Blood Country (16 page)

Bridget dragged herself away from the toilet and cleaned herself up. She decided against putting on any more lipstick. Didn’t seem like a good idea. She didn’t feel like going out to coffee with Chuck right now.

She would walk out and tell him she stopped by to say hi and go back home. She would tell Chuck tonight, in the privacy of their own home. If she felt good enough this afternoon, she would drive over to talk to Claire, ask her what she was in for the next eight months of her life.

“H
OW’S THE MOREL
season shaping up?” Stuart asked Rich as they both sidled up to the bar at the Fort. The Fort St. Antoine Café was open seven days a week, sixteen hours a day.

You could buy a box of Band-Aids, rent a video, play a game of pool, or order a shot of whiskey. At least a couple of days a week, Stuart and Rich would meet there for a late-afternoon brew, after Stuart was done baking.

“Pretty good. I made the mistake of dropping off a basket of morels for Ms. Claire Watkins,” Rich said.

“How could that be a mistake?” Stuart thought for a second and then answered his own question. “Oh, I bet she doesn’t like morels. Not everyone likes them. My mom has never cared for them.”

“No, I think she liked the morels fine. But it appears she also likes someone else.”

This stopped Stuart for a moment, then he asked incredulously, “Who? Someone from around here?”

“No. This guy named Bruce. Her old partner. He was over for dinner. Looked at my morels like they were a bunch of old condoms.”

Stuart threw his head back and laughed. “There is a resemblance.”

“You know anything about this guy? Bruce something, didn’t get his last name?”

“No, and that should tell us something. You know, I’ve got my ear to the grapevine, and I haven’t heard a peep about Claire seeing anybody.”

“Maybe she goes up to town.”

“No, she doesn’t. I’d know that too.”

“God, what have you heard about me?”

“I don’t need the grapevine for that. You just come and spill the beans yourself.”

“That’s true.” Rich waved over the bartender. “She sure has got a cute little girl. She answered the door last night.”

“Meg?”

“Yes. Insisted her name was Felicity.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. I think Claire’d do just about anything for her. You should get to know her.”

“Meg?”

“Sure. You know—get an in to the mother through the daughter.”

“Not my style.”

The bartender took their order. When he delivered their two beers, he asked, “So you heard who’s going to get all of Landers Anderson’s land?”

“Nope. Haven’t heard a peep,” Rich told him.

“No big surprise. Fred gets it all, because Landers died intestate.”

Stuart looked at the bartender in surprise, then protested, “I heard he died of a heart attack.”

“In-test-ate. It’s not a disease. Haven’t you ever heard that before? It simply means you died without making a will.”

Stuart laughed at the bartender’s lecture, saying, “I get it. I get it. How do they determine who gets what?”

“Each state has a system to figure that out, some kind of game plan,” the bartender explained. “I think first it goes to your spouse; if you have no spouse, it goes to your kids; no kids, goes to your parents; then siblings, then aunts and uncles. Down the line of your relatives. You get the picture.

“All Landers has got is Fred and Darla. Kinda too bad, because they’ll just sell it to that development.” The bartender pointed to a poster that was pinned to the bulletin board. Beneath an announcement of a tractor pull and a farm auction was an old notice for the town meeting about the new development.

Rich stood up and swigged the last of his beer. “I gotta go. Pheasants to feed.”

When he got to the door, Rich reached over, pulled the poster about the development down, and stuffed it in his pocket. He would certainly make an attempt to get that land so it couldn’t be developed. He’d have to give it a try. Maybe Claire could help him out.

18

C
laire thought of the morel mushrooms while she stared at the floor of the county jail. It was her day on jail rotation, but she only had to stay another hour. A drunk driver was sobering up in the back cell. She could heard him snoring, and the noise sounded like he was grinding through the brick wall. As soon as the next officer relieved her at the jail, she planned to go over to Landers’ house and look through it more thoroughly. Having finished her paperwork, read the two daily papers, even completed the crossword puzzle, she was staring at the floor and thinking.

The oil blotches on the cement floor reminded her of the spongelike appearance of the morels. The gift of the morels had surprised and pleased her. A man bringing her the bounty of the land. A strong man with good intent offering her what he had found in the forest. There was something wonderfully romantic about it, and just basically good.

She had found the morels strong and earthy, rich and warm. What did they taste like? How to describe a taste? Like anchovies without the salt, like chocolate without the sweet, but not bitter either. An undelicate delicacy. Bruce had hated them. He tried to hide the feet; he even ate them all, but she could tell by the way he let them sit in his mouth before he swallowed. Bruce was pretty much a meat-and-potatoes guy, didn’t even like ordinary mushrooms.

