Fatal Intuition Page 6

  “Yeah, whatever.” I make a pillow out of his jacket and lean against the door. “Figure it out.” I drift off a few minutes after we’re back on the highway.

  Somewhere in my half-asleep awareness, T stops by a barn. I hear him spit and cough, as he siphons fuel from a tractor into our tank. When I wake up, the sky is pink and we are surrounded. T is lying in the back seat with his knees bent double. Outside my window, inches from my face, a black and white dairy cow squashes her huge tongue against the glass.

  “Fuck me!” I spring forward and twist my arm in the fishnet seatbelt. A trail of slime and mangled grass oozes down the glass. “Disgusting!” I lean over and press on the horn until they bolt away.

  “What’s going on?” T, the useless bastard, is awake.

  “Why the hell are we in the middle of a field? You’re supposed to be driving.” I’m beyond pissed.

  “Car broke down. I didn’t want to wake you. You are so adorable when you sleep.”

  As if sucking up will make me any less pissed at him. “You were supposed to get gas.” Did I dream the part where he siphoned it somewhere? Have we been sitting in this cow field all night?

  “I did.” He blinks. “But it must have been bad or something. The car sounded rough, and then it broke down not long after. I barely got it off the road.”

  “Did you put diesel in the tank?” Does this city boy not know the goddamn difference?

  “I dunno what was in the tractor.” He wrinkles his nose like he ate cow shit. “It tasted weird.”

  “Diesel.” What a screw-up. “Now you’ll have to hitch us a ride.”

  T makes a face. He knows it’s all his fault we’re in the middle of nowhere. He gets out, and angrily throws his ball cap at the cows. They stand in a solid herd and it bounces off the back of the one that licked my window. He screams, and runs at them until they scatter across the field.

  With the filthy cows gone, it’s safe to get out of the car. On a whim, I check the glove compartment before I leave, and what I find makes my day.

  How did I miss this beauty before? I guess I was too tired to snoop through all the car’s hiding spots. Ahh, a jackknife. The imitation ivory handle fits my hand perfectly. I extend the blade and slide my thumb along the edge. It’s sharp enough.

  When T returns from chasing the cows, he retrieves his trampled hat and slaps it against his thigh until it’s back to its original color.

  I pocket my treasure without a word. It’s mine.

  By the time we return to the highway, he looks a little less like a raving lunatic.

  “Come on, cow whisperer, use your favorite grandson routine and get us a ride.” I punch him on the shoulder.

  He flashes his thumb, and a five-hundred-watt smile, at the next car and it pulls over immediately. Damn, T is good at that. We run to catch up and slide into the middle seat of a faded red mini van.

  At the wheel is an old man, and his wife turns to us as soon as we get in. “What’s a nice couple of kids doing way out here? You’re miles from anywhere.” Her face crinkles in all directions when she smiles, and T smiles back.

  “We’re on our way to visit our grandma and our car broke down,” I say, but her eyes stay on T’s. What is it about him that melts old ladies? Is she planning to take him home and feed him milk and cookies?

  “Yeah.” T bobs his head, grinning like an idiot.

  The old lady glances at me for a second, and then back at T. With his dark features, he is the exact opposite of my pale skin and green eyes. We’re as different as salt and pepper shakers, but she swallows it. “You’re good kids. Where does your grandma live?”

  “Billings,” T blurts out the same time I say, “Butte”. We turn to each other, and there’s panic in his eyes. He thinks we’ve blown it.

  “Grandma actually lives halfway between, and we always argue about which place she’s closer to, don’t we, bro?” I nudge him with my elbow and he nods.

  “Yeah, sis.” His big weird smile is back.

  The old man is not buying it. “In a pig’s eye! You two are about as related as a duck and a cow. You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?” He had to say cow. The van slows and I can feel it coming. He knows we’re not who we say.

  “What are you kids up to?” His eyebrows bunch up under his checkered old man hat.

