Burying Water (8 page)

ELEVEN

Jesse

then

I doubt this driveway has ever seen the likes of a shit box like mine. I was kind of hoping the automatic gates at the entrance would malfunction and crush my car as I edged through.

That didn’t happen, though, and now I’m navigating the long, winding landscaped drive to the sprawling estate home ahead, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, my head pounding from all the vodka last night. Wondering for the hundredth time what the hell I’m doing here. Not that I had an option to say no. The second I stepped into the garage this morning—still half asleep thanks to thin walls and listening to Boone and Priscilla until three in the morning—Miller shoved a slip of paper into my hand and ordered me to follow the directions to “Mr. Petrova’s” residence for a ten a.m. meeting. And to call him Mr. Petrova, unless he tells me otherwise.

I pull up alongside a gold Hummer just as Viktor and a man I haven’t seen before step out of the double-story brick house, golf bags slung over their shoulders, gold watches catching rays from a rare day of blue skies and sunshine. Next to their tailored pants and collared golf shirts, I look every bit the broke-ass kid mechanic in my ripped jeans and worn T-shirt.

If the way I look right now bothers Viktor, he doesn’t let on. With that stone-cold mask, he doesn’t give much away, period.

“Hello, Jesse. I am glad you could make it.” Not giving me a chance to respond, he hands his clubs to the guy beside him and begins walking toward the four-car garage, calling out behind him, “Follow me, please.” No friendly urinal-side chatter. This guy’s all business today. That’s fine. I don’t have much to say.

When he punches a code into the garage door and we step inside, all I can manage is a low whistle. The garage may have only four doors, but it extends far enough to accommodate eight cars and Viktor has used the space wisely, lining the back wall with a ’62 fire-engine-red Ferrari, a ’65 Shelby Coupe in metallic blue, a black ’68 Porsche 911, and a green ’55 Mercedes Coupe. The four together have to be worth a couple million. Easy.

Boone’s right. I may blow my load in my pants right here, standing next to Viktor Petrova.

“As you can see, I, too, have a passion for classic cars. These have all been completely restored.” Prying my eyes from the Shelby with difficulty, I glance over at Viktor. Genuine excitement dances through his eyes as they slide over his collection: all rare, all expensive, and all in mint condition, their coats of paint gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

With a nod toward the far left, he says, “I would like to add my Aston Martin with your help.” A mixed collection of boxes and loose car parts surround the classic, a dull navy blue in need of some serious body work, a small rust hole eating through the back panel. Still . . . it’s a fucking DB5! This guy already has the polished but hardened appearance down pat. Throw him in a suit and this car, finished, and someone might cast him in the next James Bond movie. More likely as the villain, though.

I watch as he pulls a cigarette and a lighter from his shirt pocket. The pack has the same strange alphabet on it that I now recognize as Russian. Through the first inhale, he murmurs, “The engine has seized. I expect it will need plenty of new parts. If you provide me with a list, I will appropriate them quickly.”

I find his precise dialect and tone off-putting. He says “I will” instead of “I’ll”; he uses words like “appropriate” instead of “get”; and though he isn’t lacking in manners, he speaks with stern authority, as if he expects everyone to listen.

I cross my arms over my chest as the first swirl of tobacco touches my nostrils. My eyes scan the corners of the room, looking for cameras. From what I could see coming in, the entire property is surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. With four mint cars in the back, and one in pieces, there’s no way this garage isn’t heavily watched. I can’t find any cameras, though.

“Rust told me you are somewhat of a . . .” He searches for the word and ends with, “virtuoso.”

I’ve never heard anyone use that word before, but I have a general idea of what it might mean. “I know a few things.” I feel the smirk touch my lips. Unlike Boone, I’m not one to brag. And because I have a friend like Boone, there’s no need. The guy does plenty of it for me. “I don’t know how long this will take. I mean, I can swing some evenings and weekends, but—”

“I want you to start right now.”

My fingertips scrape against my stubble—no time to shave this morning—as I ponder how to handle what is basically an order. “No offense, Mr. Petrova, but I can’t lose my full-time job because you want to fill your garage with expensive rides.”

