wasn’t mistaken. No, he blamed Lark for it all going to shit.

  Rob circled the roundabout onto Cemetery Road. He pulled into the animal shelter’s parking lot, riled up at Lark and the others thinking they’d gotten the upper hand. He was tempted to call her and breathe heavily over the phone, or better yet, text a threat.

  What could they do? Turn him in after trying to kill him?

  He slammed the truck door.

  They’d squirm in time, once he got sweet Raven back.

  * * *

  An old man and younger woman spoke quietly behind the desk when he walked in. The woman smiled at him and asked, “Mr. Whalen?” but her smile faded. “Are you alright?”

  The old guy adjusted his glasses and watched.

  Rob’s hand involuntarily covered the area of his wound. Glancing down, he saw it had broken open and now drained puss and blood into his sweatshirt.

  “Cut myself,” he said. “It’s nothing. I’ve come for Raven.”

  The old guy said, “We have some paperwork first.”

  The woman looked at him as he said it, her brows furrowed.

  “Nancy, get those forms, and I’ll fetch Raven for Mr. Whalen here.” He disappeared through the door leading to the kennels. Several dogs began barking at once.

  Nancy extracted a sheaf of stapled papers from a file drawer and slid them across the counter. “Here’s a pen,” she said. “I’ll go help Lou.” She left via the same door.

  Something was wrong. Sure, he felt light-headed, and the splotch on his side looked suspicious, but…

  He shouted, “Just bring out my dog.”

  He scribbled out false information on the first page. A minute went by. He signed the second page on the dotted line and counted out two hundred dollars in twenties to grease his way out of the place. With his dog. Two minutes.

  “Hey, what’s going on back there?” He circled the counter and pulled at the door’s industrial handle, making his body spasm in pain. He pressed his nose against the narrow window pane above the handle. Nancy huddled near Lou who held a cell phone to his ear. They both looked frightened, staring at Rob from the other side of the glass.

  “Raven?” Rob shouted. He heard her bark, leading a cacophony of others.

  Rob tore at the handle once again. They weren’t going to let him have Raven. The first thing on his list. The one living creature he cared for. He fanned the twenties at the window. “Here’s some money. More if you want it. Just give me my damn dog and I’ll go away.”

  The odd couple stared in silence while the kennel frenzied, their eyes wide in fright.

  Rob raised a fist for them to see through the window. “That dog is mine, and I’ll be back.” He pounded on the glass for good measure.

  Winter wind iced his moist wound when he rushed outside. Before he reached his truck, a Flathead County Sheriff’s car pulled into the parking lot and blocked his truck.

  A big bald deputy got out and said, “Remember me, Mr. Whalen? Sam Sorensted, Flathead County Sheriff’s Department. We spoke at North Valley Hospital the morning you got shot.”

  Rob said, “They won’t give me my dog.” Was it the wind or shear dizziness driving him to his knees right there on the gravel?

  He blacked out.

  * * *

  Rob Whalen lay on his back on the ground, eyelids fluttering, but
breathing. Deputy Sorensted called for an ambulance, knelt beside the distressed man, and searched through his wallet while he waited.

  “Paramedics are on their way. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Sorensted found Axel Craig’s number on a post-it note embossed with North Valley’s logo. Whalen carried no driver’s license, had several credit cards with the name Robert Whalen on them, and Patty Horne’s Dog Grooming business card.

  Volunteers Nancy and Lou tentatively approached and recounted Rob’s erratic behavior, his horrid appearance, and of course described the seeping wound in vivid detail. They handed over Rob’s paperwork from which the deputy verified the man’s address.

  Paramedics arrived, followed by a fire engine, which wasn’t needed and soon left. Once the patient was stabilized and loaded into the ambulance, Sorensted arranged to meet them in Kalispell Regional Hospital’s ER.

  Sorensted telephoned Axel Craig from the parking lot and learned Axel had been Rob’s ride from the hospital before.

