Green Lake (8 page)

She found the truck and opened the unlocked passenger door to climb inside. There were people milling around on the dock, uniforms of all sorts, deputies, morgue assistants, and people from the coroner. She couldn't see Eris.

Madeleine settled herself against the seat and looked around the interior of the truck. It was clean, like his house. The dashboard was free of dust and had a freshly washed look to it.

No wonder he eats over the sink, she thought. He doesn't want to get anything dirty.

She opened his glove compartment and was stunned to find his wallet inside.

How careless, Madeleine thought, leaving his wallet inside an unlocked truck at a busy dock.

But it was an official truck, and Eris had probably been in a hurry to get out on the water, which explained why his wallet was there. He didn't want it to get wet.

Hating herself for doing it, but eaten with curiosity, Madeleine opened the wallet. Inside she found fifty-nine dollars and a ticket stub from a music theatre presentation of
Man of La Mancha.
There were no pictures of anyone in his wallet. He had a driver's license, an insurance card, a social security card, a library card, various official-looking permits and things…and that was it. She looked at the driver's license again to find his birth date. After doing some quick figuring in her head, she realized he was going to turn twenty-seven the following Friday.

She did some more figuring and began to frown. Madeleine was exactly eight years and two months older than him. Sighing, she put his wallet back into the glove compartment and closed it up tight. She leaned back against the seat and allowed her lids to drift shut while she waited.

In the next moment she jerked awake as the overhead light in the cab came on and Eris stood with his hand on the door, looking in at her.

“If you're going home, I need a ride,” she said, and after a pause he got in the cab.

Madeleine buckled in as he turned the ignition. She eyed his profile and found his eyes straying to the glove compartment.

It's still there, she wanted to tell him, but she didn't. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him, and she wondered what kind of man he was to enjoy working himself to exhaustion day after day.

‘‘You're sunburned,” he commented as he drove the truck up and away from the dock.

She glanced at the pink tops of her thighs and felt the tenderness of her arms. “I don't tan. I never have.”

They rode quietly along, and on impulse she reached across the seat to gently touch his arm. She felt him flinch, but went on. “You did a good job today, Eris. I want you to know that. I don't know anyone who could have handled the situation as well as you did today.”

For several moments he was silent. Then he asked, “You saw her?”

“I did, yes. I won't forget it any time soon.”

There was silence between them again, until he looked at her suddenly and asked in a rough voice if she had a specialty in anthropology.

Madeleine looked at him in surprise, and then understood by the swift change of subject that he was trying to guide his thoughts away from the day's events and his part in them.

“Native-American languages,” she answered. “And some music.”

Eris turned full face to look at her, his surprise apparent by the action.

Are you Lakota?” she asked.

“Fox,” he said, turning back to the road again.

“
Minnesota? Canada?”

“The white people who adopted me said I was born here in
Kansas.”

That explained why his wallet held no pictures, she told herself. Partially, anyway.

“Where are they now?” she asked. “Do they live around here?”

“I haven't seen them in years,” he said. “When I left, they were in
New Mexico.”

“My parents live in
Santa Fe,” said Madeleine.

She expected him to say something else, like what part of
New Mexico his adoptive parents were in, or why he hadn't seen them in so long, but he said nothing further, only stared out the windshield and drove. When they reached the log cabin she saw Manuel's Jeep Cherokee in the drive and lights burning in the windows.

Eris stopped the truck in the road and waited for her to get out. Madeleine unbuckled herself and said, “Thanks for the ride.”

He nodded. She hesitated, looking at him. He looked back at her, still and silent.

“Would you like to come in and have a beer?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Eris . . .”

“Tell Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz I said hello.”

She was dismissed. Madeleine got out and slammed the door behind her. She marched across the lawn and up the steps without once looking over her shoulder. She heard his truck pass on toward his cabin.

That's what she got for being concerned about him, for trying to be nice again. He didn't know what nice was. Madeleine herself was going to be having more than one drink that night. She had no more of the sleeping pills her doctor had given her, and she knew she was going to need something to help her blot out the memory of that floating blonde hair and sodden yellow sweat suit. If Eris Renard didn't need something to help him, or someone to talk to, then he was made of unfeeling stone.

CHAPTER NINE

Eris held up the bottle of Jack Daniel's and swallowed three times before he put it down again. He rarely drank, but it was an effective painkiller.

Madeleine Heron had no idea how much he had wanted to take her up on all the sympathy her eyes offered. When she touched him on the arm he wanted to stop the truck in the middle of the road and wrap himself around her, crush her to him, so he could know the feel of a warm, breathing, living being in his arms, instead of the memory of a cold and dead one.

He took another long drink and put the lid back on the bottle. He had contacted the Lyman’s, as promised, and was forced to listen to Ronnie Lyman call him a liar, over and over. “She ain't dead, you hear? I'm tellin' you my little girl ain't dead. She can't be.”

