A wasteland of strangers (18 page)

"That's not why she came. Something important to tell you, she says."

"What is it?"

"Tell you, nobody else," Delia said.

"...All right. Send her in."

I was back on my feet when Audrey entered. She winced when she saw the bandage, the swelling and discoloration, but all she said was, "Dick, I'm so sorry."

"Me too. But the damage isn't permanent." Not on the outside, anyway.

She took a step toward me, as if she had it in her mind to touch or embrace me. It must've been my expression that stopped her, caused her to bite down on her lower lip. Poor Audrey. She was twice the woman Storm had been, probably twice the woman Eva was; but I didn't want her close to me, not now. Empty inside, scooped out. Nothing left for her or anybody else.

I asked her if she wanted to sit down and she said no. Then she said, "Dick, how certain are you John Faith is guilty of Storm's murder?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Something happened a while ago that makes me wonder. Is there any chance he's innocent?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned. What happened?"

"A phone call. As I was leaving to feed Mack."

"From?"

"The man who tried to break into my house."

"The man who—!"

"He as much as said so."

"... What else did he say?"

She took a breath. "That I'd be dead soon. That he'd make me as dead as Storm Carey. It didn't sound like an idle threat."

My face throbbed and burned. This, now, on top of everything else. "His voice . .. familiar?"

"No. Muffled, disguised."

"Faith," I said. "It could've been Faith."

"But he's dead, drowned . .."

"Is he? I'm not so sure of that."

"Even so, it couldn't be him. Where would he go to make a phone call? Why would he?"

I shook my head. I wanted it to be Faith; simplify things, give me another reason to hate him. "Okay, maybe not. But it still could've been Faith in that ski mask the other night."

"How could it be? The caller—"

"Sicko taking advantage of the situation, playing games to scare you."

"No, Dick. The only people who know about the prowler are you and me and Verne. It's the same man in both cases—I'm sure of it. On the phone ... he said my gun wouldn't stop him the next time. He couldn't know I shot at the prowler unless—"

"All right," I said. "Same man, and he's not Faith."

"His threat to make me as dead as Storm . . . couldn't that mean he's the one who killed her?"

"No. Her house wasn't broken into and she wasn't raped. She knew the man who did it. She let him in."

"She knew John Faith?"

"Yeah. She invited him there last night."

"Then ... why would he kill her?"

"An argument, he lost his head and picked up that paperweight... Christ, Audrey, stop questioning me on this! Faith did it, nobody else. And the bastard who's stalking you—I'll find out who he is and I'll get him, too. I promise you that. I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know you won't."

"I mean it. One woman dead—"

I couldn't make myself say the rest of it. But Audrey understood. More than I'd thought she did. She said, "I'm sorry about Storm, Dick. I want you to know that. I really am sorry."

The words, the sympathy and compassion in her eyes, built a sudden sharp impulse to pull her close after all, let her comfort me, find some strength in her strength. But I couldn't do it. It was like there was a wall of glass between us. I kept my distance, hurting inside and out, feeding on the hurt. And all I could think to say was, "I'll put an end to it, one way or another. I'll get them—I'll get them both."

Trisha Marx

MS. SIXKILLER'S HOUSE was locked up tight. I hunted around in the backyard and found a rock and took it to the bathroom window on the north side. I kept thinking that this was crazy, that I was gonna get myself in some serious trouble here. But I couldn't just leave John Faith lying there in the boat, cold and wet and wounded, after what he'd done for me on the Bluffs. Nobody'd help him if I didn't. And suppose the wrong person found him next time, a cop or somebody who wanted to play Rambo?

The window breaking made a lot of noise, but there wasn't anybody around to hear it; the houses on both sides were empty. I reached inside and flipped the catch and then shoved the sash up far enough so I could wiggle through. A sliver of glass pricked my finger as I swung down off the toilet, but I hardly even felt it. My heart was pounding worse than the first night the bunch of us broke into Nucooee Point Lodge to party.

First thing I did was open the medicine cabinet. There was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some adhesive tape, and gauze pads. I grabbed all of those and took them with me.

