Chill Waters (12 page)

And it made him feel like the worse kind of Judas.

Tommy didn't have to wait long for his father’s return. About an hour later, he heard the truck drive into the yard. Heard the truck door slam shut. Tommy drew himself up in the bed. Ribs shrieking, he cocked the gun. It made a small click. Resting the rifle butt against his shoulder, he set his sights where his father’s heart would be.

The door opened and Nate stood reeling in the doorway, clutching a brown paper bag in his hand. By its familiar shape, Tommy knew it was a .40 ouncer. He’s not taking any chances of running out, he thought contemptuously. By the look of him, he’d swilled back a good share of the whiskey on the way home.

His faded plaid shirt hung partway out of his pants, the open vee revealing a mat of course black hair
. What are you waiting for? Do it!

Nate gave a sudden lurch forward and Tommy braced himself for the full impact of his father’s weight on top of him, knowing it would kill him for sure. But after a couple of involuntary steps, Nate managed to steady himself.

Nate’s unfocussed eyes were on the gun-barrel which was aligned with the third rust-colored button on his shirt. But Tommy knew he was too drunk for it to register.

He doesn’t really see the gun. He won’t even feel the bullet’s impact when it slams into his body, tearing through flesh and bone. He’ll just be dead.

The stench of booze and sweat coming off his father was stronger now, filling Tommy with hatred and disgust.
Do it!
a voice commanded him.
What are you waiting for?

But the moment when he might have pulled the trigger came and went, as his father went reeling into his bedroom. The bedsprings groaned in complaint as Nate sprawled heavily on the bed. He was out for the night. So what else was new.

Tommy relaxed his fingers on the trigger, lowered the gun. And wept.

As on so many nights in his seventeen years, he lay listening to his father’s drunken snores through the thin wall. Gradually, those snores and grumblings faded into the background as Tommy’s thoughts took a different turn.

Gazing down at the rifle lying across his lap, he thought: Why not? It would be so easy. He would be with Heather then.

But who would find her killer? If I kill myself, everyone will think I did it out of guilt and the real murderer will go free. Eventually, Tommy fell into a restless sleep and dreamed of barking dogs chasing him through grasses so tall they blocked out the sky.

Sometime in the night he woke to see his father standing in the doorway between their rooms. Backlit by scant light coming through the window, he seemed at first not a man at all, but a monsteran evil, grinning apparition. He wondered if he was still dreaming.

“No guts, his old man sneered. “Didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger, did ya, boy?”

And then he heard pounding on the door, followed by the bellow of, “Police. Open up.”

And he knew he was quite awake. The old man had turned him in to the cops.

Sixteen

Showered and dressed, in search of breakfast, Rachael and Betty entered the motel lobby with its knotty pine walls. The desk clerk, a pretty blonde with a frosted pink mouth, was chatting animatedly on the phone.

“Yeah, ain’t it awful? My brother worked with him, ya know, over at Benny’s scrapyard. He says Tommy Prichard kept to himself, didn’t joke around with the other fellas, or nothin’. Just does his work. Well, he’s locked up now, thank the good Lord for that. Ralphie says it’s the quiet types you gotta watch out for.” She flicked an eye at the two women waiting at the counter. “Gotta go. Talk to you later.” She hung up. “Mornin’, ladies, what can I do for you?”

“Know of a good place where we can grab a late breakfast?” Betty asked. The girl smiled and proceeded to give them directions to a place called
Kathy’s.

They stepped out into a clear, crisp daystreets and buildings polished from the rain, the sky an almost surreal blue. Leaving Betty’s car in the parking lot, they drove to the restaurant in the Cavalier.

“Peter Gardner doesn’t think the boy is guilty,” Rachael said as they turned onto Water Street.

“From what that desk clerk was saying, he might be alone in his convictions. Maybe he’s in denial. He did say Prichard was an ex-student of his. Hope they got good food at that restaurant. I’m starved.”

