Theresa Monsour (9 page)

She walked out of the bathroom. She looked across the room and saw Trip pick up her glass, swirl the wine around and set it back down. What the hell was he trying to pull? He didn't see her watching him; he'd started attacking his food. She stepped next to the table. Set her purse on the floor. Trip was tearing off strips of chicken with his fingers and rifling them into his mouth. She sat down. Put her napkin back on her lap. Picked up her fork and knife, cut off a piece of fish and popped it in her mouth. Chewed and swallowed. She glanced at her glass. She wanted to ask him what he'd been doing with his hands on it, but decided to get some conversation going first. What in the world did she and Trip have left to talk about? Then it came to her: “Going to the all-class reunion?”

He set a chicken bone down. “What?” Licked his fingers.

“Didn't you get an invite in the mail? I can send you a
copy.” She put her hand on the wineglass, saw him nervously eye the goblet.

“No. No. I saw it. I d . . . don't know. I wasn't p . . . p . . . planning on it.” He picked up a leg. Cleaned the meat off in a couple of bites. Threw down the bone.

She started to lift the wine to her lips. He looked at it again. She pretended to sip and set the glass down. Had Trip slipped something into her drink? “You should go. Everyone will want to hear about how you helped up here. If it was me, I wouldn't miss a chance to wave it in their faces.” She saw he was studying her face. Searching for signs that she'd tasted something odd or that whatever he'd slipped into her drink was working.

His eyes fell again. He wiped this mouth with the napkin. “Maybe I will g . . . go. When is it?”

She wrapped her hand around the goblet again. Picked it up. Put it to her lips and then set it down again. His eyes followed the glass like a dog's eyes following a steak bone. “Saturday night,” she said.

“This Saturday? You g . . . g . . . going?”

She smiled. “Wouldn't miss it.” She wanted to throw the wine in his face and slap some cuffs on him, but she had no proof. She didn't see him do it. He could always say someone else had altered her drink. His behavior was also making her wonder about his involvement with the missing bridesmaid, and she didn't want to get his back up until she could poke around that case more.

She wanted to say something about the past to see if he really had held a grudge for nearly two decades. If he did, the scars went deeper than the torn earlobe. Could one beating change someone, turn them into something they wouldn't have otherwise become? Maybe it triggered something that was already there, waiting to surface with the right provocation. Perhaps other traumas had marked him after high school. Regardless, there was a dangerous edge that wasn't there eighteen years ago. The Trip she knew wouldn't have doctored a woman's drink.

She wrapped her hand around the goblet and watched
him watching her do it. “Sweet. I always wanted to tell you.”

“Tell m . . . me what?” He wasn't listening to her; he was preoccupied with her wineglass.

“What those boys did to you. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know until afterwards. When I found out, I felt horrible. Didn't have the courage to say anything. I always wanted to say—”

“I d . . . don't know what you're t . . . t . . . talking about,” he said, interrupting her. For an instant, his eyes left her glass and locked on her face. He knew exactly what she was talking about. He didn't want to give her the chance to apologize.

“You know, Denny wasn't so bad if you'd gotten the chance to know him. He was just another kid. Not so different from you.”

“I wasn't a b . . . bully. I wasn't a big b . . . baby. Didn't still like stupid c . . . cartoons in high school.”

Murphy was stunned. How did Trip know Denny watched
The Flintstones
? Only she knew that. She stared at him but he wasn't paying attention to her anymore. He was scanning the bar for the waitress. He spotted the strawberry head and waved her over.

The young woman walked over to the table. “Another beer?”

He pointed at Murphy's glass. “On second thought, m . . . maybe I should l . . . let the l . . . lady catch up. Why don't you p . . . polish that off and I'll buy the n . . . next round?”

Murphy checked her watch. “Know what? I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet someone.” She pushed the wineglass away. Stood up, pulled on her jacket. Picked up her purse, opened it, pulled out some bills and threw them on the table. “I'll see you on Saturday.” She turned and left.

The waitress was still standing over him. “Another beer?”

“No. The check.”

The waitress ripped it off her pad, set it on the table and
walked away. He stared at the wineglass. She hadn't had enough. Waste of good drugs. He checked his watch. Still early. He'd go back to the motel and rest before his late-night errand.

