Corallis boasted a downtown that was not only big enough to warrant Starbucks’ attention but also a SEARS’s annex, a real library and two churches – Baptist and Catholic. It seemed like a small town because it was spread out over more than a few miles, its borders sketchy and far-flung. At five thousand feet above sea level and only an hour’s drive from the valley, it was still too much of a town for the likes of Dove.
In fifteen years there would be no telling Corallis from the city below. Five people would build houses on the mountain, then they’d want a store close by and somebody would oblige. Another store would spring up to take the run-off. Some builder would take ten acres and put up forty houses.
Like connecting the dots, Corallis would be swallowed up by the city below and then Dove’s part of the mountain would be next. Could be that Fritz’s death was nothing more than a harbinger of things to come; people taking the old roads to new places, doing their worst, thinking nothing of it as they drove on. Crime was like litter tossed on the highway: once it was shoved out the window the only ones who cared were the ones close to where it landed.
Dove gave the wheel a turn. His car bumped onto an unpaved road. Most of the land had been cleared but building was spotty here. Mike hit the gas, passed an unmarked intersection then hung a right onto a dirt road. His back wheels spun out briefly before he righted himself and went on like a jackrabbit. Dove followed. Both cars kicked up a good deal of dirt like youngsters haulin’ ass on a back road just for the fun of it. When Dove pulled up to the big barn-like building Mike was already out of his car, his thumb hooked into his belt, one leg cocked on the running board as he waited on Dove. Together they walked into a big old building with the name Talbot’s painted on the side.
It was colder inside than out and quiet the way big wooden buildings can be. The structure had weathered a lot of seasons. The wear showed in the open knotholes, the missing slats and the slanting beams. Mike and Dove were striped by ribbons of light and shadow as they walked the length of the place. Dust sparkled in the weak sunlight or hung grey and heavy like it had given up trying to escape.
“Watch yourself.”
Mike warned Dove away from a rusted scythe that lay across a crate. Dove gave it a look as he sidestepped. Talbot’s place was more museum than business, a shop where broken things went to be repaired, cannibalized or buried. There were washing machines and cars, farm machinery and typewriters. Architectural stars overflowed their bins and those bins sat beside buckets of bolts, nuts and nails. There seemed to be more parts strewn about than there were machines to put them.
“Cy? Hey Cy!” Mike called.
He picked up a gear only to toss it aside. He was checking out the front end of an old Corvette when a man appeared from behind something that looked like an X-ray machine. He was huge, matching Dove in weight but out running him in height. Almost bald, unshaven and covered with dirt and grease, Cy Talbot talked to Mike as he eyed Dove.
“Don’t you go touching stuff, Mike. There’s a reason why you’re a cop and not a mechanic.”
Mike smiled easily and walked up close to Cy like he knew him well. Together they faced Dove. Introductions were made but the big man kept his hands to himself.
“Don’t want to get you greased, Sheriff,” he said.
“Not a problem,” Dove responded.
“I know I didn’t do a damn thing to be ashamed of, so what brings you out here? Got something you need fixed?” Cy asked.
“We need to talk to you about Simon Hart,” Mike answered.
“That piece of trash?” Cy spit into the dirt. “I sent him packing five days ago. He swore he knew how to work an engine. Didn’t know shit – not to mention he had his hand in the till.”
“Do you know where he went?” Dove asked.
“Is he in big trouble?” Cy raised a bushy eyebrow as if he hoped it was true.
“Could be,” Dove answered. “We want to ask him about a woman he knows.”
“Didn’t look like a ladies man to me.” Cy spit again and this time a thick black stream of tobacco juice hit the ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Still, not for me to say. I seen pretty women go with men who look like a beetle’s butt and act like a horse’s ass; I seen a bashful Nellie take on a whole tavern full of outlaws. Nope. Not for me to say where women are concerned, but I never saw him with a woman and none came here looking for him.”
