by Koethi Zan
And then there’d be the plow bill and, to make matters worse, propane prices had gone up. She could shut off the heat to most of the rooms again this winter and bundle up, but she had to have something. She couldn’t freeze to death, could she? That’s probably what he would expect her to do so he could pay his bar tab or whatever other trivial expenses he’d incurred out in Idaho.
But she mustn’t think that way. Even now. Even as her thoughts churned in her head and her panic mounted, she had to believe in him. There was no rationale for the damage they’d done, not if he wasn’t holy. Not if he wasn’t answering to some higher power that justified the violence he’d been obliged to render to the Unbelievers and the Servants at Hand. Of course he was. Anything else was unthinkable.
She folded his note into a small square and then turned it over again, setting it down gently in the soft purple velvet of the jewelry box that had played ‘The Blue Danube’ before she’d overwound it. She walked to the closet, opened the door, and dropped to her hands and knees, pushing aside several old pairs of shoes and a couple of moth-eaten wool sweaters that had slipped off their hangers. In the far back corner behind the black garbage bag was a slim metal lock box where she kept her cash. She fished the key out from the bottom of her shoe and opened the lid.
After counting out the crinkled bills, she placed them in small, neat stacks. Taking out the worn ledger she’d found in Mrs. Johnson’s study, she looked at last winter’s numbers. The situation was pretty dire as it was. But two hundred and fifty more? There was no way.
If he continued to carry on like this, it could cost them the farm. She pictured the bill collectors knocking on the door for money she didn’t have. And then what?
The night before she’d sifted once again through the boxes in the spare room. It was pointless really, because she couldn’t go back to the thrift store on Main Street. The last time had been a disaster. She’d put the silver on the counter and Mrs. Eldridge had lifted it up to the light, squinting. Cora had panicked. She’d forgotten about the initials.
‘Wait just a minute, this is the Johnson family silver.’ She’d stared hard at Cora. ‘This has been in that family for three generations. Now they want to sell it?’
It had been too close a call. She’d talked her way out of it that time, but that old bag would get suspicious if she came in with more of her clothes or the china set with its distinctive Wedgwood pattern.
If only James would tell her where the money was hidden. He had plenty, she knew, but he’d buried it in different spots along his planned escape route in case everything went bust. Two hundred and fifty dollars wouldn’t make any difference to him. But no, of course he’d put the burden on her. He expected her to be resourceful and knew that she’d figure out a way.
For a second she let herself think about how much she could raise if she ransomed the girl. She didn’t think she was brave enough to pull off such a scheme, but if she could manage it, she’d have enough to run away and live comfortably on her own for years. Of course, she’d have to be prepared to lose James and the farm in the bargain.
She stopped herself and took a deep breath. These thoughts were only more proof that she was evil, always ready to betray those close to her. Just like she’d done to her father. She was only out for herself, that was the truth she didn’t want to reckon with. No, she’d prove her loyalty this time, even if James wasn’t holding up his commitments exactly as she’d expected. She’d come up with something.
She sighed and put the money back in the box, sliding it into its space hidden in the long folds of Mrs. Johnson’s peach wool cowl-neck coat.
There was that old console upstairs, of course, with the stereo and television in it. She’d seen one like it in the antique store on Elm Street and had asked about it. A collectible from the 1960s, they’d said. They wanted two hundred dollars for that one. Strange how people were willing to spend their money on junk that didn’t even work.
The thought of it cheered her though. The one upstairs was in even better shape. They’d give her at least a hundred for her share. That would be a great start. Maybe that amount could temporarily satisfy James if he knew the rest would follow shortly. Then she shook her head in despair.
Of course there was a problem with this plan. A big problem.
The console was in the room with the girl.
Even if she tied the girl to the bed, Cora wouldn’t be able to carry it by herself and she couldn’t exactly pay the Folsom boy a few bucks to help her get it out of there. What would she say, never mind the captive girl in the corner? Even that dim-witted fool wasn’t so stupid as that.
