A Bat in the Belfry (27 page)

Another horror: mouse droppings, sodden cardboard stuck over missing windowpanes, moldy magazines—
Outdoor Life
,
Field & Stream
,
Gun Digest
—and unidentifiable stuff piled nearly to the ceiling. So Hank was a hoarder on top of everything else … Wishing he’d brought a dust mask, Bob tried not to breathe in the yeasty-smelling mold spores billowing from the filth-grayed carpet at his every step.

Maxie appeared, wagging his tail after his good meal. A thud of sadness hit Bob at the sight of the animal, who couldn’t very well be made to stay here and fend for himself. But the only alternative Bob could think of was worse.

“Come on, fella,” he sighed. “I don’t like it, but I’ve got to go upstairs. You might as well come.”

Cocking its head alertly, the dog woofed once as if in agreement and followed, as on his way to the stairs Bob peeked into the ghastly parlor with its cobwebs hanging like draperies. A small TV with a pair of foil-tipped rabbit ears perched on it stood atop a lobster trap with a shriveled bait chunk still in it, nestled inside an orange plastic-mesh bait bag that was the only brightly colored thing in the room. A black plastic trash bag brimming with empty beer cans added its own sour aroma to the stew of stink, slumped by an ancient recliner whose yellowed stuffing erupted from it in a dozen places.

Bob turned his back on it all, paused in the paint-peeling front hall under a bare lightbulb dangling from a jerry-rigged extension cord. He hadn’t known it was this bad. No one had, or the girl wouldn’t have been allowed to stay. The state would’ve placed her in residential care, which of course was why she had never told anyone about the conditions here; kids rarely wanted to leave home, no matter how bad it was.

To them, home was normal. Upstairs, the dog padded ahead of him along the hall, stopping to whine at a closed door. Bob followed, picking his way through fallen plaster and past patches of exposed lath.

The state guys had been here already today, looking for Hansen so they could question him about his daughter and who might’ve wanted to hurt her. But Hansen had been gone. Bob opened the door the dog had plopped down in front of.

And stood there, gazing around wonderingly like a man who has been let into a fairy-tale world, one that a moment earlier he’d have denied existed.
Or could ever exist, with this other awful place stinking and sliming all around it …

But it was real: the pink curtains, carefully washed, ironed, and hung at the spotless windows. The white chenille bedspread, a plush teddy bear nestled on the plump pillow.

The braided rug by the bed on the otherwise bare wood floor, a few brown hairs on it saying that’s where Maxie slept. A well-chewed Nylabone was on the rug; with the air of one retrieving a thing that was rightfully his, the dog marched over and grabbed the bone, dropped with a satisfied thump to the rug, and began gnawing happily.

Bob crossed the neat, sweet-smelling room past the mirrored dresser, its surface clean and dust-free, to where a suitcase lay open. In it were a few clothes, some toiletry items that had probably stood on the now-uncluttered dresser, and an old library book entitled
Becoming a Model
.

Under the book was a sheet torn from a spiral notebook, with names and addresses printed on it in a firm but childish hand: the Bangor YWCA, a career center office in the same city, and the Bangor bus terminal. Below that were listed a half-dozen names and New York City addresses for what he guessed might be modeling agencies, though he knew little about such things.

While Maxie’s yellow teeth clicked enthusiastically on the chew toy, Bob opened the library book, and at the information on the first page felt another wave of sorrow wash over him. The girl had done her homework, all right; she’d done what smart kids do when they want to find something out.

She’d gone to the library, borrowed a book on the subject, and read it. But one thing hadn’t occurred to her, and of course she hadn’t been able to ask for advice. If she had, she might’ve been told to get more recent information.

But she was only fourteen, and she lived in Eastport, Maine, which was about as far from the streets of Manhattan as a person could get and still remain on the planet. And here was the result, Bob thought as he gazed sadly at the volume in his hand:

She’d based her plan to run away, to move to the big city and get hired as a model, on a thirty-year-old library book. Even her preliminary scheme, which from the notebook sheet he guessed included living at the Bangor YWCA, was heartbreakingly outdated; there hadn’t been a room for rent at the Y in Bangor in who knew how long. Hell, Bob didn’t even know if there ever had been such a thing there.

