Edge of Midnight (17 page)

“Hot enough for you?” He picked up the second paper and slipped both in a bag.

“I could do with a little less.” She paid him with Kelby's money and took the bag without even looking at headlines. Holding the page at the end of her nose and shifting it around to read was embarrassing. She didn't want the world to know her weakness.

“Yep. What we need is rain. Break this hot spell.”

She agreed. She must get a tote bag to carry stuff. When would Stephanie pay her? Tomorrow was Monday, maybe that would be payday. On the way back, she stopped at Clancy's Bakery and bought two glazed doughnuts. By the time she got home, the sun was burning through the blouse on her back and she realized why iced tea seemed such a good idea. Never mind, she wanted coffee. The screened porch off the kitchen was not yet unbearable. With coffee and doughnuts on the small table, she settled in the wicker chair and plumped a cushion behind her back.

With a snap, she unfolded the
Chronicle,
held it close to her face, and made out the headlines. She sipped and nibbled, brushing at glazed sugar that fell in her lap. She wasn't the lead headline, but there was an article about her disappearance. After six days with no word or indication what had happened, foul play was suspected. Suspected? The foul play happened long before she left, when Mitch was beating on her.

She folded the page and on the bottom half read
BERKELEY WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH
. She brought the paper closer and peered at the small print. Local attorney Arlette—

Mouth open, she tried to draw in air. No. It couldn't be Arlette. Not Arlette. Oh God, no, please, no. Local attorney Arlette Coleridge … No mistake. Her hands tightened into fists, crumpling the paper. Arlette was dead, beaten to death.

When Arlette hadn't turned up for work for three days, a coworker went to check on her and found the body. Because there was no evidence the house had been broken into, police speculated she had let her attacker in. Whoever it was had beaten her severely. She died from the injuries. Mouth filling up with saliva, Cary dashed to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, and vomited a vile brown mix of grief and fear. When her stomach stopped heaving, she leaned against the tub, weak and sweaty.

Staggering to the bedroom, she fell on the bed and wrapped herself in the sheets. She wept, bitter guilty tears. Arlette—smart, brave, funny Arlette, who made her laugh, and made her see truths, and helped her escape. Arlette was dead. Not possible. How could somebody with so much energy and intelligence and beauty be dead? Gone.

No. No. No. Oh God, not Arlette. Cary cried and yelled and beat on the pillow. Morning turned into afternoon and afternoon into evening and she lay in the sheets, shivering in ninety-degree heat. Why? Why was Arlette killed? Why beaten? Because whoever killed her wanted something? Like the whereabouts of Cary Black? Was Arlette beaten and beaten until she gave him that information?

It wasn't some stranger who just happened along. It was someone she knew, someone she let into her house. Cary had warned her that Mitch was dangerous.

The crying continued late into the night. When Cary finally slept she dreamed, terrifying nightmares of Mitch chasing Arlette through the cornfield with an upraised ax. He hacked off a hand, then an arm at the elbow, then the upper part of the arm. She woke up screaming. Monday morning, she moved like a zombie, showered, dressed, and walked to work. Stephanie was, as usual, in a hurry, but she paused long enough to throw a questioning glance at Cary.

Cary knew she looked terrible, dark circles under red-rimmed eyes. She bathed Elizabeth, fed her, turned her, rubbed lotion on her back, and read to her, all the while preoccupied and wondering what to do.

When she lost her place in the book the second time, Elizabeth grabbed her wrist and shook it. “Haay.”

Cary watched her struggle to retrieve a word buried somewhere behind the stroke-injured brain.

Elizabeth hit the mattress with her fist. “Shit!”

Cary stroked the back of Elizabeth's hand. “It'll come. You just have to keep trying.”

“Sss—sssaa—ssad?”

Cary nodded. “Yes. Not very good company today. Sorry.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Wh-wh…?”

“Why? A friend died.”

“Kkkk—”

“Kelby? No, not Kelby.”

