Darkness peering (30 page)

"I need to know what you did the entire day."

"That was Wednesday, right?" Rudd chewed thoughtfully on his lower
lip. "I was with my daughter."

"Can anyone corroborate?"

"Yeah." The muscles in his jaw twitched. "I've got an alibi, pretty
much, if that's what you're getting at."

Nursing an intense dislike for the man, McKissack said, "Why don't we
start with nine A.M.?"

"Okay."

McKissack wrote out Ozzie's statement as he spoke:

"I was between jobs. I slept past noon. I had Colette for the
afternoon and was really looking forward to it. I picked her up after
school. Her teacher can verify the time. We went out for dinner at
the Drop Off. The waitress there, Suzi, knows me. Then we went back
to my place and listened to some music. Colette likes Billie Holiday.
Then I drove her to her mom's house.

"We got to Mae's around six-thirty P.M. She can verify the time. We
had dinner together, and surprising as it sounds, we didn't argue, for
once. Sort of like old times. Then after dinner, Mae said something
that shocked me. She said, "How come I'm not over you completely?
Well, you could've knocked me over with a feather. Maybe it's the hurt
in my eyes that got to her? I don't know. But she invited me to stay
for coffee. Then she did something totally unexpected. She stroked my
arm, and her touch was ... forgiving.

"We go outside and she walks me to the truck. She wants to see what
I've got in back. "Nothing much," I tell her. I can't believe I'm
doing this, but we climb in back together, and I gather all these
packing quilts and make us a sort of nest, and we make love in the
dark. She tells me it's for the last time. I can't believe this is
happening, but it seems right. And while we're making love, it's
almost like I'm weeping. Like I'm releasing all this anger and
sadness. Like it's the right thing to do. Like it's okay for Colette
to be with her. But you wanna know the real kicker?"

McKissack glanced up from his legal pad.

"I didn't know it at the time, but she'd just gotten engaged." Ozzie
bit his lower lip. "To an entertainment lawyer, of all things. What
the hell's an entertainment lawyer?"McKissack wasn't going to share
this bitter, ironical moment with him. "Go on."

"I left around eight and drove to Commerce City. Dropped in at the
Hoary Toad for a drink. It must been around midnight when I finally
headed home. I was driving south on Winnetka Road when I spotted
something up ahead. I slowed clown and saw this pale figure crawling
out of the woods. She was ... naked, and there was something wrong
with her. At first I thought she'd been shot, maybe, like she was
clutching her chest because of a gunshot wound or something. I hit the
brakes and pulled over. I sat for a moment, thinking maybe I'd
imagined it. I hopped out and there she was, twenty yards back, making
the weirdest sounds." He shuddered. "My heart was going a mile a
minute. The sight of it just shocked the bejeezus out of me.

"I don't know much, Chief," Ozzie said, "but I do know you're not
supposed to move a person who's badly injured, so I told her to lie
still. I ran back to my cab, radioed for help and got a packing quilt
out of the back. She was shivering, so I covered her up. Then I sat
there, held her hand, talked to her a little bit. It took ten minutes
for the ambulance to arrive." Ozzie was staring at him with something
like vindication in his eyes. "So you see ... I guess it was my semen.
But I didn't kill anybody."

McKissack sat back. It was awfully hot in here. "We'll have to verify
your account with your ex-wile."

Ozzie's eyes grew pinched and curious. "Why do you hate me so much,
McKissack?

"I don't hate you, Oz.zie. I don't think about you that much."

"Oh yes, you do. It's like ... stuck in your throat, how much you hate
me. I can see it in your eyes. It's weird, because I've never done a
fucking thing to you."

McKissack smiled. "Maybe I hate what you used to be, Ozzie."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"An ungrateful little deadbeat with an ax to grind."

Ozzie glanced away for a moment. "Can I go now?"

McKissack shook his head. "Let me give you some advice, free of
charge. Hire yourself a good lawyer. You're gonna need it."

THE SKY'S MOLTING GRAY GAVE WAY TO VARIOUS SHAPES-clouds like rocket
ships and scavenging bears. Rachel stepped into the Hurryback Cafe,
where the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee mingled with frying onions, and
took a seat in one of the wide vinyl booths. The waitress's nametag
said Becky.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, Becky," Rachel said, flashing her
badge.

