Hold of the Bone (17 page)

“Oh, yeah, sure. I can barely ride in the clear light of day and now I'm supposed to go out in a storm and ride in the dark, then drive down a muddy hill without four-wheel drive?”

Sal nods. “Or I could put you up in the other room and take you back in the morning. Your choice.”

“Doesn't seem like much of a choice.”

Frank has to admit she can't blame Sal for not wanting to go out in the storm. She doesn't want to either, just to spend the night in a damp hotel room poring over questions she should have asked hours ago. Still, it's an egregious violation. Wind squalls against the blackening windows and Bone lifts his head to give her a searching look. Staring at the fire, trying to figure her next move, she recalls the touch of Marguerite's palm between her breasts.

“Okay.” She settles into the wing chair. “But if you won't give me a ride, you have to answer questions.”

Chapter 18

“I hear your father hit your mother.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Couple places. True?”

Sal reaches for a pouch on the end table and holds it in her lap. Instinctively assessing the size and shape of the pouch, Frank decides its contents are harmless. Just because she's agreed to wait out the storm with Sal, it doesn't mean she trusts her.

“Sometimes.”

“Often?”

Sal shrugs. “Whenever he got drunk and thought the world was too much against him.”

“What would you and Cass do when that happened?”

“We'd wait in the barn until he lost steam. A few times when we were younger, we ran down to the house to get John.”

“Mazetti? What did he do?”

“He stopped him.”

“Did they fight?”

“Sometimes, but it was never a match. My father was always pretty drunk and John could knock him out with an easy punch. That usually settled it until the next time.”

“What if John wasn't there? What did you do then?”

Sal tugs the strings on the pouch. She fingers out a pack of rolling papers. “Pete came up a couple times. We'd try to stop him, though. He was brave but not much older than us. We didn't want him to get hurt, so that was when we decided we'd hide in the barn until it was safe to come back in.”

“That's a shitty way to grow up.”

Sal lifts a dismissive shoulder. “I suppose there are worse ways. And it didn't happen all the time.”

“Still, it must have been scary when it did.” Frank surprises herself by volunteering, “I had it the other way around.” She twirls a finger around her ear. “My mom was loopy. Every now and then she'd go after my father, start swinging at him with a knife or a baseball bat. One time she took a saw to his arm while he was sleeping. We never knew what was going to set her off.”

Sal bobs her head in agreement.

“I also heard that your parents fought the night before your mom died. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the fight.”

Seeming to remember the papers in her hand, Sal takes one and folds it. Frank watches her make a crease and pinch tobacco into the fold. “It started like they always did. He came home drunk and belligerent. She started nagging about how much he'd spent at the bars, and when I saw where it was headed I went to the barn.”

“Where was Cass?”

“In town. With Pete, I think.”

“Did you see any of the fight, or hear it?”

“No.”

“What was it like when you came back into the cabin?”

“It was quiet. My mother had gone to bed. He was passed out on the couch with his boots on. It always amazed me how he could sleep with his boots on.”

“When was the next time you saw your mother?”

“At breakfast that morning. Her eye was swollen. She said she had a terrible headache and went back to bed. That's when my father told us he was going down to LA.”

“And then what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother goes back to bed. Your father announces he's leaving. What happened next?”

“I guess we went to school, just like a regular day. We took the truck. Then Corette came and got us out of school. Told us—”

“Corette was John's wife?”

Sal nods. “Evidently mother got herself down to the ranch and told Corette she felt like her head was exploding. Corette took one look and drove her into town. Apparently the aneurism had already happened and her brain was filling with blood. She was unconscious by the time Corette got her to the hospital.” Sal licks the glued paper and tamps the ends.

“I understand Cass was pretty upset.”

“She was.”

“She accused your father of killing her. Did anyone ever think about pressing charges against him?”

Sal shakes her head. “Mother told the doctor she fell and no one actually saw him hit her.”

“But you heard them fighting.”

“I did.”

“And you saw she was hurt after the argument.”

“Yes, but it wouldn't have mattered. Things were different back then. Domestic violence was the norm, not the exception. How a man raised his family was his own business.”

In an attempt to verify what Carly Simonetti has told her about Mary Saladino's brothers, Frank baits, “So no one was upset about this except Cass?”

“I never said no one was upset. I just said there wasn't anything we could do about it.”

“How did the rest of the family react?”

Sal admits, “My uncles wanted to kill him.”

“They said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what did they do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? Did any of them take a trip after the accident? Disappear for a while?”

“Not that I recall. It was a pretty crazy time.”

“How'd your uncles get along with him before your mom died?”

“They tolerated him. No one liked him except my Uncle Rod, and
that was only because my father would buy him drinks. When he wasn't fighting with him.”

“What did they fight about?”

“They drank in the same bars, and every couple months they'd have a go at it. My father would call him a loser and make fun of him. Uncle Rod was manic depressive and drank on top of it. He couldn't ever keep a job. So if they weren't fighting about that, they'd fight over what a loser my father was, being John Mazetti's slave. I think sometimes my uncle would pick a fight just to keep the heat off my mother.”