His lips press together in a tight smile, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or sincerely amused. “Call me Viktor, please. Fair enough. After your regular hours. And weekends. Until you’re done.”

That won’t be exhausting at all.

“It’s not going to be cheap.” He said he’d make it worth my while but we have yet to talk actual figures, and if he’s going to demand my time, then he can pay for it. I’m no sucker.

His hands lift in the air, palms up, cigarette hanging between two fingers. “Does it look like I’m concerned?” The way he says that—with that condescending smile—should annoy me but it doesn’t, because it’s the truth. I expect him to say, “Name your price,” so I start crunching numbers in my head—how much I get paid at Rust’s times how many hours this may take me, plus travel and gas, plus overtime plus extra padding, just because.

Basically, how much I can tally up to earn enough for a decent ’69 Plymouth Barracuda, which is why I came in the first place.

“You put this car together for me and I will hand you the keys to
your
car.” He takes an extra-long haul of his cigarette, then leans down to butt it into the cement floor.

“You serious?”

Viktor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are two things I never joke about, Jesse: cars and my debts.”

“And all the papers to go with it?” The last place I want my dream car taking me is to jail for grand theft auto.

A frown zags across his forehead. “Of course.”

“And it’ll run?”

“Does it matter? You can fix anything, right?” He gestures ahead of us. “As you can see, I have plenty of tools, an engine hoist. I can get whatever you need for my
expensive rides
. I am not home much, so I will make sure that my wife is here to let you in.”

Mention of Alexandria has my eyes drifting to the steel door in the corner. I assume that leads into the house. Is she in there right now? Or did she take another car and go out? Tabbs had her BMW on the hoist this morning, affixing a new muffler that had miraculously appeared overnight.

“So? One Aston Martin for one Plymouth Barracuda?” Those cold blue eyes penetrate mine. Does he hope I’ll say yes? Or does he simply expect it?

Strolling over to the frame, I slide my hand over the hood. This hunk of metal in front of me was once a beautiful car that purred and raced. If I have any clue what I’m doing, it will be again. And I get the distinct impression that if I say yes to him, I sure as hell better know what I’m doing and fast.

“It’s a deal.”

“Good.” His dress shoes scrape against the concrete as he approaches my side, a smooth, manicured hand extended. He’s not one for dirty work; that much is obvious. I guess the manly garage is just for show. “So, you’ll be here tonight to take a better look.” It’s more a statement than a question. “I’m eager to drive this car.”

“Viktor!” his friend calls from the doorway. It’s followed by something in Russian, the words sounding quick and harsh.

“If you will excuse me now, Jesse. I need to be on my way.” He stands by the door, his arm gesturing out. Clearly sending me a message to hit the road.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.” I could argue with him, reject the timing. I’m good at negotiating. I’ve had years of experience doing it with a dad who thinks the world should bend to his will because he’s the almighty sheriff. But Viktor’s dangling something that I’m willing to jump through hoops for and he knows it.

I throw my shitty-ass car—I can’t wait to park this ball-less hunk of metal for the last time—into reverse to follow the Hummer out when something catches the corner of my eye. Alexandria, leaning against the window next to the door.

Watching me.

I check my rearview mirror to see the Hummer’s brake lights by the end of the drive, waiting for the gate to open. So I wave at her. Not really a wave. More like four fingers lifting into the air, my thumb still hooked on the steering wheel. I hold my hand there, wondering what she’ll do.

At first I think she’s not going to acknowledge me. But then her own hand lifts to press against the glass. She keeps it there as I roll away.

TWELVE

Jane Doe

now

Dr. Alwood’s black sedan chugs along the bustling main street of Sisters.

My new hometown.

It’s only twenty-one miles northwest of Bend, but it already feels like a lifetime away from the only other place in the world that I remember.

Dr. Alwood sighs, coming to a dead stop in front of a hair salon as someone up ahead waits to make a left turn. The sight makes me reach up and touch my own hair, now colored a nice golden blond and cut to my shoulders. We just left the stylist in Bend. She showed me how to set the part so the patch where they had to shave my head is covered.

