The Last Dead Girl (33 page)

Interlude:
Spring and Summer 1996

W
hen he got tangled up with Luke Daw, Neil Pruett was thirty-eight years old. He had a stable job, an affordable mortgage, a passable wife. He drank moderately, smoked marijuana on weekends, and kept a collection of
Playboy
magazines in an old file cabinet in his basement.

His parents were dead: his father from a heart attack, his mother from leukemia. His brother, Gary, had delivered eulogies at both funerals, and the eulogies had reduced Neil to tears. Gary's eloquence and kindness on both occasions convinced Neil of two things: that Gary had genuinely loved their parents and that he might genuinely love Neil as well.

His memory of what Gary had done on that summer day in the backyard when they were kids kept him from being certain on the second point.

Neil didn't believe that any one thing had made him the way he was. But he knew that the incident with the bow and arrow had left him with the sense that people were unfathomable and the world was treacherous and unpredictable. It was a sense that stayed with him all his life. Which was probably why he ended up as something of an underachiever, teaching basic physics and chemistry to bored high-school students, even though he had once dreamed of working in a lab or an observatory, discovering new planets or new kinds of subatomic particles.

As Neil grew older, he came to believe more and more that the universe was a hollow place, that there was no God, no morality. If the world had a secret, it was that you could do whatever you wanted, as long as you were smart enough to get away with it. Knowing the secret set you apart from other people. Gary knew it, or so Neil believed. Neil knew it himself, though he had never really acted on it. Not until he got involved with Luke Daw.

On a Saturday afternoon in March 1996, Neil told Megan he was running out to buy some sealant to patch a crack in the concrete of their patio. He drove instead to an apartment building in south Rome and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The woman who met him at the door of apartment 3B was a part-time substitute teacher named Sheila Cotton.

She invited him in and they sat together on a long red leather couch. He passed her some folded bills and she brought a shoe box out from under the couch and gave him a baggie that held an eighth of an ounce of pot.

She said what she always said when he came around: “I could sell you more.”

He answered the way he always answered: “If I had more, I'd smoke more.”

He borrowed a rolling paper, as he always did, and rolled a joint on the lid of the shoe box. They lounged on the couch, their thighs touching, and passed the joint back and forth. Sometimes they would talk. Never about anything serious. This time she had music playing: Blues Traveler.

Neil knew things about Sheila Cotton. He knew she'd been married and divorced twice even though she wasn't yet thirty. He knew if he told a joke she would laugh—a throaty laugh like a barfly's.

He knew the feeling of her thigh, because they always sat like this, close together. It was the reason he bought so little at any one time, so he could justify coming back more often.

She had thick thighs, not like Megan's. Megan was slim and angular, but Sheila had a lush, rounded body, an hourglass figure. She tended to wear tight sweaters and tight jeans. Neil would be able to picture her, even after he left. He would hold an image of her in his mind, and when he got home later he would sneak down to the basement and find a
Playboy
with a centerfold who looked the way he imagined Sheila must look naked. And he would spend a feverish few minutes fantasizing about her.

Sheila had just passed the joint back to Neil when they heard a rap on her door. A comic moment followed: Neil in a panic, guilty at being caught, pinching out the joint and looking for a place to hide it; Sheila laughing as she got up, patting him on the knee, telling him to relax.

Sheila turned down the stereo, went to the door, and let her visitor in. A young guy with messy black hair: Luke Daw. He wore a long coat and carried a padded envelope under his arm. He was chewing on a popsicle stick.

Neil recognized him, and wished at once that he hadn't. He'd never had Luke in class, but he knew him by reputation. One of those kids you stay away from. You wait for the day when they'll drop out and you'll never see them again.

Neil could guess what was in the envelope. If he'd been asked to predict Luke Daw's future, it would have been something like this: a small-time dealer selling to an even smaller-time dealer.

Sheila took Luke into her bedroom and shut the door. They emerged a few minutes later, their business complete. The envelope was nowhere in sight. At the door, Luke turned his dark eyes on Neil and smiled. Brought two fingers up to his brow and flicked them away: a mock salute.

After he had gone, Sheila returned to the couch. She used her lighter to get the joint burning again. When she tried to pass it to Neil he waved it away.

“How well do you know that guy?” he asked her.

“Luke? Well enough.”

“And you're comfortable with him?”

“Comfortable?”

“You trust him?”

“As far as I need to.”

“I'm not sure I would. Did he ask you about me?”

She slouched beside him, looking up at the smoky air.

“He asked if you were a friend or a customer,” she said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you're a friend. More than that he doesn't need to know.”

“You didn't tell him my name?”

“No.”

“I think he recognized me.”

“So what if he did?”

“I don't like having a student know about my . . . habits.”

“He's not a student anymore.”

“He's young, though. Suppose he talks to one of my students. I have to think about my reputation.”

Sheila laughed and offered him the joint again.

“Relax,” she said. “Your reputation's safe. Luke's cool.”

•   •   •

N
eil left her a short time later. A parting hug at the door—a promise of something that would never be delivered. He trudged down the stairs and out into the afternoon. He found Luke Daw waiting on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building.

Neil tried to ignore him, but when he headed for the parking lot he heard Luke's footsteps behind him.

“I feel like I know you,” Luke said.

Neil stopped at the edge of the lot and turned. “I don't think so.”

“What's your name?”

Neil hesitated and said, “Kevin.” His middle name.

Luke smiled. “That's not the name I remember.”

They stood a few feet apart in the cold afternoon light. Bleak springtime. Puddles around them.

Luke still had the popsicle stick. He held it with two fingers like a cigarette.

“Are you happy, Kevin?” he asked.

An odd question. Neil's first instinct was to ask,
In what sense?
But that would have invited a longer conversation. Better to keep things brief.

