Lie in Wait (9 page)

 

Chapter 17

J
ED
K
ING KNELT
at the edge of the cedar swamp, peered under a blown-­down tree, straight into the eyes of the red fox caught in a #2 Victory leg-­hold trap.

Foxes had been working the swamp edge pretty good of late. King had discovered this while running his beaver and muskrat trap lines, so had run a string of fox setups. There was good money in fur again. Not as good as in the eighties, before all the bleeding hearts fussed and cried. He'd never see those prices again. But current prices made trapping worth the effort.

He stared at the fox. A male. It was early in the season and the fur was not nearly prime. Still, it was worth a good sixty bucks.

King took an old axe handle from his trapper's basket.

He tapped the ax handle in his palm, looked at the fox.

The fox hunkered, bared its teeth.

King stepped closer.

The fox tried to pull free of the trap, but couldn't.

It stared up at King, snapped its jaws, spitting.

King tapped the axe handle in his palm. “Hold still. It's no use.”

There were many who believed what King did was cruel; even those who wore fur. They didn't like that the fur came from
cute
animals. Cute. Anyone who'd ever seen a mink or a beaver close up knew how foul they were. Vermin. Their fur stank of algae and glandular musk. They had teeth as yellow as an old woman's toenails. They boiled with parasites. Beaver dams flooded farms and ball fields. The red fox was a handsome animal when it was a kit, King gave them that much. But even then the feral beasts crawled with fleas and ticks. Their ears so full of mites they leaked puss from infection. Their haunches caked with shit.

Activists knew squat about wild animals. No shock when they only left their work desk and computer to sit their lazy asses in front of the TV or maybe go hike on a
nature trail
that had signs posted along the way to identify everything they observed.

What these ­people did not understand was, for a wild animal, there was no more humane death than the trapper's club or the hunter's bullet. Any natural means of death in the wild was long and slow and torturous and
painful
: gangrene from a cut that never healed; slow starvation and dehydration over foodless months in the winter; drowning; brain tumors and heartworm; cancer with no treatment; slipping on the ice of a frozen pond and being unable to get back up; being dragged down by coyotes by your haunches, then ripped open, intestines fed on while you still kicked and bleated. That was nature. That was the
cute
world of the wild. Just what the fuck did these ­people think happened out in the wild?

King often asked folks who railed against trapping what death they would prefer, if they had a choice: The slow, anguishing, humiliating death nature offered or a sudden, skilled, painless blow to the skull, a quick bullet to the heart, and then, nothing? He knew which he'd prefer. What ass-­backwards hogwash. Jesus, it infuriated him, the hypocrisy: These bleeding hearts who
loved
animals so much but wanted them to die cruel and humiliating deaths were the same damned ones who pushed for legal euthanasia and suicide for humans, railed about death with dignity. Shit.

King took no pleasure in killing.

He offered what the market wanted.

He was professional.

Humane.

He did what a man needed to do.

King tapped the axe handle in his palm.

The fox thrashed wildly in a futile attempt to escape.

King brought the axe handle down on the fox's skull with a single clean, expert blow.

The fox flattened, its back leg jerking, then falling still.

It was over.

Painless.

Just like that.

You should be so lucky.

 

Chapter 18

J
UST PAST A
cluster of rusted mailboxes, Richard North pulled his car off Route 12 on the outskirts of the neighboring town of Ivers and down a dirt road whose sign read: B
AR
KER
F
ARM
M
OBILE
H
OME
P
ARK
.

Inside the park, the road turned to dirt at a T and made a one-­way loop through the park. Drivers entered on the right and exited back out on the left. There was no sign but everyone knew that was the way it worked. The trailers sat perpendicular to the road to allow more of them per acre, placed so close together the only real estate between them was a shared dirt driveway; and so close to the road that dust from cars blew into open windows to collect, North imagined, on the tops of big-­screen televisions and the arms of beer-­stained velour loveseats.

A Rottweiler charged out from under a parked pickup truck. It barked and bared its fangs and black gums, lunged at North's door to be yanked hard onto its back when it hit the end of its rusted chain. It yelped and lunged again, was yanked back again, saliva slinging from its mouth. Dope dealers owned dogs like that. There were plenty around. Marijuana: cash crop of Vermont. The nascent craft brewing rage had nothing on the dope growers. Not yet, anyway. He had nothing personally against marijuana. Didn't believe it was a gateway drug, and in his day as a patrol officer had always been far more at ease and safe when he dealt with stoners rather than drunks during a call in the middle of the night.

