A Killing in the Hills Page 17

  They didn’t know, from day to day, whether their daddy would be home or not. Sometimes he was there all the time. Sometimes he would leave for weeks, with no warning, and when he came back, there was also no warning, and no explanation. Shirley used to go to school, but she didn’t anymore. Belfa did go to school, but it wasn’t real to her; the days at school were like a dream, sliding right past her. Never really touching her.

  They slept on an old couch in the living room. There was only one bedroom and that was his. It belonged to him. Everything belonged to him. Especially them.

  ‘You girls eat yet?’ he said.

  They’d been asleep and he’d come home. Out of the blue. They didn’t know what time it was, but it was late. They knew that much. He’d flung open the front door and when he came into the trailer the whole thing bounced and shook. It was a small, flimsy trailer and he was a very big man, heavy, with a stomach that stuck out in front of him as if he’d stuffed a big hard ball under his shirt, and shoulders like a rock ledge, thick and spread out. When he stepped into the trailer in his big boots there was a cracking sound, and the whole place shimmied.

  The good part was that he could never sneak up on them. They always heard him coming. Heard it, and felt it.

  ‘Yeah,’ Shirley said. ‘We ate.’ Instantly, she was sitting up on the couch. She’d been asleep but now she wasn’t.

  She always answered him. Once she’d tried not answering him, ignoring him, and that was worse.

  Much worse.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Belfa sat up, too. He hadn’t turned on any lights. He was crashing around the living room, knocking things over. Each time an object fell, he’d say, ‘Fuck.’ Said the way he said it, flatly, with no emotion, it didn’t sound like a bad word. Belfa knew it was a bad word but it was hard to think of it that way, hearing him say it over and over again. No emotion. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. A word was just a word. It couldn’t be bad or good.

  Belfa felt her sister’s arm go around her shoulders, holding her. Keeping her still and safe. Her sister’s body was hot. The couch was small, so they had to sleep on their sides, but Belfa didn’t mind; Shirley’s body kept her warm. It was the one thing Belfa knew for sure: If you were cold, then having another person beside you could keep you warm.

  ‘Whaddja have?’ he said. His voice was low and gravelly, like he’d swallowed a handful of rocks and they were still stuck in his throat, wadded there, refusing to move.

  Belfa understood. He wasn’t asking if they’d eaten because he wanted to make sure they’d had dinner. He was asking because he wanted some of it, too. Whatever it was.

  ‘Peaches,’ Shirley said.

  ‘The fuck,’ he said, ‘is that all about? Peaches? Fuck.’

  It was true. Shirley had found some peaches in the alley behind Lymon’s, a grocery store in Acker’s Gap, a two-mile walk from Comer Creek. Shirley always checked there. Stores had to throw out stuff that wasn’t exactly right. You had to know when to look, though. You had to figure out what time of day to go, because if they caught you, they got mad. Nobody wanted to have a kid rooting through the jumbo black plastic trash bins in the alley, fishing out boxes and upending crates, sorting through slimy stuff, ruined things. Shirley knew exactly when to go and what to do. She had a system.

  ‘That’s what it was,’ Shirley said. There was a flicker of belligerence in her tone. A small spike of stubbornness. Belfa was afraid. When Shirley sounded that way, their father got extra-mad.

  He wasn’t moving anymore. He was standing still in the middle of the room. Breathing. Belfa wished he’d move again, bump into something, knock something over. That would be a relief, she thought. Belfa could see the shape of him in the dark living room – her eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now – and his stillness unnerved her. He just stood there, a big, hunched-over shape, hands quiet at his sides. His breathing had the same roughed-up, gravelly edge that his voice had. In and out. He breathed hard and slow. He couldn’t help it. Monster-breathing. That was what Belfa had called it once – not to his face, of course, she only told Shirley, and Shirley nodded, yeah, that’s it – because it had that quality. It had that big, scary sound, like a huge sea monster rising up, dripping, breathing in and out through gigantic fire-red nostrils, a strangled, wheezy, dangerous breathing.

  And then he turned around and lumbered out of the living room. Just like that. He didn’t say anything else. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him with a tinny rattle, making the trailer shake again. Belfa felt Shirley’s arm fall away from her narrow shoulders. Crisis over.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ Shirley said. She lay down on the couch, leaving space for Belfa behind her. She patted the space. Two quick pats. ‘Come on. It’s okay now.’

  Belfa remembered that night and always would, even though nothing had happened. Their father didn’t bother them that night. Not like he usually did. Maybe he was taking the night off. Resting up.

  He didn’t bother them every night. That was what made it so bad. Because you never knew. So you always had to be ready.

  Belfa remembered it, however, because of the peaches – she loved peaches, and when Shirley had found a couple of them rolling around in the bottom of the big trash bin behind Lymon’s, not crushed or stale, but juicy and perfect, and brought them home, Belfa was so happy, Peaches for dinner! – and because it was exactly three nights before the night that Shirley, using the same small paring knife with which she had cut off the top of the bottle of Dawn dishwashing detergent, slit their father’s throat and then set the trailer on fire.

