Chill Waters (13 page)

“C’mon, Derek,” the thin boy whined. “Let’s split.”

“Smart idea,” Betty said.

“Yeah, man, I’m out of here,” the other squeaked, almost dancing in his panic, but making no move to leave without permission from Derek, who was trying to maintain his image as fearless and blasé before his underlings. As the siren’s wail grew louder, he tossed the cap back to the younger boy. “Here ya go, wienie.” He gave Rachael a long, hard look. “Catch you later, lady.”

They watched after the trio now running hell-bent up the street, finally piling into a black sportscar parked at the corner, speeding off in a cloud of oily smoke, tires squealing.

“Not exactly the Mayberry it appears to be, is it?” said a faintly familiar voice. They both turned to see the man with the cane limping heavily toward them. With each step, the camera hanging about his neck bounced lightly on his chest. The man had longish dark hair, a pleasant face.

“Sorry I was so slow in getting here, but you seemed to have handled the situation just fine without my help.”

“It was the sirens that did it,” Rachael said, looking toward the boy who was now adjusting his cap on his head, eyes downcast. “I just hope we didn’t make matters worse,” she said quietly.

The young man mumbled a dutiful thanks, clearly not too thrilled at having been rescued by a couple of women. But it might have escalated into something more serious if they hadn’t intervened, Rachael thought.

“If you see those fellows coming back,” he said to the boy, “You just hightail it out of here, okay? You and I both know you could have taken them one at a time, but three is asking for trouble. Remember the old saying, ‘He who runs away, lives to fight another day?’ Okay, partner?” He gave a conspiratorial wink, bringing a slow grin to the gentle, pudgy face. “Okay,” the boy said shyly.

“That was sensitive of you,” Betty said.

He smiled vaguely at her. He has that distracted look of someone who has a rich inner life, Rachael thought, her eye reflecting on the camera. An artist, of course. As he left them, she noted the ungainly gait favored his right leg. A recent injury, she thought idly, recalling him telling the waitress he wasn’t used to the cane yet.

Finished their shopping, they were on their way back to the motel when they saw the man again. He was taking pictures in the park.

Rachael helped Betty stow her treasures in the Honda, (among them a tweed vest for Alan, a red plaid coat for ‘Baby’, their poodle. She thanked Betty for coming, and for the beautiful earrings. “You’re a wonderful friend. I’ll call, I promise. You drive carefully now.”

“Sure. But you’re the one who needs to be careful, Rach. I didn’t much like that little hoodlum saying he’d ‘Catch you later.’ As they were talking, a man rushed through the doors of the motel, briefcase in hand, coat flapping open. He had that jowly, flushed look of someone on the verge of a stroke. Rachael wondered if he knew that about himself. So much of life came as a surprise. Or maybe we just don’t pay enough attention to the signs. She knew she was thinking more about herself than the man, who had already gotten into a waiting cab and driven off.

Rachael followed Betty to the junction of the highway, waved goodbye. Then she sat for several minutes in the car, feeling both relief to be alone, and an acute sense of emptiness.

She glanced at the bags on the back seat. Mostly items for the house, cleaning supplies. It was a small step, but a step just the same. Something.

As the car neared Bay Road, a police siren went off behind her, startling her. She pulled off to the side of the road to let it pass. Up ahead the cruiser pulled into the small parking lot of Iris’ store, where a small crowd had gathered. Alarmed, she stepped on the gas, bypassing her turn-off.

Amidst the throng of onlookers, Iris was easily recognizable in her long black coat, the silvery, blunt-cut hair. Hands buried in her pockets, she was deep in conversation with a tall, fair-haired man in stone-washed jeans and a leather jacket. On closer inspection, she saw it was Peter Gardner. Iris’ nephew. Unconsciously, Rachael’s hand moved to her cheek, touched the spot from where he had removed the sliver of glass.

“Rachael,” Iris said as she approached, her smile warm if weary. “It seems we’re having something of an epidemic around here. I hope the siren didn’t scare you. Elton doesn’t get to use it much since leaving the big city.” The lightness draining from her voice, she added, “Though I suppose that’s not exactly true of late.”

