Evil All Along, page 14
part #8 of The Last Picks Series
Which was how I found myself on the porch, knocking on the front door and praying I didn’t Big-Bad-Wolf Mrs. Knight’s dad’s place. (They seriously needed to come up with a better name for it. Like Huckleberry Cottage. Only not that, because that name was cute, and I came up with it.)
The squeak of a floorboard came from inside the house. Then silence for several long seconds. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Certain inconvenient facts began to present themselves: a killer was still loose; someone had tried to kill me (or Keme, or both of us) the night before; I was standing on the porch of someone who might very well be said killer, without any convenient neighbors or passersby to act as witnesses; and nobody in the world knew where I was except Millie, who had once forgotten to go to work because she was chasing her chickens. (It was not a euphemism. Also, it was not a great four weeks when Millie decided she wanted to have chickens.) I was easing my weight back, considering a quick return to the road, the Pilot, and the safety of civilization, when the door swung open.
A man stood there, staring at me. He was a bull-necked Latino guy, his salt-and-pepper hair faded on the sides and combed straight back. His dark eyes made me think of the way Bobby looked sometimes. Like a cop. He carried himself the way some of those guys did too, like their shoulders were too big for their bodies, and they were hoping you’d get in their way. He wasn’t dressed in uniform (a tiny voice in my head said, Duh); he wore jeans, a tee with a logo I didn’t recognize, and a lightweight jacket. Southern California, I reminded myself. I wondered if his toes had frozen off yet.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Are you Woody Vance?”
He didn’t move, but something about him changed: a hardening of his expression, although it had already been fairly hard to begin with.
“I thought so,” I said. “My name is Dash Dane. I need to talk to you.”
“Who are you?”
“Dash—”
“No. Are you a deputy? State law enforcement?”
“No, but—”
“Then I don’t have to talk to you.”
As he started to shut the door, I blurted, “I think Channelle was stealing people’s rent money.”
It hadn’t been a conscious decision—nothing even remotely close to a plan. But people liked to talk, um, crap about their exes, and if this guy really was Woody Vance, and if Channelle Haskins had, at one point, been Channelle Vance, then maybe he’d want to talk crap about her. Of course, if Vance was her maiden name, and she was his sister, maybe he’d be less thrilled about my theory.
Woody stopped. He gave me another, more assessing look. Then he said, “That sounds like Channelle.”
Trying not to exhale in relief (or not too loudly, anyway), I managed to say, “I was hoping you could tell me about her. Anything you think might help. See, the sheriff believes my friend might have been involved, but he wasn’t.”
“If he wasn’t, then the best thing you can do is hire him a decent lawyer, keep your mouths shut, and wait for this to sort itself out. Have a good day, Mr. Dane.” He started to shut the door again.
“What did you mean when you said that sounded like her? Did Channelle steal from people when she lived in California?”
Woody stopped again. His cheeks darkened, but his voice was even—almost amused—when he said, “You could say that.”
“You were married, weren’t you? I know her name used to be Vance.”
Out in the trees, something moved. A branch bent, dipped. Then it sprang back up again, tiny pearls of water flying from the needles. They fell soundlessly into the brush.
Woody nodded.
“You heard what happened to her?”
He nodded again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Mr. Dash, I can’t help you. I came up here to get my wife to finalize our divorce. She’s dead now. That means I’m going home. I don’t know anything about what happened to her. Frankly, I don’t care. This may make me sound like a bit of a meanie—” (He might have used a different word than meanie.) “—but I’m glad she’s gone. I’m going back home, and I’m going to get on with my life.”
The little writer part of my brain pinged, and a sign lit up that said MOTIVE, but all I said was “Is there anything you can tell me about her? I mean, did she tell you anything about her life here? Or maybe you can help me understand her better.”
