The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

It was the best day of Claire's life. The water was way warmer than it had been the day they walked there with Sam and Jake, and so blue that it hurt your eyes to look at it. They fixed a picnic—lunchmeat sandwiches, and deviled eggs, and peanut butter cookies. Mrs. Thorsen didn't put on her swimming suit because Claire and Joey didn't have any, but she rolled up her pants legs and went in anyway. She said the water was warm because the sun heated the top couple of inches and the breeze blew it into shore.

“It only happens about twice in a century, so we'd better make the most of it.” She was joking, but it probably didn't happen very often.

When she was done, she sat in the sun to dry off and read a book, while Claire and Joey threw sticks for Spike and waded in to collect rocks. After a while she got out a bottle of shampoo and a comb and washed her hair in the lake. When she unbraided her hair it hung in long strings down her back, and she looked more like a witch than ever.

Claire washed her hair, too, and Mrs. Thorsen let her borrow the comb to get the tangles out. Then she braided Claire's hair.

“It's not the best job,” she said, “I guess it's easier to braid your own hair. I never tried doing it on anybody else before.”

Claire couldn't see it for herself, of course. She could feel that the part wasn't exactly in the middle, and some hair in back of her ear was pulled too tight and hurt, but she didn't like to say so. Anyway it was a heck of a lot cooler.

On the way home, Joey fell asleep in the back seat. He didn't wake up, even though it was a jerky ride; Mrs. Thorsen was not a very good driver. Worse than Sam, even. When they got to the yard she drove the car so close to some trees that the branches poked in through the windows, and Claire was afraid she was going to crash right into one, but she slammed on the brakes and the car stopped in the nick of time. With the trees in the way, Claire had to slide across the seat and get out on Mrs. Thorsen's side.

Joey didn't budge, even when Mrs. Thorsen tickled his feet. “We might as well just leave him to sleep awhile,” she said. “He'll be okay here in the shade.”

It was supper time, but they were still full from the picnic, and it was too hot to cook. Mrs. Thorsen's husband, Nick, was out pulling weeds in the garden. There were sure plenty of them. Mrs. Thorsen said that Nick was the mailman for a long time, since he was Sam's age, but he couldn't work anymore because he was sick.

She showed Claire the bedroom she could sleep in. It was a beautiful room, like a picture in a magazine. There was a soft bedspread the same color blue as the birds on the wallpaper, and, kitty-corner from the bed, a fancy little dresser with a mirror and a stool, so you could sit in front of it.

“My father made it when I was just a little girl.” Mrs. Thorsen ran her hand along the frame of the mirror. “I outgrew it by the time I was ten, but I kept it anyway because I liked it,” she smiled into the mirror. “And I liked my—”

She stopped, but Claire knew she was going to say “my father.” She probably didn't want to mention fathers. Claire had a hard time thinking that a father could be somebody you would like, in the way you would like a friend or a dog or something. Fathers just
were
. Some might be nicer than others, she supposed. Grandpa was a father, too—Ma's father—and he was okay most of the time, but Claire had never thought about whether she liked him or not. Mrs. Thorsen's father was probably nice, and it was a pretty dresser. It didn't look homemade.

“He was very good at woodworking,” Claire said.

Mrs. Thorsen sat down on the edge of the bed. “I'm very good at woodworking, too.”

Claire wasn't sure what she meant. How could an old lady be doing woodworking? How would she know how, and when would she have time?

“My father taught me, and now I'm a better cabinet maker than he was. Come on, I'll show you my workshop.”

The workshop was a concrete block building with just two little bitty windows, so it was practically pitch dark until Mrs. Thorsen turned on the light. There was a big wood stove in the middle and work benches with tools all around the sides. It smelled good.

Mrs. Thorsen turned on a lamp over one of the benches and picked up a piece of wood. It was about as long as a yardstick, and had a carved design, triangles and funny shapes. “It's going to go on a china cabinet,” she said. “I'm making it for a man in Chicago. He's giving it to his wife for their twenty-fifth anniversary.”

