Theresa Monsour (2 page)

He slowed and checked his rearview mirror. A smear on the side of the road. He punched off his lights and peeled away. He took the next right, drove a mile down the country road. He pulled over and turned off the engine. “Damn!” he said, and pounded the steering wheel with his fists. “Damn!” He threw his head back and exhaled while a shudder started at the top of his head and rippled down to his toes. He was panting. His heart was zooming. Patching out. Burning rubber. Such a rush. Such a high. Better than the best blow. Better than racing down the highway with all the windows rolled down and the needle pushing past eighty. Past ninety. Past a hundred. The prom queen didn't even squeal. Didn't have time. Lying drunk on the road one
second, squished dead the next. He wondered how her face looked right as he nailed her. Longed to see that surprise. Mouth hanging open and pressed into the tar. He wished he could have heard her last words. Wondered what she squeaked as the life was pressed out of her. “Shit!” or “Help!” or “Fuck!” or maybe, simply, “No!” Did she cry out for her ma or her pa or her lover? The eyes. He bet her eyes were so wide when he rolled over her they looked pure white, as if the pupils had popped out. He figured the prom queen had to be dead. Get back on the road and keep going, he told himself. Keep driving. Stopping is never smart. Someone could see him, see his truck pulled to the side. He hadn't checked carefully; there might be something caught on the tires. A bit of material. Someone could spot it. He told himself to savor the moment only a couple of minutes longer.

He wondered what else ever gave him such a high. Thought back to the last time he felt this good. Wasn't about pills or the road or his wheels. God, that was fun. An even bigger high than this high. That was glorious. He was a real fuckin' superhuman superhero. On top of a mountain on top of the world. He'd never get that back. Or could he? Maybe the dead prom queen could pull double duty. He punched his steering wheel again. “Hell, yeah!” he said. That'd serve Sweet Justice fine. He popped open the glove compartment and fished around for his sharpest knife. Decided the wire cutter would work better.

 

HE pulled on some gloves. Worked quickly but carefully; he didn't want blood on his clothes. Kept his eyes peeled for other lights. If someone stopped, he'd tell them he found her there and was taking her to a hospital. Only two cars drove past. One right after the other while he was sliding her into the back. Their headlights scared the shit out of him, but neither car slowed. He figured the whole town was sleeping or out drinking. That was all there was to do in small towns late at night. He took out a bag of
sand, part of the truck's winter gear. He emptied it over a spot of blood on the road. He pulled off the gloves. Checked the road one last time with his flashlight. He'd almost left her shoes. He picked them up and tucked them inside the tarp with the body.

 

HE didn't sleep at all Friday night. The Adderall did that. He gassed up the truck at a station off Interstate 35. Used the bathroom to wash his hands, wash the wire cutter, check his clothes. Grabbed a Coke. Paid for it and the gas. The tired clerk hardly gave him a look when she rung him up. He stepped outside and walked around the truck. He didn't see any blood or cloth on the tires. Noticed a sub shop next door to the gas station. He wasn't hungry. The Adderall did that, too. He leaned against the side of his truck, unscrewed the cap off the Coke and took a long drink. He had the driver's window opened a crack; a Judas Priest CD was pounding inside the car. Every once in a while he patted his jacket pocket to make sure her finger was still there, wrapped in plastic.

HE WANTED TO hear what people were saying about the prom queen. Did they assume she was dead? Kidnapped? He decided to spend Saturday morning making sales calls in town. He wouldn't be an unusual figure; he'd called on most of the shops before. He walked into a clothing store with a box of individually packaged shirts and asked the clerk if he could see the store owner. The girl went into the back office. Toward the front of the store, two women were picking through a rack of Halloween costumes and talking about the missing woman. He listened while taking the shirts out of the box and stacking them on the counter.

“Spider-Man,” said the fat one, holding up a nylon outfit of red and blue. She checked the price tag. “On sale. Twenty bucks. Size ten. Could fit your youngest.”

“He was Spider-Man last year,” said the skinny one. She kept shuffling through the rack. “What do you think happened to her?”

The fat one pulled out a Batman costume, stared at it for
a few seconds and put it back. “Sleeping it off somewhere. I heard she got drunk as a skunk at the reception.”

The skinny one held up a skeleton costume. “This one's got a rip. Maybe they'll knock off a couple of bucks.”

The store owner came out of the office and shook her head. “Sorry. Not unless it's wool or flannel. Winter's on the way.”

He scooped up the shirts and dropped them back in the box. “Thanks anyway.” He slipped out the door and went to the truck.

By Saturday afternoon, he was congratulating himself. Hauling the body around with him was brilliant. The body would keep. He'd wrapped it in a tarp and it was cold enough outside to prevent it from rotting right away. The topper kept everything dry and out of the open. He wouldn't bury her until the cops had searched the area. Then he'd put the prom queen someplace they'd already covered. A place they'd never find her.

