A Blind Eye (20 page)

“Well?”

He spun on the balls of his feet. “That’s how we got water when I was a kid,” he said. “You’ve got to prime the pump or it will just suck air.”

She cocked her head, looking for signs that he was kidding. He laid a hand on her back and guided her toward the stairs. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face as they climbed. Halfway up, she wobbled slightly and leaned harder into him, until he propped her against the wall, opened the door, and snapped on the overhead light.

“Come on,” he said.

Once inside, she walked a wavy line to the bathroom. Corso sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. He padded over to the TV, played with the buttons until he found CNN, and got it closed-captioned.

He pulled both pillows out from under the spread, piled them against the headboard, and stretched out with a long, audible sigh. The clock in the lower-left-hand corner of the screen read 9:54 ET. George Bush senior was making a speech. Corso closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them again, the clock read 10:09, and college football scores were scrolling down the screen.

Suddenly, the overhead light went out, leaving the room bathed only in the flickering, multihued flashes of the television screen.

He didn’t see her until her hand reached out and turned off the television. He was blind. He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the total darkness.

He felt her weight on the bed next to him. Reached out and put a hand on her side. His fingers could feel the raised whorls and words etched on her skin.

She leaned over and kissed him. Her heavy breasts flattened against his chest. His hands could feel the yellow lightning bolts on her back.

“You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” he whispered.

“I know” was her response.

“You’ll take it out on me for days.”

He could feel her smile in the darkness.

“It’s how I square it with myself afterward.”

“Is it worth it?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” she said without hesitation, and kissed him again, harder this time, then stood up. Corso pulled his shirt over his head. And then, before he could do anything about his pants, she was on him again flesh to flesh.

“You’ll be gentle with me now, won’t you?” he joked.

“No,” she said, without the slightest trace of humor.

T
he old guy put his glasses up on top of his head and squinted at the poster. Above the swollen face of Nancy Anne Goff it read: “Reward.” Beneath the face: “Have You Seen This Woman? 346-9987.”

“Quite a puss there,” the old guy said. “This used to be a mug shot?”

“Just a bad picture,” Corso assured him, as he had everyone who’d asked that same question all day long. “You seen her?”

“Don’t believe I have,” he said, handing the picture back to Corso.

Corso plucked the poster from his fingers. “Be all right if I put this in the window?” he asked. The old guy looked toward the front of the store.

“Take that orange flyer offa the door,” he said. “Elks Pancake Breakfast was last Sunday. Don’t expect they’ll be needing the space anymore.”

Corso removed the BPOE breakfast flyer and replaced it with his own. The old man wished him luck. Corso gave him a wink as he closed the door.

The day had started slowly. They’d languished in bed till nearly nine. Made love twice and then headed for the shower. Corso first, so he could run a few errands.

Dougherty was still fluffing her hair with a towel when Corso returned with a pair of cell phones, a couple of staplers, and coffee and bagels for breakfast. They’d wolfed down the coffee and bagels, divided the pile of posters in half, agreed that Dougherty would take the east end of town and Corso the west, and headed out together, leaving one of the cell phones plugged into the wall for messages and pocketing the other.

Corso checked his watch. Three thirty-four. What had started out as two hundred and fifty posters was now a rolled-up wad of no more than twenty-five. The rest decorated every Laundromat, beauty parlor, antique shop, and café in Midland, Michigan.

He pulled the stapler from his pocket and tacked a poster onto the nearest telephone pole. Satisfied, he threw the last of the posters into a sidewalk trash bin. On this day in Midland, Michigan, no matter which way you turned, Nancy Anne Goff’s battered countenance stared defiantly at you.

The river wind blew the tails of his coat out behind him as he strode down Prospect Street, making his way south toward Main and the motel. Scattered clouds, lined up end to end like dirty boxcars, moved east across a blue sky. He’d walked about four blocks when he heard her whistle. He stopped and looked around. Dougherty was behind him, ambling down the sidewalk in his direction.

“Any luck?” he asked as she drew near.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him down the street. “A woman at the discount food market thought she’d seen her before. Says she’s got blond spiky hair these days. Thinks she’s married to somebody who works for the company.”

“That narrows it down,” Corso said sarcastically.

“You?”

