Blood Country (22 page)

Claire climbed the stairs quietly. She didn’t need to wake her darling daughter up, just cast eyes on her. She peeked into the room and realized that there were a couple other creatures sleeping in it.

Next to Meg’s bed was the baby pheasant. Claire peered into the box, and the bird ruffled its feather, its head tucked under its wing. Meg’s head was facing the bird, and she had a hand draped off the bed, falling into the box. Claire could see Meg’s face clearly in the light of the hallway. She seemed perfect, without a wrinkle, a scratch, a worry. After she was done visually inspecting her daughter, she turned to the last sleeping creature in the room—Rich.

He was slumped into the small easy chair, his feet stretched out in front of him, his chin on his chest, his hands on the arms of the chair. He looked younger, without concern. Claire stared at him. When again would she get the chance to examine him so unself-consiously? He was a striking man, dark hair, thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, not pretty but nearly handsome. She didn’t blame Meg for wanting him to stay with her a little longer.

Claire felt the desire to touch him rise up in her. Since her husband died, she had not felt such a longing, and it surprised her.

24

C
huck didn’t like hospitals. His mother had stayed in one for six weeks before she died. He had been twelve, just old enough to visit her. So he had to go and see her every day with his father. She had changed from the woman he loved and thought was beautiful into a skinny, breathing machine whose lips puffed in and out as she tried desperately to stay in the same world he was in. She had loved him, and she had left him.

He stopped just inside the doorway of the main entrance. He swore there was a distinctive smell that hospitals had; blindfolded, he would know when he entered one. He didn’t want to see Bridget in here. He should have asked Claire to go with him. He was a brave man, a football hero, but walking into a hospital was almost more than he could do.

He leaned over and took some deep breaths. What was the matter with him? Some husband he was—out fixing cars while some hoodlum grabbed his wife and nearly killed her. The thought of Bridget dead almost floored him. A soft voice right above him asked if he was all right When he managed to stand, a young nurse guided him to a chair.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him. She looked about sixteen years old, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, round red cheeks and a big smile.

“My wife is here.”

The nurse smiled. “First baby?”

Chuck sat up straight. “No, I wish. She was shot.”

Her cheeks deflated, and she looked as if she’d been smacked. “Lord, that’s awful. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gunshot wounds would put her on three west. Do you see the elevators?” she pointed.

“Yes.” Chuck stood up.

“Go up to three and then turn left.”

He walked into the elevator and then looked down at his empty hands. He hadn’t brought Bridget anything. No flowers, no candy. But it was three in the morning, and she wasn’t just convalescing. He would do better next visit. Maybe, if he stayed with her tonight, she could leave in the morning. Claire did say she was not in that bad shape. But still—bullet holes.

The nurse at the station on the floor told him it was past visiting hours.

He stood in front of her and explained, “But this is an unusual circumstance. My wife was shot.”

She looked him up and down, obviously checking him out.

“And I didn’t do it,” Chuck told her. “I wasn’t even there. We live in Wabasha. I was working on a ‘78 Chevy.”

“I didn’t think you did it.” She nodded down a hallway. “See the cop. Check with him.”

Chuck had to show ID to a policeman stationed at her door. Claire had called ahead and said he was coming and that he should be let in to see his wife. The cop looked like he was about sixty years old. His arms folded over his chest, he stepped aside for Chuck to enter the room. “I’ll be right here,” the cop told him in a deep, labored voice.

When he walked into the room, Chuck winced. Bridget was asleep, and the light was turned to the wall so he could only see her face in shadow. She looked different, as if some energy had drained out of her. He checked to see if blood was seeping from the wound on her arm, but the dressing was a clean, snowy white.

He didn’t think he should wake her. God knows what she had been through. He stood by her bed and breathed in and out as she did. This thread of breath connected them. Suddenly, she turned, curled up, and gave out a small yelp. When she saw who it was, she loosened up and whispered, “Oh, Chuck.”

He was afraid to touch her, but leaned in close so she didn’t have to strain herself to talk. “Oh, sweetie, are you okay?”

“I think so. The drugs are pretty good.” She spoke as if the words were falling out of her mouth.

“Do you hurt?”

“I do, but it’s like it’s far away. Very distant.”

“Good, we’ll keep it that way.”

Bridget roused herself. “No, I can’t for much longer.”

“Why?”

“Because. I have to tell you something. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.” Bridget gripped the edge of the sheet and looked as though she was going to spit something out of her mouth.

On the drive down, Chuck had tried to prepare himself for this. He was truly afraid of what had happened to her, didn’t know if he could handle it if the kidnapper had molested her in any way. When he thought of that man touching Bridget, he felt as if the top of his head would blow off. “What?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”

What she said was so close to the last thing he had imagined that Chuck didn’t even know what the words meant. He scrambled to say something and ended up asking, “With a baby?”

Bridget actually giggled. “I sure hope so.” He moved in to hug her, but she stopped him by putting out her hand. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “Do you want to have a baby, to be pregnant? I thought you weren’t sure.”

“I wasn’t sure. I’m still not completely. But after all I’ve been through, I’d kinda like to see what it looks like.”

“W
HY’D YOU TAKE the sister?”

