behind, quite a way off.
I was dog-tired, soaked in sweat, my socks were soggy inside my old combat boots. I’d spent the night vaguely unnerved by things moving in the brush behind me, sometimes right past me in the grass and gravel beside the dirt pile. Armadillos, I suspected.
Not
cute. And the damn things carry leprosy. I felt scratchy and filthy, and wanted nothing more than a shower and bed. Best I’d get, though, was a shower and a trip out to the Bartlett stretch of Summer to see Eileen—she’d texted me to come in, early as I could. Not asked, mind you. A summons. There was a difference. Ask…you could wander in whenever. Summons…be there, bells on, oh-dark-thirty.
I mumbled some crap as I walked across the downed fence and the ditch toward MacDonald, the straps of my daypack dragging on the ground.
Then I saw it. Rooftop, gleaming in the morning sun. An old, ramshackle two-storey house on a rise behind the trees, maybe a quarter mile distant from the containers I’d been watching all night, watching them stacked, unstacked, restacked at the hands of the two huge moving dolly cranes, most of the containers left standing, still, waiting all night, as I had, for Lord knows what.
The house, once yellow, but mostly peeled, looked like it was still occupied. The light in the upstairs window said so, as did the car parked between the house and the swing-less, rusty swing set.
MacDonald saw me look at the house, looked away, said nothing. His silence said:
Something
.
He heard my unspoken question.
“We’ll talk,” he said.
“When?” I asked, and he answered, “I don’t know.”
On the way out of the place, through the gate, all the way to the grocery store a mile or more down Raines, not one word. Not even about Nikki.
13.
21 July, 9:06 a.m.
The Inn — Out of Sorts — Eileen’s
I’d stolen an hour of sleep anyway, Eileen’s summons notwithstanding. Bowl of Cheerios. What the hell, I’m late as it is—set up the laptop on the desk.
Nikki snored, moaned a little.
Checked my email—first time in two days. Meet horny housewives in your neighbourhood. You, too, can make fifteen thousand a month, doing
absolutely nothing
. Enlarge this body part, shrink that. Click—junk. Most of the other traffic was from a single address. Sweet emails. May-the-Lord-bless-you emails. Hope-you-don’t-mind emails. Old-time’s-sake emails. So-sorry-to-hear emails. Hope-you-are-well emails. Would-love-for-us-to-get-together emails. Wanted-to-bring-you-a-casserole emails. Damn—I’d get to the bottom of this.
Kill two birds with one stone.
This
nonsense first. Then whatever it was Eileen wanted to see me about. So I hit SEND on a vague reply, then drove over to Red Line.
I opened the front door oh-so gingerly, so Eileen’s cute little jingle bells didn’t ring. Shushed Jackie before she could say a word, and barged on back, plopped myself in a chair, facing Eileen.
She didn’t look up. “Practising our stealth skills, are we?”
“Did some of that last night,” I said. “Feeling kinda done with all that, for today. What are you practising?”
She looked up. Her face asked. Then answered her own question. “She’s contacted you?”
“Numerous times,” I said.
Eileen feigned a smile. “Good, good. So you two will be getting together, then?”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“Good. Well. Reason I called you in—”
“We’re not done with this yet, Eileen.”
“Oh?”
“Question, Eileen. Barbara Jean McCorkle—does she drive a Cadillac?”
“No. Um, more like an SUV, I think. An…
Escapade
?”
Come off it, honey. Ex-cop. She knew her cars better than that.
“Escalade,” I said. “Black?”
“Um…not quite. More like a—”
“Really, really dark purple.”
“
Could
be…yes. I think that’s it.”
“This is bullshit, Eileen.”
“I don’t appreciate that kind of lang—”
“And I don’t appreciate games.”
“Then maybe you won’t appreciate this, either.”
She
I was dog-tired, soaked in sweat, my socks were soggy inside my old combat boots. I’d spent the night vaguely unnerved by things moving in the brush behind me, sometimes right past me in the grass and gravel beside the dirt pile. Armadillos, I suspected.
Not
cute. And the damn things carry leprosy. I felt scratchy and filthy, and wanted nothing more than a shower and bed. Best I’d get, though, was a shower and a trip out to the Bartlett stretch of Summer to see Eileen—she’d texted me to come in, early as I could. Not asked, mind you. A summons. There was a difference. Ask…you could wander in whenever. Summons…be there, bells on, oh-dark-thirty.
I mumbled some crap as I walked across the downed fence and the ditch toward MacDonald, the straps of my daypack dragging on the ground.
Then I saw it. Rooftop, gleaming in the morning sun. An old, ramshackle two-storey house on a rise behind the trees, maybe a quarter mile distant from the containers I’d been watching all night, watching them stacked, unstacked, restacked at the hands of the two huge moving dolly cranes, most of the containers left standing, still, waiting all night, as I had, for Lord knows what.
The house, once yellow, but mostly peeled, looked like it was still occupied. The light in the upstairs window said so, as did the car parked between the house and the swing-less, rusty swing set.
MacDonald saw me look at the house, looked away, said nothing. His silence said:
Something
.
He heard my unspoken question.
“We’ll talk,” he said.
“When?” I asked, and he answered, “I don’t know.”
On the way out of the place, through the gate, all the way to the grocery store a mile or more down Raines, not one word. Not even about Nikki.
13.
21 July, 9:06 a.m.
The Inn — Out of Sorts — Eileen’s
I’d stolen an hour of sleep anyway, Eileen’s summons notwithstanding. Bowl of Cheerios. What the hell, I’m late as it is—set up the laptop on the desk.
Nikki snored, moaned a little.
Checked my email—first time in two days. Meet horny housewives in your neighbourhood. You, too, can make fifteen thousand a month, doing
absolutely nothing
. Enlarge this body part, shrink that. Click—junk. Most of the other traffic was from a single address. Sweet emails. May-the-Lord-bless-you emails. Hope-you-don’t-mind emails. Old-time’s-sake emails. So-sorry-to-hear emails. Hope-you-are-well emails. Would-love-for-us-to-get-together emails. Wanted-to-bring-you-a-casserole emails. Damn—I’d get to the bottom of this.
Kill two birds with one stone.
This
nonsense first. Then whatever it was Eileen wanted to see me about. So I hit SEND on a vague reply, then drove over to Red Line.
I opened the front door oh-so gingerly, so Eileen’s cute little jingle bells didn’t ring. Shushed Jackie before she could say a word, and barged on back, plopped myself in a chair, facing Eileen.
She didn’t look up. “Practising our stealth skills, are we?”
“Did some of that last night,” I said. “Feeling kinda done with all that, for today. What are you practising?”
She looked up. Her face asked. Then answered her own question. “She’s contacted you?”
“Numerous times,” I said.
Eileen feigned a smile. “Good, good. So you two will be getting together, then?”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“Good. Well. Reason I called you in—”
“We’re not done with this yet, Eileen.”
“Oh?”
“Question, Eileen. Barbara Jean McCorkle—does she drive a Cadillac?”
“No. Um, more like an SUV, I think. An…
Escapade
?”
Come off it, honey. Ex-cop. She knew her cars better than that.
“Escalade,” I said. “Black?”
“Um…not quite. More like a—”
“Really, really dark purple.”
“
Could
be…yes. I think that’s it.”
“This is bullshit, Eileen.”
“I don’t appreciate that kind of lang—”
“And I don’t appreciate games.”
“Then maybe you won’t appreciate this, either.”
She
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