Growth (12 page)

Liz had six kids and fourteen grandchildren. She'd married a cheerful empty-headed bartender who had blown an artery in his head in the middle of mixing a highball and dropped dead, right there behind the bar, six years ago. Liz might have been pushing sixty, with a bald patch on the crown of her head bigger than the mirrors in all the compact cases she kept in her desk, but she had the brightest, most outrageous fingernails in Manchester County. Today Liz was concentrating on gluing tiny little stars across her red, white, and blue nails, getting into the patriotic spirit for the big Fourth of July celebration. Each nail was at least two inches long.

Sandy knew the answer even without asking the question out loud. Liz would say, “Honey, you want to know what I would do for my kids? You try to tell me what I wouldn't do. Whatever you say, you'd be wrong.”

They both thought it was a good idea to go to Elliot's house first.

For one thing, Elliot's parents were both at work and the house was empty. Elliot was supposed to be at the town library. That's where they were headed next, so they could claim that they'd been there all afternoon.

The second thing, and maybe the most important, was that neither of Elliot's parents were cops.

Elliot led Kevin to the upstairs master bedroom. Kevin was impressed. He'd never been in that bedroom before. Elliot had made it clear it was off-limits. He was also intrigued with how neat and orderly everything was; the bed was made, no dirty clothes on the floor. It wasn't like that at his house. Housekeeping wasn't high on Sandy's list of priorities.

He followed Elliot into the bathroom. The light passing through the frosted glass window made everything blue and cold. Elliot found a bottle of ibuprofen and took a few minutes to read the label. “Six to eight hours. Okay.” He shook out eight pills, gave two to Kevin, and wrapped the other six in toilet paper. “For later,” he explained.

Kevin winced when he swallowed the two pills, but it didn't hurt as bad as back at the dump.

Elliot's eyes went wide and still behind his glasses. “I've never seen anybody take drugs before.”

They soaked a washcloth in hot water and wiped the trickle of dried blood away from Kevin's ear. After that they looked over themselves in the mirror, trying to gauge if anyone else would be able to see the terror. Kevin felt that his mom would sense the screaming panic just behind his eyes, but at least the blood was gone. If he kept his eyes down, and didn't talk much, he might be able to escape to his room before she suspected anything.

Elliot asked the question that had been chasing them since the dump, like a slow but inevitable freight train. “What are you going to do?”

Kevin stared at himself and tentatively touched his left earlobe. “I don't know.”

Elliot buried the washcloth in the dirty laundry bin and locked the door behind them. They retrieved their bikes and rode off, making plans to meet tomorrow at the library after school if things didn't fall apart in the meantime.

Kevin rode home. He had to give Mrs. Kobritz some story, something boring so she wouldn't mention it to his mom. When he got there though, the house was locked. Mrs. Kobritz usually parked her little Toyota at the curb. The space was empty. The house was silent when he let himself in. Perfect. He wasn't expecting it, and it had never happened before, but he wasn't going to complain.

He surprised himself and found that he was starving. He threw a few turkey corn dogs in the microwave and took them up to his room in the attic. After leaving his math homework on the bed, he settled in front of his giant, ancient television. The thing was so old and heavy it had taken both him and his mom to carry it up to his room. He dunked his corndog in ketchup and powered up the used game system he'd gotten for Christmas last year.

He kept the volume low so he could hear the front door when his mom got home. That way, he could try and claim he'd been working on homework. His mom would know better, but he figured it was better to get caught for a minor infraction, instead of raising her suspicion.

All he knew was that he had to get the gun back into the hiding place before she noticed it was gone.

 

 

Bob was in the bathroom again. He strained. He pushed. He gritted his teeth.

Still nothing.

He thought his announcement at the Korner Kafe had been a disaster, since that cheap prick Walsh had decided to pick that particular morning to be even more of an asshole than usual. But Cochran had surprised him by saying that the whole thing had been fine.

In the pickup on the ride back, Cochran smiled and patted Bob's shoulder. “Hell, I've been to press conferences that were a hundred times worse. You did great. The farmer throwing his weight around, Walsh, is it? He was going to ask questions no matter what you told him. He just needed a chance to show everybody that he's still a tough guy. Don't worry about it. No, the important thing is that everyone saw your strength. That's what will last.” Cochran squeezed Bob's shoulder one last time, then looked out the window at the rows of corn that flashed past in hypnotic bursts. “That cocksucker wants to push things, he'll find out the hard way that the people in charge don't take kindly to troublemakers.”

