Damaged Goods (7 page)

The gun, however, had snapped a more significant puzzle piece into place, and it left Hershel with a new and uneasy sense about himself. He lifted the piece again, let it settle into his palm, snug and comfortable. An icy pall had settled over the dusty room like a specter. On its surface, the practice was simple enough. Not harmless, but also not the worst thing a man in his line of work could be involved in. An uncomfortable indication of his character at worst. But the gun put a bad taste in Hershel’s mouth, an ominous clue, just beyond his reach, to the night he could not remember.

Silvie sat at a tavern table in the old South Store, running her toe up the barley-twist leg and staring out at the Berry Barn across the road. The two buildings had charmed her. The Berry Barn truly was a barn as advertised, surrounded by neat rows of berry canes now devoid of foliage, carefully labeled with hand-painted signs:
BLACKBERRIES, RASPBERRIES, MARIONBERRIES
, and the like. Painted red on the outside, the building had had its interior gutted, leaving only the worn wood floor and weathered walls. Instead of animal stalls there were shelves of gourmet jams, jellies, candied nuts, and regional sauces on one side; a potpourri of soaps and lotions on the other. The soft but pervasive smell of lavender greeted visitors. In the back stood a deli case with exotic cheeses made from sheep’s or yak’s milk, with herbs folded in. Silvie had stood on the front porch admiring the superb produce until she saw the prices. Inside, she made a quick meander through, feeling as though she didn’t belong. She couldn’t fathom having the means to pay twelve dollars for a three-ounce bottle of sweet pepper sauce.

She decided to try the South Store, on the other side of Scholls Ferry, but spent an eternity standing on the shoulder as BMWs, Acuras, and luxury SUVs raced down the hill, tailing one another impatiently. The average speed on Scholls Ferry seemed well over
sixty, despite its tightly curving topography. Hillsboro Highway, which came in from the west, ended at the South Store, further complicating her crossing. During a pause in traffic on Scholls Ferry, Silvie had stepped out and nearly been run down as a driver darted out from behind the stop sign. It didn’t seem that he had even noticed her as he sped off. Silvie moved up the road to stand directly across from the next car, where she could make eye contact with the driver. Then she tore across at the first lull. When she reached the store, her heart was racing double time and her breath was short.

She stood outside the South Store, peering through the window. The building reminded her of an old photo of the Hanley Hotel, with its tall, narrow structure and white clapboard siding. The front doors sat so close to the road that any of the drivers she’d just encountered could easily take out a patron or two. But the interior looked warm, with yellow walls and a buttery pine floor. She entered to the welcoming smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries. It enveloped her, and she wanted to sit down and never leave. As she gazed out the large front windows onto Scholls Ferry, she realized that the entire building was askew. The door frame was so far off true, a minor quake would bring the second floor down on her head.

A robust woman wearing a flour-sack skirt set a menu and a glass of water down in front of Silvie and smiled. “You must be thirsty after that run.”

“Did you know that your building is crooked?” Silvie asked, pointing at the front door.

The woman nodded and joined Silvie in admiring the tilted structure. “It’s a great building, but I had a hell of a time getting the county to grant me a business permit. I finally just sweet-talked the inspector with a lot of double-caramel lattes and grilled cheese sandwiches. He lives around the corner and comes in on his way to work.”

“Doesn’t it worry you?”

She shrugged. “Not as much as Mount St. Helens or Mount Hood deciding to erupt and bury us in ash.”

Silvie ordered a sandwich, and the woman ducked back into the kitchen for a moment. Silvie looked around at the empty dining room. It didn’t seem as though the locals frequented this place. When the woman came back Silvie asked her, “Have you ever been to the auction here?”

The woman leaned against the table behind her and adjusted her ponytail. She had soft laugh lines around her eyes, and her hair was a deep chestnut with a sprinkling of gray. “I’m not from Scholls. I bought this place a few months ago, after coming out to the valley with friends on a wine-tasting tour. I just fell in love with it. The building, the valley, everything. That auction was closed until last week.”

“So you don’t know the guy who owns it?”

The woman shook her head, then added vaguely, “Heard he’s kind of a jerk. But I’ve never met him personally.” She shrugged, as if that was all she wanted to say about it. “Where are you from?”

“Wyoming,” Silvie said, realizing that she ought to have lied, but it was too late. And glancing around the empty diner she began to wonder if this place was obscure enough that she might be able to hide out until she had a better plan.

The woman went back to the kitchen and returned with Silvie’s sandwich, presenting it to her with a flourish. Silvie admired the heaping Reuben, with its huge dill-pickle wedge—a luxury she knew she couldn’t afford. The woman caught her look but didn’t pry, taking a damp rag from the counter, which she used to wipe crumbs from the tables around Silvie.

“Is business slow?” Silvie asked. She hadn’t realized how starved for company she’d become.

“Always is on weekdays. Stop in Friday night. We’ve got the Chehalem Shockwave playing. It’s a Spanish guitar trio—no idea about that name other than they all live in the area. Then Saturday and Sunday we get the wine tasters. I do a good business for breakfast and lunch. It’s downright hopping this time of year.”

