The Winter Widow (19 page)

“Spilled my beer,” he explained. “Clumsiest bitch that ever was.”

The dog came forward, teeth bared and neck hair raised. Vic aimed a kick and Lulu dodged, made the same high-pitched cry and slunk into the kitchen.

The sudden burst of adrenaline jangled uselessly through her bloodstream, and she felt foolish. Her hand trembled as she awkwardly stuck the gun in her bag. “Are you Mr. Pollock?”

He nodded.

“I'm Chief Wren.”

He nodded again.

“I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

“Don't know what we might talk about. Come in and we'll see.”

It was unbearably hot inside. Pungent odors, like the smell of a predator's den, assaulted her nostrils. The only light in the living room came from the flicker of the television screen—a big, expensive new set. The sound was turned off. Empty beer cans surrounded a lumpy couch. Near a black vinyl recliner, one can lay on its side and beer puddled around it.

Bright light came from the kitchen. She could see a refrigerator, large and new, with black fingerprints around the handle. The dog huddled beneath the table. Vic closed the kitchen door, shutting out the bright light and the television flicker played across his face with a strobe effect on the amiable smile, hiding the small eyes in shadow.

Watch yourself, Susan. Osey'd said Vic was unfriendly. That was on a par with calling a Bengal tiger Kitty.

“Have a seat.” He nodded toward the filthy broken-down couch, which at one time might have been beige.

She perched gingerly on the edge. Three rifles were propped, butt down, in one corner; all three looked shiny new; anything that didn't look new was battered and squalid. All along she'd been operating under the premise that Daniel was shot for some specific reason, not because a psycho happened to have a rifle. Well, this man had a rifle and she wasn't so sure he wasn't a psycho. She could see him snugging the butt to a broad shoulder and squeezing the trigger with a blunt finger.

He smiled at her, the small eyes all crinkly. “Have us some beer.” Dropping into the recliner, he reached down to grab two cans from the row along one side of the chair. He popped them open; beer foamed and sloshed.

“Celebrating.” He gave her one of the dripping cans, wiped his hand on his pants and took a long swallow from the other.

The can was slimy beneath her fingers. With the heat of the room and the feral smell, the thought of taking a sip made her gag.

“Better to celebrate with someone,” he said. The animal intensity he exuded was hair-raising, but right now he was just drunk; the sloppy, I'm-so-smart kind of drunk that leads to a loose tongue.

“What are you celebrating?”

“Life is better for ol' Vic.” He laughed. “Might get better yet.”

“How could it get better?” He wasn't seeing her as a police officer, only as a woman. They don't count.

“Always on at me, clean up the place. Get her things. Refrigerator won't keep milk. Whole outside a refrigerator.” He made a sweeping gesture with the beer can, then looked at it and grinned. “Need it to keep beer.”

In the stifling-hot room, she was beginning to sweat. “And you got a new car, too?”

“Caddy. Best one they had. Never get to ride in it.”

“Who?”

“Slut. Showed her. Good riddance. Nothing left now. Plenty of nice little ol' gals around. All sweaty palms and willing when ol' Vic gets to 'em.” He popped open another can. Beer spurted and dripped on his pants.

Drunks could change moods in a flash. What was holding up Parkhurst? Just keep ol' Vic talking until he gets here. “Do you know—”

“Nobody knows. Nobody's business. Nobody's but mine. Not Lucille's. Watching. Thought I didn't know. Ol' Vic always knows. Thought she could find out. Prying eyes. Lucille had prying eyes.”

“Lucille?” she murmured.

“Rid of her. Just like Emma Lou. Won't give ol' Vic any more trouble.” He laughed; the harsh bark became a choking cough. Leaning forward, he hacked and gasped, finally cleared his throat and poured more beer down it.

“Prying eyes,” he muttered. He drank and gazed at the can. “You're not drinking,” he said with soft menace. “Beer not good enough for you?”

Her heart raced at the sudden change. He now had an alert intentness, as if he were listening, as though somewhere far back in the tangled jungle of his mind a twig had snapped. The sleeping beast lifted its head and tested for scent.

Raising the can to her mouth, she let the tepid beer touch her lips but swallowed only her own saliva, and gauged the distance to the door.

