Theresa Monsour (19 page)

His pa nodded; it was making sense so far. “What was that business with the finger?”

He paused, wondering if this part would sabotage the sex motive. Then decided it wouldn't. “I cut it off and d . . . dropped it during the search.”

“To feel important again, like the time with the little girl and her necklace?”

Trip dropped his eyes and didn't answer. Didn't want to admit why he'd done it.

His pa continued. “Why Keri?”

“She found the p . . . purse. Was planning to t . . . t . . . turn me in.”

Then a hard question: “Any others?”

Trip looked down at the purse, stroked the satin. More slippery than he remembered.

“Sweet? How many others?”

Trip pushed aside the purse. Picked up a coffee cup, took a sip. Cold. Set it down. His pa slid the tequila bottle across the table. Trip took off the cap, filled a juice glass. Drank until the glass was empty. Poured another full measure, drank half of it. Held the glass between his palms as it sat on the table. The room was rocking, like the trailer was bobbing in the water. Couldn't tell if it was the booze or his pa's question.

“Sweet? How many?”

In a voice so low it was nearly lost in the wind chimes: “Lost c . . . count.”

“Dear Lord.” His pa rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Trip wished he could see through the wrinkled skin. Was he mad or sad or shocked? He lowered his hands and folded them in front of him. Trip saw something he'd never seen before. Fear. The fun had
gone out of murder for his old man. The father-son scheme was really the son's dark project. “All run over?” his pa asked.

Trip made a quick decision. He wouldn't tell his old man about the ranger. His pa had a respect for any man in any uniform. Saw them all in the same light as the sheriffs and marshals on his westerns. “Yeah. All r . . . run over.”

“All raped?”

Trip was insulted. “No. Most was w . . . willing at first and then changed their t . . . tune. Tried to run off and tell t . . . t . . . tales like that bridesmaid gal.”

His old man nodded wisely. “Women do that. Yes, they do indeed.”

“They d . . . do,” Trip added. “The b . . . b . . . bitches.”

“Since when? How long this been going on? How long you been keeping me in the dark?” He sounded angry and jealous of the news, like he'd found out he'd been excluded from a party held weeks earlier. Underlying both emotions was that fear again.

Trip finished the glass of tequila. Tried to pour more into the juice glass. Empty. Set the bottle down but kept his right hand wrapped around the neck and his left around the glass. They were something solid he could hang onto and hold. Everything else seemed to be bobbing and rocking. Maybe the trailer would sink and they'd both go down with it. Drowning might not be so bad after all. Not in cold water, though. Not the way those mean boys in high school had drowned. He wanted to die in warm water. Bathwater. Should he tell his pa about those boys? Another instant decision. “Started w . . . with high school.”

A quick intake of air by his pa. “You killed a girl in high school? Your high school? I don't remember any girl . . .” His old man's voice trailed off. A revelation that topped the earlier revelations. In an amazed voice: “You? All four of them?”

That tone angered Trip. His pa didn't have trouble believing he'd run over women, but he doubted he could kill men. After everything he'd learned about his son, Frank
still thought his boy was weak. Trip lifted the tequila bottle up and slammed it against the table, scattering glass around the kitchen and leaving a broken neck in his hand. His pa leaned back in his chair, both hands clutching the edge of the table. Trip waved the jagged neck at him. “I k . . . killed that p . . . park ranger, too. Fucking s . . . smashed his head in with a shovel. Is that m . . . man enough for you?” His pa opened his mouth; now it was Trip's turn. “Shut the f . . . fuck up!” Trip bolted up from the table, knocking his chair over. He hurled the bottle neck at the window and missed. It hit the backsplash and fell into the sink. He felt his bare feet stepping on broken glass and he didn't care. “I'm n . . . never good enough for you. Nothing I d . . . do is right. I can't even k . . . kill to your liking.”

