Chance McCall (16 page)

And then he pulled himself back beneath the bed and began to hum “The Yellow Rose of Texas” as he worked.

Chance didn’t hear Charlie’s last words. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. By the time Chance reached the desk, Charlie Rollins had forgotten that he’d ever said them.

Chance drove up one street and down another, his eyes searching constantly for something familiar. The acres and acres of pump jacks at the edges of the city were mind boggling. He knew from the signs on the highways, that the Permian Basin, on which Odessa rested, was one of the richest oil fields in the United States, maybe the world.

He took careful note of the business he passed. Especially the older ones. But nothing rang true. He watched the faces of the people on the street, hoping that someone would look familiar…or that he’d look familiar to one of them. He was desperate for anything that would tell him that he’d once been a resident of Odessa.

Yet the oddest thing kept happening. No matter which side street he took, or how far off the main highway he drove, he invariably came back to Grandfield. The street kept taking him places and then pulling him back. Chance didn’t know how. It had to be instinct. It damn sure wasn’t something conscious. As far as he could tell, he’d never been here before in his life.

“Did you see that?”

“What?” Bettye Collins asked, as she swiveled the chair back to face the mirror, combed and parted another section of hair on Dotty Parson’s head, then snipped.

She had to finish this cut and style. She had a perm due in forty-five minutes and it would take hours to finish. She’d be lucky if the perm lady’s hair didn’t fall out on the rollers. She’d had one too many home-bleach jobs. Bettye had talked for over an hour on the phone, trying to persuade the woman to wait until her scalp healed and her hair was in better shape, but the woman was adamant. She had a class reunion to attend and wanted to look like a million bucks. It was Bettye’s opinion that she’d never look like that, even if she had the money to prove it.

“Did I see what?” Bettye prompted, as she snipped a good inch of split ends off of Dotty’s hair.

Dotty Parson’s mouth was hanging open like a landlocked fish on the banks of a pond. “That old red pickup truck. The one that just turned the corner and headed east. I swear on my mamma’s grave, that was Logan Henry.” And then she frowned. “At least it looked like he used to look. You know, before he got all gray and gained that twenty pounds.”

“You’re seeing things,” Bettye said. “Logan Henry wouldn’t be caught dead driving an old dirty pickup truck.”

“I guess,” Dotty said, and frowned at herself in the mirror. “Do you think I’d look good as a redhead?”

“Only if you never set foot outdoors again,” Bettye answered. “That complexion of yours would be redder than your hair, and you know it. If you want to change the color, you oughta let me try…”

Their conversation turned to more important matters and, for the moment, the red pickup was forgotten. But, later that night, when Dotty went home, she asked her husband if he’d seen a stranger in town that day driving a red pickup truck up and down the streets. He stared at her fancy coiffure in dismay. That and the fact that she’d even noticed another man caused a fight to erupt that totally drove Logan Henry and his existence permanently from Dotty’s mind. It was just as well.

Chance was tired to the bone. Tired and disappointed. His visit to Charlie Rollins had been a lost cause, at least as far as Chance was concerned.

He turned into the motel parking lot. The only thing he’d accomplished today was fix his air conditioner. Buying the part for it had prompted him to make an additional purchase. The set of wrenches he’d bought, and had wrapped and delivered to Charlie Rollins, had probably caused all kinds of commotion at the Golden Years retirement home. The way Charlie operated, he’d probably screwed and unscrewed every nut and bolt on his bed so many times, he’d stripped them out. There’d be hell to pay when bedtime came tonight, but a man had to have wrenches if he was going to work on cars…and beds.

Chance parked his truck, locked the doors, and pocketed the keys. The motel key slid across his fingers as he pulled his hand away. It reminded him. He headed for the office.

“Well, now,” the desk clerk drawled, “if it ain’t Mister twelve B. How ya’ll been doin’ anyway? If I’ve seen your truck cruise Second Street once, I’ve seen it cruise by a hundred times today. Whatcha’ tryin’ to prove? Or better yet, who you lookin’ for? I don’t want no trouble here. If you find who you’re lookin’ for, don’t cause no trouble.”

