CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

“Booger good. Me eat hundred boogers.” 

.22 clutched a wad of French fries in a greasy fist, then stuffed the last few bites of the third hamburger into his mouth with his other hand—a two-fisted eater. She was glad she had opted to eat outside. Without a bib .22 splattered ketchup and mustard down his shirt and onto the table. She had some cleanup to do, but it was better than eating in the car or inside. Bob’s Drive-in at the edge of town had been a good idea.

But they attracted attention. That part was difficult to get used to. Diners inside peeked out the window between bites and let their eyes wander to .22. She had wanted to scream at them that he couldn’t help it. Did they have to stare? This wasn’t a freak show. She could never get used to this sort of thing.

There was always so much promise, hope, during a pregnancy and no warning sometimes that things could go wrong. What would she do—she and Ben do—if they had such a child? They hadn’t talked about children, not in any concrete way. Both seemed to take for granted there would be some—one or two. And if she were asked when, she knew the answer would be vague. Sometime. Some future time when everything was perfect. Jobs secure. A house of their own—not something temporary supplied by IHS out in nowhere.

But when were things ever going to be perfect? She was signing on to follow Ben around—and it would be just that for a few years before he might land a job in a metropolitan area, if he ever did. But would that be so bad for a family? Living in settings with minimal threats of gang involvement or drugs? A reservation might prove the best place to raise a family. It could provide the kind of diversity that enriched children, in addition to keeping them safe.

She opened another package of ketchup and squirted it onto the plastic lid from the shake. .22 stopped dunking his fries in his “berry-milk” but put his five fingers in the ketchup one at a time and then loudly sucked the thick red condiment off of each one. Julie ignored him. He was quiet and getting nourished.

A young child rode by on a bike chanting, “Dumbo, Dumbo, Dumbo ...” .22 stuck out his tongue and left it there until Julie was afraid that he’d pulled a jaw muscle. She couldn’t really reprimand him; it was the other child’s fault. 

And the child’s lack of manners didn’t seem to faze .22—with a little coaching he even ordered another strawberry shake on his own. She gave him the money, and he went inside the diner and waited at the counter behind two other people before placing his order. She’d have to tell Hannah. Julie doubted if he’d ever done that before. And he was proud of himself. He actually glowed and kept patting the sweating sides of the shake cup and repeating, “Mine. I got berry-milk.” Then he would break into a grin.

He was being so good. There had been the hint of a hassle when she hadn’t let him take the shake or any of the food in the car. She was anxious to get back, but she sat with him until he finished, which seemed to take forever. She could remember her parents’ exasperation when she and her brother dawdled over food. But it was a beautiful summer’s day, and their table was under an old cottonwood whose natural canopy offered shade. She really wasn’t in a hurry.

Julie relaxed and watched .22 drag his fries through the ketchup and make loud sucking noises with his straw when he reached the bottom of his shake. And then she thought of it— why couldn’t she test .22? He trusted her; he’d try for her. Couldn’t she find out if he could flip a coin on demand? That would be helpful. Give Ben some idea of whether what he saw was a fluke or not.

“.22, watch this, because I want you to try to do the same thing.” Julie dug a quarter out of her coin purse. “Now, watch carefully.” She cradled the coin on the side of her index finger and slipped the tip of her thumb underneath, pausing, then thrusting upward in a quick release action that sent the coin careening into the air, heads, tails, head, tails, heads, tails before it toppled back to the table, to spin crazily and roll to a stop against an uneven plank in the wood top. 

.22 was mesmerized. His eyes had followed every move of the coin.

“Here. It’s your turn.” She held the coin out.

Suddenly he began to shake his head faster and faster, eyes closed, fists pounding on the table.

“Stop.” Julie leaned across the table and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Please, .22, tell me what’s wrong.” What a strange reaction. She’d never expected this. He pulled away and stuck his hands in his pockets. But at least he quieted. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Can’t do. Can’t do.” He was rocking now, the side-to-side movement that often preceded a bout of howling.

“.22, I know you can do it. I watched you on video tape, in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. You put a coin into the pop machine, it fell out, you picked it up and flipped it. Do you remember?”

He was deathly still, staring at her. She heard the happy squeals of children playing on the swings in a park across the highway. A breeze fluffed a tuft of .22’s hair as a fly investigated the udder cream. He didn’t move. She started to push back from the table.

“Sit down.” 

