Innuendo (9 page)

Glancing at her husband, she saw a big man, his skin weathered, his shoulders thick, and his jaw square. He'd put on weight, no doubt about that. And too much of it, for sure. She still saw it in him, though, the cute high school guy she'd fallen in love with. And they were still in love and they were going to make it, right? Right?

Actually, she thought, sadly staring into her tea, she was no longer sure. With each year it seemed John had grown more distant, more preoccupied, so much so that Martha sometimes wondered if she really knew him anymore, if they weren't together just as a matter of habit. She tried to tell herself that it was the farm, that John was simply overwhelmed with financial worries, but sometimes she couldn't help it, couldn't help but worry that he didn't find her attractive anymore, that perhaps he had someone else. To top it off, of all their years, of all the troubles they'd been through, this last had been the hardest to come their way. Drought and debt, blizzard and isolation, the near death of Annie, their youngest—Martha had thought they'd been through it all. But they hadn't, not until this past year.

Just one day at a time, she told herself. Isn't that how you were supposed to get through these things? The kids were already in bed, and her day would last just a few minutes longer, until about 10:17, when the weather segment concluded.

Hearing the all-too familiar music, she blew on her hot tea, then looked at the TV screen and saw the
10@10
logo.

And then that wonderfully familiar man said, “Good evening, and welcome to
Ten at Ten.
I'm Tom Rivers, and we have a number of stories tonight, from a problem with the Teacher's Pension Fund to a cancer-fighting enzyme recently discovered at the University of Minnesota. We begin tonight's coverage, however, on a very serious note, that of the murder of a young white male in south Minneapolis.”

“Oh, God,” she muttered.

It struck her immediately, of course, just the way such things had since he'd disappeared in the dark. Practically every moment of every day since then she'd wondered what had happened to him, just as she'd wondered how the news would finally come back. Would he call? Would he write? Would he simply come walking up the drive, his boots kicking up the dirt the way they always did, that playful grin lighting up his face?

And as she did every single time she heard any horror story, she now silently prayed. Don't let this be about him. Not about my baby. Not about Andy. She was planning on getting up enough money to hire a private investigator, though she didn't actually know how to go about finding such a person. She was, however, almost positive he was there, somewhere in The Cities, and ever since that horrible, horrible night she was afraid of something like this. Afraid that one of these times she'd pick up the newspaper or turn on the television and the news was going to be about her boy.

“Just over an hour ago,” continued Rivers, “Minneapolis police received a call reporting the crime. Here with a live report of this still-developing story is our investigative reporter, Todd Mills. Todd?”

Her husband immediately sat forward and started groping around for the remote control.

She quickly said, “Leave it, John!”

“Oh, come on. We don't need this crap,” he snapped back, zapping the off button.

In an instant the television screen went blank and melted into blackness. She sat forward, her hands clutching her mug of tea, and fear clutching her heart. There'd been no word from Andy, not since John had dragged him kicking and screaming into the barn. For his seventeenth birthday three months ago she'd wanted so very much to send him a birthday card, a present, money, something, but where? Where in God's name was he?

“But what if…” she protested, “what if it's something about Andy? What if something's happened to him?”

“Then he'll have gotten exactly what he deserved, just like I said!”

“Jesus Lord in heaven, how can you say that about your own son, John Lyman?!”

“Because he's no son of mine no more, that's how. If you had seen what I saw, Martha, you'd still be sick to your stomach, just like I am. That kid's not natural, and he's no son of mine! It's time you forgot about him. We got two kids now—two beautiful girls, that's what we got.”

The tears just burst out of her, and she dropped her entire mug, its handle cracking off as it hit the floor, the hot tea streaming onto the beige carpeting. Stumbling to her feet, she burst into a run and charged into the kitchen. She hated what had become of her son, she was disgusted by the very thought of it, but now she was beginning to hate her husband too. Would they never, she thought, dropping herself on a chair at the Formica breakfast table by the back window, get past this?

