“Arrested?”
“That’s what usually happens to people who hire someone to destroy property.”
Bernina paled, put her fingertips to her lips. “You wouldn’t . . . ?”
Joseph’s anger suddenly left him; he felt spent both from it and from his growing concern for Steph. “No, I’m not going to the sheriff, if that’s what you’re thinking. That would discredit the Friends and destroy everything we’ve worked for. I’m hoping they’re so focused on Eldon’s disappearance and the fire at the mill that the water bag incident has become a minor issue.”
Jessie cleared her throat. “Joseph, I think you should know that Bernina visited Eldon at his motel the night he disappeared.”
Good God, would the unpleasant surprises never stop coming? “Why?”
Bernina said, “I wanted to tell him I supported his efforts, even if you didn’t.”
“Did you also tell him about hiring the sniper?”
“Yes. He congratulated me.”
“Jesus! And then what? He decided to disappear and create an even bigger commotion?”
“No, no. It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know why he disappeared, and I didn’t have anything to do with it. You have to believe that.”
“I don’t have to believe anything you say.” He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do: Get in your car and drive, I don’t care where. San Francisco, farther south—anyplace so long as it’s a long way from here. Make yourself unavailable till after the water board hearings.”
“And then?”
“Then you resign from the Friends. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Say you’ve been having health problems or something.”
“But what will I do with myself? The Friends are all I have.”
“Too bad. If I were you, I’d seriously consider moving away from here. Go back to Maine, wherever. What you did is going to come out, but the sheriff is less likely to pursue an investigation if you’re history.”
Bernina’s mouth turned down, but she didn’t protest, just bowed her head and moved away into the parlor.
Joseph said to Jessie, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
STEPH PACE
She must have passed out from the heat, because now she was lying on her back, enveloped in a refreshing coolness. The light under the door had turned a murky gray. Near evening, then, and still no one had come for her.
She got onto her knees, crawled to the door. Lay flat on her stomach, nose to the crack, and breathed deeply of fresh air scented with growing things and damp earth. Her mouth and the membranes of her nose were dry, her lips cracked. She was hungry and thirsty, and she tried not to think about food or water.
After a moment she pushed up and rocked back on her heels. The motion made her light-headed. She braced her palms on the floor beside her.
When the dizziness cleared, she got to her feet and began feeling around the walls again. Nothing but the shelf she’d discovered earlier. She moved her hands over it slowly but touched only the plastic spray bottle, twine, and the bag with its hardened contents. Down on her knees again, she began feeling along the bottom of the wall. There might be some gap in the foundation that she’d missed.
Halfway along the wall opposite the door, her fingers encountered a small object that was lodged between the board and the concrete. She pulled it out and felt it. Hard plastic, odd shape, with curves and ridges. Some kind of toy. Yes, a toy soldier. Like the ones Max and Shelby had marched across a make-believe battlefield . . .
Now she knew where she was: the old potting shed in Timothy McNear’s garden.
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
The clerk at the Cape Perdido Chevron station told Timothy that Joseph Openshaw lived on Oceanside Drive. “There’s a little yellow house with this funky outbuilding behind it. The outbuilding’s his.”
Until now, Timothy had never considered the advantages of living in a town where everyone knew everyone else and his business. Previously the enforced closeness had only presented drawbacks.
Oceanside Drive branched off the highway near the feed-and-surplus store and meandered uphill for about half a mile. The houses were all small, shingled or clapboard, and architecturally insignificant. A car was pulled up in front of the bright yellow house, and a woman was loading suitcases into it. Timothy parked next to the drainage ditch by the side of the road and walked over there. The woman was Bernina Tobin, head of the Friends of the Perdido. When she saw him, she slammed the car’s trunk and hurried inside the house.
Timothy went around to the makeshift building at the rear of the lot and knocked on its door. No response. An old van with a license plate holder from a Sacramento dealership stood at an odd angle to the structure, as if its driver had been in too much of a hurry to park it properly. Openshaw had probably gone somewhere on foot.
Another advantage to a town like this: if you knew enough about a person, you could figure out what establishments he would frequent. Joseph would eat at the Blue Moon and do his drinking at the Deluxe. It was not yet dinnertime, and the Deluxe was only three blocks away. Timothy set out for it.
The bar was reasonably crowded, dark, and smoky. Its owner had probably never heard of the county’s antismoking ordinances, Timothy thought, and they weren’t enforced with any regularity, anyway. Many of the sheriff’s deputies entrusted with that task could be found lighting up in here when their shifts ended.
He peered around and found Joseph Openshaw seated at a table with a long-limbed young woman whose dark hair swirled windblown about the collar of her blue sweater. The two were leaning across the table, conversing intensely. As Timothy crossed the room toward them, he ignored the hostile stares that many of the patrons aimed his way.
Openshaw looked up at his approach, dark eyes registering surprise. “Mr. McNear,” he said.
“Mr. Openshaw.” He directed his gaze at the woman. “And this is . . . ?”
