Eyeshot (34 page)

Vernon Masterson sat on the couch wearing shorts and a T-shirt. His hair was rumpled and he looked as if he'd been asleep. He blinked at all the people in the room, and sat stiffly beside a woman who patted his leg, and told him everything would be all right.

His mother, Sonora decided.

She looked tired and worried. Her hair was brunette, L'Oréal number eleven, if Sonora guessed correctly. She wore stockings and a skirt and sensible shoes. She looked as if she had not had time to change after work.

“I'm Detective Blair,” Sonora said.

“Katherine Masterson. Vernon's mom.”

Sonora nodded. “Did they explain that we just want to talk to Vernon?”

The woman nodded. “I hope you understand, but he'll do better if I'm here.”

Sonora did understand. Mrs. Masterson had no idea who had done what to whom, and she was there to look out for Vernon. In her place, Sonora would have done the same.

“Am I in trouble, Mama?” Vernon asked.

“Just tell the truth,” Mrs. Masterson said.

Sam sat down on the edge of the coffee table across from him. Not too close, but their eyes were on a level. Sonora folded her arms and settled back against the wall. Sam would be good with this.

“Vernon, we're here to look for Mr. and Mrs. Caplan. And we think you know where they might be.”

“No sir, I went to bed at nine o'clock. That's my bedtime every night.”

“I know, Vernon. And that's fine. But you and Gage are pretty good friends, aren't you?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you go on walks together?”

“Oh, no sir.”

“You don't go on walks together?”

“Oh no. I would not follow a friend. Not if he didn't want me to. There might be bees.”

“Didn't you say you played railroad with Mr. Caplan?” Sonora asked.

Sam gave her a look over his shoulder. She decided to shut up.

“Oh no. We were going to? But he never got time. Mr. Caplan works an awful lot. And you don't want to follow him, because there might be bees.”

“Vernon's been afraid of bees since he was a little boy,” Mrs. Masterson said.

“Vernon,” said Sam. “I'm afraid of bees too. Scare me to death. I hate getting stung more than anything.”

The boy nodded.

“I need you to tell me where the bees are, so I don't get stung.”

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it. “I'm sorry, sir. I can't tell.”

Mrs. Masterson looked at him. “Vernon, you tell that man what he wants to know.”

Vernon's skin lost color and he shook his head. “Mama, we could all get hurt if I tell about the place.”

“How would you get hurt?” Sam said. “Did Mr. Caplan threaten you?”

“No, no, he's my friend, he takes care of me. He promised, he would never let the brown-faced man come and get me. If it wasn't for Mr. Caplan, the brown-faced man could come to my house. He does bad things to women. I don't want to say with Mama in the room. But Mr. Caplan told me all about it. And he said the brown-faced man saw me, and might find out where I live, 'cause this is such a small town. But Mr. Caplan told him he better leave me alone. So long as I don't go back out there, I should be safe. So I never go back there. Plus, that's where the bees are. You won't want to go out there either.”

“What kind of a place is it?” Sam asked.

Vernon shook his head.

“Will you tell me if I guess?” Sonora asked him.

His mother smiled at him. “You could do that, Vernon. If she guessed.”

“It's a railroad car, isn't it, Vernon?”

Vernon looked at the floor. “You're a good guesser, ma'am.”

“Thank you.”

70

The train was on a siding. Judging by the growth of weeds and scrub through the tracks, it had been there for years. It was an old coal engine, black, three wood boxcars behind. Sonora squinted. Looked like a caboose at the end, but the track curved and she could not be sure—the tree line had grown up, encroaching the siding. A car was parked back behind the weeds, around the hidden side of the train. Sonora could see a hint of chrome bumper.

She tugged at Sam's sleeve. “Is that Caplan's car?”

“Hard to tell. Could be.”

The tracks were rusted. The engine black. Bits of coal were scattered in around the gravel.

The crickets were loud here. Sonora heard music, faint, but close. A thick orange extension cord, the outdoor utility kind, snaked from beneath the railroad cars. It ran across the tracks, and into a utility pole and box that was fenced in with chain-link.

