The Winter Widow

by Charlene Weir

  “Who?”

  “Slut. Showed her. Good riddance. Nothing left now. Plenty of nice little ol’ gals around. All sweaty palms and willing when ol’ Vic gets to ’em.” He popped open another can. Beer spurted and dripped on his pants.

  Drunks could change moods in a flash. What was holding up Parkhurst? Just keep ol’ Vic talking until he gets here. “Do you know—”

  “Nobody knows. Nobody’s business. Nobody’s but mine. Not Lucille’s. Watching. Thought I didn’t know. Ol’ Vic always knows. Thought she could find out. Prying eyes. Lucille had prying eyes.”

  “Lucille?” she murmured.

  “Rid of her. Just like Emma Lou. Won’t give ol’ Vic any more trouble.” He laughed; the harsh bark became a choking cough. Leaning forward, he hacked and gasped, finally cleared his throat and poured more beer down it.

  “Prying eyes,” he muttered. He drank and gazed at the can. “You’re not drinking,” he said with soft menace. “Beer not good enough for you?”

  Her heart raced at the sudden change. He now had an alert intentness, as if he were listening, as though somewhere far back in the tangled jungle of his mind a twig had snapped. The sleeping beast lifted its head and tested for scent.

  Raising the can to her mouth, she let the tepid beer touch her lips but swallowed only her own saliva, and gauged the distance to the door.

  “Prying eyes. Things happen to pretty ladies with prying eyes. Look what happened to Lucille. Would you have prying eyes, pretty lady?” There was an oily intimacy in his voice.

  He emptied his beer and placed the can very quietly on the floor, then smirked and rolled his shoulders. Chuckling with a little snorting rasp like a stallion, he placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “Been a long time since I had a pretty little thing like you.”

  She was aware of the black hair on the back of his hands, the thick black hair on his chest, the rank smell mixed with alcohol fumes. Very slowly, she moved the can of beer to her left hand.

  “We’re gonna get along just fine.” His obscene smirking face leaned toward her. “Think you’re too good for ol’ Vic?” He snorted.

  She imagined flaring nostrils and stamping hooves. Even more slowly, her right hand went toward her bag resting against her thigh.

  “I like snotty ladies.” He winked. “Nothing more fun than teaching ’em to be nice. You’re wanting it. Been a week since your man got himself killed. Been missing it. Don’t know what kind of man ol’ Dan was when it come to pleasurin’ you, but no way he could compare with ol’ Vic.”

  Her hand slid into the bag and curled around the .38.

  He lunged at her.

  She threw the beer at him and drew out the gun. The full can struck his cheekbone. She jumped up, twisting to face him as he sprawled on the couch. She backed a step.

  He sat up, touched fingers to the cut on his cheek and looked at the blood. “Now, that’s gonna cost you. Till you’ll be pleadin’ with ol’ Vic.”

  “Just sit right there.” She held the gun in both hands and backed another step. Her foot came down on an empty can. It rolled and she fell. Her elbow hit the floor and pain rushed up her arm.

  Quick as a snake, he threw himself at her and knocked her flat. She tried to roll, but his upper body, at an angle to hers, weighed heavy on her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs. He tore the gun from her fingers and with a side-hand fling, tossed it away.

  She panted, trying to catch her breath.

  He grinned. “That’s right, pretty lady. You gonna be just fine. Ol’ Vic gonna teach you some fun.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HIS grin broadened, flesh all crinkled around his eyes, his foul breath came in hard gusts against her face. A knee pinned one arm, at her side, his heavy weight crushed her chest, and his hand held her other wrist to the floor beside her head.

  She lay very still, sucking air into her lungs. Goddammit, I can’t move my arms. Don’t panic. My legs are free. Wait. In a minute. Air.

  He raised himself slightly, shifting his weight to his knees, causing agony in her arm but allowing her to pull in a welcome breath.

  With his free hand, he caressed her throat, then squeezed gently. “Gonna teach you like you never knew.”

  Filthy creep. Taking a breath, she drove one knee into his ribs and smacked her forehead against his nose. He grunted, released her arm and clapped her on the side of the head. Lights spun behind her eyes, sound rushed in her ears.

