Witch Cradle (5 page)

Chapter Nine

At the roar of the approaching snowplow, John McIntire halted in his labors and leaned on the shovel that had become his constant companion. For the past three days he'd all but slept with it. He awaited the inevitable. The plow drew near. The driver, a man McIntire didn't know and didn't particularly care to know, glowered from under the brim of his wool cap, eyes straight ahead, apparently oblivious to McIntire and his homicidal thoughts. He chugged by, leaving a three-foot mound of snow and ice decorated with a smattering of gravel blocking the end of McIntire's newly cleared driveway.

Did the county give lessons in sadism? Or was such a level of fiendishness something you had to be born with?

McIntire's frustrated ire abated when he saw, following close in the plow's wake, the Plymouth coupe belonging to Mark Guibard.

The doctor stopped and opened his window a scant three inches. “Top o' the mornin'. You look a little out of your element.”

“Well, thanks. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.” McIntire stepped over the new snowbank into the road. “What brings you out inhaling diesel fumes so early? Retirement getting you down?”

Even Guibard had sacrificed his vanity to a cap with earflaps. He pulled it off now and smoothed back his hair. “I'd like to give it that chance. Some things never change. Why can't people plan their emergencies for a more civilized hour? My professional services are wanted by the Thorsens.”

Oh lord, it would have to be something serious. Neither Mia nor her husband would summon a doctor for anything less than imminent death. “Did he take a turn for the worse, or has he lost the battle with that tree?”

“Tree? I don't think so. I haven't heard anything about a tree. Anyway, it's not Nick. Mia went ass over teakettle on ice this morning. Sounds like her leg might be broken.”

It could be worse, McIntire guessed, but it was bad enough. “That's all they need. Anything I can do?”

“Piggy-back me up their driveway.”

“Maybe next time.”

For someone going to the aid of an injured woman, Guibard did not seem in much of a rush. He rolled his window down another notch. “Back in the days when I was driving a horse, a couple feet of snow wouldn't have given me a minute's trouble. I'd have been tapping at the Thorsens' door in twenty minutes, instead of waiting two hours for the plow to come through. And they call this progress.”

“Horses ain't extinct,” McIntire said. “I got a couple I can spare.”

“Throw in a cutter, and I'll give it some thought. There's no more miserable place on a cold day than the top of a horse.”

In McIntire's opinion, a seat on a horse was pretty unappealing in any weather. He waved the doctor on his way and bent to clearing away enough of the snowbank to get the car out. No doubt Leonie would be wanting to get over to Mia as soon as she could.

The ice storm had thrown his wife for a loop. When McIntire thought of it, she hadn't been herself for a while, maybe since around Christmas time. Having someone to fuss over would do her good.

He planted his feet and plunged the shovel into the hard-packed snow. He wouldn't mind getting the hell out of these elements. The thrill of battle had long since worn off.

It was nearly an hour later that he hung his cap in the porch. He found his wife seated on a straight-backed kitchen chair with the world atlas on her lap and her feet, in colorful wool socks, on the open oven door. She was still in her robe, but had none of the droopy-eyed look that usually lasted for at least an hour after rising. As he entered, she folded the letter she'd been writing and popped it into an envelope, smoothing down the flap with her knuckles. A flowered handkerchief was balled into the hand. She kept her face turned away while she unfurled it and blew her nose.

“That should appease the snow gods for a few hours.” McIntire looked at the clock and wondered if alcohol could legitimately be included in elevenses. “Guibard went by earlier. He was on his way to Thorsen's. He thinks Mia's broken her leg.”

The tactic worked. Leonie's eyes widened and the atlas slid to her knees. “A broken leg! What happened? How on earth will they ever manage?”

“Nick should be able to handle things.”

“That man couldn't boil an egg. He was helpless as a newborn…ninny even before he got sick. Anything that gets done in the house or the garden is up to Mia.”

“Maybe this will force him to finally grow up.” They'd never live to see that day. “Otherwise, I guess they'll have to get somebody to come in and help.”

“I can't see either one of them wanting to do that.”

McIntire couldn't see it either. Mia guarded her privacy, and the first help Nick would accept would be from those carrying his casket.

Leonie bit her thumbnail. “I'd better get over to see what I can do.”

“You might want to wait a little while. If her leg is broken, Guibard might be still there.”

“It's almost eleven. They'll be wanting their dinner soon.”

“He said it happened a few hours ago. They probably haven't had breakfast yet.”

With a look of stark horror, Leonie wheeled out of the room and galloped up the stairs. She was back, in a blue sweater and tweed slacks, pulling on her coat and kerchief, before the steam was off McIntire's glasses. She opened the refrigerator, pushing aside the pan of icicles to frown at the four brown eggs in a bowl. “We may have to begin buying eggs.” The refrigerator thudded shut. She grabbed a loaf from the breadbox. If Leonie was going to minister to Mia Thorsen's needs in a satisfactory fashion, she was going to have to
stop
buying bread. Mia would never settle for anything less than homemade, and that meant made in her own home. McIntire didn't tell his wife that.