Bolstered by the amphetamines, he even had the guts to stop at a diner for coffee. He watched from the restaurant window while a sheriff's deputy walked down the sidewalk toward the truck. He held his breath and squeezed his coffee cup with both hands. The deputy walked right by without a glance. He exhaled and loosened his grip around the mug. He saw the waitress heading toward him and busied himself with the menu.

“How about a warm-up?”

He slid the cup toward her and she filled it. He raised his eyes as far as her name tag. “Thanks, B . . . B . . . Bonnie.”

After his coffee he got a room in a motel outside of town. Water stains on the ceiling. Matted shag carpet. Sagging bed. Television with free cable that didn't work. Reminded him of every other motel he had ever stayed at while working sales. His first job was right after high school, peddling wholesale party goods. Plates, cups, napkins, streamers, balloons, piñatas. Great samples. Cheap for him to buy and useful. He didn't do dishes the whole time he had that sales job. He and his old man would laugh
as they sat down to dinner. “What are we celebrating tonight?” his pa would ask. They'd pull out birthday party plates or baby shower plates or Halloween plates. Then a string of other sales jobs, each ending with him getting fired or quitting. The one right before the shitty shirts was the worst—commercial cleaning supplies. He'd stand in bathrooms and squirt urinals with blue liquid or pink goop in an effort to convince janitors that his chemicals cleaned piss off porcelain better than some other guy's products. He would never be a good salesman no matter what he sold. Didn't have the personality for it. Couldn't look people in the eye and bullshit with them. Backed down as soon as someone said “no.” He stuck with sales only because he loved riding around in his truck.

He threw his suitcase on the bed, opened it, rummaged around inside for her purse. He'd left her shoes wrapped up in the tarp with her body, but he wanted to check her handbag. Wondered what secrets were contained in a dead woman's belongings. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the bag upside down on the bed. Bobby pins. Lipstick. Kleenex. Comb. Couple of quarters. Three tiny vials; perfume samples. He opened one and sniffed. Lily of the valley. He put the cork back on and threw the bottle on the bed. Something was stuck in the bottom of the bag. He reached inside and pulled out a square of folded paper. Finally, he thought, a little mystery. He opened it. Immediately recognized the lyrics. “Can't Help Falling in Love.” He'd come all this way to run over an Elvis fan when he could have had his pick of them back home. He refolded the paper and slipped it back in the handbag. He thought about throwing away the lipstick, perfumes and bobby pins, but instead returned them to the purse. He put the quarters and comb in his pocket. He inspected the Kleenex. Clean. Put that in his pocket, too. He tightened the drawstrings on the purse and stuffed it into a dirty sock. He threw the sock back in the suitcase and closed it.

 

HE went back into town for an early dinner; he finally had an appetite. By then, the flyers were up. He walked past the drugstore and saw the pharmacist taping one to the window. He read it through the plate glass.
MISSING
it said. Below that was her photo and right beneath her photo, her name:
Bunny Pederson
. He hadn't heard her name while walking around town and it never occurred to him she had a name other than the nickname he'd given her. The poster gave her height and weight—no wonder he'd strained to lift her into the truck—and age. Only thirty? He thought she was older than that. Time hadn't been kind to Bunny Pederson's face or figure. Were she alive, she'd probably be one of those loser women who'd consider sleeping with him. A washed-up prom queen. The poster said she was dressed in a peach bridesmaid's dress and shoes. Carried a peach purse. Television is going to love that, he thought. A disappearing bridesmaid. That would be her new nickname: the bridesmaid. She was last seen leaving a wedding reception at a bar. That's where the whole town was Friday night, he thought.
CALL THE MOOSE LAKE POLICE OR CARLTON COUNTY SHERIFF
'
S OFFICE
. Below that, what he was waiting for: volunteers were meeting in a church basement to prepare for a Sunday morning search of the woods and fields in the area. He checked his watch; he could still make it.

 

HE steered the truck into the church parking lot. Jammed with news vans; he'd read the media right. His heart raced. Already, it was starting. He patted his jacket pocket; the finger was still there.

“PULL!” SAID A husky female voice.

The clay pigeon thrown from the trap veered to the right. She aimed the barrel over the orange saucer and swung to the right, getting ahead of it. She counted to three in her head and squeezed the trigger. The disk exploded into a black cloud.

“Nice hit,” said her shooting partner. The crack of other guns and the smell of gunpowder warmed the cold fall air. A busy Saturday at the range.

“Your turn,” she said.

“Pull!” he said. His pigeon flew to the left and seemed to hang in midair for a moment, as if caught in an updraft. He pointed the barrel over the target and squeezed. The shot nicked off a sliver of orange and the rest of the disk fell to the ground. “Finally. A hit,” he said.

