Cyanide Wells (24 page)

“That’s right.”

He sighed. “So where’re we headed next?”

“My house. You can wait out front all night if you like. I’ll even bring you a sandwich and some coffee.”

“You know, I think I’ll take you up on that. And do me a favor? Take it easy the rest of the way down.”

With Stengel close behind, she drove carefully toward the flatlands, thinking over what Janet Tremaine had told her.

On the morning after Ronnie Talbot’s and Deke Rutherford’s murders, Janet was awakened by a banging on the door of her trailer, in a mobile home park outside of Talbot’s Mills. She opened it to Mack Travis. Mack was a mess: rumpled, babbling, shaky, and drunk. Afraid her mostly old and retired neighbors would report his visit to the park manager—there had been previous complaints about him—she quickly pulled him inside. He was unsteady on his feet, so she shoved him into the armchair in front of the TV and, at his request, brought him her bottle of Southern Comfort—a liquor he hated but which he sucked down as he began talking.

Talking of bodies and blood. Of a gun and the smell of burnt powder. Of how Gar Payne and Milt Rawson would kill him. Of how he wished he were dead, too.

Over and over he mumbled and whimpered and eventually cried. Finally he passed out in the chair, and Janet, unsure whether what he’d said was real or an alcoholic delusion, left him there to sleep it off while she went to her noon-to-eight shift at the Roadhouse. But as the day wore on, every patron who came in was talking of the murders of Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford.

Janet was afraid to go home. Afraid to call the sheriff’s department, too, because she might be accused of harboring a killer. She solved her problem by remaining at the Roadhouse after her shift ended, drinking one shot of Southern Comfort after another, and finally spending the night on the cot in the employees’ lounge. When she returned to her trailer the next morning, Mack was gone; two days later he was arrested and confessed to the murders.

The night after Mack hanged himself in his jail cell, Gar Payne appeared at Janet’s door. He knew, he said, that Mack had come there after killing Talbot and Rutherford, and wanted to know what he’d told her. Janet gave him an account of Mack’s drunken ravings. Then Payne asked if Mack had left anything with her. Papers, perhaps, in a manila envelope. Janet hadn’t seen any, but she offered to look and found the envelope stuffed between the chair’s side and seat cushion. Payne took them, saying something about Mack’s having been supposed to make a delivery for him. Then Janet made her first mistake.

Was it a delivery to Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford? she asked.

Payne turned steely eyes on her. Had Mack told her that? No, she just thought it might’ve been.

Payne didn’t believe her. After a long pause he issued an ultimatum: She was to tell no one Mack had been there. She was to tell no one he had been there. And under no circumstances was she to tell anyone about the envelope.

And if she did?

He’d see to it that she lost her job. He’d make sure she never got another in the county. She could do jail time for harboring Travis. Or maybe her neighbors would want to testify as to her loose morals. Women who sold themselves weren’t welcome in Soledad County.

Tremaine had a temper. It flared at the accusation.

Oh, no? she asked. Then what kind of women did he visit at Foxxy’s up in Oilville?

Payne had a temper, too.

Women like her disappeared all the time, he said. No one would miss her if she did.

Just thinking about what Tremaine had told her made Carly’s blood race. She stomped on the accelerator, leaving Shawn Stengel far behind, then eased up and told herself to think logically rather than indulge in rage. The logical conclusion, of course, was that Payne and Rawson had been after the Talbot property for quite some time; they’d probably sent Mack Travis there to deliver an offer, but somehow things had gotten out of hand and he’d killed them. Then he’d killed himself in order to escape Payne and Rawson’s retaliation.

Again she stomped on the accelerator.

God, I hate people like them! Mack Travis wasn’t much, but they shouldn’t’ve used him the way they did. Janet’s not much—in their eyes—but she shouldn’t have had to live in fear of them for three years.

Payne and Rawson have got to be stopped. And I’m the woman to do it.