Silvie considered the place again, trying to imagine it filled with people. It made her a little homesick for Hanley. She and her high school friend Laree spent lots of weekends at Rick’s Red Pies, the local pizzeria. Rick was relaxed about the drinking age there, and most of the high school kids, whom he knew by name, had had their first beer at his restaurant before they’d attended their junior prom. He metered it out carefully, though, and no one went home falling down drunk, but she’d caught a buzz there plenty of times.

“You just move here?”

“Uh … yeah. Well, I’m on my way through. Just stopped for a few days.”

The woman glanced up, compelling Silvie to elaborate.

“I haven’t decided, I guess. I might stay around the area awhile.”

“Ever wait tables?”

Was this woman offering her a job or looking for someone to commiserate with? “Well, not tables exactly. But I was a carhop at A&W for three years while I was in high school.”

“With skates?” The woman’s eyes sparkled and she seemed to delight in that idea.

“No. The asphalt was cracked and torn up.” Silvie smiled. “The whole place was kind of a dump, actually.”

“Well, I could use a waitress for the lunch shift on Fridays and Saturdays if you might be interested. It could work into more hours if you were a good fit.”

“How do you know I’m looking for a job?”

“You got that look about you, hon. Like you could use something reliable. I could use some help. Just thought it might be something you’d be interested in.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Silvie nodded as she finished half the sandwich and wrapped the other half in the waxed paper it had been served on. She slipped it into her backpack while suffering the urge to take the job on the spot. She’d spent enough time looking for work in her life to know that it wasn’t always available when she needed it. She’d once believed she would go on to college and study veterinary medicine, but Jacob wouldn’t hear of
her leaving Hanley. She’d floated between poor-paying jobs where she could find them but mostly lived on the money he gave her.

Hiding here for a while appealed to her. And she contemplated the idea that if someone could track her here they could track her to Lincoln City or Coos Bay or San Francisco. Perhaps this was, in its way, a good place. Off the beaten track. She studied the crooked windows at the front of the building and the way the floor sloped to the left. She ran her fingers over the worn walnut tabletop and noted that it didn’t match the others. Along the far wall was a long church pew with three oak tables shoved together to accommodate a large group. Mediocre oil paintings of historic buildings, slightly off in perspective, were carefully spaced along the walls, white price tags in the lower left corner of each canvas. Probably a local artist, a friend of the proprietor’s. It was such a small-town thing to do, Silvie thought.

“How soon do you need someone?” she asked.

The woman smiled warmly, as if she’d found her new employee. “Friday at the latest.”

This is crazy, she told herself. “I’ve been thinking about staying a couple of days anyway. I’ll stop back if I decide to make it longer.”

“What’s your name?”

“Silvie.” She thought again that she ought to have given a different name. How many Silvies were running around in the world? She wasn’t very good at hiding. She would need to get a lot better if she was going to survive.

“I’m Karen Gibbs. Consider it. I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it’s a fun place on the weekend.”

Hershel’s ringing cellphone startled him. He’d begun to wonder why he had one, because no one ever called it. He looked at the name: Kyrellis. Familiar, as so many things were, but not remembered.

“Swift,” he said, picking up his keys and starting for the office door.

“This is Kyrellis,” a man said. His voice was smooth and deep, but that did nothing to put the name in context for Hershel. “You’re selling that Charger.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess that’s one way to dispose of it.”

“How can I help you?”

“Hope you’re also planning to part with that Glock tonight. Expected to hear from you last week.”

A hot prickle skated across Hershel’s arms. He twisted and looked at the pistol sitting benignly on his desk. A gun dealer; Kyrellis was a gun dealer.

“Haven’t decided,” he said. “Might put it through the sale.”

“What’s the problem? I’ve got a guy who wants it.”

“Maybe,” he said, stalling for time. “We’ll see how the crowd looks.”

“You want a bigger cut or something?”

Hershel’s head pounded. He was taking kickbacks.

“You’re not exactly in a position to demand that, now are you, Swift?”

“I said maybe.” And he hung up.

He returned to his desk and picked up the gun again. His life seemed to belong to someone else. Who was this man who ran up bids, provided untraceable firearms to God knows what kind of people? Whoever he was, he was out of his league.

Silvie sat alone in the upstairs apartment, listening to the din of Hershel’s auctioneering below. She’d returned to a packed auction house and a line of people winding out the door, into the cool rain, waiting to sign in and get their bidding numbers. The hippie was busy helping people preview merchandise. The room was lit
up like a football stadium, with enormous fluorescent lights that cast an unforgiving scrutiny over the assembly of junk and bidders. Small groups stood around, snatches of their conversations coming at her like sound bites.

“Joe’s after that set of tires for his truck.”

“Cold snap coming. You get your water turned off?”

“Hazelnuts were good this year. Better than expected.”

Silvie drifted through, listening, but keeping a keen eye out for anyone who might be looking for her. She’d always be glancing over her shoulder. The reality of that was setting in like an infection, and crowded places were the worst.

Smokers stood in the doorway near the back of the building, where a small awning provided a stingy shelter. Good-natured swearing seasoned the myriad discussions swirling around her.

The smell of fresh buttered popcorn gave the whole place a carnival atmosphere as the stands filled. Two middle-aged women in the front row squabbled over a seat that each claimed was hers and always had been.

“Out of the way!” The stout man she’d seen in the parking lot that morning came through the narrow aisle lugging an ornately tooled western saddle. He leered at her on his way by.