Cold Black Earth (16 page)

And that, thought Rachel as she watched Roger’s taillights draw away down the drive, was one of the stranger evenings I’ve spent. She threw the deadbolt and turned to face the empty house, sagging back against the door.

She had known the house was empty as soon as Roger turned into the drive. Neither the pickup nor Billy’s Dodge was in sight, and the two lights that were on, one in the living room and one in the kitchen, were the ones Matt always left on when he was out. If he had been home, most of the first floor would have been lit up.

Roger had sensed her uneasiness and asked if she would be OK; by reflex she had said sure, not wanting to prolong an evening that had run its course. Now, listening to the empty house, she wished she had asked him in.

There is nobody here, Rachel told herself. There is no sign of forced entry. There is no reason to believe that the man who sawed Ed Thomas into pieces is waiting for me at the end of that hallway or at the top of the stairs. I have come home to this safe, familiar house when it was empty many times in my life, and I have never been afraid.

Rachel’s heart had accelerated and her knees had gone weak; her breathing was shallow and rapid. She strained to listen and heard, at long intervals, the faint random creaks that are always there in an old house. She had lived with them for years. Now each one sounded like Otis Ryle’s soft tread.

You are being childish, she told herself. Still, she dared not move. She listened for another minute. That, surely, was a careful placement of a foot in the upstairs hall. And yet there was nothing after it, only silence.

I want a gun, thought Rachel. I want Clyde Larson’s gun. With a gun I would not be afraid to march through the house, opening doors, looking in closets.

Leave, she thought. Run out to the Chevy, jump in and drive to where there are people. Drive down to the Larsons’. Karen will give you hot chocolate and Clyde will give you a gun.

16    

“I know it’s irrational,” said Rachel. “But I couldn’t stay there. I was too scared.”

“It’s not irrational at all, dear. Good Lord, with that man still on the loose? I’ve been scared to death myself the last few days.” Karen Larson was in her bathrobe, hair in a net and ready for bed, but she had rallied to the cause. “I am
so
glad you came over.” She set the mug in front of Rachel and squeezed her shoulder. Rachel closed her eyes, on the verge of tears, overcome with gratitude. Mother me, she thought. Please mother me.

The chocolate was too hot to drink. She slurped a little and set the mug down. “I’ll call Matt and find out when he’ll be home.”

“You can stay here as long as you want, honey. Spend the night if you want.”

“Thanks, but I think I need to get back on that horse. Let me see if I can raise Matt.” She rummaged in her purse until she came up with her cell phone. When Matt answered she said, “Hey, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I’m at the bar, where I’m supposed to be. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Larsons’. I was too scared to stay in the house after Roger dropped me off.”

“Why, did something happen?”

“No, I was just scared to be in the house alone. I’m just still a little freaked out, that’s all.”

A few seconds went by. Rachel expected jocularity, dismissal. Instead Matt said, “Sit tight, I’ll be right home.”

“I don’t want to spoil your evening. I can stay here for a while.”

“Nah, I was about ready to leave anyway. You want me to pick you up?”

“I can make it a half mile down the road by myself, I think. I just want you to be there when I get home. I want you to check all the closets and make sure nobody’s hiding under the beds. I’m just having an attack of old-fashioned crybaby-scared-of-the-dark.”

“Well, I can understand that. Give me ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll call you when I’m home, OK?”

“OK. Thanks.” Rachel clicked off and sat with a hand over her face, eyes closed. Karen pulled out a chair, sat and gently grasped her other hand.

Rachel looked up when Clyde came into the kitchen carrying a revolver and a box of shells. He sat down and said, “You’ve handled firearms before, right?” He was looking at her with concern, having second thoughts maybe about entrusting his Smith & Wesson Model 10 to a mere slip of a girl.

Rachel shrugged. “I’ve shot the .22 a lot. Handguns, once or twice. I could use the safety lecture.”

Clyde gave it to her, showing her how to break out the cylinder and load the shells, then emptying it again and explaining how the double action worked. “You can shoot it when it’s not cocked, but it takes a hard pull. Once you cock it, though, it’ll go off if you look at it funny. So be careful.”

Rachel nodded. “Thank you, Clyde. I’m fervently hoping I never have to use it.”

“That makes two of us. Just remember, shooting it’s the easy part. The real trick is anticipating, getting the thing out and pointed at the right person, heading off trouble if you can, so you never have to pull the trigger.”

Rachel loaded the cylinder, swung it home and pushed the box of shells back across the table. “I think if I need more than six shots I’ll be in trouble so big, a gun won’t help me.”

The look on Clyde’s ancient seamed face was dead serious. “If you need more than one, you better hope the cavalry’s coming.”

When Rachel pulled up at the back door, Matt’s truck was parked there and lights were blazing in the house. Feeling foolish, she paused on the step with her key in her hand and her purse dangling heavier than usual on her arm. Leave the gun in the car, she thought, and then remembered her dread of the creaking empty house. Keep it with you, she decided. Under your pillow, cradled at your breast.

A noise penetrated her awareness and she turned to look out over the vast black countryside with its thin scattering of lights. A high distant keening was just perceptible far off in the night; it puzzled her but after a moment she decided it was a car horn, blaring away stupidly. Stuck, no doubt; nobody would stand there leaning on the horn for minutes on end. The driver was probably frantically trying to cut it off. But it was disquieting; quickly she went inside.