Frank raised both palms in the air as if he were surrendering to an armed man. “Son. Son. Sit. Calm down. Jesus Christ.” In an accommodating, condescending voice: “Of course I believe you. I'm glad you did those bastards in high school. Thought it was an accident is all. The cops said it was an accident. Slippery road and such.”

Trip smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “No sir. Was n . . . no accident. Fucked with their s . . . steering.”

A nervous smile stretched across his pa's face. “Clever son of a bitch. That's what you are. Did you know it would kill them? Was that the plan?”

Trip shook his head. “Wanted to m . . . mess them up good. Them dying was a nice added b . . . bonus.”

“Damn straight. They were mean shits. Good for you.” That sounded sincere to Trip's ears. “But why the ranger, son?”

“He f . . . found her shoe in my t . . . truck while I was burying her in the woods. Couldn't let him t . . . tell.”

His pa understood that, or at least pretended to. Nodded grimly. “Self-preservation. Man's gotta do what he's gotta do.”

Trip liked that, his pa calling him a man. He puffed out
his chest. Suddenly he felt the pain from the broken glass. He hung onto the counter with his right hand and picked up his left foot. Checked the bottom. Big sliver. Pulled it out. Dripped blood on the floor. “D . . . damn.”

“What'd you do?”

“Cut myself.”

His pa stood up. “One minute, you fool. I'll get something for that. Got a temper worse than your pa's.”

Frank left the kitchen. Trip kept his foot up. Watched the blood drip in neat, round dots onto the floor. The trailer wasn't rocking and bobbing anymore, but he didn't like seeing his own blood. He looked up. Watched the wind bend the tree outside. Listened to the chimes. Wondered if his old man was getting bandages or calling the police. His pa returned with a box of Band-Aids and Trip's loafers tucked under his left arm. He walked over to his son, stepping over the glass and crunching it with the tip of his cane. “Careful, P . . . Pa.”

“I got shoes on. Got sense. Not like others in this family.” He bent down and dropped the shoes at Trip's feet. “Wipe your soles off first, make sure there's no more glass on them.” He stood straight, pulled a Band-Aid out of the box and started tearing the wrapper.

Trip held onto the counter, brushed the injured foot with his hand. Clean. His pa handed him a Band-Aid. Trip slapped it over the cut. Slipped his left foot into the shoe with a grimace. Lifted his right foot. Dusted it off. One shard fell to the floor. Stepped into the other loafer. He looked at the mess he'd made on the kitchen floor. Broken glass and blood. “I'll c . . . clean it up, Pa.”

His pa stood next to the kitchen table. Absentmindedly picked a large triangle of glass off the plate of bacon. “What about work?”

Trip righted the tipped chair. Crouched down. Picked some glass off the floor and wiped his own blood off the linoleum with his hand. “Got p . . . plenty to keep me b . . . busy right here. Got to c . . . clean up this mess. Empty out
the b . . . back of the truck.” He wanted to keep his eyes on his old man, in case he turned on him and called the cops. “I'll go in t . . . t . . . tomorrow. They won't care.”

His old man sat back down at the table. Picked up another piece of glass. A round piece that came from the bottom of the bottle. Looked at his son. “All these people you got rid of. I'm worried.”

Trip stood up. “Don't be. I'm not n . . . nuts, Pa. Stuff happened. Won't happen no more. I p . . . promise.”

“That ain't what I'm worried about.” He set the round of glass in his left palm and held it there, as if weighing it. “How careful you been? How you been getting away with it? I can see getting away with it once, maybe twice. But to lose count. How?” His old man didn't sound worried or horrified as much as curious. Maybe he wouldn't turn his own son over.

“All the accidents . . .” Trip stopped at the word
accidents
. He'd never before given a formal name to his acts. Decided he liked that label. “All the accidents were at n . . . night on empty roads. Used the t . . . t . . . truck. Never had much d . . . damage to speak of. Couple of c . . . cracked windshields. Dinged hood. Easy enough to fix.”

