The Taint (2 page)

TWO

The road wound up the mountainside in sharp angles which required total concentration and induced a measure of prudent anxiety. Rachel Adams geared down to second and gripped the wheel firmly; it had been a long time since she’d driven the road home.

Eleven years, in fact. She sighed and shifted in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. It was quite a distance, yet, and she’d been driving since early morning.

She came up behind a car towing a trailer and eased back. There was no place to pass on these narrow roads and after following for a while she pulled onto a dirt turnout and parked. A half hour wouldn’t make much difference.

And it was beautiful. A clear dark blue sky and the vibrant green of the trees. Clean air and a light breeze. She could smell a wood camp fire upwind and she envied the people with the trailer their first night’s meal.

She got out of the car and stretched.

At one time she had known the woods surrounding Crestview intimately. Her young years had been spent in exploration of its shadowy secrets and her wonders had been of discovery. The forest was her refuge, her sanctuary; the restoration of peace came easy in such a place. It was here she had come when her brother was killed and she was calmed by the promise of continuation.

She had been away so long.

She rubbed her bare arms and looked up at the sky, turning slowly in circles. It was good to be home.

The cut-off to Nathan’s house was exactly as she remembered it. The bushes were thicker and denser than elsewhere along the road and the branches brushed the car.

It was darker, the trees blocking the sun from view. The sun would be setting in another hour and already the woods began to chatter—crickets, birds and, along the creek, frogs.

Rachel caught a glimpse of the house and smiled.
Nathan was always threatening to paint it green, so it
would blend into the trees and not be so intrusive, but
the white paint fairly gleamed.

She pulled up in front of the house. Nathan’s truck was nowhere in sight—he was probably at the hospital. For a second she considered driving over there but the lure of home was too great.

She hurried up the steps, anxious now to be inside, to see it all.

Unlocked, of course. She pushed the door open and stepped into the hall. Exactly as she remembered.

It was a decidedly masculine home, Nathan having never married, but it was warm and bright and comfortable. She could smell soup simmering on the stove and could hear the old grandfather clock keeping gentle time.

The living room was panelled in dark wood, and along one wall were the pictures. Her life was there, and Tim’s. There was a picture of their parents on their wedding day, and a family portrait with Tim mildly disapproving of an infant Rachel’s yawn. Tim in uniform, first a soldier and then a policeman, and the plaque, given posthumously. So little left behind.

She turned away, walking to the stairway and up to her room. The door was open, the bed made up and turned down. A breeze stirred the white curtains. The wood floor still bore traces of her roller skating days.

It was tempting to lie down for a while but she resisted. She needed Nathan’s presence to complete the homecoming. There was no need to rush into all of her memories at once.

She brought in the luggage and unpacked, then went into the kitchen to make coffee. She could feel the effect of jet lag and the lack of sleep. Sitting in the warmth of the kitchen her eyes began to close.

When the coffee was ready she drank a cup and then a second. She stirred the soup and paced, trying to distract herself from her exhaustion.

The clock chimed in another room.

The sun was down. Her favorite time of day. She went outside onto the porch and sat on the swing, drawing her feet up. The western sky was vivid pink and gold and the air was a hazy blue. It was a few minutes before she realized that the evening was absolutely still.

A hand touched her and she jumped.

“Rachel,” Nathan smiled, helping her to her feet. “My God, come inside where I can look at you.”

The color was fading from the sky as they went into the house and Nathan switched on the lights before surrounding her in a well-remembered hug. It was some time before he held her away and looked.

“I’ve looked better,” she said.

“I don’t know when. You’re so tan—the last time I saw you . . .”

“Nathan?”

He nodded, understanding. “So how was South Africa?”

“Hot and wonderful. It’s a good thing I didn’t discover archeology until after medical school—I loved every minute of it.”

He shook a finger at her. “I’m counting on you to stick around for a while. I’ve spent years setting up the hospital and my research lab, and I’m ready to become an absent-minded eccentric. And you, my naive city doctor, need to find out how challenging small town medicine can be.”

“I’m ready,” Rachel said, “for anything.”

