The Breathtaker (19 page)

14

J
ONAH GUSTAFSON
lived between two freeway ramps somewhere east of Tulsa. He had medium-length brown hair, big knotty joints and a slightly manic look in his eyes. He sat on a plastic-covered couch while the setting sun streamed in through the old-fashioned windowpanes. He wore jeans, a leather vest and no shoes on his dirty feet, which Charlie guessed were size elevens. There was a framed moonscape on the wall behind him, and Charlie noticed that his hands shook as he hand-rolled himself another cigarette.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, no problem.”

Out in the driveway sat a gleaming white van polished so spick-and-span it might’ve burned a hole in your eyes if you stared at it for too long. Charlie could hear children playing in the back bedrooms.

“You got kids?” he asked.

“Three boys. Three hellions.” Jonah wouldn’t look at him directly. He was working on a tall bourbon and soda and could barely lift the glass to drink.

Charlie gave a disengaged nod. The boys were yelling at one another, the sound of their voices looping drowsily toward him like bees. “We’ve been talking to other storm-chasers who were in the vicinity of Promise on the fifteenth. Anything you could tell us would be much appreciated.”

“Just routine, huh?”

“Strictly routine.”

Jonah had thick white scar tissue where a right eyebrow should be. “What d’you wanna know?”

“Where were you that day?”

“I started out in Ponca City.”

“Kansas?”

He nodded. “Local Skywarn nets were heating up, so I signed in, flipped on the portable and saw two tornado warnings shooting up southwest of me. The Nexrad summary and local Doppler radar confirmed this. So I swung around, and before I knew it, there was this ting and tang off the hood. And I’m thinking to myself, so far so bad.”

“By bad, you mean good?”

“Yeah, good.” He grinned. He drank. He blew out a thin ribbon of smoke. “Bad always means good.”

Charlie glanced around the living room. The place was plain and simple. No plants, no curtains, no amenities. Just crumbling roller shades, squat discount furniture and lots of handmade cabinets and bookshelves. “You do your own woodworking?” he asked.

“Hell, yeah. I built that kitchen table out of particleboard. See my CD holder? I made that. See the entertainment center over there? I could make you one for fifty bucks plus material.
Hey, what’s going on back there?
” he barked over his shoulder. He picked up the glass in his right hand and smiled apologetically. “My wife stranded me. Three kids, and one of ’em ain’t even mine.”

Charlie gave a calculated nod.
The perp was right-handed. Unknown brown hairs had been found at two of the crime scenes. Size eleven shoe, that was in the ballpark.

“She used to come chasing with me all the time, my wife. We met during a hailstorm. We ran around like a couple of kids and took a bunch of hailstones home with us. Popped ’em in the freezer. Six months later, my wife served hailstone cocktails at our wedding.” He took a drag of his hand-rolled cigarette, inhaling the unfiltered smoke deep into his lungs. “First thing she ever said to me was, ‘A white van? Why white?’ White gets dirty as shit. But hey, that ain’t nothing a little core-punching won’t fix, you know? A good driving rain is better than any car wash. Fucking gorgeous, my wife. She had some ass on her.”

“What happened?”

“The bitch ran off with a grease monkey.”

“No, I mean… on the fifteenth?” Charlie said.

“Oh. Right.” His narrow triangular face made him seem both crafty and stupid at once. “So I headed back to Oklahoma, where the storm appeared to be back-building. Dome and anvil were really crisp. The northern flank had a nice tower to it, and the northwestern flank was punching through to the stratosphere… incredible explosion.”

“So you were in Promise that day?” Mike said.

He nodded. “South of downtown. Next thing I know, I’m in heavy rain and the concrete is rumbling beneath my wheels. Rumbling like an earthquake. I figure I’m about to get eaten alive. Things can change so damn quick, you know? I saw it surge across the highway. It blew over a semi. Then all of a sudden, this moderately large piece of house falls from the sky directly in front of me.” He leaned forward, his whole body tensing. “I abandoned my position. That debris was starting to track towards me.”

“You left the area?”

“Hell, yeah. I floored it out of there, no kidding.”

“Where’d you go?”

“There was another tornado warning down around Burns Flat and Reydon, down around there. Did you know they have a Twister Park in Burns Flat? Now, that’s a sad fact.”

“Were you anywhere near Shepherd Street on the fifteenth?” Charlie asked, and Jonah gave him a bloodless look.

“Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t happen to drive by the Pepper residence that day?” he said in an emotionless voice.

Jonah’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I don’t like where this is leading. These insinuendos.”

“Would you mind if I took a look around?”

“Yes, I would.” He sounded affronted.

Footsteps. “Dad?” A small boy stood in the doorway, two of his front teeth missing. That got Charlie’s attention.

“C’mere, you.” Jonah drew the boy close, his boxer shorts showing above the waistband of his jeans as he hugged his son tight.

The boy turned to stare with deep hostility at Charlie. He glared at his shiny badge. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Chief Grover. What’s yours?”

Jonah’s eyes lit with sudden recognition. “Grover? Any relation to Izzy Grover?”

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, that’s my father.”

“Man, there goes one hard-driving dude.” Jonah had a cackling laugh. “That guy can be criminally dangerous, you know? Tailgating and bullying little Japanese imports out of the way. Who cares who’s at fault? The dude needs a hug desperately. Him and his mangy old jacket.”

The hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck bristled like a cold morning. He pictured his father pulling that old peacoat of his out of mothballs. “We’re talking about Isaac Grover, right? Sixty-two years old? White hair?”

“Yeah, yeah. Make a mistake and he’ll gleefully flatten you into a pancake under that sorry-ass pickup truck of his.”

Charlie felt an uneasiness floating in his stomach. His father took that old navy-blue peacoat out of mothballs in the fall and wore it as late as June sometimes.
The dark blue peacoat.
Something registered.
Blue-black wool fibers.

“Izzy Grover, man, and his piece-of-shit Loadmaster. Last time we pulled out the engine, he’d blown out a rod bearing and ruined the crank. That thing has a gazillion miles on it. He’d better get it rebuilt one of these days. One of these days soon.”

Charlie could sense his own shifting consciousness like a change in air pressure. “Thanks for your time,” he said, and stood up.

15

M
UD SPATTERED
the wheel wells of his police car as he took the snaking curves past the First Baptist Church and the dead pecan grove toward his father’s house. He pulled into the long driveway and parked, then sat in his car with the engine ticking and stared at the recently mown lawn, the black-limbed trees. The house in the moonlight frightened him. Instead of comfort and warmth, he saw danger. He saw pain.

He stepped out of the car, heart leaping to his throat, and shot up the porch steps. “Hello?” He knocked on the front door. When nobody answered, he went over to one of the porch windows and peered inside.

His father was planted on the living room sofa, dozing in the flickering blue light of the TV set. He slept like a still life. Charlie rapped sharply on the windowpane, and the old man jerked awake.

“Pop? We need to talk.”

He got up from the sofa with a sleepwalker’s groping gait. “Charlie?” he said. “Is that you?”

After a moment, the screen door squealed on its hinges. “What’re you doing here?” he asked groggily.

Charlie studied the way the porch light hit his father’s head, outlining the skeletal shape of his skull—that broad brow, the gaunt cheeks, those miserly lips sinking over the toothless gums—and suddenly realized what it was he’d been avoiding all this time. His father was right-handed; he wore a size eleven shoe; he was an avid storm-chaser; he was a temperamental man with a violent past. His Loadmaster pickup truck had been photographed in the vicinity of the crime scene on April 15, and a single white hair—medium-length, Caucasian—had been found at the Rideout residence. And now there was the peacoat. Blue-black wool.
His father? Ridiculous.

“Don’t just stand there,” Isaac said. “C’mon in.”

Charlie stepped inside the house, its walls enveloping him in a musty cloak of oldness. He couldn’t enter his father’s house without clenching into a defensive posture. He had dozens of pale scars on his back, scars shaped like blades of grass made years ago by a leather strap. The body remembered everything, even when the mind forgot.

“Something to drink?”

“No thanks.”

The living room was neat and tidy, with little islands of furniture grouped together. The molding was plain, the woodwork dark, the rooms small and boxy. There were no comforting touches—no flowers, no pictures, no books. Just a bucketful of pennies and stacks of old magazines, some scanner equipment and a TV set that turned people’s faces purple.

Charlie paused. The CD player was new. So was the laptop. “Where’d you get those?” he asked.

“Down at Dirty Ed’s. They’re used. That okay with you?”

The laptop was open on the coffee table. On screen was a satellite picture of a rotating cloud mass. Charlie froze with a look of sniffing suspicion. “Since when do you go on-line?” he asked. “I thought you hated all the bells and whistles?”

