As he stared down over the rail at the crumpled corpse, shivering overtook him again. She had landed on her back, and the face, bluish and distorted, wearing the expression she sometimes wore when she had punishment in mind, seemed to be watching him. Andrew tore his eyes from her face and tried to examine the body dispassionately. There was something wrong. In a few seconds he realized what it was. He ran back up the stairs and rifled the hall closet until he found her coat. Then he ran down the hall and retrieved her purse from the kitchen counter. She wouldn’t go out without these, he reasoned, no matter what state of mind she was in. And even though he planned for there to be little more than cinders left of her when she was found, it was important to remember details.
He clattered back down the cellar steps and rolled the corpse over again, his nerve returning. He forced the stiff arms into the coat, cursing the body’s immobility as he worked, and then he buttoned up the coat and sat back on his heels, exhausted by the exertion. His stomach began to roll on him as the smell of the body permeated the cold air of the cellar. He forced himself to his feet. There was no time to waste. A great deal to be done.
After dragging the corpse across the rough concrete to the garage door, Andrew finally made it over the lintel, down the narrow step, and over to the side of the car. Holding the car door open with his body, he took a deep breath, reached down, lifted with all his strength, and stuffed the corpse into a kind of fetal squat in the front seat. He sighed with relief, his muscles trembling, to see the job done. Leaning over the body, he reached out and locked the car door on the passenger side.
It took him a few minutes to catch his breath. Then he went back into the house and checked all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. It distressed him slightly to see the mess the house was in, but he did not have time to pick it up now. At least no one would be able to get in and find evidence of what had happened while he was gone. Turning his back on the parlor, he reached back into the hall closet and pulled out one of her old knit hats. He jammed it down on his own head. Now, if people saw him leaving, he reasoned, they would think that Leonora was driving.
Andrew hurried back down to the garage, raised the garage door, and slid into the driver’s seat of the car. The body of his mother, quiet for once and hidden from view, rested on the seat beside him. He looked several times in both mirrors as he backed down the driveway. It’s going perfectly, he reminded himself, but his breath came in short gasps, and his hands were damp on the steering wheel. He began to drive with the most exaggerated caution. If someone stops you —He could not complete the thought. He just had to keep on going.
The day had been damp and cold, and fog was now rising from the ragged, rocky hills outside Oldham. Although it made the road difficult to see, the fog suited his purposes very well. He drove north toward the mountain ridges outside town, constantly checking his rearview mirror as he went. The roads were deserted, as they often were on winter evenings. The local people eschewed all but the most necessary traveling on icy nights. Andrew drove along until he passed a sign for a scenic overlook, where he slowed and pulled off the road. Through the wooded mountainsides he could see the lights of Oldham, where he had come from. The deserted vantage point was ideal, he decided, looking hastily around. He hopped out of the car and ran around the back to unlock the trunk and dislodge the bike. He leaned the bike against a tree and then returned to the driver’s seat. He jockeyed the car around, his hands trembling on the wheel, until it was aimed right at the wooden railing that surrounded the overlook. He jerked up the emergency brake after putting the transmission into park, then got out and looked around again. Panic was rising in him with every passing moment. Someone was bound to pass this way soon, and now the situation looked suspicious, even to the most casual observer. After reaching in and grabbing her by the front of her coat, he hauled his mother’s body upright into the driver’s seat and strapped on the seat belt. Making sure that the wheels were pointed toward the fence, he put the car in gear. Then he removed the itchy knit hat from his own head and jammed it down on her hair. He placed her leaden foot, and her pocketbook for good measure, on the gas pedal, and the engine revved. Releasing the emergency brake, he jumped back, prepared to push from behind. But it was unnecessary. The car was already rolling as he slammed the door shut. The blood pounded in his ears, and he held his breath as he watched the car lurch across the road, crash through the railing, and plunge down the mountainside, gathering momentum as it sailed, then crash into the hill and roll. It came to a halt in a clump of trees, the wheels spinning. Smoke rose from the wrecked vehicle, but there was no fire.
Sweat broke out all over him as he looked down at the car sitting there. It’s no good, he thought. She’s got to burn. If she doesn’t bum…The inside of his mouth was dry as paper. He fumbled in his pockets. Maybe he had matches. He could throw one in the gas tank. But then how would he himself escape the explosion? It was a moot point, though, for he could not find a match in any pocket. Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, he stared helplessly at the car. Maybe there were matches in her purse. Why hadn’t he thought to bring some? He had to try. If she were found like this, everyone would know.
After a few seconds’ indecision, when he thought of just fleeing, he steeled himself and began to scramble down the hillside toward the car. Halfway to it he saw something bright flash under the hood. It took a second to register, and then his heart swelled as he saw a flame shoot up through the wreckage. But was it enough? he wondered. Would it catch? As if in instant answer to his question, there was a sudden deafening explosion that sent him flat against the hillside. He wanted to cheer, to cry out for joy, but there was no time. He scrabbled back up the hill like a crab, looking back once at the wonderful glowing fire, and then he jumped on his bike and started to pedal.
