The Mortal Groove (37 page)

“No.”

“I wonder why?”

“He plays things pretty close to the vest, Janey. Always has. I figure Del was right. Since they know Wilton better than you or me, they know best how to handle him. Apparently, Wilton got Peter to write us a note, so we should have that—hopefully—by tomorrow. At least we know he's still alive.”

It wasn't enough.

“I fired Del.”

“No kidding. What about your campaign? Don't you have some speaking engagements scheduled for today?”

“Everything will be canceled until further notice.”

“Won't that create problems?”

“Probably. But I can't think about that right now. We've got to get Peter home. I didn't get much sleep last night. Neither did Sigrid. But the letter will help some, assuming it's Peter's handwriting.”

Jane quickly filled her dad in on what she'd found in Larry's truck. “I think he's been looking for a place to hide. My guess is, he found it. That's where he's stashed Peter. I'm ready to hit the road right now, go looking for them.”

“Talk to Nolan first,” said her father.

“Yes, Dad, I will.”

Her father got a call interrupt, so they said good-bye.

Jane sat for a while sipping her coffee, watching Mouse nose a ball around the yard. The day loomed long and empty in front of her. What she needed was a focus, something that would make her feel like she was helping, a way to feel close to her brother.

Nolan called as Jane was letting Mouse back into the house. Everything she'd discovered came spilling out. Nolan said he wanted to do some checking around, told her to stay put until he
got back to her. He made her promise to stick close to home, and then said good-bye.

For the next hour, Jane busied herself digging out old picture albums. She wanted to show them to Mia, keep her connection to Peter strong even though he wasn't around.

Her land line rang just after ten.

“Here anything more about Peter?” It was Cordelia.

Jane explained what her dad had just told her.

“Well, at least it isn't bad news.”

“How's Mia?”

“Good. Could be better, I suppose, but she thinks Peter got called away on business. For the moment, she's resigned to stay with me and Cecily. Oh, I should tell you that Mel's had a little bit of a setback.”

“What kind of setback?”

“Her blood pressure spiked and the doctors are having a devil of a time bringing it down. I just got back from the hospital. Been there since six.”

“Awfully early hours for you.”

“Kids mean early hours. It's good practice for when Hattie gets back.”

Jane was sorry to hear about Mel. She'd already been through so much.

“Hey, you wanna go shopping with us today? Mia needs more clothes. Peter got her a few things, but—don't take this the wrong way, Janey—he doesn't have much taste when it comes to kids' clothing.”

Jane smiled. “Where are you taking her?”

“Thought we'd run out to Southdale. At the moment she's watching a movie, eating some cereal. Teacake is sitting next to her, hoping she spills something significant.”

“She watches movies even if she can't hear?”

“You've heard of subtitles, yes? She's enraptured.”

“And what's she watching.” Jane already knew.

“Mildred Pierce.
And after that, we'll watch
Notorious.
Then,
Sorry, Wrong Number. Casablanca. Double Indemnity. Laura. This Gun for Hire.
The possibilities—and my film library—are endless. I mean, the child is ten. Ten! And she hasn't seen any of the classics. It's a travesty, borders on child abuse in my opinion. While she's living with me, she will receive the full benefit of my bounteous film, theatrical, fine cuisine, and cultural background. It's the least I can do.”

And it kept Mia's mind off Peter, thought Jane. Thank God for Cordelia.

“We'll pick you up. Maybe we can have lunch somewhere along the way.”

“What time?”

“It will take me about an hour to make myself breathtaking. So, how about we sail by around eleven.”

 

Jane spent the day shopping and getting to know Mia a little better. Peter had already pointed out that she was slow to warm up to strangers, but Cordelia had clearly won her over. With Cordelia in the lead and Mia right next to her, they charged through the shops, trying on this and that, piling up the purchases.

All during the afternoon Jane kept checking her cell phone to make sure it was on. It only rang once—her manager at the club needing some information. Jane had hoped Nolan would call back with some brilliant way to find Peter, but it never happened.

Cordelia dropped Jane back at her house around six that night.