Eris had to tell him it was in fact his daughter. He had taken her out of the water himself and requested that Ronnie come and identify her. Ronnie said that by God he would, and the lying goddamned bastard would see it was not his little girl.

When Ronnie arrived and saw Eris was telling the truth, that his little girl had drowned, he fell into a dead faint on the ground and cracked open his head, requiring twelve stitches to sew it back up again. Reporters descended upon the scene then, and questions were fired nonstop at park officials, only a few meriting an answer. When Eris was asked by someone whether he still considered the park safe, he nearly lost his temper.

The girl was three, he wanted to shout. You don't leave a three-year-old girl in the dark by a dam.

His superior had stepped up in time to save Eris and keep his face off TV.

Eris walked away to help Dale Russell keep the numerous nosy boaters and curious onlookers out of the way. Russell had been away from his radio when the call came for someone to go out on the water and check out the pontoon boat. Eris had been forced to drive twenty fast miles to get back to the reservoir and get in a boat.

He closed his eyes and unscrewed the lid on the bottle again as he thought of his first glimpse of her.

Bad.

Don't think about it, he immediately told himself. Think about anything else. Think about Madeleine, and the way she's starting to look at you.

Truth be told, he didn't know what to think about that. She acted as if she were actually interested in him, and after learning what he had that evening, he began to wonder if maybe he wasn't some new and different kind of case study for her. Her interests lay in Native Americans, and he was as native and as American as they came, so maybe she was actually following her educational leanings when she tried to talk to him.

Whatever she was doing, she was making him think more about her, and he knew he was only setting himself up for disappointment in doing that. She would be packing up and leaving at the end of the summer, making all considerations moot. He would rather she go back to being haughty and demanding than feeding him and touching him and saying nice things to him. She didn't know how long it had been for him, how the weeks had blended into months and the months into years and how he was usually so utterly exhausted when he came home that he was too tired even to touch himself and masturbate away the pressures inside his body.

She had a way of making the tiredness seem less. When he found her sitting in his truck that evening his adrenaline went to work all over again, and when she spoke, talked about his doing a good job, he experienced an odd flushing sensation under his skin, more pleasure than pride. Still he didn't know how to take her. She was different from anyone he had ever been exposed to, even in school. He had never had a teacher who looked like Madeleine Heron. He might not have graduated if he had.

He took one last drink of Jack Daniel's before putting the bottle away in the cabinet. His senses were practically reeling now, unused as he was to the effects of alcohol. He moved to the kitchen window and looked up to the log cabin. The curtains were closed, but he saw a light in Madeleine's bedroom, the same bedroom where he had seen her take off her clothes on the first night.

Eris thought about what he had seen that night, the generous, rosy-tipped breasts, and the slender, curved stomach above rounded white hips, and he went to lie down on his bed.

Before he could lower a hand to touch himself, the image of little Kayla Michelle Lyman intruded, her silky blonde hair wrapping itself around his wrist while he struggled to free her from the pontoon boat's rope.

Eris rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom, hanging his head over the toilet and vomiting until the water was brown with undigested whiskey and even his eyeballs hurt with the effort to vomit more.

The next morning he showered, toweled himself, and brushed his teeth, all without managing to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He felt like shit, and he wasn't going to get into the reasons with himself. He took a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator for breakfast and downed four aspirin before leaving the house.

He called the lake office by radio later that morning to see if anyone had heard whether the autopsy on the little girl had been completed. It had, but the voice on the other end said he had been instructed not to talk about the results over the radio. Eris stopped and used his cell to call his superior.

“She had semen in her stomach,” he was told. “Some bruising around her ears and jaws.”

Eris swallowed and felt his stomach deliver a threatening rumble. “Did she drown?”

“Yes. You might stay close to the lake today. When people hear some sick bastard is out there getting his rocks off killing kids, there could be a mass exodus.”

Eris disagreed. People would keep a closer watch on their children certainly, but the idea of such deranged activity would see most hanging around, looking with suspicion at strangers and talking in shocked, hushed tones to their neighbors. People were funny that way, and they weren't going to change any time soon. The park would go on as before, with a little more tension than usual and a little less friendliness.

Sometime that afternoon the news leaked out, and Eris was stopped no less than a dozen times by people wanting to know if it was true. Eris said there had been no official word yet. Technically, he was not lying. There had been no official news release.

Around three o'clock he spotted Manuel Ortiz edging around a tiny cove. Ortiz called to him and docked his Ranger bass boat at a private dock so he could lope up and talk to Eris. Eris watched him approach and prepared to answer the same questions he had been answering all day.

“You know the people who own that dock?” Eris asked when Manuel reached the truck.

“No,” said Manuel, grinning. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Not today,” Eris answered. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Madeleine has mentioned your kindnesses to her in the last week, and Jacqueline and I thought to repay you by inviting you to dine with us this evening.”

Eris opened his mouth, and Manuel held up a hand.

“Before you say no, let me tell you about the juicy porterhouse steak that awaits you if you say yes. I will begin cooking at seven, and it would please me very much if you agree to join us. Madeleine's life of late has not been easy, and we appreciate anyone who makes the effort that you have. She can be a difficult woman, and she has admitted to being difficult with you.”

