Cold Black Earth (10 page)

Matt and Roger traded a look. Rachel said, “I know I walked around the corner of the barn. I remember exactly what I thought. I thought, Ed is hurt, Ed needs help. When there’s an accident you have to help. I didn’t want to walk around the corner of the barn, but I knew I had to. So I did. But I don’t have any visual memory of what I saw there.”

Roger peered at her and then his eyes flicked to meet Matt’s and he said, “Traumatic amnesia. It’s been known to happen.”

It’s not fair, Rachel thought. I should have been safe here. “It happened to me once before,” she said.

That got their attention. “When was that?” said Roger.

“When I was in Iraq. I saw a family that had been killed in their car at a checkpoint. The father misunderstood or panicked or whatever and didn’t stop in time. The soldier who killed them was standing off to the side, crying. I looked into the car and saw them all lying there shot to pieces, the parents and three little kids, but when I got back to the base the image was gone. It didn’t come back to me until about three weeks later when I woke up with it in the middle of the night.”

In the silence Matt squeezed her shoulder. Roger said, “So this might come back to you, too.”

“I guess I have that to look forward to, yes.” Rachel stared at the flashing lights. “Poor Ed. Oh, God, poor man.”

“He was dead before he got cut up, if it helps.”

That hung in the air for a while and then Rachel said, “How do you know?”

“Well, one, there’d have been more blood if he was still alive. Plus, I heard one of the investigators say there was blunt trauma to the head. The guy . . .” Roger paused.

“That’s OK. You don’t have to draw me a picture. I keep feeling like I’m going to be sick. I wish I could just throw up. I think I’d feel better.”

“Roger, can I take her home?”

“Not till the detectives clear it, I’m afraid. I’m sorry you have to wait around. They like to take their time. Rachel, if you really feel sick, I can take you into Warrensburg to St. Mary’s, and they can come and chase you down there.”

“No. I’ll be all right.”

Roger nodded. “Not too many people would have had the presence of mind to stay here and make the call. That took guts.”

“It wasn’t guts. It was just paralysis. If I’d been thinking clearly there’s no way I would have sat here waiting for you. It’s the crazy guy, isn’t it?”

Roger turned to look out through the windshield. “Seems like a good guess.”

“And he could be still around. He could be right there in the house, for example.”

“I think they checked that right away.”

“But he’s around here somewhere.”

Roger sat unmoving for a long moment. “We’ll get him.”

Headlights approached from the opposite direction. Roger got out of the cruiser and waved a flashlight beam back and forth across the road, signaling halt. As the van pulled up in the cruiser’s headlights Rachel saw a satellite dish on top, the logo of a Quad Cities TV station on the side. “That was fast,” she said.

“The buzzards are circling,” said Matt, pulling her closer. “They’ll be all over us before we know it.”

10    

Rachel stood looking through the window in the back door. The light from the halogen lamp high on the pole barely reached the shed, the barn, the grain bins, all the familiar structures now made sinister in the dark. A man could hide in there, Rachel thought. He could be out there right now.

“Come have some hot chocolate, honey,” said Karen Larson behind her.

Rachel turned. Matt had phoned Karen and Clyde Larson to give them the news, and they had insisted on driving the half mile down the road to join Rachel and Matt, circling the wagons. Nobody knew where Billy was.

Clyde Larson was one of those who was going to go on farming until he dropped dead; he didn’t need the money but he didn’t know what else to do with himself. He had married off three daughters, two to men with no interest in farming and one with land of his own; Clyde had sold off a lot of his acreage but was hanging on to the original homestead that bordered the Lindstroms’. He was past seventy and moving a little slower, but he could still climb up on the tractor. Karen had been close to Rachel’s mother and had been at her bedside in Peoria when she died. She was a long-limbed slender woman, bent and gray now, with knowing eyes behind thick glasses.

“Thank you.” Rachel took the mug from Karen and held it to her breast with both hands. “I feel like I’ll never be warm again.”

“Oh, sweetie. To have to see a thing like that.” The horror showed in Karen’s face.