The route home was arduous because for every long slope there seemed to be a grade, but his heart was pumping like a champion athlete’s as he pedaled along, feeling his power, his success. It was several miles before he saw an oncoming car, and then he crashed into the woods beside the road to avoid being seen. It was the beginning of the end, though. He knew it. She would be found now, and he had to be home when it happened.
He concentrated mainly on the ride, but occasionally he repeated his story to himself, the way he had planned it during the long day. When he finally reached the old house, out of breath and sweating inside his coat, it was the one time he could ever remember feeling happy to be there. Having stashed the bike in the back of the garage, he let himself in through the cellar. As he crossed the basement he thought about the shower. It would be good for him, he thought. He could take his shower, and then he would be all cleaned off, not a trace of the deed on him. Quickly, as if of his own free choice, Andrew stripped off his clothes and stepped under the dripping shower head in the dank cellar. There was still a towel and fresh clothes set out on the enamel tabletop. He made a mental note to put more down there. Then, dressing hastily, he climbed the stairs and hung his coat in the hall. In the dim light of the foyer he saw his face in the hall mirror. At first he jumped, startled by the shadowy visage, the wary eyes. Then, realizing it was his own image, he grinned. It was a sharp-eyed, mirthless smile. Even he could see that. A killer’s smile, he thought. It made him feel good to think that. He admired himself in the mirror.
Andrew, said a voice. Her voice. You were always a killer.
The face in the mirror turned sickly pale. He wheeled around and looked. He was sure he had heard it. It was so loud. But there was no one there. He steadied himself, reminding himself that she was not there. Hurrying into the light of the parlor, he began to pick up, removing the evidence of what had been. He had just turned on the TV when he heard footsteps on the porch and a knock at the door.
Andrew’s heart leaped in his chest. It was too soon. The police couldn’t be here already. Impossible. They must have been right behind him. They must have seen him. Seen everything. They knew everything that had happened, and th
ey were here to arrest him. If he opened the door, they would get him.
The pounding on the door came again. Andrew’s stomach flopped around helplessly like a fish in a boat. He rubbed his clammy hands together. He had to open it. They knew he was here. He could not remember the story he was going to tell. It had left him completely. His legs were stifle. Too stiff to move. He made himself go forward and reach for the doorknob. He closed his eyes, like a man about to face a firing squad, and opened the door a few inches, picturing the badges, the guns.
Instead, he heard a woeful voice, slurring his name. Andrew pulled the door open wider and looked out. Noah stood on the steps, looking around, a large paper bag balanced on his hip, a beer can in one hand.
Andrew’s heart flopped over again, this time with relief. At the same time he felt enraged at Noah’s arrival. The terrible timing was just what he might have expected from Noah.
“What do you want?” Andrew asked harshly.
Noah wiped his hair off his forehead with his wrist, and some beer slopped onto the fake fur collar of his jacket. “I gotta talk to you, buddy. Somethin’s up.”
Andrew felt his usual irritation at the way Noah tried to sound cool. He was such an insignificant asshole. Besides, he was still dirty from the garage and probably germ-laden too. “I’m busy,” said Andrew.
“No, man,” Noah insisted. “This is important.” He patted the bag on his hip. “I brought some brews,” he said in a wheedling voice.
Judging from the bleary, mournful look in Noah’s eyes, Andrew figured that he had already gotten a long head start on the beer. And now he was here with some stupid problem he wanted to maunder on about. Andrew felt like slamming the door on him, but a cautious voice inside reminded him that Noah’s presence might look favorable for him should the police arrive anytime soon. Screwing up his face in distaste, he pulled the door open.
“Come on in.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Noah seemed to have forgotten their fight in the garage and the smashed guitar as he thumped Andrew on the shoulder and shuffled into the parlor, fishing in the bag for a couple of beer cans. He handed one to Andrew, shook off his jacket onto the floor; and then sank down onto the sofa, popping the lid. Suddenly he sat up.
“Is your mother home?” he asked in a loud whisper.
Andrew shook his head, feeling his chest tighten in alarm at the question. He willed his voice to be calm. “No, she got pissed at me over some stupid thing and stormed out of here awhile ago. Drove off in a huff. She’s probably out getting loaded somewhere.”
Noah nodded understandingly. “Probably. Well, just as well. I know she’s not big on company.”
Andrew nodded, feeling a little surge of triumph. The story had fooled Noah easily. Of course, it would be different with the cops. They wouldn’t be drunk—or simple-minded. Still, it had sounded good, convincing. It had made sense to him as he said it.
Noah was leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees. He shook his head sadly. “Buddy, I got big problems, and I had to unload them somewhere. So I came to you.”
Andrew took a swig of beer and made a face. He didn’t want to get drunk, but he wanted to seem normal. He forgot, until the beer hit his growling stomach, that he had not eaten since the sardine and cookie breakfast. He wiped his mouth as if to wipe away the taste. “All right,” he said impatiently. “What is it?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Noah, leaping up and shaking his fist at the heavens. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Cut the crap, will you? Don’t turn this into a fucking soap opera.”