Where did that voice come from? She didn’t know that voice. Resonant, bass, commanding. But she couldn’t sit. She needed to run. Instinct screamed in her head to get away. Before she was able to articulate, even isolate what it was, all her senses had gathered to warn her, to scream at her. This was danger. This man—this wasn’t .22 in front of her. Run. She tried to move.

“I said sit.” The hand that clamped onto her wrist had shot with lightening quickness from under the table to nail her, hold her. “There’s a gun pointed at your gut. I suggest that you do what I say.”

She sank back to the bench.

“Say, is everything all right out here?” The man who had served them was standing at the side door, peering over at them, leaning on a broom.

“You don’t want people hurt, do you?” The threat was hissed before .22 let loose of her wrist and started beating the shake cup on the table. She noticed that one hand stayed out of view.

“We’re fine. Just a little misunderstanding over having another shake,” Julie called back, hoping her voice didn’t quiver.

The man nodded and walked back inside.

“We’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to get up first. You walk ahead of me. Don’t get cute. I’ve killed before. You won’t make any difference.” The voice belonged to someone else, but it was .22 who stumbled getting up, thrust his head forward and dangled one arm at his side before assuming that familiar disjointed gait that made him walk haltingly beside her.

He brushed against her as she stepped back, pulling the car door open. Not that she hadn’t believed him, but she caught a glimpse of the small revolver above the pocket of his slacks. The barrel was pointed at her; his hand was steady. 

“Now, open the back door.” When she hesitated, he added with a short laugh, “Thought I’d let you out of my sight and go around to the other side? Get real, bitch.”

She did as she was told, then slipped behind the wheel. She was trying to think, but the words “killed before” echoed, demanded attention. Had it been Sal? Yes. That made sense. But couldn’t it have been Ahmed? Or both of them?

“What are we waiting for?” The coldness of the gun’s barrel surprised her as it pressed into her neck. She started the car.

 

+ + +

 

“They left here about twelve-thirty. We had to end our interview when a busload of tourists stopped in. Some lady called asking the same question. I hope Julie and the boy aren’t in some kind of trouble.” Morley was waiting for an answer, but Ben didn’t want to say too much.

“I hope not, too.” He knew that wasn’t going to satisfy Morley but it was all he wanted to say for the present. “Were they going straight home?” Maybe, if he kept him answering questions.

“They could have been. I don’t think she had any other interviews.”

Ben tried to remain calm. He hadn’t passed Julie’s car on the highway. Did she have other errands, ones she didn’t mention to Morley? And wasn’t Tommy out on the road somewhere right now setting up a roadblock a few miles north of the reservation? 

“Oh, wait a minute. The youngster was hungry. Julie said she needed to get him some lunch.”

“Do you have any idea where they might have stopped?”

Morley shook his head. “My guess would be some burger place. You got about ten to choose from.”

“Could I borrow a phone book?”

Morley shuffled behind the counter and handed one over.

“Last year’s. You can have this one. It don’t make no difference; nothing ever changes around here.” 

Ben sat in his truck and looked up drive-in food vendors. Morley was right, there were nine and all more or less clumped together along the south end of the main drag. He’d drive by and look for Julie’s car.

But there was nothing—one trip up then down the street, a couple detours around the back of a McDonald’s and a Whopper Burger to check parked cars, but none was Julie’s. There was no trace of them. Yet, he felt they couldn’t be that far ahead of him. 

If they were on their way back, he should be able to catch up with them. But what if something had gone wrong—.22 had accosted Julie, threatened her over the package ... Ben had no way of knowing. He headed across town to pick up Highway 32 and passed an independent burger place, Bob’s. On a whim he pulled into the parking area. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

“Good looking woman with a retarded kid? Big kid, close to full grown? Yeah, they just left. Maybe, fifteen minutes ago. Headed out 32.” The man at the counter remembered them well. “Is that kid safe?”

Ben felt his knees wobble. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I thought she was having a problem with him at one point. It looked to me like he was trying to strong-arm her. He sure had her locked in a grip all right. I bet that young fellow’s strong as an ox. They are sometimes and don’t know their own strength. My wife’s cousin—” 

“What happened to the woman?” Ben gripped the counter.

“Nothing. I asked, but she said everything was all right. She sure was good with him. She cleaned him up after he ate a couple burgers and fries, then she entertained him out there on the park bench. It looked like she was trying to teach him how to flip a coin.”