So he had electricity.

It was gloomy out, not totally dark, plenty of moon. Sonora hoped Caplan was listening to the music, and not the sound of their footsteps in the gravel.

Vernon pointed, hand shaking. “It's the brown-faced man.”

“Where?” Sam said. “You see him?”

“No. But he lives in the other car. The one after this. He looks out the window.” Tears slid down Vernon's cheeks.

“We'll, take care of your mom,” Smallwood said.

Sam shushed him. “Listen. You hear that?”

Sonora heard sobs. “You think it's Caplan, or Collie?”

“Can't tell.”

“We better move.”

Smallwood pointed. “If you go through that car there, it looks empty, and it should connect. Come in on him through the train. I'll head around through the woods, and go up the back way. But I'll wait and give you guys some time. That sound okay?”

Sam nodded at him. They all looked at Vernon.

“You be all right, Vernon?” Sonora asked.

The boy nodded. His face was flushed and beaded with sweat. “Be careful, ma'am.”

“We're going to get the brown-faced man, Vernon. We're going to make sure he never comes after your family. You stay here and hide. Don't come out till we come back for you.” Sonora looked at him. Would he stay put until the cavalry came?

The music got louder. “Paint It Black,” classic Stones.

“We got to go,” Sonora said. She drew her gun, headed for the railroad car.

It had been painted red in its heyday. The metal step was well worn and so high off the ground Sonora had to use the rail to get up. Sam's feet were noisy behind her. The music was louder here. Sonora listened, but could not hear voices or sobs.

It was dark inside, hot, the air heavy with the smell of dust and old steel. A rusty green sign lay on its side:
JUNCTION CITY
. The paint on the walls was coming away in curls, and lengths of lumber lay scattered all over the floor. Seats had been pulled out of their mooring, cushions shredded, tossed aside.

Sonora shone a flashlight, shielded by the top of her hand. Saw an arm beneath an overturned seat.

“
Jesus.
Sam.”

He turned. Picked the arm up. “Mannequin part.”

Sonora took a breath. Felt sweat running under her arms. They went down the center aisle to the back door.

“Boarded up.” Sam pulled at the wood. “Recently, with good lumber. We're not getting in this way.”

They backtracked, climbed out of the car. Sonora stayed close to the train, metal against her blouse. It was full dark out now. In the next car, she could see light, and through a window, a silhouette.

She moved closer. Her hand was shaking.

“The brown-faced man,” Sam said, in her ear.

The man was clearly visible, targeted by light from inside the car. He stood quietly, looking out the window. His face was dark and wooden looking, as if he'd been terribly scarred. He stood very still.

“You think he's seen us?” Sonora asked.

Sam tilted his head to one side. “That sucker ain't real.”

Sonora looked back. The brown-faced man did not move or shift position. He wore a hat, a white shirt, and pants and a belt. “Scarecrow?”

“Works. Look around, Sonora, you see any graffiti? Any beer cans or condoms? How come the local kids aren't out here, hanging out? Something is keeping them away.”

“How are we going to do this?”

“Right through the door. We got no other choice.”

The music got louder. Something about turning away from the darkness, then a driving beat. “Paint It Black” again, playing over and over, like a CD on repeat. And mixed in with the music, a man sobbing.

Sam looked at her. “Let's get the hell in there.”

They moved, feet noisy on the steps, Sam in front. He kicked the train door open and Sonora went in on his heels.

She saw Caplan first, dressed for the office. He had shed the suit coat and rolled up his sleeves, but he still wore a tie, and it trailed across Collie's swollen belly as he bent over her, a firm hand on her shoulder, and looked into her face.

Collie was tied into the chair, hands behind her back. Sonora noticed her fingers, swollen and red. Her belly looked huge and she sagged against the ropes, eyes wide but unseeing, face tinged blue.

There was a plastic bag over Collie's head, pulled tight around her neck. She wasn't struggling.

Sonora stared, hoping to make the image go away. They could not be too late. They could not just have missed her by minutes. She could not be dead.

“Watch him,” Sam yelled.