“Jessie Domingo,” the woman said. “Of Environmental Consultants Clearinghouse.”
“Ah, yes. One of the people who came from New York to help the Friends.” He looked around, located an empty chair. “May I join you two?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Openshaw asked.
Jessie Domingo put a hand on Joseph’s arm, said to Timothy, “Please do.”
He moved the chair to the table and sat, suddenly weary. It had been a long day, and he sensed there was a lot more to be gotten through.
“A drink?” the Domingo girl asked.
“Please. Scotch.”
She looked at Openshaw. “Joseph?”
He hesitated, then shrugged and went to get it.
Timothy turned his attention to the young woman. She was quite attractive in a natural way, her face devoid of makeup, even lipstick. He wondered if she affected such a look in New York, or if there she transformed herself into one of the sleek, impeccably dressed women he’d seen on his infrequent visits to the city, crowding the Manhattan sidewalks as they went about business or pleasure. She smiled at him, seemingly content to await Openshaw’s return in silence.
Joseph came back with the drink, placed it in front of Timothy on a napkin bearing a caricature of the bar’s owner. Timothy waited a moment before picking it up, not wanting to seem as badly in need of liquid courage as he actually was. When he sipped, the cheap blend burned raw in his throat.
The two were watching him, curiosity plain in their eyes. He set the glass down and asked, “How private a conversation can we hold here?”
Openshaw looked around, and Timothy’s eyes followed his somewhat amused gaze. The crowd was an eclectic one, ranging from those who had recently achieved drinking age to those he could count as his seniors. Singles, couples, larger groups—all were intent on their drinks or their pool games, their own conversations or solitary thoughts. After the initial flurry of interest in Timothy, no one was paying him any attention.
Openshaw said, “About as private as if you were in chur
ch talking to your confessor. What do you want?”
“Are you aware that Stephanie Pace is missing?”
The two exchanged a swift glance. Openshaw said, “What do you know about that?”
“Only this.” He related what Curtis Hope had told him.
When he had finished, Openshaw drummed his fingertips on the tabletop, studying him. The Domingo girl was frowning, obviously trying to fit the information into some private mental scheme. Finally Openshaw said, “How did you know Steph had made an appointment to see Curt?”
This was the point where he would have to proceed cautiously. “She did so at my request.”
“Why?”
“Because I felt it was time we resolved what happened the night Mack Kudge was murdered.”
Openshaw glanced at Jessie Domingo, shifted uneasily in his chair. She returned his look with a puzzled one.
Joseph said to her, “I’ll explain later.” And to Timothy, “Why now? At this particular time?”
Tell the truth and perhaps all the dominoes will fall. Lie, and further jeopardize Miss Stephanie’s life and safety.
Decision time, old man. What’s it going to be?
Topple the dominoes, if necessary. For Miss Stephanie. You owe her that much.
“Because,” he said, “the waterbaggers are blackmailing me for the use of my land, and I intend to put a stop to it.”
JESSIE DOMINGO
As the two men spoke, events of a night only six years after she was born unfolded in front of Jessie.
“. . . came back from making my speech in Sacramento, found the body . . .”
“. . . knew you’d moved it. Nobody else would’ve . . .”
“. . . took it to the mill . . .”
“. . . covered up for all three of us . . .”
“. . . no, for myself . . . couldn’t have anyone find out about my mistake with Stephanie . . .”
“. . . or maybe you were in the house all along, McNear, and killed him . . .”
“. . . can prove I wasn’t . . .”
“. . . then who?”
“Doesn’t matter now. What does is that the waterbaggers claim they have an eyewitness who saw me moving the body. That’s what they’re holding over my head.”
“How do you know they’re not bluffing?”
“They have exact details: how I put him in the tarp, loaded him into the wheelbarrrow, cleaned up the blood . . .”
“So who is this witness?”
“You ought to know, Joseph.”
“Me? Why?”
“I believe Stephanie when she says she never told. Curtis denies it, too, and I’m convinced he’s being honest with me.”
“Wait a minute! You’re accusing me of going to those people with ammunition that would destroy the Perdido?”
“Maybe you weren’t thinking about the river. Maybe your desire to destroy me overshadowed those feelings.”
“Why would I want to destroy you? You never even crossed my mind after I left the Cape.”
“I very much doubt that. You loved Stephanie and you’ve never forgiven me for my mistake with her.”
“I wouldn’t call it a mistake.”
“. . . Never mind that. The fact remains that you’re the only one who could have told those people about what I did that night. You must have witnessed the whole thing.”
The whole thing, Jessie thought. Something about the way he says that . . .
Joseph’s face contorted, and he flattened his hands on the table, about to rise. “No way! When Curt and I left, Mack’s body was just lying there in your garden. We went to the beach at Cauldron Creek and met Steph. She can corroborate that.”
Jessie grabbed his arm, restrained him, and said, “Mr. McNear, who was it from Aqueduct Systems that contacted you?”