Nevertheless she had to figure out a way. She had no choice.
CHAPTER 31
That afternoon Adam pulled his car slowly down the bumpy dirt road leading into Keshler’s Campground and RV Resort. ‘Resort’ seemed like an awfully strong word for it, but maybe conditions had been better twenty years ago. At least he hoped so, shuddering as he eyed the detritus scattered around. He had to stop the car once to remove a fallen branch in his path and under it had found a dead possum that must have been decomposing for at least a couple of days, already oozing with maggots. Not a lot of traffic in and out of here apparently.
There weren’t that many vehicles parked at the grounds either, maybe six or seven. It was late fall so he figured the transients had hightailed it out of there before the cold season hit. It was obvious these remaining trailers were permanent fixtures. Some had rusted-out flat tires, a couple had no means of transport attached, and one had simply given up the illusion of ever leaving and was set up on cement blocks. The weeds had grown up and around all of them. No one here appeared to be particular about lawn care.
He parked his car in the tall grass and got out, thinking of Grim’s words about being able to identify her trailer easily. He glanced around and saw a wizened man of uncertain age, shirtless and fat, sprawled out in a lawn chair in front of a yellow-and-cream RV, drinking from a bottle in a crumpled brown-paper bag. He watched Adam without interest, nodding at him slightly before taking his next swig.
And then Adam saw what Grim meant, for ahead of him was a small Airstream painted in psychedelic rainbow colors. Not the kind of thing one saw much anymore since most of the old-school hippies were running investment banks or tech firms these days. This woman had clearly not gotten her generational memo.
As he approached, he saw a small fire burning in the pit of her designated patch of yard. A cast-iron pot hung from a makeshift spit and some kind of greenish-brown glop bubbled inside it. To Adam it looked like lentils mixed with mud. Her laundry hung from a string connecting the trailer to a rusted metal post stuck in the ground at an angle. Long-faded multicolored skirts and gauzy tunics swayed in the breeze like the flags of some deserted country.
Adam stepped gingerly over a pile of old Kashmiri blankets next to the fire to make his way to the trailer. He noticed that beside the rocks lining the pit was a small, carved wooden box that must contain her marijuana supply and paraphernalia.
This had to be the place. He knocked on the door more gently than he had when he held the authority of the police force behind him. He sighed.
When there was no answer he rapped at it again. A gentle voice floated up from behind, startling him.
‘Peace, my brother,’ she said.
He turned around to face surely the oldest person alive. Dressed in clothes identical to those hanging on the line with the addition of a pair of crude leather espadrilles, she stood smiling beatifically at him, her gray hair in two loose braids tied with rags. Three rows of long, beaded necklaces draped down over her chest. She was thin and wiry, as if years of hard living in this dump had given her the strength to survive anything. Or maybe it was the pot. Whatever it was, she gave off an air of indestructibility and showed no fear of this stranger invading her space.
‘I’m looking for Jewel.’
‘And so you’ve found her,’ she smiled, her blue eyes hazily taking his measu
re. ‘Please, join me.’ She held out her open palms to him in a vague gesture of welcome and then tipped her head toward the rugs on the ground.
Adam was slightly hesitant to sit, wondering what kinds of bugs infested them. He had no choice, though, so he carefully settled himself on the edge of one. She sat down next to him and picked up the box, but then paused.
‘What spiritual force has brought you to my home, sir?’ In other words, she was asking if he was a cop.
‘Grim Stokes, actually.’
Her shoulders tensed slightly at the name but she nevertheless felt safe enough to open the box. Nestled inside were a small intricately decorated silver pipe, a red plastic gas-station lighter, and a small Ziploc filled with weed. She lifted the pipe to him, but he shook his head. She shrugged and continued.
‘What does he need?’
‘I’m not here on his behalf. He only directed me to you.’