“Flip a coin?” At first he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. But, no, that was just like Julie. She’d try to prove that .22 either could or couldn’t. And it was for him. Ben knew that. She probably took .22 with her in the first place because she thought she could help. Ben ran outside and jumped in his truck. Fifteen minutes. She was alive and well fifteen minutes ago. But maybe just barely, if .22 had grabbed her like the man said. The coin toss must have given it away. .22 must have known he’d blown his cover. And that meant he was dangerous. Ben peeled out and gunned the truck up an embankment and onto Highway 32.

 

+ + +

.22 was sweating. The sun glistened on the red-gold stubble that outlined a square, prominent jaw. She studied him in the rearview mirror as he leaned over her shoulder, the muzzle of the gun still buried in her neck. Who was this man? Who would pick at sores to keep them scabbed over so he could pretend to be someone else? And for what? What would he get out of all this? Money? Was he being paid to impersonate the real .22? It would give Julie time to think if she could get him to talk. 

“Do you have a name? I can’t continue to call you .22 or Harold.”

His legs were bent, one knee pushing into the back of the front seat. He looked cramped and nervous. Julie adjusted the rearview mirror. He glanced out the window. Would he tell her who he was? Curiosity was almost calming as she pushed the gas pedal down. Fifty-five, sixty, seventy—hopefully, some of Tommy’s men would be patrolling.

“Hey. Don’t get smart. Drive the speed limit.”

He worked the gun’s muzzle up under the occipital ridge behind her ear. She dropped back to sixty-five.

“If you won’t tell me your name, will you tell me if you’re an actor by trade?” She watched as he made eye contact in the mirror. She had his attention. ”You were perfect. You fooled the best. If you hadn’t been caught by a hidden camera, no one would have ever known.”

“Yeah.” For a minute she thought it wasn’t going to work. Then she caught the sneer, the thin smile that reeked of bravado and heard it in his voice when he said, “I could be an actor if I wanted. I’m good. And you can call me Carl.”

“How did you meet Hannah, Carl?”

“I’ve known her all my life, dear old Auntie Hanny.”

“You’re her nephew? You’re doing this for your aunt?” My God, Hannah had involved a relative. Was he her sister’s son? “Which means the original .22 is probably dead?” Julie hadn’t meant to ask that and bit her lip when she saw the flare of rage.

“Why don’t you shut up?” 

She needed to try a different tactic. “Why don’t you wise up and not get into more trouble? You really haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t committed fraud, haven’t been examined by the board and collected any money. You could still get out of all this.” 

“Nope. A dead man says I can’t turn things around now.”

She felt him lower the gun as a car passed going in the opposite direction. It hadn’t been anyone she knew. But what would she have done if she’d recognized the driver? What could she do? Swerve? Lay on the horn? Her only hope was somehow getting back to civilization.

“So what do you want to do?”

“When I grow up? Isn’t that the way that goes?” He leaned forward; his breath tickled her ear. “Well, between you and me, I’ve grown up just fine. Hannah and me are going to get the hell out of this shit hole. You’re not going to stop us.” The menacing tone made her cringe. “You want to know what happened to .22? He died of a cold. After all that damned attention— ‘baby Harold can’t do this, baby Harold can’t eat that, baby Harold is worth all that money’—all those years I took care of him, he just up and dies—one month before he would have graduated from that special education program. That little prick owed me.”

“And Hannah thought up a plan to get the money anyway.”

“Yeah. With a new baby Harold.” He let his mouth go slack, then sucked loudly on his thumb while she watched in the rearview. Carl to Harold, Harold to Carl. It really was a remarkable acting job.

“So whom did you kill, Carl?” Go for it. He seemed willing to brag. Maybe she could get some answers. What did she have to lose?

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” That snarl again.

“Did you kill the trader?” 

His eyes gave it away before he said, “What if I did? He was butting into things where he didn’t belong, getting greedy, thought his cut should have been as big as ours. I was smart to off him. I knew I could pin it all on Sal, use the scalping to pressure him into giving up the—”

They saw the flashing lights at the same time—a barricade of patrol cars across the highway about two miles ahead. She sucked in her breath. Could she dare to hope Tommy knew? That he was looking for her? Was Ben with them? She took her foot off the gas.

Then her eyes locked with the hard, cool blue ones in the rearview mirror and his animal fright bore into her, seemed to travel down the muzzle of the gun. There was nothing to keep him from killing her, too.

“Take the side road. There. Dammit—step on it.”