“Jesus Christ,” cursed John, tromping into the kitchen after her and throwing the mug into the garbage beneath the sink, “you went and broke my favorite mug. Plus you got tea all over everything, and that shit stains, you know. It stains real bad.”

One hand over her mouth, she stared out the window at the old silo and the two white metal pole barns they'd put up some years back. In the pale farmyard light, she saw his blue Ford pickup, her old Chevy.

And that night came whirling back.

They'd dropped the younger ones at her mother's for the night, left Andy at home with a friend, Jordy Weaver, and gone to town to see a movie. It was the first time they'd been out in months, but rather than stopping for a drink after the show they'd come straight home. John was exhausted, and they'd come home over an hour earlier than they'd told Andy. She'd gone to the barn to see how that litter of new kittens was doing, and John had come in, gone straight to their own bedroom, and what did he find in their queen-sized bed but the two of them, Andy and that Weaver kid from the other high school, both of them buck naked. John had knocked out two of Weaver's teeth, then dragged Andy naked and kicking and screaming into the barn, where he threw him up against a wall, stripped off his own belt, and screamed, “You little shit, I'm gonna kill you!”

Oh, God. She'd thought she'd known her husband. She thought she'd seen every one of his dark corners. But she hadn't. Not until that night. He would've killed Andy, too, would've beat him to death, unless she'd come out there with the twelve-gauge.

“Stop it!” she'd screamed, firing a shot straight through the metal roof.

“Do you know what ungodly things they were doing? And in
our
bed for Christ's sake!” John had countered, his face flush with disgust.
“In our very own bed!”

“Just stop it!”

Then, while she'd held the shotgun on her husband, she told her oldest child to run. And run he had, charging into the house for some clothes, next down the dark road and into the night. He'd never returned, and the only thing they'd heard from him since was a phone call three days later, apologizing and saying he wouldn't be back.

So whose fault was it? Hers? His? Theirs? Was it something they'd done? Something they didn't do?

Starting to cry all over again just when she thought it wasn't possible to shed another tear, she bent her head forward. And that's when it happened.

The phone rang.

Martha spun around on the first ring, stared right into her husband's eyes, her husband who still stood at the sink. And they both silently thought it: Who in the world would be calling this late?

Clutching her stomach with her left hand, clasping her mouth with her right, she knew in her heart that this was it, the one call she'd been fearing all these months.

And the tears started sliding from her eyes even as her husband picked up the phone and in a weak voice said, “Hello?”

In the City of
Lakes water was never far away.

Clutching the dark green plastic bag, the bald man stood on the edge of Lake Harriet, the cool fall water nipping at the soles of his heavy black leather boots. Like the other lakes in the city, this one wasn't so large, just an oval body of water some three miles around. And like the others, it, too, was surrounded by a parkway of road and paths, both bicycle and pedestrian, as well as huge old homes in a riot of styles, from French Normandy to Prairie School and Italianate. There was a band shell on this lake, though, and a rose garden and a heavily wooded bird sanctuary too. Beautiful in a way, he thought, peering across the dark waters and at the lights on the far side, yet so quiet, so utterly calm. Exactly. Which was why he had left here so long ago. Much too dull.

Though he wasn't a towering man, he was good-sized, with broad, muscular shoulders and massive arms. The first thing that people noticed about him was not his high cheekbones or quick eyes, but his smooth head, which actually wasn't bald, but shaved. In college at the University of Minnesota he'd been a star football player until he'd been kicked out for selling pot, and then he'd somehow ended up in Los Angeles. There'd been trouble and then some with the law out there, but then, of course, some twelve years ago his life had dramatically changed. Until then he hadn't had a career, yet now he was a professional whose work took him around the world, including back to Minnesota, his home state. Never in his life would he have predicted it, that he'd voluntarily return, if only for a few months.

