Mrs. Million (27 page)

“No, Mother.”

“Every one of them was unmarried and childless. Children are your charm against the devil, dear.”

“Yes, Mother.” A newscast was showing on the television. Things happening in the Middle East. A school fire in Minneapolis. Footage of a small town: a church, a cafe, a sign that read
Taxidermy & Cheese Shoppe—
it was Cold Rock! André grabbed the remote control, turned up the sound.

“…first murder in twenty-three years in this peaceful college community. Police Chief Dale Gordon—” A shot of the policeman standing by the river, one side of his face heavily bandaged. “—has asked for the public’s help in locating the suspect, Professor André Gideon, a professor at Cold Rock College.” A photo, the one from his personnel file, ten years old, showing him with longer hair and a full beard. André looked at his mother staring at the TV. Did she recognize him? She was not reacting. The newscast went to a commercial.

“Oh, look at this one, Andrew!” His mother exclaimed, sitting forward and pointing at the screen. A golden retriever wearing eyeglasses was selling bank loans. It looked to André as though the dog was trying to get a hair out of its mouth. “I love that talking dog,” she said.

André sat on the wooden chair beside her. The revolver, concealed beneath his sweater, dug into his groin. The dog was still talking. How had they found out that he had killed Jayjay? One of his snoopy neighbors had perhaps seen the boy coming and going. It did not matter. André Gideon was now as irrelevant as Andrew Grubb. He would have to create a new identity. Adam something. He had always liked that name. Adam, Adam
Grappelli.
Yes, that had a ring to it. Adam Grappelli, man without a country. He would adopt his new identity as soon as he arrived overseas. They would search for André Gideon, but no one would think to look for Adam Grappelli.

He watched his mother light a fresh cigarette and wondered how the man in his trunk was doing. Was the air in there worse than this air he was breathing? André did not think so.

Diamond Bluff was a quiet town. Bobby had heard only three cars drive past, and once some distant voices which had inspired him to kick the side of the trunk several times, trying to make as much noise as possible, but to no avail. André had taken the extra precaution of attaching one of Bobby’s wrists to a trunk brace with a pair of handcuffs.

“Where’d you get those?” Bobby had asked.

André had given him a perplexed look, as if a dog had spoken, then taped his mouth shut.

Bobby listened and breathed. He hoped that he would not have to stay in the trunk all night. He hoped that the professor would feel sorry for him and let him out, or at least bring him some food and let him pee. He wished he could fall asleep.

He was thinking about french fries when he heard the sound of an approaching car. The sound got louder, then remained steady, very close. He could hear clattering valves, a familiar rhythm. It had to be no more than a few feet away.

He began to kick in earnest.

She would knock on the door and say she had come to see Andrew, then she would see what happened. This was Phlox’s plan. She was not proud of it, as a plan, but it was all she had. She got out of the truck and started up the walk, but was stopped by a peculiar thumping noise. She turned her head back and forth, searching with her ears for the source of the sound.

It was coming from the Taurus. She moved closer.

Thunk.

From the trunk? She leaned over the trunk lid.

Thunk.

She said, “That you, Pookie?”

Thinkthunkthunktbunkthunk.

It was him. Phlox shifted into emergency mode, ran to the pickup and got the tire iron from its compartment behind the seats. She had to move fast, get him out before the guy in the house looked out. She jammed the chisel end of the iron bar under the lip of the trunk lid and heaved. Metal bent. Pulling it free, she rammed it home again and pried. No good. Wait, what was she thinking? She ran to the driver’s side of the car and swung the tire iron into the window, reached through crumbled glass, opened the door, triggered the trunk release, ran back and lifted the lid.

“Jesus, Bobby!” He was all taped up. She grabbed him, trying to help him out. “C’mon Bobby, we gotta move. Gotta get out of here. Jesus, what did he do to you?” He was caught on something; she couldn’t get him out. Tearing at the duct tape, feeling herself lose it. A sudden, shocking pain in one hand, a broken nail. Bobby contorting his face, trying to tell her something. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, babe!” She tore the tape away from his mouth.

“Handcuffs,” he gasped.

“Shitfire, Pook.” She ran back to the pickup and grabbed her purse.