Her breathing was shallow. She was so close to safety. If she could only get someone’s attention. She grabbed at the steering wheel as it jerked through her fingers when she left the highway and jolted down the gravel incline. She reacted quickly and steered the car onto the jutted dirt, two-track drive that led around, then up and through an outcropping of rock to God-knew-what on the other side. There were lots of these cart trails barely kept passable by ranchers needing access to areas that might hide livestock in need of help—areas that were rough and remote and a part of the badlands and would only give up their secrets if you had a four wheel drive vehicle. 

The car bottomed out twice before the tires grasped enough gravel to propel it forward and upward, the floor-boarded engine whining a protest even after she’d rammed it into Drive3. She was afraid of careening off the side to hang precariously before rolling down among the boulders or breaking an axle in the foot-deep ruts that banged both of them against the car’s interior. The going was slow, and the car was already overheating. Julie watched the needle climb. 

“Stop here.”

She put on the brake, turned off the engine and pulled the emergency. They were on an incline, behind a boulder nestled between two overhanging outcroppings of rock—and hidden from view. Julie was certain of that. Hidden and out of range of hearing but she laid on the horn anyway. In case Tommy’s men were scouting—

The pistol butt crashed into the side of her head, snapping her neck to the side.

“Don’t do that again. I’ve told you. I have no reason not to kill you.”

She watched as Carl lit a cigarette. The smoke seemed to dance and skip over the seat between them, and she realized how dizzy she was. The force of the blow had blurred her vision. She shook her head to clear it. There was no doubt he would do what he threatened. It wasn’t just the blow to the head, she felt numb trying to think, figure out some way to get away. The lump was already pushing up into a good-sized knot just above her ear.

He sat immobile, still holding the gun to her head. Was he trying to decide what to do? Probably. It was obvious that a roadblock wasn’t in his plan. But was it meant for them? Julie allowed a glimmer of hope. It had to be. She needed to believe that. A couple more long sucking drags on the cigarette and .22 tossed it out the window.

“Open the trunk.” .22 got out of the car.

“No. You can’t make me get in the trunk. I’m claustrophobic. Gag me. Tie me up somewhere. But not the trunk.” She had locked the driver’s side door. Her voice sounded shrill, thin and wavering, and she clutched the steering wheel in some kind of death grip hoping he couldn’t pry her fingers loose.

“You stupid bitch. We’re through playing around. I need the package. Sal’s package. The one you took out of the locker. You following me? You must have gotten up real early to drive over here and back. So I just bet it’s still somewhere in this car.” 

He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head back against the seat, then over it as far as her neck would extend and gave her hair a yank. “Are you paying attention to me? I don’t need any more of your games. Now, unlock that door. Step out real slow and walk to the trunk.”

He released her hair, and Julie did as she was told. She wasn’t sure he wouldn’t throw her in the trunk, but he could have broken her neck just then. And the package? What was his interest in Sal’s package? Better yet, what should she tell him? The truth? But then he might kill her. Should she stall? Lie? Say she forgot? But they were in the bus station, he saw the empty locker. Maybe, she had forgotten it, maybe she left it at Morley’s.

“It’s not in the trunk.”

“I’ll tell you whether it is or not.”

He made her stand beside him as he leaned into the trunk pulling out mats, dismantling the tool kit, tossing tire iron and jack to one side. He ran his free hand under and over and between every two pieces of matting. It seemed to Julie that he was looking for something awfully small. He wasn’t acting like it was a fetish jar that he was after.

“Empty your purse.” He grabbed her arm and propelled her around the side of the car, tucked the gun in his belt, scooped the purse off the front seat and tossed it to her. She dumped everything on the hood and Carl went through the same motions— opened her cosmetics case, looked carefully at her address book, ripped the lining around an inside pocket.

“It’s in your damn equipment, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s at Morley’s. I wanted his opinion.”

Could she keep up this charade not knowing exactly what he was looking for? Her life probably depended on it. But what had been in the fetish jar? A piece of jewelry? A one-of-a-kind artifact worth some ungodly sum? 

She wasn’t prepared for Carl’s reaction—he was laughing. Was she wrong to mention Morley’s? Did he know that she didn’t have a clue as to the jar’s contents?

“I just bet you did. Getting the old coot’s opinion was pretty sly. You were going to steal it, weren’t you? How long was Sal’s notebook even in the locker? Long enough to get a receipt and a key and figure out that Sal wasn’t coming back? Or did you even put it there in the first place?” 

