Damaged Goods (36 page)

I’ll survive this
. It’s what she always told herself. But this seemed different. She wished that Hershel had killed him, that she hadn’t stood in the way. She wanted Jacob dead now; she was certain. No amount of distance or time would let her forget that again.

He staggered a little as he worked. And when he was finished setting things up he gazed at her for a long time.

“This is for stealing from me,” he said. “And running away.” His eyes were crazy, slightly out of alignment. Silvie waited, expecting to be beaten, but he slumped into the armchair next to the bed and took up his drink. He sipped it slowly at first, then gulped down the remainder. He listed to the side as he reached again for
the bottle. He poured himself another drink and tortured her with silence for a while.

“Haven’t I always given you what you needed?”

“Yes,” she said, the picture of compliance.

He bent and lifted up her backpack. He’d obviously been through it, because he drew out the bottle of motion lotion and assessed it. He removed it from the extra bag and rolled it between his hands.

Silvie watched. How would she do this? How would she prevent him from poisoning her, too?

“You found my surprise for you.” The words sounded false.

“For me? Or was this intended for Hershel Swift?” Jacob asked.

She closed her eyes.

“Darling, don’t make me hurt you.”

“It was for you,” she said quietly. “Before I found the box … before I ran away. Jacob, I was scared. Please forgive me. I was just scared.”

“Who is Hershel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you do. You were driving his car.”

She didn’t respond, and Jacob reached over and pinched her hard on the leg.

“Kyrellis gave me the car. I didn’t know it belonged to someone else.”

“Why would he give you a car?”

“He didn’t
give
it to me. He let me borrow it. The Rabbit died. That’s how he found me. I was stranded on the side of the road.”

“But why would he lend you a car? You could’ve just left.”

“He had your box. I couldn’t leave it behind. I wouldn’t do that to you, Jacob, and he knew it.”

“Did you tell him my name?”

“No! Of course not.”

He shook the lotion and held it up. “I just don’t know if I can believe you, darling.”

“Please, Jacob. I didn’t run away from him because I was trying
to get the pictures back.” Her story was thin and didn’t add up. She was grateful that he was drunk. If he weren’t, this would invoke a beating until she provided a story that made sense.

Jacob seemed to consider her plea. He finished his drink and had trouble getting the glass onto the nightstand, clattering it against the clock and knocking a bottle of Valium to the floor. He stared down at the carpet, but Silvie couldn’t see what he looked at. He leaned down and picked up a tablet but lost his grip on it. It rolled into his lap and he got up, looking for it.

“What would happen if I took this while I was drinking?” he asked, retrieving the pill. “Bet that would put me out for a little bit, don’t you?”

He studied it, as if Silvie no longer existed. “You’d be in a bad position if that happened,” he observed.

Silvie believed that spending the night bound as she was would still be better than what he would do to her if he stayed awake.

He set the pill on the nightstand and resumed his seat. “I’ll save that for you.”

“Why don’t you let me dance for you? You know how I love to do that.” It was risky to suggest this, but he liked for her to strip, and he’d had enough to drink to make it a reasonable offer. “I’ll go real slow.”

He was quiet, and she waited with her eyes closed. The faces of those other girls were flashing through her mind as if projected onto the insides of her lids. Solemn faces. Freckled faces. Peering out at her in the faded colors of aged photo paper.

“Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you like me to dance for you? I can feel your cock already.”

Jacob made a strange noise, and Silvie turned in his direction. He had poured some of the lotion into the palm of his hand and was smoothing it with his fingers.

“Wouldn’t you like me to perform for you? Huh?”

“You’re so beautiful, Silvie. I always loved you,” he said. “I might let you do that for me one last time.”

He stood and worked the cords that bound her wrists. With
every brush of his skin against hers, she imagined the poison transferring to her body. Finally, he loosened them enough that she could slide one wrist out; then she worked on the other.

As she got to her feet, she said, “Let me help you with your belt.” She carefully removed his pants, deliberately slow, rubbing against his bulging crotch. “Sit on the bed and relax a little. Show me the Club.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I’ll do my very best for you tonight, Jacob.”

Hershel stood on his front porch, a heavy rain driving down the valley from the west in sheets of steel gray. A chill wind bit at his skin and he shoved his hands into his pockets for warmth. Clouds scraped the treetops, giving the day a hard and unforgiving feel.

“When was the last time you saw Victor Kyrellis?” the officer asked from the bottom of the step. He was the same one who had come to the sale barn the day Hershel reported Carl missing. The rain collected in the wide brim of the man’s hat, and when he tipped his head up for Hershel’s response a stream of water poured off his back.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hershel said, looking at the underside of his porch roof, trying to remember. “He attended the Tuesday sale last week, but he wasn’t there this week.”

“So last Tuesday?”

“Yeah. That was the last time. Has something happened to him?”

“Someone shot him in his home. He’d been dead a few days when we found him.”

Hershel scowled. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Might have been a robbery. He had a nice gun collection. Someone broke the glass on a couple of the cases and it looked
like a few guns were missing.” The officer took in Hershel’s well-maintained yard. “Something must have scared them off, though; they left an awful lot of nice guns behind.”

“I’m sorry to hear about this,” Hershel said.

“He didn’t tell you he was expecting anyone? Nothing like that?”

“I don’t really know him very well.”

“He called your cellphone several times,” the officer said. He looked at Hershel suspiciously. “We’ve got the records.”

“He buys stuff at my sale. Has my number and calls about what’s coming up. But we were never friendly, really. Honestly? I found him to be kind of creepy.”

The officer shook the rain off himself. “What sorts of things did he buy from you?”

