Steeled for Murder (18 page)

He frowned. “Elmer Comings? What kind of a name is that?”

I laughed.

“Sounds like some kind of a nerd who likes to get his own rocks off,” Reggie said, flipping through the passport. Several pages had stamps from border crossings. “I can’t fool around being called Elmer.”

I could hardly stop laughing enough to say, “You’ll have to figure out some kind of street name.”

“Damn straight.” Reggie examined the passport and driver’s license. “But this stuff is good.”

“Where’d Mitch get these?” I took the driver’s license. He was right. It was good.

I wondered if I should think about someday getting a driver’s license in a name that wouldn’t return an “armed and dangerous” designation as soon as it was called in. Assuming I got a license and started driving sometime, if I was ever pulled over for anything, it would be likely to end in a full-fledged felony traffic stop. Complete with drawn guns and me face down on the shoulder of the road.

On the other hand, getting caught with a fake driver’s license would cause its own problems. And the consequences for that would be long-term and a lot more serious than an uncomfortable hour or so lying in the dirt while my car was searched.

Reggie was opening his wallet. “Don’t know where he got them,” he said. “And I really don’t want to know. I know he was into this before he started with the weed. Way before the crystal meth. Some kind of a scam going with one of the supervisors at work.”

I couldn’t imagine John being involved. Or Hank, although he wasn’t really a supervisor. I didn’t know any of the other foremen. Could it be Radman? He didn’t strike me as a particularly honest guy. But he’d been nervous just with me in the office with him. Kelly had said he was into something with Mitch.

“Do the credit cards work?” I asked.

Reggie shrugged. “Who knows? But it’d be stupid to use them. If they got turned down, it’d draw attention to you. And if they did go through, sooner or later, they’d cause problems and they’d try to trace it to you. Best not to even try. Just leave ’em in the wallet. They’ll make it look more normal.”

He took his own driver’s license out along with a few other cards. He put the Elmer Comings one in along with those cards. He put the passport in his pocket.

Reggie tried to replace the bricks. His fingers fumbled.

“I’ll take care of that, dude,” I said.

“You’re a good man.” He slapped me on the shoulder. Probably harder than he’d intended. “Not too many good men in this world. And no good women.” Reggie was beginning to tear up again. He gathered up the things he’d removed from the wallet. He carried them out to the main room, opened the stove door, and chucked them in.

“Goodbye, Reggie,” he said. “Hello, Elmer. You dirty bastard.”

I couldn’t help laughing again. “When were you born, Elmer?”

Reggie looked up at me, his eyes bleary. “Good question. I better get that memorized. And the social security number. And all that other shit.”

“You better get used to answering to Elmer Comings,” I said.

Reggie nodded his head. Mistake. He caught himself just before he fell. “Soon as they plow the roads, I’m gone,” he said. Belatedly, a crafty look came into his eyes. “’Preciate it if this stays between us.”

“How do you know I’m not an undercover cop planted here to see who turns up and does what?” I asked.

Reggie’s eyes opened wide in alarm. Then he grinned through his beard. “Not to worry. No undercover cop would be caught dead changing diapers and babysitting for four kids. And even if some fool cop was willing to do it, he’d be breaking every regulation in the books. Suppose one of the kids got hurt?”

“True. An undercover cop would have called Social Services right away to get the kids.” Which is probably what I should have done.

“Yeah. And he wouldn’t be here all by himself. There’d be backup.”

“True again.” Although I could see Belkins deciding to do it. Alone, because he didn’t want anyone to interfere with what he wanted to do.

“Besides…” Reggie grinned apologetically. “Cops got a certain smell. You smell more like jailbird than cop. Can’t put my finger on it, but there you are.”

Smiling ruefully, I didn’t answer that.

Reggie had trouble doing it, but he put on his boots again. He gave up trying to tie the laces. He gathered his jacket, hat, and gloves. He stuffed two more cans of beer in his big pockets. He whistled, and Chief came bounding out of the kids’ bedroom. “He’s gonna miss those kids,” Reggie said. “Likes ‘em a lot.”

