A wasteland of strangers (16 page)

Where had I gone after she threw me out of her life? Gunderson's, for a while, until the usually reliable Mike refused to serve me anymore. Then off to Mom and Pop's Saloon down by the boatyard. Loud voices, shitkicker music (wail it, Way Ion, you old sumbitch), watered-down gin served with a Spanish olive. Abomination! A frigging Spanish olive! Harsh words, a few choice obscenities, and somebody's hands on my back and arse, hustling me out the door. And then ... blank. The dream about driving somewhere? Alcoholic delusion. I seldom drove nowadays, and never when I was out gathering sticks and applying salve in preparation for another visit to Nightmareland.

This is your life, Douglas Kent. And a low one it is. Ten feet lower than a mole's ass and still digging, as the pater used to say.

I needed a drink.

Bad.

I managed to stand up, stay up, and waddle into the kitchen without falling on my face again. Gin? No gin. The only hooch I had left in the place was vodka. Two long, bitter swallows—gurgle, gurgle. The salve stayed down as unsteadily as I stayed up. I leaned on the counter and waited for the shakes to abate. Took three minutes or so for the medicine to straighten me up, literally. I treated myself to another swallow and then floated into the bathroom and peed lustily, always a good sign. After which I shed my torn, reeking, and bloody rags and climbed under the shower and stood it icy for as long as I could, then lukewarm, then hot. By the time I'd toweled off I decided I would probably live through another day.

I doctored my battle scars, brushed my teeth, scraped off stubble (nicking myself only twice, I noted with some pride), donned clean clothes, and had another squint at myself in the mirror. I looked like shit. Ah, but no bigger a pile than usual. And that, in the Kent household on any Saturday morning, let alone one after being Storm-lashed and cast away, was a major achievement.

Maybe not, though, I thought as I returned to the kitchen to drink the rest of my breakfast. Maybe shit, like water, simply seeks its own level. Interesting theory. I'd have to pursue it sometime when my head wasn't quite so stuffed with spider silk.

I was in the living room, puffing on my first weed of the day and making a halfhearted attempt to clean my barf off the rug, when somebody clumped up onto the front stoop and pounded on the door and began calling my name, both much louder than was tolerable. The pounding and yelling were the same as in my dream, which I deduced meant I hadn't dreamed them after all. I recognized the voice too: Jay Dietrich, the Advocate's talentless cub and wanna-be.

I went and opened the door, reluctantly. Dietrich, with his horse face and walnut-sized Adam's apple and Pollyannaish exuberance, is never a pleasant sight. On a morning when Kent was suffering more than usual, Jaydee was positively repellent.

"What's the idea?" I demanded. "Don't tell me you've taken to moonlighting as a town crier?"

"What? Oh. I'm sorry, Mr. Kent, but I didn't know if you were here or not. Or if you were maybe . .. well, you know, sleeping. I didn't get any answer when I was here before, and then I couldn't find you anywhere else and things got so hectic—"

"Stop babbling. My head hurts enough as it is. When were you here before?"

"Around midnight. I came over as soon as I—"

"Midnight? Why in sweet Christ's name were you banging on my door and crying my name at midnight?"

"I'd just heard the news and I didn't know if you were—"

"News? What're you talking about?"

"Mrs. Carey. Storm Carey."

A sudden coldness formed in a knot under my sternum. A darkness, too, like an incipient black hole. "What about Mrs. Carey?"

"You don't know, then," Dietrich said, and his big Adam's apple bobbed and bobbed again. "She's dead. Murdered last night at her house. Bludgeoned with a paperweight, compound skull fracture."

The black hole grew and spread; I could feel the chill pull of it, like a vortex. But that was all I felt. Numb. She s dead. Murdered last night at her house. Just words—no reality to it yet. Cold and black and numb.

"That stranger," Dietrich said, "the one you wrote the editorial about, he did it. Faith. Chief Novak caught him up there right afterward. He broke the Chiefs nose and then Mr. Novak shot him when he tried to escape and he jumped into the lake. Faith did. They think he's dead, drowned, but they still haven't found the body—"

"Where is she? Where'd they take her?"

"Mrs. Carey? Pomo General. I talked to Dr. Johanssen—"

"Take me there. Right now."

"Sure, Mr. Kent. But like I said, I already talked—"

"Now, damn you. Now!"