  She drove a fist into his neck and felt a numbing sting go up her arm. He pulled his head aside.

  Twisting her body, she got a knee against his ribs, smashed the heel of her hand up under his nose, then pushed with her knee in a desperate panic.

  She managed to unbalance him enough to scramble free. He grabbed an ankle. She kicked with her other foot, kicked again. His grip loosened. She scooted on her rear. Bending forward, she got on hands and knees, then stood up fast.

  He leered at her and came up on the balls of his feet in a gangly crouch. Light from the television flickered on his heavy face. In the kitchen, the dog barked.

  Vic moved around her in a shambling circle. Relentless, like a freight train. She kept turning to face him.

  The dog barked louder.

  Over the grunting rasp of Vic’s breathing, she heard a noise. Car? She listened, straining to hear. Vic reached for her. She slashed down at his arm and kicked his knee.

  Someone pounded on the door.

  Jumping to one side, she kicked hard into the back of his knee and jerked down on his shirt collar. He fell with a thud.

  With a splintering crack, the front door flew open and banged against the wall. Parkhurst came in, handgun drawn.

  She stared at him, breathing in short gasps. By God, the cavalry. She had never been so pleased to see him. His cold eyes stared at Vic and she got the impression of strong emotion held under tight control.

  With a slight turn of his head, Parkhurst flicked his glance at her. “You damn fool—”

  Vic exploded into a shambling lunge—awkward as he looked, he was cat-quick—and slammed a shoulder into Parkhurst’s hip. Parkhurst flew back against the door jamb. Vic was on him in an instant. Grappling for the gun, he smashed Parkhurst’s hand against the wall. The gun dropped. He planted a fist under Parkhurst’s ribs; Parkhurst slumped. Then that tight control shattered and Parkhurst came boiling up, face twisted with naked fury.

  “Parkhurst—”

  Vic swung with both fists. Parkhurst tucked his jaw into a curled shoulder and raised a forearm. Vic hammered away at arm, elbow, and shoulder, each hit accompanied with a hard explosive uff. Parkhurst, in a loose crouch, dodged and sidestepped and maneuvered away from the doorway to the center of the room. He landed a blow under Vic’s ear.

  “Knock it off!” The television flickered light and shadows over sweaty, grimacing faces.

  Vic, smile frozen on his heavy face, brought a fist up under Parkhurst’s protective forearm, and Parkhurst’s head flew back. He snarled and pounded right fist and left fist fast into Vic’s midsection.

  She edged around them, flicked on the overhead light, then knelt by the recliner and clawed through dust for her gun. Her fingers touched the wooden grip; she grabbed it and stood. Leveling it at the two grappling, grunting men, she yelled, “Freeze!”

  Parkhurst ground a heel into Vic’s instep and smacked an elbow up under his jaw.

  “Parkhurst!” She grabbed at his arm and he brushed her away like a bothersome gnat. She staggered back and fell.

  In continuous motion, he whipped a backhand across Vic’s eyes, gouged a thumb in his throat and slapped, palm open, against one ear. With a grunt of effort, he jammed a fist just below Vic’s belt.

  Oh Jesus, Parkhurst was going to kill him. She scrambled to her feet.

  Parkhurst grabbed a wrist, spun Vic around and jerked his arm high up between the shoulder blades, then ran Vic three steps into the wall. Vic’s head smacked with a force that shook the house. He dropped, made one
effort to get up, then sprawled, resting his cheek on the grimy floor.

  Parkhurst stood over him, breathing hard, fists clenched, jaw set and eyes glazed with hatred. He turned to her. Just as volatile, just as scary as Vic. “Why the fuck didn’t you wait?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Half afraid of him, she crossed the room, snapped off the television set and, crossing her arms, turned to face him.

  She saw him regain control. It happened in seconds, as though he pulled a shield around himself; his face smoothed into an expressionless mask, his eyes became opaque and he unclenched his fists. The only remainder of his uncontrolled fury was a muscle twitch in his jaw.

  “You ever heard of unnecessary force?”

  “It’s the only thing he understands.”

  “What he understands won’t cut it. What I understand is you cannot knock around suspects.”

  Parkhurst looked at her. “You sorry I showed up?”