“Sure, I can help you understand her. She was a selfish, spoiled child. I met her on a call-out; her dad was trying to knock out her mom’s teeth one by one. She was seventeen when she moved in with me. I didn’t know that at the time; she lied to me right up until her eighteenth birthday, and then she told me we were getting married. She wanted out of her dad’s house, you see. And the other thing about Channelle? She didn’t want to work, but she liked to spend. I gave her a budget, told her that was the end of the discussion, and you know what happened? Credit cards in my name. My cash going missing. Then, one day, I came home, and she was gone, along with—” He cut himself off; from the look on his face, it was a struggle. “That was the last time I saw her. Then I found out she was living up here. Fine. All I wanted was a divorce.”
“That’s why you went to the RV park’s office. That’s what you and JT argued about.”
“I tried to tell him who he was dealing with. He didn’t want to listen.” A struggle played itself out in his body: his hand opening and closing around the door, his lips pressed tight. The words broke from him. “As soon as I saw him, I knew. Another old man.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Somebody with stability, security. Somebody she could wrap around her finger.” Woody blinked, and then he narrowed his eyes. He swung the door back and forth. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “I think we’re done here.”
“Her necklace is missing.”
Woody didn’t say anything, but he didn’t slam the door.
“It has a heart-shaped sapphire,” I said. “It’s part of a set. Someone took it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone broke into the RV park’s office. And someone broke into Channelle’s motel room. And someone has a necklace that belonged to Channelle. So, if you wanted to talk to me about what you’re really doing in town, explain what’s been going on, help me understand—that’s great. And if not, well, I guess the sheriff will be by with a warrant.”
Woody opened the door. It hit the wall with a soft thud, and he planted one hand on it, pinning it there. He was bigger than I’d realized—or he seemed bigger in that moment, like he filled the doorway. When he stepped out onto the porch, I took a step back. My heel came down on thin air, and for a moment, I wobbled and almost fell. Woody moved forward again.
I told myself to stand my ground.
But he kept coming.
And I stepped back again.
I tried to take into account the step down. It wasn’t far, and I was moderately coordinated. (Ignore the sound of Keme laughing in the background.)
Then Woody shoved me. The movement wasn’t fast. It wasn’t sneaky. I tried to twist away, but the heel of his hand struck me just above the solar plexus, hard enough to send me stumbling backward into a fall.
I landed on my butt, and as my brain was still processing the jolt, Woody closed the gap between us. He planted one big boot on my chest and bore down—not quite a kick, but hard enough that the rubber treads bit into my skin through my hoodie. He forced me onto my back. The pressure of his boot on my chest increased until discomfort became pain. My ribs creaked. It was hard to draw a breath. I grabbed his ankle and tried to force his foot away, but it was like trying to uproot a tree with my bare hands. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. The pressure on my chest increased more. Black spots swung in my vision.
And then he lifted his foot.
I sucked in air. The black spots thickened as blood pounded in my ears. I tried to flop over, tried to squirm away, but Woody crouched next to me and grabbed me by the hair. My vision was still clearing when I realized he was holding something in front of me. His phone.
On the screen was a picture. A photo. It showed a staircase and a couple—a man and a woman. They were kissing. A bright red door showed in the background, and I recognized the Bay Bridge Suites. I recognized the people too. The woman was Channelle, of course. And the man was Foster—September’s live-in waste-of-space.
“I’m showing you this so you’ll leave me alone,” Woody said. He shook my head by the hair, and tears sprang into my eyes. His tone was so cool it was almost uninterested. “Threaten me again, and I’ll kill you.”
Chapter 14
After Woody went back inside, I picked myself up and, somehow, made it back to the Pilot.
For a while, I sat there, my chest aching, my scalp throbbing. Drive, I told myself. But I didn’t. I sat there with my eyes closed, breathing short, shallow breaths, my whole face hot. When I opened my eyes again, I gave myself a once over. A muddy boot print showed on my jacket and, where it had hung open, on my hoodie. Another patch of mud was drying on my cheek from when I’d tried to roll away from Woody. More mud on the back of my neck. A few pieces of straw-like grass in my hair. Red eyes. Well, pink really. I gave myself a few experimental pokes. I drew deep breaths. I didn’t think I had any broken ribs.
