Saltar's Point (16 page)

“Jesus Abby, you’re burning up. Are you okay?”

She was soaked in perspiration and in her haste to get back to the bedroom she hadn’t had time to come up with an excuse for her current condition.

“You feel like you’ve got a fever.”

He was extending her an olive branch and Abby seized on it immediately. “I theenk I’m sih.”

Darrow reached around and felt her forehead, coating his palm in perspiration.

“You’re drenched in sweat. We better get you in bed.” He wheeled her across the room and hoisted her from the chair, setting her down softly and pulling the sheets up around her. He had the burning look of anger in his eyes but Abby was relieved to see that it was fading into concern. Whatever he was pissed about was not directed at her. She glanced down at his jeans and her eyes went wide with horror. They were covered in blood. He noticed her staring.

“Don’t worry about that, I hit a deer on the way home and had to move it off the road.” He was lying she knew. “I’m going to get you some water and a couple of Tylenol. You going to be okay for a while?”

Abby barely found the strength to nod.

SIXTEEN

The note read:

Sorry babe had to run. Juice in the fridge cereal in the cupboard.

Checked on Aiden, he was sleeping fine. Call you later. Love you.

-R

It wasn’t the first time Ellie had woken up alone with a note on the nightstand, but it was the only time she ever felt good about it. Randall was a busy man she knew, but he always took the time to make sure she didn’t worry about things a woman shouldn’t have to. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her feet touched the cold floor. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and then stretched her arms to the heavens as she let in a gaping yawn, feeling the intake of air in her lungs as they rushed the rousing oxygen to her brain. She had popped three Valiums to wind herself down before bed and they had done a number on her. She glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty, the day was half over. Randall had most likely left hours ago, and she hadn’t heard a peep from Aiden. He never slept this late and she was worried about what he might be up to, she called out from the bedside.

“Aiden honey. Where are you?”

“In here.” Aiden hadn’t quite mastered his R’s yet and it came out -
in he-oar
.

His voice was coming from the kitchen. She felt motherly relief as she always did upon hearing Aiden for the first time each day, knowing now for certain that he was all right. She pulled her duffle bag out from beneath the bed and located her pillbox. She opened the plastic lid marked Saturday and dumped its contents into the palm of her hand. Here’s looking at another day. The pills went down hard, scratching her throat. She did her best not to cough. When she was capable she found her voice.

“You’re not making a mess in there are you?”

“No.” He said it with definitive authority.

He was too sure of himself, Ellie thought. She rose from the bed and traversed the floor crossing the threshold to the living room. It was empty, as she had expected. He was in the kitchen all right. She sighed as she glanced about; a half eaten bowl of popcorn sat in the middle of the floor among several rogue kernels that had sprung from their Pyrex prison and managed to grind their way into the carpet fiber. Empty Diet Coke cans surrounded the perimeter of the room like sentries at their posts. They had had their own three-person slumber party last night, downing snacks and soda while they watched movie after movie. Ellie had retired around one A.M. after her three movie limit had been exceeded, but Randall and Aiden had stayed up to watch 101 Dalmatians (Aiden’s favorite) for the second time. She had tried to talk them both into going to bed but they wouldn’t hear of it. Finally she relented, not wanting to play the bad guy to Randall’s hero. She could hear them giggling and laughing from the bedroom as they had another one of their patented popcorn fights. In the dark of the room she fell asleep with a smile on her face, feeling content and secure. And yes even at home in Randall’s house.

A banging sound from the kitchen dissipated last night’s memory.

“Aiden what are you doing in there?”

“Making breakfast.”

Oh boy this could be ugly. She folded the blanket that was strewn over the back of the couch and placed it neatly on the armrest, then collecting as many empty soda cans as she could, headed for the kitchen. Aiden had quite a production going. Several cereal boxes adorned the table. He had found a large mixing bowl under the sink and had managed to concoct a sinister combination of Cap’n Crunch, Cocoa-Puffs, and Lucky Charms. The gallon of milk sat half empty, its contents dispersed evenly between the mixing bowl and along the table top, forming a slow moving white stream that threatened to turn the table edge into a cascading waterfall. She emptied the soda cans into the trashcan under the sink and quickly pulled a dishcloth from the nearest kitchen drawer mopping up the milk before it had a chance to spill on the floor.