Bobby said, “C’mon, Fiona, don’t bail on me now.”

“I’m not bailing, babe.” She groped through the contents of her purse, came out with a pair of tweezers and went to work on the cuff. “Just you hold still now.” Probing and turning, hearing her breathing echo from the trunk lid, trying to be methodical, poking and twisting at the invisible insides of the lock mechanism. There, she had something. A faint click, felt more than heard, and the cuff came open. She pulled it off the brace; the other end remained attached to Bobby’s wrist. “Got it! C’mon, let’s get you out of there.”

Another click, this one louder, came from behind her. Phlox whirled. A man stood between her and the pickup. He was holding a large revolver in his two small hands, pointing it at her stomach.

“Who are you?” he asked. His hands were shaking, but not enough to make him miss, not at that range.

“I know who
you
are,” said Phlox. “You’re Andrew Grubb.”

The man’s face darkened. “Step away from the car, please.”

“Why? So you can shoot me?”

“I will not shoot you. Unless you make me.”

Phlox did not like the sound of that. There had to be something she could do. Were any of the neighbors looking? The waitress in the restaurant? She could not afford to wait. She had to do something. Now.

She slipped her hand into the open handcuff and locked it around her wrist.

Andrew Grubb said, “Excuse me?”

—B
ANKING AND RUNNING AND
running and banking and banking and
running and running and banking—the words throbbed in his mind, matching his footfalls, suppressing his thoughts. Art had been running for more than two hours, and it was his second run of the day. He had run home from Barbaraannette’s in his street clothes. Now he was properly dressed in his running gear, and pushing himself through a twenty-miler.

The first hour had been difficult. He had been thinking about all, the things he could never be and all the things that would never happen for him. Trying to understand how Barbaraannette could love an uneducated faithless cheat like Bobby Quinn who was all wrong for her. Maybe Art Dobbleman was wrong for her, too. Thinking that if he just told her what he felt for her, what he’d always felt for her, she would have to listen. What did he have to lose?

He had Barbaraannette to lose. If he opened himself to her and she turned away, he would have nothing. So long as he held something back there would still be hope.

…
banking and running and running and banking…
The internal chant had arisen at mile seven, driving away thought…
running and banking and banking and running…
Art was at peace, swept up in the rhythm of footfalls and heartbeats and meaningless words. The miles melted as darkness fell.

Seven-forty and the sun had set. A couple more weeks it would be time to turn the clocks forward and the light would last until well after 8:00, and then summer would arrive and even at ten o’clock at night a faint light would be seen in the west. Barbaraannette stood outside her front door, testing the moist and chilly breeze. She zipped up the front of her windbreaker, pulled the woolen cap low on her forehead. The cap was a bright red, canister-shaped thing that Hilde had knit for her a few years back. Not her style, but tonight it felt right. She closed the door and walked into the dusk, into the wind. Her eyes teared, her lungs filled with cold wet air, soothing the nauseating ashtray flavor that coated her mouth. The box of gum was in her pocket. She planned to drop it off at Toagie’s, but first she had some bad feelings to walk off.

Barbaraannette liked walking. She should do it more often. She wished she could run like Art Dobbleman. Would it be like walking, only better? If walking was like chewing nicotine gum, would running be like smoking Cuban cigars? She smiled, letting the rhythm of her footfalls free her thoughts. What would she look like if she were only bones, walking? Did it stay light later in Mexico? Did penguins clap their flippers, or was that seals? She could take a trip to Antarctica to see the penguins walking on the ice, diving for fish. She could find out for herself. Crazy thoughts, lasting four or five steps. At least she wasn’t thinking about Bobby. She unzipped her windbreaker, letting in some air.

Following the residential streets north through town, she came to the bridge over Easton Creek. She looked down into the shadows, saw what looked like a lighter band of earth—the old path. She hadn’t walked it in years. Could she get down there from here?

