Agnes Hahn (7 page)

Two evening hours were tough to kill in Mendocino, so Jason headed for his motel. He drove five miles under the speed limit, signaling for every lane change, veer, and twist. A yellow light meant stop here, and it gave him time to dial his cell phone—the number Mulvaney had given him.

“Officer Wilson here.” The voice sounded distant. A cell phone?

“Hi. Jason Powers. Do you know if Agnes Hahn is going to be released anytime soon?”

“Detective Bransome is looking for you. Where are you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll try to stay out of his way for the next couple of days. Is she going to be released?”

“Yeah. It’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow, around one, I think.”

“Why not tomorrow? You can’t hold her that long, can you?”

“Bransome said the paperwork couldn’t be processed until then.”

Jason checked his speed. “And her lawyer bought that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Never mind. You think she’ll be released around one in the afternoon, or you know it will be at one?”

He heard papers shuffling. “It’ll be at one.”

“Good. I’d like to pick her up and drive her home. Do you think that’d be all right?”

Laughter. “You think Bransome would agree to that?”

“Can’t you keep him busy with something around there? I’m working with you guys on this one, not against you.”

More laughter. “Yeah. Right. The best I can do for you is pretend this conversation never happened. You’re on your own with Bransome.”

Jason mouthed a curse. “I really appreciate that. Don’t tell him I’m coming. Okay?”

More laughter.

He folded the phone and threw it on the seat. His foot hit the accelerator hard, but he pulled it back, checking his mirrors. Bransome really knew how to hold a grudge. Maybe what had happened two years ago wasn’t for the better, but it had been the right thing to do. Jason pounded the steering wheel with his fist. No matter how many times he repeated his justification, it didn’t give him peace. Two years ago wasn’t personal. But he knew Bransome wouldn’t see it any other way.

Jason shook his head. To him, Bransome was an enigma. A previous background check had revealed that the detective hadn’t served in Vietnam. He’d somehow managed a 2-S student deferment for six consecutive years of higher education, first at Santa Rosa Community College, then at Chico State, where he graduated with a degree in sociology.

Jason had found a picture of Bransome when he was in the debate club at Chico. It still bothered him. Bransome’s hair was curly, kinky—the kind that yanked teeth from a comb in a single pass. In its current state the gray fringe that encircled his naked crown looked like steel wool. But that kind of hair was a source of envy in the late sixties when the Afro was in style. The bigger, the better. Yet, in the photograph, Bransome’s full head of hair was trimmed short, nearly military, and his sideburns barely dipped below the bottoms of his ears. All other males in the photo had full beards or triangular muttonchop sideburns that teased the corners of their mouths. And Bransome was the only person, male or female, whose pant legs ran straight to the cuffs. The others had pants that ballooned below the knee into floppy bell-bottoms.

Jason grinned. Bransome had been a walking anachronism. A chuckle. Still was.

The August night carried a chill as tendrils of fog oozed around the corners and tops of the care home buildings, giving the yellow sodium vapor lights an eerie glow. It was ten minutes past ten and there was no sign of her. Jason leaned against his driver’s-side door and pushed the lumi-glow button on his watch. He’d give her two more minutes. He crossed his arms against the cool mist.

A security guard appeared inside one of the side doors of the entryway and the loud click of a dead bolt echoed in the night. The main, automatic motion-sensor doors must have been locked sometime before ten. The guard pushed the door open, and the familiar purple tunic bounced through the door and onto the covered entryway.

The woman stopped and scanned the parking lot. She turned in Jason’s direction, motioned for him to follow, and bounced away into the adjacent parking area. Jason stood next to his car and waited.

She slid a key into the door of a Saturn four-door sedan, then turned in his direction and motioned to him again.

He nodded and climbed behind the wheel of the Volvo.

Jason felt the tickle of perspiration along his hairline. She drove nearly fifteen miles over the speed limit, zigzagging through what little traffic was out at the hour. He squinted through the fog, trying his best to follow her darting taillights.

At a poorly marked intersection, she veered off the main road onto a street that seemed to disappear into the darkness and fog. Her red taillights barely defined the limits of the asphalt—streetlights and sidewalks didn’t exist. His gut sent a loud signal. This might not be a good idea.

His foot twitched on the gas pedal and the slight lurch of the car seemed to second his indecision. A dim light appeared ahead. Her brake lights blared, then sputtered, and the red streaks shot to the right, toward a bank of overhead lights. A pair of long, two-story buildings appeared through the glowing fog, and her car slid to a stop between them. Before he could complete his turn into the lot, she was out of her car, heading to the building on the left.

His wheels barely stopped before she turned a key in the door of the second-in, ground-floor apartment. She paused and faced him, then disappeared into the building. Bright light flooded the open doorway.

Hesitation. Something seemed wrong. But the apartment was dark before she entered. At this hour, that meant she probably lived alone. His feet hit the parking lot before the next wave of caution hit. He shuffled toward the light as he tried to calm his internal objection. Ella. This was about Ella.

A tap on the door brought no response so he leaned in. “Hello?”

Movement to the left caught his attention, along with the sound of a refrigerator door closing. He stepped into the apartment in time to see her approach, a can of beer pushed in his direction with a stiff arm. He kicked the door closed and accepted the beer.

He preferred to drink from glass, not aluminum. A bottle was fine with him, but never a can. He scanned the apartment. The kitchen counter was littered with dirty glasses and dishes. A pile of rumpled clothing covered a chair and part of the couch in the living room. In his quick scan, he noticed three large stains on the beige carpet. Better to make an exception in this case.

