Consumption (5 page)

Erma felt the tears wet and hot cooling on her pillow, spit leaking from her mouth. They were both dead now, her parents. Her dad of the bottle and her mom of cancer. But they clung to her, like hooked ghosts, and she had not been able to shake them.

Beside her, John began to stir. If she woke him now, maybe, finally, she could explain what she had not been able to tell him before. That she was not only Twila Brown's daughter, but her father's child, too. And somewhere within her swam the cells to create a new beast, a mirror-creature to the one who'd crawled out of her father's drink-dim eyes.

Erma laid a tentative hand on John's shoulder, started to whisper his name, but the sound of a door slamming startled her away.

From under the crack of their bedroom door, she saw a light flip on. A figure paused before their door. Erma could hear breathing, slow and heavy.

Bunny? Bunny's husband? It must be one or the other, and Erma pulled the covers tighter, waiting for the figure to pass. When it did, she felt herself exhaling, not realizing that she'd been holding her breath.

There was the sound of another loud thump in the hallway, the light switch flicked off, and then all, again, was dark.

The chance to tell John had fled with the shadow, and once again Erma closed her eyes.

Finally, she found a kind of restless, desperate sleep.

Driving through Cavus was like having a conversation with a wife, or with a lover you'd known for years. Not a wife like his ex, Sharon, but one like he thought his high-school sweetheart, Sue, might have been. Comfortable, because you each knew everything about the other.

Here, for instance, was Main Street, the heart of the town, the same place Riley'd grown up riding his bike past McGregor's drugstore, stopping inside to get nickel candy and a fountain soda if his parents had been especially kind and his pockets were full. He'd always been fond of the chocolate malts there, too, but Herman McGregor had been so generous in his portions that once, when Riley had drunk the entire malt out of its tin cup, then tried to ride his bike back home in the hot sun, he'd ended up puking.

He let his car lights flash over the wood storefront. There it was, alive and well, except it was Petey McGregor and not Herman who ran the joint now. He turned onto Main and let his car drift down the paved street in silence. There were two blocks of “downtown,” which really meant that there were about two blocks of actual town.

Beyond the downtown, large and stepped hills framed the skyline, ringing it like a jagged bowl. Cavus sat nestled in the middle of them, a soft spot in the earth, like some god had stuck his thumb in a cooling cake. At the edges of Cavus, the rolling prairie stretched in beauty for miles before beginning its rocky ascent.

His was the only car out, and Riley slowed himself to a crawl. If any of Cavus's townsfolk saw the cop car rolling through the streets at this hour, he hoped they'd find it comforting. Patrick Riley, Cavus born and bred, was back in the saddle, folks. Nothing to worry about here.

To the right he saw the Thompson's boot and leather repair shop and thought he should probably remember to get his own boots in soon for a resoling. He didn't like to buy new boots often because he hated to break them in, and so he went through two or three soles a pair. Alexander Thompson knew this and took care to put on as sturdy a sole as he could for Riley and always threw in a free shoe polish.

The trees alongside the street were purely decorative, out of place in the natural sweeping plains of Montana. Still, Riley thought they were beautiful. He looked at them now, remembering how as a boy he'd come downtown at night and hidden with friends behind their shadows in rowdy games of tag.

Riley pulled his car into one of the slanted parking spaces along the street, just outside of Thompson's, and pointed his headlights at the area between two trees. The lights lit up a park bench and a trashcan, nothing more. Riley pulled back out and moved on. He didn't like the shadows tonight. He wanted everything illuminated.

Another block down and Riley turned right, onto Chester. If he stayed on this and took a right on Phillips, he could drive right by Aunt Bunny's. Thinking of this, he wondered how the Scotts were getting on. Probably they were asleep now, which was what he should be.

When Phillips came, he passed it without turning and continued on. He knew where he was going even as the lights from the factory appeared. His car crested the hill and the moon revealed the hulking shape of the factory building, steam rising from her chimneys.

SweetHeart Industries. If Cavus was an old lover, this, then, was something new—new but familiar. The old coal mines had been out here once. His own grandpa had worked in them before he died of emphysema. A lucky thing, all considered. If the emphysema hadn't gotten him, the fire would have. Thinking of the fire reminded him of Pill Verrity, the man who'd been married to its only survivor. Pill with his crazy rantings at the convenience store today. What, Riley wondered, was left for a man like that? And how did he keep himself from becoming one?