  If we don’t ‘fess up, he’ll pull over and kick us out. That’s not going to happen. “Turn right on that next road.” I flick open the blade of my new jackknife.

  T’s eyes bug out when, without warning, I leap off my seat and hold it to the old lady’s throat. She makes a whiny noise in her nose, so I slap her with my other hand. “Shut up.”

  “No! Leave her alone.” The old man almost swerves into the ditch before he gets control of the van.

  “Then do what I say.” I prick her skin and a drop of blood appears. She’s panting like she’s about to have a heart attack.

  “You don’t have to do this,” the old man pleads. He reminds me of my grandfather when he was trying to talk me out of doing something I really wanted to do. He knew he wouldn’t be able to change my mind, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Stupid.

  This old man needs to understand that he can’t fuck with me. I push the knifepoint into his wife’s neck, and she surprises me by batting my hand away. “For the love of God, what are you doing, child?” I didn’t figure her for a fighter, but it’s too late. Blood runs down her flowered shirt, and her eyes widen at the sight of it.

  “Wait! Don’t. Please don’t.” The old man’s face goes white. The van’s tires grind onto the gravel and back to pavement.

  Beside me, T’s having a seizure or something, his shoe banging against the floor. I shoot him a look and his foot stops, but he keeps the weird grin on his face. He’s not watching the old lady, he’s watching me.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven.” The lady presses her hands to her throat and blood drips between her fingers. She’s making a big deal over nothing. It’s only a nick. It looks worse than it is.

  “Do what I say,” I hiss through my teeth.

  When the old man gets control of himself, he puts on his signal light and turns off the highway. His whole body shakes and he’s having trouble holding onto the wheel. I make him drive at least five miles before I figure it’s far enough.

  “Get the fuck out.” I leave them standing like two crooked sticks on the road. T, always such a considerate guy, throws the old lady’s cane out the window before I spin the tires, and swallow them in a tornado of dust. When they finish coughing, it’ll take them hours to hobble back to the highway and we’ll be long gone. How’s that for thinking ahead? I’m smarter than T.

  “You stabbed her.” He’s sitting in the passenger seat looking at me like I’m a juicy cheeseburger with extra fried onions. “You’re giving me a boner, Lily.”

  “Keep your little friend in your pants. I ain’t got time for your hormones.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “We need to look for a new car. How long would it take two oldies to walk out and call 9-1-1?”

  “I dunno.” There’s a full tank of gas in this van and the engine runs smooth. “We can change plates somewhere. My old man is a cop. He said lots of guys on the run avoid getting pulled over by changing the license plates. You gotta find a similar car though. They hardly ever check the serial number.”

  “Your dad is a cop?” T doesn’t believe me.

  “He used to be, but he did some shit and went to prison. He’s probably out by now. We should go to Minnesota. He’s rich. We can stay there and he’ll give us all the beer and cash we want.”

  “No, we’re going to California.” T folds his arms across his chest. He’s stuck in his fairy tale dream. As if he could ever live on the beach and surf.

  “Look over there.” I point to a lot lined with retired farm equipment. Half-hidden behind a building is an old red van a lot like ours. “We can switch the license plate.”

  He uses a quarter as a
screwdriver and swaps plates. Useful. This guy is useful. He leaps back in and puts on his seatbelt.

  “Damn.” I pull mine on too. Maybe he’s on to something. If I don’t think about the cows, we’ve done pretty well so far.

  T bends the brim of his ball cap into a curve. “What did your dad do to end up in prison?”

  I knew this was coming, sooner or later. I tell him a version of the story where my dad and I were best friends, and it was all a big misunderstanding. I guess it’s my own fairy tale.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Derek gunned the four-cylinder engine on his rental car and blew the stop sign. Car horns honked and tires squealed before he heard a metal crushing impact. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, and smirked at what he’d created behind him. That unmarked police car wouldn’t be tailing him again. Not without extensive body work.