This surprised Eris. He couldn't see her admitting to being difficult. The part about her life of late not being easy intrigued him, but he wouldn't ask.

He wondered what else she had said to them about him. He didn't want to spend the evening talking about the dead little girl, or his part in yesterday's nightmare.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I'll pass.”

Manuel was disappointed. “She can be quite charming when she chooses. She is not so ... hard . . . always.”

“I've got things to do at home. Thank you for the invitation, and good luck with your fishing.”

Manuel stepped away from the truck, and Eris drove on before he could say anything further to persuade him. He liked the idea of sitting down and eating a good steak with nice people, but none of them really knew each other, and Eris felt awkward and ill at ease in such situations. There were always those preliminary questions, covering everything everybody did, and where everybody went to school, and if they knew anyone in common. He wasn't any good at just sitting and chatting with Sometime that afternoon the news leaked out, and Eris was stopped no less than a dozen times by people wanting to know if it was true. Eris said there had been no official word yet. Technically, he was not lying. There had been no official news release.

Around
three o'clock he spotted Manuel Ortiz edging around a tiny cove. Ortiz called to him and docked his Ranger bass boat at a private dock so he could lope up and talk to Eris. Eris watched him approach and prepared to answer the same questions he had been answering all day.

“You know the people who own that dock?” Eris asked when Manuel reached the truck.

“No,” said Manuel, grinning. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Not today,” Eris answered. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Madeleine has mentioned your kindnesses to her in the last week, and Jacqueline and I thought to repay you by inviting you to dine with us this evening.”

Eris opened his mouth, and Manuel held up a hand.

“Before you say no, let me tell you about the juicy porterhouse steak that awaits you if you say yes. I will begin cooking at seven, and it would please me very much if you agree to join us. Madeleine's life of late has not been easy, and we appreciate anyone who makes the effort that you have. She can be a difficult woman, and she has admitted to being difficult with you.”

This surprised Eris. He couldn't see her admitting to being difficult. The part about her life of late not being easy intrigued him, but he wouldn't ask.

He wondered what else she had said to them about him. He didn't want to spend the evening talking about the dead little girl, or his part in yesterday's nightmare.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I'll pass.”

Manuel was disappointed. “She can be quite charming when she chooses. She is not so ... hard . . . always.”

“I've got things to do at home. Thank you for the invitation, and good luck with your fishing.”

Manuel stepped away from the truck, and Eris drove on before he could say anything further to persuade him. He liked the idea of sitting down and eating a good steak with nice people, but none of them really knew each other, and Eris felt awkward and ill at ease in such situations. There were always those preliminary questions, covering everything everybody did, and where everybody went to school, and if they knew anyone in common. He wasn't any good at just sitting and chatting with people. Maybe if he drank more he would be better at it, but he didn't enjoy drinking and didn't trust himself when he did drink. It surprised him that anyone did. He was still paying for the desperation of the previous night.

As he drove on he thought about the Lyman’s and wondered how they were holding up. He felt suddenly bad for thinking ill of them and their grandstanding on television. They couldn't help what they were anymore than he could help what he was. It was just the way things turned out.

Ronnie's wife was sick. She had been sick ever since Ronnie called her yesterday and told her that her baby was dead. She couldn't eat anything, and even when she drank something she threw it right up. The people at the Trinity Shelter in Augusta were worried about her, and they couldn't understand why she was so angry at her husband, whose poor head was shaved half bald where it had been stitched, and who looked as if someone had gut-kicked him and left him fighting for air.

The reason for Sheila's anger was clear to Ronnie. She thought he had done it. She thought he had killed their baby girl to get more money coming in. Not enough money was coming in, so she thought he had killed Kayla to get more sympathy and more begging time on TV.

He had called his mom and told her to bring Kayla to the Haven a day or two early. He had to, because they were kicked out of the park, and he was going for really high drama by having his little girl show up looking for them just one day after they had been kicked out.

But someone else had snatched her from in front of the Haven after his mother drove away. Someone bad had taken her and done dirty things to her before killing her, and it was killing Ronnie because he couldn't get his wife to believe that it wasn't him who had done it.

What kind of wife would believe something like that about her own husband? Ronnie asked himself as he received yet another evil glare from the pasty-faced Sheila. She was sick, all right. She was sick in the head, thinking such things about him. She was making everyone in the shelter stare at him and whisper. Last night he had wanted to hit her so bad he nearly bit his lower lip in two trying to prevent it. If word got out that Ronnie Lyman slugged his wife, then those little five and ten dollar checks that were dribbling in out of sympathy for them would stop quicker than a mouse pissing.

They might, anyway, if he couldn't get her to be nice to him again. Goddammit, they were going to bury their little girl tomorrow and she shouldn't be treating him as if she hated him. She even had Kelsey and Kendra looking at him like he was some bad old half-bald bogeyman.