The Breathtaker (11 page)
Charlie looked at him. “You’re drunk.”
“Not yet. But almost.”
“Gimme that.” Charlie suddenly wanted to catch up. He took several greedy gulps, the pain only getting worse, like a razor cut or an open blister, radiating from groin to knee. Just his old scars acting up. The pain progressed down his left leg with a dry-ice feeling.
Hodge went home around midnight and took Bonnie with him. She left her truck with its winch behind, and Charlie and L’Amoureux continued to get steadily drunker, working at it in earnest as if it were part of the job. Their duty as patriotic citizens. By the time Ed the contractor finally gave up, around one in the morning, Charlie was feeling no pain, no pain at all. He could hear his own hot blood whispering in his ears. When his hands began to throb from all that digging, he redoubled his efforts, muscles engorged with adrenaline. The air above the graves smelled like wet stone, and the wind carried with it the nervous barking of dogs.
“This is a great big goose egg, my friend,” L’Amoureux said. “The only reason I’m out here now is because I refuse to go home sober. I have this recurring nightmare. It goes like this. My mother waves a knife over the family jewels. The blade sweeps down just as she shrieks, ‘You don’t need those, do you?’ That’s when I wake up.”
Charlie laughed. The sky had cleared, and the stars were too numerous to count. The planet Venus glowed like a blown coal. His skin was filmed with grit, and he coughed from too much dust in the air.
“I gotta admit,” L’Amoureux said, “you’ve got tenacity, my friend.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve got. I got a whole lotta nothin’.”
The cemetery was full of the sounds of their breathing, of two lonely shovels scraping the earth. Too many headstones, too much polished granite stretching out into darkness on either side of them. Moths swarmed in the headlights’ glow, and Charlie’s hands grew blistered and aching. Anxiety gripped his heart as he exhaled the smell of death from his nose. A large bead of sweat broke out on his temple and rolled down one side of his face, making him feel lopsided. In the silences between all that breathing and scraping, he could sense the dead watching them. Legions of the dead. One split second was all it took—one wrong move, and you’d be out there among them, horizontal instead of vertical, the soil gradually leaching your carcass of color.
“Give up?”
“Not yet,” Charlie said.
“’Cause I’ve got a cheeseburger waiting for me at Ruby’s.”
“At two in the morning?”
“Ruby’s is always open. I’m buying. They’ve got so many flies their cheeseburgers sprout wings.”
The wind picked up, kicking last autumn’s leaves around, and Charlie stopped digging. It felt as if someone had poured hot lead on his arms. Pain and burning sensations extended up his neck and into his shoulders, becoming most pronounced where the shoulder blades winged out. “Bottle,” he gasped, and L’Amoureux handed it over.
“We’re all tapped out, buddy,” the sheriff said. “Time to throw in the towel, pal. You and me gotta lower these caskets.”
They left the truck running and unwound the heavy chain from the winch, secured the chain to the hooks on Audra’s casket and slowly lowered it back into the ground. The winch strained loudly as the truck’s diesel engine growled, and then the casket hit bottom.
Charlie had to crawl down into the hole to unhook the chains. The coarse witchgrass sighed and crackled underfoot as he approached the lip of Audra Keel’s grave and switched on his flashlight. A pungent excavated-earth smell filled his nostrils as he peered over the edge, shadows jumping and realigning themselves. He leaped into the hole, feeling all swallowed up, and unhooked the chain. The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he hoisted himself out again, Audra’s shadow chasing up his spine.
They lowered the other casket, then filled in the holes. By the time they were done, Charlie’s left side was stiff and on fire.
“That’s all she wrote,” L’Amoureux said, clapping the dirt off his hands. “You joinin’ me?”
“For flying cheeseburgers?”
“Smoke-covered ceilings. Six different kinds of pie. Real mashed potatoes. Mmm-mm.”
In the smoky play of light, a loose bundle of doubts nagged at him. The two cases were almost identical except for the replacement teeth. It wasn’t uncommon for sociopaths to leave taunting bits of evidence for the police to find. Some of them subconsciously wanted to be caught; others enjoyed outsmarting the authorities.
He let his flashlight play up the side of Audra Keel’s headstone.
Beloved wife and mother.
Shit.
Sophie.
He’d forgotten all about her. What time was it? Then something glinted in the dirt.
Of course. The withered roses.
He dropped to his knees and started digging.
“What’re you doing?”
“Getting the roses.”
“Roses? What roses?”
His fingers touched glass, and the first withered rose came out, its cut stem tucked inside a floral tube. Florists cut roses when they were tightly closed so that the bees couldn’t get to them. The stem was held in place by a rubber stopper at the neck of the tube so the flowers would stay fresh for at least a week.
“Oh,” L’Amoureux said, “
those
roses.”
