In Plain View (16 page)

“Huh?” I caught a breath, nervous and suddenly aware of dangers everywhere, the sharp stick pointing toward her face, the rock right behind her head, the smallness of her bones. My threshold for fearlessness had shifted; it made me irritable. “When?”

“You know, when he got dead.”

“Sure. I think it hurt.” I herded her toward the chili-pepper lights surrounding the backdoor. This line of questioning was definitely creeping me out.

“Yeah, me too.” Jenny didn’t sound surprised. “Once, I had to get this shot. A really big one ’cause I fell and there was this rusty can right there. Mom said I bled like a stuck pig.”

“Really? I never saw a stuck pig.”

Birch bark had left white streaks down her jeans and when she brushed her hood back, a chalky smear of white appeared on her temple and forehead, as well. Tonya had braided her hair as promised, and added a bead and feather frill to the plait beside her ear. She looked like an elf in the middle of some night-forest ritual. The thought gave me an urge to cross myself, something I hadn’t felt in years.

“Mom said it was a lot of blood. The shot was huge and I was scared, so the doctor was like holding my arm, really tight, and then Mom said ‘Jenny?’ and pinched my leg really hard.”

“What’d you do?”

“Said ‘ow.’”

Conversations with eight-year-olds can be very Zen.

“Right. Why’d your mom pinch you?”

“She said it’s impossible to feel more than one pain at a time.” Jenny bumped me with her shoulder as we walked along. “Do you think that’s really true?”

“Impossible to feel more than one pain at a time?”
Un-fucking-likely.
“Your mom was the nurse, she should know.” My skin started to prickle. “Why’re you asking?”

“Just thinking,” she answered and wouldn’t look me in the eye.

We passed under the red twinkle of lights and into the cool glare of the television.

Jenny froze, mesmerized by the screen. My hand floated over her head and settled between her shoulders near the top of her spine as if we were caught in slow-pause.

No pinch could camouflage what she felt. What Rachel felt. What we all felt.

I patted her gently instead. The words echoing back to me,
it’s all connected.

7:51:43 p.m.

“My mom used to take me to work with her all the time,” Jenny called to her aunt from the back seat.

It was dark outside. The radio was off. Aunt Maddy turned it off. She was trying to think. Jenny was trying not to think. The car door was too cold to lean on. Jenny’d packed her pillow and her Nintendo and her softie pig in her backpack, but Aunt Maddy had put everything in the trunk.

“Used to take you to work, huh?” her aunt repeated eventually.

“Yeah. It was fun. There were machines with food and ice cream and stuff. And a cafeteria, too.” Jenny looked out the window. At a stop light, the pretty lady in the car next to them smiled at her. It was so surprising Jenny didn’t smile back quick enough; the light changed and the lady drove away.

“Sounds like an Ainsley Prescott tour.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“How long do you have to work?” Jenny asked.

“We’ll see.”

“Do you like work?”

“Yeah.”

Jenny was quiet after that. She picked her finger and bit the skin next to the nail. Nobody ever told her not to anymore, so all her fingers had rough spots that were good for catching between her front teeth. Aunt Maddy didn’t like to talk. She liked to ask questions. She liked to listen sometimes and watch people. She wasn’t too chatty, though.

The TV station was far away in an empty place. The antenna had a red light that Jenny could see. Slowly, they got closer.

“I got to ride in an ambulance once. When I went to meet my mom at work,” she mentioned. “It was a special deal.”

“Really?”

Jenny could tell she didn’t care. She bit her thumb skin until she felt a warm prickle of blood. It never hurt when she made it bleed. Sometimes it hurt later though. Lots of things were like that.

Aunt Maddy parked and popped the trunk. Jenny felt better when she had her backpack in her hands.

“I want to carry it,” she said. “Don’t put it in the trunk any more. Please.”

“Sure, Jen, whatever,” her aunt said.

Inside the station was actually not so bad. No weird people. All the lights were on, so it wasn’t scary. And there were TVs everywhere. Every room had one; some had more than one. The editing room where Aunt Maddy had to do her work had a whole mess of them, but they were all mini-sized.

“Come on.” Her aunt led the way down the hall. Jenny hurried to keep up. “There’s a couch in the break room and a VCR. You can watch a movie.”

“Where are you going to be?”

The break room had a cabinet with snacks next to the fridge. Her aunt grabbed a package of popcorn. “I’ll be in the editing room. Where I just showed you.”