  She took a breath. No, she wasn’t sorry, she’d been damn glad to see him. “That doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

  “Well, ma’am—Chief—if I promise, scout’s honor, I’ll never do it again, will that satisfy you?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Parkhurst. Assault charges against Vic could be dropped because of your actions.”

  Parkhurst raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying to me, ma’am, stick to the rules?”

  God damn him. She felt her face flush with anger. She took a breath. “What took you so long. Henninger’s is five minutes away.”

  He closed the front door, retrieved his gun, then fingered his ribs and rolled his shoulders. “I told you I was at Engle’s Corner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Truck stop thirty miles north. I’ve been busy.” From an inside jacket pocket, he withdrew a search warrant and slapped it into her hand.

  She studied it for a long moment; duly signed by a judge. “How’d you manage this?”

  “It took a little doing. Emma Lou’s parents were glad to see me. They’ve been worried. She always phoned every two or three weeks and they haven’t heard from her. They tried to call and Vic always told them she was out somewhere, shopping, at a neighbor’s. They’re afraid he killed her and they jumped on filing a missing-person’s. That had to go through the sheriff’s department. There’s a deputy right behind me.”

  Parkhurst looked at Vic. “His habit of beating up on Emma Lou had her at the doctor’s office a few times, once in the hospital. And we managed to find one woman willing to swear she heard Vic threaten Emma Lou.”

  Vic stirred, thrashed around and got himself into a sitting position. He shook his head, then shook it again. “Like to broke my eardrum. Can’t hear nothing but fizz.”

  When the sheriff’s deputy arrived, he escorted Vic out, to be taken to the county jail and booked for assault.

  “Look around at this place,” Susan said after they left. “Everything is broken-down and grubby, except for some very expensive new items. Like the Cadillac in front, and this.” She tapped the television set. “And those.” She nodded at the rifles propped in the corner. “You think maybe Vic has gotten his hands on some money lately?”

  Parkhurst’s dark eyes took inventory of the room.

  He grunted, and they searched the small house, being very careful not to get in each other’s way, not to look at each other, like two dogs who weren’t obliged to fight as long as they didn’t acknowledge the other’s presence.

  Dirty dishes caked with rotting food teetered on the kitchen counters and sink. The dog curled up under the table as far away from them as she could get.

  “This is Lulu,” Susan said.

  Parkhurst squatted on his heels, spoke softly, and stretched out a hand. The dog crept forward and licked the hand, then rolled over so Parkhurst could rub the exposed belly.

  “I’ll take her to a neighbor,” he said, as he rose to his feet. “Probably better off there anyway.”

  The bathroom sported a tub and basin coated with grime. The bedroom, tangle of dirty sheets on the bed, exuded an even stronger odor of predator’s den. One room was filled with junk. Parkhurst was efficient and thorough, and she understood why Daniel had appreciated him. They found nothing that belonged to Emma Lou—no clothing, jewelry or cosmetics. No pictures, letters, bills. Nothing. Every trace of her presence had been removed.

  “How much land does he own?” Susan asked.

  Parkhurst smiled, one of those rare smiles that dramatically changed his dark look. “Over three hundred and fifty acres.”

  * * *

  THE sky was a sullen gray on Saturday morning when she drove back to Vic’s farm. Parkhurst and Osey, standing inside the dilapidated barn, both turned to look at her as she crunched through ice-crusted slush toward them. Parkhurst, in faded denims and black leather jacket, acknowledged her presence with a short nod; Osey, collar of his sheepskin jacket turned up, grinned and hitched up his blue jeans. Beside the barn sat a pickup and horse trailer with two saddled horses.

  “Whose are they?” she asked.

  “Otto’s,” Osey said. “Borrowed. Always lets us if we need to.”

  “Nothing in the barn,” Parkhurst said.

  Good. She didn’t relish clambering around through junk in a structure that looked as if it might come crashing down if anything was disturbed.

  Behind the barn was a small shed that held a jumble of tools: spades and shovels, ropes and chains, empty gas cans, odds and ends, all rusted and uncared-for.