Never, maybe. In the bigger cities, possibly, but not there. He laid the book back in the suitcase, looked around again at the pristine space Karen Hansen had created for herself. A dorm-room-sized refrigerator served as her bedside table. On a bench made of two milk crates and a two-by-six board, she’d set up a hot plate and microwave, both with $1 tags from the thrift shop on Water Street still stuck to them.

A little collection of utensils plus a plate, cup, and glass stood under the board. Bob left the room, made his way to the only bathroom in the place, and found it, like Karen’s own living chamber, utterly spotless.

Worth it, he supposed, cleaning up after the old man if she could also have it clean for herself. Catching his own reflection in the medicine-chest mirror, he wondered what she’d seen there to make her think modeling was in her future.

From what he recalled from seeing her around town, she’d been a gap-toothed, messy-haired child, awkward the way they all were at her age. Nothing to make anyone think twice about her.

Not until someone murdered her. Turning to find Max grinning in the bathroom doorway with the bone clutched in his jaws, Bob realized what he hadn’t seen in this hideous little hovel:

Money. Because it was one thing for Karen to have planned, however unrealistically, to find a job in Bangor. But first she’d needed to get there, and live somehow meanwhile. And from the look of her room, she’d have planned for that, too: for a roof over her head, and food, and a way to stay clean and warm.

Those things were important to her. Meanwhile, from what the rest of this place looked and smelled like, Hank Hansen had no cash. And even if he had and his daughter had taken it to use for her getaway …

Bob strode back quickly to the neat little bedroom, rifled through the suitcase, turned out the drawers and the tiny closet while Max stood in the doorway looking puzzled. But … nothing.

No cash anywhere. Still, she’d had a
plan
, and it must have included a few dollars to survive on, at least.

So … where had she been
planning
to get it?

S
tanding in silence behind a shelf loaded with plumbing parts and equipment in Wadsworth’s hardware store, Lizzie Snow debated between two models of coffeemaker. She’d toned down her makeup and costume today, and on the way here from the motel had felt a little less like a sore thumb on account of it.

Today’s outfit of slim jeans, white sneakers, and a black down-filled vest over a turtleneck were a far cry from the more stylish things she usually wore, and she still preferred her leather jacket and heeled leather boots. But the looks she’d been getting in them weren’t worth it.

The cash register’s
briing!
brought her mind back to her task. She’d come in here for the coffeemaker—in addition to hardware store staples, Wadsworth’s also carried everything from stationery supplies to Maine-themed souvenirs, snow globes with lighthouses in them and so on—because the one at the motel had broken. And she might as well have her own; she wouldn’t be staying at the motel forever.

But when the cash register’s ring had faded, she heard a voice she recognized. “… seen that skinny bitch in the tight pants this morning?”

“Come on, Paulie,” the store clerk began, “that’s not a nice thing to be saying about …”

She didn’t catch the rest, which she knew was directed at the young cop she’d tangled with two nights ago; he must have come in while she was back here in the household goods aisle. And why the hell was everyone so concerned about her pants, anyway?

She grabbed a package of filters to go with the basic Mr. Coffee she’d chosen and prepared to march to the front of the store, summoning a few pointed phrases in case they’d be needed. But before she could turn, a hand came down lightly on her shoulder.

She spun on her heel, one arm automatically pulling back to punch with. “Get your freaking paw off my …”

“Hey, hey.” Dylan Hudson backed away, laughing. “Don’t hurt me, I’m a wounded man already.”

She almost dropped the coffeemaker; he took it from her with his good hand. The other one hung inside his jacket, in a sling.

He looked like hell. “Dylan … what are you doing here? You were supposed to be …”

The information desk at the hospital had told her—after she’d lied, saying she was a cop investigating the accident he’d been in—that he’d be a patient for at least another full day.

But obviously not. “Why’d they let you out?”

He grinned as well as he could with that fat lip. It had clearly met up with the steering wheel despite his seatbelt.

