The Killing Lessons (31 page)

‘He didn’t take the RV,’ Will Fraser said to Valerie. ‘The dead guy’s been ID’d as Paul Stokes, and there’s a 2007 Dodge Grand Caravan registered to him, so we’ve got the plates out on that. We’re waiting on DNA confirmation here, but it’s pretty obvious he’s the other half of the team.’

‘There was a van,’ Valerie said. ‘It was on the other side of the house.’

She was in a five-bed ward at the Dixie Regional Medical Center back in St George. The wound on the side of her head had been stitched and dressed under local anaesthetic, but they were keeping her in overnight for concussion. She had a lump on the back of her skull the size of an egg. Claudia Grey was in recovery in the ICU, after four hours on the operating table. She was going to live. Will and Carla had flown in by helicopter. Carla was at Claudia’s bedside, waiting for her to wake up.

‘Lloyd Conway gave him a chunk when he sold the company,’ Will said. ‘A hundred and thirty grand, to be precise. Presumably because the Lord thought it would be a good idea.’

‘I had him,’ Valerie said. ‘I fucking had him, Will.’

‘There’s a twenty-six-year-old girl down the hall alive right now, thanks to you,’ Will said. ‘He’s fucked up. We’ll get him. Love the punk look, by the way.’ They’d shaved the left side of Valerie’s head to deal with the wound. ‘Not many women your age could carry it off.’

‘I’m going to ask them to do the other side,’ Valerie said. ‘Full mohawk. Ow. Smiling makes this itch.’

‘How’d you get the name?’ Will asked.

‘Movie poster. Russell Crowe,’ Valerie said. ‘And I still don’t like him.’

‘Marion got a little hot for him in
Gladiator
, but she said she’d only sleep with him if she was punishing herself for something.’

‘I know Marion hates me,’ Valerie said, ‘but I like her.’

‘I’ll talk to her about it. She’s entered a sort of pornographic phase. I think she could go for you now you’ve shaved half your head.’

Valerie felt tender towards the world. It was the way of it, when you’d nearly lost the world.

Her phone rang. It was Nick.

‘I’ll go and get coffee,’ Will said. ‘I’ll let you know when the kid wakes up.’

Valerie picked up the call. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘They shaved my head.’

‘Just your head?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Tell me you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine. I’m getting dressed and out of here in a minute.’

‘No, you’re not. Will told me you’ve got concussion.’

‘What does Will know?’

‘Don’t make me come down there.’

‘I miss you.’

It was out before she could stop herself. A short pause followed. She imagined him at his desk. Wondered if the guy who shared his lab was in the room. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t—’

‘Shut up. I miss you too.’

A longer pause. Valerie swallowing tears that had ambushed her. The last time she’d been in a hospital bed was three years ago. Everything she’d been holding onto for those three years was starting to leave her. Almost. The almostness hurt her heart. For a few moments she couldn’t speak.

‘How about I take you out to dinner when you get back?’ Blasko said.

‘Yes please.’

‘Do you have any idea how good it is to hear your voice?’

‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she said. ‘I can’t take it.’

‘What if I’m nice to you now but I promise to be an asshole when I see you?’

‘OK.’

‘When are you coming back?’

‘I don’t know. He’s out there. We’re waiting for the girl to come around.’

‘Yeah, Will told me she made it. You did a good thing.’

Valerie swallowed again. It was terrible to receive kindness when you were in this state.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘Is it?’

‘I don’t know, but let’s assume that it is.’

‘OK.’

A phone rang on his end of the line.

‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Shit. Sorry, I have to take this. You sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Stay in bed.’

‘OK.’

‘I mean it.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll call you back. Meantime, think about where you want to go for dinner.’

A few minutes after they’d hung up, Will appeared in the ward doorway, pointing down the hall: Claudia was awake.

In a painfully bright Rite Aid on the edge of Grand Junction Xander bought a home first-aid kit in a crappy white plastic box with a red cross on it for $35.95. He bought scissors, a brand new electric razor, batteries, water. He was thirsty all the time. The whole business took only a few minutes (he’d washed himself up as best he could in a Texaco a couple of miles back) but he was aware of the cashier, a bald guy in his sixties with steel-rimmed glasses, looking at him funny. He had to keep his right hand in his pocket throughout the transaction and his face was wet with sweat.