“My goodness Aiden, couldn’t you wait until I got up to fix your breakfast?"

Aiden put a spoonful of sugary cereal in his mouth, chewing and talking at the same time. “No, you slept a long time.”

“Don’t talk with your mouthful. And what is this junk you’re eating? Where are the bran flakes I bought?”

Aiden continued chewing, working the cereal into a pasty mush and swallowing before answering his mother. “Randall says that stuff will make you poop rocks.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and drummed the fingers of her right hand against her forearm. “Oh he does, does he?” Aiden nodded. “And he bought all this cereal for you?”

Another nod and then a somber look followed. “I wasn’t supposed to tell. You’re not mad are you?”

“No honey, not at you.”

There was a moment of silence. “Mom.”

“Yes sweetie.”

“Go easy on Randall, ‘kay?”

She tried to stifle her laughter. “Okay Aiden, maybe just this once.”

He put another large spoonful of cereal in his mouth, grinning ear to ear. “Thanks Mom.”

“It’s an eighty-five inch tire, and the vehicle has an alignment problem.”

“How the hell can you tell that?”

Randall squinted at the impression trying to see what Wooding was talking about. He was inside the Jefferson County “Crime Lab” as the detectives like to call it, peering at two nearly identical eight-foot long plaster casts lying side by side on a metal table.

“Look here.” Wooding pointed to the plaster cast with the well-chewed cap on his pen. “You can tell by the wear on the tread. It wears down fastest on the outside. See this first tread, this is the outside of the left front tire.”

Randall stared at the zigzag pattern trying to decipher meaning from the cryptic manmade fossil. “Here you can see where the tread is almost worn smooth, not so with the right side.” He pointed to the opposite cast. “That tells us the vehicle has a tendency to pull to the left and that the tires were never rotated. Look here, see where the tread is interrupted?” Randall followed the pen cap to a slight vertical line the size of a grain of rice, dissecting the tread. “The tire is marred here, a superficial cut probably inflicted from something sharp like a piece of metal or a jagged rock. The mark repeats itself here.” Wooding pointed again to a similar mark on the other end of the cast. “If we measure the distance between these two marks we get…” He placed his tape measure alongside of the cast, Randall bent over for a closer look.

“Eighty-five inches.” Randall said.

“Exactly.”

Wooding released the end of the tape, letting it zip back into the tape measure with a snapping crack. Peterson sat on the opposite edge of the table, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, content to let his protégé explain the trivialities to the untrained sheriff. Wooding continued.

“That’s a pretty big tire and it doesn’t come stock on most vehicles, except for a few large work trucks and a pre 1990 Ford Econoline van. We have a hunch that if we can get some tread impressions from our friend Mr. Darrow’s van we might find that they correspond to the ones we have here.” “He tapped the table top with his pen.

“I’m afraid you won’t.” Randall quipped, happy to add his own expertise to the case at hand.

“Why do you say that?”

“He changed the tires.” He peered at the detectives; they sat silently awaiting him to continue. “When we questioned Darrow the other day I took a gander at his van as we were leaving. Normally I wouldn’t notice a set of new tires, but that thing is such a piece of shit that they jumped right out at me. Now, judging from your well worn tire tread, I would say that those tracks were made by some pretty old tires, and assuming Darrow’s van did leave these tracks,” he tapped the table with his fingers and took a sip of his own coffee. “He changed the tires.”

“Sonofa bitch!” Peterson spoke for the first time. “Nevertheless, I want that van brought in and impounded so we can get a print of those treads. We can still look for alignment problems, make sure we’re not barking up the wrong tree.”

“We can’t just impound his van on a hunch Jeremy.” Peterson stared down his partner, not happy with his steadfast adherence to proper procedure. “It won’t hold up in court, and you know it.”

“What if I were to arrest him?” Randall interjected.

Peterson’s gaze shifted to him. “For what?”