“Can’t I watch in there with you?” Jenny asked. The couch looked pretty scuzzy.

“No.” Maddy slammed the microwave door and hit the power button. “You’ll be fine here, kiddo. I’ll be right down the hall.”

Jenny didn’t answer. Her heart started beating really hard, like she’d been running a monster lap in gym.

Aunt Maddy fumbled around with the video. The preview started and the familiar music helped Jenny catch her breath. She looked over at the screen and nodded.

“Look, the faster I get to work, the sooner we can go home. Here’s the popcorn. I’m right down the hall. Okay?”

“Okay.” She repeated the word because it was what her aunt wanted and sometimes if you did what a grownup wanted for a while, they would give in and do what you wanted for once.

Jenny didn’t watch her leave, but she did slip over to the doorway and peek down the hall to be sure which room her aunt was going into.

The previews ended and the movie started. Jenny went to the couch and let the story take her mind away. She’d watched it almost every day since her mother was gone. The girl in the story didn’t even have a mother. Sometimes Aunt Maddy said, “This one? Again?” but she never made her choose something else.

Jenny hadn’t been watching very long when she heard voices, loud voices. She hit the pause button and listened.

“…and I don’t have time to play any fucking sales games tonight, Schmed. I’m working here.”

Jenny’s face got hot. That was the baddest word there was. She’d only heard it in school twice. She went over to the doorway, backpack in hand, and tucked herself into the door jamb close enough to hear and see what was happening.

A tall man was talking. “…like I’m not? It’s practically my office you’re getting.”

“Get over it.”

He snorted before he spoke again. “All I’m asking is you go talk to him. Is that too much to ask? A little cooperation between departments.”

“Take it up with Gatt.” Her aunt sounded more than angry. She sounded mean.

“Fine. I will.”

The man stepped out of the room and looked up the hall. His clothes reminded Jenny of this one neighbor on the block who was always playing golf.

When he caught her watching, Jenny froze.

“Hello? Who’s this?” he called out. His voice was icky-happy. “You have a kid with you, O’Hara?”

Aunt Maddy came back into the hall. She turned toward Jenny with a look that meant
everything all right?
“Yeah. She’s with me. Come here, Jenny.”

Jenny walked slowly at first, then faster, up the hall. She kept her eyes on the man as she slid in beside her aunt.

“Jenny, this is Mr. Schmed. He works at the television station.” Her aunt sounded angry.

“Hi there, honey.” He smiled a big white grin at Jenny. His eyes creeped her out, even more than his teeth. “You’re working late, aren’t you?”

Jenny didn’t say anything. She tried to smile but her lips felt too stiff.

“Pretty girl, O’Hara. You should put her on TV,” he said.

“You’re just full of good ideas tonight aren’t you, Jim?” Aunt Maddy answered. She put her arm around Jenny and directed her into the little editing room. “Nice chatting with you. I’m going back to work now.”

“We’ll talk Monday, O’Hara. After I see Gatt.”

“Great,” she said, but Jenny could tell she was lying. Maddy shut the door and added, “Bite me.”

“Whaaat?” Jenny giggled. She didn’t even know what that one meant.

“Technical talk, kiddo.” Her aunt rubbed her face with her hand. She looked tired, like she was trying to scrub herself awake. “Movie over?”

Jenny shook her head no.

“Oh. You want to stay in here with me for a while?”

Jenny nodded yes. She sat down in one of the spinner chairs and tried to pay attention to the mini-screens flashing around them. Her aunt stopped noticing everything but the picture in front of her. She watched the screens while both hands moved over something that looked like a giant computer keyboard and a PlayStation controller. The picture on the screen would stop, go back, play, go back, play, stop, go faster, stop again. It made Jenny dizzy. Every now and then, her aunt would write something down or lean back and hit a button that made a bunch of machines all clunk and whir at once.

It was boring. All Jenny had to do was sit and spin and think. After a while, she had to ask. “Were you fighting with that guy?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Aunt Maddy mumbled.

That was one of those things grown-ups said all the time that Jenny really hated. Things like
how are you?
or
see you later.
Things that didn’t mean anything. Did they think she was stupid? If Aunt Maddy wasn’t getting along with the people at work, Jenny knew she wouldn’t want to stay in this job. Where would they go? What would they do?