  "I don't know what Rob did," Axel said, and spit. "Said he shot himself by accident. That would have been Wednesday night. But when I picked him up on Thursday, he asked me to help him burn down his place."

  The deputy said, “Oh?”

  "I declined."

  "Did you think he was serious? Or out of it with drugs or something?"

  "It crossed my mind, but he kind of worried me. Said he had to get away."

  "What happened?"

  "I dropped him off there."

  “There?”

  “At his place. He wanted help loading his truck, but was in no shape to do so, I’ll tell you.” Axel spit again. “Told him I’d help early today, and I left. ‘Course, he’d long gone this morning when I arrived at his place.”

  "When was it you talked to him last?"

  "Mid-afternoon Thursday."

  "And when did you notice the fire?"

  "When I was driving home from the Bakkan before midnight Wednesday night. I smelled the smoke and saw a fire and stopped."

  “You talked to authorities that night?”

  “Yep. Deputy Brand has those details.”

  Sorensted jotted notes into his spiral notepad. "Do you have any idea why Whalen’s dog was running loose near Whitefish?"

  "None at all. He asked about his dog that night, but I didn't see her then or since."

  “Okay, thanks,” Sorensted said, putting his car in gear. “You’ve been a big help.”

  Sorensted checked in on the patient in the hospital, putting him in temporary custody and on a hold until he could clarify the circumstances of the shooting.

  He drove the fifteen miles to Whitefish to talk with the dog groomer. Just another Saturday morning in the most beautiful spot in the world. Interesting case, but no one died.

  Patty Horne remembered the black dog and Rob Whalen, but couldn't find Raven's index card. The deputy shot the shit about his ancient cat who'd taken to pissing in his houseplants and killed them all while she searched for the card.

  "I can't find it," Patty said, dazzling big burly Sorensted with her bohemian ways.

  "Do you remember anything about the man?" Sam leaned against the counter. “There’s no record of a man by that name with DMV.”

  "Raven was an all-black shepherd mix. Very calm." She thought a moment and added, "She was spayed."

  "What about the owner?"

  She shook her head. "An affable enough guy who kept to himself. Oh, dark hair and beard, but I don't remember much else."

  "Do you know if he hung around with anyone? I hear he’s a loner. No one knows much about him." He had already put his notebook and pen in his back pocket and selected a grape Tootsie Pop. He raised sparse eyebrows. "May I?"

  "Certainly. And you might check with Ozzy."

  "Thanks." Sorensted walked into Ozzy's, sucking the pop and forgetting he had asked about Whalen's associates and that Patty had not answered.

  * * *

  Zane pondered how weird his life had become as he walked the four blocks to Ozzy's early Saturday morning. Not long ago, turning sixteen (in three days) was the biggest event he had to look forward to, but his birthday promised to be another cluster fuck. The idea of a birthday dinner made him sick. He struggled to imagine sitting at a table with his mom, his biological mom, their friend and her dorky husband, along with Mason and Katie. When his mom suggested a celebration, he thought she was crazy. He'd go to school and work like everything was normal, but he didn't know how to behave around those people now.

  He missed sleeping in on Saturdays, but he hadn't slept well for days, and because of his community service picking up trash, he hadn't slept in for the three months since the break-in. He shook his head, remembering when the stupid sword theft had been his biggest problem.

  Zane flung open Ozzy's door and stepped into the aroma of pet food.

  Ozzy waited on a customer in the back, so Zane stashed his sweatshirt behind the counter and began his routine. He looped the knee-length apron around his neck and tied it around his waist. His green nametag with his name in black caps hung at an angle on the strap.

  Ozzy laughed, and the man—his bald head visible over the Science Diet banner—crinkled his eyes. Ozzy was known for his dad jokes which people his mom’s age laughed at.

  Zane grabbed the broom from a small storage closet next to the desk. His boss told him, no matter when he arrived, to sweep dust or clear snow from the front sidewalk and step. Look on the bright side—it hadn't snowed overnight.

