A Blind Eye (22 page)

D
ougherty burst through the motel room door, slamming it into the wall so hard the knob punched a hole in the plasterboard. The mirror at the far end of the room showed what a pitiful sight she was. Blotches of brown mud all over her body, one shoe gone, her hair caked with mud and hanging in her face, a pair of bloody knees visible through the holes in her jeans.

She kicked off the remaining shoe and ran to the nightstand, where the blinking red light on the cell phone was telling her they had messages. She snatched the phone from the charger. Held it to the side of her head before she realized she didn’t know the number. Took her a full minute to figure it out; then she brought the receiver down and pushed Redial. Seven rings. A sleepy voice. “Molina.”

“We found her,” she yelled.

“Found—?”

“The de Groot woman. We found her.” The connection was so good she could hear the rustling of linens as he sat up in bed.

“Are you sure—” he began.

“It’s her,” she shouted into the mouthpiece. “She’s got Corso.”

“Slow down,” Molina said. “What’s the—”

“We found her. She calls herself Teresa Fulbrook. She lives somewhere east of Midland, Michigan, on Route 10. Please…you gotta—”

“Call nine-one-one.”

“No time,” she panted. “Tommie de Groot’s here. He shot Corso. Took him off someplace. Please…please…you gotta send help.”

“Okay…okay…okay,” he chanted. “I’ll—”

She didn’t wait for the rest of it. Instead broke the connection and threw the phone onto the bed. She stood for a moment, staring stupidly at the walls, before crossing the room to the desk and pulling the phone book from the drawer. Her hands shook as she leafed through the white pages. Skipped from
D
to
H
. Went back, found
G,
and moved backward to
F
from there.
Fu
. One
l
or two? Then she found it. One
l
. Two listings. M. L. Fulbrook 27654 RFD 10. G. F. Ful-brook 24788 RFD 10.

She tore the page from the book, grabbed the car keys from the desk, and started for the door. Stopped and turned around. Grabbed the phone from the bed. Back to the phone book. Leafed through the front of the book until she found the local map. Tore that out too and ran out of the room.

“Papa’s home,” Sarah said. Emily rushed to her sister’s side at the windowsill. Three-quarters of a mile away across the winter fields, the lights of their house were visible from Mama May’s upstairs window, as was the white pickup truck parked by the kitchen door. “Let’s go see Papa,” Emily cried.

“Mama don’t like surprises.”

Emily’s lower lip trembled. “I want to see Papa,” she whined.

“Tomorrow,” Sarah said.

“He said he’d bring us ice-cream cake.”

“We leave here, she’ll skin us.”

“Not if Papa’s there,” the little girl said. “Papa won’t let her.”

“Papa goes to work,” Sarah cautioned, but Emily wasn’t listening. Instead she skipped across the room to the closet. Pulled her red jacket from the hanger and put it on. “I’m going to see my papa,” she announced.

“Mama gonna make you wish you didn’t,” her big sister said, but the little girl was undeterred. She hurried back to the window, pushed the bottom sash as far up as it would go, and climbed out onto the back-porch roof.

Sarah stood in the bedroom they shared and watched as her younger sister climbed down the latticework to the ground below, just like Sarah had taught her to do last summer. Sarah looked out over the fields at the glowing spark in the distance. At the white pickup in the yard. Thought about ice-cream cake and could feel the cool creaminess in her mouth, just as Emily came into view, riding her new bike away from Mama May’s house, the white beam of the headlight bouncing crazily along in front of her as she pedaled down the tractor path that wound across the fields.

Sarah smiled. Smiled for the beating Emily was sure to get the first time she was alone with the witch. Smiled as she reached for the phone and dialed. Something she was never allowed to do in her own house. At least not when the witch was home. Billy’s father answered. “Yeah,” the gruff voice said.

“Could I talk to Billy, please?”

“Just a sec.”

She watched Emily’s little red taillight bounce into the distance and smiled again.

A woman’s voice crackled in her ear. “This Sarah?” it wanted to know.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Listen,” Billy’s mother said. A short silence ensued before the woman went on. “I’m sure you’re a very nice girl and all, Sarah, but our Billy isn’t ready for…” She stopped again. “What with your mother and all…” the woman began again. “Please don’t call here anymore,” the voice finally said, before hanging up.

Tommie de Groot took one last hit on the hand-rolled cigarette before grinding it out on Corso’s bare shoulder. Naked to the waist and taped to the kitchen chair, Corso could do little more than squirm in the seat and groan behind the duct tape covering his mouth. Despite several layers of tightly wrapped tape, the wound in his right leg had begun to seep, dripping a pool of blood on the floor around his foot.

Teresa Fulbrook tore off the strip of silver tape covering Corso’s mouth. Left the end hanging down over the series of burn marks covering Corso’s shoulders and chest.

“Tell me again,” she said to Corso. “Just you and the drowned girl. That’s it. Right? That what you been telling me? You found us all on your own.”