  How could they imagine they’d beat him at his own game? He’d worked plainclothes too long to miss the telltale signs of a retired cruiser, the patch where the roof antenna had been removed, the cheap rims, and the empty screw holes where the bumper’s push bars had been. They must think he was an idiot.

  There wouldn’t be a second or third car surveilling him. Morley Falls was too small for that. He’d learned firsthand that you had to make do with what you had. Right now, he’d make do with an undersized engine and an economy-sized car. Economy meant small, and small was easier to hide.

  He cut down an alley, took a side road and was almost there before he realized where he was headed. It was as if he was programmed to follow the homing beacon to Gunther’s old property by the river. He’d spent so much time driving back and forth on this road, first looking for Tiffany, then hoping to spend a little time with Lily.

  His chest burned. Tiffany was gone. Hope demanded he keep searching, but he might never find her. His daughter too was as good as gone. Beyond his beer, his money and his cigarettes, she’d wanted nothing from him.

  After what had happened to Gunther, he’d sure never trust her to fetch him a drink or he might end up poisoned too. At least Lily’s grandfather had survived. The old guy was a lucky man. Not only had he defied the odds, he’d done well when he’d sold his property and moved to a retirement home.

  The closer Derek got, the more he was convinced that this was probably the best place to hide out. It was familiar, and only a few would know the connection. Erin Ericsson was gone, but there was still that goddamn keener Z-man.

  Derek pulled into the roadside turnout, right after he passed the billboard advertising a new development of luxury riverfront condos. As he got out of the car, he had a pang of regret at losing his prized Mustang. He used to park it in this very spot when he came to see his daughter.

  The old trail through the woods was torn up by heavy equipment and what had been dense forest, rich with animal and bird life, was now a muddy mess. He skirted deep ruts in the earth, and vaulted a drainage ditch recently dug between the bog and the river, before he reached the clearing for the house. He stopped dead. It was flattened to rubble, pulverized by a backhoe, or whatever demolition monster had killed it.

  An abandoned dredging machine sat out in the middle of the bog, its suction hoses dry. Beside it was a bright orange hydraulic excavator, submerged to its muddy tracks. Attempts had been made to free it, and the bucket had scraped a halo of mud around the cab.

  He shook his head. Even with most of the water pumped out, this swamp still had an appetite. The company should at least come get their equipment before it sank to the earth’s core, like that kid’s four-by-four truck he’d heard about. They didn’t even have a chance to get a chain on it before it went under. He snorted. Stupid amateurs.

  The town children said this place was haunted. They told stories about the bog monster that howled at night. Lily didn't seem scared, in fact she was the opposite of afraid. He used to find her out here, squatting on her haunches, staring out at the little pool of water, and smoking his stolen cigarettes. Haunted or not, one thing was certain. The bog kept its secrets. Whatever went in, didn’t come out.

  He stood on the end of a plank that provided foot access to the area, mud sucking between the board and his shoes. There had been dry years, and wet ones, but he’d never imagined the land could be torn up like this. The little open pool at the center was all but gone, its water pumped out to the river. All this for a string of luxury condos, and cash in some developer’s pocket.

  The corner of something metallic glinted at him beyond his reach, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was. It was probably some guy’s broken belt buckle. Dredging a bog was rough work. He stared at it for a moment, and then turned back toward the shed.

  An electric line sagged between the power pole and the little building, now appropriated as the construction company’s site office. He bent to read the Stop Work order taped to the padlocked door. It appeared the company’s development permit had been denied and there would be no luxury condos after all. Protection of wetlands was taken pretty seriously around here. Who wouldn’t know that? Somewhere, someone was extremely pissed off about losing money.

  Derek smiled. If he’d had the cash, he might have bought the place himself. A nice new house out here would be perfect for his family, as soon as he got them together. Maybe he still had a chance.

  It took five minutes, and two scraped knuckles, before he managed to smash the lock off the shed door. He threw the rock aside and sucked his bleeding fingers as he stepped inside. Had they discovered the hidden room beneath the floorboards, or was it still harboring its secrets?