Inside, Jenny got that scary feeling again. It felt like shrinking, like all her guts were disappearing. Jenny felt if she breathed too hard, her hollow inside might pop and she’d vanish, like a bubble. Forever. She bit her finger where the blood had come out before but it didn’t help. “Aunt Maddy?” she said, real soft and quiet. “Aunt Maddy, I feel shrinky inside again.”

Her aunt leaned closer to the screens, straining to see or hear something Jenny didn’t understand.

“Damn,” Maddy whispered. The picture flashed. Stop. Go again. “What? Sorry, Jen, I gotta work here. Don’t talk to me, unless it’s an emergency.”

Jenny stood up and walked to the door, dragging her backpack. She didn’t try to be especially quiet. She didn’t have to.

8:55:12 a.m.

I could feel the blood tickling its way down my leg into my shoe.

“Where have you been?” Jenny demanded the second she opened the front door. “You were running.”

She sounded like a high court judge. I pushed past her and limped toward the kitchen.
Squish, squish.

“Is that blood?” The icy, early morning wind snapped her nightgown around her legs. Jenny didn’t budge. She stood there in bare feet, scowling at me. Kids have no sense of self-preservation.

“Close the door, you’ll freeze to death,” I said.

Cold water from the kitchen faucet dulled the throb in my palms and cleared the dust off my face.

She followed me as far as the kitchen door. “What happened?”

“I fell.” My eyes wouldn’t stop watering. Because of the dust. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. “Go get dressed.”

Jenny took a giant step away from me, eyes wide.

“Wait, Jen—find me the phone, would you?”

She nodded, then vanished.

I don’t run every morning. For one thing, running’s boring. For another, Jenny’s not too fond of the idea. But sometimes, when my brain is too thick, the only thing that clears my head is running. Pounding it out through my feet—down and out, step, breath, step, breath—somewhere along the way, the picture in my head focuses and I can see again.

I’d spent half the night on the computer researching everything I could find about the Amish and my new hometown. I’d filtered out a list of local experts I could interview about the Amish culture, relevant local history and once again re-read the stuff Melton gave us on Jost’s time in foster care. I was missing something.

Around eight minutes past six, I threw on a sweat suit and slipped out into the pre-dawn dark to run the story loose.

So far, I had a suicide that could have been an accident, a firefighter who would have been an Amish guy, and a girl who should have been a bride. Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. I’m on to something all right. It’s the road to hell.

Right on schedule, some underworld hound comes roaring up on my heels, driving a silver SUV.

“Son of a bitch!”

The car roared up alongside me, riding the shoulder and spitting gravel. I jerked right and misjudged the slope into the drainage ditch. My ankle buckled. My knee popped. My ass went down.

The guy slammed on his brakes, skidding to a stop twenty feet ahead of me. I scrambled upright, favoring the knee and flipping him the bird with every finger I’ve got available—not to mention providing plenty of audio—when the jerk-off guns it, fishtails gravel all over me and takes off. I got the first letter of the license before the dust hit my eyes.

Six months ago I was one of the toughest videographers in the business. Now, I’m the Joe Atlas wimp getting sand kicked in my face.

What the hell has happened here?

Jenny was of the same opinion. She stood there in the kitchen doorway, fists on her bony hips.

I slid down onto the cold ceramic floor and braced my back against the sink cabinet. I could tell it was going to be a few minutes before I could even make a call; my teeth were chattering too hard to speak clearly. Typical aftereffects of adrenaline: chills, shivering, light-headedness. All completely normal.

Eyes narrowed, Jenny peeked around the corner cabinet.

“I’m not dead, Jen. I’m just sitting on the floor.” The words set off another bout of chills.

Jenny remained skeptical. “Why?” she asked.

“Felt like it.”

With a huffy snort, she came over to sit beside me and check out my leg. I must of hit a rock when I went down. There was a gash near my knee about four inches long. I’d used my sock to slow the bleeding, but it was still seeping down my calf. I’m fine with other people’s blood; mine bothers me.

“I bet you need stitches.”

“Probably.”

“I got stitches once.”

“Yeah?”

“It hurt.”

“Your mom pinch you for those, too?”

“No. She had to hold me down.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be right back.” Jenny patted me on the head, once, and scrambled out.

Inside, my muscles registered full of juice, ready to fly. Outside, I was crusting over with drying sweat and dust. A wobbly drip of bright red blood clung to the rivulet that streaked my calf. I flexed my toes inside my running shoe and watched the drop release—
splish, splash
—quickly followed by two more. The white ceramic tile made a dramatic contrast where it landed.