The road beneath Riley smoothed out as the newly paved section that SweetHeart had put in took over.

The mines had been shut down for a long time now, boarded over after the fire, but a few months ago a bidding war had broken out over the old property and SweetHeart Industries Inc. emerged the victor. The beet sugar producer had big plans for Cavus's old coal factory, and they'd revived the town, hiring up almost anyone who asked for a job in order to get their industry started. Cavus, a town that had to perpetually struggle to keep itself going, now had the lowest unemployment rate of all the counties in Montana. Two percent unemployment, and all this during a recession.

He let his car roll over the road, and then ten minutes later there he was, sitting outside the doors of the factory in the small parking lot that had so recently been put in for its workers.

There must have been a crew working the late shift, Riley figured, because not only were the lights still on in the big building, but there were ten or eleven cars scattered in the parking lot. He squinted toward them and was able to identify most. One, he thought, was Uncle Bob's Jeep. Bunny hadn't been lying when she said that SweetHeart had saved the town. She hadn't been exaggerating either, or not by much. Most of the families were farm families, and with their farms failing, they had no choice but to get employment elsewhere or move on. Even if they had moved on, there weren't many jobs these days for anybody.

All the same…Riley studied the building again. It wasn't big by factory standards, only by Cavus ones. SweetHeart Industries Beet Factory was composed of a single building the size of a modest high school. It didn't have a look of longevity to it, like the other factories Riley had seen. This one had been slapped up in the space of a few weeks, with premade pieces shipped in from someplace like China or India. Its sides were aluminum, and they made the whole place look something like one of those plastic Fisher Price toy houses that came in four pieces that parents could snap together in less than an hour for their kids to play in. He'd bought Izzy something like that just last year for Christmas, although she'd had to keep it at her mom's house.

Izzy. Thinking of her made him both happy and frustrated. Happy that he'd see her soon and that she was his. Izzy, his daughter; Izzy, the smart, sweet child he'd never known he'd always wanted until she arrived—but it frustrated him, too. Maddened him. She should be with him, not hundreds of miles away with her floozy of a mother.

Riley pounded his fist against the dashboard, then sank back in a crumple against his seat. It wasn't fair to blame Sharon entirely. She'd just been a young girl who fell in love. He'd been the old fool who let her.

But he'd changed all of that with this move back to Cavus. He'd fix up the old house he'd grown up in, make it so that Izzy could spend summers enjoying the sweet, small-town life he'd had as a boy. And then…he hardly let himself have the thought, but there it was…then maybe, when she was older, she'd want to come here permanently. Live with him here in Cavus.

The factory hummed busily, its outlines soft in the moonlight and smoke pouring out of the chimney. The sound pumping from it was that of many machines running comfortably together, of pieces moving and working in synch. It was a comforting sound, not disturbing or excessive like many of the city factories Riley'd seen. It was a comforting sound, but it didn't comfort him. He didn't like the place, Riley realized, sitting up straighter.

There was no reason for it, no reason at all that he should have feelings one way or another toward SweetHeart, but he did. There was something about it that he couldn't put his finger on, a gut reaction. After all these years, Patrick Riley had learned that kind of thing was not something that could or should be ignored.

But it would have to be for tonight. Riley glanced at the neon clock on his dashboard and saw that it was pushing midnight. He thought about his need to get home when the factory doors swung open and a stream of men floated out of the fluorescent light and into the parking lot.

Riley paused, then lowered his arm. He watched the people leaving; most of them he'd known since he was a kid. They looked happy. The men and women talked and joked as they came outside. There was Uncle Bob, and Riley watched as he waved to another man, someone who looked like Tim Erickson, who'd helped Riley take their high school football team to state, though it was hard to tell in this light. Riley thought about honking at them but stopped himself. Better, maybe, to remain in the shadows here. Just another car in the lot. He'd never figured out why, but the sight of a cop car often scared people, even the most law-abiding ones.

A new group emerged, this one made up of three women. One of them, and Riley was certain this time, was Margaret Chenowith, a woman who'd been dear friends with his mother. She must be pushing seventy now, so apparently the factory was an equal opportunity employer.

People slammed doors and car engines started up. One by one they trailed out of the parking lot. Finally, Riley's was the only car left. He flipped his lights on and turned over his own engine, shifting into reverse. He was about to leave when he saw a shape standing in front of the car, caught unexpectedly in his headlights. The shape threw its hands up to cover its eyes, stepped to the side of the lights, and then slowly lowered them, walking tentatively forward.

