Borderland (35 page)

Rape?
The old man had raped her?

"Carrie…I…”
His voice cracked and his eyes filled as he tightened his hold on her. What
kind of monsters had he been associating with? What kind of sickness had he
contributed to? He felt nauseated. He felt suicidal. He should have listened to
Myra. And to Nolan. He should have known everything was too good to be true.

He
slowly forced Carrie to look at him. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut. Behind
them there was nobody home. Either she wasn't coming out, or she was somewhere
Vic couldn't reach her. It made him sad, thinking of the last time he had seen
her. Green eyes shooting sparks, face proud, shoulders straight. A real
livewire, Nolan used to say. Headstrong, stubborn, and used to getting what she
wanted. Vic had a feeling that woman was gone forever.

Thanks
to him.

She must
have been on her way to see Nolan when Jinx got her. Maybe her car was in Al
Dunwoodie's salvage yard at this very moment—just like the Buick Nolan tried to
tell him about. Maybe she stopped for directions out to his dad's place and
Jinx had taken a liking to her red hair and powdered skin.

She
still smelled a little like baby powder. There was a hint of sweetness under
the stale scent of sweat and the thick odor of lard.

When her
sobs gave way to a deep, even breathing, Vic placed her in the seat beside him.
She didn't stir when he put his short-sleeved shirt around her. He knew he
should take her to a doctor and the police, but he also knew what would happen
if she came around enough to point a finger. Jinx would call her a liar. He
would swear he didn't know how she had gotten into his trunk, and the police
would eventually believe him because he was a smooth-talking, harmless-looking
old sly-dog sonofabitch. In less than an hour he would have them convinced he
was just a sweet old man who had been framed by someone—probably Vic.

No sense
risking that. And besides, Vic would rather deal with Jinx himself. It wouldn't
be the first time he had taken the law into his own hands. But he would need
the unconscious Carrie's full cooperation, and how was he going to get that? He
had no—

Wait.
Wait. Back in the room with Jinx was the very thing he needed.

Okay,
now. Okay. More was coming. More to the plan. Thank God for Bayer aspirin.

While he
was thinking, Carrie moaned and slumped over into his lap. He stroked her red
hair for a moment, apologized again, and then opened his door to slide out from
beneath her. When she was in the trunk once more he closed the lid as quietly
as possible and returned to the driver's seat. It was lying time again.

CHAPTER 31

Ed
Kisner watched the blond man with a skeptical eye. He was one of those tanned,
good-looking types who probably carried his cares with his condoms. Still, there
was a definite amount of worry in the man's steely gaze as he glanced
repeatedly out the window to Tom Hamm's gas station across the street. He had
been polite enough in asking to use the phone, but when Ed balked at the
mention of long distance, Mr. Nolan Wulf whipped a fifty out of his wallet and
crammed it into Ed's breast pocket. Ed needed the money so he said what the
hell.

The
first call had been to someone named Al. Ed knew an Al, had known him for
years, but he doubted it would be the same Al. Wulf asked the man to run out to
the Kimmler place for him. Ed started to turn away then to go for a piss, but
the blond man's next words had the effect of a clothespin. Wulf's voice
lowered, but Ed "heard the news" as they say. The guy had Gil Schwarz
in his car. Gil had gotten drunk and tried to rape Myra right there in Vic's
house. Myra acted okay, but Wulf thought she was pretty shaken up. It was a lot
to ask, he knew, but would Al please drive out to Vic's and keep an eye on her
until Nolan got back?

Al
evidently would, because Wulf said a grateful thank you and hung up. He glanced
at Ed—who immediately made himself look busy with some scissor sharpening—and
then took out his wallet again to sift through some scraps of paper. Soon he
picked up the phone again.