She didn’t know what Rich was, what he liked to eat, what he liked to do. She knew so little about him. On one hand, she found that exciting, but on the other, it scared her. She was a cop; she knew how weird people could turn out to be. Rich had strong opinions about what was happening down on the river. Not everyone liked him. But Stuart and he were best friends, and Stuart seemed like a good guy.

She also had to admit that it had been good to see Bruce last night and spend some quiet time with him. When they’d met at the bar in Red Wing the time before, he had stormed off, angry at her because she didn’t want to resume her affair with him. In their long partnership together, she had watched him go through so many women. She didn’t want to be one of them. She knew that if they had continued to be lovers and he had dropped her like all the rest, they would never be friends again. Not a good way to lose someone.

Claire knew she should never have slept with Bruce the one time. Right after her husband’s death, rather than shutting down, she had opened up to everything. She wanted to catch the men who had killed her husband and kill them herself. Shoot them or strangle them. Anger coursed through her like mercury pushing skyward in a tube. Hot summer. Bruce had been the only person in the world she had trusted. She wanted him to work as hard as he could to catch the guy. In some odd, twisted way, she thought if she slept with him, he would leave their conjugal bed and bring her the head of the murderous man on a platter with breakfast and a rose.

The truth was that when she woke in the morning, she had a great fear that she would lose the only other man she loved by sleeping with him. She had deeply loved Steve. She would always love him. Guilt overwhelmed her, as if by loving Bruce too she had caused Steve’s death. She had cut the affair short. Let it go no farther. Bruce had been angry, but he kept speaking to her. And last night he was relaxed and pleasant, hadn’t put the move on her at all. Maybe she could let down her defenses a bit.

Now, if he would only do the impossible and catch the killer and put him behind bars, she could get on with her life, however she wanted it to be, whoever she wanted to have in it with her.

The phone rang next to her elbow, and she answered, “Jail, Claire.”

“Informative.” Sheriff Talberf’s voice growled over the line. “Listen, it’s fine if you want to give Anderson’s place one more going-over. I did check with the lawyer, and the brother has inherited the place. So when you’re done there, you can let them do what they will.”

“You don’t think we should keep it under lock and key a little longer? This man was murdered, and who knows what might be hidden in the house.”

The sheriff was silent, then he said, “I think this whole case might be a lot easier than you’re making it Maybe someone accidentally killed Anderson.”

“Then why didn’t the person report it?”

“Scared, not sure what happened, who knows?”

“What if I find something?”

“Like what?”

“A will. A letter. A threat.”

Sheriff Talbert harrumphed. “We’ll deal with that if it comes up.”

After the phone call, Claire got up and walked down to the end of the cell block. The drunk stirred as she approached him. Without even appearing to wake, he rolled up and stared at her from a sitting position. Maybe he had just been pretending to sleep, but that snoring had been awfully real.

“Keep waking myself up with my snoring,” he said. He sounded fairly sober. There was no detox center out in this little Wisconsin town, so they kept the drunks overnight, and if they didn’t have a friend in the police department they were charged with reckless driving.

“How are you feeling?”

“Worse than bad.” He held his head in his hands and slowly moved it back and forth. “Wish I had never had that last drink.”

“You might want to think before drinking the first one next time.”

“Is the lecture free?”

“Just part of the package deal, here at Club Jail.”

“Wish you’d go away.” He curled back up in a ball on his bunk.

Claire walked toward the desk. Her mom used to tell her, “Wish in one hand, spit in the other, and see which gets full first.” Claire had quit wishing a while ago. Funny all the things you wish for when your life goes along in a rut, but when calamity explodes in your face and the ground drops from beneath your feet, you wish, you beg to be back in the rut—the feel of solid earth, the same road to take every day, the calm that comes from knowing that the worst you fear is boredom.

O
NE OF THE
things Red liked about cocaine was it made him see better, he thought, sitting in the borrowed pickup truck. He could see it all: the roads covered with leftover sand from winter, the grass dry and brown, the trees waving their empty limbs like a bunch of old ladies. He took a last puff on his cigarette and tossed it out the side window.

He hadn’t driven down to the school today, now that he knew the routine. The little girl either got off the bus or she didn’t. If she did, he was parked halfway up the hill she climbed to get to her baby-sitter’s. He’d pop out of the car at the right moment, say the right words, and she would be his. Then he’d make sure she could tell no one what she had seen when his truck hit her father.

Nobody was around in this podunk town. Streets were empty. Made his job all the easier. Out here in the boonies, people still left their doors unlocked. He bet he could walk into half the houses in town without breaking a window. ‘Course, once he got in, there wouldn’t be much there to steal. Unless you were in the antique business. Not him; in his youth he had done a bit of the sleight-of-hand, taking cash, jewelry, small TVs, and stereos. Now he’d go for computers and CD players. Glad he was out of that racket. Nickel-and-dime business. Now he was into the real money.