North crept the cruiser along.

A gaggle of barefoot boys dressed in torn jeans and sleeveless flannel shirts played football in the road. They disassembled and shuffled slowly to the roadside, where they gawped at the patrol car. Their faces glistened with sweat as they stood with their hands on their hips, thumbs crooked in the corners of their pockets, or arms folded across their chests. They spat and scuffed their feet and kept their narrowed eyes on North. The boy with the football stood with the ball tucked under his arm. Blood trickled from his nose into his mouth. He licked at it.

Trailer #47, painted a sunny lemon yellow, occupied a piece of ground a good three times larger than any of the other trailers. A recently painted green door and green shutters graced the façade. Tidily shorn shrubs grew along its skirt not quite concealing the cinderblock base, which was also painted yellow. From window flower boxes, dried husks of geraniums faced a long winter before they would see weather warm enough to bloom blood red again.

Jessica's mother, Marigold Cumber, had owned all of this land in the late eighties. It had been what was left of her family's generational dairy spread. Marigold had sold the land to a shyster developer from Montreal in a knee-­jerk decision after her brother and husband were killed in, of all things, a marijuana raid gone bad. She'd moved down to Florida to be with her mother. But years later, moved back after her mother passed on. Right back where she started. Except now instead of living proudly in a modest trailer with astounding views of open family land all around her, she paid rent to a crook to live among folks who hooked Rottweilers to chains.

Marigold had returned home with a three-­year-­old daughter in tow. Rumor had it that the father was some teenage kid named Jessup that Marigold had fallen in with and who'd moved away after Marigold set out for Florida. The math didn't work, but maybe Jessica was his namesake for other reasons.

Now, that daughter, the only child Marigold would ever have, was dead.

Some ­people lived lives of perpetual hardship. Endured rather than lived.

Good ­people.

How is that
? North wondered.

The driveway sat empty. North pulled the cruiser in and shut down the engine.

He got out.

The sun shone keenly, cruel and cold. In a window of the neighboring trailer, a curtain flicked. North was still bothered by what had happened at Jed King's place. If he hadn't needed to come out here, he'd have gone after Detective Test and spoken his mind freely. Told her just what he'd thought of her actions. But, duty called. He'd make it a point to find her later. It was not something he wanted to say over the phone. It was something better left in person.

A tiny porch enclosed Marigold's front steps.

An American flag hung limp in the cold, dead air.

North walked up the two steps and rang the bell with a sense of dread. He knew patrol officers had come in the night to inform Ms. Cumber of her daughter's death. But the look on a mother's face, her posture, when the wound was so fresh was almost unbearable. There was nothing that could be said, nothing that could be done, to help those drenched in such profound and piercing grief. They were alone in their suffering, even if they were in conversation with God.

He rapped on the door.

No answer came.

He rang the bell.

No one came.

He rapped on the storm door's Plexiglas window.

The boys who had been playing football now stood on the road out in front of the trailer and stared up the driveway at the porch, hands stuffed deep in their pockets. At least there were no media lurking about the park. Perhaps they'd come and gone. More likely they were more interested in the gay-­marriage angle. It was juicier, seamier. It sold papers and got page views. True or not.

North was about to knock again when the main door opened just enough to straighten its chain lock. A sliver of an old woman's face appeared in the crack. Too old to be Marigold Cumber's face. An eye worked over North. The woman pulled the collar of a plaid bathrobe up around her neck. Cigarette smoke drifted through the screen and North held back a cough. The woman did not open the storm door. “No comment,” she said. “Hear?”

“I'm not a reporter, ma'am,” North said.

“Who're you then?”

“A detective, with the Vermont State Police, ma'am.”

“Quit calling me ma'am, we aren't in Alabama.”

“I need to speak with Ms. Cumber. Is she in?”

“You expect her to be out shopping? The reporters finally pushed off, now we have to deal with you?”

“May I see her?” North said. He showed her his ID.

The old woman disappeared from the door. Muffled voices found their way to North from inside. The old woman reappeared. She glanced toward the cruiser. “She's too tired.”

“I really do need—­”

“Not now you don't. She's—­”

The woman's eyes drifted to look behind North. He heard a car with a bad exhaust pull in and a car door shut. He turned around. Unbelievable.

Sonja Test was walking toward the trailer. Did she never give up? There was nothing he could do to prevent her from speaking with witnesses or persons of interest, but to come to the mother's home. It took a pair. She was—­.