Driving along the quiet tree-lined street they passed brightly fronted craft shops, some closed for the season. A small art gallery displayed a sculpture in the window that looked to Rachael incredibly like a bouquet of elbows, each at an opposing angle. Further on, a woman in a lilac pantsuit was unlocking the door to a beauty shop.

“Reminds me,” Betty said, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, “I’m due for a cut.”

“You look great,” Rachael said absently, watching for the restaurant the girl had recommended. A minute later, she drew the car to a stop in front of a café with the name
Kathy’s,
written in gothic scroll on a blue and white striped awning.

Getting out of the car, Rachael glanced across the street where a slightly overweight boy in an orange-glo cap was industriously raking leaves off the church lawn, stuffing them into the green plastic garbage bag he dragged behind him. The sight of him brought thoughts of her own son, Jeff, and of how enterprising he had been at that age. And reminded her that she needed to phone her kids.

They entered the café to an excited buzz of conversation and good smells. It was small and cozy with blue and white décor, a slender vase holding a blue flower adorning every table. Betty made a beeline for a table by the door. They’d barely sat down when the waitress approached, smiling, eyes huge behind granny glasses. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said, handing them their menus.

“Smells fabulous in here,” Betty said, scanning the menu.

In the conversation that hummed around them, Rachael heard Tommy Prichard’s name mentioned. Something country played on the jukebox.

Betty moved the vase aside to better see Rachael. “So, how are you?”

“Fine. You?” Averting her gaze, and more questions, Rachael studied the paintings hanging on the walls. Seascapes, mainly. Better than amateur. Probably done by locals. A woman at the next table was filling in a crossword puzzle, the other hand groping blindly around it for her coffee.

Betty’d been about to say something else when the waitress returned. “Lovely morning, isn’t it? Nip of fall in the air. Nice change after all the rain. Have you ladies decided what you’d like? The sausages are excellent.”

Rachael grimaced at the thought, opted for orange juice, a bran muffin and coffee.

“Can’t build muscle on that,” Betty grinned, and ordered up the special, which included juice, pancakes and sausages, toast and coffee. “Trauma always makes me ravenous.”

She said little else until she’d mopped up the last of the maple syrup on her plate with a scrap of toast, after which she daintily blotted her coral mouth with her napkin. “Don’t do this all the time, you know. I’d weigh a ton. Excellent food.” She placed the unfolded napkin on her plate. “Okay, Rach. Talk to me.”

“I thought we were talking.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t…”

A commotion in the doorway drew their attention. The waitress was hurrying to let in a customer who seemed to be having trouble negotiating his way through the door. Looking embarrassed, the man gestured to his cane. “Thanks. Haven’t quite gotten the hang of this thing yet.”

Betty turned back to Rachael. “So? How do propose to live while you’re waiting for the courts to decide what a dumped wife is worth? And please don’t tell me you’re going to cut down trees for firewood, and hope the fishing is good.”

Rachael laughed in spite of herself. Subtlety was not Betty’s strong point. “Actually, it doesn’t sound all that bad. Seriously, Betty, I’ll be okay. I bought the house for a good price, so I’ve got enough left to last me the winter. Come spring, I’ll get some kind of job. I want nothing from Greg.”

“Are you nuts? You’re entitled to half of everything, legally. You contributed as an equal partner in the marriage, more than equal. You better make damn sure you’ve got a good lawy…”

Rachael was grateful when the waitress interrupted with fresh coffee. Bless Betty, she meant well, but Rachael was wearying of the subject. You’d have thought it was Betty who’d been dumped, as she’d so delicately put it. When the waitress turned away, Rachael said, “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

Betty shrugged and sipped her coffee.

Rachael wondered if the broken windows had been replaced yet. Right now, all she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. But Betty was intent on doing a little shopping while she was here, so she would bear up. It was the least she could do. The last thing she wanted to become was one of those bitter, joyless women who dragged everyone else down with them. Better to avoid people for awhile, she thought.

