Dedication - Кроха

Sam could drive only short distances because of his left leg. In Molena Point, he hadn’t driven the van at all. Best to let people think he was more crippled than he was, to garner sympathy, make folks feel sorry for him. Now, moving across the country, he did drive, though it made his leg hurt. His increasing crankiness continued to irritate Tekla.

They didn’t stop in Atlanta; she wanted to move on through, head north into Georgia’s less populated backcountry. Freeway drivers were fast and brutal, so even she got nervous. They gassed up outside Canton, moved away on a narrower road into low hills, thick pine woods, and tacky mom-and-pop farms. “Home places,” the gas attendant called them when they asked for directions, home places, with an accent that made Arnold smirk. The rain had stopped, the weather hot and humid, further souring Sam’s mood.

With a local map they checked out a couple of shabby motels back in the hills at the edge of small manmade lakes. The only motels available in that backcountry, where people went to fish. Following the crooked roads they passed truck gardens and commercial chicken farms, long rows of rusted metal buildings that stunk of burned feathers and burned, dead chickens.

They holed up in a sleazy motel north of Jasper, the hick town where juror Meredith Wilson had moved to take care of her aging father. The weather had turned even more muggy, sticky and overcast with dark clouds hanging low. Sam said it was tornado weather. He was always imagining something, some disaster that never happened. Coming across country he’d grown more and more bad tempered, critical of her and of this whole plan, whining that they were going to get caught.

Well, they hadn’t even been stopped. Couple of glances from GHP black-and-whites on the highway, but with Arnold ducked down out of sight, and with her long blond hair, they sailed right on through.

Getting caught hadn’t been Sam’s complaint earlier, right after the trial. Those first two “accidents,” he’d been pretty high, seeing Herbert vindicated. “One more payback,” he’d say. Then when she’d pulled off the first Molena Point assaults without a hitch, and then Arnold did one while she watched from the shadows, then Sam had been really excited. He’d even got a kick out of the fake attacks. “They probably deserved it, anyway,” he’d said. And all along, he hadn’t had to do one damn bit of the legwork.

But now suddenly, running from the cops, he’d decided, this late in the game, that he didn’t like the program.

It was half his idea in the first place. More than half. It had been his rage as well as her own, at the twisted law, at the self-righteous courts. It was Sam’s anger, at that lawyer and the jurors, that’s what started them planning. He said, when Herbert was committed to die, “Those twelve lackeys just signed their death sentences. No one,” Sam said, “has the right to take Herbert’s life. Every one of them will pay, and pay hard.”

It was later that he started to get shaky. Though not until they were through Texas did he really get cold feet, when that trucker slowed and ran alongside them for half a mile, looking. But by that time they’d changed license plates, and she and Arnold sat in the back, both with long blond wigs; she thought that was funny. Arnold didn’t. But it was then that Sam, glancing up at the trucker, began to really whine.

Well, to hell with him. Now they were in Georgia she wasn’t stopping, not this late in the game. Now they had a motel just where she wanted it, a place to hole up near to Meredith Wilson, and now it was her turn to pay.

A thin, nervous creature, the Wilson woman, fidgeting in the jury box looking upset every time the coroner up there on the witness stand mentioned some gory aspect of his supposedly unbiased examination—the bastard putting Herbert in the worst light. Deliberately making the weaker jurors, like Wilson, squirm with unease.

She wished she’d taken care of those other three jurors that were still in San Francisco, they’d been just as bad. Once she was done here, maybe they’d go back, see to them, too. By that time, those three would stop jumping at every shadow on the street, would have let their guard down. Meanwhile, the Wilson woman would be a pleasure to terrify before she died.

She didn’t need to stage an accident, not back in these Georgia hills. This country was full of pot farmers and no-goods, it was nothing for someone to shoot a prowler. She read the papers, she’d looked at the statistics. People got shot all the time, raped, beat up. Half those guys were never caught, were friends with enough of the deputies to accidentally escape or to wiggle around the law.

Meredith Wilson lived only half a mile up the gravel road from the shoddy motel, and that was handy. Hot, hilly country running along both sides of the valley where the narrow lake lay. Mostly summer shacks down by the water, just the one old motel. It rented fishing poles and rowboats, and when Sam kept at her, whining not to do the Wilson woman but to move on and get away, when he’d kept at her, she rented poles for him and Arnold. Bought bait from the motel keeper and sent them out to the end of the dock to fish so maybe she could have a little peace.

