Blood Country (29 page)

Two men were dead in the room, and neighbors had probably heard the shots. She had work to do. She had to take care of Bruce and save herself. She wiped off the gun she had inherited from her dad and that there was no registration on, and put it in Red’s hand. She rubbed her right hand on Red’s, so he would have some of the powder residue from the shot on his hand.

Then she walked over to Bruce. She was on automatic. This all had to get done, and quickly. He was so big and so heavy, but she needed to move him. She turned Bruce so he faced Red, and then she moved in on him. She put her hands on his chest as if to stop the flow of blood. She tried to resuscitate him. She slapped his fece. Her hands were bloodied, and she had polluted the crime scene horribly. Just what she wanted.

When she was sure that the men were just the way she wanted them, she went to the kitchen sink and scrubbed her hands down with the Scotch Brite sponge. If it would scour pans, it should take care of her hands. Then she walked to the phone. She called directly through to the desk and got Howard. “Officer down, Joe. Shit, it’s Bruce.” Her voice broke. She gasped. “I think he’s dead. Send over a squad and an ambulance.” She gave him the address.

Then she sat very still on the edge of the couch and waited. When she heard the siren, she made herself think of all the people she loved who had died, Bruce among them, and she cried. The police found her hysterically sobbing, bent over near the man she had worked with for years, her partner.

31

I don’t know how he did it.” Claire spoke the words through sobs. “He was shot, but he still pulled the trigger and killed that guy. He saved my life. And now he’s dead.”

The atmosphere was tense and sober in the small, dark living room that Red had occupied. But there was also a sense of pride and justice in what Bruce Jacobs had managed to do before he went down.

The bodies were still in the house. They had been photographed from every angle. Plastic bags had been taped around their hands. No one had even suggested that Claire be checked over. She had apologized for making a mess of the crime scene. No one had been critical. Everyone had treated her like she was porcelain. She wasn’t sure they were wrong.

Clark Denong, a homicide detective whom Claire didn’t know very well, was taking her statement. He had still been in the ranks when she left and, at twenty-eight, was fairly young to be made detective. With his slicked-back black hair and eyes that were too wide apart in his head, he had the demeanor of a bull but was actually, from all she had heard, a very nice man.

He told her, “I remember a cop telling me a story like this—you know, where a guy managed to get a shot off before he caved—but I never thought I’d see anything like it.”

Claire just shook her head. She figured she had said enough. She had been questioned off and on for two hours. She had said the same things over and over again. Bridget had identified Red as her kidnapper; Claire had called Bruce and asked him to meet her here; he had gone in before her; when she saw he was in trouble, she had gone in. Red had shot Bruce, and Bruce, in a superhuman moment, had in turn shot Red before he died.

She would add nothing to it. Less was always better when you were lying. She had learned that from the felons she had worked with. Now that she had given them the framework, they could piece the picture together, and for a dead officer, it would be as pretty as they could make it.

“Let’s get you out of here.” Denong helped her up. She had been perched on a metal chair they had pulled in from the kitchen. “I’ve got your statement. This is no place for you to be.”

Claire let him walk her out of the house and then ask her where she wanted to go. “I need to get home,” she told him.

“Sure. Are you going to be all right to drive? You live down in Wisconsin now, on the river, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll go get a cup of coffee, and I’ll take it easy.” Claire looked up at the sky. It was dark with the orange cast of the city’s ambient light. “You’ll keep me posted.”

“You better believe it. I’ll call you right after the chief.”

She laughed, then snuffled. “Okay. Take care of him.”

“We try to take care of our own,” Denong said back to her. It struck her as sounding as awkward as what she had said. They were both babbling, trying not to show how bad they felt about what had happened.

She walked down the street and crawled into her car. She headed to an old familiar spot, the Perkins on Lake Street, open twenty-four hours a day. Bruce and she had gone there often. She slid into a booth and ordered what she always ordered: a short stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, and coffee. But when the food came, she stared at it and then shoved it around her plate. She managed to eat a few bites of the pancakes, feeling she needed some sugar in her for the ride home. Trying to distract herself, she picked up the paper. She couldn’t go back and change what she had done.

At this thought, the paper started to shake in Claire’s hands, and she stopped eating. She put the paper down and stared at the spot Bruce should be sitting in. She understood so little of what he had done to her. How had she ever thought she had known him? What had made him think he could get away with it? Because he was a cop, did he come to believe he was above the law?

She sat in the booth and made herself think about what she had done. She knew after this night that she would try to push it out of her mind, but now she needed to face it. Once she had worked on a case that involved horrible child abuse. A father was beating and raping his little girl. When Claire questioned the girl, it was clear that the seven-year-old loved her father. All she would say was, sometimes he was mean, but she talked as if that were a different person.