MURPHY WAS NEVER so relieved to dump a dinner date. She practically ran to her car while digging her keys out of her purse. She opened the driver's side, threw her purse on the passenger's seat, got in, slammed the door shut. She started up the Jeep and shot out of the parking lot, turned onto the main drag. She slipped in a CD. An upbeat instrumental by Leo Kottke. The twelve-string guitar massaged her nerves during the short drive back to the hotel. She rolled into the parking lot and her cell phone rang. She hoped it wasn't Jack backing out of their romantic evening. She turned off the CD and pulled the phone out of her purse.

Duncan: “Don't get too comfortable.”

“Don't tell me I have to turn around. I'm all settled in.” She didn't want to tell him her husband was on the way up.

“No, no. But you might be spending less time there than I thought.”

Something's up, thought Murphy. She guessed the theory he'd sold to the sheriff was beginning to unravel.

Duncan: “The ex-hubby's story is starting to check out. The cops up there finally caught up with this friend of his.”

Murphy smiled to herself; she was right. “The buddy with the cabin?”

“Name's Ozzie something. Starts with a Y.” Duncan shuffled some papers on his desk. “Yates. Ozzie Yates. Claims he was in the car with Pederson from the time he left St. Paul until he picked up his kids and went hunting.”

“Where's this Yates been this whole time?”

“Still at the cabin. Pederson left him there to take his kids back home. Yates had a motorcycle he was working on up at the lake. Was gonna ride it back to the cities.”

She couldn't resist: “Told you so.”

“The sheriff's got more checking to do. Could be Oz is lying for his pal.”

“I'll bet you lunch he's not.”

“You're on. Give Carlton County what you got, see what you can do to help. Might as well spend the night. Here's the plan. Unwind tonight. Go to work in the morning, then head back. How's that sound, Potato Head?”

“Duncan.” She thought about challenging him on the Potato Head issue, then reconsidered. Leave well enough alone. “I'll check in with you before I leave town. And hey, thanks for the nice room.”

“No problem. Enjoy.”

“I will.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her purse. She spotted the silver Beemer in the parking lot and checked the Jeep's clock. She didn't want to think about how fast he'd driven to get up there. She pulled her keys out of the ignition, shoved them in her purse, slid out of the car and slammed the door. Told herself to punch out of the job for the night. Put Trip and that horrible meal they'd shared out of her mind. Jack sure as hell wouldn't want to hear someone may have tried to poison her. She walked through the lobby.

The clerk was behind the front desk, leaning on the counter and flipping through a magazine. “Your hubby
is
a looker. Sure he ain't got a brother?”

Murphy smiled. “Sorry. Only child.”

“My luck. Most of my dates look like that.” She nodded toward the moose head.

Murphy laughed and went to her room, slipped her card in the lock. Pushed it open. Jack was standing in the middle of the room with a bottle of champagne in his hand and a big grin on his face. He'd just walked in himself. Under his jacket, he was still in his scrubs. Murphy shut the door.

“Where were you?” he asked. “I was getting worried. Thought you'd dragged me up here to stand me up.”

“Went out for some dinner.” She looked at his crotch. “Wasn't it uncomfortable driving all the way up here with that in your pocket?”

“I've had a continuous hard-on for you since we got married. I hide it well is all.”

“How many traffic laws did you break on the way up here? Add any new speeding tickets to your collection?” She pulled off her jacket and purse and tossed them on a chair.

“Believe it or not, I even had time to stop by your boat and grab a couple of accessories.” He pulled a champagne glass out of each pocket. “I saw flowers in the galley.” He said it in a way that required an explanation.

“My mother,” she said, and immediately hated herself for the lie.

“What's the occasion? Did I miss something?”

“You didn't miss a thing.” She wanted to get him off the subject. “When are we going to get a new set of flutes?” She pulled the glasses out of his hands and set them on the nightstand.

He took off his jacket, threw it on a chair. He saw the ice bucket on the floor next to the tub. “How'd you know I'd bring champagne?”

“You're that kind of fella.” She walked over to the tub and turned on the water. It would take a while to fill. She peeled off her top, dropped it on the floor and walked toward him.

“The kind of fella that will drive for two hours with a hard-on to meet his wife?”

“Exactly.” She pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. “Know what I love about doctor duds?”

“What?” he said.

She loosened the drawstring on his pants and slipped them down. “No buttons or zippers.”