Sam didn’t like that the sky was so heavy and dark. She told him, there was a little wind, if he’d be patient it would blow the clouds away. Leaving them occupied, she went back to the small, muggy room, pulled the blinds, lay down on the sagging bed, thinking about the moves she still had to make. The shifting of money to a nearby state, calls from the throwaway cell phone, another motel registration, North Carolina maybe, using one of the fake driver’s licenses and fake names. She needed to pay attention to the details. Well, she was good at that.

She was dozing off when the room darkened suddenly. The wind rose howling, the blind flapped, and the window glass warped into flashes and shadows. She hurried to look out but didn’t understand what she was seeing. The air was full of flying sticks, flying boards. Two windows broke nearly in her face. The wind hit her like a freight train, the force sent her reeling away, covering her eyes. Tree limbs, furniture, pieces of wood and glass hit her as she was flung against the far wall. Behind her another window exploded and the roof was gone: she watched the whole roof lift and drop in the lake. It settled on the water, hung up on the edge of the dock. Where the roof had been, dark, roiling sky boiled down. Where she’d glimpsed Arnold racing in, pushing Sam in the wheelchair, now there was only the great slab of roof covering the dock and torn lumber and crashing wind. When she turned, the wall behind her was gone. The motel office and the line of rooms were gone, torn apart into rubble. She ran, falling and stumbling, dodging flying debris.

33

The Damens’ patio was crowded with friends gathered belatedly to welcome the wanderers home from Alaska: the Greenlaws, and Ryan’s dad and Lindsey. The walled garden echoed softly with talk and laughter. Joe, Kit, and Pan wandered among the guests begging politely. It took only a soft paw and a gentle meow to receive an offering of Brie or pâté, as their human friends, drinks in hand, waited for the main course.

But soon Joe and Pan, growing impatient, leaped to the wall beside the barbecue, closer to the broiling salmon. Below them Kit prowled restlessly, her mind on Dulcie and Wilma at home alone missing the party in their patient deference to the unborn kittens. Even Joe Grey, though he sat greedily licking his whiskers, had not liked leaving his lady.

The backyard of Clyde’s original bachelor cottage had once been a depressing expanse of dry grass and weeds that Clyde had euphemistically called the back lawn. Ryan’s description had been less endearing. Under her imaginative design, and with a good crew, she had transformed the half-dead patch into a charming and private retreat. The tall white stucco walls offered privacy from prying neighbors, and cut the sea wind. The brick paving was dappled with leafy shadows from the young maple tree she had planted, and was edged by raised planters now bright with the last of the winter cyclamens. Beneath the trellis that shaded the barbecue, hickory coals glowed where Ryan and her dad stood broiling the big salmon that Mike had split down the center and laid on foil.

Father and daughter did not resemble each other except for their green eyes. Tall, slim Mike Flannery’s sandy hair and his light and ruddy complexion spoke clearly of his Scots-Irish heritage, in contrast to Ryan’s warmer coloring and dark hair from her Latina mother, who had died of cancer when Ryan and her sisters were small. Ryan was thankful for Lindsey, for her dad’s new wife. He had remained single for so many years. Too busy to date, not wanting to date. Too occupied raising three girls, with the help of Scotty and Dallas. Lindsey’s dimpled smile and laughing hazel eyes, her fun-loving, easygoing ways, fit exactly Ryan’s view of what a stepmother should be.

Lindsey sat now with Charlie Harper and the Greenlaws at a small table, the three voyagers telling Charlie about their cruise. The same unstructured, small-boat cruise that, a few years ago, would have been Charlie and Max’s honeymoon trip. If, at the last minute, local crime hadn’t gotten in the way when someone blew up the church. Their close call minutes before the wedding still sickened Charlie. That disaster had pulled Max back into the office, unwilling to abandon his men during the continuing alerts and ensuing investigation.

With the money they hadn’t spent on their honeymoon they had remodeled the ranch house that Max had owned for years. The handsome addition was a solid and lasting gift to each other, a luxury in which to enjoy their new life. When Max isn’t chasing the bad guys, Charlie thought,working long and crazy hours.

But they had a lot to be grateful for, they were blessed, living on their comfortable acreage where they could have horses and the two big dogs, where they could ride over the open country in the evenings. She was blessed to have the time now to pursue her own career as an artist and writer. But loving Max, their close and comfortable marriage, that was way at the top of the list.

The two tomcats, waiting for supper, watched their gathered human friends, and listened, attuned to every conversation, Joe Grey keen with interest, though Pan was solemn and withdrawn, the red tabby badly missing his father. Joe watched Kit, who had only now settled on Lucinda’s lap between Charlie and Lindsey, trying hard to be still.

