Drag Strip (23 page)

“Roy Dell!” I hung up. I had no idea what I was gonna do with him, but dumping him out onto the highway didn't seem like a bad idea at this particular moment.

“Sierra!” Ma said, all poised to lecture me on perpetrating a felony.

“Ma, it's neither here nor there, 'cause whatever you're about to say, I already know. Just pretend we've had the conversation and I am duly warned.”

I got up and started moving.

Ma was sputtering as I left, too worked up to say what she was thinking. A good thing for both of us.

*   *   *

To his credit, Roy Dell could move when he had to. He streaked from Raydean's garage into the back of my car almost before I could switch from drive to reverse.

“Duck down and stay down!”

Roy Dell did exactly as I asked. I shot out of the driveway and laid tracks down the tiny street, heading for the highway and Wewahitchka.

“Is he the best in the business, Sierra?” he asked.

“Is who the best in the business?”

“The lawyer you're taking me to see.” Roy Dell's voice was muffled, but I could still pick up the anxiety. I'd forgotten all about telling Roy Dell I'd take him to see Ernie.

“The very best,” I said. Once again, the image of Ernie Schwartz naked and playing the ukulele on my kitchen counter came unbidden to my mind and I laughed.

“Then why are you laughing?”

“Aw, I ain't laughing on account of that. And besides, we aren't going to Ernie's place now.”

“And why not?” Roy Dell demanded.

“On account of I need to ask you some questions and make a stop or two first. You've got some information I want and I'm your only hope of help, so I figure you'll be glad to answer a few questions, right?”

There was a pause, then a muffled “Right,” followed by a heavy sigh.

“You can sit up now,” I said after a few minutes. We'd left the city limits and had moved rapidly into the country. No one was around to see us, and even if there had been, it wouldn't have meant anything to them.

Roy Dell raised his shaggy head level with my front seat and peered out at the pine trees and telephone poles that zipped by.

“Where're we headed?” he asked.

“Two places. First to Wannamaker Lewis's house, and second, to the speedway.”

Roy Dell half leaned into the front seat. “The track! We cain't go to the track! They'll be all over that place looking for me!”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. I've gotta know more about what's going on there. Don't worry,” I added, “I'll throw a blanket over you. There's a nice green one in the backseat.”

Roy Dell turned around and reached for the blanket I'd saved after I'd been jumped in the parking lot. “Hey, this looks a lot like one of my blankets,” he said. “Yeah, this is just like the one I keep in the back of my car.”

My heart began to pound and my mouth went dry. “Of course, that isn't your blanket, is it?” I asked. I waited for the denial.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “this
is
my blanket! Lookit right here!” He was back in my face, the blanket clutched in his fist. “See that burn mark? That little one?”

He showed me a hole that looked like a cigarette burn. “That's from the first time me and Lulu … Well, you know.” He broke off and sank back into the seat, lost in his memory. “She liked to smoke afterward. You know…”

The image of a naked Lulu and Roy Dell rolling around on the blanket, one sweaty clump of too-white flesh, made me shudder.

“How'd you get my blanket, Sierra?”

“Where'd you lose it, Roy Dell?” Cat and mouse.

He was silent for a few minutes, thinking. “Well, it's always in the trunk of my Vega, out to the track. It's good luck. I checked on it before ever' race. I don't think it was lost.”

This was pointless. Roy Dell didn't have the brain cells to lie about a blanket, let alone a murder.

“Roy Dell, we're coming up on Wewa. Where does Wannamaker Lewis live?”

“Huh?” Roy Dell sat up again and moved in between my two bucket seats. “I reckon he lives the same place he's always lived.”

“That ain't exactly helpful, Roy Dell!”

“Oh, right.” He scratched his beard and peered out the windshield. “Up yonder,” he called out. “See that little road running off to the side there? Take that. You'll see it down there on the right.” Roy Dell suddenly vanished behind the seat.

“Where are you going? There isn't a soul around!” The road wound through what must've once been the center of town and was now a collection of almost disintegrated Victorians.

“You never know,” Roy Dell said. “Folks around these parts worship me! I am, after all, the King of Dirt.”