“Is he paying you for it?” Claire couldn't figure if the man was somebody Mrs. Thorsen knew, or if he hired her to make the carving.

“You bet he is! He's paying me a whole lot for it.”

Mrs. Thorsen was an old lady, but she could do something people thought was only for men. She turned off the lamp and they went out into the bright sun. “Would you like to come over and make something one of these days? Maybe a toy truck or a tractor for Joey?”

Claire nodded. Jake would die of jealousy.

Joey was still asleep when it was time to go do the chores.

“We can wake him up. Then I'll walk over with you.” Mrs. Thorsen went to the car and dragged Joey out. He stumbled when he walked to the house and hardly had his eyes open. When she left him in her front room so she could go tell Nick that they were leaving, he laid down on the davenport and was out like a rock again.

Claire didn't want to wake him up; she knew just how he felt. She'd give anything to be able to go to sleep herself, and sleep for hours, maybe even for days. Maybe until Ma and the boys got home and the sadness was over. But she didn't want to go back to do the chores without him. He was going to be scared when he woke up if he was alone with Mrs. Thorsen and Nick. He saw that long white hair swishing in the water, and probably still thought Mia might be a witch. Besides, Claire didn't want to go alone, either. If somebody came, she wouldn't know what to say without Ma there.

Annie Oakley wouldn't have been scared. Besides, Claire had Spike. “I can go by myself,” she said. “It's just milking and feeding the chickens. I do it every day. It won't take any time at all.”

Mrs. Thorsen pulled on her braid for a long time, but finally said, “Come straight back. It's starting to look like rain.”

It was nice under the shady trees, but pretty soon the mosquitos found her, and Claire ran until she got out of the woods and back in the sunshine.

It was strange to get home and be all by herself, kind of scary and kind of exciting. It was so very quiet. Pa's car was back, and the doctor's funny little one was gone. The hens were having dust baths by the side of the barn. Claire pulled the lid off the chicken waterer and took it to the pump. By the time she'd pumped it full, she was sweating, and the water was icy cold. She yanked the pump handle down and quickly pressed her hand onto the spout to stop the water coming out. Then she leaned over, moved her hand just enough to let water bubble up, and slurped up a long drink. The icy water made her teeth ache and ran down her arms.

She lugged the waterer back to the chickens and pumped two more pails to fill up Opal's tank. After she filled the feeders with laying mash for the hens, she went to the house for the milk pail.

She stopped in front of the sink and stretched up to look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was coming loose from the braid, and her bangs were way too long. When she pushed them back it didn't look so bad. She picked the comb up from the shelf and pulled Ma's hairs from it. When she combed her bangs to the side they made a wave over her forehead, kind of like the pink lady's. She fastened it with one of Ma's bobby pins. It made her look older. Thirteen, maybe.

There was a rumble. Spike gave a whimper. “Don't worry Boy.” She patted his head. “It's just thunder. When you hear it, it's too late for the lightning to hurt you.” Spike wasn't scared of much, but he was a real chicken when it came to thunder. Claire left him inside where he could hide under Ma's bed and wouldn't be trying to crawl into her lap while she was milking.

The sun was still shining, but far away, in the direction of the lake, she could see a dark greenish line of clouds.

Opal was waiting by the barn door. Claire told Mrs Thorsen that she did the milking every day. In fact it was Sam's job. Claire had only tried it a couple of times, and she hoped she remembered how.

Opal went into the barn and put her head into the stanchion without any pushing. Claire pulled up the stool and sat down. The cow stamped, and her tail whacked Claire in the shoulder. There was some hay piled in the calf pen. It was from last year and dusty, and Opal didn't really need it, she had plenty of grass, but it might keep her mind off the flies and her tail off Claire's face. She got up to dump an armload in the manger and sat back down.