The old woman opened the door slightly as Test came to stand beside North on the crowded porch steps.

“She your partner,” the old lady said.

“No,” Test said.

“You a cop too?” the old woman said.

“A detective.”

“A lady cop.” The old woman disappeared from the door without any warning.

“Look,” North said, facing Test. The two stood closer than King and Test had been to one another earlier. “About earlier, you need—­”

The old woman returned, waved her cigarette at Test. “You can come in. He”—­she clicked her teeth at North—­“can't.”

North saw a smile quiver at the corners of Test's lips.

“No,” Test said, surprising North.

“How's that?” the old woman said.

“All due respect,” Test said, “Detective North is the lead on this investigation and he's here for one thing only: to help find who murdered Ms. Cumber's daughter. So. Please. Don't impede him from—­”

“Don't do what?” the old woman said.

“Please, let him in with me,” Test said.

The woman shut the door.

North stared at the door, confounded. “Thanks,” he managed.

“I only said it because it's true. And all I care about is—­”

The door opened. The old woman waved them in as if waving at a mosquito in her sleep.

North opened the door and the two detectives stepped inside.

 

Chapter 19

A
CRAMPED LIVING
area lay in near darkness. The scent of vanilla air spray could not cloak the odor of cigarette smoke and fried food. The paneled walls, which undoubtedly had once been a faux wood grain, were painted pink. Across from a sunken couch, almost within arm's reach of it, stood an enormous particleboard entertainment center that ate up most of the room. In the center of it, where a TV would sit, an aquarium more massive than any North had seen in a home, sat on display.

The aquarium teemed with luminous, exotic fish that swam in circles, darted, and finned in place. Some appeared dead, their lips suctioned to the glass. A black light lit pink pebbles littered across the bottom, and illuminated the stripes of fish to a neon glow. North didn't care for fish. He didn't like fishing and he didn't like to eat fish. Found their taste foul and flesh grotesque. Probably because he didn't like water. He'd nearly drowned as a boy, the memory of which he now pushed down as it tried to rise.
Where's my focus gone?
he thought.

On the shelves to either side of the aquarium sat precisely arranged porcelain horse figurines. A red ribbon hung from around the neck of one horse, a rearing black stallion.

On the top shelf sat dozens of framed photos of Jessica.

In one photo, Jessica leaned forward astride a horse, arms wrapped adoringly around its neck. A red show ribbon was attached to the bridle. Jessica's eyes were closed, her face lit with a smile so ecstatic, so simple and joyous, so
youthful
, it broke North's heart for knowing he'd never find such sheer happiness again, and neither would she. The happiness of a child.

“Fourth place at a 4-­H show. You'd swear she'd won gold at the Olympics,” a woman's voice said.

Marigold Cumber, Jessica's mother, sat in the tiny kitchen at a small white wrought-­iron café table with a scalloped edge. Her chair, one of a pair, matched the table, its back fashioned of a single piece of iron bent to approximate the shape of a heart. The sort of table set you might find in a Paris café.

The old woman dragged on a cigarette and looked at the photo of Jessica on the horse. “Girl was so full of sunshine you'd swear one day she was going to burst into flames.”

“Will you please go outside with that cigarette, Aunt Jean?” Marigold said.

The old woman rolled her eyes. “Person can't smoke nowheres these days. Not even after traveling across the country to lend a hand.”

North's abdomen tightened at the woman's careless words as Test stared coolly at her.

The woman hacked. “I'll leave her with you two then.” She was halfway out the door when she said, “That gang a boys is back. You think they'd have more goddamned respect.” She stepped out onto the porch, the door snapping shut behind her as she railed: “You boys get the hell onto your own damned business!”

Marigold tugged a window shade near her and let it go so it rolled up with a sharp snap. As she wrapped her hands around a brown bottle on the table, sunlight angled through the window and bathed her in its light. The bottle's label had been peeled off and lay in shreds on the table. Marigold took a long drink from the bottle. “Please, in here,” she said, “it's more pleasant.”

North crossed to the kitchen. There was scant room for him and Test to join Jessica's mother.

“There's a folding chair there behind you,” she said to North. He took the metal chair and unfolded it and squeezed in at the table.

Marigold drank. “Can I get either of you a drink? I'm afraid all I got's water and”—­ she raised her bottle—­“cream soda.”

North felt shame course through him for assuming Marigold had been drinking beer.

“No thank you, ma'am,” Test said.

North placed his elbows on the table. It teetered. It may have been the style of a table found in Paris, but it was made of cheap plastic. A knockoff found at any chain hardware store.