“If the town would just build a bypass for the highway, we could avoid this daily traffic jam,” Dr. Alwood murmurs.

“I don’t mind the traffic.” With the sun beating down on us and the windows rolled open, the warm spring air carries with it the hum of
life
. My eyes skim the pedestrians and the storefronts along both sides, many of which appear to be galleries. “A lot of people like art around here, don’t they?”

Dr. Alwood nods. “The town has become something of a tourist destination. That’s the intention, anyway. They did some major restorations, trying to bring the old frontier-town feel back to it.”

“Frontier. Yes . . .” The boxy buildings with angular faces
do
remind me of an old black-and-white western movie I watched the other night in my hospital room, when entertainment options were slim. While western films don’t seem to be my thing, I like the feel of this place. It seems small.

Safe.

“How many people live here?”

“About two thousand. Just the way Gabe and I like it. After a stressful day at work, it’s nice to come back to something more simple.”

I press up against the window to see the top of a tall, narrow tree on the corner, its needled branches like pipe cleaners.

“That’s called a ponderosa pine,” Dr. Alwood explains. “We’re known in these parts for them. You’ll see them all over Ginny’s ranch. Our place, too.”

“Dr. Alwood—”

“Please, call me Meredith,” she interrupts me. “You’re no longer in the hospital. Same with Gabe. I’d like to think we know each other well enough to use first names now.”

I nod and try it out for the first time. “Meredith—I want to get a job and earn money. What is there to do around here?”

Her brow pinches together. “We’ll think of something. Gabe’s family has lived in these parts for generations. I’m sure someone would be willing to help us out if we ask. Maybe a small retail store.” She points to one with a scrawling sign hanging at the front of it. A quilt dangles in the window, with swirls of blue and white in the background and the black skeleton of a tree standing prominently in the center. “That’s actually one of only a few original buildings that didn’t get burned down in the ’twenties. Still, Sisters has survived and thrived.”

Surviving and thriving. Maybe this town is perfect for a person like me. I have the first part down pat.

We continue the ride in relaxed silence, leaving the bustling town behind for a series of side roads, each one bumpier and more remote. Soon the houses disappear altogether. Ahead of us is nothing but wide-open straw-colored fields, peppered with those ponderosa pines. And looming like a curtained backdrop, three mountain peaks ahead.

“Those are the Three Sisters,” Meredith explains, noticing my riveted attention. “They’re actually volcanic peaks. Low risk, though.”

“They’re really high,” I murmur, taking in the white caps they still wear, even when everything below is a lush green.

“Yes. Over ten thousand feet.”

We make a left down a slightly narrower dirt road. “That’s our house, back in there.” We pass a long drive that disappears into a screen of tall trees. About a hundred yards over sits a rusted and dented blue mailbox that reads “Fitzgerald,” its flag raised. Meredith pulls the car up and empties it of a thick stack of flyers and envelopes. She hands them to me. “Can you sort these for me? Remove anything not addressed directly to Ginny or we’ll have to listen to a ten-minute rant about a government conspiracy.”

I filter through the pile, wondering yet again what I’ve gotten myself into. It took me a night of contemplation, lying in my dark, lonely hospital room, to realize that this is actually a great thing. One cranky old lady with a bucket of issues and my own space to live in is definitely preferable to a shelter full of nosy strangers and no privacy. Besides, the Welleses live next door, and they’re as close to family as I have right now.

Meredith’s car dips and bumps as we slowly make our way over the potholes. “As you can guess, getting trash to the curb on collection day can be a real pain. We’re about a quarter of a mile off the road. She has an old truck that she uses to take out the bags, but it’s still tough. Doing that and getting the mail are some things that you can do to help Ginny out, as long as you feel up to it physically. But you’ll just have to start doing it. She won’t ask. She’s stubborn like that.”

We round a bend of trees and I get my first look at the Fitzgerald ranch, complete with three mismatched buildings—a small white clapboard house to the far left, a brown two-door garage ahead, and a sturdy-looking red barn to the right. Wooden fences trail along the property as far as my eye can see, creating a maze of corrals. Some sit faded and falling apart, while others stand secure, lighter beams of wood telling me that they’ve seen some repair.