She said nothing, focused on emptying her pipe and cleaning it with a dirty rag she’d pulled out from somewhere in her skirts. Adam grimaced to himself when she wasn’t looking.
‘I’m searching for Laura Martin. She used to live here?’
She glanced up from her work and sat still.
‘Laura –’ Her gaze drifted off above the camp, over the trees, up into the clouds. ‘That poor soul. A true wanderer of the earth. May she find peace traveling with the winds.’
‘Yes, she moved around quite a bit,’ Adam said, shifting uncomfortably onto the grass. ‘That’s why it’s been a little difficult to track her down. But I’m investigating a triple homicide.’
‘What do you want with her then?’ She put down her pipe and fingered the beads around her neck. ‘She would never have anything to do with killing. She was a good girl, that Laura. Her father, on the other hand …’
She peered deep into Adam’s eyes. ‘She needed liberation. I hope she found it,’ she said quietly.
Adam had been thinking much the same thing in recent days. The old woman reached out and took his smooth hands in her rough ones.
‘Will you help her or will you hurt her?’ she asked earnestly.
Adam felt his face go red again. How could he answer this question without betraying his intentions? Did he even know what his intentions were?
She continued to stare at him.
‘You don’t need to answer. I can see it. I can see what you mean to do.’ She closed her eyes, not letting go of his hands.
‘How can I help?’ she finally said, lifting her eyes to heaven and then releasing him. She picked her pipe up off the ground. Having cleaned it to her satisfaction, she filled and lit it. She offered it to him first, and again he refused with a shake of his head.
‘I need to know the name of her aunt. The one who wrote to them from Roanoke. I know it was a long time ago, but I’m hoping you can tell me something.’
She sat back and breathed out the smoke slowly. He noticed that the whites of her eyes now took on a pinkish hue. His hope was draining away. With this amount of pot, it was unlikely this woman could remember her own name, much less one she’d read on an envelope twenty years ago.
‘So you know about that, do you? I’m ashamed of what I did for Grim back then. It was wrong to be deceitful like that in the service of my consumerist desires.’
‘It could be helpful now. Do you know her name? The street she lived on? Anything?’
‘Oh, yes, I remember her name. Of course I do.’ She took another long, slow hit, and then gazed into the crackling fire as if transfixed.
Adam stared at her in shock. This wasn’t possible. Perhaps she was hallucinating.
‘It was such a beautiful and poetic name that I remembered it always. A name of the earth and sky. I named my orange-and-white tabby after her. Sadly, she wandered off into the wild blue yonder.’
She was rambling.
‘Can you tell me the name?’ he prodded gently.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘You want me to come back tomorrow?’
‘I mean that was her name. “Tomorrow”. Magical, isn’t it?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Adam was skeptical. She was in a drug haze after all. ‘What about the last name?’
‘I only remember Tomorrow. I hope that will help you with your journey.’ Again she held out the pipe to him and again he shook his head. Then she set it down on a rock, and stood up to stir her strange gruel.
Adam took that as his cue to leave and rose to shake her hand. Instead, she embraced him, resting her head on his chest, much to his embarrassment.
‘You will know what to do when the time comes. I can feel it,’ she whispered. Adam shivered as if she’d given him a bad omen or cursed his soul.
Back in his hotel, he furiously searched the Whitepages online for someone named Tomorrow in Roanoke. No luck. It was possible that Jewel had fried so many brain cells she was entirely unreliable, or perhaps when she’d gazed into his eyes, she’d seen that his intentions were not pure after all and she’d sent him down a false trail. Either way, it didn’t matter. He’d wasted all this time in Stillwater and was no closer to the truth.
Why did he think he could track her down? No documents, no criminal record, no history of government benefits, constant name changes, and stops all over the country. This was a wild goose chase and he’d never get anywhere.
He tossed and turned all night on his lumpy mattress, cold because the heating unit in his room barely functioned despite its unceasing rumbling. The streetlights outside the window shone through the unlined brown-and-beige curtains, and one of them was blinking at irregular intervals like a form of Chinese torture. He pulled the thin, stale-smelling blankets up to his chin. What would he do next? Go home? Admit he was a failure?