“Barely,” mumbled the teenage boy behind them. He was sitting in a chair keeping score. He ran the trap by pushing a button on a box he held in his palm. An extension cord connected the box to the concrete bunker that expelled the clays.

The man looked over his shoulder. “What'd you say, kid? Working on your tip?”

The boy grinned and started to say something, but it was lost in the rattle and whistle of a train crossing the nearby tracks.

“A chip's still a hit,” the woman said over the noise. She slipped a shell into the chamber and pumped it forward. “Pull,” she said. Another throw to the right. She started the barrel pointing behind the pigeon and swung it smoothly ahead until it was past the disk before squeezing the trigger. It shattered; another square hit.

The man slid a shell into the chamber, pumped and raised his shotgun. “Pull.” He followed the target with the barrel. He closed his right eye and squeezed the trigger. A miss.

“Lost,” said the scorer.

“What am I doing wrong here, Paris?”

She took off her safety glasses and shoved them into the pocket of her shooting vest. “First off, are you shutting one of your eyes?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Don't. This is a shotgun, not a rifle.” She pulled out her earplugs.

“Okay,” he said. “What else?”

Paris Murphy walked over to the gun rack behind the teenager, leaned her gun against it and went over to her husband. A gust of wind rattled the trees on either side of the range and sent more leaves floating to the ground. Murphy regretted leaving her gloves at home and tucked her numb hands under her armpits.

“You're behind the pigeon when you should be in front of it.” She stood behind him. Jack Ramier was tall, but his wife nearly matched his height. She was slender, with a narrow waist and hips, but had large breasts and a runner's well-defined legs. She had long black hair, violet eyes framed by thick lashes and olive skin—traits from her Lebanese mother and Irish father. Her complexion was flawless except for a crescent moon scar on her forehead—a souvenir from her job as a St. Paul Homicide detective.

“And your form is all wrong,” she said. She bumped the back of his legs with her knee. “Bend those knees, Jack. Relax. You're not performing surgery.” Jack was an emergency room doctor at Regions Hospital downtown. “Put your left foot slightly forward. Keep your feet shoulder-width apart.” She put her hands on his hips. “Lean forward a little at the waist.”

“You're getting me hot, wife.”

“Not in front of the kid.”

“This isn't fair. You handle a gun all day long.”

“Stays in my purse ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“You've had training.”

“I've given you training.”

“I'll say you have.” He turned and winked at her. He had curly brown hair and brown eyes that never failed to get her attention.

“Watch that muzzle control,” she said lowly. “Wouldn't want your gun going off prematurely. Save something for tonight.”

“I got plenty of ammo,” he said, and they both laughed.

“You finished or what?” asked the boy behind them.

“We're finished.” Murphy rubbed her hands together. “I'm cold, Jack. Give him a couple of bucks and let's go inside. Sun's going down anyway.”

Jack pulled three ones out of his pocket and handed them to the teenager. He set his gun next to his wife's.

“You sure the chamber's empty?” she asked.

He picked up his gun and checked. “Chamber empty. Safety on.”

“Good.”

He set the gun back on the rack. “I'm a quick study.” He shoved his glasses and plugs into his vest pocket.

“Yeah. Right. Don't quit your day job.”

He smiled and followed her into the South St. Paul Rod and Gun clubhouse, a building that resembled a ranch-style house with a deck attached. The Mississippi River snaked in front of it and railroad tracks cut behind it. It was a block off Concord, a long street connecting the city of St. Paul
and the suburb of South St. Paul. The gun club shared the neighborhood with a furniture liquidator, a used-car lot, a beauty shop and a Dairy Queen.

Murphy checked the bulletin board inside the clubhouse door. Covered with handwritten index cards and flyers: “Beretta AL390 Gold Mallard 20 GA. $725.” “Custom Docks. Call for an estimate.” “4×10 Utility Trailer made by Cargo.
ALMOST NEW
. Drop down ramp. $900.” “Lab choc. M. AKC Exc. bird dog. $2,500.” “
FOR SALE
. Remington 870. Nice clean gun. $450.” “German Wire-Haired Pups. AKC. Exc. Blood Lines.
MAKE GOOD HUNTERS
/
FAMILY PETS
. $500.”

“Decent price,” Murphy muttered. She grabbed a bar napkin and wrote down a phone number.

“Shopping for a gun?” asked Jack, looking over her shoulder.

“A dog.”

“Since when? You're not home enough. Your place is too small. A dog would go stir-crazy on that dinky houseboat. It'd chew the shit out of everything.”

“Stop hyperventilating.” She shoved the napkin into the pocket of her jeans. “We'll discuss it over a beer.”