Claire got her bare toes as far as she could from the twitchy hooves and grabbed the tits. She gave a pull and a squeeze. Nothing happened. On the second try a couple of drops came. Next time nothing again. Tears came into Claire's eyes. It had to be easy. Maybe her hands were too small. Maybe Opal missed Sam singing. Claire leaned her head against the cow's warm side and tried to make her voice deeper. “
When the sun in the morning peeks over the hill….
” A little more milk squirted out. Claire sang and pulled and squeezed. The spot of sunshine on the floor blinked out and thunder crashed again. She milked faster until her hands started to ache. Finally, the pail was almost full. Over half, anyway. She pinched the tits at the top and ran her fingers down like she'd seen Sam do to strip them dry.

The next rumble was closer, and it didn't exactly sound like thunder. Claire lifted the pail onto the shelf and went past the horse stalls to the window.

It was already starting to get dark. The sun was just about ready to set, and it shone from behind the trees and glinted off the back end of a car sticking out from around the corner of the house. The car looked dark red, but the sun was so bright Claire couldn't tell for sure if it really was, or if it just looked that way from the sun. It was smaller than Pa's car.

The front screen door skreeked open, and Spike started barking his head off. Claire felt herself go stiff.

Maybe it was a reporter. If she stayed put, they wouldn't know she was here. They wouldn't know anybody was home.

She heard the inside door open and Spike barking like he was going mad. Somebody had gone into the house. Then Spike gave a yelp and everything was quiet, but only for a minute. A door slammed inside the house, and there was another noise, like something falling.

Would a reporter walk right in without asking? Maybe it was the murderer, back for the rest of them.

The light came on in the cellar window. There were more noises, bumps and crashes. Her stomach started to hurt. After a long time the light went out again.

Should she sneak outside? Run back to Thorsen's and tell them there was a burglar—or a murderer—in the house? To do that, she'd have to go right past the house, and she'd have to leave Spike all alone. He wasn't barking anymore.

There was a giant thump that sounded like it might be in Ma's bedroom.

All the time she was watching and listening, it was getting darker fast. The sky behind the house was almost black. Lightning went streaking across it, but it was a long time before the thunder came, and then it was low and far away.

If she was going to sneak back to Thorsens', she had to do it now, and she had to do it quick. She started to back away from the window, to head for the outside and the path through the woods, when she heard the back door open. There was a shadow behind the screen; somebody had come out onto the porch. They were standing by the door looking straight at the barn. Straight at her.

The screen door pushed open, and Claire ran for the haymow ladder.

Chapter Fifteen

“John?”

Mia coughed. McIntire waited.

“I don't like to bother you….”

It was followed by silence. She most likely hadn't called to inform him of her admirable thoughtfulness. “I'm not busy,” McIntire told her. “What's the problem?”

“I'm probably being a worry wart, but….”

“But?”

“I can't go myself, because I don't want to get Joey upset…”

Joey? The Hofer kid? “Mia, what is it? Spit it out.”

“Guibard took Mary Frances to the hospital. He didn't say exactly why, just that she was played out. Maybe she's on the verge of a breakdown, or something. I said I'd look after Claire and Joey. So I brought them here, but tonight Claire went home to do the chores. I didn't like to let her go by herself, but I don't know how to milk a cow, and Joey was so sound asleep—”

“What's happened?”

“I don't know that anything's happened. She just hasn't come back.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“She left about eight, so it's been over two hours. All she had to do was milk the cow and feed some chickens. It's a ten minute walk. She said she'd come straight back.”

So, figuring around an hour to do her chores, she was about a half hour late. Wasn't that the normal thing for a kid? “Maybe she's scared of walking back in the dark, and it looks like a thunderstorm rolling up. She could be waiting for it to be over.”

