Lone Tree (27 page)

So Jackie liked a clotheshorse, did she. Well, well.

A houseplant, some kind of fern, was in the bedroom.
Mounted above the bed’s headboard was a picture of a herd of horses in a
meadow. In the living room, another fern sat in front of the window. A painting
of a lone stallion, standing against a background of cloud-shadowed mountains,
hung above the brown tweed sofa. A bunch of bronze horses, each standing about
a hand high, stood on the mantle. A real horse lover was Bender.

Something bothered Carl as he roamed the house, but
he couldn’t nail it. Then once back in the living room he realized what it was.
Nothing was out of place—in the bedroom, kitchen, anywhere. No clutter, no
dust; the inside of the house was just as together and snazzy as the outside.

Jackie had a similar neat streak. So she’d found one
of her own.

His temper snapped like a twig. He kicked an
ottoman, bouncing it off an end table. A sweep of his arm across the mantle
sent the bronze horses hurtling to the floor. One piece flew to the window and
struck it with a heavy clunk.

The sound served as a wake-up call. Carl froze,
rooted where he was, listening hard. Had he blown it? Bender had been
accommodating, putting fancy see-through curtains at the window that allowed
you to see out, but not allowing anybody to see in.

Slowly, Carl rose from the crouch he just realized
he’d hunched into.

Until that moment, it hadn’t been all that personal;
he was simply reclaiming property. But the realization that Jackie Lyn had
shared something with another man, a part of herself she’d not shared with Carl
Henry, was like a hot blade slicing through his gut.

Carl had married Jackie, had sex the way he wanted
it, which was his right. She was scared of him then, and he’d liked that and
yet he hadn’t. She was different, not just someone to hump and then forget
about. He’d married her, hadn’t he? But where was that one-ness he’d heard
about? His parents didn’t have it, but that was because his ma had driven her
man to drink and then to hit her. She didn’t have what it took to make a
marriage work. Jackie wasn’t like that. Jackie talked, laughed, shared
secrets—like the kind of room she wanted for her wedding night. Then she didn’t
laugh anymore, didn’t even talk much, never tried to understand her husband or
make a go of it. She’d stopped sharing.

Except for Bender. She’d laughed with him. Leroy had
heard them. She’d handed over keys to the green sedan that belonged to Carl
now, whether his name was on the pink slip or not. Bender was smooth, wore good
clothes, talked nice. Carl knew that he himself had never touched Jackie down
deep, where it counted. But Bender had. Jackie hadn’t just wandered over the
line. She’d actually shared with another man what Carl Henry could never have.
Herself.

The thought turned him into cold, rigid stone.

In the kitchen was a standing knife rack, nice handy
little weapons. In the garage was a tool chest containing sturdier, heavier
ones. And Carl had his hands and feet, his rage, his power, and a whopping need
for payback. He’d pound Bender into pulp.

But he’d take his time with Jackie. She needed
lessons taught and learned. They needed to go on a long trip, just the two of
them.

As Carl returned to the living room, the chime clock
atop the television gave out four long dongs to signal the hour and drew his
attention. He chose an armchair—upholstered in a pretty gold fabric he could
too easily imagine Jackie sitting in—and settled down to wait. Carl stared at
the window, muscles tense, mind racing. He’d known hate before, relished
revenge. But the blood lust he now felt left room for nothing else. Not in his
mind, his body, his deepest self.

Except for loss. He was aware of loss, but whenever
it reared its head, he fought it down and gripped the crowbar he’d returned to
the garage for. For all he knew, Bender might’ve done some boxing, maybe even
had a karate belt. Carl Henry was taking no chances. He’d meet the man at the
door with his own crowbar.