Part of me wanted to drive back to Hemlock House. Part of me wanted to take a hot bath and stay there until either: a) I dissolved, or b) Bobby came home and took care of me. (This was what Millie not-so-endearingly referred to as my “sadness baths”.) Part of me wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself and maybe—maybe!—see if I could talk Bobby into shooting Woody Vance.
But that was only part of me.
Another part of me was red hot. And that part of me kept seeing the photo of Foster at the Bay Bridge Suites, kissing Channelle outside her motel room.
I drove to the Gull’s Nest.
When I reached the RV park, it looked different from the last visit. Awnings had been rolled up and put away. Hammocks had been taken down. Tarps covered lawn furniture and grills. The wind raked my hair and pulled on my jacket; the tarps billowed like parachutes, and the tie-downs snapped and thrummed. In the tiny, sad marina, the boats were battened down, bobbing anxiously in the water. Everywhere I looked, the park was hunkered down, waiting. It felt strangely apocalyptic. I wished I had a flame-thrower.
I stopped at a spigot outside the park office and washed my face. The water was freezing, and it had a faintly metallic odor. I decided to consider it bracing; that seemed like something Will Gower would say. I felt better once I’d washed off the mud and picked the grass out of my hair. I gave the park office a quick glance. Police tape warned me off, and a chain held the front door shut. I could see where the jamb had splintered when someone had forced it—just like at the Bay Bridge Suites. When I glanced in through the windows, the interior was dark, but I could make out the signs of a frenzied search: a drawer stood on end; papers made a ski trail across the floor; a lamp lay on the floor next to its shade, and it gave me the sensation that somebody had ripped its head off. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. Hair spikily wet, face washed out, collar damp. I looked like a million bucks that had gone through the laundry backward.
(I wasn’t sure backward made sense, but I liked it so much I kept it and decided I’d use it for Will Gower one day.)
A quick glance showed me that the office’s other doors—the garage door, and the back door—were also locked. I briefly considered trying my lock-picking skills, but then I decided against it. That wasn’t why I’d come here, and if I did want to commit some light breaking-and-entering, I’d come back later, after everyone was asleep. I couldn’t remember who, but I remembered someone telling me this place was like a fishbowl, and as I swept a gaze around me, at all the huddled RVs and campers, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes.
When I got to September’s pull-behind, a bag of trash lay next to the concrete pad, eviscerated and spilling its guts on the ground—empty bottles of Buffalo Trace and New Amsterdam, disposable vape pods, those little plastic tubs that dispensaries sold joints in, plus more depressing stuff like the flattened cardboard shells of takeout chicken wings. Raccoons, I wondered as I stepped around the garbage, or deputies?
Muddy footprints tracked across the concrete pad and up onto the camper’s single step. I followed them to the door. The piece of paper that had said COLLSON was gone now, along with whatever had been beneath it—what I suspected had been the eviction notice. Torn scraps of paper were still stuck to the fiberglass under the remaining tape. I listened, but this time, there wasn’t the muffled noise of a television. No Price is Right. The wind picked up, and wood creaked, and a few fat drops of water fell from heavy branches. It went right down the back of my jacket, and I shivered.
I knocked.
The sound rang out hollowly and then died away. It sounded like a long way off that I could hear the water lapping in the marina.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
I started to get a larcenous itch. Or maybe not larcenous, since I wasn’t going to steal anything, but definitely felonious. The lock on that camper door wasn’t anything. I wouldn’t even need my picks. I could just pop it out of the frame—
From inside came the sound of glass rolling, and then a clink-thunk as it fell and hit the floor. Someone moaned.
The image of Foster came back to me, kissing Channelle at the Bay Bridge Suites. And Foster’s cold eyes. And the way Foster had forced that pill between September’s lips. The hair on my arms did its best impersonation of a hedgehog.
