They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (16 page)

I didn't dwell on her. She was gone to someplace better. It was only her body there hanging off the bed headfirst. I knew what the police would find. My skin and blood would be under her fingernails. My semen would be in her vagina. They would comb her pubis and find my hair. She would be bruised, cut maybe, to show there had been a fierce struggle. The cops would find the emptied champagne bottle and probably some planted drugs. I noticed I was crying when I said goodbye.

I ran up to MacClough's room. As I ran, my grief turned to self-loathing. Not only had I managed to get Kira killed, but I had made myself the world's most incredibly stupid and perfect suspect. When the cops began investigating the crime, they would find a pattern of behavior on my part that would suggest stalking. The waitress, Sandra, would claim I had spent the morning questioning her about Kira. She would claim, with a clear conscience, that she had told me about Kira because she was afraid of me and that I had been acting paranoid; something about men trying to follow me. She had taken my bribe only to humor me. The guy in the clothing store would say I had bought a disguise—”You wouldn't recognize your own mother in that outfit with those glasses”—and would say I had acted irrationally about sending the old clothing back to Sound Hill. The woman at the register would say I had acted oddly about her simple request to drink coffee out of a coffee container. Students would come forward to say that they remembered me lingering outside all of Kira's classes that day, some would recall me following her. And as the
piece de resistance,
Prof. Jane Courteau would recount my rather weird story about wanting to use Kira's artwork on my next book. Obviously, I was irrational, obsessed, paranoid. The shrinks would the orize that I had been deeply affected by my recent failure in Hollywood, my father's tragic death, and the disappearance of my beloved nephew:

“Discovering that his nephew had had a previous relationship with the girl, Mr. Klein, due to his precarious mental health, became fixated with Ms. Wantanabe, believing that she was in some way responsible for the disappearance of his nephew. As the fixation turned to obsession, Mr. Klein's paranoid delusions grew in scope and intensity until he became convinced that Ms. Wantanabe was not only responsible for the nephew's disappearance, but had ultimately to suffer the consequences for her actions.”

I was nude but for a bloody bath towel. I was unsure why I was running to MacClough's room nor had I any idea of what I'd do when I got there. But MacClough's sense of anticipation was legendary and, like his old buddies used to tell me, Johnny could see trouble coming around the corner before they could see the corner. I knew he wasn't there, but I prayed he had left a spare key tucked away somewhere. I was clutching at straws. Straws, however, seem like fine options when your only other choice is a blood-soaked bath towel.

And when the doorknob turned in my hand, I thought MacClough had proved his legend once again. Under other circumstances I might've entered more cautiously, but cautiously wasn't on the menu this morning. I rushed in without hesitation. The place was a mess, ransacked like Zak's rooms and Caliparri's place. So much for MacClough's anticipation. I threw on any clothes I could find and a pair of John's too-small shoes.

I ran to the end of the hall and climbed down the back fire escape. It was snowing like a son of a bitch and the wind nearly blew me off the bottom ladder. I jumped into a snow-drift. Brushing myself off, I heard sirens blaring around the front of the inn. I thought about making a run for it in my rental, but I couldn't have gotten very far very fast in this kind of storm. I took off on foot under the murky light of dawn. I needed to buy myself a few hours. There were debts that needed paying. I would hide behind the snowflakes if I had to.

Crimes of the Ancient Mariner

The late-season blizzard and the confusion caused by the fire at Cyclone Ridge had worked for me. I had stopped at a pay phone and called for a taxi to pick me up and take me to the airport. Because of the blowing snow, the driver didn't get a good look at my scratched face until after I was in the backseat and we were well on our way. He was a bald man in his mid to late fifties who looked like the only exercise he got involved walking to and from the doughnut shop. He chewed on the unlit butt end of a cigar and kept a yellow pencil tucked behind his right ear. He kind of reminded me of my dad.

I watched his dull brown eyes get wide and shiny in the rearview mirror when he noticed my face. I read his name off his pictured license and pressed my knuckle as hard as I could into the back of his seat.

“You got a wife and kids, Milton?” I asked with icy cool curiosity.

“Two grown kids and three grand kids. Wife's dead.”

“Mine too . . . Now.”

That got his attention as I had intended it to and he began chomping vigorously on his cigar.

“Listen, Milton,” I said, pressing his seat back, “we can do this hard or easy. I've had enough hard for one day. What do you say to easy.”

“I like easy.”

“Good. Drive me to the border.”

I made him give me his coat and the cap he kept on the seat next to him. I took twenty dollars and vowed to get it all back to him, the money with interest. He said that wouldn't be necessary. When we were several miles out of Riversborough, I pulled my fist out of the vinyl seat and pretended to put the phantom gun in my pocket.

“Pull over,” I ordered. “I've gotta take a piss.”

He really started sweating now and I hated to do it to him, but I was in a tough spot.

“Please, mister, don't ki—”

“Calm down and pull over.”

He did as I asked. I got out of the car and walked far enough away to give Milton the confidence he could leave without me being able to catch up or to shoot him. From behind a group of rocks, I watched and waited, hoping he would jump at this chance to escape from the crazed killer I let him think I was. Like any sensible man, he seized the moment. The back end of his old Impala fishtailed like mad on the icy road as he sped off. Now all he had to do was tell the cops I was headed across the border.

It only took me ten minutes to flag down a semi going back toward town. I told the driver my jeep was stuck in a snowbank on an access road about a half mile from where he picked me up. He didn't seem to have any trouble believing it. And between MacClough's turned-up shirt collar and the hood of Milton's coat, I did a good job of hiding my damaged face. Everything was going fine until the trucker moved to turn on the radio.