Everything tunneled down to breathing. Slow, in through the nose. Out through the mouth.

A few months ago my sister had a car roar up behind her. But she didn’t slide down a ravine to safety. I opened my mouth and gulped air, trying to settle my stomach.

Do not think. Do not puke.

No way could I tell Jenny a car was involved. Neither of us would survive the resulting panic loop.

Work. Work was the way out of this, away from this feeling. Work brought calm.

Calm would help Jenny.

I hit the auto-dialer. Ainsley picked it up in one ring.

“You got the morning off, College.” I’d made arrangements for Ainsley and me to go in and rough cut with the engineer. “Call Mick and ask him if he can meet us tonight for a few hours, instead of this morning.”

“Sweet. Why?”

I checked for Jenny before I answered. “Some asshole in a SUV didn’t want to share the road.”

“No way.”

“Way. I’m headed over to the emergency room.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Add insult to injury, College. Ask me another stupid question.”

“Geez, how bad? You need a hand?”

I slumped lower against the kitchen cabinet, closed my eyes and pictured my choices of worst-case scenarios: totaling the Subaru as I lost consciousness and spun out of control, versus Ainsley holding me down for stitches in the emergency room.

“No thanks. I’ve got it under control,” I told him.

“This stuff might help.” Jenny appeared carrying her mother’s Rubbermaid tub of all-purpose medical repair. My sister had been an emergency-room nurse. If anyone was prepared for trouble, it was her. “Worst case scenario, first case scenario,” I used to tease.

Too bad, I was right.

“Where’d you find that?”

“The little one stays in the linen closet. The big one was in the garage. Mom kept it in the car for emergencies.”

Hunkered down beside me, Jenny started digging through the tubs, passing right by the latex gloves, bottles of pain relief and piles of unlabeled foil-blister packets. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant as the supplies appeared: one box of princess band-aids, rubbing alcohol, three ace bandages, a stethoscope and a rubber tourniquet.

“Make sure we have an engineer tonight, College.” I spoke very deliberately into the phone. “And I’ve got a new list of pick-ups we should go after. I want to go back to Jost’s apartment and try his partner Pat again. See if we can catch him off-duty.”

“You got it, boss.” I could hear him fluffing his pillow in preparation for another few hours of sleep. “I’m yours to command.”

Jenny took a rubber strap between both hands.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“This will stop the bleeding by cutting off your circulation.”

“Anything else?” Ainsley asked.

“These are for pain.” Jenny held out the giant bottle of acetaminophen and a foil-blister pack. “Or maybe it’s these?”

The only words stamped on the back read: SAMPLE NOT FOR RESALE.

“I’ll stick with the usual.” I tossed the packet back into the bucket. Jenny shook out two tablets. “Get me some water would you, kiddo?”

“I’ll meet you at the station tonight,” Ainsley said. “What time?”

“I need you earlier, but don’t panic. It involves food. How’d you like to go picnic with the sheriff today?”

“Uh…”

“Great. Pick us up at noon.”

1:02:59 p.m.

Socializing at a garden party after stitches in the emergency room is like eating brussels sprouts after army-issue MRE’s. Some improvements aren’t worth the wait. Unfortunately, the Curzon family picnic wasn’t a meal I could skip.

It took forever to haul ourselves less than ten miles through small-town traffic to the old neighborhood where the Curzon family manse was located. We got caught behind two freight trains going opposite directions. The old Subaru wagon I’d inherited had a cassette
prey-er,
no tape ever ejected with its guts still intact, so Ainsley and Jenny sang to the radio Top 40 countdown. I was safely insulated by the meds they’d given me for the stitches.

According to Ainsley, the houses in Curzon’s neighborhood were built back in the days when middle-class families hired architects who would build-to-suit. We passed cottages and castles, Tudor beside Victorian, and the occasional practical brick bungalow, all on lots big enough to require gardeners. From what I’d heard, the area was mostly interchangeable old-money Protestants and new-money Republicans. Broad lawns and narrow minds, as the saying goes.

Ainsley parked the wagon at the back of a line of cars half a block away. The house was a big faux-French cottage built of yellow midwest limestone. Tall windows. Iron fence. A string of Curzon for Sheriff signs across the yard. And a cement duck dressed in a pumpkin costume.

Jenny took my hand as we wandered toward the front door. As we came around the cubist shrubbery, I could see the garage door and hear the sounds of battle. The Curzon men were engaged in our local blood-sport: man-on-man driveway hoop.