“Nada,” he said, pulling her closer as they walked. “Everybody was pleasant, but nobody recognized the face.”

“What now?”

“You eat?”

“Just the bagels.”

“You want to do lunch?”

“Something light.”

“After that we return to our sumptuous room and await calls.”

“Can we do that naked?”

“I believe we can,” he said.

She eased the big Pontiac into the diagonal parking slot and got out. She fed three quarters into the meter and then hustled south along Midland Avenue, the click of her narrow heels echoing off the buildings. Tommie de Groot had to stretch his legs to keep up. “Where we going?” he asked as they hurried along.

“To the courthouse,” she said. “That’s where we start.”

“That how you done it?” he wanted to know.

“It’s—” And suddenly the words froze in her throat. She stopped. Stood still staring at the front door of Guzman’s Gallery. He watched the blood drain from her face until she was the blue-white color of skim milk. The cords in her neck trembled. She looked around. She spotted something halfway up the block and ran headlong in that direction, leaving Tommie to stumble along in her wake.

A moment later she stood nose-to-nose with her own likeness stapled to a telephone pole on the corner of Midland and Trice. She gagged twice, and for a moment it seemed she might vomit. She reached out and steadied herself on the pole, as the street swirled before her eyes. Then used her fingernails to pick at the staples until the poster came loose in her hands.

“That’s you,” Tommie said. “How’d—”

“Shut up,” she hissed. Her chest heaved like a marathon runner’s, sending violent streams of breath whooshing out into the air. She looked around again and then, without a word, began to retrace her steps back to the car. Quicker now, nearly at a run, she moved across the concrete on the balls of her feet.

By the time Tommie made the car, she had the engine running and the poster spread out across the steering wheel. When he opened his mouth to speak, she hit him.

A straight right to the mouth. And then another and another. Tommie buried his bloodied face in his arms and took the punches in silence.

She was panting now, her breath coming in gasps. “You stupid son of a bitch. You brought them here with you. You brought them to me.”

Tommie had tears in his eyes and blood on his teeth when he looked up. “Nobody followed me. Swear to god. No way anybody followed me here.”

She hit him in the mouth again, and again he buried his head. She jammed the car into reverse. Horns blared as she careened out into the street and roared off.

She was screaming now, the inside of the car filled with her voice. “I shoulda killed you with the rest of them when I had the chance!” she screamed. “Swear to god, you wasn’t my own flesh and blood, I’d kill you now.”

Beneath his arms, Tommie wept. “I didn’t,” he blubbered. “You gotta believe me…I didn’t….”

The car fishtailed around a corner, tires howling. She stared out over the long hood, her face hard as stone. Tommie peeked out from under his arms and then sat up in the seat. She began breathing deeper now and eased her foot off the gas pedal.

At the corner of Midland and Main she braked the Pontiac to a stop, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. A couple crossed in front of the car, walking arm in arm, engaged in animated conversation.

“You gotta believe me,” Tommie said through the blood in his mouth. “I didn’t—” And then he stopped and stared out the side window. “That’s them,” he said. “The ones come to Rodney’s house asking about us. I’d know that big tall son of a bitch anywhere.” He pointed to the couple on the corner. “That’s them right there.”

“We try to get the information over the phone,” Corso was saying. “Anybody wants to meet in person, we do it in broad daylight in some public place.”

“You sound pretty confident we’re going to stir up some action,” she said.

“A reward always brings the loonies out of the woodwork,” Corso assured her. “Yeah…we’ll get some action. No doubt about it.”

Horns began to sound in the street. They turned their heads to see what the commotion was. A battered ’69 Pontiac blocked the intersection. Impatient engines raced. An 18-wheeler, five cars back, sounded its air horn. By the time the Pontiac lurched around the corner and disappeared from sight, the light had changed to red again. First in line now, a guy in a white BMW slapped the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

Corso and Dougherty walked slowly up the street. Occasionally spreading out, allowing passersby to pass between them, and then coming back together.

“Last night was cool,” Corso said as they bumped shoulders.

“This morning wasn’t so bad either,” she said.

Corso agreed. They divided again to let a skate-boarder hurl himself down the block on plastic wheels. “I think maybe I’m through beating myself up over you,” Dougherty said. “Like maybe I can just appreciate you for what you are and not let all the other crap I’ve got stored up get in the way of a good time.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Of course it sounds good to you.”

