Apricot brandy (16 page)

“What are you remembering, Karen? What’s been happening here?”

His eyes seemed way too close to hers though he sat across the table from her. How had he gotten so close to her thoughts? But, how could he
not
have?

“Would you give me my pack? I need to get dressed.” He stood with his back to her while she pulled on jeans and sweatshirt, wincing with the work.

Dizzy, she lay back down on the bag. “Okay,” she said.

When he turned around, perhaps having sensed her pain, he handed her Mom’s phial of Vicodins. She swallowed one with the coffee, meeting his eyes as she did, his eyes still close, too close. “What’s happening here— ” she felt she was following her voice out over an abyss—”is either that I’m insane, or what’s
happening
here is insane.”

He came around the coffee table, sat down on it. Then looked at her and held out his hand, palm up. After two heartbeats, she put her good hand in it. “You drink,” he said. “And you’re afraid you’ve gone past the point of no return.”

“That’s the first possibility.”

Very gently, he laid his other hand on top of hers, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You haven’t, Karen. I saw it last night. You’re all here, you’re whole. You couldn’t have done what you did if you weren’t.”

Tears spilled out of her eyes and she blinked them away, still holding his gaze. If what he said was true, then she had been
living
a nightmare and not just
having
one. Susan was dead. Someone had killed her and vanished, and she knew damn well who that someone was. She pulled her hand free gently and wiped her eyes.

“Maybe I can tell you what’s been happening. Maybe later… . “When she knew him better? The thought almost made her laugh. He touched her shoulder, got up and went back to his chair.

“I’ll have all the time you need, Karen. But right now we have to talk about
details.
I’ve cleaned and put away all the tools and chain-dragged the ground down where we worked. All the dirty tarps are in my truck and I’ll drop ‘em in dumpsters on my way through town… because here’s the hitch. I’ve got a parole review, down in the state capital. I have to go, be gone today and half tomorrow. Everything should be all right, but there’s something you have to look into. When I left him at the bus station, Wolf had a gym bag with his gear in it. I haven’t found it, but it has to be around because I don’t think he planned to go back into Gravenstein from here.” A bit of a pause. “You’ve got to make sure it’s not here in the house someplace. He probably went from the station to some tavern, bought some drinks, chumming up the locals, and promoted himself a ride out here.”

“And he was going to leave here… ?”

“Wolf wasn’t the planning type. Now I see how little I knew him. I don’t think we can rule out that he meant to kill you, Karen, and drive off in your truck. Keep that in mind and you’ll find peace with what we’ve done.”

“I am at peace with what we’ve done. I’m just not okay about the law, Marty Carver runs it, he hates me and he wants this place for himself.”

“Okay. But Wolf came to town the day before we started here, stayed with me both those nights, ten to one Carver doesn’t even know he exists. Just make sure his stuff’s not somewhere around here. I found the slug and got it out of the wall— we were lucky there. I dug the blood out of the floor, re-raked the dirt and packed it, wiped down all the spray off the jars and shelves. I think I got it all, but if you’re up to it, take a rag and some ammonia and make sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Here, take this.” He handed her the .357. “I can’t risk having this on me, or I would ditch it. Get rid of it, far from here. I think you have to sleep more before you start… but here’s an alarm clock I found. Then please go and get your hand treated, out in Bushmill, or even farther. Say you hurt it cutting down those plum trees— get that in the record.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry I have to leave you now, Karen. Alone. But with my record, we can’t afford the attention. Remember that we’ve
already
made this disappear, these are just details.”

“Kyle… ” What had already passed between them stopped her from thanking him. That he should have brought a man like Wolf here was part of who he was. But the whole of who he was, tears came to her eyes and she opened her arms.

He moved into them. The caution with which he embraced her recalled the first time he had shaken her hand— hydraulic strength applied with exquisite gentleness. She felt his voice through her breasts, her ribcage, like the purring of a gentle beast. “Karen, I brought this on you and I’ll never rest until I know you’re safe.”

At the door he gave her a slip of paper. “Here’s the number of the hotel I’ll be at. Call me tonight from Bushmill.” From the window, she watched his truck move out the drive, still feeling his arms around her. Together they’d buried Wolf… and buried Dad with him? But that thought made her shiver and the feel of Kyle’s arms left her.