His old man scratched his chin. “I remember you coming home with those. So the
accidents
were all out of town, during your sales calls.”

“Mostly.”

“And with the exception of those boys, you didn't know them.”

“They were all s . . . strangers to me. Gals I'd just m . . . met.”

His pa's eyes narrowed. “Met where?”

Trip had never met any of the people he'd run over. They were less than strangers to him; they were targets. They weren't all women, either. Still, he had to come up with something. He could feel his pa's eyes on him. Blurted the first place that came to his mind: “Bars.” As an afterthought, to make himself sound careful: “I made sure n . . . no one saw me l . . . l . . . leave with any of them.”

His pa sat for a moment, digesting this. “Smart,” he finally said. He tossed the round of glass on his breakfast plate. “You played it smart.” He pushed the plate away and got up from the table. Picked up his pack of cigarettes. “Too much excitement this morning. Gonna plop down on the couch. Catch some
Gunsmoke
.”

He watched him thump out of the kitchen with his cane and his smokes. His pa was trying to play it cool, but he was scared. Was he afraid of ending up in a nursing home or ending up dead? Trip couldn't tell. Didn't care. All he knew for sure was he had to find out what his old man was hiding so he could use it against him if he threatened to call the cops.

TRIP DIDN'T KNOW a cop was already planning a visit to his house.

Murphy wanted to make sure Trip went to the reunion. Wednesday afternoon, she decided to personally deliver the party invitation. She knew from reading the newspaper stories about him that he worked out of his house when he wasn't on the road. She figured she'd catch him at home. She was just as interested in finding his truck home. She wanted to get a copy of the treads to compare to the cast from the Moose Lake campground. She also hoped she could talk her way into Trip's place. Get a look around. In high school, it was well known that Trip lived in a trailer court. He was the only kid who did. She flipped through the phone book at her desk and found him still residing there. His name was under his father's.
Frank Trip. Justice Trip
. Each had the same phone number and address. Probably made Sweet feel better to have his own listing. At his age, he had to be uncomfortable living at home with a parent. She remembered his father well. Frank was even creepier than his son. Always staring at the female
students, especially the youngest ones. Spending a lot of time cleaning the girls' bathrooms and locker room. She closed the white pages.

Now she needed a camera to get a picture of the treads. Castro and Dubrowski, the gadget kings, had to have one. Surveillance was their specialty. Both were on the phone. She stood up and walked over to Castro's desk. Eyeballed the mess on top of it. Didn't see anything under the greasy lunch sacks, foam cups, newspapers and reports. He hung up.

“What do you need?”

“A camera.”

He pushed his chair away from his desk. “For what? Different cameras serve different purposes.” He bent over and pulled out his bottom desk drawer.

Murphy stepped closer and peered inside. A pile of cameras. Nikon. Panasonic. Minolta. Pentax. Polaroid. Saw a lens nearly as long as her forearm. Binoculars. Something that resembled a ballpoint pen. She pointed at it. “How about that one?”

“Not unless you're going deep undercover. Are you going deep undercover?”

“No. Need something small and easy to use. Want to take a couple of quick ones and shove it in my purse. Get the image back ASAP.”

He fished around inside the drawer and pulled out a silver Nikon a little bigger than a deck of cards. “Digital.”

It looked complicated. “How do I use it?”

“These little babies are really sweet and easy. A no-brainer. Turn it on, point and click. No little hole to squint through.” He pushed the On button and tipped the camera so Murphy could examine the back of it. She saw what looked like a tiny television screen. “What you see on the screen is what you get. Don't even need to focus it yourself. Does it for you.”

“Dummy proof,” she said.

“Exactly.” Castro held it up so Dubrowski was in the frame. “Here's how you zoom in for those intimate shots.”
He pushed a button marked with a T for telephoto and the small screen went in for a close-up. Dubrowski hung up his phone and looked over at them. “Smile, you ugly bastard,” Castro said. Dubrowski gave him the finger and Castro snapped a picture. “Captured for all eternity, or until you erase him from the camera's memory.”