The kitchen counters were spotless, bare of anything save a compact microwave. On the refrigerator door, magnets held up more photos of Jessica.

Test's gaze roved over a photo of Jessica who had her arm around another girl.

“We're sorry for your loss, Mrs. . . . is it Mrs. or Ms.?” Test said.

“Marigold.”

“Marigold,” Test said.

Marigold tightened her mouth and looked at the pile of shredded label. “It hit me last night,” she said absently. “Then. Today. Nothing. For a spell. Even if I'm thinking of her or looking right at a photo. Nothing. Then. It comes.” She scratched her thumbnail across where the label on the bottle had been, scraping back the glue so it curled under her nail. Her tears dripped on the table, but she made no sound.

“If you need a moment,” Test said.

Marigold nodded. “I do.”

North set his notepad on the table. The table teetered.

“If you fix the match book under the leg on your side,” Marigold said.

Richard leaned over, wedged the matchbook he saw under the leg and sat back up, dizzy. He tested the table. It was level.

“That usually does it,” Marigold said.

The aquarium's aerator gurgled.

Marigold looked at Test. Her gaze was unwavering, her eyes lucid.

“If we may,” Test said.

Marigold nodded.

Test looked at North to ask a question. Instead, he nodded to Test to begin.

“Did your daughter have a boyfriend?” Test said.

“No.”

“How sure of that are you?”

“Sure as a mother can be. So. Not very. We all know we don't know everything about our kids, having been kids.”

“But as far as you know?”

“Far's I know.”

“How about friends who were boys?”

“She talked about them. Pals. I never met any of them.”

“None of them?” Test said.

“She only ever brought her around.” Marigold pointed at the photo on the refrigerator, the one Test had been studying, the one with Jessica's arm slung over the girl's shoulder.

“Olivia,” Test said.

North fixed his eyes on Test. How did she know the friend's name?

“Do you know any of the other kids' names?” Test said.

“If I thought about it, I might. It's hard to focus.”

“Of course. Was there anything troubling about her behavior lately?”

“Nothing I noticed.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“No change in mood or personality?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“She was cracking down even more than usual with her studies. Spending a lot of time at the town library at night. She always studies so hard. Better than I ever did. She gets
so
upset by a ­couple Bs. Imagine? Upset over Bs. I'd a been thrilled to get a B, just once.”

Test glanced at North. He gestured for her to continue.

“So the extra studies were her idea?” Test said.

“I was all for it, of course. But I wasn't exactly cracking the whip after her getting three As and two Bs.”

“I see,” Test said. “Why'd the library? Why didn't she study at home?”

“The Internet. It's lousy and slow here. And. Well. Expensive. I couldn't swing it. Or a laptop.” She blushed. “I was saving for one. For college.” She closed her eyes. The tears came again. A river of them. Sudden and silent. They spattered the table. She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes tightly. Deep wrinkles sprang at their corners. She opened her eyes and offered the most pained smile North had ever seen. He bit the inside of his cheek. He saw Test's own cheek twitch but her face otherwise remained comported, her gaze compassionate.

Test cleared her throat. “Take your time.”

Marigold nodded for Test to continue.

“Did she have a cell phone?” Test said.

Marigold shook her head as her fingers worked at remnant glue stuck to the side of the bottle. “I . . .” Her voice broke. “I have one in the cabinet over the fridge. A pay-­as-­you go cheapie. Nothing like her friends have. I'm sure. But.” She bit her lip. “I was saving it for Christmas. I wanted her to have it.” She stopped. “For her safety. “

North saw Test's fingers twitch, as if they wanted to reach out and hold this mother's hand.

“Did she study with Olivia or anyone else? Any of Olivia's boyfriends?” Test said.

Marigold sipped her soda. “Never mentioned anyone. Just said she had to use the Internet for papers. She must of met up with Olivia one time or another.”

“Would you mind showing us her bedroom?”

Marigold hung her head. “I can't.”

“We'd be very—­”

“You can look. I can't go in there. Not yet. It's the first room on the right.”

“Of course,” Test said. “We'll be respectful. There might be something to help us find who—­”

“I don't care who,” Marigold said.

North felt Test's eyes on him.

“I don't care if you find him or not,” Marigold said. “Except to spare someone else.”

“We'd like to do that.”

“I wish it had been me,” Marigold said.

Test put a hand on her hand.

“She was going to be a veterinarian,” Marigold said. “She was going to make something of herself.