Tired of standing still, Cy ambled off toward a lathe and picked up a piece of wood. Dove and Mike fanned out: Mike to rest up against a stack of bricks and Dove standing close enough to hear and not get in the way. Cy hit the switch and the lathe started up with a shimmy and a whine.
“Sheriff Connelly could be looking at him for murder, too, Cy.” Mike raised his voice and that little tidbit made the tinker pause.
He ran his hand over the wood and flipped the switch again as he cast a glance Dove’s way.
“How’d he do it?”
“Shotgun,” Dove said. “That’s how the man died.”
“Then I’m thinking Simon’s probably not the one for you. I never saw him with a gun.”
“But you saw something,” Dove pressed.
“I saw him pull a knife when I wasn’t going to pay him for work that hadn’t got done. My grandma could have done more than he did.”
“Why didn’t you report him? I could have taken him in for assault,” Mike pointed out.
“Because nothing happened. He pulled a knife. He made noises about cutting me then he backed off. Said it didn’t really matter. Said he could starve a few days ’cause he was coming in to some big money. That’s what he said. Big money.” Cy spit again. It hit the ground but it might as well have been directed to Simon Hart’s eye. “Like I was supposed to be impressed.”
“Did he say where he was getting the money?” Dove asked.
“Nope. Didn’t seem we had much to talk about once that knife was showed. I just told him to get out. Least he was smart enough to do that. If he hadn’t, I’d be the one you were looking at for murder. Stupid little shit.”
Still grumbling, Cy disappeared behind a jumbled mess of stuff. When he came back again he handed Dove a ripped piece of paper.
“That’s the address he gave me. I wasn’t exactly asked to dinner while he worked here, and he didn’t want to see my sorry ass after I canned him, so I can’t vouch for it.”
“Appreciate it. Can you tell me what he was driving?” Dove asked, handing the address off to Mike.
”Blue Mercury Mountaineer. Needed brakes.”
“And a bumper?”
“Yep,” Cy confirmed.
Mike and Dove exchanged glances. They had what they wanted.
“Much obliged for the help, Cy,” Mike said and by the time they were outside again the lathe was turning.
“Where we going?” Dove asked.
“That’s an apartment building at the end of a cul de sac. You want to take one car so we don’t look like the damn army on maneuvers?”
Mike slipped his Billie club from his belt and tossed it on the seat. He ran a hand across his short hair as he rested his elbow atop the car door waiting for Dove to decide how he wanted to make the approach.
“What are we looking at? A mile?” Dove asked.
“Three, more like.”
“I’ll follow you. If this is a dead end I have to get back up the mountain fast as I can.”
“Your call.”
The doors on both cars slammed shut. The engines revved. Simultaneously they whipped the wheels and caravanned back to town to chase down a man Charlotte Bradley believed was her mother’s lover, a man who might have killed Fritz. If Simon Hart was kidnapper, killer, or both Dove would know it the minute he saw him and Simon Hart would be the next dead man.
I sit quietly at the base of a tall tree. To my right is a pile of rocks, to my left a bramble bush that scraped me when I crawled behind it. In front of me is a log cabin on stilts.
The end of the day comes while I watch this place. I am wary of what’s inside. I have been fooled before into thinking there was safety, affection and promise inside a place just because it looked right. Instead, I found – well, I don’t want to think about what was inside that villa in Italy. I will only think about the lessons I learned there: know what you’re walking into, outside can be safer than in and, sometimes, there’s no safe place at all.
So, I am patient. I move my eyes slowly over the clearing around the tower. A car sits on blocks. It is old and rusted. Unusable. That can mean one of two things: whoever lives here comes and goes in another vehicle or this place is abandoned. I don’t think it is abandon. There is a towel on the railing around the deck. The windows are clean. The rungs on the ladder are in order. On the other hand, it is dark now and no lights come on. I don’t see a shadow moving inside. I don’t hear a radio.