Iris’ store had been broken into. “They didn’t get much of value,” she told Rachael. “But they took my radio, damn them. Peter gave it to me when he was still in school. Best little radio I ever owned.”

“Cost me all of ten bucks,” her nephew said. “I’ll get you another one.”

“Can’t. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“The main thing is that you’re okay,” Rachael said. Iris’ gaze shifted past her shoulder, and Rachael turned to see a big man in an overcoat making his way toward them. Iris introduced him as Sergeant Sorrel.

“Prichard must have hit here after, or maybe before, he wreaked havoc on your windows, Ma’am,” he said to Rachael. “But not to worry; he’s behind bars where he belongs.”

As he spoke, his shrewd eyes studied her. His big shoulders were hunched inside the overcoat like a man who could never quite get warm.

“Whoever burglarized my store, Elton,” Iris spoke up, “it wasn’t Tommy Prichard. There might not have been a lot of stock left, but certainly whoever took it would have needed a car to haul it away in.”

Rachael immediately envisioned three boys piling into a black sportscar.

“Or a truck, Iris,” the policeman said pointedly.

“You’re out in left field on that one,” Peter Gardner said. “Nate would have had Tommy’s hide if he touched that bucket of bolts of his.”

“You didn’t see him this morning, Peter. I’d say the old man did a pretty good job on him.”

Rachael saw Peter’s mouth tighten, his blue eyes go hard as flint.

“Would you like to come back to the house, Iris?” Rachael asked impulsively, a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Good idea,” Peter said before his aunt could reply. “A cup of hot tea will do you good. Settle your nerves, Aunt Iris. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

Iris’ chin lifted perceptibly. “You’re wrong about that, Peter,” she said a tad stiffly. “Rachael, thank you for the offer, but I want to take a more careful inventory of what’s been taken, for my insurance adjuster. May I take a raincheck?”

“Yes, of course.”

Rachael didn’t miss the grin that touched the corners of her nephew’s mouth, or the raised eyebrow at the mild, but definite, rebuke. His expression said he should have known better. He seemed to enjoy his aunt’s spunkiness, her independent nature.

She didn’t like to think about what trouble that spunkiness might have gotten her into if she’d happened to catch the culprits in the act. Iris was definitely not the type to cower in the face of danger. No doubt the same thought had already occurred to Peter Gardner.

Should she mention the incident with those boys this morning? Yet, she had witnessed only a classic case of bullying. And bullying wasn’t against the law. Bullies had reigned terror against those smaller and weaker when she went to school, and no doubt would continue long after she was gone. She suspected most bullies grew up to be model citizens, with little, if any, recollection of their victims. While the kids they tormented bore the scars to their graves. Well, not much she could do about it. And the ‘Catch your later’ comment was no doubt just some empty grandstanding in front of his friends.

Still, they did have a car. And they were definitely fitting candidates to any variety of offenses.

At a sudden rumbling and banging, she turned to see a truck pulling into the parking lot and a man in greasy overalls and a faded plaid shirt shamble out. He bulled his way through the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea. Glowering up at the door, at the circular hole someone had punched out with a rock, (just big enough to allow a hand to pass through and turn the lock), he raved, “Damn little jerk gives me nothing but trouble, just like his old lady. She took off and left me with the kid. Probably not even mine.”

“That’s Nate Prichard,” Iris said quietly beside her. “Meanest-son-of-a-bitch you’ll ever meet.”

“Show’s over, folks,” Sorrel said, as he worked his way through the murmuring crowd that, sensing a juicy scene about to erupt, was miffed at being deprived of it. “Go on back to your homes, now.”

Approaching Nate Prichard, who was still ranting to anyone who would listen, he clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Okay, let’s move it along, Nate. Your boy ain’t been charged with nothing yet. We’re just holding him for questioning. And I don’t want to charge you with anything either. But I will if you give me any grief. Assault and battery, for starters.”