“You're not going to make me feel better by telling me there's a storm coming. Could you check? Please. I don't like to leave Joey here with just Nick. In case he wakes up and is scared—not that there seems to be much chance of that. Him waking up, I mean. He must have been completely exhausted. But if he does wake up he might be scared, and Nick's not been having such a good day. I could go myself and take him along, but that might not be a good idea in case…in case something
has
happened…. Could you just go?”

“Take it easy. I'll go. And don't worry, Mia. She's most likely been fiddling around and lost track of time, and now, like I said, is afraid to walk back by herself in the dark with a storm on the way. I'm sure nothing's happened.”

“Something happened to her father.” Mia's voice sounded calmer, calm enough to be forced. “I have a feeling….” The sound of a great sucking in of breath came over the wires. “Just go check on her. Please.”

McIntire had learned long ago to trust Mia Thorsen's feelings. “I'm on my way.”

McIntire might trust Mia's premonitions, but he couldn't say the same for her judgement. What on earth had made her let that child go off by herself? Anybody might show up, including, conceivably, her father's murderer. It was a short walk, but Claire couldn't know the way all that well.

Outdoors the air was still and warm as bathwater. A half moon floated behind thin cloud, but the sky to the northwest was black, except during the brief flashes of lightning. The storm was creeping in, gathering strength.

McIntire made the mile and a half to Hofers' in time that would have tempted Father Doucet to one of those deadly sins—envy.

There might have been a light on in the barn, or it could have been reflected moonlight. Outside of that, everything was dark and quiet. Far too much so. No lights in the house. No yippy mongrel nipping at his ankles.

McIntire bounded up the steps and flung open the door. It was the smell that struck him first, the dank and musty odor that rose up from the open cellar, bringing with it the image of a slight girl lying at the bottom of the steps in a pool of milk.

“Claire!” His call sounded hollow in the dark cavern.

McIntire turned to locate a light and got nothing for his trouble but a stubbed toe. Despite the dimness, it was apparent that the old cloakroom was in even more than its customary shambles. He scuffled through a gantlet of rubber overshoes and manure scented jackets and stepped over an upended bench to reach the kitchen door. It was swollen and wedged tight from the recent humidity, but gave way with a thwack when he put his shoulder to it. He slid his hand along the wall to find the light switch and felt his blood stop in his veins.

The brewing tempest might have already struck. Cupboard doors hung open, drawers were yanked out. The floor was a mangled mess of rice, cornflakes, flour, sugar, and smashed crackers, mingled with cutlery and tin cans. Even the curtains were ripped from the window and lay crumpled, along with the gaudy oilcloth, among torn magazines.

“Claire!” The answering silence was heartbreaking. A mouse ran across his shoe and skittered under a cabinet.

He skirted a pool of syrup to reach the living room. The destruction here was not so ugly, but only by virtue of having less material to work with. The five drawers of an upright chest were dumped in a heap of clothing and papers. A slashed sofa vomited brown stuffing.

The bedroom was the same; the dresser had been emptied of its pitifully scant contents; the few articles of clothing were wrenched from their hooks on the wall. The bed—a home made frame of two by six lumber—was stripped, and the naked mattress dragged half onto the floor.

A photograph in a plain oak frame still stood on the dresser. An only plumpish Mary Frances Hofer in a pale lace-trimmed suit, holding a bouquet of roses. The short veil didn't obscure the shoulder length mane of glossy dark—“Claire!” McIntire called for a third time. “Are you here?”

A soft mewling led him to a door set into the side of the narrow stairway. The space behind it contained only a vacuum cleaner and a quivering terrier with an oddly limp front leg. He stooped to pick up the animal and was rewarded with a snarl and a nip that drew blood.

“Suit yourself.” He left the pup cowering in the corner, and went up the stairs.

There were two rooms, behind opposing curtained doorways. One—the one that McIntire let the aroma of sweat and stale cigarette smoke tell him was the lair of Sam and Jake—contained only an iron bedstead and a dented metal cabinet. It was impossible to determine if the chaos that reigned was vandalism or the ordinary slovenliness of adolescent boys.