“Prying eyes. Things happen to pretty ladies with prying eyes. Look what happened to Lucille. Would you have prying eyes, pretty lady?” There was an oily intimacy in his voice.

He emptied his beer and placed the can very quietly on the floor, then smirked and rolled his shoulders. Chuckling with a little snorting rasp like a stallion, he placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “Been a long time since I had a pretty little thing like you.”

She was aware of the black hair on the back of his hands, the thick black hair on his chest, the rank smell mixed with alcohol fumes. Very slowly, she moved the can of beer to her left hand.

“We're gonna get along just fine.” His obscene smirking face leaned toward her. “Think you're too good for ol' Vic?” He snorted.

She imagined flaring nostrils and stamping hooves. Even more slowly, her right hand went toward her bag resting against her thigh.

“I like snotty ladies.” He winked. “Nothing more fun than teaching 'em to be nice. You're wanting it. Been a week since your man got himself killed. Been missing it. Don't know what kind of man ol' Dan was when it come to pleasurin' you, but no way he could compare with ol' Vic.”

Her hand slid into the bag and curled around the .38.

He lunged at her.

She threw the beer at him and drew out the gun. The full can struck his cheekbone. She jumped up, twisting to face him as he sprawled on the couch. She backed a step.

He sat up, touched fingers to the cut on his cheek and looked at the blood. “Now, that's gonna cost you. Till you'll be pleadin' with ol' Vic.”

“Just sit right there.” She held the gun in both hands and backed another step. Her foot came down on an empty can. It rolled and she fell. Her elbow hit the floor and pain rushed up her arm.

Quick as a snake, he threw himself at her and knocked her flat. She tried to roll, but his upper body, at an angle to hers, weighed heavy on her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs. He tore the gun from her fingers and with a side-hand fling, tossed it away.

She panted, trying to catch her breath.

He grinned. “That's right, pretty lady. You gonna be just fine. Ol' Vic gonna teach you some fun.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HIS grin broadened, flesh all crinkled around his eyes, his foul breath came in hard gusts against her face. A knee pinned one arm, at her side, his heavy weight crushed her chest, and his hand held her other wrist to the floor beside her head.

She lay very still, sucking air into her lungs. Goddammit, I can't move my arms. Don't panic. My legs are free. Wait. In a minute. Air.

He raised himself slightly, shifting his weight to his knees, causing agony in her arm but allowing her to pull in a welcome breath.

With his free hand, he caressed her throat, then squeezed gently. “Gonna teach you like you never knew.”

Filthy creep. Taking a breath, she drove one knee into his ribs and smacked her forehead against his nose. He grunted, released her arm and clapped her on the side of the head. Lights spun behind her eyes, sound rushed in her ears.

She drove a fist into his neck and felt a numbing sting go up her arm. He pulled his head aside.

Twisting her body, she got a knee against his ribs, smashed the heel of her hand up under his nose, then pushed with her knee in a desperate panic.

She managed to unbalance him enough to scramble free. He grabbed an ankle. She kicked with her other foot, kicked again. His grip loosened. She scooted on her rear. Bending forward, she got on hands and knees, then stood up fast.

He leered at her and came up on the balls of his feet in a gangly crouch. Light from the television flickered on his heavy face. In the kitchen, the dog barked.

Vic moved around her in a shambling circle. Relentless, like a freight train. She kept turning to face him.

The dog barked louder.

Over the grunting rasp of Vic's breathing, she heard a noise. Car? She listened, straining to hear. Vic reached for her. She slashed down at his arm and kicked his knee.

Someone pounded on the door.

Jumping to one side, she kicked hard into the back of his knee and jerked down on his shirt collar. He fell with a thud.

With a splintering crack, the front door flew open and banged against the wall. Parkhurst came in, handgun drawn.

She stared at him, breathing in short gasps. By God, the cavalry. She had never been so pleased to see him. His cold eyes stared at Vic and she got the impression of strong emotion held under tight control.