They finished undressing and fell into bed. He kissed her, his tongue darting past her teeth. His mouth moved to the hollow at the base of her throat, and then to her left breast. When he bit her nipple, she arched her back. He entered her. Moaning, she wrapped her legs around him and gently raked his back with her nails. He saw her eyes were half shut and slowed the pace of his thrusts. “I don't want you to come too soon,” he breathed in her ear. “I had to wait. So do you.”

They saved the champagne and Jacuzzi for last.

TRIP KNEW THE park was open year-round, but he was counting on the office being empty late at night. The entrance was a half mile east of Interstate 35 at the Moose Lake exit, off County Road 137. He pulled down the road that ran next to the building and saw a sign posted out front that made the campground an even better hiding place:
DUE TO STATE BUDGET CUTS
,
OVERNIGHT CAMPING HAS BEEN ELIMINATED FROM THE DAY AFTER LABOR DAY UNTIL MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND NEXT YEAR
. He left the truck running, got out and walked up to the park office window and peeked inside. Dark and empty. He got back in and drove around the arm blocking the entrance. He drove a few more yards straight ahead. A right would take him to the picnic grounds and beach. A left to the campground and boat landing. He took the left. Headed for the south end of the park.

The campground was made up of three loops coming off the west side of the road. The east side of the road was lined with woods and a farmer's field. Even if the
campground was open, it would probably be near deserted on a cold Monday night in October. Still, he decided to be safe and make sure no campers had ignored the sign and pitched a tent. He took the first right off the road and drove past campsites 1 through 10. Empty. He took a right turn and exited the first loop. The second right off the road rounded past sites 11 through 18. Again, not a single car or tent. He hung a right and got off the second loop. He went down the road toward the last and largest loop. The third right turn circled 19 through 35. A dull glow radiated from a building containing the showers and toilets. No one around. He hung a left and took the road back to the first set of campsites.

He pulled the truck into number 5, the closest to Echo Lake. He punched off the lights and turned off the engine. He wanted to pop another Adderall, but his stash was getting low and he needed to ration the stuff until he got home. He wished the park was more uniformly wooded. It used to be old farm fields and it was in the process of turning back into a forest. Many of the trees looked more like tall bushes. The few mature hardwoods had dropped most of their leaves. The rest of the park was pines.

He thought about the options. If he drove around he could probably find a garbage dumpster or a big trash can for day visitors. Chances were there wouldn't be anyone in the park until the weekend. Still, there could be a weekday visitor, or the dumpster pickup might be anytime during the week. No. He wanted the body to stay well hidden for as long as possible. Until it rotted. He could walk to the end of the fishing pier and dump her into Echo Lake. He had chains and bags of sand and salt—the truck's winter equipment—that he could use to weigh the body down. What if it wasn't deep enough at the end of the pier? No, lake was too risky. The pond in the northern half of the park? No. Definitely too shallow, and there were beavers living there; they might disturb the grave. Better to bury her in the woods. He had a shovel, another piece of winter
gear. Flashlight. Where'd he put it? He reached over to the glove compartment, flipped it open and felt around. Sunglasses. Owner's manual for the truck. Couple of jackknives. Bowie knife. Stiletto. Wire cutter. His one-hitter kit. Damn. No flashlight. He grabbed the stiletto and shut the glove compartment. He played with the stiletto while thinking. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. He reached under the driver's seat and felt some highway maps and a phone book. No flashlight. Leather gloves, though. He'd need those. He grabbed them and sat up. “Fuck. Now what?” he muttered. Open.
Chink
. Close.
Chink
. He couldn't bury her using his truck lights; he wanted to walk the body into the woods so he wouldn't leave a trail of tire marks. Come morning, the tracks he'd left around the closed gates could be blamed on teenagers screwing around. Tire marks going into the woods would raise suspicions. He peered through the windshield. The moon was full. Maybe he could manage without a flashlight. He shoved the stiletto in his jacket pocket and pulled on the gloves.

As he opened the driver's door and got out, he heard rustling in the bushes surrounding the campsite. Holding his breath, he gently closed the truck door. He pulled the stiletto out of his pocket. Open.
Chink
. More rustling. Son of a bitch, he thought. Had someone followed him there? He turned, flattened his back against the truck, held the stiletto in front of him. In the moonlight, he couldn't distinguish substance from shadows. An icy gust rattled the trees. Had it been a breeze he'd heard? The wind settled down. He stood still. More rustling. No. Not the wind. He exhaled slowly and tightened his grip on the knife. A ball of fur on four legs waddled out of the bushes. It stopped, sat up on its haunches and stared with beady eyes. “Fucking 'coon,” Trip said. He picked up a rock and threw it at the animal. It didn't budge. He threw another. It growled at him and bared its teeth. “Get the f . . . f . . . fuck out of here.” It turned and went toward the road.