Now he
was on hold. Ed whistled a tune low under his breath and sneaked a few glances
at the white Buick convertible parked at the closed gas station. He wondered
what Wulf intended to do with Schwarz. Ed knew what he'd like to do to the
stupid, mindless bastard. Wouldn't the rest of the boys have a hissy if they
knew what was going on? Sure, they all hated Schwarz's gargantuan guts, but he
was family, so to speak. They wouldn't take kindly to Wulf here having a
homespun boy in the back of his Buick. But Ed wasn't going to tell them. Screw
'em. He wanted to see just what Wulf was up to, and if it affected his own
plans in any way. Because if it did, well...

"Hi,
Sally. This is Nolan Wulf. Yeah, I'm just great, thanks. I was calling to talk
to Carrie. Is she at work today?"

Carrie,
Ed thought. That name rang a bell, too.

"Vacation?"
Wulf said. "Do you know where she…oh, uh-huh. Yeah, I remember, the one in
Denver. Uh, when is she supposed to be back to work?"

Monday,
probably, Ed silently answered.

"Monday,
huh? Well, I guess ... what?" A pause. "No, I haven't. Are you
sure?"

She's
sure, Ed thought.

"Maybe
she changed her mind," Wulf said. "It's a long way out of her way,
really. Yeah. Look, I'll just try back Monday, okay? Thanks Sally."

Wulf
turned and glared at Ed as he hung up. "Do you happen to know the number
of the sheriff's department?"

Ed bit
back a curse and turned away from the blue steel gaze. Damn it all to hell.
Wulf was going to interfere. He was going to bring the sheriff here. How was Ed
supposed to break into Jinx's place with the uproar that would cause? They
would probably cancel the damned dance and want to hold an emergency council
meeting.

Of
course, with Gil Schwarz locked up, Ed would have a temporary reprieve from
worrying about any accidents happening to his person. But he had already
spilled the beans about Denke to his boy Len and now he had no choice but to go
ahead with his plans. No choice at all. Len had hauled off and hit him hard,
twice, and then he had cried. He claimed to have had his suspicions about such
goings-on in Denke, but he never realized the extent of the bloodshed and he
never believed Ed was so deeply enmeshed. Never. Not his own father.

Ed had
tried to explain that he didn't go out and kill someone every month. It was
only once every eight or nine months. Once each month a member of the council
took a trip. (Sometimes more than one person had to be hunted and killed,
particularly if the first one happened to be wearing cheap costume jewelry and
carrying no cash. Mistakes happened.) Ed's turn was usually in between Kent
Vogel and Doc Stade, but in times of crisis, like the summer drought, the
schedule was stepped up and more frequent trips were made.

Len had
to know that Ed had protected him from this kind of life and saved him from
Jinx's special brainwashing and rich-bashing initiation into "the
way." Didn't he appreciate that?

Evidently
not because that was when Len hit Ed a third time, even harder than the first
two times.

The whole
episode hurt like hell—the hitting part, especially. Then Len calmed down some
and asked Ed just what the hell he intended to do. He had to make it right
somehow or Len would never be able to look him in the face again. Ed assured
him that he was working on it. Just have his bags packed and be ready to go
when Ed gave the word.

But Len
had taken that a step better: he had left town that morning. Never said a word
to anybody, just packed up his truck and went.

Ed was
devastated. He had gone to his shop and taken his sharpest razor in his hand to
slit his own throat. But then something took hold of him. A cold, numbing
something had risen up to wipe his eyes and blow his nose and make him all the
more eager to go through with his plans to break into Jinx's safe. The reasons
were different now—they appeared to be changing all the time—but it was
something he found himself bound and determined to do. And he'd be damned if
Nolan Wulf was going to screw this up for him.

Finally,
he said, "I'm the law in Vic Kimmler's absence. Suppose you tell me what
the problem is, Mr. Wulf?"

Wulf
didn't blink an eye. "You know what the problem is, you eavesdropping
sonofabitch. You heard every fucking word. Now give me the goddamned
number."