She placed a hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth and thumbed a lighter. The scent of the first few puffs told him it wasn’t tobacco. She took a deep draw and held her breath at the same time she took the joint from her mouth and held it out to him. “'Ere,” she grunted.

He raised his hand in a stop motion and shook his head. “I want to talk to you about Ella Hahn.”

The woman blew out the lungful of smoke and raised her beer can to her lips. Three noisy swallows and she pulled the can away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She took another long drag on the joint and stepped toward him, smiling.

She exhaled and motioned to the hall, but he didn’t move.

“Do you know if Ella ever comes out of her trance? Does she ever make sense?”

“Information will cost you.” She wriggled into his comfort space.

She reeked of weed. “I think you’ve been watching too many movies.”

Her laugh echoed in the sparsely furnished apartment. “I have some of those. You can be the pizza man and I’ll be the woman who doesn’t have any money.” She pulled him into her arms and leaned forward for a kiss.

He hesitated, then folded his arms around her, lightly. He leaned away from her mouth. “What about Ella?”

“Later.” She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss, her tongue thrusting into his mouth.

He terminated the kiss. His knees nearly buckled. The joking, the passion. Not only did she look like Eugenia, she acted like her, too. “Do you have a name?”

She giggled as she rotated out of his grip. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hallway, then into the bedroom. She took a long drag on the stubby joint and tossed it into an ashtray on a bedside table. In a quick motion, she pulled the purple tunic over her head. No bra.

His eyes locked on her breasts. But he needed to talk about Ella and then get out of there. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. All he saw was Eugenia.

She flopped on the bed. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He never could say no to Eugenia.

She smiled. “Like I said, information will cost you.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t even know your name.”

She reached over to the table, pulled open a drawer, and removed a square condom packet. She waved it in front of her. “Hey, I’m clean. I have to go through all kinds of testing for my job.”

“What about the weed?”

She giggled again. “There are ways around that.”

He took a step back. “Good to know.”

She stood and slipped her white pants below her hips. They slid to the floor revealing a pale pink thong. She waved the condom wrapper again. “If you want to talk about Ella, I’ll talk. But I need something from you first. You won’t regret it.”

Her grin and her playful pout screamed Eugenia, and the woman’s near nakedness fought against his hesitation. Maybe this was a way to begin easing Eugenia’s memory. Maybe meaningless sex could erase the bond he had shared with her. But why wasn’t he stepping forward? “Can’t we just talk?”

“Yes. After.” She slinked over to him and unbuttoned his shirt. She massaged his bare chest. “Nice,” she exhaled.

His feet no longer shuffled backward.

She undid his belt, yanked open the buttons of his Levi’s, and pulled the jeans off his hips.

He looked down at the bulge in his boxers, before her hand found it.

“Guess you’re not ready to talk just yet.”

He barely had time to roll on the condom before she pulled him into a coupling. Her animated movements created a challenge to stay in the union, and with each of his thrusts she gasped a loud, “Uh huh.” He closed his eyes tight and Eugenia appeared.

As his tempo increased, her volume matched, and his thoughts jumped to the surrounding apartments. He pictured neighbors with ears pressed to the wallboard, laughing at the auditory performance.

“Uh huh … uh huh … uh huh …”

Despite the distraction, Eugenia returned, and he lost himself in one of his more memorable conclusions this side of his former fiancée. But as soon as he fell off of her, the vision disappeared, replaced by the woman without a name. Unsure of the proper etiquette in her universe, he reached out to pull her into a hug.

A quick roll and she was off the bed. In the dim light he watched her jog out of the bedroom, naked. The sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing signaled her return, another can of beer in hand. She flopped on the bed, outside of the covers, and jiggled her right leg in time to imaginary music.

“So what did you want to ask about Re-run?” A chortle punctuated the question.

Best to be blunt—to get to the point before her attention span expired. “Does she ever make any sense?”

A staccato, nervous laugh shook the bed. “That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Make any sense. I’m not a good one to judge.” This time, she belly laughed.

Jason watched her breasts bounce with her laughter, and had to force himself to stay on task. “Does she ever seem normal? Talk without repeating herself?”

“Oh yeah.” She bobbed her head, further bouncing the bed. “I know what you mean. Sometimes. Right after supper. She seems different.” The exaggerated head nods continued.

“What do you mean, different?”

“She wants to help. Clean up. She doesn’t repeat herself. And she looks different.”

“Looks different?”

The woman took a long guzzle of beer and crushed the can in her hands. She threw it into the corner of the room. “You want another one?” She slid off the bed and hurried out of the room.

“No, thank you.”

On her return, each hand held a can. She thrust one in his direction.

It went to the nightstand, unopened. “What did you mean when you said she looks different?”

A lunge onto the bed and her leg jiggling intensified. “Most of the time, she smiles. She’s so nice. After supper. When she changes. She frowns.”

“Frowns?”

“Yeah. She looks scared. Like she isn’t sure where she is.”

“Do you ever talk to her when she gets like that?”

“Once. I asked her if she knew where she was.” She threw her head back and let the beer flow down her throat. A stream ran from the side of her mouth onto her shoulder. The back of her hand swabbed her mouth and partially muffled a cough.

Jason watched a dribble of beer run onto her breast, nearly to her nipple, baiting him. Eugenia would’ve appreciated a quick lick. He had to stay on track.

“What did she say?”

A drip fell to her hip. “When?”

“When you asked her if she knew where she was?”

“Oh yeah. She didn’t answer. She looked mad.