Sorrow Road (23 page)

“Great. Another authority figure. I don't have enough of those in my life.” She made a scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

“Hey. I've seen what that shit can do.”

She had a fleeting urge to tell him about her mother, the Raythune County prosecutor who had made it her one-woman mission to stop the drug trade in these mountains. But, no. She did not want to talk about her mother.

“You're not the only one,” Carla said, “who guessed wrong. I thought maybe you said yes because you were going to—well, you know.”

“Take up where that fat asshole in the Tony Lamas left off.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. The smile creased his face but did not reach his eyes. “You're a nice kid. And I can tell you need somebody to talk to. Somebody who'll just listen. Do I have that about right?”

She started to cry. Just a bit. She did not sob, the way she'd been doing lately, at the drop of a hat. Two teardrops slid down her face. She wiped them off quickly.

He did not react to her tears, which pleased her; instead he let a little time go by. And then he spoke, temporarily relieving her of the responsibility to keep up her end of the conversation. She was absurdly grateful for that.

“Been there,” he said. “When I was your age, and going through a rough patch, I didn't know how to handle myself. Didn't know what to do with the things I was feeling—a lot of anger and hate, mostly. All I wanted was to find somebody to talk to. Somebody I'd never met before.”

“And did you?”

“Nope.” Not a trace of self-pity in his tone. He was dispensing information, not asking for sympathy. “There was a family member who wanted to help, who would have done anything in the world for me, but that's not the same. Family's too close. Too much shared history. I wanted what you want—a neutral observer. I think it would have made a hell of a difference.” He paused. “So whatever you want to say—say it. Or not. Don't say it. Either way's okay with me.”

And so, with the pressure off, she talked. She talked about how, when anybody asked, she said everything was fine—really, really fine—but it
wasn't
fine, not at all, and about how, as a consequence of all those things she had stuffed in the back of her mind, like junk you cram in your closet until one day you try to get out your tennis racket and everything falls out on top of your head, she did something bad.

“How bad?” Travis said.

“Bad.”

She told him about how the memories now came back to her at periodic intervals, and how she could not control them, and how they sort of took over her brain, and she could not focus on anything else except how it had felt to see Lonnie Prince drop to the carpet, his chest opening up. The color of the blood. Lonnie. Her friend. And the three old men, dying right in front of her. That, too. It all came back, over and over again.

Not so much the actual
events,
but how it felt to recall those events. She remembered the memories. And that's what she could not get out of her head: the memories of the emotions, which were like the shadows of the events themselves. How weird was
that
?

He nodded. He did not look at her or say something stupid like, “I feel your pain” or “It will all work out”—and somehow that made it okay for her to keep on talking.

She told him about losing control in that store in the mall a week and a half ago. Why did she do it? She did not know. It seemed like the only thing she
could
do. Like she had to do something totally insane. Something stupid, something she'd never done before, something that was
not like her at all
. The opposite of her, as a matter of fact. It was the only thing that would get her anywhere close to equilibrium again. Balance. And after that: peace.

With both hands, she explained, she'd started grabbing junk off the racks—scarves and blouses and earrings and belts—and stuffing some of them in her purse and some of them in her pockets. Other things, she dumped on the floor.

Why? She did not know. She just did not know.

And then, when the cops showed up, she still did not settle down. She yelled a lot. She even took a swing at the officer. She did not connect—she was just flailing around, like a toddler in a bathtub who's just discovered what a splash is—but still.

I almost hit a cop.

Why? She did not know that, either. She was sorry right away, but by then it was too late. Way too late. The cop cuffed her. Read out her rights. Marched her to the mall parking lot and put a hand on the top of her head and shoved her into the back of a squad car.

“Must've been a sight to see, you having a fit in the mall,” Travis said mildly.

She appreciated the fact that he wasn't appalled. Nor was he titillated. He did not treat her like she was some kind of freak, or some kind of hero, either. He just listened.

“And so,” Carla said, winding up her story, “I came here. To Acker's Gap. I had to. The trouble back there—God, I don't even want to think about it. I
can't
think about it. Somebody from the court keeps trying to call me, but I don't answer. My roommates, too. But I can't deal.” She shuddered. “I'm hoping I can just hang out for a while. Maybe it'll all blow over.” She knew it wouldn't, but just saying it made her feel better.

“Could be.” He shifted his feet. He did not think it would work, either—by now she could read his body language—but he still said it. “So what're you going to do? Get a job?”

“Already got one.” She told him about the survey, about asking old people why they had decided, back when they were young and had a choice, to stay in West Virginia. “I'll be starting over in Muth County on Monday. I'm supposed to go to Thornapple Terrace. The Alzheimer's place.”

He had lit another cigarette by now. He removed it from his mouth before he spoke. “That's where I work. And I guess I'm wondering—how much usable information do you really expect to get from people who have Alzheimer's?”

“Not the patients. My interviews are with the staff. Most of the people they hire are old.” She clicked her tongue sheepishly. “No offense.”

“You're right. The aides, the custodians, the office assistants—there aren't many of us under sixty-five. At the Terrace, I'm one of the younger ones.”

“What do you do?”

“Maintenance. Keep the place up and running. Electrical, plumbing—if it needs fixed, I'm the go-to guy.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Forgot to ask if it's okay to smoke in here.”

“Not a problem.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Did you know that woman? The one who got killed? Who worked at the Terrace?”

“Sure did. Marcy Coates. Fine woman. Loved talking about her dog. And she really cared about the people at the Terrace. You could just tell. She'd watch their suffering and she'd just shake her head.” He shook his own. “Marcy had some problems, though. Like a worthless granddaughter who'd show up every few weeks, begging for money. I hated to see that. Drove Marcy crazy. She deserved better. But she had a real blind spot when it came to that girl. She'd do anything to help her.” He nodded, agreeing with his own point. “Damned shame about what happened to that sweet old lady.”