Tommie slapped Corso’s face, the impact painting the images of his long fingers on Corso’s cheek. “You answer her, god damn you,” he said.

Corso kept his mouth shut and his head bowed. Tommie grabbed him by the back of the hair, tilting Corso’s face toward the ceiling. “You hear me?” He put his face right in Corso’s. “I’m talking to you, boy!” he screamed. “You hear me?”

“He hears,” she said. “This…”She reached over on the table where the contents of Corso’s wallet were spread out over the surface. Picked up his driver’s license. “This Frank Corso character here fancies himself a hard case.”

“You lemme have a knife and we’ll see about that,” Tommie said.

She bent at the waist and put her mouth next to Corso’s ear. “You want me to do that?” she asked. “You want me to give Tommie here a steak knife and let him have a little fun with you?”

Corso raised his head and looked into her nearly colorless eyes. “Just the two of us,” he said. “We checked the death records back in Avalon. Figured it out on our own.”

Tommie drew back his hand to slap Corso’s face again, but a shake of her head stopped him in midswing. “Smart,” she said. She looked over at Tommie. “You’d think a man smart enough to run us down…a man that smart would know what’s coming for him here, now wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Figure he’d know he ain’t coming out of this alive. Figure it was just a matter of how he went out…easy or hard.”

She ambled over to the new stove and opened the red toolbox sitting on the floor. Corso watched as she pulled out the top tray and set it on the floor. When her hand appeared again, Corso began to make noises in his chest like a gored animal. He began to struggle against his bonds, throwing himself desperately from side to side, trying to tip the chair over, pulling so hard at the tape it felt as if his arms would be broken loose from their sockets. The look of terror on his face seemed to cheer her.

M
eg Dougherty didn’t realize she was barefoot until she jumped out of the car and ran across both lanes of Route 10 to check the numbers on the mailboxes. By the time she got back into the driver’s seat, she was hobbling, as half a dozen jagged pieces of gravel threatened to work their way through the soles of her feet. She scraped her feet on the car’s carpet and roared off down the road, talking out loud to herself now: “One-nine-six-four-two,” she mumbled. She reached down and brought the page from the phone book up close to her eyes. “Two-four-seven-eight-eight,” she chanted as she floored the car and went fishtailing up the road.

Route 10, on this side of the river, had started out suburban, neatly trimmed houses and lawns. Numbers in the one-four-four-five-something range. Mailboxes along both sides of the road. Five miles later, things were strictly rural, and all the mailboxes were along the eastbound lane, allowing the RFD carrier to drive along the right shoulder while making his appointed rounds.

She drove nearly a mile before another clump of mailboxes appeared along the shoulder. Unable to skid to a stop in time, she threw the car into Reverse and burned rubber backward. The mailbox for two-one-four-six-eight was painted to look like a barn. An arrow on the top pointed to the right, up the long driveway to the farmhouse in the distance. “Even numbers on the right,” she muttered to herself, throwing the car back into Drive. “Close,” she breathed. “Getting close.”

Sarah Fulbrook ran both hands through the stubs of her hair. She pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped first her eyes and then her nose. Billy’s mother’s words still echoed in her mind. “Don’t call here no more.” She heard it over and over. What had started as a tiny amplified voice on the phone had risen to a shout inside her head. She dropped the wadded-up tissue on the desk and held her head in her hands, rocking back and forth in the chair, humming to herself, louder and louder, finding some inner rhythm of sound and motion to block out the words that tormented her soul.

As the humming got louder and the rocking more frenzied, the room began to fall away…. She couldsee blue sky and a swing…. She was swinging…atschool. Somebody was pushing her, but she couldn’t see who it was. Each push lifted her higher into the sky, until finally her head nearly reached the level of the bar, and the seat began to get airborne, snapping the chains each time she began her descent. Above her own laughter, she could hear the whoosh of the air and the sounds of birds. “Higher,” she cried. “Push me higher.”

She swung for what seemed an eternity, and then, without warning, the pushes stopped. When she looked back over her shoulder at the ground, no one was there. The arcs of her swing got smaller and smaller, until finally she was still, and the air around her was silent.

Sarah rose from the chair, walked slowly to the closet, and retrieved her coat. She was still humming as she climbed out the window onto the porch roof.

Teresa Fulbrook turned the little brass knob on the blowtorch. The sound of rushing gas filled the room. In a single expert motion, Tommie pulled a kitchen match from his pocket, flicked the top with his fingernail, and lit the pressurized gas. She fiddled with the knob until she had a roaring blue flame and then looked up at Corso.

“This is
your
doing. Don’t you forget it.” She took a step his way. Corso began to thrash about in the chair. Only Tommie’s hands on top of the seat back prevented Corso from toppling over onto his side. “You hadn’ta lied to me, none of this woulda happened, so don’t be pushing the blame my way.”