She didn’t say anything, just shrugged. Did she look guilty? A notebook? All this, her death, maybe Sal’s, over a notebook. Was it some kind of blackmail? Yes. That had to be it. Sal knew something about Carl being a fake. He had written something incriminating. But then, what would that have to do with Morley? 

“Do you think all this is worth killing over?” Me, the trader, not to mention Sal, she thought, but went on. “How can the contents of that notebook justify taking a life?”

“Because, beautiful, it’s going to make Aunt Hanny and me a whole hell of a lot of money. It’s a little investment for the rest of our lives. I got a feeling I don’t have to tell you that. Now, why don’t you just get in the car real slow and throw all your crap out for me to take a look at.”

He pushed her ahead of him and into the back seat. The recorder and notebooks were in two bags on the floor behind the passenger seat.

“Is Sal dead?” Maybe if she distracted him ... and then what? She needed to buy time. Think. She had to think.

“Bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Let’s just say that he’s alive but not very well and not likely to see the light of day anytime soon.” More laughter.

Julie opened the opposite door. Thank God, she’d rented a four-door.

“Hey, let’s toss those out on this side.”

She brought the car door closed but didn’t latch it before she tossed the recorder in his direction. But Carl wasn’t paying attention. He had moved to rummage in the trunk. Then, stepping back where she could see him, he began wiping his head with a towel, smearing the udder cream and cursing when it didn’t come off easily, ducking down to study his image in the outside mirror.

“Jesus, this stuff is crap.” He scrubbed at his head. “But I guess it was worth it. Not a bad way to earn a few hundred thousand, if you look at it that way.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. He had removed a stocking cap from a back pocket. A couple more swipes and he’d be done, Julie thought. She needed to make a decision.

Julie eyed the gun still tucked in his belt. She had edged closer to the opposite door while she gathered up the cloth bag of notes and tried to see past the jumble of waist-high rocks to her right. They had climbed about fifty feet into the outcropping of rock that rose from the edge of a field. But it wasn’t a sheer drop from where they were parked, rather a gradual sloping descent into a field of corn. If she ran, zigzagging, keeping her body low, she might have a chance. The gun was a revolver, small caliber, meant to be shot at close range, not very accurate beyond fifteen feet. Did she have the guts to risk injury but foil sure death?

“Check the inside pocket in my bag.” Then she heaved the bag out the door and didn’t look back. She simply dove through the passenger-side door, stumbled, gained her balance, scrambled over the first boulder, rolled, righted herself in time to hear the ping of a bullet glance sharply off the rock to her left followed by his angry curses; bent over, she slipped, fell, leaped up in a crashing descent toward the field of waist-high tassels—not much camouflage, but better than nothing. The second and third pings sent bits of rock spraying across her neck. Close. She could hear him panting, grunting with the exertion. Just another twenty-five feet and then she could run toward the highway. She could find help, flag down a car. Traffic was slowing because of the roadblock. Maybe someone would see her from the road. She didn’t stop to think that he might catch up with her before she reached safety. She just knew that she had to try. That it was probably her only chance. He was close. He fell, cursed, shouted at her, then in a rain of pebbles, crashed forward. Another bullet missed. Four down. Two more. Waste two more, she prayed. 

She didn’t allow herself to look back. Her jeans were torn at the knees, her hands bleeding, palms scraped and raw. The next bullet grazed her shoulder. In a reflex motion she grabbed her arm but kept going. Fifteen feet to the bottom. Just fifteen feet. She could make it to the field and to the highway. She had to make it to the highway.

She hopped, twisted, stubbed her toe, jumped over a rock. It was more even now. He only had one bullet left. But the small avalanche of rock told her he was still in pursuit, and almost on top of her. He hadn’t stopped to reload. But if he missed with the last bullet, he could do enough damage with his bare hands. She could hear his breathing. Could she make it? 

She wouldn’t allow herself to think otherwise.

When he swiped at her arm, she deftly ducked and dodged left. More cursing, then a lunge that knocked her flat. The breath whooshed from her lungs and she gasped, struggling to refill them. She rolled over to see him at her feet, on all fours, breathing hard, then he slammed his knee down, pinning her ankle, and pointed the pistol. She had almost made it—had almost made flat ground and the highway. He was trying to catch his breath. His knees and hands were as torn up as hers.

“You stupid bitch.” He gulped air before continuing. “You thought you’d get away.” 

He straightened, then pushed to his feet standing over her, chest heaving, the pistol surprisingly steady. The crack of sound followed by an echo of percussion pierced the air and seemed to coincide with .22’s suddenly being jerked upward and back to lie just out of reach, blood already foaming from the hole above his eye. He lifted his head, the hand holding the pistol wavered but was still pointed her direction. 

