On the Run (4 page)
I listened, straining my ears for any sound of activity beyond the gate. Nothing at first, and then something soft and faint, not quite identifiable. An odd thrumming sound.
Drumming? No. The noise was too irregular, and it wasn’t deep enough for a big drum, not
rat-a-tat-tat
enough for a smaller one. Definitely not a foot-tapping musical beat. Some peculiar “movie people” thing?
Whatever the activity was, in spite of a well-developed “mutant curiosity gene,” as a friend calls it, I was not inclined to wander in and interrupt. The place felt . . . what? Not exactly scary. But if this were a movie, now is when the sinister music would start.
Not everything that first looks like opportunity comes from the Lord, I reminded myself.
Yet I was disappointed. Parking the motor home here at the Northcutts’ while working for them would mean not having to pay rent at an RV park, which would be a big help financially. And in spite of the slightly creepy ambiance, which was probably the product of my own imagination, the place was nicely secluded. Not a spot where the Braxtons could likely sneak up on me.
Then the indistinct thrumming stopped, but, oddly, the silence was suddenly more disconcerting than the peculiar sound. A hush hung in the air, poised, as if waiting for something to happen. The whish of an arrow, perhaps? I found myself fingering the whistle that always hangs on a cord around my neck. Although I had the feeling that out here I could blow my lungs out and only whatever creatures lurk in deep, dark woods would hear.
Enough. I turned back from the gate. I was heading back to Dulcy.
Yet Margaret Rau’s words echoed back at me:
“Don’t let
them weird you out.”
The phrase had meaning now, because I was definitely getting weirded out, and that annoyed me. I don’t like quitting without making a better try than this. That stubborn curiosity gene wasn’t totally inactivated yet.
Okay, the situation was a little offbeat, I granted. Locked gate, hostile sign, strange thrumming sound, woods dense enough to conceal an army of guys with shaved heads and strange tattoos, uneasy silence. But it surely wasn’t
weird
, and no one had leaped out with crossbow or any other weapon to run me off.
There might be a job waiting here, a job that could put me in an ideal spot to evade the Braxtons.
Determinedly I headed for the fence. I was going in.
I crawled through the fence and walked down the gravel driveway, briskly deleting the headlines trying to banner across my mind: “Deserted Motor Home Found on Isolated Road. Owner Vanished. Foul Play Suspected.” (“If only the cat could talk,” mourns neighbor.)
Except there didn’t appear to be any neighbors available for mourning or anything else.
I kept to the center of the narrow gravel road, arms hugging my sides, trying to stay as far as possible from the walls of dense trees and brush crowding in on either side. I bolstered my nerves by humming a cheerful old cowboy song about “those Oklahoma hills.” Although I doubted the cowboy had the Northcutts’ darkly forested hills in mind.
I saw the house as soon as I rounded a bend in the green tunnel. It stood in a good-sized clearing, its size and rustic log construction impressive even though the building was probably only half the size it had once been as a hunting lodge. It was stubby on one end, where the burned portion had been hacked off and replaced with a two-story wall. A tall, many-armed TV antenna and a massive stone chimney topped a sloping, dark green metal roof, and a railed deck ran all the way along the front of the building. A huge bell hung from a high metal arch over the sidewalk leading to the front door.
The old place should have felt warm and welcoming. All those wonderful old logs silvered by age and weather, the railing inviting the propped feet of family and friends relaxing on the deck. That huge chimney hinting at a winter fire roaring companionably within.
Yet instead of having welcoming warmth, the house felt cold and forbidding, brooding even in bright sunlight. A low wall of stone and weathered concrete extended from the hacked-off end of the building, apparently the foundation of the portion that had been burned. The enclosed area might have been made into a lovely garden of grass and flowers, but it held only weedy mounds of dirt and a stack of debris left over from the burn.
Windows in the two-story section of the house next to the burned area were aluminum framed, no doubt a practical modernization, but the bare metal made a jarring contrast to the rustic logs. An open shed divided into three parking slots stood to one side, one of the spaces occupied by a squat, flat-topped Hummer painted in camouflage colors.
I saw nothing in particular to raise the hackles on the back of my neck, but rise they did. I clutched the whistle.
Then, with embarrassment, I realized I’d been standing there staring for several minutes. If the Northcutts were watching, my actions were probably not working in favor of employment. I gave my hair a quick finger pat and strode briskly toward the oversized front door. Although, as I approached it, I realized that unless the Northcutts were peering out an upstairs window, they couldn’t have seen me. Heavy drapes shielded the windows all along the one-story, front section of the house.
A knocker made from a horseshoe hung in the middle of the door, a doorbell beside the door. I chose the doorbell and heard a no-nonsense buzzing inside when I pushed it.
No one came to the door. So maybe they were in a part of the house where they couldn’t hear the bell. I used the metal knocker, taking an example from Margaret Rau and pounding energetically. Still no answer.
That faint, soft thrumming started again, this time punctuated by a few short, odd grunts. Now I could tell that the curious sounds were coming from around back of the house. I considered going out there, but I didn’t want to walk in on something odd. Who knew what the Northcutts were doing? Maybe some bizarre ritual to ward off shark attack?
I dug a scratch pad out of my purse and wrote a message saying I had come about the job and would be back tomorrow. Or, if they came into Dulcy, I’d be in the motor home with Arkansas license plates parked there somewhere. I figured, given what I’d seen of Dulcy, they’d have no trouble finding me. I tucked the note under the horseshoe knocker.
I didn’t mean to try the doorknob. Honestly I didn’t. I just kind of stumbled as I was putting the note in place and grabbed the knob for support. The door was locked, of course. But at the same time I heard something inside. Not an identifiable sound, just . . . something.