“Good luck,” I said. I meant it.

“Yeah. Gonna need it. Thanks for the supper.”

I watched him leave, wondering if Belkins and Montgomery knew about Reggie. Had I just been talking to the person responsible for Mitch’s death? No way of knowing for sure, but as drunk as he’d been, he probably would have let something slip.

One thing for sure. I had to find out a lot more about this before I fed any information about Reggie to Montgomery.

Chapter 11

My foster mother, Mrs. Coleman, used to say that one of the reasons God gave us babies was to remind us not to be a-wasting the daylight hours the Good Lord gave us. Beth was no exception. Dawning fingers of gold and pink were beginning to find their way through the smudged windows and the cracks in the curtains when she started whimpering.

A deep chill had settled into the room. I shivered in the makeshift bed I’d assembled on the floor between the playpen where Beth lay and the stove. Beth began to cry in earnest. I shook my hair out of my eyes and struggled to my feet. A bottle from the refrigerator and a clean if inexpertly applied diaper settled her down again. The fire had died back during the night. I took some kindling from the wood box and coaxed it back to life. Slipping on my boots, I stepped onto the back porch in search of more wood.

The air smelled of pine and new snow. Sunlight glittered on branches covered with pristine white ice. A bird flitted from the top of a tree and lit on a clothesline pole. I breathed deeply, letting the sharp, fresh cold fill my lungs. The only sounds I could hear were the wind in the trees and the chattering of squirrels.

If I got sent back to prison, could I stand it? Trade this for life on a crowded cell block, filled with the choking smell of unwashed bodies and disinfectant, bombarded by chaotic noise resounding off concrete floors and steel walls?

No point worrying about it. Not like I had much control over that.

I gathered an armful of firewood and carried it inside. I put a few lengths in the stove and shut the door.

The heavy towels along with my sweater and shirt I’d washed last night were still damp, but the other clothes were dry. I folded them and opened the door to the kids’ room to put them away.

The twins were sitting on the floor, pushing a bent plastic truck back and forth between them. Sam was holding a book.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “I didn’t know you were up. You were so quiet.”

“We don’t make no noise until Mom tells us it’s okay to get up.” Sam turned a page of his book. “Sometimes it’s hard. We sneak out to go pee, but otherwise, we stay in here until it’s time to get up.”

“Well, I think it’s time. I’ll see what I can find for breakfast.”

I gathered dirty clothes from the floor and started the washing machine. Then I went in search of breakfast.

A big pot of instant oatmeal with brown sugar. The milk jug was almost empty, but I found a box of powdered milk and mixed up a gallon. Not a fancy breakfast, but the kids eagerly spooned it into their mouths.

“How about the Christmas tree?” Sam scraped the last of the oatmeal from his bowl. “You said we could put it up today. We could have it ready for when Mom gets home. She’d like that.”

“Yep. You know if you got anything to put on it? Lights or something?”

“I think there’s a box of stuff in the back of the pantry,” Sam said. “I can look for it if you want.”

“After your bath,” I said.

“Ah, gee. Can’t we set up the tree first? Please?”

I looked at the grimy faces in front of me. “Everybody needs a bath.”

“Can I at least go out and see the Christmas tree now?” Sam begged.

“Yeah. See how big it is. But we’ll leave it there until after the baths.”

Sam opened the front door and went out on the porch. I started clearing the dishes to the sink.

Sam’s face was glowing when he came back in. “It’s not tall. But it’s fat. It’s gonna make a great Christmas tree.”

“Okay. Let’s get those baths going and put on clean clothes.”

While I did the breakfast dishes, Sam ran water in the tub and undressed the twins. They climbed in and splashed around. I finished the dishes and went in to see about washing hair.

The bathwater was filthy. “When did they last have baths?” I asked Sam.