Bob had been reassured at the time.

Back at home, back in the bathroom, he just wanted to feel better. He hadn't eaten anything in at least fourteen hours yet still couldn't pass anything. He'd thrown up his wife's prune juice that she kept in the back of the refrigerator. He'd swallowed a couple of Dulcolax as soon as they'd got home. So far, nothing.

It wouldn't have been so bad if his stomach had been still. But he felt constant mounting pressure inside, as if something was pushing his stomach and guts into his spine. No matter how hard he forced and squeezed, it felt like he'd swallowed foam insulation that had settled and expanded.

He got up, disgusted with himself, zipped. Washed his hands. Saw that his skin was starting to break out. Weird little blackheads were clustered around his frown lines. Perfect. Just what he needed. He spent some time scraping his tongue against his teeth and spitting into the sink. The spit was black and foul. He ran water for a while to wash it all down the drain so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore.

He checked his watch. He'd been in the bathroom ten minutes. It was past time to get out, to get back to Cochran. Bob didn't want to leave his guest for too long. It was bad enough his wife would not leave their master bedroom.

There was another reason as well. Cochran had asked to look over his records, just to make sure there wasn't anything that the press could get hold of and make things embarrassing for the Morton family. Cochran had been awfully convincing, and Bob had opened up everything, spreading it all out on his antique rolltop desk. He'd expected Cochran to glance at everything and declare it all up to snuff. Instead, Cochran rolled up his sleeves, asked for a cup of coffee, and spent hours poring over Bob's records, seed receipts, fuel usage, acreage and yield estimates, and every other damn thing.

Bob was starting to regret giving the man so much access to his private business and didn't want Cochran to uncover anything unpleasant, least of all the two acres out by the expressway where he'd planted Junior's seeds.

He dried his face, made sure his shirt was tucked into his jeans, and stepped into the living room. His rolltop desk was over by the big windows. Reports, graphs, and receipts were strewn about as if a tornado had hit the desk and sprayed everything inside out onto the floor.

Cochran looked up and smiled. “Feeling okay?” he asked. “I can get a doctor out here in the hour, if you need.”

Bob shook his head. “Feel fine. Besides, I got any problems, I can always call Mike Castle. He's been taking care of me and Belinda for years, hell, decades now, I suppose.”

“Of course, of course.” Cochran nodded. “I just meant if you wanted to discuss anything that maybe you wouldn't want to talk about with your family doc, then I know some folks, experts in their field, that might help, that's all. Anything different, unusual. That's all.”

Bob drew himself up to his full height. “I feel fine. I am tired. I miss my son.”

Cochran nodded solemnly. “And God bless you for having the strength to carry on.” He nodded more briskly. “Just wanted to let you know that any other care you might want is available. You need anything, anything at all, you let me know.”

“I appreciate that. Anything changes, you'll be the first to know.”

Cochran studied his face. Bob couldn't tell if the lawyer's gaze lingered on the weird blackheads near his mouth. Then the moment was gone, and Cochran turned back to his paperwork. “Why don't you go upstairs and rest. The memorial service is tomorrow, after all. Might be a good idea for you and your wife to get some sleep. I would imagine the media will be out in full force; we'd like to have you looking your best.”

Bob didn't want to admit it, but Cochran had a point. Bob was feeling awfully tired. He wouldn't dare disrupt his wife in their bedroom, but there was always the bed in the guest bedroom. It was made and empty; Cochran had been sleeping on the couch in the living room. A lie down in a nice, dark, cool room might be just what Bob needed. He said, “Okay,” and started up the stairs.

Cochran called to him as Bob started up to the second floor. “Oh, you know anything offhand about this little bit of land you've got, a skinny patch down by I-72? Your records are somewhat confusing.”

Bob had sense enough to keep climbing the stairs. “No idea. I'll look everything over later. Right now, I need some rest.”

 

 

It had been a hell of a day. Sandy promised herself that once she had paid Mrs. Kobritz, she was going to step into the garage and beat the shit out of the bag for a while. Then, after a hot bath and a large glass of red wine, it was time to sit down with Kevin and find out, once and for all, what was happening with her son.