THREE

The moon was rising in the sky when Hudson finally arrived back at the tower. He cut the engine and the lights, his eyes traveling the distance from the ground to the platform above. He counted the rungs—twenty-four. It had seemed like more.

He got out of the jeep, aware of the persistent ache in his joints. Both heels were bruised and tender, and each step was a reminder of his jump.

The wooden rungs were cool and smooth to the touch, and he climbed quickly, avoiding the dark stained places. His muscles protested but he moved unthinking until he was at the top. There he stood.

It was a strange feeling, knowing that someone else’s blood was running in his veins, through the chambers of his heart.

He had stretched out on the cot after cleaning his own blood from the floor and now he raised an arm, looking at the distended veins. Blood mingling. Pulsing.

It made him uneasy.

Very still, he could feel the rhythm of his pulse. Hear it as it throbbed through his temples. Steady, strong, almost hypnotic. The dormant blood had begun to tingle.

He twisted on the narrow cot, trying to get comfortable, knowing that his discomfort was tied to the invasive presence in his blood stream.

He thought about opening a vein and letting the blood spill on the floor, seeing it thick and hot and somehow powerful, and he squirmed.

A sudden, piercing pain behind his eyes and he sat upright, grabbing his head and rocking mindlessly. His face contorted and his throat tightened, ready to scream and he caught his breath.

Then it was over. The pain ebbed and he lay back. A tiny rivulet of blood ran from the corner of one eye.

Out in the forest the wind passed through the trees and the night creatures moved without sound. Nothing came near the tower.

After a while he rose and went out into the night.

The radio crackled in the empty room.

FOUR

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get some sleep?” Nathan asked, building a fire in the large stone fireplace.

“I’m sure.” She suppressed a yawn and settled comfortably on the couch. “It feels so good to be home.”

“You know, you didn’t have to work all those summers—you could have come home at least once.” When she did not respond he turned to catch her staring at the pictures on the wall. He threw a match into the kindling and watched it flame. Then he rose and went to his desk, taking several letters from the top drawer.

“These came for you while you were in South Africa.” He handed them to her. “I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

She was sitting still, the letters unopened in her lap, when he returned with the coffee.

She looked at him, smiling sadly. “I’m not sure I want to read these now.”

“He wants to see you.” Nathan sat beside her and handed her a mug of steaming coffee.

“What could I say to him?” She wrapped both hands around the mug, warming her fingers. “I’m sorry? That doesn’t seem like enough, somehow.”

“He’s bound to find out that you’re home.”

“I know, and I’ll have to see him, sooner or later. I’d just rather it were later.” She sipped the coffee. “It wasn’t an easy thing to do.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He hesitated. “I never said anything to you, because I didn’t want you to think I was interfering, but I never understood . . .”

“Things . . . got out of hand.”

“When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

“Thank you.” She reached out and took his hand.

The silence lengthened, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

She undressed in the dark, moving with familiarity around the bedroom. She draped her clothes over the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and slipped into a light cotton nightgown.

Shivering, she moved toward the bed, then stopped at the window. The moonlight cast shadows in the trees and caught the stillness in its glow. Nothing was moving.

How many nights had she stood at this window, watching the silence, waiting for something she did not understand? It was compelling. Her face touched the cool glass.

The letters lay unopened on the dresser beside the bed. Envelopes that she herself had purchased, a long time ago.

Of course, it had not been that long ago.

Kelly Hamilton had been, for eighteen months, her lover, and for a shorter period, her fiancé. On a sunlit morning in June, slightly over a year past, he had stood at the altar of a church and waited for her to come down the aisle.

She was unable to go through with it. Dressed in a white satin gown, a veil covering her shoulder-length auburn hair, she had met her eyes in the mirror and had known she couldn’t do it. The ring on her finger tightened like a vise.

The gown slipped off much easier than it had gone on. Organ music filtered through the door as she dressed. She hated organ music.

A quick drive to the apartment that she shared with the man at the altar and she picked up her luggage—her trousseau. Her head ached as she loaded the car.

The trip to South Africa was the perfect getaway.

Except now she was back, and Kelly was willing to forgive her.