After she made Shawn the promised sandwich and delivered it to his car along with a thermos of coffee, she checked her phone messages. Calls from the office—plaintive voices begging for direction—and one from Matt. It was close to five, so newspaper business took precedence. After she’d finished with her employees, she replayed Matt’s message. He’d handled Grossman well, but she knew the detective would want her to verify his story. How long before Ned came knocking on her door?

She dialed the hospital in Santa Carla, found that Matt had been discharged late that afternoon. No answer at Sam’s house. Damn! Where was he? Had Grossman put a deputy on him, also?

Six-seventeen now. It wouldn’t be dusk till around eight-thirty, and until then her movements would be restricted. She paced the kitchen floor, considered having a glass of wine, decided against it. A clear head was a necessity tonight. Stamina, too, so she made a sandwich and ate it standing at the counter. It tasted like cardboard, but in her present state anything would. Finally she went to her office and ran some Internet searches that turned up nothing of interest.

At eight-fifteen she went to her bedroom and changed into black jeans and a black sweater. Thick socks, a knit hat, and hiking boots completed her ensemble. From the crisper in the refrigerator she took one of the point-and-shoot flash cameras that she and Ard kept there—Ard’s contention being that film lasted longer if kept cold. She put it, a small bottle of water, and a flashlight into her daypack.

In her dark living room she looked out the window. Stengel’s station wagon was still parked beside her truck. She turned on a table lamp and the TV, moved conspicuously about the room for a few minutes, then drew the curtains. Slipped down the hall to the dining room, where French doors opened onto the backyard. She opened one and listened.

Night sounds. Rustling in the brush, the cries of birds, a dog barking, a car passing on the road. From somewhere nearby came the smell of a barbecue. It was so quiet, she could hear the rush and babble of the creek.

After a careful look around she stepped outside, set the lock on the door, and shut it behind her. Ran across the backyard to the shelter of an aspen grove.

Seven miles as the crow flies.

Deke had told her that the night of the big storm, when he appeared on snowshoes with candles and emergency rations. But he had known the crow’s route. In her ignorance of the off-road terrain she might have to walk considerably farther.

You can do it. You have to do it.

She set out through the grove.

The houses here were on large tracts, spaced far apart, creating little light pollution. The night was dark, the moon a mere crescent. Carly took out her flashlight and aimed its beam at the ground, walking swiftly but carefully. When she came out of the trees and into the open meadow, she sighted on the towering mass of the Knob and headed toward it. Crickets fell silent as she passed, then again took up their chorus.

After about ten minutes she entered forest land. The trees were mainly pines, and their resinous smell filled her nostrils. She zigzagged through them, hands sticky where she touched their branches, and eventually realized she’d lost her bearings.

Sheer madness to think I’d find my way. I could be walking around in circles till morning.

She dug her cell phone from her pack and punched in Sam D’Angelo’s number. No answer. Next she tried the newspaper on the odd chance Matt might have gone there, but only reached the machine.

Well, what would I have said to him, anyway? “I’m lost in the woods; come and rescue me?”

She put the phone away and resumed walking. After a while the trees thinned and she found herself in a clearing. Craning her neck, she located the Knob—dead ahead and closer than before. She wasn’t lost after all.

She angled to the south, across the clearing, with renewed vigor. Plunged into underbrush where dead blackberry vines ripped at her clothing, and came out on a dirt road. Quickly she conjured up her mental map of the area: Drinkwater Creek, Spyglass Trail, the Knob, the Talbot house. This, then, would be the unpaved end of the trail. If she followed it to the right, it would lead her to its intersection with Highway 26, which passed through the national forest. Turn right, and within fifteen minutes or so she’d be at her destination.

She hadn’t been hiking much lately, and her calf and thigh muscles ached. The boots, which weren’t thoroughly broken in, pinched her toes. She ignored her discomfort and kept going. Then the growl of an engine came out of the distance. She stopped, listening to get a sense of its direction. Hazy headlights appeared behind her.

Grossman. He went to the house, found me gone, is looking for me.

The detective looking for her in this particular place made no sense, but still she ducked down and scrambled into the ditch by the roadside. It was muddy, and her boots sank deep into the muck. Moments later the vehicle passed at high speed; she raised her head, trying to glimpse it, but it was already around the bend.