The sudden jangling sounded as foreign as if they'd spent the last four days on the moon. McIntire uttered a groan to commemorate the end of ninety-six hours of blissful isolation. A month ago it would have reflected his true feelings, but in mid-January he craved outside contact more than he was willing to admit. Leonie's broad smile indicated that she had no such reservations. The transformation in his wife was worth the rude jolt into the twentieth century.

“At long last!” She made a leap for the phone. After a short conversation over what newsworthy activities St. Adele High's science classes might have been up to, she beckoned to McIntire, blew him a kiss, and headed for the door.

Pelto hadn't wasted much time in finding what McIntire wanted to know, and didn't waste any now on pleasantries. “As you thought,” he said, “the people you mentioned didn't show up.”

McIntire put his hand on his wife's arm as she reached for the doorknob.

“Did your fath—”

“They didn't turn up at the headquarters in New York. The person I spoke to wasn't there at the time. He doesn't know if they just changed their minds or if they missed the boat and might have gone later.”

The person I spoke to
. Odd way to refer to Dear Old Dad. “Did he follow it up? Try to find out what happened?”

“He left the organization about that time.”

“Their belongings had already been shipped,” McIntire said. “Didn't anybody wonder about that?”

“I couldn't say. It had nothing to do with me. I was just a kid. I imagine those in charge were happy to get the stuff and didn't ask too many questions.”

The school teacher was being pretty cryptic, even taking into account the constable's six-party line. And wasn't that nameless person he'd spoken to one of those who'd been in charge?

Pelto's voice lost some of its
here's the facts, now get lost
stiffness. “What makes you think that…the man you're looking for and his wife are still in this country? Do you have any real reason to believe that?”

“No, but what you've just told me backs up the reasons I have to believe they
didn't
go to—” McIntire adopted Pelto's wariness—“go where they had planned.”

“What do you suppose could have happened?”

“Your guess is as good as mine on that,” McIntire said. “But I intend to find out.”

“Good luck.” The teacher sounded almost like he meant it, even adding before he hung up, “If I can be of any more help, let me know.”

“I'll drop you at the Thorsens',” McIntire told his waiting wife. “I'm going to go see Earl Culver.”

She nodded and picked up her gloves.

“You can bring your letter over to Nick,” McIntire reminded her. “He should be back on the job this afternoon.”

Leonie picked up the sealed, unaddressed envelope. “Oh, I guess not.” She tucked it into the pages of the atlas. “I might want to add something.”

Chapter Ten

The township road that led to the Culvers' home was never in the best condition and this morning was no exception. Fortunately Earl had been in and out enough times to create two well-packed tracks. Unfortunately, the wheel base of his truck was considerably wider than that of McIntire's Studebaker. McIntire poked along with an unnerving margin for error.

He'd been here once before. That was in June, shortly after the death of Earl's and Sandra's oldest daughter. In summer the place had been shabby but picturesque—weathered wood buildings overrun with greenery and half-naked children. Now with the leaves gone, the yard strewn with sawdust and dog droppings, and the foundation of the cobbled-together house banked with bales of hay, its aspect was decidedly less cheerful. One thing new had been added. A double black wire ran from a pole in the yard to the ramshackle enclosed porch. The Culvers had moved into the twentieth century. Electricity. Or at least the potential for it, if the power was ever restored.

The screen on the door into the porch was torn near the bottom, and a dog's black nose protruded through the hole. The animal, of no identifiable breed, gave a single deep-throated woof. Sandra Culver appeared behind it and shoved open the door.

“Come on in. Don't pay any attention to Brutus.”

The packed snow covering the two front steps continued through the porch to the slightly more substantial kitchen door. The rhythmical thumping of a washing machine told McIntire that the Culvers had been a step ahead of him in getting their power restored.

They entered a room steamy and redolent of Fels Naptha soap.

“Excuse the mess.” Sandra switched off the washing machine and dipped water from a copper boiler simmering on the woodstove into a percolator.

She had aged since her daughter's death. The harsh light cast by a naked bulb on an extension cord showed little of the honey-colored beauty that had made her the object of fascination and of wonder at her marriage, and bearing of eight children, to the Rumpelstiltskin who sat at the table with the youngest of those children on his knee.

“Hop off to play, Audie.”

The little boy didn't move his wide-eyed stare from McIntire's face, but slid to the floor and sidled toward his mother until Earl stopped him. “Audie,” he said sternly, “I said ‘hop.'”

Audie halted in his crabwise steps and grinned a similarly sideways grin. With great concentration, he put his feet together and made for the living room in a series of tiny leaps. Earl seemed to have regained some of his old sense of humor. McIntire wasn't sure that was all to the good.

The toddler navigated the piles of laundry waiting on the slanting linoleum floor, climbed to the back of a sagging sofa, and began scratching ditches in the frost on the window pane.

“What brings you out?” Earl pushed a chair in McIntire's direction and took a pipe from his pocket. “Something criminal going on?”