She kept talking as she waved the hissing flame in front of Corso’s face. “All I wanted from you was the truth. After that I’da had Tommie put you out of your misery.” She ran the torch across the front of his hair. Corso heard the crackle and smelled the acrid odor of burning protein. He struggled harder now, but could only move himself to and fro in the seat. “See, this talk about how it was just the two of you that found me here sounds good and all, but…” She took three steps over to the kitchen table. Came back with the poster with her face on it. “But that don’t say nothing about how you all got your hands on this picture, see…’cause I know where this picture come from, and I know who took it.” She took the torch and set the corner of the poster on fire. Held it gingerly in her fingers, tilting it this way and that until only the blackened shard in her fingers remained. The charred remains floated to the ground at her feet. She reached over and put the tape back over Corso’s mouth. Smoothed it down hard with her free hand. “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said. “I’m gonna burn off your right ear, and then we’re gonna have us another little talk. If that don’t get your attention, I’m gonna burn off the other one.” She looked up at Tommie. “Hold his head,” she said.

Tommie laced his fingers in the hair at the top of Corso’s head and slipped his other hand under Corso’s chin. He leaned hard against the back of the chair as Corso began to go wild in the seat. Corso was screaming through the tape, shaking uncontrollably as she brought the torch to bear. Again he heard the crackle of his hair, and then, as she moved again, he could feel the heat of the flame on his flesh. A scream rose and fell in his chest. Without willing it so, a high-pitched keening noise began to escape from behind the tape. Blood splashed in a wide arc as his feet took on a life of their own, beating a frantic rhythm against the floor. A siren wailed full blast in Corso’s ears.

And then Tommie let go of his head and straightened up and the siren began to wind down, more of a moan now. Corso opened his eyes to see Tommie pointing out over Teresa’s shoulder. Out into the darkened field where a bright white light was bouncing their way. “What in hell is that?” Tommie asked.

She snapped her head around. “One of those god-damned girls,” she said. She shut off the torch and then pointed to the swinging door separating the kitchen from the living room. “Take him in the other room with Gordie,” she said.

The quavering light was less than a hundred yards away when Tommie grabbed the chair by the top rail and began to back his way across the floor, towing the struggling Corso, chair and all, out of the room.

Emily leaned her bike against the kitchen steps and bounded into the house. “Papa,” she yelled as she ran to the kitchen. Three steps inside, she looked over toward the sink and came to a sliding halt. Her mother stood leaning against the counter, arms folded across her chest. The look on her face was like none that Emily had ever seen before. She swallowed hard and asked, “Where’s Papa?” Her mother looked out through the window at the pickup truck in the yard.

“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded. “You’re supposed to be at Mama May’s. What the hell are you doing back here?”

“I wanna see—”

When her mother started across the room toward her, Emily made a dash for the swinging door. “Papa,” she cried. “Papa.”

Papa didn’t answer. The first slap nearly knocked her from her feet. The second sent her reeling backward so violently she hit her head on the refrigerator and slid to the floor.

“Get upstairs!” her mother screamed. “Right now! Get upstairs!”

Even in her dazed condition, Emily knew better than to disobey at a time like this. She brought a hand to the red welts on her cheek, then scrambled to her feet and darted for the stairs, using her hands and feet to climb as quickly as possible, her mother following along behind. As she reached the landing, the little girl was swept off her feet and carried down the hall. She used her arms to cover her head, but the anticipated blows never arrived. Instead her mother carried her into the room and threw her on her bed.

“Get undressed. Get in bed,” her mother said through her teeth. “You move outta this bed, I’ll make you wish you were never born.” Emily threw her jacket on the floor and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. “Hurry up, damn it!” her mother screamed. “Get in that damn bed.” Emily jumped in and pulled the covers over her head.

She listened to the echo of her mother’s steps. Heard the sound of a banging door and the sudden rush of water. And then her mama came back into the room.

“Sit up,” she said.

Emily poked her head out from beneath the covers. Her mother was standing with two white pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Take these,” she said, holding out the pills. Emily sat up and did as she was told. Placing the pills on her tongue and then washing them down with water.

Teresa Fulbrook left the bedroom door open when she left. Back at the landing, she found Tommie standing at the bottom of the stairs. She motioned him back into the kitchen and then followed him through the door. “Damn kid changes everything,” she said. “We’re gonna have to buy ourselves a little time. Gonna have to give ’em something to think about.” She looked around the room until her eyes came to rest on the new stove. She turned to Tommie.

“You take that Corso fella out and put him in the trunk of the Pontiac. Make sure you bring a pick and shovel along. We’ll bury him out by Evers Marsh where Gordie takes the kids camping.”

Tommie started across the room. “Gordie’s got him some gas cans in the barn we keep for emergencies,” she said. “There’s a big old funnel hanging on a nail. Fill the Pontiac up with as much gas as’ll fit. Get us a long way down the road before we need to stop for anything.”