“Sheeze!” I sighed and slowed the Camaro to a crawl. I'd found Wannamaker Lewis's house all by myself. It was dead ahead, painted up worse than his in-town shack. Every inch of the house was covered with brightly painted figures and crooked black letters. The mailbox was painted red with the word
BEWARE
crudely lettered on its side. Scrubby pines and tall, aging magnolias shadowed the backyard, hiding the house from its neighbors. Big azaleas and boxwoods crowded the tiny front yard, nearly hiding a short wrought-iron fence.

I pulled up in the driveway and cut the engine.

“Would you look at this,” I breathed.

“Ain't it some shit!” Roy Dell said from the safety of my backseat. “Neighbors just flat out hate it, but they cain't do a thing about it. Ol' Wannamaker's the richest man in town and ever' one of them knows it. Cain't nobody risk getting on his bad side.”

“Why not?” I was looking out the windshield. The house looked vacant and deserted.

“On account of he's nuts, and they're all working him to get his money. He ain't got no family.” Not that you know about, I thought. “They're all just hoping he don't leave it all to his cat or nothing. So they kiss up to him and act all nice, all the while hoping he'll die.” Roy Dell laughed to himself. “You ask me, that coot'll live to be a hundred. His kind always do! And another thing, he's on to 'em all. That old boy may be crazy, but he's sharper than the preacher's tongue on Sunday!”

I was losing interest in Roy Dell. “I'll be back in a minute,” I said, and left him to his musings.

I stood by the side of the car for a second, just trying to figure the best way into Wannamaker Lewis's house. Huge magnolia trees flanked the gate in the front yard and the azaleas crawled around and under their spreading tree limbs. It was going to be like walking through a wall of green fire, trusting you'd come out alive on the other side.

“Hell, the paperboy must do it every day,” I muttered, assuming, of course, that Lewis took the paper.

I inhaled deeply and pushed off toward the house, darting through the open gate and plowing through the bushes and branches that grabbed at my clothes and hair. It was a battle, and I looked like I'd been in a catfight by the time I arrived on the porch, but at least I'd made it.

The front porch was littered with parts and pieces of Wannamaker Lewis's artwork. Little cans of paint sat around, some empty, some closed back up and lining the porch rail. But it was the front door that frightened me. Glaring out, painted to take up the entire doorway, was an avenging angel. Us Catholics didn't have nothing on Wannamaker's vision of God's wrath.

She was a beauty, all right, snakes for hair, a sword in one hand and a column of fire balanced in the other. Her eyebrows could've stood serious plucking, and her nose was long and hooked, but her lips were bloodred and smiled a terrible smile. You could almost hear her saying “Vengeance is mine!” The tip of her sword was painted over the doorbell.
RING HERE IF YOUR CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR
, said the crudely lettered sign.

I reached one tentative finger out and touched the button, half expecting it to be booby-trapped. It rang just like any other doorbell, screaming through the interior of the huge darkened house.

I peered into one of the windows, but they were too dirty to see through.

“With all the money you made on art, you'd think you'd take care of the place,” I said aloud. “So I guess you're not home, huh? It must not be nap time.” I turned around to leave. “I'll just mosey down to your studio and see if I can catch you there.” It helped to speak aloud. Made the house a little less creepy.

“Too late!” a voice said suddenly. “Too late!”

I whirled around and stared back at the front door. The angel's eyes blinked, red and rheumy with age. He was watching me.

“Mr. Lewis,” I said, “my name is Sierra. We met at Ruby's mother's house after the funeral. I'd like to talk to you.”

“For Wannamaker so loved the world that he lost his only daughter,” the old man said, his voice coming softly through the door.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis. She was my friend.”

I stood there, staring at the angel's eyes. They blinked once again, then disappeared only to be replaced by their painted version. Pretty awesome peephole. There was the sound of metal on metal as the lock was turned and the door slowly swung open to reveal the little wizened farmer from the funeral, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You can come in,” he said. “I don't bite.” He stood back and beckoned me inside. “See,” he said, as I stepped over the threshold, “the eternal fires do not burn here!” He turned and led me into a parlor.

