Killerwatt (16 page)

Rhetta eased Cami into first gear, rolling slowly
along the narrow one-way park road in the rain. At the intersection, she
stopped, facing the hospital. She blew a kiss toward the building, directing it
to sail upward to her husband. Then she merged into the slow moving traffic
along William Street.

The golden arches of McDonalds beckoned to her just as
her stomach growled. She realized she was famished, and swung a quick turn
through the drive-thru. She came out with a Big Mac, fries and a chocolate
shake.

After gulping down most of the sandwich, all of the
fries and slurping up the last bubbles of milky ice cream at the bottom of the
shake, she made her way quickly across town and soon found herself on Highway
34, the two-lane highway leading to Marble Hill. She also calculated how many
miles she’d have to run to work off her dietary splurge.

The fierce summer storm must have discouraged most
of the Saturday drivers; she didn’t spot any other cars. She throttled Cami as
much as she dared on the slick, curvy roadway. In an effort to keep the images
of her father from creeping back into her head, she switched on the oldies
station. The sun always shines in radio land.

A quick glance skyward through her windshield
revealed a threatening sky as dark as night, even though it was barely 2:30.
She located the knob for the driving lights and pulled them on since Cami
wasn’t equipped with automatic headlights. She knew every inch of her car and
didn’t need to take her eyes off the road to locate the switch.

She recalled the recently enacted law proclaiming
headlights on was mandatory while driving in the rain. More specifically, the
law stated that lights were “mandatory while using windshield wipers.” Did that
mean that if anyone was dumb enough not to turn on wipers in the rain, they
weren’t required to turn on their headlights? Just how does that law get
enforced? Does the windshield-wiper enforcement brigade lie in the road
ditches, waiting for an offender to slosh by?

The heavy rain runneling down her windshield taxed
her wipers and snapped her attention back to the slick roadway. She turned off
the radio. She could focus better in the quiet. She could also think better.
Why did her father show up at the hospital? She was so angry, she hadn’t even
asked how he’d found her. Didn’t he say he’d kept up with her over the years?
How did he do that? She regretted now that she let her anger overwhelm her. Not
that she wanted anything to do with her father, but he told her some strange
things. What if they were true? It would turn her memories of her mother upside
down.

She forced her thoughts back to Billy Dan. He’d seen
the schematic and talked to Randolph. Snaking her hand across to the passenger
seat for her phone, she held it aloft, stole a glance at it, then tapped the
last number she’d called. Billy Dan still didn’t answer. Just as she did, she
spotted flashing lights ahead and braked. Her rear-wheel drive Camaro began
fishtailing across both lanes. Sliding her foot from the brake to the gas
pedal, she accelerated into the direction of the swerve until Cami
straightened. With a death grip on the wheel, she steered back to her own side
of the road.

She sucked in a breath then tapped the brake pedal.
This time her Camaro slowed evenly.

 
I’m going to get antilock brakes
. Her friend
and mechanic, Ricky (short for Victoria) Lane had advised Rhetta to get antilock
disc brakes when they had first bought the car. It was equipped with the
factory drum brakes in the rear, with disc brakes only in the front. Drum
brakes weren’t as reliable as disc brakes.

Rhetta vowed to get hold of Ricky and take care of
changing out the brakes.

Of the two women, Rhetta was usually the
fashionista, while Ricky tended to look as though she’d crawled out from under
a car, which was normally the case. Although a real estate agent by trade,
Ricky, divorced and still single, lived to mechanic and fix up muscle cars. The
friendly redhead usually tucked her long hair under a ball cap and wore
magnifying safety glasses when she worked on cars. Whenever it was time to show
houses, she popped in her green contact lenses and let her shoulder-length hair
fall loose.

Rhetta eased past a van with its emergency lights
flashing that had pulled over onto the shoulder. The right front end squatted
low to the ground, a sure sign of a flat tire. As she passed, she glanced
around for the van’s driver, but spotted no one. Once safely past, Rhetta sped
up. Her stomach was in a full-blown cramp from her near wreck.

Thank God, no one was on the
other side of the road.

Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead in spite
of the air conditioning. That, she knew, was due entirely to fear.

