Cold Summer Nights (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Rusty finished another bottle of beer and belched. “Wow, this IPA stuff really sneaks up on you,” he said, staring at the dark bottle in his hand with bloodshot eyes.

“Which is why you’re sleeping in the spare room tonight,” Nick said, taking a pull from his glass of Southern Comfort and Coke.”

“No, I’m fine to drive. I actually drive way better like this,” he said, getting up and stumbling into the kitchen to retrieve another beer.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“And get your creepy little niece’s demon germs all over me?” he snickered, coming back with a cold one. “No thanks!”

Nick laughed and massaged his head. “I washed the sheets. Plus, I’ve got tomorrow off anyway, so you might as well crash here tonight.”

Rusty plopped down onto the couch and started coughing. “I’m just
messin
with you. Truth is
,
I don’t want to go home by myself. I’m scared to open my eyes and I’m scared to close
em
.”

Nick cocked his head at him.
“Really?
The Blair Witch
?”

“It’s appropriate, Nick! And if I catch you standing in the corner tonight, I’m really
gonna
lose it.”

Nick let out a tired sounding laugh.

“So, here’s the way I see it,” Rusty said, leaning up onto the edge of the couch. “Your remote gets drained every time she spends the night. Your niece is puking up pea green soup.”

“She didn’t puke,” Nick quickly corrected.

“You know what I mean,” Rusty shot back. “You find your toaster in the fridge. Your grandma and Amy are dead, and your girlfriend has been missing for five years.”

Nick stared at him, waiting for the conclusion.

Rusty nodded. “We have to kill her.”

Nick’s face slumped.
“My niece?”

Rusty frowned.
“No, not your niece, Einstein.
Summer!”

Nick laughed. “Man, are you ever serious?”

“Well, what do you propose?”

Nick turned his attention back to the flat screen, where
The Shining
was on HBO in crystal clear HD. He let out a long sigh and took another drink, the ice rattling around inside the glass. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow night. Find out what’s going on.”

“By yourself?”

Chapter Ten

The racks of donuts glimmered in the case lighting. Cherry cake, chocolate iced French crullers, maple long johns, vanilla
bizmarks
stuffed with strawberry jelly, shiny glazed and rainbows of sprinkles.

“How many?” the man behind the counter asked.

Ron Hubbard rubbed his face, his eyes jumping from row to row. He glanced at his watch and groaned, knowing he should at least go to Subway or McDonalds for lunch. If his wife found out he was eating donuts for lunch again, she’d have his head on a stick. “Better
gimme
a dozen. It’s going to be a long day.”

In the Donut Hut’s parking lot, he reached inside the compact
Prius
and set the generic white box in the passenger seat. He inhaled and folded his tall, skinny frame in behind the wheel and started it up. After fastening his seatbelt, he snatched a cinnamon yum-yum for the road. He took an impressive bite and twisted in his seat, pulling some slack into the seatbelt. With any luck,
Higgin’s
Repair would have his Expedition’s power steering pump fixed before they closed today. If not, he’d be stuck with his wife’s micro-machine for at least another day. A fluffy crumb bounced off his tie and disappeared somewhere around his shoes. He moaned, knowing he’d have to dig that out before he got back home. The evidence would be damning.

After Rusty left that morning, Nick was lounging on the couch watching
SportsCenter
when it finally hit him. His ex-girlfriend was dead. The girl he had held in his arms right here on this very couch was now being stored inside a cooler somewhere. She may not have been the best girlfriend in the world but she didn’t deserve to be murdered. A mental video clip of Amy kissing him in the bar began playing in his mind. Then he saw her gasping for her life at the gloved hands of some dark figure, which had to be Brad. After all, she had just dumped him and he probably still had a key to her apartment. Nick used to have one when he was dating her. He had never met Brad but guessed he probably hadn’t taken it so well when the next flavor of the month had come along. Amy had a way of making guys squirm like that.

Someone knocked at the front door, rattling his hangover. He set his can of Diet Coke down and got up, brushing Doritos crumbs from his shirt as he went to the door.

A tiny gray haired lady smiled at him when he opened it. “Hello, young man,” she said brightly.