The very last thing she wanted was to be forgiven.

FIVE

Jonathan Scott pulled hard to the left, managing to avoid the rock slide which blocked part of the road. He parked the Bronco about a hundred feet up from the slide, turning on the red and blue hazard lights.

He took a shovel from the rear of the vehicle and walked back to the obstruction, his flashlight in the other hand.

He shone the light up at the hillside, checking for any indications that the slide was intentionally caused. On occasion the city kids who had come up with their parents to vacation in the park got bored. When they got bored they found ways to entertain themselves—causing rockslides, setting fires, driving all-terrain vehicles around, over and through the brush, and otherwise destroying the countryside.

There were no signs of mischief, and he set down the flashlight and began to shovel the dirt and rock off the roadway.

It was cool this evening, but by the time he had finished clearing the road he was sweating and his khaki shirt clung to his back. He stood, leaning on the shovel, surveying the roadside. The thick grass had grown up to the pavement and was turning brown with the heat. With fire season at hand it needed to be cleared away. He’d call the forestry station in the morning, first thing.

He walked slowly back to the Bronco, enjoying the solitude of the deserted mountain road.

A muted thump came from the left and he paused, expecting to hear more—the rustle of brush or twigs snapping. He noticed again how quiet it was. His hand went to his gun and he stood in the middle of the road, listening intently.

In his experience, the absence of sound in the forest usually meant a predator of some type. Mountain lion, or even a bear.

The radio sputtered in the Bronco, demanding his attention, and in seconds he was on his way, down the hill, where a car had gone over the side of the road.

The accident was not as bad as some he’d seen. The car had swerved around what people called “killer curve,” off the road and down the embankment for about two hundred yards before slamming broadside into a small cluster of trees. It had not rolled, and although the air was pungent with the smell of gas, it had not caught fire.

Earl Wagner spotted him and climbed up hill to where he stood.

“Did a job of it, didn’t he?” Earl shook his head with wonder.

“The driver okay?” Jon pointed his flashlight at the pavement, checking for skid marks. There were none.

“A little on the pale side—I drove him over to the hospital. Just shaken, I think.” Earl had his deputy’s badge fixed prominently on his corduroy jacket.

“Good,” Jon said absently. He clicked off the flashlight and started down toward the car with Earl in hot pursuit.

A closer examination revealed the passenger side of the car to be a total wreck, with both wheels bent outward and the fenders torn completely free of the body. Jon whistled softly.

“He must have been flying.”

“A tourist.” Earl kicked at a tire. “Good thing he was alone . . .”

Jon was leaning over, picking up a woman’s purse where it had fallen from the car. “Did he say he was alone?”

“He didn’t say anything, he was . . . oh my God.”

They found the body of the woman caught in the branches of a tree where she had been thrown during the accident. She was bloodied and broken, her neck twisted, her face tight against the tree trunk. One foot was bare.

It took some time to disentangle her from the clinging limbs of the tree. They carried her up to the Bronco and covered her with a quilt they found in the wrecked car.

Neither spoke as they drove toward the hospital.

Joyce Callan hung up the phone and turned to Jon.

“He just arrived home—he said he’d be right over.” She looked toward where Earl sat, head in his hands. “I’m sure,” she said very softly, “she was killed instantly.”

Jon nodded. “What about the driver? How’s he doing?”

“It’s very odd; he hasn’t said a word.”

“Got a name?”

“Wendall Tyler, according to his driver’s license. From San Diego.”

“A little out of his way, up here. She wasn’t dressed for camping . . .”

The phone rang and he turned away as Joyce reached to answer it.

He sent Earl home for the night and went into the tiny reception-waiting area.

He opened the dead woman’s purse and emptied the contents out on the coffee table, checking for zippered pockets and finding none. A wallet, a checkbook, hairbrush, matches but no cigarettes, a small perfume atomizer and a pot of lip gloss. No keys.

The wallet was good quality leather. A twenty, three ones, seventy-nine cents in change, along with two small safety pins. The license and credit cards were issued to Louisa Ann Tyler. The photograph only vaguely resembled the battered face of the woman now lying, covered by a sheet, in a back treatment room.