“Is that Amber?” I watch the rider atop a black-and-white horse gallop toward a striped wooden beam erected in between two stands. The horse sails over it with ease.

“Yes, that’s my Amber.” Meredith’s eyes gleam with joy. “She used to ride competitively. She retired a couple of years ago, but she keeps Ginny’s horses active. Back when Gabe was young, the Fitzgeralds had many horses on this ranch. They’ve died off over the years. There are only two left.” Meredith’s head nods toward the field where a second horse grazes in the distance, its brown-and-white coat shining in the sun.

“You said she’s lived here all her life?” I can believe it. The house looks old and in some need of mending, the shingles lifting, the siding stained by weather and dirt. But those details are less striking than the black iron bars on the first-story windows.

Meredith must see my frown. “Ginny likes to feel secure in her home. That’s all that is.”

We come to a stop in front of an oversized covered porch—judging by its newer and mismatched shingles and wood beams, clearly a later addition to the house—and I immediately spot the gray-haired figure sitting on a bench, her lap covered by a large quilt, needle in hand. A mottled brown dog of no identifiable breed lies on the worn wood floor next to her, its tail flopping up and down at a leisurely pace.

Meredith climbs out of her car with the ease of a woman who hasn’t touched a potato chip in ten years, bikes the old roads twice a week, and swims at the Y every Saturday morning that she’s not working. Once, when we were having a conversation about age—mine, in particular—she told me that she’s forty-eight. That after I guessed forty, tops, and she laughed at me.

“Hello, Ginny. How are you feeling today?” Meredith calls out.

Shrewd hazel eyes regard us. “Like you stole an organ from me a week ago.”

“A terrible organ, at that. Would you like it back?” The bitterness in Ginny’s voice seems to simply roll off Meredith.

Setting her quilt down next to her on the porch swing, Ginny slides off the bench and takes the three steps down to the grass slowly. The dog trails her like a shadow. By the white beard dusting its chin and the cloudy eyes directed my way as its nose twitches, I can see that it’s old. “So they’ve finally let you out of that godforsaken prison? That’s good.”

I swallow, not really sure how to answer that. After all, the hospital doesn’t have bars on the windows. I finally decide on, “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“Well, of course. Come on now, girl.”

I’ve noticed that she has yet to call me “Jane” like everyone else. I wonder if that’s a conscious choice on her part or if she can’t be bothered with names, fake or otherwise.

Throwing my small duffel bag over my good arm, filled with a collection of donated items from the nurses as well as a goodbye card from the hospital staff, we trail Ginny and the old dog as they lead us away from the house and toward the garage.

“If you ever need anything, we’re just a hop over the fence away.” Meredith points to the other side of the garage, past a dilapidated farm fence and through a thin line of those ponderosa pines, to a much more modern but small gray bungalow with a sloped red roof and big bay windows. For all the wide-open fields around us, I find it odd that the two houses are practically side-by-side.

“Yes. So close that when that damn boy of hers shows up with that damn car, it’ll rattle your teeth!” Ginny grumbles.

The mention of teeth has me running my tongue along the new wall in my mouth, where dentures have filled the gap. Given everything else that was broken and battered on my body, a few missing molars should have been the least of my worries and yet, when a dentist from Bend offered his services as part of a goodwill gesture a few weeks ago, I started to cry.

With a patient smile, Meredith answers, “I know, Ginny. I asked him if there was anything we could do about it. Unfortunately, that’s just the type of car it is. It’s supposed to sound like that.”

“Why? So it can wake the dead?” Ginny rounds the corner and begins climbing a steep, narrow set of wooden stairs. The dog, who hasn’t strayed more than two feet from its owner since we arrived, now hunkers down on the concrete landing, forcing us to step over it to follow the old woman up and through a plain white door.