Riley could make out the person better now, and he knew immediately who it was. Javier Martinez, who'd just moved here with his family. He watched as the boy recognized the shape of the cop car and stiffened.

Javier was an illegal, Riley knew that. Everybody knew that, and a few people had already called Riley asking him to do something about it. He hadn't been planning to, had been planning on just avoiding the kid and the situation entirely, but now here he was. Riley watched the tensed boy, waiting for him to run. If he ran, would Riley follow him? Would he turn on his warning lights?

But the boy surprised him. Instead of taking flight, he moved forward, toward the car. The walk was straight and steady, but it didn't entirely disguise the fear. Riley tensed, ready for an encounter. Two feet closer, then three, and the boy was at the hood of the car. He raised his hand in a fist, then lowered it to tap twice, gently, on Riley's car hood.

A hello. The boy tapped twice and then raised his hand in a wave. Riley waved back, grinning. The boy walked on and disappeared into the night.

Some balls on that one,
he thought, turning the car around and heading down the single road back into town. He didn't see Javier. Despite the boy's bravery, Riley figured he was keeping well off the path, letting the cop pass him by.

The kid could be no older than sixteen, much too young to be employed at the factory even if he had been legal. But he was built like a man, no doubt about that. Straight shoulders and tall; dark hair clipped neatly above his ears.

In his mind, Riley saw the boy bringing his hand down on the hood of the car again, gently, and tapping it, almost like counting coup.

I'm here, old man
, that tap had said.
I'm here and I see you. Now, what are you going to do about it?

The answer was, nothing. Riley was going to do absolutely nothing about it. Not if he could help it.

And just like that, the tiredness hit him. Like a wave, it rolled over him, almost pulling his eyelids shut right there on the road. He needed to get home. Home was a warm bed and a final bowl of ice cream, if he could stay awake long enough to eat it. Home was pictures of Izzy and plans for their summer and sweet dreams of times gone by. Home.

Riley cranked the engine higher and watched the speedometer creep up to fifty, then sixty, as he left the factory behind.

He made it two blocks when his radio squawked on. “Sheriff?”

“Yes?”

“I went out to the Williams place, like you asked.”

Riley had asked Sam to go out to Thad Williams's house and collect his work car, something that should have been done a long time ago. Apparently, the man was still driving it, despite having quit his job.

“And, was he home?” It was awfully quick for Sam to be getting back to him.

“No, Sheriff, he weren't.”

“That's all right, Sam. We'll try again tomorrow.”

A pause. Dead air.

“Sam? I said we'll—”

“I think you'd better come on out here tonight, Sheriff.”

“What do you mean? I thought he wasn't home.”

“He ain't.”

“Then why would I—”

“There's a girl, Sheriff. A dead girl. Sitting right at Thad's kitchen table.”

“A dead girl?”

“A body, Sheriff.”

Sam's voice was shaking. Riley had already slowed the car, turned it around. At the same time, he felt the murmur of protest well up inside him. This was not why he'd come back to Cavus, goddammit. Cavus was supposed to be quiet. Safe.

Riley took a deep breath and tried to calm his deputy. “Relax. Tell me exactly what you saw. Was it an accident?” Despite himself, his cop mind was already hard at work trying to figure out who the girl might be. Thad had a daughter, he knew. A teenager named Star whom he'd seen a few times around town. Could be her. If it was, he hoped it wasn't anything to make Thad's life harder, a drug overdose or…

“It weren't an accident,” Sam said.

“There's no way you can be sure, Sam.”

“I can. It wasn't no accident, Sheriff. Her face, it's…God, it's bad, Sheriff. And when I went out to the barn to look for Thad, he wasn't there, but there was…” He let out a large, gaping yawp.

“Calm down, Sam. Tell it to me slow.”

“There was a lot of blood. Right there in the middle of the floor. And on the workbench there was a dress. It was all torn up.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“No, I…I waited. I thought that's what you would want me to do.”

“You did right, Sam. You did just right. Now, stay there. And keep your gun out. You do that, okay?”

“Okay.”

Riley had already taken his finger off the radio's talk button, but just the same, he spoke the next words aloud.

“I'm coming just as fast as I can, Sam. You hold on.”