“I don’t know. Odds and ends. Bought a Volkswagen Rabbit a couple weeks ago, but it didn’t have clear title, so I had to buy it back. Think he bought a dresser and some tools before. He might have bought a rifle or two. I’d have to look back through my records.” He looked the man dead in the eye. “You’re welcome to come down to my business. Check my books.”

“I just might.” The officer shifted back and forth. A puddle had formed beneath his shoes. “Guess winter is upon us, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“Well, thanks for the info.” He turned toward his cruiser.

“No problem. Let me know if I can help with anything.” Hershel ran his hand over his stubbly chin. He hadn’t shaved in three days. “You ever find out who that body was they pulled from the Tualatin?”

The officer stopped. “Yeah. It was Abernathy. A boater in the Willamette pulled up anchor along with a decomposed head. Pretty gruesome sight, from what I understand.” He marveled, as if trying to imagine it. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“No,” Hershel said, his voice cracking, his stomach turning sour. Though he already knew Carl was dead, this confirmation hollowed him out in a new way.

“Dental records matched. Now we’re trying to locate his family, but he doesn’t appear to have any. They don’t know who to give the body to.”

“I’ll take it. Who should I call?”

“Sorry?”

“He was the best employee I ever had—ten years of service. He was a good man. I’ll see to a burial.”

Silvie sat in the emergency room waiting area. Jacob’s senior deputy, Walter Erickson, tapped his foot next to her. On her lap she cradled her backpack, which held the box of photos.

“I could arrest you right now,” Walter said.

She ignored him. The nurse at the reception desk was on the phone, eyeing Silvie’s bruises.

“Tell me what happened,” Walter demanded. It was the fourth time he’d tried to get her to talk.

“I’ll only talk to the district attorney,” she said again. She didn’t know if the district attorney was the right person. When she first called for the ambulance, she’d asked the 911 operator to call the attorney general, too. She wished she’d paid better attention in school and knew who could protect her.

“We don’t need to involve the district attorney,” Walter said. “You know that. Jacob will be furious … if he lives.”

She turned to Walter so that he could get a full view of her bruised face. She rolled her sleeves up, and held out her purpled wrists. “Furious?”

He flushed and turned away. He’d known her as long as Jacob had. If he wasn’t fully aware of what Jacob had done to her over the years, he was deaf and blind. He had some culpability in this, she knew. And that was why he was pushing her to tell him what had happened.

She’d given only the information she needed to when the paramedics asked what had happened to Jacob. She’d simply said,
“He’s been poisoned with organophosphates.” Then she requested to ride in the ambulance, stating that she had information about a crime that would put her at risk if she stayed behind. They didn’t seem to know what to say, shaking their heads. But she climbed in with Jacob anyway, and no one stopped her.

When the emergency room doctor asked how Jacob had been poisoned, she said she needed to speak with the attorney general. It was the nurse who suggested the district attorney after getting a good look at Silvie’s face. She put an arm around Silvie and led her back to the waiting room, assuring her that she’d get him out here right away. Walter showed up six minutes later, breathless, as if he’d run from Hanley to Rawlings on foot.

When the district attorney burst through the door at Rawlings Medical Center, he spoke first to the nurse at the desk, who whispered and gestured toward Silvie. Then he approached, smiling softly, saying her name.

“Excuse us,” he said to Walter, who had gotten up to follow them. “We need a word alone.”

Walter stared after them, tall and lanky, looking guilty and sick to his stomach as they left the room.

His name was Mr. Pane, which Silvie found ironic. He led her to an empty office down the corridor. Silvie felt oddly calm, amazingly strong all of a sudden.

“Now, tell me what’s going on,” Mr. Pane said.

Silvie opened her backpack and took out the box of photos. She watched as he opened it, his face turning gray, his lips pressed in a hard frown.

“Jacob Castor took those.
Sheriff
Jacob Castor.” She pointed out the ones of herself. “He’s been hurting me since I was twelve.”

The man looked up, his eyes meeting hers. She saw a flicker in them, a split second of doubt or disbelief, but then he steadied them. She took the photos and found the ones with Jacob.

“See?” She wondered if he knew Jacob well enough to recognize him. Were they friends? Did they have drinks together?

“What I want to know is where these other girls are.” She leafed through the pictures, immune to them now. She handed him the older images. The little girls who stared out with hollow eyes, haunting her. “He was going to kill me, too.”

Mr. Pane gathered the photos up and placed them in the box, closing the lid. “Did he give you those bruises?”

“Yes.” She showed him her wrists, and he winced. “The bruises are worse on my back.”

“Did you poison him?”

“Yes.” She dug in her backpack again, this time taking out the motion lotion. “I mixed organophosphates in this, and he used it to stroke himself.” She could have sworn that she saw the briefest smile cross Mr. Pane’s face.

“Why did you call an ambulance if you meant to kill him?”

“I don’t know.” She squirmed a little in her chair, wondering the same thing. Jacob had been too drunk to get himself help. He’d reached orgasm while watching her dance, and then passed out. She guessed it was from the booze, and she changed into her street clothes while trying to think of what she should do. If she left him like this, she would never know if he was alive or dead. She’d be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. She considered stabbing him, but she knew that she didn’t have it in her to do that. Then she thought she could shoot him. She’d shot Kyrellis, why not him? But by then he’d come awake again, and he was having some sort of seizure, convulsing on the bed. Then he began to vomit, just as her dog had, and he lost control of his bowels.

“When I saw him like that … you know … puking all over the place and shaking …” Tears prickled her eyes, but she ignored them. “I realized that he wasn’t that tough, really.”