McIntire looked for signs of mockery, but saw none. The chair gave an ominous wobble as he sat. “I won't keep you long. I know you need to get back to work.”

“No rush.” Culver whacked the pipe into his palm and deposited a blackened lump onto the side of his plate.

After a few exchanges about the newly installed electrical power—
Place ain't wired yet, just an outlet on the porch
—McIntire asked, “You bought Jarvi Makinen's old house from Sulo?”

Earl nodded. “Ya. I added it onto this one.”

“Must have been quite a job. How'd you get it here?”

“I didn't move it in one piece. It's log. You can see when you get outside. I took it apart, hauled it over, and put it back together, which took a hell of a lot longer than tearing it apart did. Remember, Sandy?”

His wife took his gravy-smeared plate from the table and put down three cups. “I remember.”

Earl dipped his pipe into the can of Prince Albert and packed it down. “Any special reason you're asking?”

McIntire could see no need to keep it a secret. On the contrary, the more people who heard about it, the better the chance that somebody would turn up who knew the whole story. Maybe even Earl Culver.

He didn't. “I didn't talk to Teddy about the house at all. Bought it offa Sulo after they took off. They said they were going to Russia. Can't think why they'd of gone somewhere else and not told anybody.”

“Neither can I,” McIntire agreed. “When you took over the house, what was in it?”

“Not much. Just some crap they didn't want. Rubbish mostly.”

“Like what?”

“A couple pieces of furniture that weren't so bad, but the rest was junk. Some stuff in the cupboards, tin cans, jars. Like I said, rubbish.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I took the bed and mattress, and a chair or two. Most of the rest I threw down the well.”

“Can't have done the well much good.”

“It was a pretty damn worthless well, anyway. Sulo said to just throw whatever junk we had into it. He wanted to fill it up so nobody'd fall in, you know. There wasn't much room left. They'd already dumped in a lot of crap.”

“It wasn't just a pipe in the ground then, I take it.”

“Oh no. Well, there was a pipe in the ground somewhere, I guess, but what I'm talking about was more a cistern. The well didn't ever put out a hell of a lot more than a trickle, so they needed some kind of place to hold water. They had this big hole in the ground, lined with concrete, with a pipe coming in at the side. It just had a wood cover over it that was supposed to keep out rain.”

What else might have found its way into the Falks' water supply, McIntire didn't want to think.

“We had bad drought then and there probably wasn't nothing in it but a few inches of slime. They had put down a sandpoint closer to the barn, and they were getting their water from that.”

McIntire nodded. “How long after Teddy and Rose left did you buy the house? Was it sitting empty for any length of time?”

“I don't remember for sure, but it wasn't long. They left late in the summer, and we had to get it back together here and roofed over before it filled up with snow. So it didn't sit more than a couple of weeks or so at the most. Sulo was pretty anxious to get rid of it.”

McIntire didn't know what else he could ask. He struggled. “Did you notice anything odd. Anything you didn't expect?”

“Well, there was that body in the attic.” Earl chuckled and gave a suck on his pipe. “I don't remember anything, but that was a long time ago. One of the windows was smashed. In the bedroom.”

“Could somebody have broken in? A tramp, maybe? Looking for a place to spend the night?”

“No need, the door wasn't locked.”

“You kept the bed and the mattress?”

“I
took
them. Kept the bed, burned the mattress. Sandra didn't want it.”

Sandra Culver stood up quickly and turned to the washing machine. “It wasn't clean.”

McIntire nodded. Not wanting to sleep on Teddy Falk's old mattress was understandable.

“That was only on one side. We could have scrubbed it up.” Earl grunted at his wife's finicky ways. “It was a pretty good mattress.”

Sandra switched on the wringer and stuffed the corner of a dingy towel between its rollers. A flush spread up her neck. Stained mattresses might be a bit tawdry but…. “Mrs. Culver, not to be….” McIntire stumbled. “This could be important. Are you saying…?”

She snatched her hand back from the voracious wringer. “I thought maybe Rosie Falk miscarried. Maybe that was why they left without much of a fuss.”

For someone who'd spent a good share of her adult life in the family way, Sandra Culver was certainly modest. “Blood?” McIntire asked.

She nodded.

“A lot of blood?”

“Quite a bit.”

McIntire swallowed his coffee and pushed back his chair.

Sandra walked with him onto the porch. Once again she seemed overcome by embarrassment, wrapping her arms about herself and scuffling her feet. Maybe it was only the cold.

“I never thanked you.”

“Thanked me for what?”

The dog rubbed against her knees and she reached to scratch behind its ears. “Finding my little girl. If it wasn't for you, she'd still be lying there, and we'd still not know.”

The discovery of Cindy Culver's body was a horror that would stay with McIntire forever. How much greater nightmare for her family?

“It must have been awful for you.” She straightened up and pulled her faded cardigan closer at her throat.

McIntire struggled for something to say. Leonie would have known exactly the right words. He patted her arm, then the dog's head.

“Say hi to your wife.” Sandra slipped back inside.

McIntire gave a thump on the door to dislodge newly fallen snow from the screen. Would it never stop?