Halfway up the block, the Pontiac slid to a stop. She pulled a wad of tissues from a box attached to the visor. Handed them to Tommie, who dabbed at his broken mouth.

“You sure that’s the same people?”

Tommie nodded. “Dead positive. That’s them right there.”

“Follow them,” she said. “Find out where they’re staying.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “It’s all over here,” she said. “Time to fly away.” She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder. “How we gonna do that depends on who else other than those two knows we’re here. Now get going. I’ll drive around the block and catch up with you.”

Tommie jogged up the sidewalk and peeked around the corner. They were a block away, walking north on Main, shoulder to shoulder, all kissy-face-like.

He crossed the street, dodging cars like a matador, until he got to the river side, where he began to follow along as they ambled up the sidewalk together. On his left, the river steamed in the late-afternoon sunshine. On his right, the orange glare of the sun reflected off shop windows, forcing him to squint as he watched the pair cross Dexter Avenue and begin to meander out of the downtown core.

He stepped behind the row of hedges separating Emerson Park from the street. In the center of the grassy lawn, a pair of teenage boys tossed a red Frisbee back and forth as a golden retriever ran from one to the other, frantically following the disk, leaping now and then, snapping at the spinning red blur they kept just out of reach.

When the lovebirds turned right into the driveway of the Pine Tree Motor Inn, he scurried out from behind the hedge and ran into the street. Half a block back, she had the Pontiac nestled against the curb as he dodged a furniture truck on his way across.

The couple walked hand in hand to the stairs at the back of the U, climbed to the second floor, and disappeared through the first door on the left. He followed until he could read the numbers on the door. Room 223.

When he turned toward the street, the nose of the Pontiac was visible along the south edge of the driveway. He hurried over.

“They’re in two twenty-three,” he announced.

“Okay.” She took several deep breaths. “Better stop at the drugstore and the bank,” she said. “Then we’ll run back to the farm.”

She didn’t look panicked anymore. She was wearing that stony face he’d seen before. The one she wore when bad things needed to be done. Like when she handed him the ax in Wisconsin and told him what to do. He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be all better now. She’d see to it, like she always did. And this time, no matter what they had to do, at least they’d be together when it was over.

W
e gotta hurry,” she said. “The girls’ll be home from school in twenty minutes. We gotta have everything together by then.”

She threw a roll of duct tape into the brown canvas bag on the kitchen table.

“I’m telling Gordie I’m taking you to the airport in Chicago,” she said. “Gonna have to spend the night. That way he won’t be looking for me till he gets home tomorrow night and wants his dinner.” She waved a hand. “Even then, he won’t worry none. He’ll just figure I broke down or something and go over to his mama’s for supper.” She looked over at Tommie. “You bring your gun?”

“Two.”

“Better bring ’em along,” she said. “We gotta try to wipe the slate clean before we fly away. Best as we can anyway.”

“We gonna kill ’em?”

“Not till we find out who else knows I’m here. Then we’re gonna take ’em out in the woods and bury ’em deep, where nobody’s ever gonna find ’em.”

“We gonna leave Gordie and the kids be?”

“We’re not organized enough to do anything about them. His nosy-ass mother’ll know something’s wrong in a minute we mess with any of them.” She looked around the kitchen. “This is Mama May’s house. Mama May’s land.” Her eyes darkened. “And she never let either of us forget it. Not for all these years. Brought it up every damn time money was mentioned.” She caught herself. “Besides that, even if we did…you know…there’s no way to cover our trail. Nope. We take care of those other two busybodies, and then Gordie and the girls just wake up tomorrow morning and find me gone.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Way things been going around here lately, I expect they’ll be glad to see me gone. God knows his mama will.”

She crossed the kitchen to the phone on the wall. Dialed. “Mama May,” she said after a moment. “I’m taking my brother to the airport in Chicago tonight. He got a good deal on a midnight flight.” She listened. “Yes,” she said. “I will.” Listened again. “I need you to look after the girls. Send ’em off to school in the morning.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Yes. I’ll leave him a note. I’ll have them ready.” She hung up and headed for the stairs.