“Yeah.” Carla shuddered.

He let a moment pass. “Getting late. I better go.” He looked out the windshield, not at her. “So you're okay to drive home?”

“Fine.” She liked his profile. It was reassuring somehow, the set of his chin, the long straight nose. The fact that he was older. He'd been through things, too—and survived. “So I'll see you Monday,” she added. “At the Terrace. When I come to do my interviews. It might take me a few days to finish, so I'm sure we'll run into each other.”

“Probably,” he said. He tried to stretch out his legs. They had been jammed up under the glove box. There was not much room to stretch, but he did his best. “Except,” he added.

“Except what?”

“You'll be going back to D.C. any day now, right? To make amends for the damage you did in that store?”

His voice was casual, but still she felt ambushed. Okay, so in the end, he was just like everybody else: trying to tell her what to do.

“Maybe,” she said. She rubbed a thumb against the steering wheel. It was cold. Hell, everything was cold tonight. Cold and pointless.

“Your choice,” he said. “Just a thought.”

So he was not going to push her, after all. He was not going to give her a lecture. He had redeemed himself. She felt a peace returning, even a fragile optimism. “Look, Travis, I'm glad you were here tonight. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't—”

“You would have been fine. You're a strong woman, Carla. You can take care of yourself. Saw that right away.”

When he said her name, her stomach did a funny little flip.

“I wish I could repay you somehow,” she said. “For taking the time. For listening.”

“Not necessary.”

“I mean it, though.” Carla needed to make him understand. “It's like—even though I just met you, I can tell you know what I mean. You've been through it, too. You've seen things. You've been through something terrible, something that changed you forever. And the memories—they just keep coming at you, right? And so you have to do things that you wouldn't—things that you'd never believe you could…” She gave up. She had to hope he would get what she was trying to say. Even if he didn't, though, it would be enough that he tried.

She had never had this feeling before, with anyone: Like he understood her, without her having to explain everything. His calmness was rubbing off on her.

He shifted his feet. He was getting ready to leave. She reached out and patted his arm, as a way of saying good-bye. It felt funny not to have even touched him, after the intimacy of their conversation. Not so much as a handshake.

Mistake. He flinched and pulled his arm away from her, as if she'd hurt him.

Carla felt a sudden sinking dread. She instantly factored it all in: the skinniness, the pale complexion, the flinch.

Shit,
she thought.
IV drug user
. His arm was probably tender and sore from all the needles. No wonder he had been suspicious of her motives, the moment she'd asked him to sit in her car and talk. When that was your world, it was all you thought about, all you saw. You assumed it was all anybody else thought about, too.

Disappointment turned her voice into a monotone. “See you around,” she said.

He opened the car door. Cold air knifed its way in.

“Yeah,” he said. “See you around.”

*   *   *

Damn,
Bell thought, as the ring tone she had assigned to Sam Elkins cut through her contentment.
Damn, damn, damn
.

Having to take a call from your ex-husband when you were snuggling in bed with your lover, both of you languid and wet and warm and loose-limbed after a mutually satisfying episode of lovemaking, struck her as absolute proof that the universe had a wicked sense of humor.

She reached across Clay's body to retrieve her cell from the bedside table. As she did, her nipples brushed his chest, and the moment was electric; his hands were on her hips once more, and he was situating her on top of him. Bell resisted. Cell in hand, she rolled back over to her side of the bed. She did not want to, but she had to. Sam would not call her this late unless it was important. He was a bastard, but he respected her privacy.

She was brought up short by her ex-husband's tone. It was livid with anger: “Is she there?”

“Sam, I don't—”

“
Is she there?
I asked you a question, Belfa. I'd like an answer. I've been calling Carla's cell for the past five hours. Leaving messages. She's ignoring me.”

Bell sat up in bed. She put a hand on Clay's chest. It was her silent way of apologizing to him for the interruption. He placed a hand on top of hers—his silent way of telling her it was okay. No more explanation was necessary. He trusted her to handle this howsoever she saw fit.

God, she loved this man.

“I don't know where she is,” Bell said. Carla wasn't home; she would have heard the front door open. She never slept through that. “She's an adult. She can do as she pleases.” She could sense her ex-husband's ire ratcheting up, even as she spoke.

“Do as she pleases,” he snapped. “Right.
Right
. Well, what if I told you she didn't show up at her preliminary hearing today at Arlington Circuit Court? That she was supposed to be there at four p.m.? That her attorney—and the court clerk—have been leaving her messages all week to remind her?”

“Preliminary hearing? Sam, what the hell are you talking—”

He interrupted her with a savageness that took her aback, almost as much as the information did. “Yeah. That's right. I didn't tell you, Belfa. She begged me not to. Said you'd freak out. Said you had too much going on as it was. Said she'd tell you herself. Later. In her own way. So I agreed. And I got her released on her own recognizance at the arraignment last week. Hired a great attorney—a buddy of mine. He was going to set up the plea deal today.” Sam blew out some air. “I was a goddamned idiot, okay? I see that now. I didn't even know she'd left D.C. I only found out tonight when I went by that shack she lives in and started interrogating her roommates. They finally caved. Told me she'd gone back there.” He was clearly seething. “She played me. Our daughter
played
me, Belfa, and I'll tell you this—it doesn't feel too good. It feels pretty damned bad, as a matter of fact.”

Bell had to restrain herself from pointing out to her ex-husband that, under the circumstances, his feelings were the least of her concerns.

“What's the charge?” she said. A strangeness rose up in the wake of the words when they were applied to her child. To
Carla,
for God's sake.