Trip closed the stiletto and slipped it in his right jacket
pocket. He walked to the rear of the truck and opened the back. A flashlight rolled out and hit the ground. “Great,” he said. He picked it up, turned it on and shined it over his cargo. Under the pile of boxes and packaged shirts he saw a corner of blue plastic. The tarp. He set the flashlight on the tailgate, grabbed the edge of the tarp with both hands and pulled. It hardly moved. Bunny Pederson was a cow, all right. He pulled harder and the body inched out. Was the tarp caught on something? He gave a good yank. The blue cocoon slid out and fell to the ground with a thud. A pile of boxes and shirts tumbled out after it. He picked up the boxes and shirts and threw them back. He shined the light on the ground to make sure nothing else had fallen out. He reached inside the truck, pulled out the shovel and threw it next to the body. He trained the flashlight on the tarp. A good wrapping job, he thought. Nice and tight. A giant candy bar. He bent over and sniffed. No stink yet; he could thank the cold spell for that. He wondered if she'd bled all over the truck bed, or if the plastic had contained it all. He ran the beam up and down the tarp and didn't see any dark stains. He'd check the truck later. He shoved the light in his jacket pocket, wrapped his arms around the middle of the cocoon and hiked the body onto his right shoulder like a rolled-up carpet.

“Oh, man,” he grunted. He held the body in place with his right hand and with his left pulled out his flashlight. He shined the flashlight in front of him and walked three steps before he realized he'd forgotten the shovel. “Fuck.” He set the body down and went back for the tool. He picked up the shovel—a wooden-handled spade—and wondered:
How am I going to carry all this shit?
He thought for a few seconds, shoved the flashlight back in his pocket. He unbuckled his belt, ran the end of it through the shovel handle and buckled it again. The shovel dangled down the side of his leg and banged against him when he walked, but it worked. He went back to the body. Awkward with the shovel, but he managed to bend over and hike the cocoon back up on his shoulder. He stood still for a minute, making sure of his
balance. He pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and started walking again. He'd visited the park before, even camped there a couple of times to spare the expense of a motel. He had a pretty good idea of where he wanted to bury her. He walked north on the road out of the campground. Every ten minutes or so he had to stop and adjust the body's position on his shoulder. The gusts of wind seemed to grow stronger and last longer. He was grateful for the gloves but wished he'd packed a wool cap. His
E.P.
hat wasn't warm enough. The Minnesota fall felt worse than any Tennessee winter. The hat belonged back in Memphis as surely as he did. After less than a quarter of a mile on the road he took a sharp right and went east into the woods, where there were no trails or other attractions for fall visitors. The ground was hard. The digging was difficult and he worked up a sweat. Even had to take off his jacket. He buried her, tarp and all, in a shallow grave.

 

TRIP was throwing the first shovel of dirt over the body when ranger Bob Kermitt turned in to Moose Lake State Park. Clueless tourists who hadn't been reading the newspapers didn't know many state campgrounds were closed until Memorial Day weekend. They'd pull up to the office, read the sign, get pissed off and drive around the arm. Some didn't even read the sign. They stuffed money in the self-registration lockbox and drove around the arm, never questioning why the thing was down. Since the day after Labor Day, park staff had been monitoring the campground, even during the week. If someone had pitched a tent or parked an RV, they were told to leave. If they left money in the lockbox, it would be returned. Kermitt wanted to check his live traps for raccoons as well; the day staff had probably forgotten to do that and he didn't like leaving the animals caged for an entire day.

He didn't mind working the night shift on occasion; it broke up his week. His day hours were filled with what he called “glorified housekeeping and baby-sitting.” He
scrubbed the outhouses around the picnic grounds and trails—there were still a lot of hikers taking in the fall leaves. Picked up trash. Sold souvenir tee shirts. Cut the grass. Gave directions. Asked park guests to
please
stop leaving food out for the raccoons.
Please
stop dumping trash down the outhouse holes.
Please
don't rinse diapers in the lake.
Please
leash your dogs.
Please
don't let your kids run wild on the dock. He told his wife he should change his name tag to
Ranger Please
. He looked forward to November, when the visitors would taper off and he could catch up on some of the maintenance he never had time to do in the summer and early fall. Painting picnic tables. Repairing broken grills and fire rings. Removing dead wood. The park would get busy again after the first good snowfall, when winter visitors came in with their snowshoes and cross-country skis.