Run, a sensible voice in my head said. Call Bobby. Put on a bulletproof vest.
But this was Keme’s mom.
When I tried the handle, it turned, and the door opened easily. The sound of the hinges was almost nothing—lost under another rush of wind that batted at my wet hair and rippled the pines around us. When it faded, the soft sound of breathing came out of the camper’s darkened interior. All I could make out was the layout: the sofa where Foster had been lounging on my last visit, the kitchenette, the slide-out dinette where September and I had sat.
And then my eyes fixed on a shadowy bulk that I didn’t remember. After several long seconds, I realized I was staring at a pair of feet sticking out from the dinette slide-out.
I stepped up into the camper. It rocked slightly, squeaking on its aging suspension. The noise seemed enormous, swallowing up the sound of those small breaths. The far end of the camper seemed even darker, if possible. I could barely make out the weird octagonal bunks in the bedroom; next to them, the door to the tiny bathroom was ajar. The faint, acrid bite of vomit hung in the air.
September lay on the slide-out’s bench, her head under the table. She was still breathing, but she didn’t seem to know I was there. My eyes went to the darkness behind the bathroom door. I couldn’t see anything, but I had that same sense of eyes again. A fishbowl, I thought. The world’s tiniest fishbowl. I wanted to laugh, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t.
“September,” I whispered. And then, a bit more loudly, “September. Can you hear me? It’s Dash, Keme’s friend.”
Something in her next moan sounded like acknowledgment.
“I’m going to help you sit up,” I told her. “You’re sick.”
She didn’t object, so I got hold of her arm and tugged. She was dressed in some sort of billowy, ruffled blouse and velvety trousers, with about a million necklaces that clicked and clattered as I tried to maneuver her. The whole ensemble looked like something Janet Joplin would have put together. Wait, was it Janet Joplin or Janis Joplin? And I thought maybe she wore glasses, so September lost a few points there.
Something in the camper popped.
I cut my eyes back to the darkened opening of the bathroom.
Nothing but darkness.
My heart didn’t care. My heart was galloping at about a million miles an hour.
“Up,” I whispered, and the fraying edge of my patience was clear even to me. “Sit up. September, you’ve got to sit up!”
She wasn’t exactly a rag doll, but she wasn’t doing much to help, either. She groaned. A lot. And her weight on the bench’s cushion meant that when I pulled too hard, she threatened to come sliding off the bench, cushion and all. Finally, though, I got her upright. Her eyes were open, and even in the dimly lit interior, I thought her face looked puffy from crying. She looked at me, but she didn’t seem to see me.
“September, did you take something?” I asked.
She stared out at me from behind glassy eyes. Her breath was so high in her body that it sounded like it was in her mouth.
“What did you take?” I asked. “September, I need you to talk to me.”
“You’re Keme’s friend,” she said, the words slurred.
“That’s right. We’re going to get you some help. You’re going to be okay.”
As I dug my phone out of my pocket, she said, “Keme’s such a good boy.”
“Uh huh,” I said. I placed a call to Bobby, but it rang until it went to voicemail.
What now? I could call 911. But would it be better to load her into the Pilot and drive her to the hospital myself? I mean, she was breathing, and she was conscious (kind of).
“I need to—” September’s voice dissolved into breathy confusion. “Help.” She struggled again. “Foster.”
“What about Foster? What did Foster do?”
“Foster,” she said. In the storm light filtering in through the windows, past the old aluminum mini-blinds and the vinyl clings of happy ghosts and goblins, her face still held that Disney princess beauty. And then she gripped the table and, to my total and one-hundred-percent surprise, dragged herself clear of the slide-out.
“No, wait—” I said.
“Foster,” she mumbled. She took one wobbly step. She threw out a hand and caught the three-quarters-sized fridge. One of her knees buckled, but she stayed upright and took another step. It was pure willpower, I realized, and for a moment, I saw, and I understood. The boy who refused to give up. The boy who hadn’t let anything stop him. Ever.