Ed's
fingers tightened on the pair of scissors he held. He could… No, no way. Wulf
was a healthy male specimen on full alert. He was ready for anything. Ed
wouldn't have a chance to get near his jugular. So okay, what's that law of the
jungle say? When you can't stick 'em, groin 'em? No, that wouldn't work either.
Wulf probably prized his balls above his jugular. Ed would have to try and talk
his way out of this situation. He started with a smile.

"This
may sound unprofessional, but I know what I'd do with Gil Schwarz if I had him
where I wanted him. See, you gotta know that Gil is related to the
sheriff." It was a lie, of course, but Wulf wouldn't know that. "He's
been brought up on rape charges twice before and never served a damn day.
Sheriff won't hold him, Wulf. Remember, I was the law around here before Vic
rode into town. I know about these things."

Wulf
crossed his arms over his chest. "That's funny, Ed, because I seem to
remember you didn't know a damn thing when Myra's phone wires were being cut by
someone with a thing for slicing up goats and dogs."

Ed
didn't know what to say. Wulf had brains along with those biceps. It wasn't
natural. It wasn't fair.

"And
if you know so much," Wulf continued, "why don't you tell me how the
car that belongs to a woman I knew in Kansas City got into that garage over
there? The yellow MG."

Damn, Ed
thought. So that was where he knew the name Carrie. Old blabber-mouthing Coral
Nenndorf had spewed on and on about Gil's grabbing this little gal off the
highway. Coral wanted that MG so bad she could taste it. She didn't know where
the hell this Carrie was now; she guessed Jinx had done something with her. And
Jinx probably had. But Ed had serious reservations about imparting that
particular piece of hearsay information to Nolan Wulf. Not if he had the gal's
phone number in his wallet.

He sized
Wulf up with a critical stare. Smart and a caped crusader at heart, evidently.
Maybe he should just sit down with Nolan Wulf and tell him a little story. A
story like Ed's grandmother used to tell him, mostly truth, with just a little
embellishment—the kind that would put Ed in the right sympathetic light. Wulf
might even decide to help him break into Jinx's place. Of course Ed would have
to kill him once they were inside and his back was turned, because he sure as hell
wasn't going to share any of that money with Wulf. But it might be nice to have
a little help. Someone to blame if things went wrong or if someone came along.

Ed
smiled again. "Have you got some time, Mr. Wulf? Gil'll be all right in
that back seat for a spell longer. I'd like to tell you a bit about the Denke
way of doing things. It might explain a lot to you, like what that car is doing
in Tom Hamm's garage over there."

Wulf
glanced over his shoulder to gaze out the window. After a moment he turned back
and settled himself into the chair closest to the door.

"This
better be good, Ed."

"Oh,
it is," Ed assured him.

CHAPTER 32

Myra
paced her room with jerky steps. She stopped once and said, "Damn
you!" to the ceiling, then she went on with her pacing, muttering under
her breath. "You could have helped me, Drusilla. You could've done
something when that bastard put his filthy, disgusting hands on me. You could
have woken me up before he ever got in here! I know you could have. You deserve
to be stuck here, but not me. I'm getting the hell out of here, what I should
have done a damn month ago.

"Why
did I stay? That's a very good question. I wish I could answer it. I'm sure I
had my reasons, but I'll be dog-damned if I can remember what they were. Money,
Vic, Nolan—what difference does it make? I'm leaving just as soon as he gets
back. I've lived through all the hell I'm going to, Drusie, my dear. I'll leave
it to you from now on. You take real good care of the little ones, because you
seem to like them a whore's hell of a lot more than you—"

Myra
stopped again. She stared at herself in the mirror. Dog-damned? Whore's hell?

She had
fought that Texas drawl for fourteen years and in the space of a few short hours
she was back to talking and cussing like her dead drunk of a daddy.

Clarice
Callahan would have loved to hear her. Sweet Myra, the little bumpkin nobody
from nowhere reverting to her true self.

"Don't
think about her," Myra said aloud. "Think about where you're going
the minute you leave here. Which direction. Only nine days until that money
comes through, but we can't go to Garden City because that's where we'll be
expected to go. We'll have to—"