“Shows how much you know,” Isaac snorted. “That’s basic chaser gear… laptop, GPS, cell phone. I also bought some brand-new tires for my truck. Is that okay with you?”

There were miles between himself and his father. Epochs of misunderstanding. “We need to talk, Pop.”

“What about?”

“Where’d you get the watch?”

His mouth grew defiant. “I already told you.”

“Yeah, right. How about the truth this time?”

Isaac slid the metal watchband up his wrist, hiding it underneath the sleeve of his orange sweatshirt. “Like I said, this nice couple…”

“Gave it to you, I know. What are their names?”

His father stared at him fiercely.

“Dad… I know you stole it.”

His mouth grew hard. “Get out of my house.”

“Look, I’ve heard some real horror stories about off-duty cops and paramedics stealing from disaster sites, which is just about the lowest thing a man can do. The victims’ loved ones never have the balls to ask, ‘Okay, who took the jewelry and the wallet?’ So tell me, Pop. Did you steal the watch? Or did you find it in the mud? Please tell me you found it in the mud.”

“You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth.” His father glared at him, then plopped down on the ugly floral sofa that curled around the mosaic coffee table. “Look at you, coming home late every night and expecting her to be waiting up for you in that big old empty house all by her lonesome. What d’you think? You think she likes growing up without any parents?”

It was the kind of low blow he was not expecting at all.

“She’s still grieving and you’re hardly ever home. She needs her dad to comfort her and listen to her. According to what she tells me, you were hardly ever there when Maddie was alive, either. She used to hear her poor mama cry herself to sleep at night, only Maddie refused to blame you. She said that’s what being a cop’s wife was all about. She said—”

“Shut up!” He silenced the old man with a look of pure murderous hatred. “Don’t you dare say another word.” He pointed at that sneering face.

“I thought you wanted the truth,” his father said with such smug indifference it made his stomach ache.

“How can you sit there and lecture me, Pop? You, of all people? Jesus Christ… you used to beat the crap out of me on a regular basis.”

“I haven’t hit you in years,” Isaac whispered fiercely. “Not since the fire.”

“Oh, so all is forgiven? So it’s okay now?” Charlie’s nostrils bubbled with fury. “I wouldn’t treat a dog the way you used to treat me. You once called me a particle of dirt. Do you remember that?”

Isaac sucked in air through his dentures.

“The truth this time. Let’s get it all out in the open. Tell me about the fire, Pop. The fire that killed Mama and Clara. You started it, didn’t you? Or were you too drunk to recall the particulars of that night?”

Isaac’s gaze locked tight on Charlie’s face.

“C’mon. Let’s talk about the fire, Pop.” He realized he was clutching something sharp and cold in his hand. His car keys. “Did you start it? Did you set the house on fire?”

He looked away. “That fire was an accident.”

“Go ahead and deny everything. You’re good at that.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh, right,” he said sarcastically. “I wasn’t there, how would I know? After you hit Mom? After you used to beat the crap out of her? You know what I’d do, Pop? I’d go sit on the edge of her bed and hold her hand mirror for her so that she could see herself. Then I’d watch as she applied rouge and foundation to cover the bruises. She had all these tiny brushes and little lacquered makeup boxes. And once, after a particularly brutal display of what can happen when you mix testosterone, alcohol and my father… I heard her weeping in her room… and you know what I did? I went and hid under the bed. She kept calling my name, but I hid in my room, pretending I lived about a thousand miles away… I’m really proud of that one.”

Isaac lowered his head and pounded the couch cushions with his fists. “Please stop…”

“Daddy?” a small voice broke in.

Charlie could feel the pinkness in his cheeks spreading to the area beneath his eyes as he spun around.

Sophie stood in the doorway, her face bloated with sleep. She had her cotton pajamas on. “What time’s it?” she asked, her hair haphazard from her pillow.

He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Grandpa. You weren’t home, so—”

“Get your jacket,” he snapped. “Put some shoes on.”

“Why? Where’re we going?”

“Home,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”

“What’s wrong?”

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out into the hallway. He tried to still his furiously beating heart. He opened the closet door and rummaged through the coats and slickers and musty-smelling sweaters.

“I didn’t bring any jacket,” she protested. “Dad?”

The peacoat wasn’t there.

“C’mon,” he said.

“My shoes!”

“You’ve got plenty of shoes at home.”

“Daddy!”

He yanked her out the door.