Something dark and frightening flared briefly in Rachel’s mind, something she fled from quickly. “There are people who have to deal with things like this for a living.” Rachel thought of the doctors in Baghdad, sorting the living from the dead in blood-slick hospital corridors.

They settled at the kitchen table. From the living room came the low mumble of the television and the muttered comments of the men, surfing the channels for news. Rachel sipped the hot chocolate. “Who could do that? Who could do that to another human being?”

“A sick person. You would have to be, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I
hope
so.”

“I heard he did the same thing to his family. Can you imagine?”

I can now, Rachel thought. Out loud she said, “Ed’s truck was missing. The detectives think this Ryle must have taken it. They said every cop in Illinois and Iowa will be looking out for it tonight.”

“They’ll catch him.”

“But to think, he was around here, so close, yesterday, last night. Where was he hiding?”

“There are a lot of empty barns around here.”

Clyde and Matt came in from the living room. “You got something to protect yourself with, right?” Clyde was saying.

Matt put a beer bottle in the sink. He turned, leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “I got rid of my guns after Margie killed herself. I swore I would never have a gun in this house again.”

Clyde gave him a long grave look. “I can understand that, son. But the circumstances are kind of special, don’t you think? And there’s other people here you need to protect. I’ll lend you my .38 if you want. Or a shotgun. Take your pick.”

Matt looked at Rachel. “You want Clyde to bring over a gun? You want to take charge of it?”

Rachel couldn’t read what was in his face; it was perfectly impassive. “It’s your house. Your rules. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Matt looked at Clyde. “I think we’ll lock the doors and hope for the best. But I appreciate the offer.”

Clyde shrugged. “I’m not gonna insist. Let’s just hope this joker’s in jail by morning. If you need help, pick up the phone and I can be here in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Clyde.”

“Are you going to be all right, Rachel, honey?” Karen put her hand on Rachel’s shoulder.

Rachel smiled at her and patted her hand. She opened her mouth to say yes, but suddenly it was all she could do not to scream at the top of her lungs.

Karen frowned. “What’s wrong with me? You poor thing.” She looked at Matt. “I’ll be staying the night, if you don’t mind, Matt.”

“OK, sure. We got plenty of beds.”

“Thank you,” whispered Rachel, tears beginning to come. “Thank you.”

Susan came in the back door with a look of amazement on her face. “I didn’t know there were that many cops in the state of Illinois. They’re all over the roads.”

“The more the better,” said Rachel. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a few tanks.”

“Come here.” Susan held out her arms. For a long moment they swayed together in an embrace. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick. I feel sick. The best I can describe it is like a moral nausea. The whole world is spoiled.”

Susan held her at arm’s length. “You look like you haven’t slept in about three days.”

“I finally dropped off about six, for about half an hour. And this morning we had the police in again. And a couple of reporters. Matt let the cops in and sent the reporters packing.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

“They’re not saying. They just wanted to hear what I had to say, again. I’ve been through it with the sheriff’s department and the State Police. I’m about ready to get my story printed up on cards I can just hand out.”

“I won’t ask you to go through it again, then,” Susan said, gallantly.

Rachel sighed and turned away, making for the sink. “I found the body. He was cut up with a chainsaw. I saw it but I don’t remember it, have no visual memory, I mean. Roger says it’s traumatic amnesia. The only thing I’m really afraid of is that I’ll remember it suddenly.”

There was a shocked silence behind her as she rinsed dishes. When Rachel turned again, Susan had sunk onto a chair and was sitting with a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Rachel,” she breathed.

“Yeah.” Rachel dried her hands. “You know what I really need? I need to get out of the house.”

Susan was still reeling from the horror, but she managed to get her feet back on solid ground and drew a deep breath and said, “All right.” Suddenly she was brisk again, the organizer. “You can come with me on my interview.”

“What interview?”

“For the living memory project. The County Historical Society commissioned an oral history, based on old folks’ reminiscences. Somebody realized the Great Generation is dying off. So they dreamed up this book project and like an idiot I said I’d be in charge of it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It is, mostly. But it turned into a lot of work. You have to transcribe all the interviews, and that’s a pain. If you wanted to get involved I would be thrilled. It’s a lot of unpaid labor.”