By the time Stephanie breezed back, bringing in a swirl of hot air, Cary had made up her mind. Instead of going home, she went to the bus station and bought a ticket to Topeka. On the bus, she sat with a damp tissue in hand, thinking about Arlette. In Topeka she left the depot, climbed on a city bus and rode until she spotted a phone booth next to a drugstore. She got off, fumbled coins from her pocket, and punched in a number.

“Berkeley Police Department.”

She knew the call was being recorded. The shorter, the better. “Ask Officer Mitch Black about Arlette Coleridge's murder.”

“Ma'am, what's your name?”

She hung up. They would know the call came from Topeka, and could probably find the phone if they wanted, but they couldn't know who made the call.

*   *   *

Ducking her head, Cary walked under a low branch that brushed her temple as she went past. A memory hit her like a slap, the strong odor of beer, the smell of it on his breath, the taste of it on his mouth. His gun against her temple when she talked of leaving. Gripped by cold terror, she stood behind a tree looking at the house. He was inside, waiting for her.

Stop! You're making up nonsense and scaring yourself. She forced herself to walk to the house, up the steps, inside the porch, open the front door. She peered into the living room. Empty. Kitchen empty. She didn't want to open the basement door. She could see him hiding back in the dim recesses under the house. Pushing herself, she started down the stairs. Her knees threatened to give way and dump her on the cement floor. The basement was empty.

Upstairs? The old house creaked and groaned. Nerves skittered along the back of her neck. She climbed the stairs, expecting a bullet to pierce her back, her blood to splatter all over Kelby's white walls. She eased into the little room that was used as an office. Empty. No one was in Kelby's bedroom. The bedroom Cary was using, also empty. Shaky, she smoothed the sheets and pulled up the bedspread.

What about Elizabeth? Had Cary put her in danger? Helpless, lying in bed, unable to talk, unable to walk. And Stephanie? Was she in danger? For helping, giving Cary a job? Leave. Take Kelby's car and all the money you can get your hands on and run. Oh yeah, that's smart. With her eyesight? Get in an accident and kill somebody. That'll help.

She could feel him out there somewhere. He would watch, from the cornfield, from the barn, from one of the other outbuildings. She was alone, with no way to get help.

 

20

At ten Cary turned on the television to watch the news, hoping for mention of Arlette's murder. An ad informing her she could get everything she needed for her party at their store reminded her of a party Arlette had.

Mitch drank too much and she drove home, only because Arlette had managed to get the keys and give them to her. It was raining hard, and when he got out of the car he stumbled and fell in a puddle. She tried to help him up, but he swore at her and pushed her away. In the house, she took his coat and hung it over the shower rod. When she left the bathroom, he was waiting. Tangling his fist in her hair, he smashed her head against the wall. She fought for breath as her mind struggled with how she could be lying on her back staring at the ceiling. Both hands at the neck of her dress, he ripped it, tearing off buttons. “Looking sexy, flirting with that jerk. You think I'm blind?”

“No. Mitch—”

“Don't play dumb with me. You think I didn't see what you were up to?” He kicked her in the ribs and the temple, and then stomped out.

Pain seized her chest, so severe she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. For twenty minutes or more, she lay on the gray carpet without moving. She rolled onto her side, brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Mouth open like a fish out of water, she stared at the footstool her in-laws had given her. It matched the chair, covered in dark burgundy plush, the legs were dark wood and curved out.

The following day, when she'd gone to Sylvia's, Arlette zeroed in on her. “You're moving like the walking wounded. Mitch hit you again?”

Walking wounded, that's what she was. “You know me. Clumsy. I was taking laundry down to the basement and fell. All the way down.”

Arlette just shook her head. “When are you going to leave that son of a bitch?”

“I'm all right, really, just a little sore.” The heat of shame flashed over her.

“He's never going to stop until he kills you.”

Cary hadn't quite figured out the pattern, but she could count on Mitch for at least one vicious rage per month. She learned to tiptoe around, make herself scarce, swallow fast when he hit her to stop nausea from flooding her throat, pretend she was asleep so he'd roll over and leave her alone, and worst of all, she learned to pretend she didn't hate the man she'd promised to love, honor, and cherish.