  Zane lofted the broom handle and waved toward Ozzy to let him know he intended to sweep the front walk. He rounded the toy display to see the bald head and uniform of a sheriff's deputy. The big man caught sight of Zane, and his smile faded. The uniformed man with pitted skin and alert eyes dwarfed Ozzy’s wiry frame. Handcuffs glinted from his wide belt, along with a high-mounted holster on the left and snapped compartments holding who knows what.

  "His picture is up here somewhere," Ozzy said, scratching his goatee and scanning a hundred photos pinned above the endcap of Science Diet products.

  Curiosity made Zane hesitate. Ozzy pointed, scanning his index finger over scores of photos. The deputy followed, both looking for what? Then the deputy extended his arm to touch the photo of a black dog.

  Blood drained to Zane's feet. He steadied himself on the broom handle.

  "There." Ozzy removed a picture Zane had taken of Rob and his dog on the first day of his work in the store. Ozzy handed it over.

  Zane’s intestines gurgled. Had he shit his pants?

  The photo showed Rob Whalen, on one knee beside his open-mouthed dog. The man's short black beard dominated his features. Dark hair tufted around his ears, covered by a black hat with an unclear logo over the brim. He appeared grim. In fact, he looked at his dog, as opposed to the camera, like most of the proud owners whose photos decorated Ozzy's walls.

  Ozzy shook his finger at the image. "Now I remember. He had just bought that red bandanna collar for her."

  An image of the furious man, tied up and screaming—possibly his own father—blindsided Zane. Rob's sneering, the threats. The explosive gunshots and the deafening silence after. The blood and incomprehension. Rob's dead weight as they carried him closer to the wood stove. He recalled Aunt DeeDee's whimpering in the car that night all the way back to Whitefish and how he had wanted to cover her mouth to make her shut up.

  "Thanks," the deputy said. "That’s him."

  Ozzy said, "Say, Zane, didn't you and your mom know this guy?"

  The casual question left Zane weak and sick. His guts boiled. His butt bumped into the shelf behind him, sending a stack of dog bowls careening to the floor. When he stooped to corral the merchandise circling his feet he let go of the broom, and the handle crashed into the deputy’s knee.

  Ozzy added, "They went out, right?"

  Zane gathered and stacked the bowls while the deputy steadied the broom.

  "He tried." Zane’s voice sounded like a thirteen-year-ol
d’s, squeaky and broken. Get your shit together, man! He stood up.

  "Do you know him then?" The deputy faced Zane full on. He pointed the grape Tootsie Pop at Rob’s photo. "This Rob Whalen?"

  Zane nodded, taking the broom back. Over the Flathead County Sheriff's Department badge the nametag read Sam Sorensted. His shaved head made him look mean and serious although when he smiled he showed pale lavender teeth.

  Sam Sorensted shook hands with Ozzy. "Thanks for the help. Mind if I speak with…." Sorensted stooped to read the lopsided name tag. "…Zane for a minute?"

  "No problem." The boss slapped Zane’s arm like an old buddy and left for the back room.

  "Did you know this man's house burned Wednesday night?" Sorensted showed Zane a photo.

  "Yeah, we heard that."

  "We?"

  "Uh, yeah. You know, everyone." Zane tried to relax all his facial muscles to appear innocent. "Is he dead?"

  "Why do you ask," Sorensted said.

  Mistake, moron! "Just thought with the fire and all," he said, back pedaling verbally and physically.

  Sorensted pulled a small spiral notebook from his back pocket. Zane stared at it like it might bite him.

  "Old school." Sorensted flipped its curled pages. "What can you tell me about him?"

  Zane cleared his dry throat. He knew a hundred pieces of information he couldn't reveal, starting with… well, everything. "He was new in Whitefish. That's all I can tell you." And then panic set in because surely the deputy detected his lie. "My mom knew him a little."

  "Do they go out together?"

  "I didn't think so." She hated his guts.

  "How does she know him?" Sorensted inched closer, his voice lowered.

  Zane felt cornered. "You better talk to her." And in a burst of energy he added, "The guy had a cool dog."

  Sorensted stared without speaking.