With a slight turn of his head, Parkhurst flicked his glance at her. “You damn fool—”

Vic exploded into a shambling lunge—awkward as he looked, he was cat-quick—and slammed a shoulder into Parkhurst's hip. Parkhurst flew back against the door jamb. Vic was on him in an instant. Grappling for the gun, he smashed Parkhurst's hand against the wall. The gun dropped. He planted a fist under Parkhurst's ribs; Parkhurst slumped. Then that tight control shattered and Parkhurst came boiling up, face twisted with naked fury.

“Parkhurst—”

Vic swung with both fists. Parkhurst tucked his jaw into a curled shoulder and raised a forearm. Vic hammered away at arm, elbow, and shoulder, each hit accompanied with a hard explosive
uff.
Parkhurst, in a loose crouch, dodged and sidestepped and maneuvered away from the doorway to the center of the room. He landed a blow under Vic's ear.

“Knock it off!” The television flickered light and shadows over sweaty, grimacing faces.

Vic, smile frozen on his heavy face, brought a fist up under Parkhurst's protective forearm, and Parkhurst's head flew back. He snarled and pounded right fist and left fist fast into Vic's midsection.

She edged around them, flicked on the overhead light, then knelt by the recliner and clawed through dust for her gun. Her fingers touched the wooden grip; she grabbed it and stood. Leveling it at the two grappling, grunting men, she yelled, “Freeze!”

Parkhurst ground a heel into Vic's instep and smacked an elbow up under his jaw.

“Parkhurst!” She grabbed at his arm and he brushed her away like a bothersome gnat. She staggered back and fell.

In continuous motion, he whipped a backhand across Vic's eyes, gouged a thumb in his throat and slapped, palm open, against one ear. With a grunt of effort, he jammed a fist just below Vic's belt.

Oh Jesus, Parkhurst was going to kill him. She scrambled to her feet.

Parkhurst grabbed a wrist, spun Vic around and jerked his arm high up between the shoulder blades, then ran Vic three steps into the wall. Vic's head smacked with a force that shook the house. He dropped, made one effort to get up, then sprawled, resting his cheek on the grimy floor.

Parkhurst stood over him, breathing hard, fists clenched, jaw set and eyes glazed with hatred. He turned to her. Just as volatile, just as scary as Vic. “Why the fuck didn't you wait?”

“What's the matter with you?” Half afraid of him, she crossed the room, snapped off the television set and, crossing her arms, turned to face him.

She saw him regain control. It happened in seconds, as though he pulled a shield around himself; his face smoothed into an expressionless mask, his eyes became opaque and he unclenched his fists. The only remainder of his uncontrolled fury was a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“You ever heard of unnecessary force?”

“It's the only thing he understands.”

“What he understands won't cut it. What I understand is you cannot knock around suspects.”

Parkhurst looked at her. “You sorry I showed up?”

She took a breath. No, she wasn't sorry, she'd been damn glad to see him. “That doesn't excuse your behavior.”

“Well, ma'am—
Chief
—if I promise, scout's honor, I'll never do it again, will that satisfy you?”

“This isn't a joke, Parkhurst. Assault charges against Vic could be dropped because of your actions.”

Parkhurst raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying to me, ma'am, stick to the rules?”

God damn him. She felt her face flush with anger. She took a breath. “What took you so long. Henninger's is five minutes away.”

He closed the front door, retrieved his gun, then fingered his ribs and rolled his shoulders. “I told you I was at Engle's Corner.”

“What's that?”

“Truck stop thirty miles north. I've been busy.” From an inside jacket pocket, he withdrew a search warrant and slapped it into her hand.

She studied it for a long moment; duly signed by a judge. “How'd you manage this?”

“It took a little doing. Emma Lou's parents were glad to see me. They've been worried. She always phoned every two or three weeks and they haven't heard from her. They tried to call and Vic always told them she was out somewhere, shopping, at a neighbor's. They're afraid he killed her and they jumped on filing a missing-person's. That had to go through the sheriff's department. There's a deputy right behind me.”

Parkhurst looked at Vic. “His habit of beating up on Emma Lou had her at the doctor's office a few times, once in the hospital. And we managed to find one woman willing to swear she heard Vic threaten Emma Lou.”

Vic stirred, thrashed around and got himself into a sitting position. He shook his head, then shook it again. “Like to broke my eardrum. Can't hear nothing but fizz.”