Back at the office, she had ultimately sat back at her desk and typed out a report so vague and sloppy it would have made her instructors crumple it up and throw it in the trash. It certainly wouldn't stand up to any kind of scrutiny from Illinois Internal Affairs. She hoped it would never come to that.

For today, it was enough to simply get through the report and not piss off Sheriff Hoyt.

Mrs. Kobritz's car was not out front. Sandy pulled into the driveway and collected her thoughts. In the past five years, Mrs. Kobritz had never missed a day or night looking after Kevin. It was possible the old lady had forgotten, but something in Sandy's gut, the same feeling that told her that Kurt hadn't killed Ingrid, was now telling her that Mrs. Kobritz wasn't the kind of woman who would forget to look after a child.

Sandy went inside and called out, “Kevin? Mrs. Kobritz?”

Kevin appeared at the top of his stairs. “Hey, Mom. What's up?”

“Where's Mrs. Kobritz?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. She wasn't here when I got home.”

“That's . . . different.”

He shrugged again.

“She never called, anything?”

He shook his head.

“What are you up to?”

“Uh . . . homework?”

“Sure,” Sandy said, nodding as if she believed him. “No more games until your homework is done. I mean it.”

“Okay, Mom.” He rubbed his left jaw as if it hurt, but she couldn't worry about that now. Maybe his molars were coming in or something.

Sandy dug out her cell phone and called Mrs. Kobritz. Mrs. Kobritz lived by herself in an old farmhouse south of town, not too far from the Einhorns. Sandy listened to the phone ring and started to realize that if Mrs. Kobritz didn't answer, she would have to drive out to Mrs. Kobritz's house. That meant she would have to drive past the Einhorn place, something she wasn't looking forward to. The phone continued to ring. She didn't expect an answer. Mrs. Kobritz didn't own a cell phone. She didn't even have an answering machine.

As Sandy listened to one ring after another in Mrs. Kobritz's empty house, a tight ball of apprehension began to grow in her chest. Mrs. Kobritz and her late husband never had any children of their own. The old widow would never simply not answer her phone, no more than she would ever leave a child alone. The more the phone rang, the more Sandy became convinced that something had happened.

Sandy was just about to hang up when the connection clicked and opened, and Mrs. Kobritz was on the other end, all breathless and frantic.

“Hello, hello?”

“Mrs. Kobritz? This is Sandy. I—”

“Oh thank God it's you. Please, you have to come help me.”

“Are you okay? I—”

“Please, please come help me look for him. I don't know what happened.”

“Look for who?”

“Puffing Bill, of course. He's gone. Please, I have to find him.” Puffing Bill was the pit bull Mrs. Kobritz had picked up from the animal shelter a few months after her husband had died. Cops had found the dog at the end of some country road. Mrs. Kobritz had instantly named the dog after her father's favorite train engine. Her father was a huge train buff. The entire second floor of Mrs. Kobritz's childhood home was taken over by a massive model train layout. She knew her father had seen some awful things after landing in France during D-Day, and although he never spoke of his experiences, he'd found a release for all that stress by playing with his trains. He favored the trains of the Wild West, mostly the Jupiter trains, but his absolute favorite had been the very first steam locomotive ever built, Puffing Billy, from England.

That's where the name originated. It was better to tell people the story of the name, instead of where the dog himself had come from. He'd survived the life of a fighter and had gotten loose somehow, instead of being shot, clubbed to death, or used as bait to stoke a stronger dog's bloodlust. When he'd been found, he'd been all chewed up and damn near dead. The vets donated their time and patched him up, but ultimately had to amputate his front right leg.

Once it healed, it didn't slow him down much at all. He got used to a quick hopping motion to move around, and before long, he could move quicker than any human. It didn't look like he felt his past wounds at all. Savage scars from ripping teeth had been torn across his body. Most of his lower lip was gone. His harsh, whistling way of breathing had also contributed to the name of Puffing Bill.

Mrs. Kobritz loved that dog like the child she'd never had.

Sandy tried again. “Mrs. Kobritz, I don't—”

“He's been gone since I let him out this morning! You have to help me.” It came out plaintive, stripped of any pretense, straight down to the naked need, pleading with Sandy to make everything all right and bring her dog home.