Beyond Confusion, page 15
“Finally Lucy stuck her head in the room, so I brought her in and let her say good-bye to her grandmother. She wasn’t close to Mom, but they’d met. Mom came to Lucy’s high-school graduation.”
Rob massaged her hand. “So you had Lucy drive you to the airport?”
“Yes. We stopped in an all-night restaurant and ate breakfast and talked. I told her what had happened. I’ve always tried to be open with her.”
“It’s probably why she turned out so well.”
Meg blew her nose again. “When we left the hospital, I told the nurse on duty to let my brothers know I’d gone with my daughter. I suppose Duncan and the others think I’m at that grotty motel. And do not,” she said fiercely, “suggest that I fly back for the funeral. I will not go where my daughter isn’t welcome.”
“I think your mother would probably understand.” Rob bit his lip. “Hell, I shouldn’t have said that. I used to hate it when people tried to tell me what my father would have thought about something. They didn’t know. I don’t know. I guess I’m too tired to think.”
It was her turn to pat his hand. “It’s okay. I’m more than tired. Let’s leave the dishes.”
“I’m sorry I never met your mother, Meg.” Rob finished his drink and smiled at her. “Your turn to wash.”
Chapter 15
He turned her alarm off, and since the sound of the shower almost always woke her up, took his clothes downstairs. When he had done his morning kata, Rob climbed into the huge claw-foot tub in the downstairs bathroom and used its hand-held shower to get reasonably clean. He’d forgotten his cordless razor, so he padded upstairs barefoot, found it, and dropped a kiss on Meg’s forehead. She didn’t stir. He sneaked back down to finish dressing.
Feeling unnaturally virtuous, he did the dishes and set up the coffeepot for her when he had toasted a frozen bagel and drunk his own ritual three cups. Then he drove off to work. The snowplows and sanders had done their job. The schools were opening only an hour late.
It was after eight when he reached the courthouse annex—late for him—so he had a pile of e-mail in his office. He dealt with that first. The most annoying message was the army’s response to his urgent request for the service records of Aidan Pascoe and Harley Hoover. His inquiry was being “processed.”
Sorenson was now on nights. Rob made a note to call Jake at home later and considered phoning the brigadier in D.C. but didn’t. There was time. He was about to wander out for another coffee when his cell phone rang. Jack Redfern.
“Hey, Rob. Hear you made an arrest.”
“Yes. How are your hands?”
“Fine.” For once, Jack didn’t indulge in a series of polite questions. “Listen, Harley called me.”
“He did?” Rob froze, torn between relief and fury.
“Yeah, just now.” Jack gave a little wheezing cough. “I should’ve thought. It turns out he went to Flume, see, to his Grandmother Hoover.”
Rob said carefully, “When Madeline reported him missing, she told me she’d called Mrs. Hoover, and that Harley wasn’t there.”
“He only went to her after it started snowing heavy. He was out on a kind of spirit quest, see, only he didn’t figure on the snow, so he come in to his grandmother’s late last night.” Jack was always reluctant to talk to an outsider about Klalo customs and beliefs.
Rob tried to fill in the blanks without success. First things first. “Can you hold, Jack? I need to call off the search.”
“Sure. I’m just sitting here at the old B and B, looking at the snow. Take your time.”
Rob canceled the Missing Person bulletin for Harley Hoover, copying to Corky and the whole investigations team. He thought about sending a patrol car out to Flume at once. Instead, he left a message for Todd Welch with the desk sergeant. Todd would be coming on duty in a few minutes. Rob didn’t want anybody else taking Hoover into custody.
When Rob picked up the phone again, Jack was still there. “Tell me about Harley.”
“Head injury.”
“So Meg said. It’s a pity.” Rob waited.
“He saw some bad shit. In Iraq.”
Rob waited some more.
“I take him fishing, see. After a while on the water, he wants to talk. They’ve got a big river over in Iraq, but not as big as this one, and he don’t like deserts.” Jack wheezed. “The way I don’t like jungles.”
When Jack didn’t continue, Rob said cautiously, “Does he know the guy we arrested for torching your house?”