It leads into a long, narrow room with sloped ceilings meeting in the center and sparse, mismatched furnishings throughout. Running along the left side is a kitchen with a white speckled countertop, old, compact appliances, and a small, worn wooden table. To the right is a seating area with two wicker armchairs flanking a simple woodstove, a tidy small pile of wood next to it. A brown-and-black tube television sits atop a faded blue dresser; the screen can’t be more than eleven inches. In the far corner is a twin bed with a simple white iron headboard. The smell of bleach and fresh paint permeates the chilly air, telling me that, though old, the bright white walls are freshly painted and the place was recently cleaned.

“I lived in this little apartment for nearly thirty-seven years.” Ginny’s eyes roll over the place. “It’s just been sitting here, doing nothin’. I thought it may as well be put to use.”

I struggle to keep the burn in my eyes from developing into full-blown tears. “This is perfect.” I turn to face her. “Thank you.”

She peers at me with her lips pursed together, as if deciding whether to say what she’s thinking. I get the impression that Ginny doesn’t censor herself much. Finally, she points a thin finger to the corner opposite the bed. “Bathroom’s over there. Nothing but a few old tractors and a mouse or two down below. But Felix just had young’uns, so they’ll take care of those quick. She’s a good mouser.”

I lift a brow.
A female cat named Felix?

“I’ve left you a spare set of keys for the truck, in case you want to drive yourself into town. It’s old, but she’ll get you there. You know how to drive, right?”

Good question. I shrug. Maybe? “I don’t have a license.” I don’t have any sort of identification. “Sheriff Welles . . . I mean, Gabe . . .” I frown. Calling him by his first name just doesn’t settle well. I decide on a middle ground. “I mean, Sheriff Gabe is going to help me get one.”

She dismisses my words with a wave. “No matter. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. There ain’t no people out on these roads anyway. And if you get pulled over, just give them Gabe’s name. It’s the least he can do for not finding the person who hurt you. Dinner’ll be ready at six p.m. on the porch. Don’t be late.”

The way the old woman strings together thoughts—bouncing from the mundane to the serious, and back to the mundane—is mind-boggling.

I listen to the stairs outside creak as Ginny leaves.

“Last week was the first time I’ve ever been up here in my life,” Meredith, who has remained quiet since following me into the apartment, admits. “Not bad, right?” She takes slow steps through the space, her boots clomping over the faded plank wood floors. “It’s a little sparse. We’ll get some more comfortable furniture in here as soon as we can.”

“It’s more than enough for me.” I don’t know how I’m used to living, but right now I don’t care about fancy furniture. I’ve been in limbo for months. I’m finally standing in a place that I can begin to call home.

She makes her way over to open the old, round-edged refrigerator. “Good. Amber got some fruit and yogurt . . . juice . . .” She adds absently, “If it had been Jesse stocking this, you’d be living off frozen pizzas and Coke.”

“So both your children live with you still?” I ask as casually as possible. She doesn’t ever bring her son up in conversation.

She pushes the door shut slowly before shifting over to the stove, turning this knob and that as if testing it. “No. Only Amber. Just for now, and she’s rarely home, she works so much.”

“And your son?”

“He lives in Portland. He’ll come for the odd weekend, though. He stays in the apartment above the garage.” Tapping the back left burner, she adds, “Gabe says this burner is temperamental, so just avoid it when you cook.” Much lower, she mutters, “Because I’m sure you’ll need a break from Ginny’s cooking sooner rather than later.”

Me? Cook? Do I cook?

I wander over to the bed to take in the colorful spread. And my feet falter. “Hey, this is . . .” My voice drifts off as my fingers trace over the red and yellow and orange swirls. It’s the quilt Ginny was working on last week in the hospital. The one she crumbled and I smoothed out. The bright colors are merely a backdrop for an enormous black tree, the obvious focal point. Just like the quilt hanging in that store window in town. “Wow, she finished it already?”

“Ginny’s known around town as the ‘Tree Quilt Lady.’ I swear half of Deschutes County has one of her creations in their house. That store I pointed out to you? It sells them on consignment.” Meredith’s brow furrows. “It may be worth talking to the owner, actually. I thought I heard her say that she needed some help this summer.”