Caplan was on the move, headed her way. He shoved the scarecrow and the brown-faced man came crashing toward her. The boom box went sideways, and the music stopped.

Sonora was aware, on some level, that Sam was with Collie, ripping the bag off her head, his mouth over hers, and one part of her mind was going
please, please, please.

Caplan miscalculated, expecting her to dodge the scarecrow instead of run straight at it, and him. She grabbed the front of his shirt and threw her body into his. He lost his balance, and his momentum and hers slammed him hard into the wall. His meaty bulk cushioned Sonora from the blow. He looked surprised. She was surprised too. She pushed a hand against his chest and brought the gun up under his chin.

It was a short, but oddly timeless moment where he decided whether or not to move and she decided whether or not to shoot.

“Gage Caplan—” she had to stop a minute, catch her breath. “Gage Caplan, you are under arrest.”

Sweat ran in rivers down his face, mixing with tears. His shoulders shook. Laughing? Crying? Sonora could not tell. Dark rings of misery shadowed his eyes. He looked like a man in another time and another place. Sonora smelled him. She crammed him farther back to the wall and he stayed.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

He said the words with her, his lips barely moving, voice soft. The familiar litany had a weird calming effect on them both.

She took the plastic rings out of her pocket and fastened his hands together. He watched her, unflinching, as if he expected something, she did not know what.

He smiled at her, and the expression on his face was as hard to read as it was familiar. He raised his hands, tightly encased in the plastic rings, and dragged a finger across her cheek in a butterfly caress.

“I was just putting her back,” Caplan said, and looked down at her indulgently, almost fondly.

She studied him, watchful. “I don't understand.”

Her own voice surprised her, so soft and so gentle while her heart pounded hard in her chest. She heard Sam, blowing air into Collie Caplan's lungs. The sound of crickets outside. Footsteps, someone moving in the next car. Smallwood on his way.

“Heartbeat,” Sam said.

More footsteps. Smallwood getting closer.

“Breathing,” Sam said. “On her own.”

Sonora took a deep hard breath.

The expression on Caplan's face was radiant. “I'm so glad. I don't mean to be like this.”

“I know,” Sonora said. She looked around for something he could use to wipe his tears.

71

Smallwood put his head in the door, stopped suddenly, rocking forward on his toes. “Everybody okay?”

“Under control,” Sonora said. It was good to see him. Sweat streaked from his temples and slicked his hair down wet. He smiled at her and came closer, close enough for her to see that his smile was shaky and he was white under the tan.

He looked down at Collie. “How is she?”

“Breathing.”

“Is her baby okay?”

“I don't know,” Sam said. “You want me to ask it? Where's Vernon?”

“Puking in the grass. He followed me into the car. I didn't know he was there till it was too late. You better come next door and take a look. This one's the screamer.”

Caplan chuckled softly.

72

Sonora sat rigid in her chair while the bailiff lowered the blinds in the courtroom. She had seen the tape more than once. She knew what to expect.

They did not turn out the lights, so she got to watch everybody's face, whether she wanted to or not.

Liza Hardin and Butch Winchell sat side by side in the front of the room. Winchell had worn the same suit to court every day. Every day the suit seemed to get looser, and Winchell seemed to get smaller. They took no notice of Jeff Barber, who sat in the back right-hand corner, a small dark-haired woman by his side. She patted his shoulder at regular intervals.

The sister who cooked, Sonora thought.

The guy with the video camera had been a little shaky. The camera jigged up and down as he got used to the feel of what he was doing.

He had started with an outside shot of the railroad cars. The area was drenched in harsh, artificial light, cordoned off with yellow police tape. The woods pressed in from all sides, shadowy, dark, echoing with the noise of disturbed insects. Background noises were muted—a humdrum mutter of men and women at work, the sound of footsteps on metal steps, people walking near the tracks, feet sliding in the gravel.

A moth darted in front of the lens, then veered out of range.

Sonora closed her eyes for just one minute and was back in that railroad car. She glanced across the room at Caplan, every inch the pro. The look of polite interest on his face did not waver. She thought he was sweating under the weight of the expensive suit, but it might have been wishful thinking.