When he was gone, she resolved to start at once. She lay down for just a moment, reviewing the materials she would need to clean the cellar… and was gone.

An hour later, she came full awake, weighing a thought that seemed to have come in her sleep. Last night, just before Wolf came crunching down the drive, she had heard the sound of a
motor
out on the highway. The sound tapered slowly, as if it might have slowed down not much beyond the orchard. What if the son of a bitch stole a car and drove it out here? And it was hidden just off road near the property?

There was a knock at the front door.

She was up and striding to it, swift confrontation her only remedy to her terror. The taped up hand? Hurt it cutting down those trees. The trunk of the last of them came down before she was ready.

It was Mr. Fratelli, short and upright, in the full pomp of his leather coat and gaudy black hair. “Karen! I wake you up? You gotta get up wit da sun, run an orchard. Whaddya doin’ to those trees out there?”

“Hi, Mr. Fratelli. I’m doing whatever I
want
to them, is what I’m doing.” She made a wry face and raised her taped hand, on which Fratelli’s sharp eye had already lighted. “I hurt myself cutting them down. I’m resting up, but I have to take off.” Her relief at encountering only a greedy buyer for Dad’s land was waning fast. Fratelli acted very familiar with the place, coming to the back door. She couldn’t invite him in. She remembered the ragged holes the double-ought had punched in the living room walls, the ceiling.

But he showed no wish to enter. “You say you got apricots, peaches. I got Sal inna truck, we take some off your hands.”

“I got thirteen flats already picked. Drive around to the back and load them up. And I’ll do my own picking. I’ll bring you the rest in a day or two, when I get my hand tended to.”

Sal, with his occasional meaningless leer at her, loaded the flats. Fratelli gave her a wad of twenties. “Three hunnerd. I don’t squeeze the pennies wit’ friends.” And he looked around saying this, an indescribable something in his face as he took in the stumps of Dad’s brandy trees, the mountain of trimmings still jeweled with fruit.

“Were you really good friends with my Dad, Mr. Fratelli?”

Acknowledging the undertones of her question, he looked her in the eyes as if to say,
We both know something about old Jack Fox, don’t we, Karen?

Which, oddly, reassured her. He wasn’t like Marty, or Harst, a disciple of Jack’s. He was more a detached observer. He wanted to buy this place, but she saw, with instant certainty, that he wanted it to sell at great profit to those who truly craved it.

This brought inspiration.”You know the idea of selling this place, Mr. Fratelli, the idea appeals to me more and more. But you’re way too low, number one. Number two, I have to talk with some business partners in San Francisco— settle some questions about my reinvestment plans. Bring me a better offer— a much better offer.”

“’Ey. We talk again, I see what I can do, but you gotta be a realist here! Sal! Whadda ya waitin?”

She weighed what she’d done, watching them drive off, and hoped that she’d set invisible tumblers clicking around her. Some feelers must have gone from Fratelli to Dad’s eager heirs and he’d be sure to make them aware of accelerating negotiations, if not of his purchase price. If Marty and Harst thought they had ownership in view, they would leave her alone. Hopefully, no more of Marty’s poking around on this or that pretext.

But, she would
never
sell Dad’s place now. Not until she could haul off the compost heap and dump it into the sea.

After Marty sent for Babcock, he sat at his desk, unlocked and opened a lower drawer. Nestled in there: a Smith .38, a Glock 19, an old but lovingly conditioned 1911 Colt .45, and a Ruger 9mm. He’d taken every one of them from Jack Fox’s house the same evening he had learned the great man had set by the scepter and the mantle of his lordship and had sprayed some of the trees of his orchard with his skull and his teeth and his brains.

For each of these weapons, Jack Fox had made up all the loads. Jack Fox had fearlessly gone down to meet the Power. And, surely, had dragged down Harst, his high priest, after him. Look what Fox had boldly done! Look, too, at what Marty Carver must now just as boldly do! For Jack had placed the scepter in Marty’s hands, to seed the earth with further sacrifice.

The guns awed Marty, they and his present duty, so that when Babcock appeared, puffing and blowing with outrage— word was the fool’s personal car had been stolen last night— Marty never raised his eyes from Jack’s weapons.