She was exhausted, but still so wired that she wasn't sure she could sleep. She watched the car pull away from the curb, waved at Mia, then walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was depression, but she was so weary she could hardly move.

Mouse greeted her with his usual enthusiasm. She opened the door in the kitchen to let him out into the yard, but stopped as she was about to open the screen door on the porch. Kenzie was sitting in the wicker rocker.

Mouse circled around twice, then rushed up to her, wagging his tail and bouncing on his front feet.

“Hi,” said Kenzie, standing up. She seemed ill at ease, folding her arms over her chest, then unfolding them and pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“Come on, Mouse. Go outside.” Jane opened the door and he bounded out into the yard. Turning to Kenzie, she said, “What . . . I mean, how did you get here?” Kenzie was the last person she expected to see tonight. It was a seven-hour drive between Minneapolis and Chadwick, Nebraska.

“I left right after my morning class. I have to be back by three tomorrow afternoon because I'm teaching a practicum at four.” She moved a few steps closer. “You wouldn't take my phone calls last night. I had to talk to you. Had to apologize. I was way over the line, Lawless. I couldn't leave it like that.” She paused, lowered her sunglasses.

Jane could see the puffiness under her eyes.

“Will you forgive me?”

“I already told you. There's nothing to forgive.”

“Not true. I hurt you. That's something I never want to do.”

The evening sun flickered in through the trees, casting a golden light on the yard.

Jane was so glad to see her that she felt herself moving toward her as if Kenzie were the magnet and Jane the helpless iron filing.

“You're crazy to drive all this way,” she said, wrapping Kenzie in her arms, kissing her, holding her tight. “Nothing is your fault.”

“Have you heard anything more about your brother?”

They sat down on the couch.

“Just that Randy Turk, one of Wilton's war buddies, may have paid him a ransom.”

“How are you doing?”

“Not well.”

“I had to come, Lawless. I just needed to be with you.”

Jane looked away, then began to cry.

“I'm here for you, babe. For the rest of your life, if you'll let me.

 

Peter was asleep in the corner of the trailer when the door opened and woke him. Trudging in with a grocery sack and a rifle strapped across his back, Larry set the sack down on the counter, then pulled the rifle strap over his head.

“Look at this, Petey. I bought it off a guy in Moose Lake for next to nothin'.” He laughed, slapped his thigh. “Don't seem fair, somehow.” He looked the rifle up and down, sighted it at Peter. “Not bad. Not bad at all. It's a Ruger semiauto. An older one, but it's in great shape. I'll have to take it apart and clean it, but hell, I like cleanin' guns. You never know when you're gonna need a little extra firepower.” He sniffed the air. “God, it stinks in here. You pee your pants?” He pointed at Peter and winked. “ ‘Spose you want more water. But it'll just make you pee some more.” He held his nose. “Shit, let's get some dinner cookin'.”

He fired up the Coleman stove. Once it was going, he pulled a cheap pan out of the sack. Setting it on the flame, he ripped the
plastic off a pound of hamburger and tossed it in, breaking it apart with a stick. When it appeared to be heated through, he tossed in a can of baked beans.

Peter sat in the corner and watched. It smelled good, but he didn't hold out much hope that Larry intended to share. He'd glanced outside and saw that the sun had moved around to the west. He must have slept most of the day. Lie didn't feel any better for it.

Larry removed a bottle of whiskey from the sack and unscrewed the top. “Thought I'd celebrate tonight. It was a good day, Petey. I'm gettin' all my ducks in a row.” He rubbed his hands together, gave the mess in the pan another stir, then turned off the flame. Setting the pan on the table next to the bottle, he pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I like that rental car of yours. It's comfortable—better than my truck.” He pulled the sack over to him and rummaged around until he found a plastic spoon. Shoveling the food into his mouth, he continued to talk.

Peter turned his head away. He was so hungry his stomach felt like it was digesting itself.

“I'm an asshole,” said Larry. “Always have been.”

Peter tuned him out. When he tuned back in again a few minutes later, Larry was scraping out the last of the food. The bottle of whiskey was down by a third. Larry was feeling no pain.