Julie didn’t wait to see more, she bolted upright, and ran, not looking, not caring, just forward out into the field of shoulder-high plants, falling, staggering to her feet only to slip again, dreading to feel the burning sting of Carl’s last bullet.

“Julie, Julie. It’s okay. .22’s dead. It’s me. Look at me. It’s Ben.” Strong arms had caught her, pinned her as she flailed about. But Ben ... ? Was she safe? Was it true she had escaped? All feeling drained from her body, and she slipped to the ground in the midst of trampled corn. Ben cradled her as she tried to catch her breath between sobs of relief, and he kissed her and said he’d never been so frightened in all his life. Then they both laughed when she said she thought she had the corner on fright, thank you very much.

“Looks like you’re going to live.” Tommy stood at the edge of the rocks, a deer rifle slung over his shoulder. 

“Thanks to you,” Ben called back. “You ever put in some time on a SWAT team?”

“Used to keep the family in venison every winter. That’s about all.” But he grinned his appreciation of Ben’s admiration.

Julie thought Tommy was being overly modest, remembering the single, life-ending bullet in Carl’s head.

“If you want to go back to the village, have that arm looked at, I’ll meet you at the clinic in about an hour,” Tommy said then turned away as one of his patrolmen walked up.

“I don’t think I’m really hurt. Cuts, bruises, a crease in my shoulder—”

“How’d this happen?” Ben gently tipped her head sideways to look at the discolored bump above her ear.

“You don’t want to know. Have you found Sal?” She changed the subject and struggled to her feet with Ben’s help. Better to get him off the topic of her injuries. In fact, she felt a little ridiculous. She was the one who had insisted .22 was who he said he was. She was the bright one who thought she could tell the difference—even went back to the house to pick him up in order to help Ben—or prove that she was right, probably, more of the latter.

“Not a trace. Did .22 say anything?”

“His name’s Carl. He’s Hannah’s nephew. He killed the trader who was in on some kind of deal. He also said that Sal is alive, but not well—I think that’s how he put it. Oh yeah, said Sal wasn’t going to see daylight again, something like that.”

“Hannah’s nephew. That puts a twist in things. But explains how he could resemble her. It’s obvious that they’ve gotten Sal out of the way, to get the notebook.”

“What’s all this about a notebook?” After Ben finished telling her what Daisy had discovered in the fetish jar, Julie stood quietly and thought of the corn maiden with its perfect Jumping Sumac beetle and the necklace with an identical beetle stuck in the bear. She should have known that the odds of one man finding two such perfect specimens of the same insect were improbable.

“I feel so stupid. It was right there in front of me. And he tried to tell me. He was so mad that I’d paid all that money for a fetish necklace that wasn’t even real.”

“Am I going to be mad, too, at how much you paid?” Ben was teasing as he put his arm around her and guided her toward his pickup.

“Listen, buster, separate checking accounts are more important than two bathrooms in any marriage.” She teased back but loved the feel of being alive, of having her life ahead of her, of being able to lean against Ben, draw on his strength. She felt almost drunk with the prospect of having a future. She got into the truck with probably more help from Ben than she needed, then slipped across the seat, ignored the pain in her shoulder and put her arms around his neck as he swung behind the steering wheel.

“I love you.” Anything else she had wanted to say was cut off by his kiss. 

“If I didn’t think you needed medical attention, I could suggest one or two activities—” He began.

“There’s always later.” She snuggled against him, then became pensive. “Can you imagine someone keeping his head raw and covered with salve all this time? He fooled a lot of people.” Julie noticed Ben grimace. Oops. Foot in her mouth again, but she wasn’t thinking about Ben’s testing him; she was thinking of Tommy’s mother. 

“Has Hannah been picked up?”

“Tommy sent a patrol car out to the trading post. I don’t know if she’s under arrest. I was a little more concerned about someone else.” He reached over to put an arm around her shoulders after he’d pulled out onto the highway.

“You know, I can’t help but feel that Sal’s whereabouts is right under our noses, too. I should have been smarter about the amber, should have snapped to its being too perfect. And I should have believed you about .22. I have the same feeling about Sal; I should know where he is. I’m thinking I do know, if I can only put it together,” Julie said.