The breakfast crowd was thinning. Rachael looked about her. Her eyes met those of the man who’d needed assistance getting through the door. She looked away, not wanting him to think she was staring. She drank her coffee; it was hot and strong. Maybe the caffeine would pump a little energy into her.

“Maybe I’ll open a craft shop,” she said, setting the cup in its saucer, relenting in the face of Betty’s hurt silence.

Betty took the offered thread warily. “Not a bad idea,” she said, with something less than conviction. “You’d have to cater to people who live here year round though to eke out a living. Even a meager one. Supply and demand, you know.”

“I could carry artists’ supplies,” she said, and heard a note of defensiveness in her voice. “There are a lot of artists living in St. Clair.”

“Sure. You could always take a business course.”

The comment was intended to remind her that she knew nothing about business. And she was right. Greg had always taken care of their business affairs.
I’ve been so stupid.

“Mornin’ ladies,” an elderly man hefting a wooden crate on his shoulder, and smelling of fish grinned down at them. The grin revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “Saw you and your friend comin’ out of the motel earlier, Ms. Warren. Danged if Iris wasn’t right you do take after your grandma, God rest her soul. Name’s Hartley McLeod, not that you’d know it. Don’t ‘suppose you’d remember that time your grandma got me to hang you a swing in the old elm tree. You was just a little tyke. And ‘course I wasn’t such an old geezer myself, back then,” he chuckled.

Rachael assured him that she did indeed remember that swing. Seeing him cock his head to better hear her, she raised her voice a notch, as she said, “The seat was painted red.”

It touched her to see how pleased he was that she remembered the swing.

“Sorry ‘bout your windows getting busted out like that, before you barely got moved in. Doesn’t give a body a real good impression of the place, does it? But they’re back in now, good as new. Mayhaps better,” he added with a craftsman’s pride. “Finished up about an hour ago. Some of these kids can get up to no good and that’s a fact. But the Prichard boy’s not a bad boy at heart. Mighta broke a few windows in his time, but I don’t think he did what they’re saying he did.”

As they were leaving the restaurant, they heard yelling from across the street. Amidst a chorus of catcalls and jeerings, three older boys were harassing the boy who'd been raking leaves when they drove up. One of them was scooping up armfuls of leaves from the plastic bag and tossing them into the air, while the other two played catch with his orange-glo cap, whipping it back and forth between them, its owner leaping and leaping again, trying to snatch it out of the air. “C’mon, guys, knock it off. C’mon, okay…?” Although he was doing his darndest not to cry, Rachael could hear the tears in his pleas.

Betty raised an eyebrow at her. “You be Cagney. I’ll be Lacey. Okay?”

They crossed the street.

Keeping her tone pleasant, Rachael said, “Why don’t you boys let him be. Three on one is hardly fair, do you think?”

Two of the boys eyed her nervously, one small and pale, the other with greasy hair and raging acne. The latter shifted his gaze to the third boy for direction. Or perhaps moral support. Despite the chill morning, this one, clearly the ringleader, wore a sleeveless black tee shirt, intended to show off his physique, (‘muscle-shirt’ she’d heard Susan call them) Charlie Manson’s likeness imprinted on the front.

Apparently having received his unspoken instructions, the younger one leveled his eyes at her. “Why don’t you just butt out, lady.”

“Yeah,” his cohort chimed in, the air of bravado hollow, unconvincing.

“You got business here?” their leader drawled softly. His insolent gaze swept over Rachael, the orange-glo cap dangling from one finger. He let it sway back and forth there, as if to say, “You want it, come and get it.”

His mocking, young eyes made her feel uncomfortable, but she forced herself to hold his gaze, refusing to allow herself to be intimidated by a mere boy. Nonetheless, she wasn’t sorry to hear the sudden wail of a police siren, and saw her own relief reflected on Betty’s face. Three pair of eyes darted in the direction of the siren, fear and uncertainty replacing the earlier insolence. Their leader suddenly looked like the kid he was, maybe not so tough after all.