"You a cop?"

"Detective."

"Sure, okay. Except the cops asked me a buncha questions already."
Becky had a pasty face and black-hennaed hair that emphasized the
blankness of gaze. The coffee came out of the pot like hot, shimmery
sand. "It's about Claire, right? She used to eat here Wednesday
nights. She'd sit in that booth over there and read a book. Sometimes
we'd chew the fat. I liked her a lot. She was a big tipper."

"Did you notice anything peculiar about her that night?"

"Peculiar?"

"Was she nervous or distracted?"

"No, I don't think so. Just unwinding at the Hurryback, as per usual."
Becky flopped down opposite Rachel in the booth, a St. Christopher's
medal riding the pulse in her throat. The diner's floral wallpaper was
as faded as a bad Polaroid. "She came in here for lunch sometimes,
too. Grilled cheese on rye and a Snapple. Iced tea with lemon."

The diner had a timeless, weathered feel with its potted palms

and pressed-tin ceiling. A gray-haired waitress stood over by the
register, staring at them. "Who's that?" Rachel asked.

"Vera." Becky waved her over. "She's a witch. Don't quote me,
though. She'd give me a hot tongue, a cold shoulder and a hard
time."

Vera sauntered over, arms folded across her flat chest, candy apple
uniform dotted with stains. "We're not supposed to fraternize,
Becky."

"She's not a customer, she's a detective."

"Oh." Vera raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "You work with Jim
McKissack?"

"Yes."

"I used to know him." Beneath the polite exterior, Rachel detected
some bite. "You folks nab any suspects yet"?"

"Sorry, I'm not at liberty to discuss the case," Rachel said, and Vera
nodded with practiced resignation. "I would like to ask you a few
questions, though."

"Ask away."

"I know the police have already spoken with you both, but it's
important that you try and remember ... did you happen to see which way
Claire Castillo headed after she exited the diner?"

Vera shook her head. Rachel couldn't help feeling she was being
appraised somehow. "Your name Rachel Storrow?"

"Yes, it is."

"Mm." Vera's gaze seemed to reach right inside of her.

"Do we know each other?" Rachel asked.

"No," Vera said, softening. "No, we don't."

"Claire probably went window shopping after she left here." Becky blew
a ribbon of black hair off her face, but it drifted down over her eyes
again. "She was a clothes horse. Her taste is kinda similar to mine.
Bergman's has the best selection."

Rachel glanced out the window. Flowering Dogwood boasted the widest
Main Street in New England--virtually empty now except for a few
scattered pedestrians. Across the street, a young

woman had her arm around an old man's waist and was gently guiding him
off the curb. The old man clung to her as if she were asking him to
step into a raging river. From here, you could see the
time-and-temperature sign at the bank.

"Is it true what they say about Claire?" Becky asked with wide awake
eyes. "The way they found her, I mean? All sewn up like
Frankenstein?"

Both waitresses stared at Rachel with fierce concentration, as if
willing the rumor not to be true.

"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "I can't discuss it."

"Becky," Vera said with a wave of her hand, "we've got legitimate
customers waiting."

Becky gave Rachel a disappointed smile. "I sure hope they find Nicole.
She's in my sister's class."

Vera waited for Becky to leave before saying, "Don't you just hate
that, telling more lies to cover up other lies?"

"Excuse me?"

Vera touched Rachel's arm lightly, confidentially. "He ain't worth it,
honey. No man is."

Rachel blinked dumbly. Vera walked away.

Great, so everybody knows our business. That's just great.

Outside, Rachel headed up the street toward Bergman's, past the vacant
storefront, the hardware store, the shoe store and Ruthie's Fashions.
Then came Bergman's, then Gayle's Beauty Parlor and an empty
storefront. An alley.

Where Delongpre intersected Main, there was Dusty's Ballroom Dancing, a
dental practice, a ghostly Victorian mansion with plenty of office
space available, Kellum Kleaners and the town's information center.
And beyond the information center was a weedy lot, and then the woods.
The woods encroached upon the town like a fungus. Even' street, it
seemed, ended in woods.