“So, I figure I killed six people since I come home from Nam. Only one I regret was a woman.” He burped, looked down at Peter. “You ever kill anybody?”

“No,” said Peter, gazing up at the broken window.

“What'd you say, boy?” Larry got up and kicked him hard in the thigh.

Peter clenched his teeth, waited for the pain to subside, then
said, “No, thank you, Drill Sergeant.” He said the words with no energy. He figured Larry might kick him again, but instead, he leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest.

“I expect you don't like me very much, Petey.”

Peter didn't think it required an answer.

“Boo hoo is all I can say.” He picked at his teeth with a tooth-pick, studied Peter for a few seconds, then turned around and lit the lantern. “I want you to see something.” He rummaged through the sack again and came out with a small pink hand mirror. Holding it up in front of Peter's face he said, “Look at yourself.”

Peter blinked a couple of times before the image registered. When it did, his eyes opened wide in horror. The face staring back at him was a man he'd never seen before. His head was almost bald, and his face shaven, but his beard was so heavy that it had partially grown back. He looked mean, hard. There was a deep gash next to his left eye that trailed dried blood down the side of his face. The man staring back at him looked like a thug.

“Who is that guy?” asked Larry. “You know him?”

“No,” whispered Peter. “Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”

“I'd say we've made some progress turning you into a man. But we got a long way to go and not much time.” He picked up the rifle. “Hey, I just got me a brilliant idea. Let's play a war game.” He took another swig from the bottle. “Here's the rules. I'm gonna let you go, Petey. I'll take off the cuffs, count to ten, and let you run into the woods. If you get away, good for you. If you don't, maybe I'll shoot you or maybe I'll just beat the shit out of you. Either way, it's the best chance you're gonna get.”

“You're going to kill me? Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”

Larry laughed so hard, he doubled over. “Yeah, I'm gonna kill you, Petey. That surprise you?”

Peter didn't answer.

Larry shook the key to the cuffs out of the plastic cup on the counter. After unlocking Peter's restraints, he pulled him to his feet, pressing the end of his pistol to Peter's temple. “Think I'll leave the duct tape on your upper arms. Makes it more interesting.”

Peter was so bent from lying in one position all day that he could hardly stand. Larry shoved him out the door and he landed on his stomach. His right leg was asleep. He rolled over on his back, tried to rub some feeling back into it.

“I'm counting,” said Larry. He was holding the rifle again, the pistol shoved into his belt, but he didn't close his eyes. “One . . . two . . .”

Peter scrambled up and hobbled into the woods. Adrenaline began to work its way into his muscles. Still limping, he jumped over a log, headed into a section of thick brush. If he could just find a good hiding place, he might be able to wait it out. It was getting dark. If Larry couldn't find him, he might give up, think Peter had escaped. He couldn't outrun the rifle. Hiding was the only chance he had.

He pushed deeper into the woods. He could hear Larry singing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” somewhere behind him. He tried to rip the tape away from his upper arms, but it was so thick, he couldn't get it to tear. It didn't slow him down that much, so he gave up. As he flew through a clearing, his eyes darted in every direction, looking for a hole or a big log he could hide under.

And then he saw it. It was a pine tree. One of the broad lower branches was broken, still connected to the trunk but resting on the ground. Its needles were so dense, he couldn't see through it. With one last burst of energy, Peter skirted a boulder and dove behind it.

Larry was still singing behind him somewhere.

Peter curled up and waited, trying to steady his breathing, to control his twitching muscles, to focus his mind on nothing but survival.

 

That night, with just a thin crescent moon in the sky, darkness fell like a heavy curtain. Peter spent the time counting out the seconds, then minutes. When it seemed to him that several hours had passed, he moved slowly into a crouch. Larry could be out there, just waiting for a twig to snap or the crunch of stones, but if Peter didn't make a move before sunup, he'd lose his one chance. Larry had been drinking. Maybe he'd fallen asleep somewhere and was dead to the world. Or even better, maybe he was just dead.