  Several feet from the shed was a large rectangular pit, eight feet long and four feet wide, filled with burned, blackened refuse. A new layer of garbage had been thrown over the top, and it was covered with snow. Parkhurst crouched on his boot heels at the edge of the pit and with a gloved hand brushed away snow, picked up a handful of ashes and let it filter through his fingers.

  “Vic doused this with gasoline,” he said. “I’d guess he threw a mattress on top, soaked everything and set fire to it.” He looked up at Susan with a gleam of malice in his dark eyes. “We need to go through every inch of it.”

  She nodded.

  “We’re looking for bones,” he said. “Human bones.”

  “Indeed, I did know that.”

  Osey loped to the pickup and brought back a tarp, which he spread over the snow at the side of the pit. Then he began to shovel out small mounds of debris and tip them onto the tarp. He whistled softly while he worked.

  She sifted through muck. Beside her, Parkhurst did the same, working carefully. They didn’t speak, and Osey every now and then threw them an anxious glance, like a child upset by friction between the grown-ups. As the morning went on, the sky turned a brighter gray and the chill of the wind softened. She felt gritty with ash; it blackened her gloves, got in her eyes, coated her mouth and grated against her teeth.

  For their trouble, they found metal belt buckles, metal hardware from a suitcase, a few melted lumps that were probably buttons, and pieces of jewelry. They also found bones: small bones and pieces of bones. Each item was put into a plastic bag and labeled. As the pit got deeper so did Parkhurst’s look of dissatisfaction.

  It was past noon before they finished. She stretched and twisted her aching back. Osey cheerfully shoveled the mess back into the pit.

  “Well?” she asked Parkhurst.

  “Nothing.”

  “The bones?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a pathologist, but my guess is animal bones.”

  Yeah, she thought so too.

  Squinting, he looked past the barn and across the hills. “A lot of space to dump a body, if there is a body.”

  She brushed filth and ash from her jeans, then washed her hands and face in the icy water from the outside pump. Osey washed, drifted away, and ambled back with a paper sack and a thermos.

  “Sandwiches,” he said. “Hazel thought we might need them.”

  In Parkhurst’s Bronco with the motor running and the heater on, they munched through thick ham-and-cheese sandwiches and
drank coffee. The relief from the cold was welcome.

  “Vic still isn’t talking,” Parkhurst said. “Probably by this afternoon he’ll have sobered up enough to want a lawyer. Then he’ll get out on bail.” Parkhurst’s mouth tightened against his teeth in a smile. “For our own safety, any searching ought to get done before Vic gets back. Let’s go.”

  They all climbed out of the Bronco and traipsed to the horse trailer. Osey was eager, like a Boy Scout on a camping trip, but Parkhurst, she felt, had some reluctance and it puzzled her. He was a hunter and the closer he got to the quarry, the more coldly satisfied he became, so why the reluctance?

  Osey backed out a trim chestnut mare with a white blaze. Skittish after the long confinement, she arched her neck, tossed her head and pranced sideways with her white stockings flashing. She was a beauty.

  Osey dropped the reins and the mare stood, but couldn’t resist a waggle of her rear with a fast up and down of back hooves. Osey cinched up the girth, then backed out the other horse, a placid bay gelding.

  Parkhurst stood well back, his face impassive, making no offer to assist, and she suddenly understood his reluctance. He didn’t ride, or at least was uneasy about his ability. Well well, so you can’t do everything. Ha. All those riding lessons she’d wheedled from her father had just paid off. Osey tightened the girth on the bay, picked up the reins and handed them to Parkhurst.

  “Drive along the access roads,” he told her. “Take any possible side tracks and keep an eye on the terrain. Look at anything suspicious. I doubt Vic would want to lug a body very far. He’d pick a spot fairly accessible by vehicle.”

  “You take the roads, I’ll take the horse.”

  He looked at her, then with a caustic twitch to his mouth, held out the bay’s reins.

  “I’ll ride the mare,” she said.

  Osey looked worried, and stammered, “Oh well— I don’t—The bay is—”

  She winked at him and he blushed. Gathering the reins, she swung lightly into the clunky western saddle and the mare danced with eagerness.

  Osey, moving fast, caught the bridle. “Ma’am, this little horse is … frisky. I don’t think— You could get hurt. Have you ever ridden before?”