Audrey Sixkiller

WHEN I FIRST heard about it, from Joan Garcia, an Elem nurse at the hospital, I didn't know what to do or think. My first impulse was to rush down there, but I didn't give in to it. Dick wouldn't want or need me, and there was nothing I could do for him anyway. Later, when feelings weren't running quite so high and things were more settled— that was the time to make myself available to him.

I lay in bed with the lights on, prepared to endure another long, sleepless night. Instead, exhaustion dragged me under almost immediately. My dreams were unsettling. I dreamed of blood, which the old-time Indians believed was a sign of the devil: Blood spilled in a place poisoned it forever after. And I dreamed that I was one of the bear people, rushing through the night in my hides and feathers, and that I came upon Storm Carey and there was a terrible battle—two witches in a clash of magical powers that left her dead and me weeping as if my heart would break. Guilt, of course. I'd yearned for her to be gone from Dick's life, but I had never once wished her dead.

In the morning I was still tired, and achy, as though I might be coming down with something. I put a kettle on the stove, and while the water was boiling I called the police station. Dick was there but not accepting personal calls. I spoke with Verne Erickson, and he said Dick had been holed up in his office most of the night. Hadn't gone home, and as far as Verne knew, hadn't eaten or slept either. He blamed himself for John Faith getting away from him. The fact that neither Faith nor his body had been found yet only made him feel worse.

But that wasn't the only reason Dick was in such a state. I knew it, and I'm sure Verne did, too, even though neither of us mentioned it. Dick's feelings for Storm. Whether or not he'd been seeing her again, she'd meant more to him once than just sexual gratification. It was painful to think that even he might not have realized how much he cared for her until she was dead.

Before we rang off I said, "I'll stop by his house in an hour or so and take care of Mack. You might tell him when you get the chance."

"I will. Thanks, Audrey. He's probably forgotten all about the dog."

And me, I thought. Mack and me both.

Tea and a Pop-Tart for breakfast. Ten minutes in the shower and another twenty to dress and put on my face. I was shrugging into my pea jacket when the telephone rang. I hurried to answer it, thinking that Verne had relayed my message and Dick had thought to call me after all.

"Hello? Dick?"

"Dick's what you want, huh?" Thick, muffled man's voice. "Well, dick's what you're gonna get, and plenty more besides. Gun of yours won't stop me next time. You're dead, bitch. Dead as Storm Carey—and soon, real soon."

Trisha Marx

SATURDAY STARTED OUT just as shitty as Friday ended. I didn't get much sleep; at first I was too depressed and cried a lot, and then later there was all this noise, people driving around and yelling, a

helicopter or something flying overhead in the middle of the night. I felt so down I didn't even care what was going on. Then this morning I was sick to my stomach and spent five minutes in the John trying to hurl as quietly as I could so Daddy wouldn't hear. Morning sickness again. Just freaking great. Then, after I got dressed and went downstairs, Daddy wanted to talk about Anthony. I told him we'd had a fight and it was all over between us, but I couldn't tell him about the baby yet. No way. He asked me how I'd gotten home last night, and the way he asked it I knew he already knew and that somebody must've seen John Faith dropping me off and snitched about it. So I told him what'd happened, everything except that Anthony and I'd been smoking dope and how close I'd come—so close it scared me when I thought about it—to falling off the Bluffs into the lake.

And he said, real dark and grim, "You're lucky, Trisha. You don't know how lucky. After that Faith character brought you home, he went out to Mrs. Carey's house and killed her. Bashed her head in."

"What!" I stared at him with my mouth open. He wasn't kidding. "John? It couldn't be. He wouldn't do anything like that. . ."

"Well, he did. Chief Novak caught him out there, and there was a fight and the Chief shot him."

"Oh, God, he's dead, too?"

"Looks like it. He went into the lake, probably drowned. They haven't found the body yet."

"All the noise last night—that's what it was?"

"Yeah. Whole town was in an uproar. I stayed here—didn't want to leave you alone again." Daddy rubbed his right hand; the knuckles looked scratched, as if he'd been in a fight himself. "He got what was coming to him, by God. Just not soon enough. Started causing trouble the minute he showed up in Pomo."

"He didn't cause me any trouble," I said.

"You're lucky, like I told you. If it hadn't been Storm Carey, it'd've been somebody else. Could've been you."

