Chapter Twenty-One

Wednesday November 2008

Vicky waited, but after Mike finished his brief description of his encounter with the mystery woman, he sat on the library bench, as still as a tree or stone or creature of the forest. It didn’t take long for that act to grow old. If only she could read his mind. She repeated, “And you never saw her again?”

Mike shook his head no. “How did you know about the bag?”

Fair question. Vicky had made no promises, but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone Joan’s story about Alisa.

“A friend saw it when she was covering the Lisa story. I’m not going to get into where right now.”

He acknowledged that with a twitch of two of the fingers resting on his thigh, palms down like he was about to launch forward.

“She saw it the day after the levee girl was found. Later that night, I stopped by to see your buddy and mine, Rick Carr.” She spoke carefully. “I’d been to his place once before, a couple days before, when he told me about the two of you spying on your dads.”

No need to get into anything personal about either long-ago night. She had driven past Rick’s house, made a U-turn, and parked where she could see the whole place.

“It was after I did my live shot on Lisa for the late news.”

A faint form moved behind closed curtains. Rick liked to pace and talk when he was thinking. When he had no one to talk to, he sometimes talked to himself. Two nights earlier, between whiskey sips on his porch, she’d revealed she did the same thing.

“He opened the door but said he couldn’t talk.”

There’d been no warmth in Rick’s voice. He was in uniform, minus tie and hat. He held his landline phone in one hand, with his fingers over the mouthpiece, halfway up to his ear, like he was in the middle of talking with someone.

“I said I had a question about something he’d said at the news conference. That I didn’t want anyone else to hear. He said to wait outside, he was on a call. While I was sitting on his porch a pickup truck stopped in front. I walked over to it.”

It had taken a few seconds for her to realize the pickup was slowing in front of the house. She couldn’t see the driver, only an impression of movement through the rear pane. Something shifted under a tarp in the open pickup bed as she approached.

“A woman’s voice called out something like, ‘tell Rick she’s the one he talked to earlier, and he better call her back now.’”

The anonymous hand had waved, and the truck sped off into the night. Vicky returned to her perch on the steps. The engine sound faded away before Vicky realized she hadn’t even glanced at the license plate. That should be instinct. Usually was. She was letting herself get distracted. She wasn’t even sure what color the truck was. What was moving under the tarp?

Good thing the truck interrupted her reverie. This was no time to dwell on Rick and what might have been. She and Rick had flirted mildly, occasionally dancing a little close to the edge of something more. They’d had coffee several times, nothing unusual for a friendly cop and friendly reporter. She had no intention of getting too personal, too close to any boundaries. There’d been no suggestion of professionally inappropriate behavior. She took that kind of thing seriously.

Vicky paused her story long enough that Mike looked at her. She wasn’t done. “I don’t know who was in the pickup. Anyway, Rick finally opened the door. I asked if his father had organized the search. I was suspicious because of what he’d told me about the two of you watching your dads and the cargo truck, which sure sounded like some shady business. I wanted to know if they’d searched that place.”

Vicky could remember everything about the encounter. She had urged Rick to set aside the fact his father was sheriff, to think about him like he would anyone else who might be up to something fishy.

“Rick basically kicked me out. I never told him about the woman in the truck. But what was weird was something was moving under a tarp in the bed of the truck. Remember, this was the day after the farmer found the levee girl.”

“What was it?”

“I couldn’t tell. Something big enough that I noticed. Wasn’t that kind of strange?”

“Maybe. Now, where’d your friend see the bag?”

“On someone’s porch.”

“Whose?”

“I need to check before I say.”

He scoffed. “Whatever. I need to get going.” He ignored her appeal to stay for a few more minutes and left.

Vicky waited until Mike went around the corner before she got up from the library bench. She needed to think about what he’d told her, and what she hadn’t told him. Her stomach had started burning the minute she mentioned Rick, remembering how she’d left his house that long-ago night—angry, hurt, embarrassed.

Or maybe it was burning because she was hungry. Breakfast was one of Vicky’s favorite meals. She’d skipped today’s in favor of the unexpected garden club meeting and the amazing talk with Mike. She was famished. She walked back to the diner, stoked with excitement, which made her even hungrier.

When she arrived, George was seated with Barb and Susan. Vicky joined them at the corner table, where they were all having coffee and luscious-looking berry pie. After Vicky ordered lunch, the others resumed their conversation.

“It wasn’t about natural gas.” George turned to Vicky. “I’m telling them about a meeting I sat in on. A company’s buying up mineral rights. They’ve been talking to property owners all over the area.” He looked back at the others. “The guy was slick. He wouldn’t say what mineral, but I hear they’re after something called frack sand.”

Susan shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Sand?” Barb perked up. “Remember the old glass factory south of here? They used to dig up sand.”

“What was his name? Elliot? The son.” Susan sounded wistful.

“Edwin.” Barb sounded certain. “They left for California after the factory closed.”

“Wonder what happened to him. He was one good-looking man.”

After a pause to see if the sisters had more to say, George continued. “I don’t know if this is the same kind of sand. They use this for mining natural gas. You know about fracking?”

Vicky was the only one who nodded. She resisted telling them all about fracking. She’d lived in Texas where it was big money.

“Fracking’s how they get natural gas.” George made a stirring motion. “They mix this special silica sand with chemicals and water and force it underground to break up shale rock. To fracture it. Seems we’re on the lower end of a giant seam of the stuff, runs all the way up to Minnesota, near where I’m from.”

George described how the Silica Sandman used a lot of big words and elaborate animated computer graphics to explain the geology and technology.

“He was kind of hypnotizing. He had this Zen-like way of putting away his electronics. He kept talking while he leaned back to unplug the power cord. Then he sits up, stops talking, and wraps up the cable with everyone watching. He puts the cable into a perfectly shaped bag, not looking at what he was doing, just straight at the audience, zips the bag closed and says, ‘So you can even keep your land and make free money.’”

“He sounds like quite the salesman.” Vicky’s phone vibrated. She glanced at it. “Sorry to rush off, but I have to leave.” She’d get her lunch to go.

“What?” Susan seemed startled. “Where are you going?”

Vicky smiled and picked up her phone and bag. “I have a few things to do.”

“Wait, how’s your article coming along?” Barb had her hand on Vicky’s arm.

“I wish I could stay, you’re all so interesting, but I really need to get going, I’ll be by tomorrow.”

Vicky rushed through the goodbyes. Pete was coming back tonight instead of tomorrow. She had things to do before he got back.

****

That night, Vicky sat on the bed facing Pete, legs crossed under her as she filled him in on the events of the last three days, starting with her outing to Joan’s house. In dramatic voice, she said. “Then Joan stood up and said, ‘I’ll show you.’”

“Wow.” Pete lay with his head on his pillow. It was late by the time he’d returned from his Kentucky battlefield tour. He’d already given his usual cursory trip report. Unlike Vicky, who tended to include detail and commentary, Pete’s stories were spare and succinct, much like his typical routine at historical stops, which was usually quick, thorough, and never involved gift shop souvenirs. He studied up in advance.

However, this particular circuit had included a stop at the oldest continuously operating distillery in Kentucky. Before falling into bed they had enjoyed sips of the very fine bourbon he picked up there.

“I almost couldn’t believe it.”

“Huh.” Pete stifled a yawn and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Vicky was still aching to talk. “I practically jumped up and accidently kicked the dog. Ruby. Her head was right next to my foot. But Joan said to wait. I was glad because I wanted to think about what she told me.”

After a long pause, Pete murmured, “Uh-huh.”

Vicky chuckled. “Oh, go to sleep. I’ll talk your ear off in the morning.”