All in all, Kermitt thought he had a good job. He enjoyed being outside; it kept him fit and trim and tan. The state benefits were great, especially the pension. A few more years and he could retire. Spend time with the grand-kids. Do a little fishing. Make more trips to Vegas with the old lady. Maybe they'd even make it to Hawaii.

Kermitt pulled up to the office, got out of the pickup. He dug his keys out of his pants pocket and opened the lockbox. He shined his flashlight inside. Empty. He slammed it shut and locked it again. As cold as it was, he didn't expect any illegal or clueless campers. Monday nights were dead even before the cutbacks. Still, there was always the odd slacker and screw-off. He looked up at the sky. A full moon, as white and as bright as a snowball. Full moons brought goofballs out of the woodwork. He decided to take a tour of the campgrounds and leave the live traps for last. The raccoons could wait a little longer.

 

FREE of his load, it took Trip a fraction of the time to get out of the woods. He ran most of the way—shovel in one hand and flashlight and jacket in the other. He wanted
to get back to the motel for another hot shower, another beer. Unwind. Treat himself to a couple of tranks. Those baby-blue Valium tablets. He came out of the trees and got on the road. A raccoon darted across his path and startled him. “Fucking 'coon,” he said. He stopped and followed it with his flashlight as it crawled into the weeds. He leaned against the shovel to catch his breath. He inhaled; the night air smelled of dry leaves. A blast of wind chilled his body, still damp with sweat. He shivered and put his jacket back on. He picked up the shovel and started jogging again. He took a right turn off the road and started down the loop containing campsite 5. Then he saw it. A pickup with its headlights on, parked behind his. A park ranger walking around Trip's truck, shining a flashlight into the cab windows. The ranger had his back turned and didn't see the beam from Trip's flashlight. Trip flicked it off, shoved it in his left pocket and crouched behind a low bush on the edge of the adjoining campsite. Trip heard the ranger yelling as he peeked inside the truck. He couldn't make out the words at first; they were muffled by the breeze. The wind died down.

“Hello? You can't spend the night. Campground is closed.” The ranger walked to the back of the truck.

“Fuck,” Trip said under his breath. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He'd left the gate open. If there was blood on the bed, the ranger could find it.

The ranger reached inside the truck, rifled around, pulled something out. He held it upside down by the heel while he trained the flashlight on it. Trip's palms felt cold and wet under his gloves. He wasn't breathing anymore. He was sure his heart had stopped beating. He thought:
Is this how it feels when you're drowning?
He couldn't believe he'd missed it; it had fallen out of the tarp. Her shoe! The ranger found her fucking peach shoe! The entire town of Moose Lake—the entire state—knew what the bridesmaid was wearing when she went missing. Peach dress. Peach purse. Peach shoes.

The ranger was still rummaging around in the back of
the truck. What else was he grabbing? How long had he been snooping around? Trip studied the ranger's figure. No one was ever as tall as Trip, but most men were thicker. Stronger. The ranger was big. He couldn't see his face; he was probably some young guy. Trip wondered if he could take someone stronger and younger. The ranger headed back to his truck with the shoe. Trip figured he was going to radio for help. Couldn't let him do that.

Another gust came up, whistling around the bushes and pines. Trip dashed out from his hiding place. The ranger's fingers were wrapped around the door handle of his pickup when Trip came up behind him and bashed the back of his head with the shovel. The
clang
of the spade rose above the sound of the wind in the trees. The ranger's head bounced once against the driver's-side window of the pickup. He dropped the shoe and the flashlight and fell against the door. He slid to the ground. Facedown in the dirt and moaning, the ranger blindly raised his right hand and brushed it against the side of the pickup. He was trying to pull himself up. Trip raised the shovel up over his right shoulder and brought it down hard with a
thud
. The ranger wasn't moving, but Trip struck his head a third time to be sure. Gray hair was matted with the blood. He wasn't a young guy. He was old, same as Trip's pa. That made him angry. An old man shouldn't be out here, he thought. He raised the spade and brought it down again. A sickening sound. Crunching and soft at the same time. Trip dropped the shovel and stood over the still figure.