+ + +

Sal drew a hash mark on the wall. Number six. Then snapped off the flashlight. He had to conserve the batteries. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Six days. Five nights. But not that he could tell the difference. He sat down heavily on the cot. His strength was going. How long could he last? He had water. The sink in the corner had been put in for the lab. It was well water, unfiltered, and tasted slightly metallic. But it was wet. He could drink and wash. Was it comforting to think someone would find a clean body? If anyone ever found him. 

He slept most of the time now. Years ago he’d read a study on cave dwelling, about an experiment at Carlsbad Caverns. After a couple weeks underground, a person’s perception of time became warped. There was no difference between night and day. A person began to sleep ten, twelve even fourteen hours at a time. Sal had started doing that, sleeping like he was still drugged.

He stretched out on the cot. He no longer fought the darkness. He’d found some candles in his tool box, but they were long spent. He thought he could detect a lingering scent of bayberry. Whatever that was. The flashlight was his only illumination. He turned toward the wall after bunching his pillow, and tucked the round cylinder under the mattress. The flashlight was important to him. It would be like losing his sight if anything happened to it, thrusting him into a blindness that he didn’t think his sanity could recover from.

He dozed but couldn’t drift off into the black bottomless sleep he was used to. There had been no visitors—no Atoshles in his dreams, threatening him. But didn’t the visits by Atoshle have something to do with .22 and Hannah? Hadn’t they been trying to scare him? To make him give up the amber? .22 who wasn’t .22 after all? And Atoshle, who wasn’t Atoshle but was .22? It made his head hurt.

He knew Hannah planned to move, just up and go and leave him underground. He had exhausted himself trying to find a chink—one weak link in his underground cell that would let him escape. But there was none. Noise didn’t seem to carry. He had banged on the metal workbench, on the sink, on the pipes exposed for two feet before they disappeared behind the rock wall. No one came, but his head had rung for hours, even with his hearing aid in his pocket. 

He had tried to force the bit of a hand drill through the trapdoor but struck what was probably half inch metal. He was in a fortress. And maybe he had just given up. Finally, he simply resigned himself to whatever was to be. He put his trust in his guardian fetishes that still perched above the cot. He carried the obsidian turtle in his pocket now and often drew it out to run his thumb over its cool smoothness. Long life. The turtle could give him that. Did he dare hope?

At first the scraping didn’t register. The sound was muffled and sounded far away. But the ray of light that flooded the top of the stairs was real. Someone was opening the trap door. Sal pushed to his feet as it clanged shut, leaving darkness surrounding the single beam of a flashlight.

“Stay where you are.” 

“Hannah?” 

What could this mean? He tried to keep down the joy that bubbled up, burst through his being sending shock waves to his brain. She’d relented. She’d come for him. “Hannah, yes, I knew you’d come. You couldn’t kill me. I knew that. I—”

“Shut up.” 

“Let’s go now. There’s no need to wait. Let’s leave.” He heard himself babbling, but couldn’t stop. “I need to get something to eat—”

Sal heard her cock the semi-automatic, and he stumbled back and sat down hard on the cot and closed his mouth. He wasn’t going anywhere. But why was she going to shoot him? 

“Two cop cars pulled in. They’ve got him. I know they do.” Her voice was quivering, and she seemed to be talking to herself. She was on the verge of tears or already crying, he couldn’t tell which.

“Who? Got who?” he asked.

“Carl. I didn’t want him to go with Julie. But he was so sure. Said it was the only way we’d get the notebook. I knew it was trouble. Something must have gone wrong.”

“This Carl is .22? Where’s the real .22?”

“Dead. And don’t think I murdered him. I didn’t have to. He died of pneumonia, the spring he was nineteen.”

“So who is Carl?”

“Good, isn’t he? I don’t think I’d have ever thought of having him impersonate Harold if I hadn’t seen what a good mimic Carl was. When they were younger, it was cruel. Carl would follow Harold everywhere, two steps behind walking just like him. At the table, he would torment Harold by eating like he did. And they looked alike through the eyes. Carl was only three years older.”

“Your sister’s son?” 

“Yes. After Harold died, it seemed a simple thing to do, set it up to appear Carl had died of pneumonia and turn the real Carl into Harold. He had Harold’s behavior down pat. I researched the psych part—how he could fool experts, get by on the test. We practiced. It was all going to be worth it; I’d get my money that way. I could collect on the will. That bastard Ed wouldn’t get the last laugh.” Her voice was flat. She stopped, then added wistfully. “We were going home, to Maine. I’d live with my sister and make amber. There would have been enough money for all of us.” 