  Part Two

  23

  Carla waited. She needed to make sure her mother had left the house.

  Bell didn’t snoop. At least Carla had never caught her doing it, the way some of her friends had caught their parents hanging around half-open doors each time their cells emitted whatever rap-tune ringtone they’d just downloaded. Parents were always eager to catch evidence of any activities involving drugs or sex.

  Her mother wasn’t like that.

  Still, Carla couldn’t take the chance. And besides, there might be different rules in effect from here on out, now that Carla had made her big announcement, now that she’d made it clear she was moving in with her dad. Maybe, until Carla was actually gone, her mom intended to take it out on her in small annoying ways, bit by bit.

  Doing things like snooping. Like sneaking around and spying on her private business.

  Carla was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen chair, bare knees bumping the table edge. She’d rolled up her baggy sweats, turning them into makeshift short shorts, and on the table in front of her, a bowl of cereal was rapidly disintegrating into gluey yellow mush.

  It was Monday morning. From this spot Carla could hear her mom’s Explorer starting up in the driveway, the engine quickly settling into its earnest grumble.

  Great. She’d be pulling out in the next few seconds, heading for work.

  Up and at ’em, Mom. That was the urgent vibe that Carla sent out into the universe, a steady mental push of sustained hoping. Let’s get a move on.

  But Carla still couldn’t relax and make the call. Her mother had been known to come rushing back into the house, frantic and dismayed, having suddenly realized that she’d forgotten a crucial case file or the transcript of an interview she needed for that day’s arraignment or the small round carton of strawberry yogurt that Bell usually grabbed on her way out the door. Carla had to be sure before she called Lonnie. Privacy was imperative.

  Lately, with her car off-limits because of that stupid suspension, Carla had been catching a ride to school with her mom. But Bell was leaving too early this morning – a fact that actually worked perfectly with her plans, Carla had realized. Almost too well. It made her nervous. Could she pull it off?

  It was just past 5 A.M.

  ‘If I rode with you today, I’d be getting there, like, before the janitor does,’ Carla had complained as they’d sat at the kitchen table a few minutes
earlier, Bell facing multiple stacks of manila folders, Carla hunched over her bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

  ‘They don’t even open the place this early,’ Carla added.

  They hadn’t talked any more about Carla’s decision to live with her dad. From the moment they’d greeted each other in the kitchen that morning, an unspoken agreement seemed to be in force: Focus on the business of the coming day.

  Keep things light. Superficial. Even keel.

  ‘Can’t help it, sweetie,’ Bell said. She was separating the folders into different piles, and then angling those piles into the briefcase that gapped open on her lap. ‘I need to leave in about five minutes.’

  ‘So I’ll take the bus,’ Carla said. ‘No problem.’

  She watched her mother’s reaction. This was a critical moment, because Carla hated the bus. Volunteering to take it was a calculated risk. If her mother suspected that Carla was trying to get rid of her, trying to hurry her out the door, then Carla would be well and truly screwed.

  Bell looked up from her folders. Then she looked back down at them again.

  ‘Okay,’ Bell said.

  ‘“Okay”?’ Carla repeated, just to make sure it wasn’t some kind of trick.

  ‘Sure. Fine. Take the bus.’ Bell slid the last folder into her briefcase. She put the case on the floor and stood up. She was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a white blouse. ‘Let’s just pray,’ Bell said, adjusting the crisp collar, ‘that I don’t get strawberry yogurt all over this outfit before I even hit the office. Bound to happen, though, right?’

  Carla shrugged. ‘You look good, Mom.’ She stirred the goop in her bowl, then lifted the spoon and tipped it into her mouth, enabling a milky lane of Cap’n Crunch to sluice its way in.

  ‘Thanks, sweetie. Gotta run.’

  Bell bent down to pick up her briefcase. On her way back up she reached out with her other hand and touched the top of Carla’s head, lightly grazing it with her fingertips. It wasn’t quite a pat, and it wasn’t quite a tousle, either. Carla didn’t know what to call it.

  ‘Bye, hon,’ Bell said. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Mom.’ Carla kept her eyes on her cereal bowl. She was playing it cool all the way. Cool and casual.

  Bell hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re ready to go back to school? I mean, it was just two days ago, sweetie. If you want to take some more time, I could call the principal and see if—’

  ‘I’m fine, Mom. Okay? Fine.’

  Bell touched the top of her daughter’s head again. To Carla, it almost seemed like some kind of superstition. Ever since the shooting, it was like her mother had to touch her a certain number of times before she left a room, any room, just to feel grounded, just to feel whole. It was weird.

  Carla heard the front door close. A moment later, the engine of Bell’s SUV swooped to life. Carla was getting antsy. She had to talk to Lonnie, had to catch him before he left for his job at the Jiffy Lube out by the turnpike. He hated getting up early, but he was on the morning clean-up crew. Had to scrub out the bays and empty the trash cans and get rid of the dirty oil – Gross, Carla footnoted her own thought – before the customers started showing up.

  Finally, Carla heard two short horn toots from the driveway. It was her mother’s way of saying good-bye, even though she’d already said it. Several times, in fact. Her mother liked to pile on the good-byes, Carla knew. No such thing as too many.