He rolled over, half expecting Deirdre to be there beside him. He fumbled for his phone on the bedside table. It was two a.m. He couldn’t call her now. It was surprising how much he’d come to depend on her, to need her. He turned off his phone and lay there staring into the dark.
And then it suddenly occurred to him. Something had been bouncing around in his mind since he’d heard that name today. It was as if the clouds had parted and the sun’s rays had burst through in his head like the painting on Jewel’s trailer.
He jumped out of bed, oblivious now to the chill in the air, and threw himself down on his knees in front of his boxes of files. He pulled out the atlas and flipped through its hard, crinkled pages. He knew he’d seen it somewhere, he’d paged through this book a thousand times. Where was it?
And then, there on page 82 was the scribble. It wasn’t in her handwriting, but there it was: ‘Tamara, 654–7291’. The numbers had been scratched out but he was pretty sure he had them right. Perhaps the four was a nine, but that was nothing. This must be what she meant. She wasn’t named Tomorrow, it was Tamara, and now he had an area code he could pair with the number. The area code for Roanoke.
CHAPTER 32
The day began with steps on the stairs at the wrong time. Julie had become accustomed to the rigid schedule of her imprisonment: the twice-daily feedings, twice-weekly bucket of soap and warm water, twice-monthly laundered clothes. Any variance pricked at her nerves, for it would inevitably require her to make spur-of-the-moment decisions and take actions that could seal her fate forever. So it was with great trepidation that she listened and counted the footfalls to her door, picturing that wretched bitch bounding clumsily up the stairs. Sure enough, she heard her trip on the last step up, stumbling back to her feet, no doubt, just in time to reach the top.
Yes, she was far too early today. Something was up.
With seconds to spare, Julie scrambled up onto the bed into position, waiting for the peephole cover to slide open so her obedience could be confirmed. This time, though, the woman didn’t check in on her first. What did it mean?
The woman’s altered appearance was her next tip-off that something was amiss. She’d taken extra care with her looks that day, not that it did her much good. For the first time in Julie’s m
emory, not a stray hair spilled out of the brown bun wound tightly on the top of her head. It had been pinned with meticulous symmetry and sprayed flat, shiny with gel.
She wore makeup too, blue eyeshadow and a peachy blush that made her look even older and slightly comic, like a cheap vaudeville player who’d forgotten to wash it off after the show. Yet, in contrast to her garish face, she was dressed for hard labor in Carhartt overalls with an oversized black-and-white checked flannel shirt underneath. Nothing made sense, and that’s what triggered Julie’s panic.
There was something else too. Something that made Julie sit up and take notice from a different angle. The woman’s daily mask of indifference had been replaced by the slightest shadow of fear. Oh, she was trying to hide it, but Julie knew better. Her animal instincts began to awaken and unfurl. Like a cat in the jungle, she sensed weakness. A twinge of hope began its slow crawl out of her heart and down through her skin. Her fingertips tingled.
The old witch barely glanced at Julie as she placed a large canvas bag in front of the bed and knelt down on the floor beside it, plunging both hands in. She lifted out a large spool of thin rope and a pair of vintage dressmaker’s shears like the ones in the costume shop at school. Julie knew they’d be sharp, and she knew the damage they could do.
The woman set them next to the bed, inches from Julie’s bare toes. Julie stared at those shears with a feeling approaching lust. If only she had the courage, she could pounce on them now. She pictured herself jabbing them into the woman’s chest and running like mad while that harridan seized up in death throes behind her.
Just at the moment she needed to act, however, she blanched. When it came down to it, she couldn’t do it. Not like that. And then the chance had passed, for the woman had taken up the shears in her calloused hands, unwound a length of rope, and snipped it off. The shears went back in the bag and were pushed far out of Julie’s reach.
