No Coming Back (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

E
veryone I know or have known, everyone I love or have loved, was either born here or died here. All inside Satan’s snow globe.

I wonder if Harper will be my beginning and my end.

On tired legs I follow my own footprints, trudging up the snowy slope, away from the lake and the prospect of being slain like a fleeing deer. I don’t look back until I am at the summit of the hill. When I do, all that I see are tire tracks leading to a black hole in the middle of the frozen lake, and no signs of Tolstoy, his truck, or Chief Krauss.

I keep moving.

The walk back into town takes the best part of thirty minutes and the best part of my remaining stamina. Repeatedly, I hold melting snow against the sorest parts of my face, reducing the swelling. I’m not overly concerned; it’s been in far worse shape over the years.

Six months into my stretch at Stillwater, a knucklehead attacker had towered over me, wiping my blood off his hands. “Next time you get in my way I’ll bite your nose off, bitch,” he growled. He was a monster with a shaven scalp veined with tattoos. Sewer breath. “If you know what’s good for you, Olson, you’ll do everything I say from now on. Suck my dick if I tell you to. You’re my bitch now.”

He’d caught me by surprise, in the washroom, smashed me against the tiled wall and then pummeled me to the wet floor with his sledgehammer fists. A mistake. I’d been educating myself, getting survival savvy and familiarizing myself with the body’s vital points. And the taller they were the harder they fell.

My first strike was with my toes, curled like a ballerina’s, to his testicles. The blow sent electricity discharging though his brain, folding him forward. While he was clutching at his busted balls, I jumped to my feet and knocked him down from behind. Then I planted my heel as hard as I could into the small of his back, from a great height, and shattering vertebrae.

The bully spent the rest of his sentence in a wheelchair.

It was the last time anyone in prison made a mess of my face.

By the time I reach Harper I am cold and wet and uncomfortable in my own skin. Teeth jittering. Hands jammed in my pockets and my head jammed up with thoughts.

According to Tolstoy, my uncle was in Six Pack. And if that isn’t surprising enough, it turns out he was its leader, too. I didn’t sense Tolstoy was lying, but I can’t quite process the idea of Owen running the show. Not because the club participated in blood sports—hunting is in the genes hereabouts—but because of Ruby’s revelation. It means Owen would have known about the sex parties and very likely participated in them himself. It’s not only difficult to swallow, it’s gagging.

I pass through the outskirts of town, keeping to the shadows.

Owen has always played a major role in the town’s affairs. As far back as I remember he was an active city councillor, a stalwart of the community, and probably still is. Often, he was the loudest voice of reason against Lars Grossinger’s propagandist take on the world. I know we all have our darker sides, but the thought of him excusing or even taking part in orgies with young girls is mind-blowing.

But I can’t ignore the possibility just because he’s family.

What’s more, if Krauss is right and the last two unnamed members are the final victim and his killer, then either it means Owen’s life is in mortal danger and I must warn him, or . . . my uncle is the murderer and I must confront him before he kills the final member.

And yet, for the life of me, I can’t imagine my uncle being a killer. Owen is gentle, kindhearted, squeamish. Okay, so he has his faults like the rest of us, but the thought of him killing to protect Six Pack is incomprehensible—at least to my biased brain.

But isn’t the thought of his participating in the sex orgies just as inconceivable?

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Krauss:

Can’t sleep. Missing you! Call me. SOON!

Two kisses and a smiley face complete the message.

My stomach sinks; she knows nothing of her fiancé’s fate.

I check to see if my earlier cry for help connected. The message shows as a draft, unsent. I delete it.

What to do with Kimberly Krauss?

Krauss is a problem. I haven’t decided what to tell her yet, about Meeks, or indeed how to tell her. I have stewed over it all the way back to Harper. Krauss is important to me, always was—even more so in the wake of our coupling. The last thing I want is for tonight’s events to come between us. But that’s exactly what will happen. It’s as inevitable as night following day. Krauss is quick to denounce any feelings for Meeks, but she had them once, in abundance, and that kind of affinity is hard to shake loose. How can I play an instrumental role in the death of her fiancé and not expect a backlash?

The town is in a coma, everything deathly still. Moonlight and snow transforming the world into shards of black and white. I arrive at my destination, glance up and down the sleeping street before moving silently up the long front walk to a darkened house. The door is unlocked. Quietly, I knock slush off my boots before letting myself inside.

The house smells of cooking and candles. I cross the reception hall and go into a spacious living room. In the silvery moonlight coming through the large bay window I can make out the shapes of furniture, couches, bookcases. I fumble my way over to the antique Wurlitzer jukebox standing in the corner and power it up. Garish red-and-yellow neon floods the room. For a moment I press my face against the curved glass, marveling at the carnival lights in the same way I used to when I was a small boy, spellbound, for hours. Purposefully, I select a track. The mechanism springs into life, clicks and does its thing. An arm places the desired vinyl record on the turntable and the needle makes scratchy contact.

Then I sink into a padded armchair, in shadow, with my phone set to audio-record and my fingers tapping along to “The Great Pretender” as its melody meanders through the house.

The Platters are deep into the second chorus by the time a light comes on in the reception hall, throwing a yellowy panel across the living room floor. Heavy feet sound against stair treads. Floorboards creak. A hand crawls around the edge of the arched doorframe, feeling for the light switch. The lights come on and a disheveled-
looking
man in his early seventies wanders into the room, half-asleep, hair mussed, his fleece robe pulled tight over his paunch.

He blinks when he sees me. “What the . . . Jake? That you?”

“Hello, Uncle Owen.”