In our house there's a linen closet that opens off the upstairs hall, but the hall here didn't have one. So I had to look around for a couple of minutes before I found Ms. Sixkiller's extra sheets and blankets in the closet in her bedroom. One blanket was heavy, made of wool; another was the all-weather thermal kind that keeps in heat and keeps out cold. I tucked both under my arm and then hurried through the kitchen to the back porch. I figured it'd be easier to go out that way, instead of back through the bathroom window, and it was. The screen door wasn't hooked, and the lock on the outer door was the push-button kind.

The police launch was still way up shore; I made sure of that before I ran out onto the dock. I climbed down the ladder one-handed—lifted the tarp again and pushed the blankets and stuff inside the boat, then climbed the hoist frame and dropped down next to where John Faith was lying. The way he'd been shaking when I left him, I was afraid I'd find him dead. But he was still breathing, hard and raspy. I touched the side of his face. His skin was cold and hot at the same time, and all puckered and sort of gray. Was that how you looked and felt when you had pneumonia?

Fumble-fingered, I unfolded the wool blanket and shook it out. But then I thought: It won't do him any good with those wet clothes plastered to his body. He wasn't wearing much, just a shirt and a pair of Levi's and socks, no shoes. The shirt had two bloody holes in it under the left shoulder, a small one in back and a bigger one in front. Two wounds. Shot twice, or maybe only once with the bullet going in one side and coming out the other.

The thing to do was to get everything off. Well? It wasn't like I'd never undressed a guy before. I managed to unbutton the shirt, but parts of it were stuck to the wounds and I was afraid to pull the fabric loose. Instead, I undid his belt and the top button of his Levi's. Unzipping the fly took longer on account of it stuck partway down. Then I took hold of the belt loops on either side, started to work the soaked pants down around his hips—

His eyes popped open.

I mean they just flew open, boingl, and all at once he was staring right at me—a wild and crazy stare, like Freddy Krueger before one of his slice-and-dice rampages.

It scared me so much I recoiled back against the gunwale and cracked my elbow. "Shit!" The boat wobbled a little, kept wobbling as he twisted over onto one hip and tried to sit up. He didn't have enough strength; he made the groaning sound in his throat and sank back, supporting himself with one hand flat on the deck. When he looked at me again, the craziness was gone. His eyes were still glazed, but in a hurt and confused way.

He said "Trisha?" as if he didn't believe it was me. His voice sounded like one of the frogs in the Budweiser commercials.

"Yeah." I wasn't afraid anymore. He wouldn't hurt me. I don't know how I could be so totally sure of that, but I was. I straightened up on my knees, rubbing my elbow. "I was trying to get those wet clothes off, you know? You were shivering so hard . . ."

"Cold," he said. He blinked a few times, ran his other hand over the dark stubble on his cheeks. "Where are we?"

"Boat shed."

"Whose?"

"Ms. Sixkiller's. This is her boat."

"Sixkiller... Audrey?"

"Yeah. You know her?"

"Met her. How'd you find me?"

"I was up on the dock and I heard you moaning."

"Just you? Alone?"

"Just me."

He tried to sit up again, but something hurt him this time; he grimaced and sucked in his breath. I could see part of the wound in front where the open shirt pulled away. Black and red-brown and scabby. It was bleeding again, too—little pimples of bright red.

I said, "I never saw bullet wounds before," because it was what I was thinking.

"Better hope they're the last you ever see."

"That one looks ... man!"

"Feels that way, too." He was probing at it with two fingers, unsticking the rest of his shirt and wincing when it tore away a scab of blood. "Could've been worse. Bullet went straight through, didn't hit bone or bust me up inside."

"Lucky."

"Oh yeah. Mr. Lucky."

"I brought some peroxide," I said. I leaned over for the bottle and showed it to him. "I got it from Ms. Sixkiller's bathroom. It'll help, won't it?"

"Help a lot. Thanks."

"I also got some blankets."

"Help me sit up. Don't think I can manage by myself."