Worth watching.

The sheriff’s face was dripping sweat. The younger guy—I knew he must be related, same coloring—wasn’t as sweaty but blood marked his face, from nose to cheek. In Chicago Land, backyard basketball is nothing like the long-court ballet of the NBA. Whether it’s cement playgrounds with chain nets or blacktop driveways with acrylic backboards, the game is played rough and up under the net—hustle, push, hip-check. Make that elbow connect! Whip the ball around your opponent, bounce once, shoot, grab, twist—do it again. No blood, no foul.

Jenny, Ainsley and I stood there admiring the action for a while.

An older guy with a face that made you think basset hound was watching from the raised bluestone patio that surrounded the house. Waving a crystal highball glass in one hand, he leaned out over the wall to shout at the players, “Come on, you old fart. Can’t you do better than that? That’s it! Ooh, Nicky, you gonna take that?”

The sideline razz didn’t seem to bother the guys too much. Nicky might have youthful speed working for him, but Curzon had experience and attitude. He played like a son of a bitch.

The last shot went into the air and Nicky jumped to block half a second too late. The ball tipped the rim and dunked. Nicky cursed.

“Hey—watch your mouth, you. There’re ladies around,” the old guy snapped.

“Sorry,” Nicky replied automatically. He dropped his hands to his knees, bent over to suck in air.

Curzon looked around, saw Jenny and me, gave Nicky a friendly smack upside the head, and hustled over.

“You’re here,” he said, a little surprised. “You met my father?”

“No. Not yet.”

The old guy stood up and leaned over the wall to shake hands. He had gold wire-rim glasses so thick they magnified those tabby-cat Curzon eyes to new dimensions. His scalp was as ruddy as his droopy face and he wore a short sleeve button-down and ironed shorts. We got through introductions and Nicky went off to clean his bloody nose. Curzon Senior called one of the younger females, just old enough to be equally dazzling to Jenny and Ainsley.

“Tria, sweetheart, show these two where they can get a Coke and a hamburger, eh?”

“Sure, Grandpa.” The girl wore a Notre Dame sweater and a neat French braid. She held out her hand and smiled at Jenny, and it shocked me how easily the kid went for it. “We’re all gonna play touch football as soon as my brother’s done with his food. You want to play?”

“Sure.” Jenny tried hard to sound casual.

Ainsley gave a modest shrug of agreement, and as soon as Tria looked away he shot me a fox-in-the-henhouse eyebrow.

Just like that, I was deserted.

“So, now, tell me about yourself,” Senior said, as he waved a cheerful goodbye to my chaperones. “Jack tells me you make television shows.” It didn’t take me long to realize he thought I was there for non-professional reasons. If I’d have been a guy, he’d have asked what my intentions were regarding the sheriff.

A little crowd congregated around us. Most everyone else at the party was family. Sisters, uncles, cousins, even the grandma was there. Donna, Curzon’s mother, introduced herself. Grandma didn’t bother.

“This the girl you invited, Jack?” White-haired, hawk-nosed and wearing a velour pantsuit, Curzon’s grandma was sharp—of dress, of mind and of tongue. I liked her.

“This is the one, Nana.”

“She’s not as skinny as the other one.” Sounded like that was the nicest thing she could think to say. “Get me an ashtray, would you, Jack? Your father thinks I’m gonna flick my ashes on the patio like a tramp.”

Curzon went inside to find Nana an ashtray.

“You like my Jack?” she asked.

“Seems like a good guy.”

“You two work together?”

“Not exactly.”

She puffed a cloud of smoke off to one side. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m a reporter. We kind of,” I tried to finesse it with my hands, “work against each other.”

That got a laugh. “Good. That’s what he needs. Girl who’ll come straight at him, not stab him in the back like a damned sneaky—”

“Damned sneaky what, Nana?” Curzon crossed the patio in three long strides. He wasn’t hurrying but he plopped the glass ashtray into her hand with obvious irritation. Curzon Senior laughed.

“Damned sneaky yourself, Jack-over. Give me that ashtray. And I don’t want to hear any of that ‘you shouldn’t be smoking at your age’ crap. Damned few enough pleasures left at my age, I oughta know.” There was a patter to it, like a comedian’s routine. Everybody seemed to have heard it before.

“Nana,” Curzon’s mother chided. Donna Curzon struck me as one of those round, settled women who read sad novels in their spare time and always wore the wrong color lipstick.