“I never touched that kid. He’s lyin’. Hey, I called you guys. He did that Myers girl and …”

“Go home, Nate,” Sorrel spat, looking as if he had just bit down on something bad. “Just get the hell out of here.”

Iris walked Rachael to her car. “I really do appreciate your stopping by, Rachael.
And
for the offer of tea. It was kind of you. And I would like to talk to you soon. Actually, I was going to call you. I wonder if I might come byperhaps one day next week.”

“Sure. That would be fine. For avisit, you mean,” she added foolishly. Rachael wondered what she was letting herself in for.

Her eye followed Iris’ to Nate Prichard who was now getting back in his truck, his meaty face sullen and hostile. Sergeant Sorrel stood closeby, keeping an eye on him. Rachael had the idle thought that Nate Prichard would have liked nothing better than to stomp the gas pedal to the floor, but couldn’t quite gather up the nerve.

When the truck was no longer in view, Iris turned to Rachael. “Yes, Rachael,” she said pleasantly. “For a visit.”

Seventeen

After spending the morning in a cell, now Tommy sat on a hard-backed chair in a windowless room watching Captain Sorrel circle him like a hawk, talons poised for the big kill. Tommy’s eyes flickered over the other two cops in the room. The one with the cold eyesofficer Masonwas leaning against the wall by the door, beefy arms crossed over his chest. The bald one with narrow shoulders and a gut hanging over his belt, looked a little less redneck.

Thumb-tacked on the greasy green wall above the bald cop’s head, a yellowing wanted poster showed a picture of a guy not much older than Tommy, but with an old fashioned mustache that drooped down on either side of his mouth. The caption said he shot four people in a bank holdup.

The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, mixed in with sweat and fear and desperation. Or maybe the desperation was coming from himself. Meeting Sorrel’s eyes, Tommy had to breathe shallow quick breaths to bear the pain in his ribs. He tried to block it out, but that was impossible.

Behind the opaque, glass door, he could make out silhouettes moving about on the other side. He could hear the muffled ringing of telephones.

“I know how you feel, Tommy,” the sergeant said in a tone intended to be fatherly. “But like I said, you gotta tell the truth. It’ll make a difference in what happens here.”

“I told you the truth,” Tommy said.

Sorrel’s hound-dog eyes hunted his. Just as if Tommy hadn’t spoken, he said, “So, now, why not come clean and make it easy on yourself? She didn’t want to go all the way? You find out she was seeing someone else? Was she trying to break it off with you? You know, Tom, a classy girl like Heather Myers couldn’t have been too thrilled at having a boyfriend who worked in a scrapyard.”

He felt numb from sitting, his mind equally numb from answering the same questions over and over, each time with a slightly different spin. Questions meant to trick him into confessing to something he didn’t do. Aside from his shrieking ribs, his eyes felt as though someone had rubbed sandpaper over him, and the place beside his ear, where his father’s fist had landed, throbbed like a toothache.

“Listen,” the police captain said, laying a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, “It’s not that hard to understand, you know? Women can do it to you. Make you nuts. Ain’t that right, Detective Mason?” The detective gave a nod of agreement, a smirk touching his mouth.

Tommy shrugged the sergeant’s hand off his shoulder, which brought a swift anger to Sorrel’s eyes that Tommy ignored.

“Why don’t you believe me?” he said. “I want Heather’s killer found as much as anyone. Maybe more. It’s just a job to you guys.” Every word he spoke was an excruciating effort, draining him a little more. “If you got anything on me, then arrest me. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here.” If I can, he thought miserably. “Look, I need to see a doctor. I thinkI’ve got a couple of busted ribs.”

The stalking ceased, a bushy eyebrow lifted. “No kidding. And how did that happen? Did she manage to get in a good kick when you were holding that pillow over her face, smothering the life out of her?”

“Yeah, right.” Tears sprung to his eyes at the horror of the image. “And then she beat the hell out of me.” He could say no more. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The killer’s face on the wanted poster wavered in front of his eyes like he was seeing it through water. He was going to pass out.