“She was there.” Red turned down the TV with his big toe. The real question was, why had he bothered to tell Hawk what had happened?

He was stretched out on the couch, watching Oprah ask smart questions of dumb people. She should have him on her show sometime. God, a real ex-convict and full-time dealer. That would blow people’s minds. The phone had been resting on his stomach.

Hawk’s voice came out of the receiver again. “You fucked up.”

“I went to a lot of risk to take her. Hell, I’m in deep shit now. She can ID me. I left her for dead, but she rose again. Saw it in the paper today.”

“You fucked up. How did that little girl get away from you?” “She should try out for the Olympics. One hell of a sprinter. Right into the woods. It was like the ground ate her up.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Hawk’s voice boomed out: “You didn’t catch the girl. But you let her see you. You took the sister, which was the stupidest idea in the world. Then you didn’t finish her off. And she knows what you look like and probably everything about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got a fucking big mouth, that’s what I mean. You can’t keep your trap shut. You keep your pecker in your pants?”

Red scrambled up off the couch, and the phone fell off his chest and hung down to the floor. “Shit. Of course I did.”

“Didn’t get a chance, huh? She took off on you.”

Red said, “Let me explain.”

“That’s what I want. I want you to explain. That will make it all better. Especially after you say you’re sorry.”

So Red told him all that had happened when he had tried to catch Meg and ended up with Bridget. At the end of recitation, the voice on the other end of the line said slowly, “I want you to disappear.”

Red didn’t say anything.

Finally Hawk cleared his throat on the other end of the line and asked, “Did you tell her about me?”

C
LAIRE SQUATTED IN
the dirt, weeding her garden. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and the sun was a full orb in the sky. She needed the quietness of the plants simply being green and new to settle her. Landers had helped her plant most of the perennials; many of them had come from his garden. The hosta were amazing, their spears of new growth twirling out of the ground with green delight. She could see ferns just starting to push up, their fronds all tightly curled, like little green fists aimed at the sky.

She sat back on her haunches and looked around her—her small house snugged into the bluff, the black walnuts and maples that sheltered it. She had thought she was safe down here. But yesterday had proved her wrong. She had tried to run away and hide in this small town, and it hadn’t worked. That was clear. The two people she loved most in the world had almost been killed by this evil that haunted her. Why didn’t they just come after her? Was the answer that they wanted her to live? For what? What would she be worth without her sister, her daughter? The question she didn’t want to face was, what could she have done that was so horrible that someone wanted to completely demolish her life while leaving her trapped in the ruins?

She had checked in with the Prescott police this morning and would go up and review their information later on today. They had gathered a lot of evidence from the scene of the assault: shoe prints, tire tracks, bullet slugs. The fresh, wet earth of April held prints easily. Now, if they could just match them up with something. No pickup truck had been reported missing that matched the description of the one the kidnapper had been driving.

She returned to her weeding. The soil crumbled under her fingers, so soft and sweet from the spring thaw. Many of the weeds she pulled out of her garden, she ate. Landers had taught her to recognize purslane, the loopy succulent that grew everywhere, and lamb’s-quarters, the silver-green plant that tasted like spinach. But it was too early for either of them, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to tackle nettle soup, although Landers claimed it was one of his favorites—a spring tonic, he had called it.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she flew to her feet, knocking Meg over as she stood.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“I see it’s you.” Claire reached down and hoisted up her daughter, still in her nightgown. She had let her sleep in this morning.

“What about school?” Meg asked.

“I decided you could skip school for a day. It’s the weekend tomorrow. You needed the rest.” Claire bent down and hugged her daughter. “You want some breakfast. Something special like pancakes.”

Meg nodded her head, then looked serious. “I need to tell you something, Mom. I think it was the same guy.”

Claire couldn’t stop her intake of breath, even though she had guessed as much. “The same guy?”

“Yeah, the same one who ran over Dad.”

“B
RUCE, I HAVE
a question for you. Have you had any luck tracking down the pickup truck? You know they got the tread marks; we could match it now if we could just find the frigging truck.” Claire spoke close to the phone. Meg was upstairs playing dolls.

God, she was a bulldozer sometimes, but he did love to hear her voice, Bruce thought as he leaned back in his chair and took his time to answer. Then, as if she had called him to chat, he said, “Hi, Claire.”

“Hi, Bruce.”

“We’ve got almost nothing on the truck—maybe a dark color, that’s not enough.”

“Are you going to give me a hard time here?”

She had a real edge to her voice. She didn’t need him to be pushing her. “No, last night was pretty awful. I checked this morning’s listings of reported stolen vehicles. Nothing that sounds like our buggy.” There was a pause, and a thought occurred to Bruce: “You’ve checked with Prescott?”

Claire told him what they had found.

Bruce thought maybe, if he played his cards right, he would get to see her again tonight. “I have an idea. Why don’t I pick up some Chinese takeout and come down, and we can sit down and go over everything that they’ve gathered?”

Claire’s answer was all too quick. “Not with Meg around. I don’t want her to be involved, and I need to spend time with her right now.”

Bruce reluctantly said, “I understand.” He would not win Claire by competing with her daughter. “How about on Monday?”