Matt was on the computer in the den, bringing up data on the commodities markets. Without looking away from the screen he said, “So, did he try and kiss you?”

Rachel laughed. “No, he was a perfect gentleman, start to finish. Of course, I drew a line in the sand as soon as we sat down.”

“Probably scared him to death.”

Rachel set her purse on the floor, flopped onto the bed and leaned back against the wall. “I think Roger’s probably pretty hard to scare.”

“If you’re a meth head or a drunk, maybe. I think women terrify him.”

“Could be. I think he’s very lonely.”

“Well, losing a wife can do that to you.”

Rachel watched him for a moment and then got up and went and put her arms around him, bending over him. “I’m sorry, Matt.”

He shoved away from the computer. “Well, there’s no crying in baseball. I’m OK. I get Billy straightened out, I’ll be happy.”

Rachel sank back onto the bed. “Roger says Billy’s basically a good kid. He says he’s too smart for the people he’s hanging out with. I think that means he’ll come to his senses.”

The look Matt gave her was weary and completely free of illusions. “He can start anytime, far as I’m concerned. Now, you’re sitting right where I hope to be laying in about a minute and a half. I’m calling it a night.”

Rachel picked up her purse, heavy with the weight of the gun. She started to tell Matt about the gun but hesitated.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head. “Good night.”

“Night. You OK, for sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Come knock on the door if you need company.”

Suddenly she was overcome with love for him; all that pain he must have inside him and here he was, offering to comfort her. Rachel opened her mouth to tell him how much she loved him but all that came out was “Thanks. I will.”

Rachel awoke in the depths of the night. For a moment she was bewildered; darkness was universal, and she could have been anywhere on the face of the earth. A great fear roiled, black and lethal, just below the level of her awareness.

Then she was fully awake in her bed, the old woolen blanket rough against her cheek. A door had opened and closed, downstairs. The back door, she thought. Someone has just come into the house.

Over the thumping of her heart she told herself it was Billy coming in, and she was a fool to lie here trembling like this. A short time passed; there was a distant murmur of voices. Rachel checked her watch: Three o’clock had come and gone. The voices sounded again, low and terse. She lay in bed trying to identify them: One was Matt’s, but whose was the other?

She got up and put on a bathrobe and slippers. She stood at the head of the stairs in the dark, listening, until she was sure. Matt and another man were talking quietly somewhere below. She could not make out the words. There were footsteps and then the sound of running water.

Rachel tightened the belt on her robe and descended the stairs. The hall light was off, but light shone in the kitchen at the end of the hall and spilled from the bathroom halfway along it. Someone was running water at the bathroom sink. Rachel stepped softly down the hall and halted at the door of the bathroom.

Dan Olson stood bent over the sink in a T-shirt, washing something from his hands and forearms, the muscles of his arms rippling. Pink water swirled in the white porcelain sink. On the floor at Dan’s feet lay a sweatshirt, mottled red.

Rachel sucked in a sharp breath. Dan’s head snapped toward her, his face grim and haggard. “Jesus, Rachel!” He leapt back from the sink, wet hands held away from his body. “You scared the shit out of me.”

They gaped at one another. Breathless, Rachel said, “What are you doing here?”

Dan opened his mouth and nothing came out. Matt appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. Dan said, “I gotta wash my hands.”

“For God’s sake, what happened?”

After a long second Dan said, “Somebody else got killed.”

Rachel put a hand on the doorjamb to steady herself. Matt said quietly, “There’s been another murder. We got the call.”

“Who?” said Rachel, her voice nearly failing her.

Dan answered. “Carl Holmes,” he said, bending to the sink again. “My uncle.”

Rachel had made herself a cup of tea. Dan and Matt had sucked down a beer apiece and started on a second. “Bob Dayton found him,” said Matt. “About three miles from here, on the Bremen road. He heard the horn going off and got in his truck to go see what it was. He was so freaked out he took off down the road, got all the way to Bremen before he pulled over and dialed 911. County emergency calls get routed to the local first responders, which is us. Dan got there about a minute after I did, and then Tom Carlson and Andy Wilson showed up, and then finally a sheriff’s car. We hung around till the detectives showed up.”

“Wish to God I was never there,” said Dan, staring at the tabletop.

This is knowledge I don’t want, thought Rachel, but I have to share the load. “He was in his car?”

“In his pickup,” Matt said. “When I shone the light on him”—Matt squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, rubbed his face with both hands—“I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was seeing at first.” He opened his eyes and looked at Rachel. “His throat was cut.”

“He was halfway out, like he’d gotten the door open and tried to run,” said Dan. “But he never made it. He just kind of twisted and got, like, wedged with his elbow against the horn. The cops yelled at me for moving him, but I couldn’t stand there and listen to that noise. That’s when I got the blood on me. There was a fuck of a lot of it.”

Rachel rose from the table. She walked to the sink and stood with her arms crossed, looking at her reflection in the window. “Sorry,” said Dan behind her.

Matt said, “The guy must have flagged him down, hitched a ride or something. The truck was in the ditch just shy of the stop sign at 600 East. The guy must have waited for him to slow down, then cut him and got out and run.”