The Killing Lessons (32 page)

Carla left the hospital immediately after the interview with Claudia Grey. During it, she hadn’t said a word to Valerie, had barely looked at her. Carla had asked all the questions. She was thorough, Valerie had to concede. There wasn’t anything Valerie would have asked that Carla didn’t. She’d perfected the requisite calm neutrality too: Claudia, I have to ask, though I understand this is painful for you: was there any sexual assault? Claudia had turned her head away for a while, eyes closed. No tears. (The tears would come later, Valerie knew, in the small hours of the months and years ahead, in the quiet moments of a sunny afternoon or in the middle of washing dishes; Claudia would be ambushed by memory for the rest of her life. Claudia would be a different Claudia as long as she lived. But she
would
live. There was that.) Eventually, Claudia had said: No. But Valerie knew what an excuse for the truth that was. A letter of the law truth. In the
spirit
of the law the whole ordeal had been a sexual assault.

‘So how fucked am I right now?’ Valerie asked Will in the corridor, once Carla was out of sight.

‘Look, Carla thinks you’re suspended. I had to do a lot of sweet-talking to get her to let you sit in just now. She threatened to leak your Reno meltdown and blood test results to the press. But the truth is Deerholt hasn’t even signed off on the sick leave story yet, or he hadn’t when I left the shop. So technically it’s just verbal, all of it. And you haven’t exactly made it easy for him, what with finding the killer and saving a young woman’s life and all.’

‘Not me. Russell Crowe. And I
lost
the killer.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. It looks like luck. It always looks like luck. But who found Zoo Guy? Who ID’d the tree in Redding? Who bothered to come down here and sit through the mall tapes?’

‘OK, I’m a genius. Is Carla going back?’

‘I doubt it. Not with the Colorado lead. If it is a lead. It’s still a needle in a state-sack even if he’s there.’

‘Get Leon’s picture out again, with beard and without. And make sure they run the info that he’s got a wounded right hand. I want it on every news channel. Ditto the van plates. Get it out right now.’

‘Sure, but it’s Christmas Eve. Everyone’ll be watching shit.’

‘I know. Do it.’

‘What are
you
going to do? Drive around Colorado with a broken head?’

‘Who’s on duty at home?’

‘Half a dozen of the regulars. Ed and Laura tomorrow. I’m off tomorrow, but we’ve got my mom and Marion’s parents, so feel free to call with a non-emergency.’

‘Any hotline calls I need to know straight away. Anything, anywhere.’

‘You’re staying here then?’

‘It’s closer to Colorado, and Colorado’s all we’ve got right now. Besides, Claudia might remember the name of the town.’

‘There’s more in there she’s not telling.’

‘I know, but whatever she did she did to stay alive.’

‘Fuckin’ A. Girl’s a rock star.’

‘One last thing. My car.’

‘You’re not driving.’

‘Yeah, well, since I’m still technically your boss, let me put it another way: go get my car, fucker.’

*

Claudia was hanging up a cell-phone call when Valerie went back in to see her alone.

‘Your parents?’ Valerie said.

Claudia nodded. ‘One of the nurses lent me her phone. They’re kind here.’

‘They coming?’

‘I told them not to, but yeah. My sister too.’

‘That’s great.’

Valerie sat by the bed. She was feeling terrible. The anaesthetic was wearing off and the stitches itched. Her hands trembled. Nausea came and went. She was sweating, despite the A/C. She hadn’t had a drink for forty hours. The word ‘withdrawal’ flashed, sent warm shame through her. Drunk slut baby killer. She forced herself to ask the question: Do you want a drink right now? The answer was: Yes.

‘I’ve been trying to remember,’ Claudia said. ‘The name of the place. I’m sorry, I just can’t.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Valerie said. ‘Sometimes the way is to
not
think about it then it pops right in there.’

‘How’s your head?’

‘Itchy. Should I shave the other side, do you think?’

‘No, it’s better like that. Asymmetry.’

It was strange between the two of them. Every time their eyes met brought back their shocking introduction. An insistence on intimacy between two people who didn’t know each other.

Valerie said: ‘I’ll let you rest now.’

But Claudia took her hand.

‘I never thanked you,’ she said.

Valerie felt her throat tighten.
Don’t cry.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get there fast enough,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get him.’

The word ‘him’ was an obscenity, quietly there in the room between them. Valerie thought, briefly, how such words ‘him’, ‘he’, would at some deep level always bring this back to Claudia. The girl looked traumatically newborn, lying there.

‘You were kind to me,’ Claudia said. ‘You saved my life. Thank you.’