The clock had the loudest ticking he’d ever heard,
as if its job was to remind people of time passing as well as to keep time. But
just as Carl knew violence, he knew patience. He’d spent a lot of time behind
bars. When the first dong of another series started, sounding out the next
hour, he jerked his head toward the clock. He wondered how long the real estate
office was open. What if Bender had plans tonight? Carl stared at the clock as
it completed its noisy run. He glanced at the portable phone at his elbow, then
picked it up. He asked information for the number and to be connected, not
thinking about caller ID until the line was ringing.

“Quality Realty. Teresa Stone at your service. How
may I help you?”

Carl let his breath out, unaware till then he’d been
holding it. If her telephone had registered the number, she hadn’t recognized
it or was ignoring it.

“Bender. I need to talk to Willis Bender.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You just missed him.”

He sat back. Then he had twenty minutes to wait.
Tops. That was how long it’d taken him to drive here, and he wasn’t used to the
route. “On his way home already? I’ll call him there.”

“To the airport, actually. He’ll be away for almost
a week. But he left his listings in my care, so I’m sure I can help. If you’ll
just tell me your name?”

Carl exploded out of the chair. He threw the phone
and it bounced off the corner of the TV. He followed it and swung the crowbar.
The screen shattered in a burst of sound and the next blow knocked the clock
into the fireplace. With one swing of the heavy tool he knocked the painting of
the stallion askew, and another had it crashing onto the sofa’s end table. Carl
gave it more whacks, then let his fury loose in the kitchen, utterly destroying
the cabinets. Next was the bedroom, then the bathroom. Last was the spare room
set up as an office. He crashed the computer right through the window and into
the backyard.

Then he found himself outside on the sidewalk but
didn’t remember getting there.

He blinked, registering the startled eyes of a man
and woman just getting out of a car in the driveway next door. Across the
street a child disappeared inside a house. Window blinds next door to that
place fluttered. Someone was going to make a phone call if they hadn’t already.
He walked faster, and was sprinting by the time he reached the coupe. He ducked
into the driver’s seat, worked the wires with shaky fingers, then burned rubber
on his way out of there.

He had no idea where he was going, but suddenly
there was the freeway. Then the speedometer read ninety and there were no more
buildings, little traffic. He let up on the gas. No sense taking chances. He
tried to remember leaving the town, how long ago, but it wouldn’t come to him.
Then he passed a road sign telling him how far it was to the next place, and he
frowned and slowed. Must’ve read it wrong. But the next sign confirmed his
suspicions. He was going the wrong way.

“Shit!” Should be more signs! And standing out
better so a man could find his way around!

The median was wide and had a dip in the middle that
made it too risky to get on it. He’d have to wait for the next town to make his
turnaround, but at least he’d managed to calm himself down some. He was
thinking again, using his head. He’d hung on to the coupe long enough. Someone
back there might’ve written down the license number.

In a parking lot at a mall he traded in the sporty
model for an ancient, rusty station wagon no one should look at twice. Keys
dangled from the ignition, inviting him to help himself. It had a full tank of
gas and an air-conditioning system that iced up the car in minutes. The radio
was tuned to old-fashioned country. He searched for rap or rock, found nothing
else but static, so resigned himself to hillbilly.

His belly groaned. He was also tired and thirsty,
but after the fiasco at the Bender house it’d be smarter to stay out of places
where people might take a close look at him. He found a supermarket where he
loaded up on beer and bottled water, chips and cookies, cheese and bread.
Having just cashed his paycheck, he had more than enough to take care of his
needs. But he still thought about that ten-dollar bill he’d handed over to
Millicent and never got back. It gnawed at him.

As he left the store, a girl somewhere between
fourteen and eighteen ran into him. She looked like a little doll in ragged
cutoffs and a tank top, and she had sandy-brown hair pulled back into a cute
little ponytail. She backed up, but not before he smelled sweet soap and
shampoo. She must’ve just gotten out of a shower.

“Excuse me.” Her voice was light and airy and pulled
at his groin as much as the sight and smell of her did. If his hands weren’t
full of grocery bags he would’ve pulled her to him and not let go. But they
were in full view of the world.