She turned and looked the other way: liquor store, toy store, used car
lot, 99c store. Sears, the public parking lot. Whoever

had kidnapped Claire Castillo had done so in full view of the entire
town. The police had interviewed every business establishment on Main
and Delongpre, but apparently no one had seen a thing. Why had she
even bothered the waitresses at the Hurryback? She could have gone to
the station and read the reports. The police were buried under an
avalanche of paperwork.

If Ozzie Rudd wasn't guilty, then who was? It was a foggy and cold
night. Claire most likely would've skipped the window shopping and
headed back to her car. The UN SUB must have abducted her somewhere
between the Hurryback Cafe and the parking lot. Had Dinger gotten off
at eight and offered Claire a ride? Was Dinger capable of such
violence? Or was Buck Folette the man they were looking for? If Buck
had offered Claire a lift, would she have taken it? Had he attacked
her from behind? Had he waited in an alley?

Rachel sighed, making breath clouds in the air. She had another
interview to do, one she'd been avoiding. A big rig drove past,
stirring the wind and making a shuddering sound as she trudged toward
her car.

UP NEAR THE CANADIAN BORDER, ROUTE 88 BENT SOUTH AWAY

from Baxter Gorge, whose densely wooded cliffs and slabs of quartzite
were formed in the Devonian Age, when an immense ice sheet covering all
of in'ew England began to melt. The melting ice water drained into the
Androscoggin River, a favorite for anglers seeking rainbow trout in the
furious white water. Route 88 continued south down into the widening,
glacier-carved valley where waterfalls splayed and forked into streams
that riffled over boulders and meandered through the area of town

known as the Triangle. The Triangle sat on the site of old Fort
Hostile, erected in 1777 to protect early settlers from Native American
war parties. The fort was burned to the ground in 1783, and this was
where Dinger Tedesco currently resided with his mother and three
siblings.

Rachel was sadly familiar with the area: crumbling mansions floating on
a sea of debris, screen doors busted off their hinges, voices raised in
anger, tiny bodies flung against apartment walls. She got a lot of
domestics in this neighborhood, some B&Es, an occasional drug-related
death.

Rachel took a left up a steep, poorly paved road, a silver painted
mailbox giving away the hidden driveway: TEDESCO. The trailer's white
walls bled rust. The rusted-out carcass of an old Dodge Charger nudged
the trailer's rear bumper in the gravel driveway. Scattered across the
muddy front lawn were old tires and children's toys.

Rachel got out of the car and approached the trailer, boots crunching
on gravel. "Hello? Anybody homer" The trailer had miserly, dark
windows. Next to the Dodge Charger was a pumpkin patch, vines growing
tangled and wild, and behind that a large chicken wire coop holding
plump rabbits, their hard pink eyes like an infestation of beetles upon
their whiteness.

Rachel knocked on the door but nobody answered. Touching her nose to
the glass, she peered into darkness. "Hello?" Her scalp prickled as
she felt a distinct presence gazing back, then detected a cluster of
words. Whispered, not spoken. Somebody was sitting in the dark,
pretending not to be home.

"Police!" She thumped on the door with her fist, and finally a small
pale figure approached. The door creaked open. The boy reminded her
of an old man with his taut mouth and sour stare, his spindly arms and
legs. "Hello?" he said, peering up at her questioningly.

"Is your mother home?"

"She's out grocen' shopping."

Rachel scanned the neighborhood, pockets of poverty as far as the eye
could see, and beyond this heart-wrenching poverty, the cornfields, the
woods and a dirty smudge of horizon. She squinted into the murky
interior where shadows danced deceptively. "Are you Dinger's
brother?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"We need to talk, Mrs. Tedesco." Rachel raised her voice. "Mrs.
Tedesco?"

The silence that followed was deafening; even the birds stopped
singing.

"I'd like to talk to you about your son Dinger. I need to ask you some
questions so we can bring him home, safe and sound."

Something stirred and creaked. There was a rustling sound, and finally
a figure emerged like a whale from the soggy depths. An obese woman in
a blue-floral tent dress with limp brown hair like a banana peel draped
over her head said in the high voice of a sickly child, "Yes, what can
I do for you?"

"Mrs. Tedesco?" Rachel held out her hand. "I'm Detective Storrow."