CHAPTER
33

By the time she arrived at the four-way stop in
Marble Hill, the rain had quit. The menacing storm clouds were beginning to
part, revealing a smattering of the sun’s rays.

The city limit sign both welcomed her and warned of
a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. She drove agonizingly slow along the
main street. The highway went straight through town, effectively splitting it,
so she had no choice but to drive through town to continue west to Billy Dan’s.
Randolph had warned that the second generation Camaro would attract enough
attention on its own merit without roaring through town. She eased up on the
accelerator, not wanting the Flowmaster exhaust system to turn a cop’s head.

Merc’s sat directly ahead on the right. She pulled
in. She needed to know if Billy Dan had shown up yet at his “office.” Also, she
badly needed to find a ladies’ room.

She’d just parked Cami when four leather-clad bikers
on Harleys rolled in. They parked in two slots alongside of her. One of the
riders, a large man sporting a black leather vest over a hairy chest, jerked
his thumb toward her car, grinned, and gave her a two-thumbs-up salute.

It wasn’t unusual to attract a crowd whenever she
and Cami cruised into the small towns around Southeast Missouri. Whenever she
and Randolph had first restored the Camaro, she seldom drove it, limiting her
excursions to a few area car shows and hot rod cruise-ins at the local drive-in
restaurants. When Ricky replaced the original stock 350 motor with a tuned port
injection LS1 Corvette motor, Rhetta turned Cami into her daily spring, summer,
and fall ride.

The rainstorm had apparently discouraged many of the
local fishermen from going to the ponds and creeks. Several pickup trucks with
johnboats in tow parked along the back edge of Merc’s parking lot. Swirling
leaves that had blown from the tall sycamores still littered the asphalt lot.
The clean, fresh smell of summer rain teased her nostrils.

She held the door to Merc’s open for two older
women, then followed them in.

One of the blue-haired matrons easing her way in
slowly behind an aluminum walker said, “Nice ride, young lady.”

“Thanks,” Rhetta said and smiled. That elderly woman
may have required a walker, but she clearly kept up with the current
vernacular.

Inside Merc’s, she spotted dozens of overall-clad
men sipping coffee and klatching around several large circular tables. Billy
Dan was not among them.

Using one hip, Krista pushed open the swinging door
from the kitchen and emerged holding a coffee pot in each hand. One pot was
filled with decaf and bore a green stripe, while the other contained regular,
if one was to believe the orange stripe. “Hi, Mrs. McCarter,” Krista called out
as she sailed by. “You can sit anywhere.”

“Thanks, Krista, I’m not staying.”

When Krista paused to refill coffee mugs held up by
a half-dozen men at the nearby table, Rhetta asked, “Has Billy Dan been in
since I called?”

“Why, no, he hasn’t,” Krista said, stopping and
gazing around the restaurant. Turning to a table of overall-wearers, she
shouted, “Have any of you boys seen Billy Dan today?” Several heads shook. A
few gents muttered, “Nope,” and continued their conversation.

“Thanks,” Rhetta said and headed to the rest room.
Feeling better after using the facilities and applying some cool water to her
face, she made her way through the many tables and headed for the door. On her
way, she caught snatches of the old boys’ banter—mostly colorful assessments of
current political candidates.

Once outside, she tried Billy Dan again. Still no
answer. She hiked her purse up her shoulder and trotted to Cami. The hairs
prickled on the back of her neck.

It wasn’t from static electricity.

CHAPTER
34

Once outside the city limits on the west side of
town, Rhetta floored it. Cami hugged the road, the speedometer chased 70. She
glanced at the dash clock—not quite 4:00.

The sun’s rays broke decisively through the cloudy
sky to dry the soaked pavement. Only a scattering of puddles remained along the
sides of the narrow state highway. Traffic was light. She met a smattering of
cars as she raced westward. Glancing at her speedometer, Rhetta prayed one of
them wouldn’t be a highway patrol officer.

Instead of finding five bars and a big “3G” when she
again picked up her cell phone, she glimpsed an unsteady two bars followed by
the letter E. She groaned. She’d soon be running out of cell service. Then she
brightened.
If there’s no service out here, maybe that’s why I can’t reach
Billy Dan on his cell.