‘How’re you doing tonight, sir?’ the cashier said.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Long drive, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I know the feeling,’ the cashier said. ‘We all do it, right?’

‘Right.’

‘In the dark, too. I know it. Used to drive a truck myself. Those new headlamps shouldn’t even be legal if you ask me. You got far to go?’

‘Not far.’

‘Well, if you need a rest, there’s a Motel 6 just a couple miles down the road.’

‘What’s the total?’ Xander said. He realised when he’d said it that it was slightly wrong. He’d been slightly wrong with these things his whole life. The guy’s smile dissolved – then recovered – but everything between them had changed.

‘Your total’s $127.89. And will that be cash or card, sir?’

‘Cash,’ Xander said. He’d got four fifties ready on the counter. The cashier did his thing with the till, paused, slid one of the fifties back to Xander without a word, then handed him the rest of his change. Xander had to deal with the change before he could pick up the carrier bag. He could see the guy wondering what was wrong with his right hand, and how could a one-handed guy drive?

‘Thanks for the motel tip,’ Xander said, but he knew he couldn’t put it right with the cashier. The cashier smiled when he said: ‘You bet,’ but Xander could tell that something had closed down in him.

S
was for scissors. That one he was absolutely sure of. Mama Jean had put the S on him with sharp scissors. Hold
still
, goddammit, this is a curvy one.

So now he had the scissors, too, though they were quite a long way off. Almost as far as the violin and the xylophone. The violin and the xylophone revolved around each other. He didn’t know which came first.

Back in the van in the parking lot (there was a couple of feet on snow on the ground, and it had begun snowing hard again) he did what he could for his hand. Disinfectant that burned so bad he sat there shuddering for a few seconds with his jaws clamped together and tears brimming. There were packs of dressings, Band-Aids, tape, rubber gloves, some black liquid in a little bottle, a roll of bandage, a thermometer and another pair of scissors, so it was a waste of money buying the first pair. He taped a sterile dressing to each side of the wound and wrapped a length of bandage around it tight. It hurt like hell. He still couldn’t use it to drive. He drank the bottle of water and set off again.

He didn’t stop at the Motel 6. He wasn’t going to stop anywhere – he was afraid of stopping – but after another hour he felt dizzy and sick. He knew he was on the 70 east (the fat-faced Asian guy at the gas station had confirmed it, though he’d eyed Xander as if he was crazy) but every road sign he looked at started the objects jabbering in his head – and he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them. He kept thinking how bad it had been to see that bitch cop just right there in his house – in his own fucking house! – snooping through the rooms, touching his things. It was something he’d never imagined could happen. (That was the best thing about the money, being able to have a place no one could come into, a place most people didn’t even know anyone was living in.) Right at the moment he’d seen her the world had started shifting under his feet, like the moving floor in the Funhouse at the fair that day with his mother and Jimmy. He’d fallen on his ass and Jimmy had picked him up, roughly, laughing.

He slowed for an exit, wishing he’d shoved the jug up inside her properly, but he would’ve had to cut her and he’d heard sirens (hadn’t he?) and all that had mattered was getting out while there was still time.

The guy on reception at the Super 8 looked about eighteen. Had some black in him, Xander thought. Long eyelashes and a girlish face with full lips and his dreads pulled back into a little ponytail.

‘Cash?’ he said, when Xander opened his wallet.

‘Yeah,’ Xander said. He had to hold on to the edge of the desk to stop himself from swaying. He was unbearably hot. When he got in the room, he thought, he’d take a cold shower. Having thought of this, he was desperate for it, for how soothing it would be. There was a fat plastic Santa Claus on the reception desk, beaming, standing on one leg.

‘Sir, we’re going to need a credit card to hold against the room anyway,’ the kid said.

‘I can’t sign,’ Xander said, holding up his bandaged hand.

‘Oh that’s OK,’ the kid said. ‘You don’t need to sign with the card, we just run it through the machine. But, hmm, you need to sign the register.’

‘Well, I can’t.’