Noah turned on him and looked at him petulantly. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”
Andrew shook his head in exasperation and chugged some more beer. It churned in his stomach like brackish water. “You haven’t said anything yet. You’re just proving how juvenile you can be.”
Noah resumed his slumped position on the couch. “My folks lowered the boom tonight at dinner.” He sighed and shook his head.
Andrew got up and turned up the volume on the TV. Then he sat down in the chair and began to stare at it.
“Okay, okay,” Noah cried. “They’re retiring.”
Andrew kept his eyes on the screen. “So?”
“Will you turn that down?” Noah pleaded, holding out another beer. Andrew snapped the set off and glowered down at Noah.
“They’re moving away. To North Carolina. My dad is leaving me the business.”
Andrew snorted. “That’s the big tragedy?”
“But my tunes,” Noah wailed. “The music business. I was already thinking about going to Nashville. Now how can I?”
“You never would have gone,” Andrew assured him.
“I would. I was gonna,” Noah insisted, thumping his fist on his knees and spilling beer on the carpet. He was immediately apologetic, getting down on the floor and wiping it up with his old red and white handkerchief. “Do you think your mother will notice this?”
“No,” said Andrew.
Noah sat back down. “I can’t believe it, man. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life under a car. The best years of my life. When I could really make it in music. I know I could have.”
The image of an upended, burning wreck of a car seemed to flame before Andrew’s eyes. He felt a little light-headed, and his disgust for Noah felt less immediate. He swallowed some more beer. “There’s no one who wants to stay in this stinking town, that’s for sure,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Noah. “I figured you’d understand. But what am I gonna do?”
Andrew frowned. “What’s that?”
Noah sighed. “It’s a car. Must be your mother coming back. We better clean these up. He began stashing the empty cans into his brown bag as Andrew stood listening, his heart thumping wildly. It was a car. Stopped outside the house.
“I better go,” said Noah. “She’s gonna be pissed to see me here. Why don’t you come out with me? We can talk over at the garage.” He began to teeter to his feet and fumble for his coat.
“Just sit there,” Andrew hissed.
Noah took this as an invitation. He wiped his pale face on his sleeve and began to rearrange his ponytail. “I don’t know. I probably should be mad at you after what you did to my guitar. But you’ve been my buddy for a long time, and friends are hard to come by in this town—”
The knock at the door made Andrew jump, even though he had been expecting it and had known it would come. Noah turned and blinked at the door as if he had completely forgotten that he had heard the car. “Who’s that?”
“How should I know?” Andrew said, getting up and wiping his hands on his trousers as he headed for the hallway.
“Your mother’s gonna have a fit,” Noah predicted.
For one moment, as he pulled the door open, Andrew pictured her standing there, battered and burned, glaring at him, the ultimate triumph in her eyes.
“Andrew Vincent?” asked the cop who stood on the porch steps. He had a red mustache frosted with gray and tired eyes. The collar of his uniform coat was turned up around his ears against the night air. Behind him stood another, younger officer, staring uneasily away from Andrew.
Andrew nodded. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you. May we come in?”
Andrew shrugged and stepped aside.
Noah jumped up and jammed his hands in his pockets. Then his face lit up as he recognized the older officer. “Hey, Burt. How ya doin’?”
Burt looked over at Noah and greeted him solemnly. Then he turned back to Andrew before Noah could attempt to continue the conversation.
“Andrew, we have some bad news for you, son.”
Andrew frowned.
“Leonora Vincent is your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, son, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was a bad accident up on Hawk’s Ridge. Apparently your mother drove her car right off the road.”
Andrew’s eyes widened. “Is she all right?”
Th
e cop pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Noah let out a soft whistle. “Jeez…”
Andrew clapped his hand to his head. He could feel himself sweating, the blood draining from his face. His head started to throb. “What happened?” he whispered.
“We don’t know for sure. Either she lost control of it, or she couldn’t tell where she was going in the dark. There weren’t any skid marks on the road. But that’s a treacherous strip up there.”
“It’s impossible,” said Andrew.
“Do you know what she was doing driving around up there at this time of night?”
“No,” said Andrew. “Well, I don’t know. We had an argument—”
“She went out in a huff,” Noah said helpfully, as if he had seen her go. “You know, people should not get into cars when they’re mad. I don’t know how many times we’ve towed a wreck over at the station that started out with someone being mad.” Noah shook his head. “His mother never drove that much anyway.”
Andrew kept a hand over his eyes and felt a surge of adrenaline course through him as he heard Noah, in his ineffectual, plodding way, giving all the credence he needed to the story.
“Is there anything we can do for you, young man?” asked the officer named Burt.
Andrew shook his head.
“Jeez, Andrew,” said Noah, coming up and gripping his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have let her leave like that. You’re right.”
“No, no. C’mon. You didn’t know this would happen.”
The whine in Noah’s voice and the sour beer on his breath made Andrew want to turn away from him, but he forced himself humbly to accept the condolences. He could feel sweat popping out at his hairline and trickling down his sides inside his shirt. His knees had begun to wobble underneath him.
Little Sister Page 19