Coke was where it was at as far as he was concerned. Hardly touched the stuff himself, but he had done a bit today. Thought a little extra energy would help with this job. He could feel it pulsing in him. When he took it, whatever he was doing made sense. He never doubted himself. Great drug. Perfect drug to retail. He had been hearing about these factories where naked women filled glass vials with the white stuff. They kept ‘em naked so they couldn’t steal any. He had to see that sometime. A roomful of naked women. Just thinking about it got his bone pushing at his pants.

He usually traveled to Miami to get the stuff, then sold it in the Twin Cities. That was his market, didn’t want to lose it. That’s why he didn’t want to relocate. Hawk tells him to get out of town for a year, just too long. Can’t stay away from the suppliers that long. He managed to get someone to cover him for a good chunk of time, but now he was back and he was staying back. Hawk was putting the twist on him, telling him they needed him to relocate again. Now, if it was Miami, that would be one thing, but he was talking Kansas City. Cow town. Not his idea of a move up in the world. He’d just as soon stay put and rake in the money they were making in North Minneapolis. He knew the territory. He needed to take care of that guy. He was getting fucking bossy, and Lord knows he was ready for a fall.

Here came the bus. The angle he had set his side mirror at allowed him to see it perfectly. He was slouched down in the seat, so from the road it would look like the truck was empty. The little girl, Meg, waves to the driver as she steps off the bus. Then she trips and sends her books flying. Takes her a moment to collect them all. He can see her in the side mirror. Skipping up the hill. Where do kids get all their energy? He’d take some of the stuffing out of her. Maybe take her to Chicago with him. Go see if he could find the naked ladies. Maybe he could apprentice her off for slave labor.

She was steps away when he made his move. He swung his door open and said, “Hey, Meg, your mom told me to come and get you.”

She smiled up at him and took another step. Suddenly the smile vanished. Her eyes dilated, and her mouth opened. She dropped her books again. But this time she didn’t pick them up. She ran.

“Shit.” Red let the word slide out under his breath as he scrambled out of the truck. By the time he was on the street, she was nearly to the top of the hill.

Red took off after her. She ran like a deer and had quite a start on him. He tried to reassure her. “Hey, hold on. Your mom said I’m supposed to take you home. Give me a chance to explain.”

She turned for a moment and looked at him, then ran faster. What was the matter with her? Usually the word mom soothed any child. The gravel spun beneath his feet as he dug in and tried to catch her. This hill was fucking steep, and he was wearing these goddamn cowboy boots. He had to grab her before she got to the neighbor’s house.

Red ran toward the house, and the little girl veered off. She ducked into a grove of trees, and he followed. She sprinted through the tree trunks, and he was gaining on her when suddenly a branch loomed out of nowhere and caught him under the chin. Gulleted. He went down on his side and heard her running. He couldn’t yell, wanted to attract no one’s attention. Pushing himself up, he ducked low as he rose and barreled ahead. At the other side of the trees was a field, stubble from corn breaking the soil. He stopped in his tracks and scanned the area.

Shit, she was gone. It was like the earth swallowed her up. Where was there for her to go? She had run out into the field and now she was gone. He took several steps back into the shadow of the trees. Squatting down, he kept his eyes scanning. She was someplace. She would move, and he would see her. He was between her and all the houses. There was only the field, the woods, and the bluff rising up to the sky. She couldn’t climb that. He had her cornered; now he’d just have to wait her out He couldn’t let her go. If he did, he’d never get another chance at her. And this time, there was no question that she had seen him.

M
EG COULD SEE
two ants trying to pull a leaf over a branch. She watched them for a few seconds, and then she knew she needed to move. He had fallen in the trees, and she had climbed down into the ditch that skirted the field and led to the woods. That’s where she needed to get to, the woods that hugged the bluff.

She pushed herself up into a crawling position and moved forward slowly, knee by knee. Her socks were ruined, her dress was ripped. Tears fell from her eyes and hit the leaves below her. What if one hit an ant, she wondered, would it be like a huge storm?

She knew who that man was. He had red hair, and he had a wild look in his eyes. The wild look was from killing a person. Once you killed a person, you could never get that look out of your eyes. It was like a badge you always had to wear, and she had seen it. She knew he was the man who had run down her father. And now he was after her, probably wanted to kill her too.

Meg kept crawling forward, slowly and quietly, as low to the ground as she could be. The sides of the ditch were grown up with ragweed and cockleburs. She hated those things; they scrunched up your clothes permanently if they got tangled in them. But Meg had given up on what she was wearing. She could not save herself and take care of her clothes, so she had to forget about her clothes. It was, as her mom told her, knowing your priorities.