  A row of yellow hard hats, work gloves, and rolled-up site plans replaced Gunther’s neatly organized tools. He leapt forward when he spotted the beer fridge under the work bench, and eagerly opened the door. The wire shelves were bare.

  He used to bring the old man a six-pack every other week, but now he realized that Lily had probably taken it for herself. He licked his parched lips. The kid had been what, eleven years old back then? She already took after her father.

  On his knees, he checked the bottom shelf under the work bench and rifled through the cabinet. Lily was good at hiding things. He shoved his arm into the dark corner and had a flicker of pride when his fingers closed around the smooth shape of a bottle. It was where he might have hidden it himself. Should he drink it or put it in the fridge to cool first? Ice cold beer had its appeal but he needed a drink now .

  He twisted off the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth. When the amber liquid touched his lips, he stopped himself. He took a sniff. It smelled fine, but were those scratches on the cap?

  Maybe prison had made him overly suspicious. He set the bottle on the bench so he could examine it like he was at a crime scene. Was one crimp bent? Had it been poisoned by Lily and intended for her grandfather? No, she couldn’t have meant to harm him. She was only a kid. She didn’t understand what she was doing.

  If it had been opened long ago, surely it would smell bad by now. It had to be okay. He tilted it back, filled his mouth and filtered it between his teeth. Old Gunther had survived his granddaughter’s attempts to poison him, but Derek might not be so lucky. He spat it out and poured the rest beside the step, smashing the bottle against a rock, as if that would end the matter.

  Inside, grime from a dozen pairs of muddy work boots coated the floor, and he stomped until his motion betrayed the loose board. With the tips of his fingers, he pried up the hatch and peered into the darkness. A narrow ladder descended seven feet into a cinderblock-lined room with a dirt floor. He put his weight on the creaky ladder and climbed down until he could reach the light switch.

  The TV and army cots were still there, along with two slightly moth-eaten blankets. For a time, many years ago, Gunther had used this room to hide illegal liquor during the prohibition years. Throughout its history, it had alternately concealed stolen property, criminals on the run, and who knows what else. The paranoid old man had nearly died down here, trying to hide Lily from the authorities.

  He fli
pped on the TV and slapped the dust from the cot before settling down. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it would do. Add one more chapter to the hidey-hole’s history.

  He went over what he remembered about the night he’d blacked out. The last thing he was sure about was buying beer from Gina’s Stop ’N Go, and taking photos of the lawyer’s wife in a compromised position with his business partner. What the hell had happened after that?

  He wasn’t averse to making a man pay for what he’d done. After all, he himself had smashed a few noses, and broken a rib or two in his day, but murder? It seemed out of the realm of possibility. Still, there was the matter of the two missing cartridges from his pistol magazine.

  Had he really been firing at feral animals out his car window, or something else? If he’d ever wanted to kill someone, Ethan ‘Badger’ Lewis would be right at the top of the list. The inmate had made his time hell in Stillwater Prison.

  He rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers. It made no sense. He hadn’t even known Badger was out. In his drunken blackout, had he somehow discovered this, and gotten rid of the little bastard once and for all?

  He needed a drink but couldn’t risk going out. Not until the heat was gone. His chest felt tight. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  Derek woke up when he rolled over and his knees struck the brick wall. It was pitch black and he was back in prison. The bars were closing in, crushing him to death. A man kneeled on his chest, a shiv at his throat. There was not enough air.

  He gasped and sat up. The blanket was drenched in sweat and his entire body shivered. It took long seconds before he got his bearings. Had someone been in here with him? He was certain he’d left the TV on, but it was so dark he had to feel his way to the ladder. Panicked, he climbed up and shoved open the trap door to gulp fresh air.

  Once he’d filled his lungs and convinced himself that he wasn’t suffocating, he leaned in and toggled the light switch a few times. The power was off. The development company, now fully aware that the project was dead, had stopped paying the bill. Their timing was unfortunate for him.