Nick’s eyes dropped to her light blue dress and white lacey gloves holding a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. She looked like she had just come from church, but Nick doubted there would be a service on a Tuesday morning like this.

“Hi,” he said, noticing his Jeep Wrangler sitting alone in the driveway. He tried not to groan when he realized she was probably another bible-beater going door to door to save souls corrupted by
Facebook
and reality TV.

“Lovely
day,
isn’t it?” she beamed.

His eyes shot back to her. “Sure is,” he smiled, wondering how long it would take his opportunity to politely get out of this to come around.

“Is Helen home?” she asked, raising her pencil thin eyebrows and trying to peer past him inside the house.

His mouth opened but it took a few seconds for his voice to catch up. “Helen?”

The lady nodded, a big grin plastered across her leathery face.

Nick squinted at the tiny senior.
“Helen who?”

“Why, Helen Wilson,” she cackled, as if he was joking with her.

His heart sank at the mention of his grandmother’s name.

“I talked to her last night and she said her favorite kind of cake is carrot cake, so I wanted to drop this off for her,” she said, lifting the plate to him.

He dropped his narrow eyes to the plate wrapped in foil, while his sluggish mind tried finding some traction in the conversation. His cell started ringing on the couch, jerking him from his thoughts.

“Would you like me to bring it inside?” she asked eagerly, looking past him again.

“Uh,” he sputtered, the wheels in his mind gaining no traction as he glanced back to the ringing phone.

Suddenly, he felt her crooked nose poke its way into the doorframe, causing him to turn back around. He stared down at the top of her white puffy hair and stepped in front of her invasive appendage.

The cell rang again, each ring seeming louder than the rest.

“Helen!” she suddenly screamed, scaring the shit out of him. “He won’t listen!”

“Jesus Christ, lady!” he recoiled, the cell phone giving him a major headache.

“I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she smiled, stepping back.

Nick frowned, the phone calling to him like an injured child. “Hang on one second,” he said, dashing over to the couch and snatching his BlackBerry. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. “Hello?”

There was no response.

“Hello?” he said again.

A cold silence answered him. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it, thinking it had gone to his voicemail. But it was still connected. “Hello?”

Rusty’s words about catching a cold from a crank caller echoed inside his thick head. Nick snorted and hung up, suddenly remembering the old lady. He turned back to the front door. “Sorry about that. Wrong num…” He trailed off, seeing she was gone.

He stepped out onto the front porch to see the sun had disappeared as quickly as the elderly visitor had. “What the hell?” he mumbled, his mind cloudier than the sky above.

 
He scratched his head and went back inside and locked the door. “Okay, that was weird,” he muttered to himself, going into the kitchen to make sure she hadn’t gone around to the backyard. His mind raced faster when he found one of the French doors wide open in the kitchen. He stepped through it and walked out onto the patio. Other than a couple of robins getting springtime friendly with each other, it was clear. No breeze either. He grunted and went back inside, locking the French doors behind him.

His eyes landed on the toaster, relieved to see it still sitting on the granite countertop like a good toaster is supposed to do. The old lady’s words quickly replaced his thoughts, rattling around like a loose hubcap. Why would anyone think his grandma would be here? She wasn’t even alive.

Someone banged on the front door again. His eyes jerked to the living room. He crossed into the living room, knowing he had gotten out of that whole thing way too easily.

“Hi, are you Nick Foley?” a thin man with a friendly smile asked when Nick opened the door.

Nick’s eyes wandered past the man to the front yard.
“Yeah.”

The man glanced over his shoulder and then returned his gaze to Nick. “Hey Nick, I’m Detective Ron Hubbard with the Des Moines Police Department,” he said, pulling his blue sports coat back just enough to reveal a silver badge and a black handgun on his belt.

Nick wasn’t sure if the detective had meant for him to see the gun or not.

“You mind if I step inside and ask you a few questions about Amy Miller real quick?”

Nick glanced to the maroon
Prius
parked in the driveway behind his Jeep and turned back to the cop, who ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair as he studied Nick with awaiting eyes. “Sure. Come on in.”