Claire now knew how she felt. There was Bruce, and there was Hawk. There had been a terrible evil in her life, and she had killed it. That was Hawk. There had been a man who had loved her and was her partner, and she had saved his reputation. That was Bruce. They were both dead, and she would mourn the passing of Bruce. It was over.

Trying to take another bite of the pancakes, she found they had turned to sawdust; the coffee she was pouring down her throat was acid. She pushed the plate away from her and stared out the window. Dark stared back in at her. The road home would be winding and shadowy. Somehow she needed to make her way home. She threw more than enough money on the table for the check and a tip. She would make one phone call, and then she would drive down to Fort St. Antoine.

B
RIDGET WAS SURPRISED
to be paged at poolside, and then she was panicked. Only one person knew she was here, so did that mean Claire was all right? She bolted across the tile floor, slipping and then trying to slow down. She didn’t want to fall. The clerk showed her to a phone at the edge of the checkout counter she could use.

“Are you all right?” Bridget asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

Claired seemed to think about the question before she answered quite solidly, “Yes, I am.”

“What happened?”

“Two men died. One was Red. So you need never worry about him again.” Claire spoke very fast, words like darts on the telephone line.

Bridget felt relief sweep over her like a hot flash. “Oh, God, thank you.”

“You need to thank Bruce. He’s the guy who put him away, and unfortunately—” Claire’s voice broke.

“Claire? No.”

“Yes, unfortunately, Bruce died in the line of duty.”

“I’m so sorry. Your best friend.” Bridget wished she could take the words back when Claire didn’t say anything for a moment Maybe they had been a lot more than that. Bridget had always suspected a more intimate closeness between the two of them. She waited for Claire to answer.

Asigh, then Claire said quietly, “No, you are my best friend.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, at one time, Bruce meant a lot to me.”

“You sound funny.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Where are you?”

“At a Perkins.”

Bridget could feel relief rising up her body in bubbles. “Do you want to come down and join us?”

“No. I don’t. I want a day to myself. Can you keep Meg like we’d planned—overnight?”

“Sure.” Bridget wasn’t surprised that Claire wanted time alone. She had always been like that. When they were growing up, even if something good happened, she’d often go to her room to savor it in solitude.

“Don’t tell her about Bruce. Just tell her about Red. I’ll tell her about Bruce.”

“That sounds good.”

“Tell her I love her.” This time Claire’s voice broke straight through, and Bridget heard the tears behind it.

“Of course.”

A
FTER AUNT BRIDGET
told her in no uncertain terms that that horrible Red guy who tried to kidnap her was dead, Meg decided it was time to go for a swim. She hadn’t wanted to before, because she felt like she had to keep thinking about her mom so nothing bad would happen to her. But now she could relax. Mom was on her way home. She would see her tomorrow.

Meg slipped into the water slowly. She hated to jump in. It seemed so rude to her, such a shock to the body. She inched in a short step at a time. The part she hated was when the water reached her belly button. That seemed like the most cold-sensitive spot on her. Usually she let the water reach slightly above that, and then she would do a jump-dive. That’s what she called them anyway. She skipped up in the air, flung her hands over her head, and aimed toward the bottom of the pool. If the chlorine didn’t burn her eyes too much, she opened her eyes underwater. She swam better underwater than on top. Her swimming instructor had told her that was because she was too skinny, so she didn’t float, except the tip of her nose stuck out.

She was glad Aunt Bridget was going to have a baby. It could be like a little sister to her. Of course, she hoped it was a girl. A boy, what was there to do with a boy? But a girl you could tell secrets to, dress up, comb her hair, play dolls with. Although she hardly played dolls anymore. Now she was getting old enough to where she was supposed to care about boys. With that thought, she popped to the surface and started to do the breaststroke. She wondered if the stroke really helped your breasts. Hers were starting to slightly lift off her chest. She hoped and prayed they didn’t get too big. They seemed like they would just get in the way, like when you were trying to do the breaststroke.

After swimming around the pool for a while, Meg did her favorite thing. It was kind of silly really, but she loved to go all loose in the water and hold her breath and let the water hold her up. Again, her floating wasn’t much good, but the water cradled her, and if she closed her eyes, she felt like she was in heaven or at least in the sky. Then she talked to her dad. Now she told him that Mom was okay and that the guy that had killed him was dead. News might not travel from heaven to hell that fast. She wasn’t sure she really believed her dad was in heaven, wearing white robes and playing a harp. She thought maybe he was sitting around a table playing cards and smoking a cigar. That’s what he’d like.

Suddenly, Meg stood up in the water. She would always keep her dad in her heart, but now that his killer was gone, she could let go of him a little. She wouldn’t need her dad as much as she had. He didn’t have to watch out for her anymore. And more important, nobody was going to hurt her mom. Because if there was one thing in the world that had worried Meg, it was that something would happen to her mom. She hadn’t wanted to let Aunt Bridget know, but she had been awfully worried about her.