“Got it,” she said.

Castro pressed a button marked with a W and the image on the small screen seemed to back up, capturing Dubrowski and the empty desks around him. “Wide angle. Good for those crowd scenes. That special riot you want to remember.”

“Seems simple enough.”

He nodded toward his partner, who was back on the phone. “Even numb nuts over there could handle a camera like this.”

He handed it to her. She studied it for a few seconds, backed up, aimed it at Castro. Pushed the T for a tighter shot. The screen framed his face. She snapped a picture. “Works great,” she said. “How do you develop the pictures?”

“No film to be developed. Download to the PC.”

She frowned. “And how do I do that?”

“Tell you what. I'll handle that part. After you take some shots, bring it back to the office. I'll download the photos. From there I can crop it, cut it, paste it, make a print of it, send it to someone in an e-mail. Whatever you want.”

“Thanks.” She shut it off, went back to her desk, took her purse out of her desk drawer and tucked the camera inside. It fit easily. She took her jacket off her chair and slipped it on. Threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Headed for the door.

“Last thing,” Castro said after her. “Don't forget to turn the damn thing off and save my batteries.”

She gave him the thumbs-up and walked out.

Trip had seen her red Jeep in Moose Lake. She didn't want him to notice her driving down his block, give him
time to close the shades and hide. Murphy took an unmarked car from the department fleet. A silver Ford Crown Victoria. She rolled out of the cop shop parking lot and steered the car onto the freeway, heading to the north side of the city. She saw the entrance to the trailer park from the highway. She took the exit ramp. Pulled into the neighborhood of narrow houses, narrow streets, narrow yards. Studied the street signs. Found the Trips' street. Pulled over at the beginning of the block and shut off the car.

Their trailer was at the other end; she could see Trip's red truck parked in front. A fire engine. She dropped her keys in her purse. Checked her bag to make sure she had the invitation. There it was, ready to hand to him. Checked her Glock. Ready to go, in case. She pulled the camera out and put it in her jacket pocket. She slid out of the car, slammed the door shut, hiked her purse strap over her shoulder and started walking toward the Trips' trailer. The wind was in her face. She zipped her jacket up to her throat and buried her hands in her pockets. Heard wind chimes tinkling but couldn't see where they were hanging. While she walked she rehearsed in her mind. If his father came to the door:
Hey, Mr. Trip. Remember me? Went to high school with Sweet. Got this reunion invitation for him. Is that coffee I smell?
If Trip answered:
Here's that invitation. Hope you can make it. Sure had a nice time having dinner with you in Moose Lake. Is that coffee I smell?
Once inside, she'd keep the conversation friendly. Avoid talking about Moose Lake. She didn't want to scare Trip away from Saturday night's gathering or make his father suspicious. She figured if Trip was hiding something, his father was helping him.

She got to the front of their house. Their blinds were down and the slats closed tight. She took the Nikon out of her purse, turned it on, knelt down on the street in front of the truck, aimed the camera at the driver's-side front tire. The image on the screen was sharp enough to clearly distinguish the tread pattern. She snapped the picture. Went in for a closer shot. Snapped again. Aimed at the front
passenger tire and took a photo of that. Crouching down in the street, she went around to the back of the truck. Took pictures of both back tires. She kept glancing at the windows of the trailer and looking up and down the street to make sure no one was watching.

 

WHILE Murphy was taking photos, Trip was frying his pa sliced hot dogs and diced potatoes for a late lunch. He spiced it up with some chopped onions, salt and a dash of Tabasco sauce. Exactly the way his pa liked it. Trip was frantically waiting on his old man. Keeping him happy. Keeping an eye on him so he wouldn't pick up the phone. He'd even promised to clip the old bastard's toenails. To soften them, he had his pa's feet soaking in warm water and Dreft detergent. Trip sensed his pa picked up on the urgency in his son's attentions. It seemed to convert the old man's fear to contempt. Trip thought his pa was even enjoying it, taking advantage of the situation. He had Trip darting around the house for him like a pinball. Trip hadn't even had time to clear the breakfast plates off the table.