A few pictures as well; a young Louisa in the black sweater of a graduating senior; with a young man, both dressed for a prom, and with the same young man, obviously Wendall, in a wedding picture: a glowing bride Louisa. He removed the wedding picture from the plastic pocket, looking for a date.

Written in a corner:
June 20, 1978. At last!
He could almost feel the exuberance in the words.

“Sheriff,” Joyce Callan stood in the doorway. “Dr. Adams is here . . . with the body.”

“Jonathan,” Nathan looked up from the examination when Jon entered. “Good to see you. Unfortunate business, this.”

“Sorry to have to call you out again.” Jon stood on the opposite side of the table. In the bright fluorescent lights the woman’s wounds looked worse.

“Comes with the territory.” He leaned over to peer into sightless eyes. “Where’d you find her?”

“In a tree.”

“Ah. Well, that explains most of these scratches then. She’s really marked up.” Nathan pulled the sheet back over the body. “I’ll do the post-mortem later this morning, but I’d hazard a guess. Broken neck, fractured skull.”

“Instantaneous?”

“Very likely.” Nathan walked to the sink and began washing his hands. “What is her relation to our first patient?”

“Wife. How is he doing?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Nathan shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Poor Earl.” Jon leaned back against a counter.

“Pardon?”

“Earl’s feeling responsible—he didn’t find the woman. He assumed the man was alone in the car. And, he told me the driver was just shaken.”

“Well, actually, other than a few bumps and bruises, Mr. Tyler is in good physical shape.”

“Then what?”

Nathan turned to face him, drying his hands. “It’s hard to say. He’s not in clinical shock—no drop in blood pressure, no change in pulse or respiration. But he hasn’t spoken and he appears to be oblivious to his surroundings. Just stares. And . . . he does not respond to painful stimuli.” He hesitated. “He’s almost catatonic.”

They walked out into the dimly lit parking area and stood for a moment, facing each other.

“Rachel is home.”

Jon nodded. “How is she?”

“All grown up. Remarkably like her mother. I thought maybe you’d have come by . . . said hello, welcome home.”

“I’m on duty.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and narrowed his eyes, searching Nathan’s face for signs of disapproval.

“Later, then. I know she’ll be glad to see you.” Nathan turned toward his truck. “Good night.”

Jon watched him pull out and start off down the road before moving slowly toward the Bronco.

On the way back to town he pulled into the road leading to Nathan’s, turning off the lights and engine and gliding to a stop well away from the house.

The house had a different feel to it, even from a distance. If he closed his eyes he could see her at thirteen, when he and Tim had gotten out of the service and had come to this house to regroup. Her hair worn in pigtails, dark serious eyes—like Tim’s—and a coltish grace. Determined, even then, to be a doctor, and outraged that Tim was planning to go off to join the Los Angeles Police Department only days after coming home.

And Rachel, again, a scant two years later, at Tim’s funeral. Standing beside Nathan, her face haunted, the new black dress rustling in the hot dry wind. He had given her the flag from the coffin and she held it to her chest, lowering her face but not before he saw the tears. He stood at her side as they lowered her brother into the grave, and put his arm around her to steady her trembling when the honor guard fired the salute.

It took a few weeks to settle the details, but he quit the police department and moved to Crestview, willing to take Tim’s place as big brother, needing forgiveness in his own mind. The small town life was quiet and unhurried, and soon it was his home. This house was very much a part of it.

“Welcome home,” he said aloud.

He pulled back onto the main road and headed toward town, intending to go to the office and fill out a report. The radio was silent and there were no other vehicles on the road.

He slowed to make the turn onto the old lumber road when he saw something move in the bushes, caught by the headlight beam. The Bronco lurched slightly as he braked.

For a moment he waited, scanning the roadside. He cut the engine and turned off the lights. Then he stepped out, gun in hand, moving toward where he’d seen the disturbance.

Whatever had been there was gone, he could sense that. A few snapped twigs, little else. He holstered the gun and walked back toward the road, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

There, off to the right, almost hidden, and two and a half miles from the accident scene was Louisa Ann Tyler’s other shoe.