There is another explanation for the quiet, though. I have lived on this mountain long enough to know there are season people. They come and go with the change of weather: men who clear the roads in the winter; people who look for fires in the summer. This is near spring. That’s something to consider. I just don’t think about it too long.
I am freezing now that it’s dark. My ear hurts something awful; my neck even worse. A minute later a hot flash rips through me. My body is breaking down. Hungry and hurt, my choices are limited. I can pass by here and move on or I can climb that ladder.
I choose to climb the ladder because out here I will not last the night I don’t know which is more painful: my shoulder where I now am sure the bullet entered, or my legs which feel afire as I climb. Not that it matters. I cannot holler or curse or cry because I must assume there is someone inside until I am positive there is not.
There are thirty-two rungs on this ladder. They are all solid. I rest on the twenty-fourth. The empty rucksack is heavy and cumbersome because I have laced my walking stick through the flap. The rusted metal of the lantern handle cuts into my left hand. I think it’s bleeding. I can feel something wet on my palm. I probably should have left it all below but I couldn’t bear to. I have so little that I rationalize about why I carry these things: the stick can be a weapon; the lantern still has a small bit of fuel. If whoever lives here has left provisions, I will fill up my sack.
My hands are on the lip of the deck that surrounds this place like a widow’s walk. My instinct is to throw myself on it. Instead, I put the lantern up quietly and then I crawl up like a soldier. Belly first, keeping down, moving to the corner just to the side of the front door. I put my back up against the wall and pull my long legs in. My heavy breath comes white out of my mouth. I worry that the little puffs can be seen, that my labored breathing can be heard even though the door is sturdy and windows are thick.
Swallowing hard, my nostrils flare as I pull in a final breath through my nose. I shake back my hair, close my eyes for just a second then get to my knees. My hands brace against the wall and I move cautiously as I peek through the window.
Inside the space is spare but I can see the outline of furniture, a darker area that I believe is the kitchen. The left part of the room is hidden. I fall back and wait.
When nothing happens I reach for the doorknob. My hand is shaking as I close my fingers around it. Before I turn it, I pray and promise the way fearful people do. I pray that it opens; I promise God whatever he wants if the place is empty. I turn the knob, listening for a click, wondering if anyone is on the other side watching it turn. The door is locked and that is just as well. I didn’t want to know what God would have wanted if it had opened.
Staying low I make my way around the deck only to stop short, almost undone by what I see. The forest is never ending, impenetrable, unfathomable. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I look away and then suck it up. I might not have to go into the forest. Salvation might be at hand. I will hold onto that.
This side of the cabin is nearly all glass. The windows are set low to the deck. It will be easy to crawl through when I get one open. I don’t have a helluva lot of time to do that because the cold is spreading fast – down my legs and to my fingers. I can barely feel my extremities.
My head goes up to check things out one more time. Two big chairs are silhouetted near what I assume is the fireplace. The table I saw before, a door leading to another part of the cabin. There is a lot of dark but nothing moving in there.
I wriggle out of the backpack and pull out my stick. Working fast, I wrap the bottom of my sweater over the blunt end of the stick, turn my head and swing. The glass cracks. I swing again. This time it shatters and I am quick to put my arm through the jagged hole, stretching for the latch even though I am cut by the shards. Finally, my hand is on it. With a grunt, I throw the lock and force the window.
I swing my legs through. The window is higher than it looked on the outside. I fall a few inches and my ankle crumbles, my possessions fall in behind me. There is only more cold inside. No one has turned on the heat because no one is inside who needs to be warm. Except for me. I will find the heater, a phone, food, a bed. I am safe and I can hardly believe it.
Standing up, I close the window and make a bee-line for the front door. I bang my foot on something hard near the table and step over it. Otherwise, it is smooth going. My blind-woman-hands meet the wall and flutter over it. The light switch is a little lower than it should have been but finally I find it and flip it. I am smiling as my eyes adjust to the light. I think I am home free until I turn around.
In the wing chair near the fireplace is a man looking straight at me.