It didn't take much to turn their discussions into arguments, and that's why they periodically separated. In their eight years of marriage, they'd lived apart as much as they'd lived together. Jack stayed in the house they'd bought together when they first got married. She had a houseboat on the Mississippi River, moored across from downtown at the St. Paul Yacht Club. They kept trying to make their marriage work and were most successful in the bedroom; they never argued about sex.

All the tables were taken; they found two stools next to each other at the bar. “What can I get you?” asked the bartender. He was a big man with curly red hair, a red beard and a red flannel shirt. He could have passed for a lumberjack.

“Grain Belt,” said Murphy.

“St. Pauli Girl,” said Jack.

“No imports.”

“Grain Belt then.”

The bartender set two cans on the bar. “Sign up for the big shoot?” He thumbed toward a flyer behind the bar:
MINI JACKPOT TRAP SHOOT
.

Murphy took a bump off her beer. “You betcha.”

He eyed Jack. “You that ringer she been threatening to bring in?”

Murphy laughed and then coughed and held a napkin to her face; she felt beer coming up her nose. Jack glared at her. She cleared her throat. “No,” she said. She blew her nose and took another sip of beer. “This is my husband, Jack. Jack, this is Gunnar.”

“Gunner?”

“Gunnar,” said the bartender, without smiling. He walked to the other end of the bar.

“Isn't that what I said?”

“No. Gunnar is Norwegian or something. Gunner is . . . I don't know . . . a good name for a hunting dog maybe.”

“Back to the dog, are we?”

“I'm the only one in my family without a dog.” She had nine brothers, no sisters.

“Your siblings are nuts. You can't eat dinner at their houses without swallowing a pound of fur. Rawhide bones everywhere. Yard's all tore up. They live in giant kennels.”

“I'll be sure to pass that compliment on to my brothers—and their wives.” She frowned and brushed the hair from her forehead with her fingertips. She wasn't comfortable with bangs. Jack said he found them attractive, told her she looked like Cleopatra. She used to wear her hair parted down the middle and pulled back. She got bangs over the summer to help cover the scar, a constant reminder of the fight she'd gotten into with a killer.

Jack popped open his beer and took a sip. “Forget the damn dog. Dog's a bad idea.”

She didn't answer. She turned in her stool to see who she knew in the bar. The room had paneled walls, a low ceiling and was cloudy with smoke. Four guys in camouflage jackets were at a table playing cards and puffing on
cigarettes. She recognized a couple of them. Retired towboat crew. Her family used to run a bar along the Mississippi that served river workers. The two men saw her and nodded. Another table was filled with guys in blaze orange caps. They were hunkered over a map, planning a deer hunt. Murphy was envious. She wished Jack was more of a hunter. Maybe she could get out this season with her brothers.

She turned around to sip her beer. The television behind the bar was turned to the news. Gunnar walked over to switch channels when a female reporter came on. She was standing in front of a church, interviewing a tall man. “Stop,” Murphy said. She strained to listen. “Turn it up.”

“One of your cases?” asked Gunnar.

Murphy didn't answer. She stared at the screen. The reporter was talking about how the tall guy was a traveling salesman who'd volunteered to join a search party. They were looking for a Moose Lake woman who'd disappeared Friday night after a wedding. “A bridesmaid who vanished,” the reporter said. She emphasized the word
bridesmaid
to show it made the story different. Special.

Jack watched his wife's face. “What is it, Paris?”

“I recognize him.”

“From where? Work?”

“No. Can't remember exactly. But not work.”

“Fuckin' tall as a house,” said Gunnar. He grabbed a bar rag and wiped the counter.

Murphy studied the man while he continued talking to the reporter about why he'd volunteered, how he'd wanted to help. His face was pale and smooth and his eyes dark. His lips were full. Almost a woman's mouth. He had black, slicked-back hair. In a strange way, he was attractive. Seductive. He looked like a vampire from a black-and-white movie. His left ear was weird. Looked as if he had two lobes. Some kind of accident? More familiar than his face was his voice. He had a trace of southern drawl, and a stutter. She could tell he was concentrating on his speech, pausing at words that were threatening to turn into a problem.
Who did she know with a stutter? No one came to mind.

“Hey!” yelled one of the deer hunters. “How about some ESPN instead of this crap?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Keep your shirt on.” Gunnar walked over to the television and switched channels.

Murphy rubbed her arms; she had goose bumps under her sweatshirt, but not from the cold. Talking more to herself than to Jack: “I know him. How do I know him?”

Jack drained his can and set it down. “How about some dinner, babe? Something from that Mexican market down the road. I could go for some beans and rice.”

“I've got stuff in the fridge,” she said. She took one more sip of beer and slid off the bar stool. “Let's get the guns and get outta here.”