  Her mother had been acting strange this morning. Distant. Like there was something on her mind, something even more troubling than the shooting in the Salty Dawg or the fact that Carla was leaving.

  Well, Carla had her own problems. Good luck with yours, Mom, she thought. Kinda busy here with my own shit right now.

  She pushed the bowl to one side and dug out the cell from the saggy pocket of her sweats. She pressed No. 5. The small orange screen flashed with the words PRINCE, LONNIE.

  It rang three times. An eternity, in cell-land.

  Pick up, pick up, Lon, Carla thought. Pick UP, damnit.

  Then a sleepy voice came on the line. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Lonnie,’ she said. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  He and Carla hadn’t talked since before the shooting on Saturday. Lonnie’s folks had moved way out to the rural part of Raythune County, down near Briney Hollow, and if you wanted to see him, you had to plan for it. You’d never run into him by accident. She hadn’t returned his calls. She hadn’t returned anybody’s calls. Well, except for her dad’s. That was different.

  ‘Where you been?’ Lonnie said.

  ‘Around.’ She shifted the phone to her other ear. ‘Listen, Lonnie. Something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘It’s a secret, okay?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Carla took a breath.

  ‘I was there,’ she said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘At the Salty Dawg. I saw the whole thing. The shooting, I mean. I was there, Lonnie.’

  His voice jumped out of the phone like a lightning strike. ‘Holy shit, girl! You were there? What the hell—’

  ‘Lonnie, I don’t want to talk about it. Okay? Not right now.’

  ‘Okay, okay. But you gotta tell me a little bit. Only fair. It was a mess, right? Blood and shit, everywhere?’

  ‘It was—’ Carla didn’t know what to say. ‘I can’t talk about it right now, okay? Later. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’ She changed the subject quickly, before he’d have the chance to beg her. ‘Hey. That party we went to a couple of weeks ago. Over in Alesburg.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The one where that guy was.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘The guy. The guy who was giving out all the drugs. He had piggy eyes, remember? He looked like a pig. He acted like he was hot shit or something.’

  ‘Okay, whatever. I guess. Yeah.’

  ‘Who was he? I mean, you ever see him before? Before that night?’

  Lonnie chuckled. ‘You got the hots for him?’

  ‘Just tell me, Lonnie. A name. That’s all I need.’

  ‘Hold on. Why the hell are you asking me about some guy? Who cares about that? You watched people get shot, man. I heard that one of ’em was Streeter – the bastard who threw me out of driver’s ed last year. Jesus. You saw murders.’

  ‘Lonnie,’ Carla said. ‘This is important, okay? Who was that guy? I gotta know.’

  ‘Never seen him before. But listen, Carla – didja see a hell of a lot of blood? Damn. Wish I’d been there. Wish I’d been there to watch those bastards get their heads blown off. Love to see that brain crap hanging all over the place. And all the freakin’ blood. Oh, yeah.’ Lonnie laughed. His laugh was a spidery cackle.

  The creepy eagerness in Lonnie’s voice struck Carla as kind of sick. Kind of bizarre and twisted. It was the same way they talked about the horror movies they’d go see at the theater over in Blythesburg, the bloodier the better, the grosser the better, movies where people got their hands and legs chopped off with a chain saw, got their eyeballs ripped out of their heads so that some sicko could play marbles with them, but this was different. This was real. There was no way she could explain it to Lonnie. But this was way different.

  That’s when Carla realized that she couldn’t talk to Lonnie about the gunman, couldn’t admit that she’d recognized him. But she still needed his help.

  She’d made a decision the night before. She was still going to live with her dad; that was a done deal. Before she left, though, she was going to try and track down the guy. The murderer. It was something she could do for her mom. Something that mattered.

  She couldn’t talk to her mom about any of this, because she couldn’t tell her that she’d been at a party with drugs. And she couldn’t talk to Lonnie about it, either. Lonnie was a dumb-ass. A joke.

  The whole thing made her feel empty inside. Hollowed out with loneliness.

  ‘I need you to think about this, Lon. Think real hard,
okay? That guy at the party? You sure you never heard a name?’

  ‘Nope. But I’ll ask around if you want me to. Hey, Carla,’ Lonnie said, the rabid excitement returning. ‘Did you maybe take some pictures? With your cell? Before the cops got there, I mean? Of the blood and shit?’

  24

  Serena Crumpler was waiting in front of Bell’s office door. It was just after 5:30 A.M.

  Spotting her as she rounded the corner, Bell sighed a sigh so long and so deep that it could have originated in the soles of her feet.

  Damn. She’d been hoping for a little solitude. Craving it, in fact. No phone calls, no texts, no e-mails, no visitors, no other human face. Just the desk in front of her.

  Once the day was officially under way, there’d be nowhere to hide. Nowhere to think. She had more than a dozen ongoing cases and only two assistants and a secretary. She had a court appearance that morning. She had motions to file, police reports to read. She had a speech to write. She had an appointment with the sheriff to drive out to Eloise Rader’s house for an interview about Lee Rader.