32

A
week later Claire was finally ready to interview Fred Anderson. She had the tape recorder sitting on her kitchen table, a list of questions, a lawyer at the ready in Durand, and her head slightly back on straight.

It had been a long, hard week. For much of it, Claire had been blaming herself for what Bruce had done. She should never have slept with him, but then, in quiet moments, she would remind herself that by the time she had slept with him, he had already had her husband killed. Whatever had been set in motion was not so much about sex, but rather about possession and his own greed.

She had treated Bruce like the honorable, generous man she had thought him to be while he was her partner. She would not have changed a thing that had happened between them. It was true she had loved him. Once or twice, she had even lusted after him, in that way that happily married people do, but she had never led him on. It had happened. And now it was over.

She had been interviewed several more times about the killings. Bridget had been called in, the forensic lab had verified what Claire described; there seemed no question but that Bruce deserved a badge of honor and that Claire had been very lucky to come out of it alive.

Then there had been the funeral. Claire had worn a veil and dipped her head when she should have cried, but had remained remarkably clear-eyed through the proceedings. She had been supported on all sides by fellow officers. Then she found out that she had been listed as a beneficiary in Bruce’s will. Claire thought it an odd way to be reminded that he had loved her in his own fashion. The fifty thousand dollars she would inherit would go right into a fund for Meg’s college education.

Yesterday, she had called Darla and Fred and set up her appointment with them. In talking to Darla, she had sensed resignation and wondered what would come out of their meeting. The truth, she hoped.

Claire checked that the tape was in the recorder, then left the house. A scent of lilacs was in the air. Her crab apple trees had burst into bloom overnight. A cardinal was singing his two-noted love song. She stood by her car for a moment and breathed it all in. Spring spoke of such promise, if she could only begin to listen and trust this new song she was hearing all around her.

B
RIDGET FELT ON
top of the world. Actually, she was on top of her horse, and it felt great The day had tipped over into eighty degrees, an early warm spring. She rode across the field and pulled Jester up before they entered the forest The sun’s warmth felt so good on her shoulders, she wanted to linger in it. She pulled off her sweatshirt and looked at the very slight bulge of her stomach pushing through her T-shirt She was almost three months pregnant, according to the doctor, and she was beginning to get over the nausea.

Her visit with the doctor had left her feeling more in control. He said he saw no reason why she couldn’t ride all through her pregnancy, or for as long as it felt comfortable. He told her that they had found that fit women delivered more easily. Of course, she should take it easy toward the end, but in fact a nice, gentle ride might even bring on the baby if for some reason it should go past term.

Then she could buy a Snugli, those baby carriers that fastened to your front, and go riding with the baby. It would probably put the little beast to sleep. Chuck was delighted he was going to be a father. He had stopped going over to his brother’s to fix cars and was working on getting the room ready for the baby. She actually told him to go have a beer the other night, just to get him out of the house.

And Bridget had decided to take a cooking class. She had even bought a cookbook, the one her mother always used—Betty Crocker. She had cooked macaroni and cheese again, and even though it was a little burned on the top, Chuck said it was great.

Then, under her hand, she felt a movement, a slight thump. “Whoa,” she yelled. “It’s sending messages,” she told Jester. Awful early for her to be feeling the baby; from what she had read, they don’t kick until about the fourth month. But this was going to be one smart being. It had already begun to be part of her life in a way that amazed her.

She wheeled Jester around and sent him into the woods. The cool darkness touched her cheeks, and she welcomed the ride.

C
LAIRE KNOCKED ON
the door and heard someone say, “Come in,” so she walked in. A middle-aged woman whom Claire had never seen before lounged on the couch. The woman stared at Claire, and Claire returned the stare, for this woman was a piece of work. She was tall and well-built, wearing a dress that showed off her cleavage. Her blond hair was swept back in an old forties-style hairdo. Claire kept feeling like she had seen the woman somewhere, but couldn’t place her.

“Hello, I’m Dora.” The woman stood up and formally held out her hand.

Claire shook the large hand and said, “I’m Claire Watkins, deputy sheriff.”

“Yes, I see that. Nice to see a woman in uniform.” The woman nodded Claire to a seat, as if she owned the house.

“Are Fred and Darla home?”

“Yes, they’re doing something in the basement. They should be right up.”

Claire sat and pulled out the tape recorder from her bag, then her notebook. Suddenly, she remembered where she had seen the woman before—she was the woman in Landers’ photo. This was the woman who had signed, “Love to Landers.”

“So you knew Landers?”

Dora nodded. “Oh, yes. I knew him well. I wasn’t at the funeral because no one let me know it was going on. I was so sorry I missed it.”

“So you were close to Landers?”

“Family, you might say,” Dora said with a smile.