Which seemed odd. If whoever was inside could react to the sound of my hand on the doorknob, surely they could have heard the doorbell and my pounding. Or perhaps they simply chose not to respond?
Then I heard another noise, and this one was definitely identifiable: the ringing of a telephone. It went on and on, at least a dozen rings. Apparently the Northcutts did not believe in answering machines.
The ringing phone definitely proved it, I decided. Even if I’d heard something inside the house, the Northcutts were not at home.
I was back in Dulcy shortly after noon. Around a bend from the Lariat, I found the main part of town. What there was of it. More out of curiosity than need I went into the one grocery store, Gus’s Groceries, and bought cottage cheese, cat food, and a couple of oranges. The store was no supermarket, but it had adequate meat, dairy, and produce sections. Next door was a tiny beauty salon.
Dulcy had no sidewalks, but I wandered dusty paths along the road to the post office, a gas station, and a combination pizza parlor and video rental place. Jerry’s Parts and Repairs had a sign announcing their expertise in off-road vehicles, and an antique shop exhibited dusty-looking dolls in one window and secondhand rakes and pitchforks in another. One long, fairly new-looking building held a tax-preparer/accountant’s office and a real estate office. Two empty sections were optimistically labeled “Available Now!” A modest motel had four cars in the parking lot and a lit Vacancy sign. Another sign identified an old-fashioned school building with a bell tower as Dulcy Elementary. There didn’t appear to be a high school. A fence separated the small, white church Margaret had mentioned from the pasture surrounding it.
I drove back to the Dulcy Farm Supply intending to park there again for the night, but at the last minute I circled through the parking lot and didn’t stay. The store had several customers, but I was aware now that it was isolated from the rest of town. I’d been fine there last night, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that a murder had recently been committed in the area. I’d also felt a little edgy ever since my visit to the Northcutt place, so now I drove on to a big truck-parking area across from the Lariat.
In fact, by evening I was strongly considering
not
driving out to the Northcutts’ again the following day, maybe just heading on to Texas.
“Well, we’ll decide in the morning, okay?” I said to Koop.
Koop, a most congenial traveling companion, offered no comments.
I watched a half hour of fuzzy TV on the small set that operated off the motor home’s battery and was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth but not yet in pajamas, when someone knocked on the door. Both Koop and I jumped. Who would knock at this hour? The weird Northcutts? Prowling Braxtons? Local killer?
I was tempted not to answer, but the thought occurred to me that it could be an annoyed property owner warning me that RVs were not allowed to park here overnight, maybe threatening to send the sheriff or somebody if I didn’t move. I cautiously nudged the curtain at the window beside the door so I could see out. The tall, jeans-clad female figure standing there reassured me. Margaret Rau, no doubt checking to see if I’d gotten the job.
I quickly unlocked the door.
I stared at the woman standing in the oblong of light cast by the open door. Tall and lean, yes. Also clad in jeans. But all similarity to Margaret ended there.
My first shocked impression was “punk rocker.” Young. Short hair standing in rough blond spikes all over her head. Garish black and blue makeup around her eyes and a blotch of purplish blush on one cheek. One lurid red earring. But what in the world would a punk rocker be doing here in—
I blinked, and my perspective jumped.
Not garish eye makeup. Not purple blush. Two black eyes and bruises! Plus a swollen nose, a raw scrape on her cheek, and others on her forehead and jaw. And that was no red earring; it was a scab of dried blood. She was also standing with most of her weight on one long leg, as if there might be other bruises and injuries, maybe worse ones, that couldn’t be seen.
“I’m sorry to bother you but. . . .” She glanced around as if thinking something might rise up out of the shadows and grab her. A truck had stopped at the edge of the road.
“Child, what happened to you?” I gasped.
“I’m okay. Just a little accident.”
Little
accident? Her face looked as if she’d tangled with a concrete wall and a meat grinder. But there was a defiance in her tone, as if daring me to make something of the claim of a “little” accident.
“You’re hurt! We’ll get you to a doctor—”
“I don’t need a doctor. Just . . . Could you pretend you know me, please?”
I had an instant flash about crimes that started this way. The supposedly injured person on the roadway who rises up and robs or murders the Good Samaritan who stops to help. The innocent-looking young woman in cahoots with a gun-toting cohort hiding in wait to strike.
I hesitated.
Lord?
The young woman’s tall figure swayed and her eyes rolled, and she reached out to the motor home to steady herself. I didn’t hesitate any longer. I grabbed her hand and pulled her up the single step to the doorway. Inside the small motor home, she towered over me, at least five foot ten, maybe more, to my five foot one. I pushed her to the sofa and locked the door again. Then I went to the refrigerator and poured a Styrofoam cup of water from the jug I keep in there. She looked as if she needed something.
She drained the cup thirstily, then sat there with cup and hands tucked between her knees. I had the feeling she was embarrassed at having asked for help. Koop jumped up to check her out. She stroked his back in an absentminded way, and I could tell she had a nice familiarity with cats.
“Do you live around here? Can I take you to family or someone?”
She shook her head, then winced as if the movement hurt.
“Do you have other injuries?”
“I’m okay.”
“I’ll get some ointment for the scrapes.” I’d spotted another raw place on the back of her hand. “Where was this accident?”
She made a vague gesture in the direction of Texas, which took in a lot of territory. I squeezed a dab of ointment on her cheek. I didn’t think it stung, but she jerked back as if just the touch alarmed her.
“A car accident?” I prodded when she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.
“Yeah.”
“How did you get here?”
“Walked some.” She sounded wary, on guard in spite of an obvious physical exhaustion. “Hitchhiked some.”
I refrained from offering a sermon on the dangers of a young woman hitchhiking or walking the roads. “Was anyone else hurt?”