“Until Carl killed the trader?”

“He had to. Ahmed was getting in the way, demanded that we include him as a partner—threatened to go to the police. It was my idea to scalp him and pin the murder on you. But even then, we could have gotten away. It was you. You and your stubbornness. Your refusal to give up the recipe. You made Carl risk his life.”

Sal flipped on his flashlight. The beam crisscrossed the light from Hannah’s flashlight, but there was a gun all right. Light reflected off the barrel. She was standing three feet in front of him now. The gun was a semi-automatic, petite, maybe a Lady something-or-other but deadly. “Hannah—”

“We’ve talked too much. I have to do this now, then wait until everyone’s gone and leave after it gets dark. Nobody remembers this cellar is here.”

“Wait. Hannah, please—”

 

+ + +

 

“Have you found Hannah?” Ben asked as Tommy walked through the door to the clinic’s emergency room.

“Nothing yet.” 

He looked tired, Julie thought. The nurse was bandaging her shoulder and reminding her again how lucky she’d been.

“Hannah’s car is still there. I think she sensed something was wrong when you and .22 didn’t come back, or maybe she saw the patrol car and took off on foot. We’ll find her. It’s only a matter of time. She couldn’t have gone far.”

“Can we go back to the boarding house?” Julie was thinking about changing clothes—what wasn’t torn was dirt-streaked, stiff or discolored with blood. 

“It should be okay. My men have searched the house. I’ve left them out there just in case she tries to come back.”

“I’m going with you. After the death of Harold, she’ll need someone. I think she’d rather hear about the death from me,” Dr. Lee said from the doorway. “But I must tell you, I find it very difficult to believe what I’ve been hearing—all this about Harold being someone else. This could look bad for all of us if—”

“Harold was an imposter. It appears he was her sister’s son. Hannah perpetuated the sham and meant to profit from it. Miss Conlin is alive because Ben saw the dust kicked up by her car going up the side of that outcropping of rock between here and Gallup. There was no mistake about what this .22 intended to do. The young man was killed in the act of threatening the life of Miss Conlin. My report will reflect this.” Tommy sounded terse and not in a mood to take anything from anybody—especially an overbearing doctor, Julie thought.

“Ah, well, yes, but I would like to verify this information on my own,” Dr. Lee countered.

“We have every reason to believe Hannah Rawlings could be armed and dangerous.”

“You’ve got to be joking. I’ve known Hannah for five years. I’ve never found her to be anything but a loving mother, accomplished anthropologist, and dedicated to maintaining her place of business.” Dr. Lee sounded exasperated.

“I am not asking you to stay out of this investigation; I am ordering you to do so. I will accept your offer to stand by as a physician. That is the extent of your involvement that will be approved by my office.” Tommy looked at his clipboard as much as dismissing Dr. Lee, who then turned to Ben.

“I’ll follow the two of you in my car. I think we need to be going.”

After Dr. Lee had left the room, Ben shrugged and helped Julie off the examining table.

“What do you think, Tommy? Is it okay if he tags along?”

“It’s difficult to turn down your boss.”

 

+ + +

 

“Let’s go through what we know about Sal’s disappearance one more time,” Julie said. She sat forward on the front seat of the truck, legs tucked under her, facing Ben, her cuts and bruises forgotten.

“For starters, we know why he was abducted,” Ben said as he pulled onto the highway that would take them back to the boarding house.

“True. We have the motive. Now, if I could just think like Hannah ...”

“I’m kinda glad you don’t.”

“Be serious. Maybe, I can figure out where he is.”

“.22, or Carl, said Sal wouldn’t see the light of day. Believe it or not, that supports what Sal’s wife says. She thinks Hannah buried him alive,” Ben said.

“Underground? Wait. That’s it.” Julie was bouncing up and down. “Remember what Tommy’s mother said about Hannah leaving .22 different places—she left him so many times in the root cellar under the pantry that Ed Rawlings had it boarded up?” She was almost shrieking with excitement. “I knew if I could just think like she does. When I burst into the pantry yesterday, Hannah had a ham sandwich. Obviously, we know now that she wasn’t disciplining .22 like she said. Ben, that sandwich had to have been for Sal. .22 was on the floor getting ready to open a trapdoor—and the floor had just been carpeted. The carpet was thick and new so that it would mask sound. I wondered who would carpet a pantry.” She was beside herself now. “Ben, hurry. We’ve got to get Sal out.”