A Killing in the Hills (22 page)

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.

And now, she had Serena Crumpler to deal with.

‘Mrs Elkins!’

Serena was exceptionally skinny, with straight, shiny-black hair and a markedly sharp chin and nose. Her resemblance to a crow was undeniable. She clutched a black leather briefcase between two bony fists. She rocked back and forth on black heels, looking perky and expectant.

Bell considered fleeing, rejected the idea as impractical, and continued forward. There was no escape. Besides, Serena had a perfect right to be here. If Bell had been in her shoes – only metaphorically, because Bell was unable to imagine climbing up into such garishly steep footgear – she’d have been right here, too, checking in with the public official whose decision about her case would be so crucial.

‘Mrs Elkins!’ Serena called out again. She transferred the briefcase to a single hand and lifted the other wiry arm to wave.

‘Hi, Serena,’ Bell said. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll unlock the door now.’

‘Oh, sure, sure,’ Serena said, sliding sideways. ‘Sure! Sorry – didn’t mean to get in the way. Just wanted to make sure I caught you.’

Bell’s smile was so weak it might as well have been no smile at all. ‘Mission accomplished.’

She separated the correct key from its dangling brethren on the key ring and opened the office door. Centered on the frosted glass, in small gold block letters outlined with a thin black line, were the words
BELFA ELKINS, RAYTHUNE COUNTY PROSECUTING ATTORNEY
. As the door swung away and the letters traveled with it, Bell felt a brief electric thrill. It lasted less than a second, this frisson of astonishment and simple pride, but it always happened.

They moved through the small outer room into Bell’s office.

‘Have a seat, Serena, while I make some coffee.’

‘Oh, I’m okay. Been up for hours. Already had four cups!’

Bell gave her a level look. ‘It’s not for you. It’s for me.’

Standing in front of the utility sink in the corner, fists on her hips, Bell tried to remember how the damned Mr Coffee worked. Her secretary, Lee Ann Frickie, usually handled it, and if not her, Rhonda or Hick stepped in. But none of them would be arriving until at least 7:30.

Bell peered at the black plastic contraption with the hinged lid. She might as well have been trying to figure out cold fusion. Coffee-making was not usually so daunting, but she’d had very little sleep the night before. Her judgment was off. Her timing, too.

Her mind felt as if it were hitting three wrong notes for every right one, like a child at her first piano lesson.

She blamed Sheriff Fogelsong for her sleepless night – although not really, because she wanted him to be honest with her about everything. She depended on his timely forthrightness, on his not holding anything back, even though it was a favor she didn’t always return. He’d told her about the parole hearing right away, in the midst of a case about a killer on the loose and a mystery about why it had happened in the first place.

She and Nick had walked out of Ike’s a few minutes after he’d given her the news. They’d stood in the cold splash of artificial light beneath the awning. The wind always felt more treacherous after dark. Ominous, determined, as if it had a nasty message to deliver but didn’t have to stoop to using something as ordinary as words.

Would she attend her sister’s parole hearing?

She didn’t know.

She’d driven around the streets of Acker’s Gap for several hours, looking at the dark houses on quiet, closed-up streets, then headed out to the interstate. More night-driving. More time to think. She’d lowered the window of the Explorer. Her face was slapped around by the cold wind. That was the point; she wanted to feel it.