He shrugged. “A while ago, I guess.”

I let out the water and ran a bit more to rinse the kids off. Then I took a bottle of shampoo and poured a little into my hand.

“Okay, guys. Chins up and shut your eyes really tight,” I said, remembering the sting of getting shampoo in my eyes when I was a kid. I rubbed it into their short brown curls, and then rinsed their heads by pouring water from a pot. They kept their eyes closed tightly and laughed as the water cascaded over their heads and down their backs.

“Okay, Sam, your turn,” I said. “You need help?”

“I can take a bath by myself,” he said indignantly.

I lifted the toddlers from the tub and shooed them into the living room. We had no clean, dry towels and the room was still chilly, but they didn’t seem to mind. The twins ran around naked and giggling until they were dry. I helped them into some of the clothes I’d washed last night.

Sam emerged from the bathroom and found himself some clean clothes. We gathered up the filthy ones the kids had been wearing and piled them next to the washing machine.

Beth needed a bath, too—I thought she’d fit nicely in the kitchen sink—but she was sleeping, and another thing I’d learned from Mrs. Coleman was never to wake a sleeping baby unless absolutely necessary.

Sam dragged a big box out of the pantry. To the twins’ delight, he began removing Christmas ornaments, strands of lights, and a tree stand.

I went out on the front porch to get the tree. Sam was right. It was short and fat—only about five foot tall and almost as big around. Reggie must have cut it yesterday. The stump oozed sap.

From the direction of the road, I heard a distant rumble. A snow plow? I looked at the driveway where it disappeared between the trees. The van wasn’t going anywhere until some of the snow was either cleared or packed way down. I wondered if Reggie were getting ready to leave and start his new life as Elmer Comings. I wondered if he’d even made it home last night, drunk as he was.

At least no one would be checking up on me and wondering where I was. I had no idea how long it would be before I could get out of here. So I might as well just kick back and make the best of it.

I shook the snow off the tree and carried it inside. Sam helped me steady it in the tree stand. We pushed it back against the wall, next to an electrical outlet and away from the stove. I draped the lights through the branches and then let the kids put the ornaments wherever they wanted. The result was a tree with decorations at waist level and below, but mostly bare above.

Sam stood back to take a look at their handiwork. “We need more stuff,” he said. “There’s empty spots.”

I thought quickly back to Christmases with the frugal Colemans. Seemed to me we made a lot of the decorations. Chains of popcorn and paper loops and foil stars and Christmas cookies. “Maybe we could make some more stuff. It is a pretty fat tree. It could use a couple more things.”

Sam looked interested. “What could we make?”

“There’s popcorn in the pantry. We can pop that. If your Mom has a sewing box with needles and thread, we could make strings of popcorn. If you cut stars out of cardboard, you can cover them with aluminum foil. They make great shiny stars. And I could look in your Mom’s cookbook. Maybe we have the stuff to make Christmas cookies. You can punch holes in them before you bake them, then put string through the holes and hang them on the tree.”

“Christmas cookies!” Sam liked that idea.

“Santa Claus,” one of the twins—Peter, I think—said.

Sam’s face fell. “I know all about Santa Claus.” He looked at me. “There’s no presents to put under the tree.”

That I couldn’t help them with.

When Beth woke up, I washed her in the kitchen sink and then sat at the table, balancing the baby and her bottle on my lap as I tried to make sense of the directions in a cookbook I’d found on the pantry shelf.

“Cream” the butter and sugar? What the hell did that mean? Could I use margarine instead of butter? “Roll the dough a quarter inch thick on a floured board. Cut out.” Hadn’t seemed like it would be too hard to make Christmas cookies. But I’d have to figure out what the directions meant. They were in English. I didn’t find that to be much help.

The twins had brought their toy cars out into the main room and were driving them along the edge of Beth’s playpen. Sam was curled up on the sofa reading his book. Seemed like a much better idea than turning on the TV.