“Pascoe? Feels sorry for him. Harley’s real softhearted. He was a year ahead of the boy in high school, so he knew him then, and they was both in one of them light armor outfits out of Fort Lewis but not in the same unit. He says Aidan got shafted.”
“How so?”
Jack was silent a long moment. Rob heard him wheeze. “Big scandal couple of years ago. Casualties in this village outside Baghdad. Rape and murder of civilians. Sort of like My Lai. It made the TV news, you remember.”
“Vaguely.”
“When the army got around to investigating, they court-martialed everybody in sight. Captain demoted, lieutenant and a sergeant doing prison time. They dismissed the grunts who was on the patrol from the service, all of them, including Aidan. Well, he was a witness. Nobody claimed he done anything but watch, but he didn’t report the incident either.”
Incident. What a word. The information fit all too well with what Rob had heard about Aidan. What was it Beth had said, a shapeless personality? Passive and complicit. So what was Aidan doing tearing around the county on a motorcycle, vandalizing property and firebombing double-wide manufactured homes? That sounded way too active. Did showing off for the girlfriend make sense of it?
“Thanks, Jack.” Rob drew a breath. “I hope Harley’s going to be okay.”
“He will be, if you don’t toss him in the brig.”
“Why would I do that? I just need to talk to him. I’ll ask Todd to bring him in. Does Madeline want Harley to go back to Trout Farm when I finish interviewing him?”
“I guess so. I’ll have her call you. She’s with the insurance guy right now. Oh, and I spoke with Opal, too. She’s worried about the bookmobile.”
It took Rob a moment to make the connection. Opal was Mrs. Hoover, Harley’s grandmother. “What about it?”
“I’m not sure. There’s this new church out there. Church of the Ignorant Word.”
“You’re a bad man. Church of the Inerrant Word.”
“That’s the one. They don’t like the library, and that goes double for the bookmobile. They say it brings the devil into their neighborhood.”
“I have the feeling he’s already there.”
Jack laughed at Rob’s not very clever gibe, but his cackle ended in a cough. “Annie drives her rig to Flume on Tuesdays, and Opal’s oldest granddaughter—Katie Bell, you know Katie—takes her little girl to check out picture books. Only Katie’s afraid to take her to the bookmobile today. Katie told Opal those church people are planning some kind of demonstration.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No. Course it snowed a lot. Maybe Annie won’t be able to get out there this morning anyways.”
Rob thanked Jack again, they hung up, and he called Annie’s house, but Bob said she’d already left and that she had her cell phone turned off. When Todd stuck his head in the door, Rob was almost ready with instructions—and almost tempted to go along. But too much business in town demanded his presence, including the interview with Carla Jackman and a fresh talk with Aidan Pascoe. Flume was an hour north of Klalo on a narrow winding road that was subject to slides. Rob didn’t want to get trapped way out there.
~
Wendy called.
Meg had slept until almost nine. She woke refreshed, and it was not until her second cup of coffee that misery swept over her. By that time she had showered, dressed, and even phoned Pat Kohler, by default her second-in-command at the library, to say she was back.
Pat expressed condolences, and Meg thanked her, wondering how she’d heard the news. When Pat asked about the funeral, Meg lied. She mumbled something about a memorial service being held later.
The heavy weight of grief pressed down. Meg didn’t like to lie, but she liked the idea of explaining her family to an outsider even less. Pat urged her to take a day of bereavement leave, and Meg agreed, feeling will-less. She was sitting, staring into her cup, and wondering what to do with herself when Wendy phoned.
“You’ve got to warn her!”
Meg recognized the voice without joy. “Warn whom?”
“Annie!”
Meg had had more than enough of that feud. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Wendy. What Annie does or doesn’t do is not your business.”
“I’m afraid—”
“I’m afraid I’m going to hang up if you don’t come to the point.”
“They’re going to attack the bookmobile when it gets to Flume.”
Melodrama. Meg took her cup to the sink and poured the lukewarm coffee down the drain. “They. They who?”
“Members of that new church, the ones who campaigned against the levy.”