Maybe I was just the slightest bit tense, but I couldn't help thinking he might reassess his faith in my story if he heard about Kira's murder on the news. One good look at my face and I was finished. Unfortunately, I could not think of single good reason for him not to turn on the radio nor was I in any position to play tough guy with the driver. He had forearms the size of my thighs and a neck like a tree stump. In any case, my plan rested on my ability to get back into Riversborough without attracting attention.

We listened to a few minutes of commercials, one for a Canadian grocery chain. The jingle mixed French and English lyrics. I hummed along, but the sweat had already begun to seep through my shirt. When I noticed that all the ads were for Canadian products, I relaxed some. There was a weather report, a traffic report. I got downright comfortable. Then, there was a news bulletin.

“This again,” I spoke loudly enough to drown out the announcer.

“What's that?”

“You didn't hear? There was a big fire up at the Cyclone Ridge ski resort just outside of Riversborough. It took fifteen fire companies to fight it and I don't think even that many got it under control.”

“Jesus. Anybody hurt?”

“They didn't say,” I answered.

“Probably a little man-made lightning,” the driver said, winking at me. “That place's been a white elephant since the new owners spruced it up about five years ago. I don't think they ever got to full bookings in that whole time. Where'd you say you was from?”

The bulletin was over and I didn't like turn the conversation was taking. Besides, we had already entered Riversborough's city limits.

“This is fine,” I said, picking a spot arbitrarily. “Thanks. Drive safe.”

The air brakes whooshed and the wheels squealed as we came to a stop. I was down and out of the semi's cab before the trucker could question my sanity. I waved bye as he pulled away from the curb. The sun was up, though I couldn't see it through the clouds and blowing snow. I knew about where I was and figured it would take me about an hour of walking through back alleyways to get to where I wanted to go.

There were more customers in the shop than I had suspected would turn out in such awful weather. That unnerved me a bit, but no one had cause to pay me any more mind than the next browser. Mostly everybody in the store still had his or her hood or hat on. I just tried harder than anyone else to stare at my shoes as I searched for the man I had come to see. And when I approached him, there was nothing in his demeanor to indicate that he recognized me. To the casual observer, he treated me as he might've treated any customer coming to enlist his aid.

“I need your help,” I said in a voice as flat as Kansas. “I'm looking for the true crime section.”

“Come this way, sir.”

Rajiv Gupta, the man I was betting my life on was Guppy, led me to a dark corner of the store.

“Here we are, sir. The section is pitifully small, but we don't have strong demand for this sort of thing in Riversborough. Our clientele are mostly students from the college. I'm afraid they tend to be preoccupied with more scholarly works or trendy periodicals.”

“I guess I'll have to make due.” I knelt down and gestured toward a book I picked out at random. “What do you think of this?”

Kneeling down beside me, he removed the book from the shelf and handed it to me:
Crimes of the Ancient Mariner.
Great! It was the recounting of the gruesome rapehomicides of several young prostitutes by a phony sea captain. It was an unfortunate choice.

“It is not this author's best work,” Gupta explained for the benefit of a woman standing only five or six feet away. “We are out of his other book. Let me write the title down for you and maybe you can pick it up at one of the larger chain stores.”

He removed a business card from his pocket and began writing furiously on the back of it. He handed it to me, giving me only several seconds to digest what he'd scribbled. There was an address on Oneonta Place, that was clear. He had also written down: “Blue Subaru, broken windshield, Bracken Street, 2 lunchtime.” I had barely finished reading when he snapped the card out of my hand and shredded it. He shoved the pieces in his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he apologized, “I've gotten my authors confused. That was not the title at all.”

The woman in the aisle with us turned and moved into the next row. Gupta pulled his hand back out of his pocket and threw something down that clanged when it hit the floor.

“You've dropped your keys.”

“So I did.” I retrieved the lifeline he had tossed me. There was a Subaru ignition key on the ring. “Thanks.”

“No bother. Should I fetch you the title of that other book?”

“No,” I said, “that won't be necessary. I think I've gotten what I need.”

“Very good, sir,” Gupta bowed slightly and moved on.

I lingered, pretending to study the dust jackets of one or two books. When I thought enough time had passed, I started for the store exit. So close to refuge, I was more nervous now than at any other point during my flight from the law. I could not force myself to focus and I paid for my sloppiness. At the end of the true crime aisle, I stumbled right into the woman who had been standing with Gupta and me during the better part of our charade. Her head hit my cheek.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she apologized, staring directly at my face. “You're cut.”

“That's all right, it's nothing.”

But even as I rushed by her, I could see that her mind was working overtime to try and explain how a relatively mild impact had caused the scratches on my face. I didn't bother to try and help her thought processes along. What would I have said? “Forgive the scratches, I was attacked by a snow leopard on my way out of the house this morning.” I'm afraid not. I simply moved on quickly, forcing myself not to bolt.

Around the corner from the store, I could no longer control the panic and ran for the Subaru. Luckily, there were only four cars parked on Bracken street. The snow had rendered the four unrecognizable. I found Gupta's car on my second guess. I listened to the radio as I drove. I was big news in the little town and my worst fears had been confirmed. Having discovered copious amounts of tissue, blood, and some clipped hairs under the victim's fingernails, the police were postulating that my face had been scratched deeply. Now I had to find Oneonta Place before the woman in the book store found the knob to her car radio. Although it was probably my best bet of finding Gupta's house in a hurry, I didn't think stopping to ask directions was a terribly prudent idea.