Claire couldn’t figure out what Dora was doing here. Maybe she felt that she deserved something from the estate. But she seemed so comfortable. And Claire got the feeling that she was really enjoying this conversation. But then, she looked like a woman who enjoyed life in all its complexities.

Claire asked her, “Are you a friend of Darla’s?”

Dora laughed, slipping a cigarette out of a pack and lighting up before answering. She blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling and then said clearly, “Hardly. I’m her son.”

“Whoops.” Claire’s arms rose, and her tape recorder, notebook, and tapes she had brought in went crashing to the floor.

Darla and Fred walked in as Claire was reassembling her material.

“So I see you two have met,” Darla snapped. She did not look good today. She hadn’t bothered to put on her wig, and her own thin hair was stick-straight and plastered to her head. She lacked her usual bounce and aggressiveness.

“Yes,” Claire said. Claire looked at Dora and still saw a very attractive, large, middle-aged woman.

“At one time that person”—Darla pointed just in case there was any question about who she was talking about—“was my son. Now she’s remade herself into someone I don’t know.”

“Or don’t want to know,” Dora added.

Fred said, “It’s hard on your mom.”

“Get over it, Dad. She always wanted a girl. She told me that all my life. Now she’s got one. But you know Mom, never happy with what she’s got. She always wants what the other person has.” Dora turned to Claire. “But I think you have a reason for being here, and maybe we should get on with it.”

“Yes.” Claire turned on the tape recorder.

Fred sat down on the couch by Dora, and Darla sat on the piano bench on the other side of the room.

“Fred, you told me the other night that you saw Landers the night he got killed. Is that right?”

“Well, it was hard to see because it was getting dark out. I drove by his house. He was out in the yard.”

Before he went any further, she Mirandized him. He listened, but nothing seemed to move behind his eyes. “Do you understand all of this, Fred? I’m reading you your rights.”

“Yes. That’s why our son is here. I asked him to come.”

“Okay, just so you understand.” Claire felt sorry for the old man. He looked, as always, befuddled. She knew he was scared of her and hoped he would tell her the truth.

“Were you by yourself in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop your car?”

Fred looked at Darla. She was staring down at the floor. He seemed at a loss for words. “I think I did.”

Unsure why he didn’t know what he had done, she went on to the next question. “Did you get out of your car?”

He grew more confident. “I did.”

“Did you talk to Landers?”

“No.”

“Did you hit Landers?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Was Landers dead when you left?”

“I think so. He was facedown on the ground. I didn’t check on him. I was scared.”

“You know this is very serious, Fred.” Claire looked at him. “Landers died because of an injury, and you could be tried for murder.”

His face twisted up into a grimace, as if he were trying to hold something bitter inside his mouth. Fred looked at Darla again, then he said her name: “Darla?”

“Why did you hit him?”

Fred said, “I didn’t want to hurt him. He was my brother. He helped me out a lot of times. He always stood up for me.”

“I know that, Fred. Did you finally just get mad at him?”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

Claire waited for him to go on. Sometimes she found she could be too directive in the questioning and miss what people really wanted to tell her. If she kept quiet once in a while, it gave them a chance to tell their story. But when the story started, it was Darla who broke the silence.

“Oh, this is a farce. That old fart had nothing to do with it.”

Fred buried his face in his hands.

Darla continued, “He was there, but he didn’t do a thing. I slugged Landers with the shovel. I’d been wanting to do that for more than fifty years.”

Claire jumped in. “Darla, you understand your rights here. You may remain silent, and I am recording what you’re saying, so it can be used in court against you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nothing’s going to go to court. I’m not going to live that long. Look at me. You see a dying woman. What’d they give me, Fred? Another month or two, not enough time to pull this case together. Am I right?” She looked at Claire for confirmation.

Claire felt like this interview had gotten out of control. She stared at Darla, and now saw more than the signs of aging. Her clothes hung on her; her eyes seemed glazed, and her lips chapped and cracked. She was wasting away. Claire nodded in response to her question. “I doubt we could bring this to trial so quickly. But you’re confessing to killing Landers?”

“Sure. Why not? I’ve hated the guy since he dumped me. He always looked down on Fred and me. Didn’t think either of us was good enough for him. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with us, but Fred was his brother, and in his own way he took care of us. What that meant was that we had to do whatever he asked. We didn’t even own the goddamn house we lived in.” Darla’s voice shook, then she regained control. “He didn’t think Fred could handle that. So he kept it in his name while we paid for everything. And when we finally had a chance to make some money on our own, get into this development plan by which we stood to gain maybe a couple hundred thousand dollars, he wouldn’t let us. He said it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Mother—” Dora leaned forward, trying to stop the flow of words.

“Don’t you Mother me, you mutant. You thought you knew your uncle Landers. He was always good to you. Well, you didn’t know a thing about him. In fact, he was probably responsible for you turning into such a fairy.”