Hands trembling, Charlie aimed his flashlight at the glass tube, and there it was, clinking around inside the filmy bottom. A human tooth. A harmless-looking lump of enamel, dentin and pulp. “Look,” he said, holding it out like a prize. “There’s your proof right there.”
C
HARLIE GOT
home around three in the morning and found the house empty. “Sophie?” She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen or the rec room. He noticed that the light was still burning in his study and found an ugly array of crime scene photos scattered across his desktop. “Shit.” He hadn’t left them out like that. He never left crime scene evidence out where she might see it.
Pushing through the back screen door, a heavy-duty flashlight clenched in his fist, Charlie strode across the yard with its garbage cans and vegetable garden, traipsed through sprigs of beans and corn and tomatoes and squash. His flashlight beam danced ahead of him, highlighting the purple aster and Indian paintbrush in jiggling sweeps as he headed into the back fields where she probably was. Years ago, when Maddie was alive, they’d picnic in these fields, the sea of grass practically swallowing them whole. His daughter’s favorite tree was out here, the place she used to come to be alone and cry after her mother had passed away. He strode past the bushy box elders, beyond which stretched a gentle swell of unbroken prairie. As soon as he spotted the cottonwood and the small figure crouched beneath it, he began to relax.
“Sophie?” he said softly, so as not to alarm her.
She turned with a blurred face. “Dad?” She was huddled at the base of the tree, knees raised, her skinny arms wrapped protectively around them. The old cottonwood was massive, nearly four feet in diameter, and the bark’s dark ridges teemed with aphids and mites. Its stout trunk grew into a wide-spreading crown where thousands of sharp-pointed leaves wagged gently on their flattened stems. Whenever the wind blew, the crown sparkled and beckoned from a distance, and if you closed your eyes, the sound of crashing leaves mimicked the waves of the ocean.
He sat down next to her, the seat of his pants growing instantly damp from the grass. Once his breathing had resumed its regular pattern, he said, “Do you know what time it is?” He had the luxury of his anger now. “You scared me half to death. Is that what you wanted? To give your old man a heart attack?”
“Yeah, my evil plan is working.” She winced. “God, your breath stinks! Have you been drinking?”
He turned his face toward the darkness.
“You drove home drunk, and you’re worried about
me
?”
“You shouldn’t be out here in the middle of the night,” he said. “I’m serious, Sophie. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Oh? What subject is that?”
“That you’re drunk. You lied to me. You said you’d be home by midnight. You’re a drunken liar.”
It hit him all at once. He rubbed his tired face.
“You forgot to turn on your cell phone again. There was no way I could reach you.”
He looked at her. “Why didn’t you call Peg?”
“Because I didn’t want to bother her. I just wanted you home.”
“Don’t be mad at me, honey. I did something really unpleasant tonight.”
Dismay rose in her eyes. “Like what?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” She was looking really scared now.
“There are some things I can’t share with you, Sophie.” A whole panoply of images flashed through his brain, eviscerating images that mostly visited him in the middle of the night when he was least able to protect himself from them.
“Still… Mom would be furious.”
“I know.” He hung his head.
“I love you, Dad, but you test my patience.”
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. He bit it back, but she’d already seen it, and now she observed him with thinly veiled contempt, her mouth twisting slightly open.
“You think this is funny?”
“No. Not at all.”
She dismissed him with feigned disgust.
He felt her reproach like a thump in the chest and watched her sullen face. She smelled of department store perfume, those sample bottles they handed out. “Hey,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“Mom wouldn’t let you get away with it.”
“I know.” The words slipped off his tongue and into the wind like smoke. “You’re right. No more excuses.”
In the moonlight, the fertile fields squirmed with new life, little green leaves unfurling like curled paws.
“I came out here, and it was beautiful for a while,” she said, “but then things started to move in the shadows.”
“It’s okay. I’m here now.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“It won’t happen again. I promise, sweetie.” He smoothed his hand over her shiny hair. “The last thing in the world your mother would ever want is for you to be unhappy.”
“Remember the picnics we used to have back here?” she said, wiping her eyes and putting up a brave front. “We never do stuff like that anymore.”
He could feel a piercing ache around his heart. “I guess I haven’t been much of a father lately, have I?”
She curled herself into a compact ball of hurt, and they didn’t speak for a while. A patch of mud at the root of the tree kept sucking at the heels of his shoes. He could hear a chorus of crickets nearby, their mating calls discordant and rhythmic. He switched off his flashlight and the night slowly revealed itself to them, the air shimmery clear beneath a full moon. He could pinpoint downtown Promise by the twinkling beer-colored lights in the distance. So this was what the world was like when it finally caught its breath.
“You wanna know what I hate the most?” she said in a scratchy voice.
“What’s that?”
“That I couldn’t be with her the day she died.”
“Your mother was in really rough shape toward the end.”