“I’m gonna pack a bag,” she said. “You get your stuff together, and then we’ll load the car.”

The voice on the phone was a hoarse whisper. “How much is the reward?”

“Depends,” Corso said.

“I wanna see the money up front.”

“You give me the information. I check it out. Then you get the money.”

“By then she’ll fly away.”

Corso sat up straight. Pointed at the phone. Dougherty stopped painting her nails and held her breath.

“Fly away, you say?”

“Sure,” the voice rasped. “Like a bird.”

Dougherty set the nail polish on the nightstand. The arrows and vines and words that decorated her shoulders and chest gleamed Technicolor in the harsh overhead light.

“How’s she gonna do that?” Corso asked.

As he listened, Corso’s face moved from rapt attention to mild amusement.

“I see,” he said finally. “Thanks for calling. No. No. Yeah. I’m taking it down, don’t worry. We’ll be in touch. Yeah.” He used his thumb to break the connection. Dougherty resumed breathing and cocked an eyebrow. “She’s one of a coven of witches living way up on the peninsula,” Corso said. “We got to be careful or she’ll fly away on us. Seems she’s got this magic broom.” He pointed at the phone. “He’s personally seen her do it.”

“Where do these people come from?”

“The Jerry Springer Show,”
Corso said.

The phone rang. Corso picked it up and pushed the

TALK
button.

A woman’s voice. “You the one’s looking for that woman?”

“Yes.”

“I know her,” she said. “You meet me ten o’clock tonight. Downtown. Out at the back of Emerson Park. Down by the river. Bring the money.” Dial tone.

She stood with the phone in her hand, looking out through the dirty front window as Sarah and Emily walked down the half-mile driveway toward the house.

Something in the ditch had attracted Emily’s attention. She’d fallen behind her sister, who returned now and pulled the little girl upright. She watched as Sarah wagged a finger in Emily’s face and then slapped her hard; she turned away as the girls again began trudging in her direction, Sarah striding out ahead with a smile on her face, Emily wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Dougherty puckered her lips and blew on her nails. “Another loony?”

“Could have been her,” he said.

“She say something?”

“Just a feeling.”

“So?”

“She wants to meet across the street at ten tonight.”

“In the park?”

“All the way at the back, by the river.”

“I thought we were only meeting in broad daylight in public places.”

“She didn’t give me a chance.”

“We don’t have to show.”

“No…we don’t.”

“But what if it’s genuine?”

“Could be the only lead we get,” Corso mused.

“You figure that’s just a coincidence?” She waved her bright red nails. “You know, being right across the street from our motel and all.”

“What else could it be?”

“You tell me.”

Corso paced as he mulled it over. “Maybe it’s the only secluded place in the downtown area,” he offered. “Maybe it’s—”

“This place is a graveyard after dark. Besides that, why downtown? Why not somewhere out in the boonies?”

“You might be right,” he said. “We’ll get ourselves out there real early. Get the lay of the land. Make sure we’re not walking into anything we can’t handle. We see anything remotely scary, we hit the road and call Molina.”

She eyed him. “You’re really spooked, aren’t you?”

His eyes got hard. “All we’ve done so far is find out who she used to be. Her past is scary enough. Imagine who she is now.”

“I don’t want to go to Grandma’s,” Emily whined.

“Stop your sniveling,” her mother said. “Mama May will be here in just a minute to get you two.”

“I wanna stay here and see Papa.”

Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a shake, sending the child’s head bouncing back and forth like it was on a string. The woman raised her hand but stopped short of using it when a loud bang startled her.

She turned her head. The new stove inlet pipe lay on the floor at Sarah’s feet.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Leave that damn thing alone before I bash your damn head in with it!” she yelled.

Sarah reached to pick it up, but her mother was on her before she could close her fingers around the cold metal. Sarah took a step backward and watched her mother snatch the pipe from the floor, carry it across the room, and lean it against the wall, where it would be behind the door when it opened.

“There,” she said. “It’s out of the way now.” She pointed at Sarah. “Get your coat on. Mama May’s coming to get you.”

“Where you going?” the girl wanted to know.

“I’m taking Uncle Tommie to the airport in Chicago.”

“Good.”