“DUI. Word about town is, Darrow likes to toss back a few cold ones. Now if one of you two pulled him over it might tip him off that we’re looking at him as our prime suspect, but if I do it he won’t have a clue.”

“What are you going to do, follow him all over town waiting for him to crack open a pop top?”

“No, but my girlfriend’s grandfather runs the only bar in Saltar’s Point, and I’m sure he’d be happy to give me a call and let me know when Darrow’s been boozing it up. Then all I have to do is wait alongside the main road of his house and…”

“Pull him over.” Wooding said.

“Exactly.” Randall took another sip of coffee, smiling as he did so.

He pulled into the driveway, surprised to see Denny’s cruiser parked out front. When he opened the front door he was greeted by an overenthusiastic Chubs. He bounded over to him and put his paws up on Randall’s lap before galloping away and ripping circles around the living room couch.

“Awe come on Denny! Not in the house. You know I don’t like dogs in my house.”

Denny and Ellie sat on the couch in the middle of the racing Chubs, sipping diet Cokes and suppressing their smiles to the best of their abilities. Aiden chased Chubs around the couch and coffee table, dropping to all fours to crawl after him when he darted underneath Randall’s desk. The shrill pitch of his laughter was ear piercing. Randall tossed his coat on the rack. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to send Denny home, but how in the world could he end the fun they were having?

“Someone toss me a cold one, and not one of those Diet Cokes either.” He ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, hoping he hadn’t dislodged any of his precious remaining hair.

“I’ll get you one.” Ellie said and left for the kitchen.

Randall ambled over to the couch and plopped down beside his friend. Etched lines of concern surrounded Denny’s face.

“Christ Randall you look like shit.”

“Who are you, Don frickin’ Rickles? Tossing around insults like horseshoes.”

“Seriously, how are you holding up?”

“I’m okay buddy, exhausted but okay.”

“The case is starting to wear on you, I can tell.”

“That’s a finely honed sense of perception you have there.”

“Now who’s being insulting?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mention it.”

There was a moment of silence disrupted by Ellie’s return from the kitchen. She carried three Budweisers and set them down on the coffee table before taking a seat between them. Sensing the somber mood she attempted to enliven the conversation.

“What is this a funeral? It’s Saturday night, let’s drink a few beers and forget our meager problems for awhile.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Denny grabbed his beer and chugged a third of it with one long swallow.

Chubs came tearing around the end of the sofa and smacked his head right into the leg of the coffee table, knocking over Randall’s beer. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream. Ellie quickly took control of the situation.

“I’ll get it.” She snatched the half empty bottle of beer before it had a chance to dump the rest of its contents onto the living room rug. She handed it to Randall. “Better drink the rest of that before it foams all over the place.” She got up and headed for the kitchen to get a towel. Randall took a swig.

“That dog’s getting to be as big as a horse. He ought to be in a stable not in my living room.”

“Awe he didn’t mean anything by it did you Chubsy?” Denny grabbed the distraught dog’s head in his hands and planted a big kiss on his nose. “Did you Chubsy? No you didn’t, no you didn’t.”

Randall had to laugh despite the situation. “I swear that dog is nothing but a child substitute. When are you and Laura going to pop out some real kids?”

“All in good time my friend.”

Ellie returned from the kitchen once again and began to mop up the beer. Denny looked over at her.

“So when are you going to make an honest man out of Sheriff Randall here?”

It was meant half in jest but Ellie’s look turned serious. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask the man himself.”

“Whoa, slow down guys. I think I need another beer.”

“Well I’ll let you two think about it.”

“Leaving so soon?” Ellie inquired.

“Yeah, Laura’s making dinner and if I don’t get to it there’ll be hell to pay.” He stood up and made for the front door. “Come on Chubs, time to go.”

Aiden looked up with distress, he had been busy wrestling around with Chubs on the living room floor. “No, don’t go yet.”

“Sorry kiddo, I don’t have a choice.”

“Can Chubs spend the night then.”

“Well you’ll have to ask Randall about that.”

His face turned white. “Oh no, don’t you put me in this spot.”