Several local churches had done that. With Marybeth’s encouragement. “And you know this how?”
“One of the women sent me an e-mail.”
“When?”
“Sunday after services. The preacher criticized the bookmobile again in his sermon. She said he was inspiring. I’m afraid,” she repeated.
“Why didn’t you warn Annie when you got the message?”
Meg listened with half an ear as Wendy babbled excuses. Given that she’d hired a lawyer, she was surprisingly open about Marybeth’s attempts to undermine the levy. They had included messages of sympathy to people who wrote to the local newspaper attacking the measure, including the minister of the Flume church. Stale news.
The news might be old, but Meg had a sudden craving for action. “If you think they’re planning some kind of protest, maybe we can defuse it. Have you tried phoning Annie this morning...oh, Flume has no cell-phone service. Never mind. I’ll see you at my house in fifteen minutes. We can go in my car.”
“Go?”
“To Flume. Get over here. If you participated in Marybeth’s little scheme, it’s the least you can do. Tell Nina to cover for you.” She hung up.
By the time Wendy appeared, only ten minutes late, Meg had donned boots and parka, checked the camera function on her cell phone with the idea of recording details of the protest—faces, slogans, the size of the crowd—and was attempting to put chains on her Accord. It took two tries.
“Hop in.” She opened the passenger door.
Wendy wrung her hands. “But I can’t...”
“In.”
Wendy sat. Her shoes would be a catastrophe if she had to walk in snow, but her coat looked warm enough.
“Buckle up.” Meg slammed the door and got in the driver’s side. She fastened her own seat belt and put the car in reverse. The engine hummed. Exhaust billowed white on the crisp air. It then occurred to her that she hadn’t called Rob to let him know what she planned to do. He hated that.
Foot on the brake, she fumbled her phone from its pocket in her handbag and hit the speed-dial. He had turned his cell off, as he did when he didn’t want to be interrupted, so she left a message. She thought he was going to interview Carla and Aidan again.
Time for action. She backed onto the street a little too fast. The chains on the front tires held, but the rear end fishtailed. Wendy squeaked. Meg eased the car into Drive and headed for Highway 14.
The state highway was clear now. It carried east-west traffic to both bridges over the Columbia, so the pavement was gritty and almost bare from heavy commuter use. Meg followed the road five miles west, then turned north on Highway 153, which traced the canyon of the Little Coho, a short swift river favored by salmon and white-water rafters. The road was steep and wound around, sometimes sharply, but it had been sanded, and chains helped. After six or seven miles, it was joined by Alt. 153 from Klalo and headed due north toward Mount Adams.
Wendy was still babbling. The chains made a lot of noise, so Meg concentrated on the road and didn’t try to listen. Four years ago, driving on packed snow would have terrified her. Now she was just cautious. There was no traffic for a good ten miles until three vehicles approached, shoppers heading toward town to stock up.
Meg chugged on through winter-bare orchards and vineyards. She caught a glimpse of Mount Adams, her favorite of the three nearby volcanic peaks, before she had to turn onto the last and worst stretch of driving, the paved road to Flume that was not exactly a highway. Beyond lay the invisible presence of Mount Saint Helens.
The road had been built for log trucks in the heyday of the timber industry. Maintenance was spotty. However, the snowplow had made its way through sometime earlier, and a sander had followed it. Snow thrown up by the plow had formed berms on both sides of the road. It was probably too cold for mudslides. She drove with increasing confidence.
Wendy had fallen silent miles back.
Meg cast her a sideways glance. “What’s the preacher’s name?”
Wendy started. “Brother Josiah.”
“Josiah what?”
“Uh, well, his name was Kevin Allday, but when he was born again he took the name of Josiah.” Wendy squirmed against the seatbelt. “He’s very good-looking.”
Handsome is as handsome does, Meg thought darkly. “And you fell under his spell.”
“No. I’m not susceptible.” Her voice was bleak.