“And where's his family?”

“He never had one. I don't think he ever had a steady girl. Too unstable.”

Sal offers the cigarette she's been holding. Frank takes it without thinking. They smoke and listen to the rain hammering the windows. Sal puts another log on the fire and settles with Kook beside her.

“Tell me about your sister.”

“What about her?”

“I hear she was a wild one. True?”

Sal nods, petting Kook.

“Cass was always the daredevil. She always wanted to ride farther, stay out later, climb higher. When she got older and started drinking, she was absolutely fearless. She'd do anything, no matter how ridiculous or dangerous.”

“Like what?”

“Break into people's homes. Steal beer from the gas station. Play chicken. Moon the police. Anything. She'd take on any dare.”

“Play chicken, like with cars?”

Sal nods. “She loved to drag race down Main Street or the frontage road.”

“Was she good at it?”

“The best. I told you, she was wild when she drank. She'd rather die than lose a bet.”

Frank gets up to pitch her cigarette into the fire and squats beside it. When she rises, Sal's gaze is full and expectant upon her, as if she waits for something from Frank. Again Frank wonders just who is doing the interviewing.

“Why didn't you tell me Mike and Pete followed you to LA?”

“I didn't think of it. It's not a secret.”

Frank tries, “What happened when they found you?”

“They didn't. We didn't even know they were there.”

“When did you know they'd followed you?”

“I couldn't say. Maybe the next day.”

“When was your mother's funeral?”

“That Sunday.”

“And they were home for that?'

“Yes.”

“What about John Mazetti? Was he at the funeral?”

She nods. “He drove us into town that day.”

“Where was he when your mother died?”

“I don't know. I don't remember. But I know he wasn't here because Corette hated driving, so she wouldn't have taken my mother to the hospital if John had been around to do it.”

“What was her relationship like with your mother?”

Sal tenses, barely but perceptibly. “It was fine.” Not bothering to hide a yawn, she asks, “Do you mind if we take this up again in the morning? It's been a long day.”

Her abrupt change of subject is intriguing, but Frank decides to follow it later. “Sure,” she agrees.

Sal shows her to the second room off the hallway. “There are clean sheets in the bureau. I'll get you something to sleep in.”

“The sweats are fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Sal leaves and Frank opens a tall, faded cupboard. Amid boxes and folded clothes, she finds linens and turns to the bed. It bows in the middle, and she starts to regret her decision.

Sal returns with a glass of water. She sets it on the nightstand and helps Frank with the sheets. “There's a blanket in the bureau if you need it.”

She moves for the door and Frank asks, “Mind if I look through your books?”

“Not at all.”

After Sal calls the dogs and closes the door to the other bedroom, Frank returns to the living room. It's lit only by the dying fire. The rain has eased and glides smoothly over the windows. Frank stands near the books but makes no attempt to read titles. The cabin is serene. She stands listening to rain tap on glass and to the fire gnawing at its wood—until the room tilts and the whirling begins. Putting out a hand to steady herself, she spills books onto the floor. Frank hears the high, thin keening of women. Her last thought before she flies over twilit mountains is that she knows what the women are crying for.

Chapter 19

Frank is on the floor. Sal sits cross-legged beside her, backlit from the kitchen; she is dark and unreadable. Frank rises to an elbow. Bone touches his tongue gently to her cheek. Sal nudges him away, but he continues to hover. “What happened?” she asks.

Frank remembers circling over mountains and a wine-red sea, the wailing of a woman. And more. Winter stars and a solitary fire. “I get these . . . dizzy spells.” Even though she's the one lying on the floor, Frank feels a little smug that Sal didn't picked up on the visions back at the store. She gets to her knees. Sal tries to help, but Frank shakes her off.

“How do you feel?”

“I'm okay.”

“I'm going to make you some tea.”

“No,” Frank says more forcefully than she means to. “I'm fine.”

Sal ignores her and runs water into the kettle. Frank eases onto the couch and Bone stands beside her. When he drops his chin on her knee, she pets him, wondering if passing out might become a regular part of the visions.

“Here.” Sal hands her a steaming mug.

It smells like wet forest floor and Frank wrinkles her nose. “What is it?”

“Just herbs. They'll help you sleep.”

But Frank doesn't want to sleep. She is suddenly irritated by Sal's obstinacy and dogs and reeking tea, the rain and reeling visions, but mostly Frank is pissed at herself. She never should have gotten into Sal's truck. It was an irrational, impulsive decision and now she is stuck with it. She just wants to be home in her own bed, and barring
that, at least the cool, reasonable comfort of her hotel room. She might not be able to stop the visions, but at least there she won't be passing out in front of strangers and making a fool of herself.

“Look,” she tries to reason. “This is ridiculous. I'm a homicide detective. You know that, right?”

“I'm aware,” Sal replies cautiously.

“Are you also aware I could arrest you for hindering an investigation?”

“I'm not sure how I'm hindering, but if you say so I suppose it may be true.”

“
May
be? It
is
! I could handcuff you and take you off this mountain right now.”