“Sure. I could use something to do.”

“Great. I was going to talk to the Petersons over in Bremen today. Remember Cecilia? Graduated a few classes ahead of us? These are her parents. They’re in their eighties and living in town, and old Wally just about wept with gratitude on the phone. I think he’s desperate for somebody to talk to besides the wife.”

Rachel stripped off the apron. “Let’s go.”

It was a relief to be outside. The snow had held off, but a hard gray sky was still clamped down over everything, and a steady insidious wind had dragged the wind chill down below freezing. Rachel found Matt in the barn and told him what the plan was. He nodded, gazing at the chalked layout of his milking setup. “Be careful. You might want to be home by dark.”

“I’ll be fine. Susan says there are cops everywhere.”

“Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.” He finally looked at her. “You OK? Really?”

“I’m OK. I spent three years in Iraq, remember? I’ve got some bounce-back in me.” It was bravado, but Rachel had had her moment of weakness and wasn’t going to show it again.

Matt nodded. “I mean it about being careful. He’s out there somewhere.”

“You be careful, then. You’re the one who’s going to be alone here.”

“I’m aware,” he said.

“See you, then.” She turned and went.

In the car Susan had the heater on and the radio tuned to a Chicago oldies station. “We can listen to the news if you want.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the last thing I want to hear. Turn it up, I like this song.” Out in the open now, the car moving, Rachel found herself getting jittery, light-headed. In the distance, about where Ed’s place would be, a helicopter hovered.

At a crossroads they passed a parked sheriff’s car. The driver was a deputy they didn’t recognize, but they waved. “That’s reassuring,” said Susan.

“They can’t have every intersection staked out,” said Rachel. “There aren’t that many cops. That must mean they think he’s close.”

The temperature seemed to drop a couple of degrees. “Maybe they’ll catch him today.”

“That would be good.”

They went a mile or two in silence, Rachel feeling for the positive memories associated with the places they passed, trying to banish the air of oppression and menace. She was looking at the isolated farmsteads, the occasional clusters of trees, the great distances.
There are a lot of empty barns around here
, she remembered Karen Larson saying. “Remember when we used to leave our doors unlocked?”

“Different days. Crime was something that happened in Chicago.”

“I never felt unsafe out here. Never. Now . . . I’m thinking we’re a long way from help if something goes wrong.”

“There’s help.” A State Police patrol car crossed the road at the next intersection, a few hundred yards ahead. “They’ll catch him. It’s getting colder. Where’s he going to hide?”

The answer came to Rachel instantly and she opened her mouth to voice it, but stopped herself because it made her shudder.

Anywhere somebody answers the door, she thought.

Wally Peterson had sold the farm and moved into a brick bungalow in Bremen, a hamlet of four hundred or so souls which sat at the point where U.S. 34 and the BNSF railroad line diverged. Urbanization was thin in towns like this, and the street Wally’s house sat on was a country road fifty yards east of his front door.

“I can see corn out the back window, so I feel like I’m still living in the country. But I don’t have to pick the damn stuff anymore.” Wally still had both his hands but had lost most of his hair somewhere along the way; he combed a few strands over his shining dome every morning in valiant futility.

Susan had set up a little digital voice recorder on the coffee table in front of Wally and his wife, Janet, a plump little woman with tight white curls that looked like lambs’ fleece. Janet had let Wally do most of the talking despite Susan’s efforts to draw her in, apparently content to sit at the end of the couch watching her husband with reptilian patience and striking like a cobra when he got a name or a date wrong. “It wasn’t 1946, it was forty-eight. You were still in the army in 1946.” The look that accompanied the corrections was carefully blank, the rolling of the eyes artfully implied. To Rachel the whole thing looked like a long-settled constitutional distribution of power.

The Thomas murder had monopolized the first ten minutes of the encounter, but Rachel had managed to steer the conversation away from it before her central role had emerged, merely acknowledging Wally’s probing remark that it had happened “over your way.” When Susan had finally focused minds on the task at hand, Rachel had sat queasily trying to follow, wondering how long it would take her to feel right.