Meg drove on past straggling houses with unplowed driveways. She had come out to Flume twice, once with Annie, but the snow made everything unfamiliar, brightening the dark embrace of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. There was hardly any downtown to Flume—a post office, a gun shop, a convenience store, a 1930s brick building that had once been a grocery and now housed a thrift shop. She remembered two taverns and three churches, one of them a Catholic mission to which a priest came once a month. About half the Klalos were Catholics, as were most of the Hispanics.
Annie used to park near one of the Protestant churches, which was then vacant. If, as Meg suspected, it was now the Church of the Inerrant Word, she hoped Annie had had the wit to move the bus to another venue. Maybe Annie didn’t know about their negative feelings.
“I’m not a dyke. I just don’t like men.”
Meg didn’t comment on Wendy’s politically incorrect non sequitur, but her hands twitched, and the car responded by swerving a little. Front-wheel drive. Follow the turn. Slowly she eased the car back to the center of the lane.
If Wendy were a lesbian, then her attachment to Marybeth would make sense, except that it was hard to imagine Marybeth in an unconventional relationship, or indeed in any relationship other than master and slave. Or was that the attraction? Meg felt her cheeks go hot. I am naïve, she reflected. Truly naïve.
“Isn’t that...?” Wendy pointed.
They had passed through most of the town, such as it was. Meg glanced right and swerved again. She pulled to the edge of the curbless main street and braked. “What’s going on?”
Annie had parked the bookmobile two blocks along the unpaved side street, across from a small plain church—no stained glass windows, no steeple. THE WORD! ALL ARE WELCOME! proclaimed a professionally lettered sign. A clump of people in winter gear trampled the snowy lawn and milled in the unplowed parking lot.
Meg cracked the door, stuck her head out, and heard shouting and whooping. As she watched, a flurry of missiles flew at the bus. “Are they throwing snowballs?”
“Ice soakers.” Wendy jumped from the car and grabbed the door as her feet skidded on packed snow.
Meg had grown up in Los Angeles. She knew what a snowball was, a cute fluffy thing children threw at men wearing tall hats, right? “What’s an ice soaker?”
“A chunk of ice with a rock in the center.”
Thunk, thwap, crack. The cheers doubled and the missiles flew. Meg disentangled herself from the seat belt and climbed out, wondering whether the schools were having a snow day, or were these kids home-schooled? Whatever. Their game had to stop. They were intimidating potential patrons, and Annie must be terrified.
Meg slammed the door and took a long step forward. Her foot slipped, and she fell on her ass. She scrambled to her feet. The shouting intensified, and so did the thuds as ice soakers hit metal and glass.
“Come on! We have to stop this!” She didn’t check to see whether Wendy was following. Two anonymous women who appeared to be joining the fun would surely not be attacked.
Meg didn’t run. She didn’t need a broken hip. She stared at the mob as she plodded forward and tried to think. Her impulse was to tear into the milling protesters, screaming at them to stop. It didn’t seem likely that they would. She glanced up and down the street—small, depressed-looking houses on both sides, no signs of life. She quickened her pace, slipped again, and regained her balance. Had she seen a twitching curtain?
She made for the house. It was on her right, the bookmobile side. No one had cleared the walk or driveway. An old car drooped under half a foot of snow. Meg stood on the porch and banged the door. No one answered.
“Please help me,” she called and banged again.
Eventually she heard a faint voice say something and the door cracked. “Be quiet, will you? Who are you?”
Meg lowered her voice. “I’m head of the library. They’re attacking the bookmobile, and I’m worried about the driver. Can I use your telephone? My cell phone—”
“Cells don’t work out here.” The door opened. A young woman in a sweatshirt, jeans, and socks cradled a sleeping baby. Meg thought she was Klalo or maybe Hispanic. She looked Meg over, unsmiling. “Come in.”
“Thanks.”
Without a word the young woman led her into a small cluttered kitchen and indicated a portable telephone on the counter. “Please keep it quiet. I just got her to sleep.”
Meg nodded and dialed 911.
It took a while to clarify where she was and what was happening, but Jane Schmidt was finally able to assure Meg that Todd Welch was in the area and would come to her assistance. “Can you stay on the line?”