I scooted over, got behind him on my knees, and lifted on his good side until he was sitting up. Then between us we were able to drag the shirt back down over his arms and all the way off. He poured peroxide on and it, like, actually hissed on the open wounds, bubbled up white and frothy in a way that nearly made me gag. The pain must've been terrific; he jerked and twisted and tears leaked out of his eyes and he half-strangled on a yell to keep it from coming out loud.

I took some of the gauze pads out of their wrappings and he used half to clean the wounds and then we taped on the rest. He had a little

trouble breathing when we were done, so I helped him lie back flat. Then, with him raising his butt and pushing with his hands and me tugging, we managed to get the Levi's off. He said, "You can leave my shorts on," but I said, "They're wet, and I've seen guys naked before," and I worked those off, too. I couldn't help sneaking a look at him down there. Oh, boy. Even shriveled up from the cold, his dick made Anthony's look like an Oscar Mayer reject.

When he was wrapped in the blankets, the thermal one underneath against his bare skin, he asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch and told him, "Quarter to ten."

"That late? A wonder I lasted long enough for you to find me."

"How long've you been here?"

"Most of the night."

"It must be more than a mile from here to Mrs. Carey's. You couldn't have swum all that way."

"No. I wasn't in the lake more than ten minutes the first time, maybe twenty altogether. Walked and crawled, mostly."

"How'd you keep them from seeing you?"

"Dark took care of that. Dark and blind luck. Couple of them got close enough to touch me, but I was hiding under a dock on a crosspiece where their lights didn't reach."

"Everybody thinks you drowned. Or else the cold got you."

"They were almost right. I couldn't've gotten any farther than here. Passed out as soon as I climbed in under the tarp." He looked at me for a few seconds, and then he said, "I didn't kill her, Trisha. Mrs. Carey."

"I know it. I wouldn't've helped you if I thought you did."

"I hope you don't regret it. If they find you here with me—"

"They won't. They're not looking down this far."

"But they are still looking."

"For your body, not for you."

"Audrey Sixkiller . . . where's she?"

"Probably down at the Elem rancheria by now. She has a tribal council meeting at eleven. I was supposed to meet her here at nine, but she must've forgot."

"Better beat it while you can."

"Don't worry, she won't be back until after one—"

I stopped because the wind slackened just then and I heard rumbling noises out on the lake. John heard them, too. He said, "What's that?"

"Boat engine. Sounds like the sheriffs launch."

"Coming this way?"

"Yeah, but they can't see us if we stay down."

I stretched out flat alongside him. The engine sounds got louder, closer. John was breathing fast and raspy again; I could feel him all tense inside the blankets. I felt bad for him. And mad, too, on account of what'd happened to him and how wrong everybody was about him. Why couldn't they see him the way I did—a good guy, not a bad one?

The launch glided past at least a hundred yards offshore without slowing any. I waited a couple of minutes more, until the engine sounds began to fade, then rose up and looked and couldn't see anything except gray water. I climbed out and went to the end of the float for a quick look. When I came back I said to John, "They're gone. On their way back to Southlake, looks like. That might mean they've called off the search."

"Might." But he didn't sound convinced.

"You want to sit up now?"

He said he did and I helped him. He huddled against the gunwale, not saying anything. He was still shaking but in little spasms, not hard like before. His skin color didn't seem as gray anymore.

"You look better," I said.

"Feel better. Warmer. I'll be okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. You get going. The longer you hang around here, the more risk of you being caught with me."

"I don't care about that."

"I do. Go on, beat it."

"If I beat it, then what? What'll you do?"

"Sit here until I feel stronger."

"Then what?"

"You don't need to know that."

"Yes I do. Tell me, John."

"I don't know. See if I can hot-wire the ignition, maybe."

"That's good, getting away in the boat. But where to?"

"Somewhere on the other side of the lake. My problem, for Chris-sake, not yours—"

"Big problem," I said, "if anybody sees you driving Ms. Sixkiller's boat. Everybody around here knows it's hers. And even if you do make

it all the way across, what'll you do then? You're hurt too bad to do much except hide for a while, but you don't know the area well enough to find a safe place. And you'd have to leave the boat and they'd find it and then they'd know where you went. Right?"