He looked at her, eyes blank for an instant. In the heat of the argument he’d forgotten she was there. “Gregory Erickson.”
“Did he tell you how he located this eyewitness?”
“. . . No.”
“But his knowing the details frightened you enough that you were willing to grant them a right-of-way across your land.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Moving a dead body is a crime, but not all that serious. And a long time has passed—maybe even the statute of limitations. I would think the authorities would be lenient with you, in view of your standing in the community.”
Joseph added, “What I still don’t understand is why you’ve suddenly changed your mind and are admitting what you did, after first caving in to the waterbaggers’ pressure tactics.”
“I thought I made that clear. Stephanie Pace is missing. My community is being torn apart. I can’t sit by and do nothing.”
Joseph said, “Very commendable. I wish I believed your motives were that unselfish. But since you insist you want to do something, what do you propose?”
“First we will find Stephanie. Then I will go public with the details of that night. It won’t be easy on you or the others, but since I don’t intend to press charges on the burglary—”
The door to the bar opened, and Curtis Hope stood there. His hair was wind tangled, his face ruddy with the cold. He spotted them and rushed over to the table. Confusion muddied his features when he recognized McNear. “What’re you doing here?” he asked him.
“Speaking of the same matters as I did with you.”
“Busy, aren’t you?” He hesitated. “Well, I found something. I don’t know if it’s got to do with Steph disappearing or not, but after we talked, I went to the beach at Cauldron Creek and looked around. This was lodged between the rocks where I found the blood.” He held out an old-fashioned wrist-watch with a leather band that had torn loose on one side.
Joseph leaned forward. “I’ve never seen it before. McNear?”
McNear held out his hand, examined it for a long moment, then shook his head.
Curtis said, “Maybe the cops can trace it.”
“And how long d’you think that would take?” Joseph asked. “We need to find Steph right away.”
“How?”
“She has a lot of friends in this town; I say we contact them and mount a search tonight. In the meantime you”—he motioned at McNear—“go to the sheriff’s department and get them started on an official investigation. Tell them everything, if you have to.”
McNear nodded, his face gray and waxen.
“How can I help?” Jessie asked.
“You wouldn’t be of much use in the search,” Joseph said. “It’s getting dark, and it’ll be hard enough for people who know the territory. But there is one thing you can do: those reports on Erickson and Woodsman that Eldon received—contact that private investigator and find out what was in them. If the information is damaging to either, maybe Eldon planned to use pressure tactics on him.”
She nodded. “I’ll try, even if I have to go to San Francisco and meet with Tom Little in person.”
“Okay,” Joseph said. “Curt, you come with me, and we’ll mobilize a search party.”
As the two men left the bar, Jessie turned to speak to McNear, but again he seemed to have forgotten her presence. In his eyes was the greatest expression of sadness she’d ever seen, and his long, slender fingers moved over the face of the old watch as if it were a talisman.
JOSEPH OPENSHAW
The searchers assembled in the parking lot of the Blue Moon, bundled against the cold, flashlights in hand. Joseph had been able to rally most of the Friends; the restaurant staff had contacted other locals; Curtis had enlisted a number of people from the rez. Arletta and Tony had closed the restaurant and turned it into a headquarters where they would field calls and relay any news to the searchers via cell phones. As everyone spread out into the night, heading toward the areas they knew best, Joseph felt a faint stirring of hope.
By now Timothy McNear would have contacted the sheriff’s department. By now a story suppressed
for two decades had been aired. McNear had said he would not press charges against Steph, Curt, and Joseph for the burglary, but—in the absence of other viable suspects—they would come under suspicion of Mack Kudge’s murder. Even if they were cleared, their friends and neighbors would never regard them in the same way.
Well, maybe that was the incentive all three of them needed to jump-start the lives that had been stalled all those years ago. Maybe it was the incentive he and Steph needed to jump-start the relationship that had been there all along in spite of his denials.
If they found Steph. If they found her alive . . .
STEPH PACE
No light at all coming under the door now, and she was cold. Her head ached, and her mouth was dry and she was beginning to hear things.
Footsteps. They were there, and then they weren’t.
Voices. Or perhaps it was only the wind in the trees.
I’m losing my mind.
Get a grip on yourself.
I can’t hold it together much longer.
You’ve got to. If he comes back, you know what you have to do.
And you know who he is. He made a mistake with you, a bad one that you didn’t even realize till now.
She hugged herself but didn’t stop shivering. Tried to convince herself that knowing her enemy was half the battle, but that didn’t help, either.
More footsteps that weren’t footsteps.
More voices that were only wind rattling the palm fronds.
Another spasm of shivers hit her, worse than any she’d experienced before. She hugged herself tighter, rocked back and forth in an effort to generate some body heat.
Hold it together. You can do it.
Hold on!
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
Timothy laid the watch on his kitchen table, pulled the phone toward him, and punched in half of the number he knew by heart but had never called. Then he broke the connection and stared at the instrument as if it were a weapon he was about to turn upon himself.
Cape Perdido Page 18