The potatoes were sticking. Trip scraped the bottom of the frying pan with a wooden spoon. “Better not be burning those taters,” his old man yelled from the front room. In the background, John Wayne's voice boomed from the television set in
Fort Apache
.

“Nothing's b . . . b . . . burning,” Trip yelled back. Then in a low voice to himself: “Hope y . . . you choke on it.” He decided he preferred a fearful father to a contemptuous, bossy one. He shut off the range and dumped the potatoes and hot dogs onto a plate. Walked into the front room with it and set it on the TV tray in front of his old man.

His pa took a pull off his cigarette. “Want me to eat with my fingers?” Trip went back to the kitchen and returned with a fork. Handed it to his pa. His old man jabbed a hunk of hot dog with it. “Foot soak's getting cold.” He popped the hot dog into his mouth and chewed.

Trip bent over and dipped his right hand in the tub, the square plastic one he usually used in the sink for dishes. “Water's s . . . still warm.”

His pa lifted a forkful of potatoes to his lips. “No it ain't. Cold as ice.” He shoveled the food into his mouth. Stared at the television while he chewed. Grabbed the remote with his free hand and turned up the volume.

Trip sighed. “Pick up your f . . . feet then.” His pa lifted his feet and Trip slid the plastic tub from under him. Stood up and carried the tub into the kitchen. Dumped the water into the sink. Set the bucket on the counter. Turned on the tap and felt it. He'd love to scald his old man. Boil some water and dump it in. Set his feet in it. Hold them in.
Hot enough for you, you old bastard?
He looked at the stove. The teakettle was on top; they used it to boil water for instant coffee and instant oatmeal and instant anything else they could find on store shelves. All he had to do was walk over, turn the burner to high. Wait for it to whistle. Dump it in the tub with some Dreft. Slide it under his old man's feet and leave the room. Apologize when the old bastard burned himself.
Sorry, Pa. Should have tested the water. I feel terrible
. He'd heard diabetics could start losing sensation in their feet. Maybe his old man wouldn't realize the water was burning him until it was too late. Until the damage was done. Would it be enough to send him to the hospital and get him out of Trip's way? Would it push his pa over the edge, make him call the cops? He couldn't call if he was in a hospital bed, doped up. Trip shut off the faucet and walked over to the stove. Reached for the range knobs. Turned the one for the teakettle to high. Willed the electric coils to turn bright red instantly.

A knock at the door. “Shit,” Trip said. “Who in the h . . . hell is that?”

“Door!” his pa yelled from the front room.

Trip tried to ignore it. Maybe they'd go away.

His old man again: “Door!”

Trip left the kitchen.

“Door!”

Trip walked past his old man to answer it. “I heard you the first two t . . . times. Ain't d . . . deaf.”

“Could've fooled me,” said his pa. He picked up the remote and lowered the volume. Squinted to see who was at the door while sliding his feet into his slippers.

Trip put his hand on the knob. What if it was a neighbor? Worse, the cops? He jerked his hand off the knob like it was a hot coal. Another knock. He turned on his heel and darted to his bedroom. Behind him, his father yelling: “What's wrong with you? Answer it!”

Hovering over his dresser, Trip inventoried the top. Picked out his sharpest yet easiest to conceal weapon. The switchblade. He slipped it in his right pants pocket and ran back out, shutting his bedroom door behind him. By the time he got to the front room, Paris Murphy was inside, talking to his pa. His old man was standing by the open door, leaning on his cane and laughing. He turned and glanced at his son. “Look who stopped by.”