When her neighbor Peg had mentioned her husband got so mad he said he'd kill her, Cary had looked at Peg with horror and a shameful worm of happiness. She wasn't alone. Then Peg had gone on to say it was before the election and she had threatened if he didn't stop telling some silly joke, she'd go out and vote for Arnold Schwarzenegger. He'd said if she did that, he'd not only divorce her, he'd have to kill her. Cary hated herself for the disappointment that came over her. A threat of being killed was very real to her, only a joke for Peg.

Mitch was clever about hitting and damaging only parts of her anatomy covered by clothing. She wove a cloak of shame wrapped so tightly around her she couldn't get it off, and, she finally realized, no one else could get past it. Her life wasn't so bad, really, she'd told herself. Most of the time it was okay. She had only to read the paper to know a lot of people in the world were far less fortunate than she was. She didn't have to sleep on the street, she didn't have to beg for food, she didn't have to wear filthy, smelly rags. She just had to understand Mitch better, find a way to deal with him.

He wanted her to have a baby. Terror of getting pregnant had started small acts of rebellion. What he was doing to her, he could do to a baby, a tiny, helpless baby that she'd brought into the world. She told him she'd stopped taking birth control pills, she didn't know why she didn't get pregnant, but secretly she still took them faithfully.

She bought books. Mitch didn't like her to read. If he found her relaxed on the couch with a book in her hands, he'd yell. “Lying around all day reading while I'm out in the trenches.” She learned to read when he was gone, after she'd made the house spotless, done the grocery shopping and laundry, and planned the meals. Most of her books were from the library, but she had taken to easing out small amounts from the money he gave her for household expenses. With glee she'd sneak into the house, clutching a book to her chest, and hide it under the bed. She read at night when he was sleeping, while she folded laundry, waited for water to boil, chopped onions.

Mitch hated food with onions. When she left out onions, he complained the food was tasteless. He always criticized whatever she cooked. Too hot, not hot enough. Too cold, not cold enough. Not enough salt, too many onions. She tried different things, got cookbooks and used new recipes, but he didn't like anything. Occasionally she would chop an onion very fine and throw it into whatever she was making.

There was no mention of Arlette on the news. Tears ran down Cary's face. Arlette beaten to death. Mitch? To make her tell him where Cary was? Arlette must have suffered so much pain. All because she helped Cary get away.

Had Arlette told him what he wanted? If she had, Mitch would be coming for her.

 

21

Lou Armada, scribbling notes at his desk, looked up when Mitch walked in.

“You wanted to see me, Lou?” He was the only detective Mitch knew with a neat desk. No crumpled fast-food wrappers, messy case files spilling over, empty coffee cups, or any of the general junk cops have on their desks.

“Yeah, have a seat.”

Mitch dropped into the chair by the desk. His heart banged along in his chest like he'd just run a marathon.
Cary.
Something turned up. About time. God, how long has it been? The days all blended together and he'd lost track of how many.

Lou leaned back in his chair, giving Mitch the once-over like he was a suspect. What the fuck? She was dead! Murdered. He stiffened, clenched his hands. He couldn't say he was completely smoked. He'd been preparing himself for this.

“Who do you know in Topeka?” Lou said.

“Topeka?” That threw him for a spin. “Kansas?”

“Only one I'm aware of. Who do you know there?”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Not a goddamn soul. Why?”

“We got a tip.”

“About Cary?” Why was Lou being so cagey? What the fuck was going on?

“We found fingerprints in her car.”

“Whose?”

“Yours.” Lou looked at him like this was some big discovery.

“Sure, my prints are there. I own the car, for God's sake. Anybody else's?”

“Your wife's…,” Lou paused.

Well, that was no kick in the nuts.

“Some as yet unidentified.” Another pause, like he was getting ready for a big announcement. “And prints belonging to Arlette Coleridge.”

That was suppose to be a big whoop? Arlette was Cary's friend. Mitch wasn't liking where this was going. Hang on, he told himself, wait and see. He'd questioned enough losers to know silence came down hard, but, unlike those cretins, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. While he waited Lou out, he made a conscious effort to relax his fists. Without taking his eyes off Lou, Mitch loosened each finger and moved his arms until his hands rested lightly on his knees.