Going where? Nothing out here for miles but the national forest. And Ronnie and Deke’s house…

Ten minutes later she stood in the shelter of a stand of pines, looking at the house. No light showed. She ran across the road and angled toward it. The driveway and front parking area were clearly visible now, and vacant. The vehicle that had passed her was probably heading through the national forest toward the intersection of Highway 26 with Interstate 5 at Redding. Still, she studied the house for a few minutes more before she went over and let herself inside.

In the entry she shone the flashlight’s beam around. She listened, heard only the sound of a tree branch tapping on the front window. After removing her hiking boots she climbed to the second story and went to the master bedroom. Took out her point-and-shoot, and—

“I’ll do that,” Lindstrom’s voice said.

She whirled. His face was pale against the darkness.

“Jesus! You scared me!”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to show myself till I was sure it was you.”

“Where’ve you been since you got discharged from the hospital? I’ve called a couple of times.”

“Sam and I had dinner in Santa Carla. After we got back to Talbot’s Mills, she went to her shift at the Chicken Shack and I drove here. Pulled my Jeep around back and came inside. Was setting up to take pictures when I heard you arrive.”

Carly sat on the bed, took off her cap, and let her tangled hair fall to her shoulders. Her eyes had now acclimated to the darkness, and she looked around, taking in the room’s shadowy outlines. When her gaze rested on the nightstand beside her, she frowned, then shone her flash on it.

“What?” Matt asked.

“That’s it. I saw something there.”

“When? The other day?”

“No. The morning after the murders. That was the only other time I’ve been in this room. But why can’t I remember? Dammit!”

“Don’t force it. It’ll come eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough.” She closed her eyes, began employing a technique a Denver hypnotherapist whom she’d interviewed for a feature article had explained to her.

Go back to that morning. You’re outside Ronnie and Deke’s house. What’s the weather like?

Warm. It’ll get hot later.

What do you smell?

Ard’s vomit. Dry grass and eucalyptus. Cape jasmine from the blue urns by the front door.

What do you hear?

Ard—she’s crying. Bluejays screeching in the oak tree. A crow cawing.

Look at the house. What do you see?

Door’s open.

“Carly?”

“Not now!”

Go inside the house. What’s the first thing you notice?

It’s cooler in here. But the temperature rises as I climb the stairs.

Go to the master bedroom. What do you see there?

I don’t want to—

Look!

Ronnie and Deke are on the bed. Their heads…There’s blood on the sheets, on the headboard…I can’t do this anymore.

Yes, you can. Look at the nightstand.

Okay. The nightstand. There’s nothing on it, not even much blood.

Look more closely.

Well, some blood. But it’s in a pattern. There’re circles and a rectangle, clear and polished wood. Three small circles and a bigger one. And the rectangle’s about the size of a paperback book.

She opened her eyes. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Matt asked.

“Come on.” She stood. “It’s getting late and there’s somebody I need to talk with.”

Dr. Arlene Hazelwood was in her sixties—a slender but strong woman with a long patrician nose, relatively unlined skin, and hair the color of old ivory. She was Carly’s personal physician and one of her role models. Arlene walked in marathons to raise money for medical research, ran a program that arranged for children and pets to visit elderly patients in county nursing homes, mentored troubled teenagers, and still managed to maintain an active medical practice. An Aunt Nan without the controlling edge.

The doctor seemed unsurprised when Carly, having parted with Matt at the
Spectrum
, appeared at her door at ten-thirty that evening. She invited her into the parlor of her white Victorian on a quiet side street not far from the newspaper offices and prepared mugs of herbal tea. Then she settled into her armchair and said, “I assume this is not a social call. Are you on the trail of a hot medical story?”

“Actually I’m not. I need some information from you for personal reasons.”

Arlene’s blue eyes assessed her keenly. “You’re not ill, although you do appear to be under considerable stress.”

“I am, and it relates to the reason I’m here. You were Ronnie Talbot’s and Deke Rutherford’s primary care physician?”