The room was filled with antiques—settees with rump sprung seat cushions, tables, and lamps—all dripping with dust and cobwebs. I gingerly sat on the very edge of the chair he indicated, barely waiting for him to settle before I began talking. This was not a place where I wanted to tarry.

“Mr. Lewis, I want to find out who killed your daughter.”

“Satan,” he answered calmly.

Two could play this tango, I thought. “Satan's agent,” I corrected. I silently thanked the Sisters for my theological background. “I want to meet this agent of Satan,” I said. “I want to see him returned to hell.”

Wannamaker's eyes caught fire, and he leaned toward me. “I have many enemies,” he said. “Rich prophets make enemies.”

I was starting to think I should've brought Raydean along as an interpreter. “So you're saying someone knew Ruby was your daughter and killed her to get to you?”

“In my house are many mansions,” he said softly.

“Mr. Lewis, did you ever talk to Ruby? Tell her you were her father?”

Tears flowed down the little man's cheeks. “No,” he whispered, “but I would have one day. I wanted to take care of her, but I didn't want to hurt her.” He was openly crying now. “Iris gave her away!” he moaned. “I didn't know. I never knew her, only him.”

He jumped up, the tiny chair he'd perched on fell over onto its side. “I should've gone first!” he yelled. “My Son of Satan wanted to take me first! But no, He had to take her! Had to be sure I was all His! My kingdom shall be yours, I said, but He wants it all, everything. I must pay! I must be broken! I must die!”

Wannamaker's eyes were wild and, as he jumped and screamed, he moved closer. He reached out suddenly and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me in a grip that was powerfully strong. His hands were like iron.

“Let go!”

He didn't. Instead, he was in my face, spewing spittle and screaming. “Vengeance is not for Him!”

“Wannamaker, let me go!” I yelled, but he couldn't hear me.

“Come on,” he said, suddenly releasing me, abruptly calm. “I'll show you where it is.”

“Where what is?” I stood, towering over the little maniac. My instincts said leave. The man was obviously a fruitcake, and the dusty, smoky smell of his house was starting to make me sneeze.

“The will,” he said simply. “In my house are many mansions, all for her and He knows it, too. All for the angel.” He turned and darted out of the room leaving me to follow as best I could.

I heard him clattering up the stairs and I followed the sound, out into the broad front hallway, up the sweeping staircase, my hand reaching out now and then for the dusty banister.

“Mr. Lewis?” I called.

“Up here,” he answered, his voice muffled and far away. “Come on … it's … in a safe,” I thought he said, but I couldn't be certain.

I was becoming aware of something. The dusty, smoky smell was stronger. I stopped for a second to get my bearings and to listen. As I did, I looked toward the end of the second-floor hallway. Smoke had started to billow out of a doorway. The house was on fire!

“Fire!” I screamed. “Mr. Lewis, where are you? The house is on fire!” I heard a scrabbling sound, like the footsteps of someone running. I started opening doors, looking into dust-covered rooms, screaming for Wannamaker Lewis, but he didn't answer me.

I reached the doorway to the attic and pulled it open. Behind me, thick, gray smoke rolled down the hallway. I made my way up the steep stairs, calling for Wannamaker and getting no answer.

The attic was empty except for pieces of furniture and dusty boxes. I went on anyway, looking behind them, hoping to find Lewis hiding. What I found instead were drugs. Hidden behind a stack of boxes, piled high in a four-by-four square, was brick after brick of what appeared to be cocaine, compressed and tightly wrapped with plastic.

There was no time to look further. In the distance I heard the crackling of fire. I had to get out of the house. I had to find Lewis and get us both out. I ran down the stairs to the second floor. The sound of a gunshot stopped me cold. Was someone shooting? Or was it the sound of something exploding with the heat?

Someone screamed, maybe Wannamaker? The smoke was thick now, and I was choking. “Get down, Sierra. Remember, crawl along the floor!” My dad's voice spoke in my head. I dropped to my hands and knees, trying to recall where the staircase was, feeling my way along the hallway. Somewhere downstairs, I heard another explosion that sounded like a gunshot. How long before the whole place exploded?