“Sure,” he said.

“Because if there's anything you need,” Luke said, “you can tell me.”

“I don't need anything.”

Luke moved closer. “I've got more than Sheila's got. That's all I'm saying. Coke. X. Or pills—Vicodin, Oxy. Whatever you need.”

“I'm all set.”

“You don't look happy.”

“I have to go,” Neil said.

He turned away and headed for his car, but he soon realized he wouldn't be free of Luke so easily.

Neil had parked at the edge of the lot facing a steel fence. The spaces on either side of his car were empty, but there was a black Mustang parked behind it. There was no way he would be able to back out.

As Neil stood by the driver's door of his car, Luke walked up and said, “Is this your ride?”

“Yes, it's mine,” Neil said.

“It's nice.”

Luke leaned his back against the car. He started turning the popsicle stick end over end between his fingers. He glanced at the Mustang. “I guess I blocked you in,” he said.

Luke had already known which car was his, Neil thought. Obviously. It wouldn't have been hard to guess. There was a parking decal on the windshield from the high school where he taught.

Neil nodded toward the Mustang. “I'd appreciate it if you'd move that,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” said Luke. “But we were talking, weren't we?”

“I have to go.”

“I heard that the first time. But I was saying before that you don't look happy. I'd like to help you.”

Neil felt the air turning heavy around him. “You don't have anything I want,” he said.

“How do you know,” said Luke, “if you won't talk to me?”

He stared at Neil but said nothing more. His eyes were empty of expression—except for a cold amusement.

Neil thought about walking away. He didn't want to play mind games with Luke Daw or, worse, get into a fight over nothing. But he had his pride. He stood his ground.

“Will you please move your car?” he said.

No answer.

“I'm not looking for trouble,” he said.

Luke gave a quick smile that was really just a flash of teeth. “Who said anything about trouble?” He bent the popsicle stick with his thumb. “You're not afraid of me, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. I'm just trying to get you what you want. Listen, do you have a hundred?”

“What?”

“A hundred dollars.”

Neil frowned. “Come on.”

“What does that mean, ‘Come on'?”

“Knock it off,” Neil said. “I really need to go.”

“Why do you feel like you have to run off, Kev? I'm not trying to scare you.”

“I'm not scared.”

“That's good. So give me a hundred and I'll give you something you want.”

“There's nothing—”

“Sure there is. And I'm telling you you can have it. The price is a hundred dollars.”

Neil hesitated, then took out his wallet. He felt like a coward, but he'd had enough of Luke Daw. He found four twenties and two tens and held them out. Luke tossed his popsicle stick into a puddle. He took the money casually and it disappeared into his coat pocket.

“See?” he said. “That wasn't so hard.”

He walked away and got into his Mustang. Neil stood by his car. He wasn't sure what had just happened. Had he been robbed, or did Luke actually intend to give him something in return for his money? What would that be? Was he supposed to wait for it?

He got an answer quickly. Luke started up the Mustang, waved good-bye, and rolled out of the lot and into the street.

Over the next few days, Neil kept his eye out for Luke. He was afraid the kid might show up at his school—or his house. He didn't want Luke talking to Megan. She didn't know anything about Sheila Cotton, and she didn't need to know.

When a week passed with no sign of Luke, Neil laughed at himself for being paranoid. He considered staying away from Sheila and finding a new source to buy from, but decided he had no reason to. He waited the usual interval and drove to her apartment on another Saturday afternoon. It went the way it always did.

“I could sell you more.”

“If I had more, I'd smoke more.”

They shared a joint on the couch and when there was nothing left but the roach, something happened. Sheila sat up and bent close to him. Put her hand on his knee and said, “You don't have to leave, do you?”

Her eyes held a plain invitation. Hard to believe, but Neil let himself believe it. After a moment he kissed her shyly: a dry, awkward kiss. Then another with their mouths open, their breath tasting like smoke. His shyness passed. He was eager and she laughed her throaty laugh and told him to take his time. She straddled him and he got her sweater off, and her bra was red and silky—like nothing Megan would ever wear.

He reached for the button of her jeans and she got up and took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. She swept the bedspread aside and fell back onto white sheets. He peeled her jeans off and discovered she had a thong to match the bra.

He kissed her stomach. Skin flawless, the color of cream. She lay with her arms spread, surrendering. Her dark hair fell over a pillow. The bra unhooked in the front and the thong came off, strings of silk skimming down over her thighs. He saw the lush body he had imagined. Soft and yielding. Not like Megan. A body you could sink into.

The first time was too intense. He couldn't last. But she let him have a second time, and the second time was good. It ended with her clutching at the sheets and wrapping those thighs around him. Her eyes closed, her mouth whispering
Yes
.

Afterward she got up to crack the bedroom window. She came back and they lay side by side on the sheets. Neil looked at the ceiling: swirls of white stucco. He felt the sweat evaporating from his skin.

“I didn't expect this,” Sheila said.

“Neither did I,” Neil told her.

“I'm glad it happened.”

“Me too.”

She turned onto her side to face him. “I don't want you to have the wrong idea.”

“What's the wrong idea?”

“That I do this all the time, with every man who comes through here.”

“Oh.”

“Because I don't.”

“Of course you don't.”

“In fact, I thought it was a joke at first.”

Neil felt a momentary tightness in his chest.

“A joke?” he said.

“When Luke suggested it. I thought he was messing with me.”

Neil focused on the swirls in the ceiling. He should have been more alarmed to hear Luke's name. But part of him had known all along.

I'll give you something you want.

“It didn't add up,” Sheila said, “that you would go through him. Not after what you told me, about how you didn't trust him. But he kept saying it was for real. And I guess it was. I mean, here we are. Right?”