Kit wanted to ask Lucinda if someone should be with Dulcie and Wilma in case the kittens came, but among this crowd of human friends she could say nothing. She was always having to tell herself to be careful. It was so hard not to blurt out a question, to swallow back her words when so many urgencies railed inside her head, too compelling to not talk about.

But Dulcie’s all right. What could happen? Wilma has a phone, and John Firetti is right here at the party, he and Mary are only minutes away if the kittens come. And then she worried, How will the kittens handle their gift of speech? How will they learn that they must not speak in front of most humans? How will Dulcie impress on their young kitten minds that talking is a secret? If they do speak? If they are born with that talent, they will think it as ordinary as sharpening their claws. There’s so much Dulcie and Joe will have to teach those tiny mites. How will the new babies ever learn to keep their kitty mouths shut?

But Lindsey was saying to Charlie, “The new exhibit opens when?”

“Next week,” Charlie said. “Two landscape painters, and a woman who does wonderful birds. And my animals.” They watched Ryan leave the barbecue, pick up several empty plates from the table, and head into the kitchen.

“I’m coming to see your animal drawings,” Lindsey said. She glanced down at Kit, then looked at Lucinda and Pedric. “There’s one of your lovely tortoiseshell peering down from an oak branch that I’d like to buy.” She smiled. “If you two don’t snatch it up first. She’s so lovely,” she said, reaching to stroke Kit.

Kit gave her a sweet kitty smile and tried not to preen. But then, even with such praise, her attention turned suddenly to Max and Clyde and Scotty, sitting on the low wall of a flower bed; their serious talk, Clyde’s sudden frown, drew her curiosity; she dropped to the brick paving and padded across to listen. Hopping up into the flower bed, she stretched out among the blooms.

“I don’t like what will happen to the Bleak house,” Clyde was saying, “now that they’ve skipped. Ryan could be stuck with a big loss, though she did, after a couple of weeks of Tekla’s crazy changes, demand more money up front.”

Scotty laughed. “Tekla wasn’t keen on that.”

Max said, “Their bank account—the only account we’ve found so far—shows only forty thousand. I expect the mortgage company will attach that, and look for the rest. I’d guess there’ll be a foreclosure, maybe a short sale. If—when—we pick the Bleaks up, bring them in and prosecute, maybe the court will assign what assets they can find to help the victims or their families.”

“What I don’t get,” Scotty said, “is why they ever bought that house, why they ever started on a renovation. If they came here to . . . If their intention was these attacks, they can’t have thought they’d be staying permanently.

“Or,” he said, “did they really believe they’d get away with this, that everyone would think the assaults were some kind of prank—and that the murders themselves were unfortunate accidents? That’s insane thinking. Or,” he added, “was that remodel all for show? For distraction, to put you off the track?”

“Pretty expensive cover,” Max said, “though they’re adept at manipulating money, sliding out from under.”

Scotty shrugged. “The woman’s crazy as a drunk squirrel.” Picking up a canapé, he slipped it down to Rock, who sat watching the three men, the Weimaraner’s eager yellow eyes following each morsel from hand to mouth. Clyde gave Scotty a look; Scotty knew Rock wasn’t allowed a human diet, but sometimes the Scotsman couldn’t resist.

“Well, we’ve got a line on them,” Max said. “That sighting in Arkansas. Too bad the café owner didn’t report it sooner. He didn’t know about the BOL until a couple days later. A deputy stopped in for coffee, mentioned it and described the Bleaks.” Max scratched Rock’s ear as the dog nudged him, but he didn’t feed Rock. “They were headed toward Georgia, if they kept on in that direction.” He sipped his beer. “Maybe we’ll pick them up on the East Coast, maybe the odds will turn.” He looked up when Ryan caught his eye from the kitchen door, holding up the phone extension.

Max rose and headed for the kitchen, but moved on through toward the guest room, wanting that extension where he could hear above the party noise. The minute Joe Grey heard the guest room door close he dropped down from the wall and slipped away through the crowd. Kit, watching them both, hopped off Lucinda’s lap and followed. Pan remained on the wall, stoic and quiet.

Kit, passing the guest room’s closed door, paused to hear Max say, “She gave you this number, and not my cell phone?” His irritation told her he was talking about Evijean. She flew up the stairs as, above her on the desk, Joe Grey eased the phone from its cradle. As she landed beside him, he hugged the headset in his paws and eased it down on the blotter. They hoped Max would hear no small electronic click and no thump on the thinly padded surface. Pressing their ears close, Joe and Kit listened.