Chance took a deep breath. He bit back the words that wanted out and smiled. Then he leaned over the counter, stared point-blank at the enlarged pupils behind the thick lenses, and drawled, “The only trouble that’s likely to happen around here is if that room next to mine starts jumping again like it did last night. I don’t give a tinker’s damn who bangs who around this town. But if it takes place on the other side of my wall again, I won’t be responsible for what happens. Do I make myself clear?”

The desk clerk blinked twice rapidly in succession. “Well, now.” The timbre of her voice had just gone up two octaves. “I had no idea that you were so…disturbed…last night. Maybe you need a little…relief of your own. If you want I can call—”

His hand slapped down on top of the counter, sending dust and papers flying. “Don’t even think it, lady. Just remember what I said. Peace and quiet. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Fine,” she said. “I was only tryin’ to—”

Chance slammed the door behind him. “It’s what I get for staying in this godforsaken place,” he muttered. But it served his purpose. He wanted low-key, and this was just about as low as it got.

He entered his room, slipped the dead-bolt, and dropped facedown onto the bed. Every muscle in his body ached. He’d walked streets and dodged curious questions from locals all day. He’d even eaten his evening meal at a different location just so he wouldn’t have to face that waitress twice in one day. He felt like a rabbit hiding from a fox. The only problem was, he didn’t know who the fox was. And he damn sure didn’t appreciate feeling like the rabbit. Tomorrow was going to be different. He might not like the answers he would get, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to hide from the truth.

When sleep finally came, Chance dreamed. Of a small girl with dark curls and eyes so blue it made his heart hurt. Of gentle hands and a laughing face. Then suddenly she changed. She was no longer a girl, she was a woman, lying beneath him, crying for something he couldn’t give. Every time he leaned forward to taste her lips, something…or someone…kept pulling him back. She reached for him and his body ached, swelling at the thought of her soft, womanly curves. She pleaded, silently, tearfully. Hands pulled him away, yanking and tearing. He turned angrily and stared into the face of—

He woke! Instantly, achingly. Cursing softly into the darkness, he rolled from the bed and tore off his clothes in short, angry motions. He staggered into the bathroom, ducked under the shower head, and turned on the cold water full force.

What the hell kind of a dream tore out a man’s insides and left them hanging on the bedpost as a reminder? What the hell kind of world had he come from that had twisted him so much inside that he couldn’t give himself to a woman like Jenny Tyler? From the things he’d heard said, and the remarks Jenny had made, he’d damn sure given himself to other women. Why not her?

Water ran over his hot, throbbing body in weak rivulets. He pounded the shower stall with the flat of his hands, futilely urging the pressure to intensify. It didn’t happen. The only thing that intensified was his need for Jenny, and she was hundreds of miles away.

Chance watched the sunrise from the tailgate of his pickup truck. The room had been stifling, the memories of his dream too fresh. He’d found an all-night quick stop around daybreak and purchased gas, a Snickers candy bar, and a bottle of pop. Hell of a breakfast, but it would have to do. After last night, he wasn’t in the mood to meet the day with that nosy waitress in his face.

His long legs dangled as he rested the old high school yearbook in his lap, searching each page diligently for the girl in the photograph. She wasn’t there. That had to mean she wasn’t a local. There were pages full of loyal athletic fans watching on the sidelines as school heroes ran for touchdowns. Pages with tiny blond girls, practicing for the day when they’d be cheerleaders, but for now, satisfied to be their mascots. Homecoming queens, FFA sweethearts, band princesses, every kind of royalty that public school could produce graced those pages. But no Victoria Henry.

Who was she? The question was driving Chance mad. Had she been a girlfriend? A neighbor? The school yearbook had no answers about her, but maybe someone there could give him some answers about himself.

He’d seen another high school on the far side of town: Permian High School. The big MOJO logo on the building had made him smile. Schools all across the nation had their own claim to fame for their spirit…or magic…or whatever it was called that made competition, both scholastic and athletic, important.

Chance frowned. He needed some MOJO of his own. God knew he could use all the help he could get to find answers. If it took magic, he was all for it. Maybe Victoria Henry had been a student at Permian High, but how could he check without calling attention to himself?