I felt sick again, and this time it had nothing to do with being knocked up. Mrs. Carey killed—that was awful. I didn't know her very well and people were always saying what a slut she was, the same people, I'll bet, who were saying John Faith had killed her and who wanted him to be dead. I remembered last night on the Bluffs, how he'd dragged me away from the cliff edge and the stuff he'd said to me there and on the drive home, and I couldn't believe he'd gone and bashed Mrs. Carey's head in right afterward. No matter what Daddy said, what anybody said, I didn't believe it.

Daddy tried to get me to eat some breakfast, but I couldn't. I would've hurled again if I'd tried to swallow so much as a glass of milk. He had to work half a day at the lumberyard, he said, but he'd be home around one and he wanted to find me here when he got back. I said okay. The last thing he asked before he left was did I intend to see Anthony anymore. I didn't lie to him. I said no way, Jose, and I meant it. Whatever I decided to do about the baby, Anthony wouldn't be any part of it. Anthony was a big pile of dog crap I'd avoid from now on.

Selena called after Daddy left and wanted to talk about all the excitement last night; she sounded positively thrilled. I told her I couldn't talk now, I'd call her later, but I knew I wouldn't. The only person I could talk to today was Ms. Sixkiller.

Upstairs I put my makeup on, fixed my hair, and was ready to go at twenty of nine. Twenty minutes was about how long it'd take me to walk to Ms. Sixkiller's house. I wished Daddy hadn't had to work this morning, because then he might've let me have his pickup for a couple of hours. Man, how I'd love to have a car of my own. Selena's folks bought her an old Volks bug for her seventeenth birthday, but Daddy says we can't afford a second car, even a junker, thanks to the Bitch. That's what he calls Mom; he won't even say her name anymore, not that I blame him. Probably be years before I can afford to buy myself a car, even longer if I have the kid—

Shit! Cars, babies ... I don't know what I want or what I'm gonna do. I'm so screwed up. How'd I ever get this screwed up?

It was as cold this morning as last night. Sky all gray and twitchy, the way I felt inside. I walked fast over to Lakeshore Road. A car went by and honked, but I didn't bother to look and see who it was. What was the word for when you felt this way? Apathy? Right, apathy. If apathy was gold, I'd be as rich as Mrs. Carey was—

But I didn't want to think about Mrs. Carey.

When I got to where I could see along the north shore, there were a couple of big boats out and one of them looked to be the sheriffs launch from down in Southlake. Still hunting for John Faith's body. Everybody hurts, everybody wants to stop hurting. Well, he'd stopped hurting, all right. Poor John Faith.

Poor Trisha. When am I gonna stop hurting?

The more you hurt, the more you care. You'll be all right if you dont let yourself stop caring . . .

Ms. Sixkiller's house was like a cottage, a real retro type with a tall brick chimney and shingles and stuff. Her father built it a long time ago, when Indians didn't mix much with whites. He made some money hauling freight in wagons and boats and bought the land and built the house and pissed off all his white neighbors, but he wouldn't move or sell and they couldn't drive him out. Good for him. He must've been oneG141

tough old dude. His daughter's pretty tough, too. Best teacher at Pomo High, and that's not just my opinion. She'd listen, help me if she could. She had to help me because there just wasn't anybody else.

I went in through her gate and rang the bell, but Ms. Sixkiller didn't come to the door. Nothing but echoes inside when I rang again. I looked at my watch, and it was exactly nine o'clock. Oh, man, what if she forgot I was coming to see her and left early for her tribal council meeting? I went over to the garage and looked in through the side window. Her car wasn't there.

Now what was I gonna do?

But maybe she hadn't forgotten. Maybe she'd gone to the store or something and she'd be back any minute. I could sit on the porch and wait. Only I didn't feel like sitting, so I went between the house and the garage and across the back lawn to her dock. It's a long one, and about halfway out there's a security gate, and beyond that, underneath, a board float and a shedlike thing open at both ends where she keeps her boat. She must really love that old boat; you're always seeing her out in it, even in the winter. Once I saw her bouncing along when it was raining. Really raining, not, like, just a drizzle.

I walked out on the dock as far as the gate. When I pushed on the door set into the gate, not for any reason, just because it's the kind of thing you do sometimes, it popped right open. Some security gate. I went on through, over to the edge of the dock where a ladder led down to the float. From there I could see into the shed. Ms. Sixkiller has one of those electronic hoists, and her boat was up out of the water on it, a tarpaulin roped across the stern half to keep out moisture.