Jared Hewitt, twenty-one, was doing something he’d never done before: having sex on Christmas Day. With a white girl. Not that he’d ever had sex on Christmas Day with a non-white girl. He’d never had sex on Christmas Day, period. Nor did he feel fully entitled to use the term ‘white girl’. Not because Stacey Mallory, four years older than him, wasn’t white – she was, and a natural blonde, too – but because he wasn’t, strictly speaking, black. His mother was part African-American, part Mexican, his father (whom he’d never met) was, allegedly, Jewish. Jared’s young life had been accented by this legacy of being neither one thing nor another, of being misidentified, misdescribed, miscalculated. The upside of the legacy was that he was ridiculously good-looking. Women
looked
at him, unequivocally. Older women especially. He had a lackadaisical relationship with the gym, but there was no denying he had the goods. Six-one and leanly muscled with eyelashes those same women envied. He wasn’t vain, just willing to take on the import of empirical evidence.

‘OK,’ Stacey said, after she’d come for the third time, cowgirl style. ‘Your turn. What do you want for Christmas?’

Jared already
got
what he wanted for Christmas, which was to be able to Do His Own Thing. It had worked out perfectly. His mom had been dating a guy for the last ten months and the two of them had gone to Mexico for the holidays. Which meant he got the house to himself. Stacey, who was a crazy sexed-up female with such a mess of half-credentials (failed actress, failed dancer, failed college student) that Jared wasn’t sure which parts of her history were true, and who had come back to Grand Junction off the back of a short-lived relationship with a death-metal bass player in Denver and was now crashing at her sister’s, did not come from the sort of family, apparently, in which it was frowned on to not be at home for Christmas Day, even if you were in the same goddamned city.

‘Turn around,’ Jared gasped. Their ratio of orgasms had been established a while back: Stacey had three or four to every one of his. Not because he was blessed with superhuman restraint, but because Stacey could have three or four in less than five minutes. And another three or four after he’d had his. It was the sort of wonderful thing he was scared he’d break if he thought about it too much. So he did his best not to.

‘You’re a bad man, you know that,’ Stacey said, clambering into a sixty-nine. They were in his bedroom with the curtains closed, flickered over by the muted TV’s light. Last night they’d been drinking vodka snowballs. The room smelled of sex and sugary booze.

‘Uh-huh,’ Jared said. He was in a delicious state. He’d come straight here when his shift at the motel finished. They’d fucked, twice, then slept like the dead, and now here she was again with the daylight barely up and running, wide awake and ready. Stacey had left her shoes on (she’d
slept
in her shoes), though everything else was off. Black strappy high heels with what looked like bondage cuffs around the ankles. Jesus fucking Christ this girl knew what she was doing. She eased the condom off and took him into her heavenly mouth. Jared felt peace and goodwill to all mankind.

‘Holy mother of God,’ he said, a little while later, when he’d more or less recovered from one of the most explosive ejaculations he’d ever had. Stacey’s warm golden head rested on his thigh. His hands cradled the fabulous cheeks of her ass. ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.’

‘Blasphemy on Christmas Day,’ she slurred. ‘You’re going to burn in hell, my friend.’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘Hardly, but I’ll take it.’

‘A sex-angel.’

‘A sex-angel is for life,’ Stacey said. ‘Not just for Christmas. I think you should make me another snowball. Also – and this is not a minor detail – I’m starving. I’m assuming you’ve got food?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Jared said, kissing her left butt-cheek then turning his head to see what was on TV. ‘My mom’s left enough food here to feed the— Holy fuck!’

‘Again with the blasphemy. What are you, a Satanist?’

‘Hey – shit –
shit
– get up a second. Holy
crap
.’

‘Cramp?’ Stacey said, beginning to disentangle herself. ‘I still want something to eat, mister.’

But Jared was off the bed, on the floor, fumbling for the remote. ‘Jesus,’ he said again. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. This dude… This guy was…’

‘… a wound in his right hand,’ the news voiceover said. ‘The suspect is armed and extremely dangerous and should not, repeat
not
be approached. Anyone with information should call the number on screen now. That number is also available on the website at KJCT8.com. In other news, a Denver man is suing the City for what he describes as—’ Jared hit mute and stared at the screen, mouth open.

‘What?’ Stacey said. ‘What’s going on?’

Valerie had just got out of the shower back at her Best Western room when the call from Laura Flynn came through.

‘How long ago?’ Valerie said.

‘I just got off the phone with the kid,’ Laura said.

‘Does Carla know?’

‘Ed’s on the phone with her right now.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Hold on.’

Agony. Agony. Agony.

Laura came back on the line. ‘She’s at the TownePalace Suites. There’s a chopper available at the St George PD.’

‘Call Ellinson,’ Valerie said. ‘Whatever eyes they’ve got there, tell them to open them.’

‘I’m on it,’ Laura just had time to say, before Valerie hung up.

Dressed in less than twenty seconds, Valerie drove to the St George station with the siren on. A maddening minute with the desk sergeant to establish who she was. Another maddening minute to get through to the helipad. The chopper was about to take off. Carla was on board.