Mental head slap when she reminded herself that
she’d also tried Billy Dan’s house phone.

Up ahead, on the left she recognized an old country
store bearing a hand-lettered sign above the front door. The words
Green’s
Grocery
were barely decipherable on the weather-beaten board. The square,
wood slat store building was topped by a corrugated steel roof. A sagging front
porch awaited the customers who came through the front and only door. The old
place was reminiscent of a tavern in a western movie set.

She knew from past visits that the porch was sturdy.
She and Randolph had stopped there to buy night crawlers the last time they’d
been out to Billy Dan’s to fish. They also discovered Green’s Grocery made the
best fried bologna sandwiches in the universe.

Remembering that the road to Billy Dan’s would
appear quickly on the left after passing Green’s Grocery, Rhetta slowed in
anticipation. Ahead, partially hidden by the boughs of a tall cedar, she
spotted a crooked green sign with three white numerals, 1, 4, 0. The space in
front of the first “1” was a darker green. Probably where the other numeral “1”
had been when it had completed the 1-1-4-0. It must have recently fallen off
the sign.

She turned left, and Cami bounced on to the county
road. Although the road was gravel, it wasn’t the firm grey limestone gravel
like the surface of their road in Cape County. Instead, this Bollinger County
road gravel was boulder-sized, the rocks undoubtedly mined from a local creek.
Deep puddles littered the road and there were too many potholes to count.

Her initial mutterings of displeasure turned to
cussing when she heard loud pings and splats from the mud attacking the low-slung
Camaro. She hadn’t realized how close to the road surface her car traveled,
especially now that she was inching over a rough gravel road like this one. She
and Randolph had always driven the four-wheel drive Artmobile on previous
visits to Billy Dan’s.

She was driving so slowly that the speedometer
didn’t register, going just fast enough to avoid stalling. Not wanting to ride
the clutch, she eased the Camaro forward a little faster. “Sweet mother of
God,” she mumbled. “I’ll definitely have to wash the car tomorrow.”

She prayed that Cami would only need a bath, and not
a new oil pan. Rounding a steep curve to the left, she met a dark green truck
careening toward her. It swerved across the middle of the road, hogging not
only its side of the narrow road, but hers as well. She jerked Cami’s wheel
hard to the right to avoid colliding with him. He veered in the opposite
direction, causing him to fishtail along the edge of the road and sending a
spray of gravel skyward. She accelerated hard, managing to escape the worst of
the cascading rocks he left in his wake.

“Damn,” she cursed as some of the raining gravel
bounced off her trunk. “What an idiot.” She cringed, visualizing the damage to
the hood and paint.

In her rear-view mirror, she glared at the back of
the offending vehicle speeding away. It wasn’t a truck after all, but an SUV,
probably a Ford Explorer, she guessed.
A green SUV
. She snapped her head
around to see if she could catch the license plate number. The SUV was,
however, long gone.

Billy Dan’s driveway came into view ahead on the
right. Slowing to make the turn in, she noticed two sets of fresh deep ruts in
his driveway. From their appearance and direction, she guessed that the first
set of tracks were made by a vehicle entering, followed by another set of ruts
made when it left. That SUV had to have been at Billy Dan’s. Her stomach
knotted again and her hands grew clammy. Was someone now after Billy Dan, or
her?

Billy Dan’s house wasn’t immediately visible. He’d
built his home at least a half mile away on top of a small hill overlooking his
lake. He bragged that being well away from the road suited him perfectly. No
one could accidentally find his house. One had to be determined to visit Billy
Dan to find his house.

She took a deep breath and eased Cami up the long
driveway, dreading an expedition along an even worse path than what the county
road was. Billy Dan kept his private lane so well maintained that even after
the rain, she was grateful to discover that it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as
the county road. She exhaled a sigh of relief. The public road had already
taken its toll on Cami. She was loath to add to any more damage to her
undercarriage. If the driveway had been bad, she was prepared to stop, park
Cami, and hoof it the rest of the way to the house. The driveway was quite
smooth. Billy Dan had imported Cape County gravel for his personal lane. She
sped toward the compound at the top of the hill.