Chance was still worried that he had something to hide. If that something was so awful that he’d hidden it for the last twelve years, from people he obviously loved…He couldn’t finish the thought.

He watched the desk clerk inside the office switch off the neon MOTEL sign and turn on the radio. The day had begun.

Chance was ready, too. He slid off the tailgate, slammed it shut, and tossed the yearbook inside the cab. Then he locked his room and headed for the truck. He had to see a man about a school.

School was out for the summer. Yesterday’s investigations had revealed empty classrooms and parking lots. But there was a man trimming shrubbery near the main entrance of Odessa High School.

“School’s closed,” the man said as Chance walked up to him.

“Yes, sir.”

The man never missed a snip as his clippers trimmed the small bush. “No job openings,” he said.

“Not looking,” Chance said.

The man paused, but he didn’t look up. “Then state your business. I haven’t got all day.”

Chance grinned. The women in this town were full of talk, and the few men he’d run across seemed friendly, but were as tight-lipped as persimmon pucker.

“You worked here long?” Chance asked. The man looked up.
That got his attention
.

“Retiring next year.”

Chance nodded. “So I guess you’ve seen a lot of kids come and go around here.”

“Too damn many,” he said as he snipped at a stray leaf.

“I’m looking for…some of my relatives. They may have lived in this area…say twelve or fifteen years ago. The name was McCall. Does it ring a bell? I’ve got a picture of the boy, maybe he looks familiar to you.”

The yearbook fell open to the page with Chance’s picture. The old man stared, and then shook his head. “They all look alike to me,” he said. “Damned hoodlums. Always tearing something up that I have to fix.”

Chance’s hope dropped. This day wasn’t starting out any better than yesterday had.

“You sure the name doesn’t ring a bell? You never knew anyone by the name of McCall?”

“I told you I can’t tell one kid from another. Don’t even try,” he muttered. He punctuated the end of the conversation by turning his backside toward Chance and resuming his duties.

Chance let the yearbook fall shut with a slap. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said. “If you oil that rivet, you won’t get a blister,” he added, pointing to the clipping shears dangling from the old man’s hands.

The man turned and stared, and then nodded his thanks. Chance started to walk away.

“Say!” the old man called. Chance turned. “I don’t remember no kid. But I remember a woman by the name of McCall. She used to waitress down at a bar toward the end of town. It went bust when the oil business fell. Whole damn country’s going bust if you ask me.”

Chance’s heart skipped a beat. A woman? “What did you say her name was?”

“I think her name was Lily, or Lucy…something…Letty! That was it! Letty McCall.”

“Is she still here…in Odessa?”

The old man laughed. “She’s here, and ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said. “She’s buried beneath six feet of Texas dirt, boy.”

Hell! She was dead! Chance’s stomach turned. Something dark pulled at him, swirling his thoughts around until he had to concentrate to ask his next question.

“Do you remember when she was buried? What year? If she has any kin living here?” The words came out in a torrent.

“I don’t remember the year. But I remember it was suicide. Ain’t real common around here.”

Chance turned cold all over, all at once. The old man was still talking when he turned and walked away. He didn’t need to hear any more to know that somehow, in some way, it had affected him and his life. There was no other explanation for his reaction. Every bone in his body felt like it was crumbling to dust.

He staggered to his truck, crawled inside, grabbed hold of the steering wheel and closed his eyes, willing himself not to black out. The pain inside his head was increasing in thundering increments. If he could have found his way to a doctor, he’d have gone, but by the time the pain subsided enough for him to see, all he could do was head for the motel. The need to crawl inside that pit was overwhelming, just as overwhelming as the need to see Jenny. To hear her voice, feel those blue eyes burn into his soul and cauterize this festering hell. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy, but he hadn’t known that it might kill him.

When night came and darkness slipped into every corner of his room, dreams followed, turning into nightmares that pulled and clawed their way out of his soul and left him wide awake in a pool of his own sweat. He stared blindly at the ceiling above his bed, trying not to think about the word.
Suicide
.

The room next door was silent, just as quiet and empty as his heart. He almost wished the busy tart and her constant string of twenty-buck losers was nearby. Then at least he’d have something to think about besides the hell that kept growing in his mind.