“Close that door, stand there, and shut up,” he snapped.

The thing was, once Marty
began
this seeding of the earth, there would be no undoing it. The Power would reach up into the sun to feed, would start to seek its food at large. He would be great with the Power’s greatness, but… in what kind of world would Marty stand so tall? Though for half his life he had dreamed of this threshold he now stood on, it seemed that he faced the question for the first time. It was a brave, great thing Jack Fox had done! How tall he had stood, how like a lion he had outfaced his death! But surely, an awesome passage was before Marty Carver in his turn and he, too, must become like a lion to confront it!

He rose and came around the desk, planting himself in front of the beefy deputy. “You think you’re really something, Babcock. Always parking that stupid Mustang of yours with the keys dangling from the ignition! I’ve seen it a dozen times around town. You think you’re so bad, so fearsome, that no one
dares
to steal it! Well let me tell you, you brainless side of beef, today of all days, I did not
need
a crime created by one of my own deputies because he is a moron. Step closer to me.”

Babcock was visibly uneasy at this command, but he stepped forward, past his comfort zone, and into the aura of his superior’s authority.

“Step closer.”

Babcock stepped well inside of Marty’s reach, in reach of an embrace, if Carver extended his arms. The Assistant Chief Deputy extended only his right hand and gripped his Deputy’s shoulder. Babcock’s knees sagged and he groaned aloud.

“Lower your voice,” said Marty calmly. “Listen carefully. You’ll take the unmarked Dodge.” Added pressure, a shriller groan, a desperate nod. Sweat was pouring down Babcock’s bullock face. “You know the bitch I’ve got out at Spaith’s?” Another frantic nod, Marty’s deputies were all aware of everything in the county that enjoyed the Assistant Chief Deputy’s personal protection. “Turns out she’s a murderer. We know, but don’t have the evidence. You take her out into the trees and kill her. Stay there close by her body to make sure she’s dead. Then leave her there and report back here to me.”

Babcock groaned again as Marty released his grip. As stunned by Marty’s strength as by his orders, he gaped at his master, who faintly smiled and added, “You’ll do this, Babcock, or you’ll spend twelve years in prison for the Pakistani. You shot him right in the back of the neck. Now, nod your head, or go to prison. Good. Take an unmarked car and take this weapon, it’s cold. Be
sure
you kill her with
this
.” He handed Babcock the .38 Smith. “Bring the gun back to me when you’re done and from the moment you drive out, to the moment you return, maintain absolute radio silence. Do you copy? Stay absolutely
off
the radio. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Karen pulled on her jacket and slipped the .357 into the pocket. If she found what she suspected, acting fast would be essential, no coming back for anything. She went up to Mom’s sewing room and slipped Dad’s letter into her pocket. Mom’s Vicodins, after she swallowed two more, went into another pocket.

Out the gravel drive to the highway; past the oak trees bordering the orchard. Following the remembered, stealthy motor noise where it had passed last night, not long before Wolf came for her… just beyond the Fox acres, where oak-scrub and berries grew thick up to the highway. Karen detected a torn seam in the vegetal screen. Heart hammering, she stepped nearer and, within the foliage, detected a hint of metallic blue.

A bright blue Mustang convertible, some restored classic from the sixties, stood roughly parked in a small clearing in the scrub. The keys were dangling from the ignition and there was an athletic bag on the seat. The asshole must have just gone out and stolen a car for his ride out here to rape her.

Driving this thing out of here she’d be bare-ass naked to anyone in the Sheriff’s Department, who might have seen the car’s description on the morning’s bulletin. The cherried blue paint job was scratched by tough oak twigs, both doors scraped along their bottoms by the rocky ground coming off-road. The same harsh indifference Wolf had felt towards her body he had shown towards this ride, clearly somebody’s baby. What a piece of shit!

It had to be taken and ditched, immediately. Wait till dark? It might not be reported yet, but by then it surely would. The pain of her fracture was sickening. Her body begged to for rest, but it had to be now. Climb in. Ditch it near town— ballsy, but the best place to hide it. Ditch it and hop a bus to Bushmill.