‘Get out,’ Carla said, as soon as Valerie had wrenched open the door and flung herself in.

‘Fuck you,’ Valerie said. ‘I’m still the lead investigator on this case and I still have national cooperation. Deerholt hasn’t suspended me and there’s nothing you can do about it. You want to put me on YouTube, go ahead. But right now we’re going to Ellinson, Colorado.’ She flashed her badge to the pilot. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. The pilot looked at Carla.

‘Stay where you are,’ Carla said. ‘This woman is getting off the aircraft.’

Valerie slipped the Glock from her shoulder holster and jabbed it against Carla’s knee.

‘You’re going to shoot me?’

‘In the knee? Sure. You’ll get better. I can shoot your knee out or you can put whatever this is with me aside until we catch this bastard. Either way, me and my friend here are going to Ellinson.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ the pilot said. ‘What the fuck?’

Carla thought about it. ‘Your career’s over,’ she said.

‘No doubt,’ Valerie said. ‘But not yet. Let’s go.’

They hit snow an hour into the flight. Flyable, the pilot said, windspeed less than fifteen knots, but it would get worse the further east they travelled. ATC said weather looked manageable to Denver, but he was radioing ahead to have ground transportation ready just in case. Either way, they’d have to refuel at Grand Junction.

‘What’ve they got in Ellinson?’ Valerie said to Carla.

‘Less than seven hundred people. Sheriff. Three deputies, part-time. Denver’s sending field agents. Aerial too.’

‘Leon will be there by now if that’s where he’s going. He left Grand Junction hours ago.’

‘He’ll have been and gone before we even got the word out,’ Carla said.

‘Yeah, well, we don’t have anything else. Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Why you hate me.’

Carla didn’t answer. Just turned and looked out the window into the slanting snow.

Xander drove through the dark early morning and the falling snow. It had been coming down slowly when he left the motel. Now it was hurrying to earth as if this was its last chance to show itself to the world. He still felt terrible. Hot one minute, cold the next. He’d bought five litre bottles of water. He couldn’t quench his thirst. The only constant was the GPS’s calm, swanky voice. That, and the burning throb of his hand. He kept off the interstate wherever he could. Every time he left it the GPS accommodated the redirection without changing its tone, but it still made Xander feel as if he were making the thing struggle, as if the talking guy resented it and was making an annoyed effort not to sound pissed.

She saw you and she got away. Ran all the way through the woods. You didn’t even know she was there.
You
fucked it up.

It filled him with rage and weakness every time he thought of it. The deep knowledge that Paulie hadn’t been lying. Why couldn’t he just believe that Paulie had been lying? Because he couldn’t. His gift-curse for the truth. He didn’t want to go back but not going back was impossible.
You want to fix this, you need to start with that.
Half a dozen times he stopped and sorted through the objects in the shopping bags. Something had poked through the cellophane and torn a small hole in the kite. The jug was… No, wait, he’d dealt with the jug. L is for lemon. The smell of the lemon made him feel sick every time he handled it, mixed with the smell of the disinfectant and the bloody bandage. The violin was too big. That was going to be… If there was a girl they’d have found her by now. He saw the police cockroach swarm bristling in the town’s main drag. But he kept driving. His mind went in circles. Mama Jean was in the passenger seat some of the time, laughing to herself. Twice when he looked over he saw not the side of the van but the Redding bedroom spreading out behind her, her hands folded over the soft swell in her pale denims.
Any way you look at it it was all going fine until you screwed up in that shit-hole town. If you can’t fix this you’re going to have to start again from the beginning. We’re going to keep doing this until you get it right. You know that. You know that.

He lost time. He remembered pulling over in a rest area and the soft darkness edging his vision. When he came back to himself he had no clue how much time had gone. The wind rocked the van. He took more painkillers, drank more water. There was a half-eaten Musketeers bar on the dash, but when he bit off a mouthful and began chewing he had to spit it out. The land around him was white under the dull sky. The clouds like a too-low ceiling, pressing on his skull. It felt wrong to be so hot when it was so cold out there. He pictured himself lying down in the snow and it melting around him with a hiss.

Ellinson’s streets were deserted, the handful of shops closed. Maybe it was a Sunday? He’d lost track of the days. The main drag had been salted recently, but the roads off it were snow-packed, the drifts three or four feet high. He nosed the van, headlights pencilling the gloom. Light snow fell, turned to a chaos of static by the burly wind. Harder to steer with one hand now. He was trying to remember. The house had been well out beyond the town, couple of miles at least. The lanes and the woods and the white fields all looked the same. The snow-lined branches went on for ever. There was a fascination there, if he let his mind go into it, a kind of hypnotism.

Oh, sure. Hypnotism. You got all the time in the world for that
.

He dragged his sleeve over the fogging windshield and increased the speed of the wipers.