He floats into the room, grinding a fist against one eye socket. “Is everything okay? What are you doing here at this hour? It’s after midnight. And what’s with the music, for Pete’s sake?” He goes to the jukebox and pulls the plug from the wall. The neon lights flicker and die, the music slows, stretching out notes, singers sounding demonic. He waggles a reproving finger at me. “It’s a good thing your aunt is at her sister’s, otherwise she’d be chewing your ear off right now.” He looks me over, noticing my busted lips and broken nose for the first time. “My God, what happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? You look like you’ve had a run-in with a windshield. Let me get you some ice.” He goes to leave the room.

But my words hold him back: “I know about Six Pack.”

He pauses, mid-stride, turns back to face me. “Six Pack? Now there’s a blast from the past I haven’t heard in a while. They were a pretty wild bunch of guys, if I recall rightly.”

I keep my tone business-like. “Please, Owen, don’t pretend. Don’t make yourself look foolish. I know you were a member.”

My disclosure flattens out his face. “Well, sure, I was a member. But that was a long time ago. You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“You ran the club.”

His head tilts back, so that he’s looking at me down the length of his nose. It’s the same stance my father adopted, right before he unleashed his rage. “Oh? And who told you that?”

“Warren Peets.”

Owen bursts into forced laughter. “Tolstoy? Seriously, Jake? Tolstoy told you? Then there’s your mistake. He works for Lars, you know? Which makes his word completely unreliable. Whatever lies he’s been spinning, you can rest assured it’s all designed to further Lars’s cause.”

“Ruby told me about the sex parties.”

Now his expression buckles, like it’s being pulled in from behind.

“She told me everything. She followed Jenna to Lyle Cody’s house one night, the week before Jenna disappeared. She snuck up to a window and saw Jenna engaged in sexual activity with four men and another girl. I know for a fact Ben Varney was one of those men, most likely Lyle Cody was, too, considering it was his house. I’m willing to bet Chuck Hendry was also there, given he used to rent out porn movies from in back of the barbershop. Now I’m wondering, Owen, if you were the fourth man.”

Slowly, my uncle straightens himself out. All at once his cheer is gone, replaced with a coolness I have never seen in him before—only in his brother, and too many times. “You seem to know a whole lot about stuff you don’t know nothing about.”

“I know my coming back here has upset the apple cart. I don’t think anyone ever thought I would, not for one minute, including you. They thought I’d stay locked up forever. And even if I did come out, the death threats would be enough to keep me away. I know you didn’t expect me to come back here. When you heard I’d made parole you sent money so that I could start over again in the Cities.”

“I was just trying to help out. Do the family thing.”

“But then something unexpected happened: my father had his stroke, and lo and behold I’m the next of kin.”

“Only because they couldn’t get in touch with your brother. The authorities tried reaching him, but no one has seen or heard from Aaron since he left home. He just upped and vanished, like Erin.”

My stomach clenches at the sound of my mother’s name. “He’s better off where he is.”

Owen shrugs. “Maybe. Who knows?”

“So I returned to Harper, to sort out my father’s affairs. And that’s when the fun began. Whoever killed Jenna thought he was in the clear a long time ago, scot-free. But my coming back spooked him, motivated him to tidy up loose ends before I could learn his true identity.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve had plenty of time on my hands, remember? My theory is, the real killer never thought I’d come back. But once he knew I was in town, stirring up the pot, he knew I wouldn’t stop looking for her real killer. He knew someone would talk, eventually. They always do. He knew I’d find him, expose him. So he silenced Ben and Ruby. Ben knew his killer. You and Ben were thick as thieves. He trusted you. He wouldn’t have given your handling his shotgun a second thought.”

Owen’s eyes are defensive slits. “So you think I killed Ben and then Ruby? Shame on you, Jake. Ben was a good friend. The best. We’ve been pals since kindergarten. I’m gutted he’s dead.”

“You don’t look it.”

He tilts his head back some more. “How dare you come in here making these kinds of accusations. I don’t even know where Ruby lives. Sure, she comes into the store every once in a while, but she’s never once had a home delivery. I wouldn’t know where to start. So how dare you.”

“It makes sense.”

“From which padded cell is that? This whole story of yours, it’s all conjecture. Like one of those tales you used to dream up all the time when you were little. You practically lived in your own world until high school. You’ve always been a daydreamer, Jake. And you have no proof of anything here. Go ahead and ask me where I was when Ben died. Go on.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I was at the store, in the back office, talking with Walt Krauss.”

“The chief?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You can tell you’ve been away awhile. No one’s called Walt the chief for eighteen years, but yes, he was there when all the commotion kicked off outside the bait shop. And before that I was serving customers, out on the floor, same way I do every Saturday, with witnesses to prove it. Jake, I didn’t kill Ben, couldn’t have. I didn’t even know what had happened until afterward.”

“What about Ruby? According to Meeks she was killed early evening. Where were you after you closed the store?”

Owen lets out a tired breath. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Just humor me.”

“Okay. If I must. I was at the bar on McLean.”

“I thought you were on the wagon?”

“I am. I didn’t fall off, if that’s what you’re thinking. News of Ben’s death knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t believe he was dead. With your aunt at her sister’s house I didn’t want to be alone. So I went to the bar to talk things through with Joe.”

“Who’s Joe?”

“The fact of the matter is, I wasn’t alone. And I can prove it.”

“Was the chief with you?”

“You mean Walt? No, not by then. He picked up his supplies and headed out before they loaded Ben on the ambulance. I stayed in the bar all evening and left for home around eleven. I’ve been in bed since.”

“What about Jenna?”

His face scrunches up.