So he’d wait, follow her when she left the store.

He still blocked the doorway. Her eyes—light-brown,
maybe hazel, and pretty, oh, so pretty—glanced from him to the glass doors.
Then she turned and her gaze shot to a late-model sedan, ice blue, and the
woman in the driver’s seat. He looked that way and found the woman’s attention
on him.

“Jodie, you c’mon back here.” She spoke to the girl
but her stare never left Carl. Her hair was short and dark-colored. The lines
in her face put her in her fifties or sixties. Just two women, a grandma and
her baby chick, but he wasn’t inclined to tangle with that woman’s hard look.
Without breaking eye contact, she reached beneath the seat. Did she have a tire
iron under there? Can of mace?

Carl Henry knew a losing situation when he saw one.
He turned away and shuffled off in a crippled gait he hoped would wipe away
suspicion.

“Jodie,” he heard again. Then when he heard a car
door open and close, he knew the pretty little heifer was back inside the car.
He wanted his hands around the old bitch’s throat even more than he wanted them
on the other one’s tender young flesh.

Because he didn’t hear a car engine start up, he
passed the station wagon and shambled on to the corner of the store and around
it, then waited. Enough cars filled the lot that no one would connect him to
his unless he led them to it. He stood in the alley behind the store until he
finally heard a car start up, then he walked back fast enough that he caught
sight of the sedan’s tail as it left the parking lot. Hate darkened his vision
so much that he saw nothing other than those taillights.

Then he strode to the beat-up-looking station wagon,
threw the groceries into the back seat and he drove out of there.

He didn’t return to the highway. It might be safer
taking a roundabout route. Back roads would get him to Lawary by tomorrow and
that was soon enough. The memory of the teenager in her cutoff shorts lasted
until he got out of town. Millicent came to mind, and he played with her for a
mile or so, but she faded, too. Then his mind lit on Jackie Lyn and couldn’t
get off her.

She couldn’t stand behind her man, help him out with
an alibi when he needed it. It was too much to ask for her to make a home for
him, to honor the vows she’d made. Anger heated his face.

The radio announcer interrupted some hillbilly
crooner to report a tornado alert. Braking in the middle of the road—no traffic
to worry about—he listened to the broadcast. He’d noticed a map in the glove
box, pulled it out and checked it, then breathed easier. He was a safe distance
from the danger zone but had been heading toward it.

The sky above him was bright and clear, and he
wanted to keep it that way. Remembering a clump of trees about a mile back, he
turned around and headed there. Night was closing in and he needed a place to
roost anyway. The trees were ugly scrub, but would offer shade for tomorrow and
should hide his car. He had grub with him, so he could spend as long as he
wanted to right here.

He’d take his time getting to Jackie, and then on to
Lone Tree. He didn’t want to lose it again, like he had in Farber. That’d buy
him a fast, one-way ticket right back to the wrong side of a cell door.

Yep. Better to take his time.

Lainie hadn’t taken an easy breath all day.

It wasn’t tornado season, but expectations were that
today’s watch would turn into a warning at any minute. A string of counties had
been hit, leading straight toward them. Each funnel, though not lasting long,
had done damage. Another could form anywhere at any time and be of any
intensity.

The most ominous indication of a tornado striking
them came from Nelly. He said one was in the air; he’d smelled it. He’d finally
found his storm, and she wondered if he was resting better because of it. She
wasn’t.

With earthquakes, one didn’t get put on watch and
wait to see what was going to happen. An earthquake just hit. She wasn’t sure
she preferred that to this or not, but she’d rather be anywhere than where she
was—California, New York, Hawaii, you name it.

Miles had asked her to stay close, which she’d
planned on doing anyway. With Nelly or tornadoes, she wasn’t going to argue.
Then Reed found her in the storage closet that doubled as a tornado shelter.
Since it was the safest place to be, she’d decided to inventory supplies.