She could relate; she’d been wearing hers, too, and her neck still felt twisted, the livid bruise on it barely covered by the high neckline of her sweater.

“They didn’t let me. But I just couldn’t stay away from you,” he added only half jokingly.

He put his arm around her; she shrugged it off. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

Bruised face, tired eyes, his neck beneath his open collar even more seatbelt-torn than her own … “You look wonderful,” he said. “But are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She snapped her body away from his and headed down the wood-floored store aisle, between the faucets and pipe-thread tape, drain traps and washing machine hook-up hoses.

At the counter, the clutch of men gathered there chatting backed away. She could feel them avidly cataloging her clothes, hair, and makeup for later discussion.
And they say women are gossips
.

She set her things next to the register, not acknowledging the men. The store clerk’s eyes were curious but kind, unlike the others’ flat assessments.

“Have a nice day,” he said gently as he returned her change, and in his tone she heard apology for the others, especially the young cop whose stare was anything but friendly.

“Thanks,” she said, just wanting out of there.

But as she passed him, the young cop made a spitting-on-the-floor motion with his lips; in response she felt a strong urge to smack the snotty look off his face.

Instead, she stopped. Turning, she motioned Dylan to stay out of it. And spoke: “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other night. But do you have another problem with me?”

The surprise on his face was naked, that she’d confronted him. He opened his mouth but she cut him off:

“Because if not, I wouldn’t think a skinny bitch like me would worry you so much,” she said, and added a smile, playing it to the peanut gallery of men.

They ate it up, nudging one another. The clerk turned away, too, hiding his own smile.
Aha
, she thought;
so our boy Paulie is maybe not the most popular kid in town. Otherwise these guys wouldn’t like it so much, seeing him get taken down a peg
.

“Can’t even run very fast in these tight pants of mine,” she added, swaying a little to emphasize the way they fit; hey, she hadn’t given up looking good entirely.

Laughter now, from the audience; she’d gotten them on her side. And she could run in the pants, all right.

She could run just fine. Dylan scrutinized his shoes, trying not to laugh. He knew she’d apprehended men twice Paulie’s weight and three times her own. They didn’t see you coming when you were smaller, and quick. And that was key, because no amount of skill or practice beat muscle mass unless you had another advantage.

Like brains, for instance. And a pinch of don’t-give-a-good-goddamn; a big pinch. “Don’t worry, Paulie,” she said softly to him while his face got redder. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She took her coffeemaker off the counter, then stepped up so close to the tall cop their shoes nearly touched. “Not unless you make me,” she added softly, and got out the door before the laughter stopped.

Dylan followed. “Lizzie, someday somebody’s going to knock your block off. You know that, right? You know they’ll—”

She spun on him. All the anger that she’d held down boiled to the surface. “Hey, Dylan, mind your own beeswax, okay?”

She had her own bone to pick with him, but not out here. She stalked up the street ahead of him, toward the motel. A pickup truck dragging its muffler chugged by, its bed loaded with wire lobster traps. Sparks spat from the truck’s muffler-on-pavement action, jumped into the puddles that spread everywhere from the recent rainstorms, and fizzled out.

The driver grinned at her, his whiskery face creased with appreciation, around the chewed-looking cigar stuck in his mouth. “Lookin’ good,” he called, as sweetly as if he were at church saying good morning to the minister’s wife.

The truck belched exhaust, pulling away. Lizzie shook her head tiredly; the driver had meant no harm, and it was better, she supposed, than being thought ugly. It got old, was all.

“So tell me,” she said over her shoulder to Dylan, “when you walk away from somebody, is it always your ass they watch? And if you’re approaching, do they stare at your chest?”

The hill felt good on her calves; it struck her that she’d had no real exercise since leaving Boston. “It’s one thing to compliment someone,” she went on at Dylan’s puzzled expression. “It’s something else to look at them as if they’re an ice cream you’re thinking of licking.”

Or
, she added mentally,
to identify them as “that skinny bitch.”
Dylan nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t and she didn’t care. “Oh, forget it,” she said, “I might as well complain about the sky being blue.”