When her mother started across the room toward her, Sarah turned and ran up the stairs. “I’ll smack your mouth,” her mother said to her back. Emily scampered upstairs after her sister. “You get your coat on,” their mother shouted.

When the girls disappeared around the upstairs corner, she turned back toward the kitchen window just in time to see Mama May’s blue Ford Torino bouncing to a stop in the yard.

She watched impassively as the older woman struggled out of the car and limped her way up the walk toward the door. Mama May had undergone hip replacement surgery three years earlier and, even with a new ceramic joint, had never regained her normal gait.

She’d seen the pictures. Three dead husbands ago. Way back in the fifties when May and Homer had first inherited the farm from his parents. May Galindo hadn’t been attractive then, and she wasn’t attractive now. A tall, hawk-faced, wide-hipped woman whose puckered, disapproving mouth and glowering countenance spoke of a lifetime of dour disapproval.

She always entered without knocking. The house belonged to her; she didn’t want anyone to forget. Once inside, she gazed at her daughter-in-law with all the warmth of a snake. “Gordon working late again?” she asked.

“Till midnight.”

She had immovable Margaret Thatcher hair and a look of contempt strong enough to wilt flowers. “It’s good your brother’s leaving.”

She swallowed the wave of anger that flooded her. “He needs to get back.”

“The girls don’t like him. They say he touches them. They tell you that?”

She shrugged. “You know how they are. Especially that Sarah.”

“That’s no way to be talking about your own kids.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that? I was going to be taking parenting lessons, it sure as hell wouldn’t be from you.”

The women stood a yard apart on the worn linoleum, locked in mutual loathing, until the younger woman broke away and walked over to the foot of the stairs.

“Let’s go, you two. Mama May’s here.”

“Name’s Teresa Fulbrook. Least that’s what she calls herself now.”

Dougherty held her breath. “Oh?”

“I don’t mind other people’s business. I’m not that kind.”

“Of course not,” Dougherty said.

“This is something different, though.”

Dougherty reached over and slapped Corso on his bare stomach. He sat bolt upright in bed. She pointed at the cell phone pressed to her ear, bobbed her head up and down. “This is different,” she said softly. As Corso swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet, the woman went on.

“Like I said…woman you’re looking for calls herself Teresa Fulbrook now. Got white spiky hair sticking straight up. Got a couple of little girls. Seven and fourteen. That’s who I’m worried about here…those girls.” The voice cleared its throat. “Couldn’t give a damn about that Fulbrook woman.”

Dougherty used her thumb to jack the earpiece volume all the way up. Corso leaned in close, resting his head against hers, listening to the tinny amplified voice.

“How do you know her?” Dougherty asked.

“Her oldest girl—Sarah’s her name—she’s in the same class as my son Billy. Southshore Junior High. They’re at that age…youknow…where boys start noticing girls and the other way around.” Dougherty could sense her discomfort. “Anyway,” the woman continued, “I guess this woman—I seen her there a few times before—I guess she sees Billy and her Sarah holding hands.” She hesitated, as if to keep herself under control. “To hear my Billy tell it, she come running down the sidewalk like a banshee, starts screaming at the two of them, drags the girls back to the car, and drives off.”

“Really?”

“That’s not the part, though. Girl don’t come to school for a week. She gets back, and somebody’s cut all her hair off. Right down to the nubs. Sarah tells Billy it was her mama done it.”

“For holding hands?”

“What kind of woman would do a thing like that to a teenage girl? All the problems girls that age got anyway, and you cut off all their hair?”

“You know where this woman lives?”

“Out east someplace on Route 10. I gotta go,” she said suddenly. “Kids are home.”

A soft click announced the terminated connection.

“Bingo,” Dougherty said.

“The hair bit sounds about right.” He made a face. “Eyewitnesses are always dicey, though.”

“The name’s right.”

“Teresa Fulbrook?”

“Teresa Thomes. That was the other woman who died back in Avalon about the time Sissy disappeared. I never followed up on her, because I struck it rich on the Nancy Anne Goff alias. I’m betting we do a little checking, we find out she took over both identities at the same time.”

“Smart,” Corso said. “One name to leave town with. Another to settle in under. Make it doubly hard for anybody to trace you.”

“What now?”

He held out his open palm. “Molina.”