His jeans and leather coat were black like his boots, and he would have blended perfectly into the dark Minneapolis night except for his head, which glowed like a moon. Wondering if anyone had noticed him, he glanced over his shoulder. On one path a woman with a nylon pack mounted on her back went riding quickly by on a bicycle. And there, farther down, he saw a guy walking his dog. Yes, he had to be careful. He remembered from his childhood that there was always someone down by these lakes, and that was still the case now. He remembered, too, how surprisingly deep this particular lake was, and he was counting on that. It was the only reason he was here.

He twisted his feet so that his black leather boots sank slightly into the sand, then, clutching the bag in his left hand, bent over and grabbed a rock with his right. So how did you do this? He hadn't done it in years, not since he'd left the Midwest, but he did it now, bent low and to the side, brought his arm back, and heaved. The rock shot out over the water but then abruptly sank with a distinct plunk. Not sure what he'd done wrong, he bent over and fumbled around until he found another one. Holding the rock carefully, he brought his arm back a second time, launched the rock, and watched as it hit the water's surface and dove under without a single skip.

Was anyone watching his failed attempts?

He looked around, saw no one. And then he reached into the plastic bag and pulled out the long metal object. Not wasting a moment, he bent slightly to the side and threw the heavy knife as hard as he could, watching it whirl far out over the water until it, too, sliced through the surface and disappeared.

Satisfied, he bent to the water and rinsed his hand with a couple of quick swirls. He then reached for one last rock, took it, and hurled it out over the lake. Success was not his.

He crumpled the green plastic bag and walked slowly away from the lake, stretching once and yawning. He crossed the pedestrian path, stuffed the bag into a metal garbage can, and continued on past the bicycle path to his car, which was stopped along the parkway next to a stand of trees and the bird sanctuary. He sat for a few minutes in the white Saab as if he were relaxing, but in truth watching to see if anyone—anyone who might have seen him—came along.

But there was no one.

Pleased, the large man with the shaved head started up the car and was just about to drive away when his cellular phone started to ring. He immediately knew who it was.

Picking it up from the passenger seat, he flicked on the phone and said, “Good evening, this is Vic.”

“It's me. Did you get it all taken care of?”

“Absolutely. Don't worry, it's all under control.”

“Great,” said the voice with an audible sigh. “Thanks a million.”

“No problem, that's what I'm here for.”

Standing
in the woods of the bird sanctuary, the attractive man with the light hair watched as the white Saab pulled away from the curb and sped off into the night. Wearing a rust-colored cotton coat and clutching a camera, he peered suspiciously around a thick oak, saw the red taillights shooting away, and he said to himself, Okay, remember this. Remember this because something important just happened. Did that guy just throw what you think he did into the lake?

He'd been there the entire time, hidden by the trees and wondering just what in the hell that other guy, the bald one, was up to. In the faint light from the streetlights he'd taken note of the large, muscular man in the shiny black leather coat. And at first he'd presumed the other had come down here to cruise these woods, like the handful of other men lurking among these trees tonight. But, no, the bald man had instead crossed the road and gone straight down to the small beach. And then…

Behind him he now heard the snap of a twig, which sounded so jarring in the night shadows. He turned, saw a bush, a tree. And finally eyes. They burned out of the darkness, focused straight on him. The light-haired man stared back, and a moment later a man emerged out of the pool of blackness. The other was of medium build, not trim but not fat either, and he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. Nice-enough-looking, too, with thick eyebrows and chestnut brown hair and what looked like a heavy beard. His mouth was pinched tight, his face taut, even tense, and he looked almost angry, but of course he was merely hungry, his body famished with lust. The younger one had seen him earlier, their eyes had caught when he'd first made his way in here. He'd seen the wedding ring too. Some exec, he presumed, who'd probably told his wife he'd be working late tonight. Probably made a couple of hundred thou’, had two kids, a dog. And while the wife might one day suspect her husband of screwing his secretary, she'd probably never imagine that he was instead down here screwing the boys.