She brushed away a quick tear. “I used to dream about her all the time, but I don’t dream about her anymore, Dad.”
He nodded in silent agreement. Neither did he. He thought about Maddie a lot, but his dreams evaporated with the morning mist. Only the nightmares lingered.
She looked at him, her mouth set. “Grandpa says we’re all just worm food, anyway.”
“Your grandfather’s a fool. Don’t listen to him.”
She glanced skyward, her earnest eyes reflecting two miniature moons, two sparkling orbs. Tears spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. “I forgot to tell her something,” she admitted.
“What’s that?”
“I forgot to tell her what a great mom she was.”
“So? Tell her now.”
Goose bumps rose on his arms as he watched her sending out her sad, loving thoughts into the air. He couldn’t look anymore and turned away, a lump forming in his throat. The grass broke before the wind in channels and rivers at their feet. He could hear the activity of the night creatures all around them—the flapping bats and rustling raccoons, the sly, shuffling skunks. His throat was parched, and suddenly he could see the fire with crystal clarity, cinders drifting down like snowflakes. He remembered his father’s blue-veined fury, the belt and fist his weapons of choice. It occurred to him that he’d been so brutalized as a boy he could sometimes be indifferent to his own child’s pain.
“Think she heard me?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he said, wondering himself. He wrapped his arms around her, and she grew docile inside his hug; when he wouldn’t let go, she finally relaxed against him and burst into tears, each heartfelt sob as bright as a bell.
A
LL THE
boards in the house screeched at once, like a thousand nails being pried loose from the walls. Then came a terrible
thump,
and fifty-four-year-old Birdie Rideout worried about her Swedish modern furniture, the low-slung canvas chairs in the living room, Sailor’s Stratolounger, the dining room set, the bedroom with its pink and persimmon wallpaper. Her house, her beautiful house, was coming apart at the seams. The tornado must be very close.
“Are we going to be okay?” she asked her husband for the hundredth time. It was past midnight on a cold May 10, and the storm had come up suddenly and unexpectedly. They’d only had ten minutes of warning from the town siren before the power had gone out.
Sailor Rideout pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. He was irritated with her, his features fixed like granite in an effort to project some kind of churlish male courage. They were huddled together inside the hallway closet, seated on the narrow padded bench that lined the wall, and she was holding the flashlight. Sailor’s face, when lit from below, reminded her of a Halloween pumpkin, theatrically spooky. “It’s gonna be okay, old girl,” he said.
“We’re gonna get hit. I just know it.”
“God’s protected us so far, hasn’t He?” His hand felt cool against her skin. Sailor hadn’t seen his belt buckle in many years, but her heart still quickened whenever she caught sight of him in an unguarded moment, smoothing his gray hair or surveying his chickens, his potbelly rising doughlike over the waistband of his jeans.
Now something hammered on the roof like it wanted to get in, and for a spine-tingling moment, she imagined the two of them blowing away like dandelion seeds.
Thunk, thwunk… crash!
She hugged Sailor tight. Forty minutes ago, she’d been curled up safe on the living room couch, watching old movies on their ancient Zenith set. Her husband could sleep like the dead, but not Birdie. She needed to be eased into that dark place with mugs of warm milk, extra pillows on the couch and plenty of late night TV. Now here they were, cowering inside their hallway closet like two scared kids, waiting for the tornado to chew them up and spit them out over the plains.
She could hear the living room windows jumping in their jambs,
whump-whump-whump,
like unruly guests. Noises exploded throughout the house, and she felt each impact in her skeleton. The tornado was a jet plane bearing down on them. Beyond the crack of light, Sailor’s body arched with fatigue, and when she rested her palm on his arm, she discovered that he was shaking uncontrollably.
“Sailor?” She dropped the flashlight and took his hand, then felt the next
thunk
in her pelvic bones. The bench they were sitting on was vibrating. The roof beams screeched far above them. She didn’t want to die. There was still so much left to do.
“Look at that!” she said, irresistibly drawn to a pale oval of light strobing underneath the crack in the door.
Sailor wiped his shiny forehead on his sleeve. “It’s just lightning.”
“No, it isn’t!” Before he could stop her, she got up and opened the door, her long gray hair whipping back in her face. She thought she saw a figure moving around inside the dark, chaotic house and chased the phantom with her eyes, but there was nobody there.
She felt a shiver of memory… party dresses… Christmas barbecues… her first lipstick, her first bra… the excitement of boys… the births of their sons. Birdie had lived in Dogtooth, Texas, all her life; her two older sisters had fled to Houston. One married a doctor, the other a lawyer, whereas she had married her high school sweetheart.
She shuddered and pushed the door shut against the wind, then went to him. “I love you,” she shouted above the howling wind. “You know that?”
“Don’t be silly,” he hollered back. “We’re gonna be just fine.”