Billy Dan referred to his home site as a compound
because of the many outbuildings that were nestled close together behind his
house. A wide porch surrounded his cozy two-story, cedar-sided cabin. The wood
veranda offered a stunning view of the lake. About twenty yards behind the
house, stood a modern grey metal-sided building topped with a bright red metal
roof. The building was larger than the house. This was Billy Dan’s workshop. In
it, he also had storage for his tractor, mowers, and assorted other machinery.
He kept all of the equipment in one end, while his shop was at the other,
heated with a wood stove, and cooled by a window air conditioner.

A miniature version of the shop stood next door.
Billy Dan used this building exclusively for his fishing gear. Above the entry
door to what he called his fishing shed was a hand-lettered sign that warned, “
Non-fishermen
enter at your own risk,
” and which was illustrated with a rendering of a
largemouth bass that bore an exaggerated open mouth baring man-killing teeth.
Overlooking the buildings stood the turn of the twentieth century cattle barn—a
two story wood structure. Its tin, roof glistened in the sunlight Billy Dan
didn’t keep cattle any more, and he kept that barn as tidy as the rest of the
property.

Rhetta glanced around, marveling at how the place
was as fastidiously groomed as a state park. With the recent state funding
cutbacks, Billy Dan’s property was probably in better condition than most of
the state parks.

She jogged up the steps to the porch and rang the
doorbell. When no one answered, she rapped on the doorframe and called out,
“Billy Dan? Are you here? It’s Rhetta McCarter.” Nobody answered her. After a
third unsuccessful attempt to raise Billy Dan, she scurried down the steps.

Her mind raced. She wasn’t about to try the door.
The last time she entered someone’s home unbidden was at Peter’s apartment, and
look how well that turned out. Continuing to shout Billy Dan’s name, she
sprinted toward the outbuildings.

The workshop was closed, with no sign of activity.
The air conditioner unit, which protruded from the window next to the entry
door, was silent. In this heat, Billy Dan wouldn’t be in the shop without cool
air. She skipped that door. No sense in checking there.

The fishing shed door stood ajar. A quick inspection
revealed only shelves of neatly organized fishing tackle. No Billy Dan.

After a search around the barn, she was again
disappointed. There was no sight of Billy Dan anywhere. Images of Peter’s body
drifted in unbidden. She shook her head to chase the memory off. This was
different. Billy Dan wouldn’t be lying dead inside his house. She couldn’t be
having that bad a day. He had to be out somewhere on the grounds or at the
lake.

She turned back to investigate the shop. She’d try
to get a peek inside. If the Kubota tractor was gone, Billy Dan could be out in
the fields mowing, although she doubted that he would mow immediately after a
hard rain. The ground was much too muddy. She paused to listen for a tractor
that might be chugging nearby. She heard nothing but the eerie calm that
descends after a violent storm. There wasn’t even any birdsong, as though the
birds weren’t sure they could come out from wherever they’d sheltered during
the storm. The entire place was deathly quiet.

After trying both walk-through doors and the roll-up
doors to the workshop and finding them locked, she peered through a window in a
side door. There sat the big Kubota parked next to a grader blade, a finish
mower, and two or three riding mowers. She craned sideways and spotted a four-wheeler
and several small wagons.

Billy Dan definitely wasn’t mowing.

She turned away from the building and gazed up at
the house, then fixed her eyes on the lake. She remembered his voicemail
message that if he didn’t answer the phone, he was fishing. She stared at the
water. Around her, the trees were still; no wind rustled the leaves. No
crickets or tree frogs sang. She shouted once again, but only half-heartedly.
She wanted to turn and leave. Billy Dan was nowhere on the property, of that
she was sure. Unless he was in the house, hurt or….

Rhetta shook the unfinished thought away, afraid of
thinking the worst. Then she gathered herself together, remembering the reason
she came here. She swallowed hard and turned toward the house. She’d try every
door. If she found one unlocked, she’d go in. She couldn’t possibly find
another body, could she? What were the odds?

CHAPTER
35