He ducked into the other room and fumbled for the light string, finally discovering that it was tied, with a series of rags, to the iron bedpost. Here, too, sheets had been pulled from the bed, exposing a stained double mattress, and the closet door—a real door with real hinges, if only four feet high—stood open. McIntire squatted down and pulled on the light. A small boy's suit, pure white, was all that hung there; everything else was on the floor. The closet extended along the wall, under the eaves, beyond the reach of the light. As far as McIntire could see, it was empty.

A great clap of thunder rattled the window, which was wide open and unscreened, accounting for the bountiful crop of mosquitoes and the moths already circling around the ceiling light. McIntire lowered the sash just as the first drops of rain struck the glass.

The room contained no other furniture other than a dressing table fashioned from two peach crates and a warped board, which was left intact and upright. A motley collection of books was strewn across the bed. From McIntire's cursory glance it seemed an odd library. The boys' adventure type stories were not so strange, although Joey was probably still too young to read them. Maybe his sister read them to him. The rest were old and heavy looking, not children's books. McIntire picked up a green leather-bound volume:
Foundation Stones
,
Vol. 1.
A treatise on child rearing from the Daughters of the American Revolution, 1910. Good lord. How entertaining, or enlightening, could that be for a child? The magazines, too, were mainly of the women's home making variety.

Where was that child? McIntire resisted the urge to call to her again. She wasn't going to answer.

The house had been torn apart from cellar to attic. Someone either hated Reuben Hofer's entire family or was hunting for something. If the latter, they must not have found it. It was unlikely that what they sought had been in the very last place they looked, hence they'd have left a couple of stones unturned, or a cupboard un-searched. Unless what they sought was a child with a deep closet in her room.

McIntire left by the back door. He hadn't been in the house more than a few minutes, ten at most, but it felt like a hundred years had passed. In that slender span of time, his world had changed from one disordered, but rational, to a place of insidious, senseless evil.

The transformation of spirit was reflected in the physical. The balmy summer night was gone. Wind stirred the sultry air, the sky hung low and black as ink, and thunder, grumbling for hours in the west, was now a deafening accompaniment to jagged streaks of lightening. The yellow glow still showed in the window at the side of the barn. As McIntire walked through the dark toward it, the rain began to fall in earnest.

The barn was small. A single space separated by a five foot wall that formed the end of a couple of horse stalls. The Guernsey cow lay with her tail in the gutter and her neck stretched and pinned in the stanchion. McIntire prodded her rump with his toe and was relieved when she opened soft brown eyes. The milking stool stood against the wall, and a pail half-filled with milk, a few flies floating on its surface, rested on a shelf. The child must have finished the milking, or at least got a good start.

McIntire climbed the few steps up the ladder necessary for him to poke his head into the haymow. It was pitch black and stifling. There was probably no light, at least there was no switch that he could see.

“Claire!” The call was obliterated by the cacophony of rain beating on the roof; even had she been there she'd never have heard him.

He fetched his flashlight from the Studebaker and remounted the ladder.

The batteries were dying, and the light from the torch was feeble at best. But there wasn't much to see. A tall space half filled with loose hay. He prodded at its edges, plunging his arms into the prickly stems, flinging hay across the floorboards, until the light faded and went out.

There was a sudden cessation in the drumming on the roof. He stood still. “Claire, I've come to get you.” In the brief interval, his words sounded muffled and dismal. He felt no living presence. No panicked breath, no rustling. “Mia's worried about you,” he added, but by that time the rain had swept in again and drowned his words, leaving him with only the sweet odor of new cut alfalfa and the beating of his own heart in the darkness.

Someone had murdered Ruben Hofer, and someone had torn apart his home, either on a search or on a malice-induced spree. The little girl had been here. She wasn't here now.

“Claire!” He called one last time.