Moments later, one hand slightly scratched from a downhill encounter with a thorn bush, she was there. She walked slowly, feeling the sponginess of the recently thawed topsoil. Soon it would be warm enough to plant a garden. A branch dragged noisily across the arm of her windbreaker. She tried to remember where the path came out. Did it intersect Cherry Street? She couldn’t remember. It was so quiet here, only the sounds of her footfalls and twigs scraping nylon. Barbaraannette stopped. She heard a car passing, the breeze rattling branches, the faint gurgling of the creek, her own breathing, then a rhythmic sound, like an echo of her heartbeat, coming from behind her. She turned, more curious than alarmed. Getting louder. Footsteps? The thought had no sooner formed than he was there, a white singlet exploding from the darkness, hitting her with the full length of his body. Barbaraannette flew back, landed hard on her back, the air driven from her lungs. Long, pale limbs clawed through the air, crashed into a bush with a wordless shout.

Barbaraannette’s lungs had cemented themselves shut. She strained to inhale, got only a squeak, then felt them loosen and inflate. She sat up and turned, watched the man untangle his arms and legs, extract himself from the brush.

“Art?” Her voice sounded strangled.

He stood up, brushing twigs from his body. “Barbaraannette? Are you okay?”

“I’m feeling a little bruised.” She laid a hand over her left breast, testing.

“I’m sorry. There’s never anyone here at night.”

“Obviously that’s not true.” The darkness was nearly total. Barbaraannette felt her ribs. Everything seemed to be okay.

Art said, “I’m glad I ran into you. I mean not that I actually ran into you. I was thinking…I was thinking that you were right.”

“Oh?” She liked the sound of this.

“I ordered your money. After we talked, I went back to the bank and ordered your money. You were right. It’s not up to me to judge you, or to judge your marriage. But whatever happens with Bobby—and I’m not wishing him ill—I want you to remember that I’m here.”

He could never have said these things to her in the light of day, in his suit, with her eyes on him. The darkness made it possible. He was wearing his running shoes. He could see the shape of her face but not her features. He could smell her. He could hear her breathing. “On whatever terms you want. I can be your banker or your friend or your lover, or you can hate me and think I’m a jerk, but if you ever want to be appreciated for the remarkable woman you are, you don’t have to look any further.”

The pale orb of her face swayed, but she said nothing.

Art said, “I want you more than Bobby ever did.” The sound of his breath filled his ears. “That’s what I wanted to say. Also, the money is coming by Brinks truck and will be at the bank by nine-thirty tomorrow morning.”

She reached out and took his hand. “You’re cold.”

He hadn’t noticed. His skin had tightened and was covered with goosebumps. “It’s a little chilly.” Her hand felt like fire.

“You’d better keep running or you’ll freeze.” She let go of his hand.

Art turned away, came up on his toes to start running, but kept turning until he faced her again. He took her hand, saying, “Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone. Anything you can think of.”

Barbaraannette let her grip go slack and tried to pull away, but he held on to her, his thumb trapping her hand against his palm. Big hands. She did not speak for several seconds. Art could feel her pulse. For a moment he seemed to sense what she was feeling. She wanted to answer him but she did not know what to say. She wanted him to let go and she wanted him to hold on tighter. She wanted to step into him, to press her body against his chest, but she could not. And she knew that if he moved into her, she would panic.

She said, “Sometimes I close my eyes when I’m driving. I close them and keep driving for as long as I dare. Is that what you mean?”

“A deer could run out in front of you.”

“Anything could happen.”

Art let out his breath. “Thank you.” He let go.

“Nine-thirty?”

“Nine-thirty at the latest.”

“Good. Go.”

Art turned and ran, holding in his mind his moment of clarity, seeing the shape of her face, letting his feet guide him down the unlit path.

“H
OW DID YOU FIND
me?”

“It’s a long story, Punkin. You think you could shift that elbow a bit? You’re digging it into my ribs.”

“I can’t move.”

“Me neither. This is awful uncomfortable. How long you think he’s gonna leave us here?”

“I don’t know. Why the hell did you cuff yourself to me?”

“It was all I could think of. I figured he wouldn’t shoot me if I was attached to you.”

“He’s got a damn key.”

“Like I said, I had to think fast. I didn’t have time to think good.” Phlox focused on her breathing for a few seconds. The air in the trunk was getting thick. “Sooner or later he’s got to let us out, right?”