‘Can you sign with your other hand? I’m really sorry, sir. It just needs to be… You know, it doesn’t have to be perfect or anything. That’s too bad about your hand.’ The kid slid the registration form and a pen towards him across the desk.

Xander picked up the pen in his left hand.

Hell, this is going to be good. I can’t wait to see this. Come on, genius, let’s see what you can do.

The pen felt huge between his fingers. He thought he was going to throw up. The reception area smelled of damp carpet. The kid waited, smiling. His lips were constantly struggling to cover his teeth. Xander had an image of jabbing the pen into one of the kid’s big, dark, liquid eyes.

He held the tip of the pen against the dotted line where the kid had made a mark. A xylophone mark.
X
is for xylophone. It always mixed him up. ‘Xylophone’ started with the same sound as ‘zipper’. How could that be? How could that
be
? He didn’t believe in it.

‘Seriously, sir, just your initials are fine. It’s no biggie.’

Xander knew what his initials were. He’d had to sign them for the bank, when Lloyd and Teresa had got him an account. Lloyd had said: It doesn’t have to be your whole name, son. It just has to be a mark on the paper that identifies you. Don’t think of it as writing. Think of it as drawing a picture. I know you can draw. I’ve seen you do it. So look, just draw a straight leg with a straight foot pointing thataway, to the right. Then draw a big crescent moon right next to it. There you go, that’s an L and a C. Now you put any squiggle you like through the middle of it – same squiggle every time, mind you, so make it one you can remember – and you’ve got yourself a signature.

With his left hand Xander carved out the straight leg with the straight foot and a hopeless crescent moon. Didn’t bother with the squiggle.
L
was for lemon and
C
was for clock. Yet every time he had to sign he could only connect the marks on the paper to the straight leg and foot and the crescent moon. The lemon and the clock were something completely different. Lemon. Clock. Leon. Crowe. They had nothing to do with each other. It was why he didn’t believe in it.

‘Great,’ the kid said, big-smiling. ‘You’re all set. Here’s your room key. You’re in room twenty-three, which is left out of reception, up the stairs and all the way along to the end of the walkway. You need anything at all, just dial nine. Enjoy your stay.’

In room twenty-three, Xander put the shopping bags on the bed, undressed (avoiding the mirrors) and took his cold shower. For a few minutes afterwards he felt better, but every time he thought of the bitch cop and the young patrolman he got angry, and the anger turned to heat with the jabbering objects in his head. He redressed his hand, but blood still seeped a red blotch through the lint and into the fresh bandage. He should have bought clean clothes. Should have. He hadn’t done so many of the things he should have done. His head was like the wasps’ nest in Mama Jean’s backyard, never entirely still. And the slightest disturbance could set it swarming. His face itched. The fucking beard. Naked, he went back into the bathroom, plugged in the new shaver, found the attachment like the ones they shaved soldiers’ heads with in movies, and began to remove it. The buzzing of the thing made everything worse, and it was tough to do with his left hand. But he was determined.

When he’d finished, he moved the shopping bags from the bed, pulled back the covers and climbed in. The heat had left him. Now he was shivering.

He didn’t sleep well. The pain from his hand kept waking him. Painkillers. He would buy painkillers. Why did he always think of these things afterwards?

It was just after six thirty when he went back to reception to check out. The same kid, drinking a Coke, surprised to see him. Xander observed him realising he’d shaved off the beard.

‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Yeah. Just need to get back on the road.’

The kid opened his big mouth to say something – then decided not to. Smiled instead. Xander was used to people smiling when they were thinking something else. Someone smiling always meant something else. Paulie had smiled when he’d told him about the little girl.

You want to fix this, you need to start with that
.

‘Hey,’ Xander said (the idea had opened like a flower in his brain), ‘you think you could help me with the GPS?’ He held up his bandaged hand again. ‘I can’t… You know?’

‘Sure,’ the kid said. ‘Let me get those bags for you, too.’

At the van, Xander had to let the kid sit in the driver’s seat to work the gadget. He smelled a little like those stores that sold incense and other Asian shit. His fingernails were weirdly perfect.

‘OK,’ the kid said, having tapped the screen a couple of times until the destination cursor blinked. ‘Where you headed?’