again.
Ridiculously, she could feel herself responding to his gaze. Ludicrous. It angered her and she felt soiled sitting in his filthy, moronic truck with its country and western music on the radio. She felt tired, too, and vulnerable, and her breasts were quite sensitive under the blouse and sweater, as if he'd reached across and touched her. She didn't understand or welcome the feeling, rejected it wholly, trying to keep it out of her eyes and keep the heat out of her face.
“I don't care which,” she said, reading his thoughts and telling him “no way” with her mind, tone, and body language. She did everything but print No Chance in the accumulated dust on the dash.
“Let me study on it a minute,” he said, guilelessly, in what he thought sounded like the voice of a man strangling on his own lowbrow thoughts. “It's—uh—you know, hard...” Hard. Jesus. “Hard to know—” He was closer to her than he had been. How had he accomplished that? Ray was behind the wheel and she hadn't moved. Maybe it only seemed closer.
To him she smelled like flowers in a springtime garden. He was getting drunk on her and it was hard ... hard to breathe. He cracked a window. He knew she read all of this somehow, on the wavelength where a woman's intuition operates, and he imagined her recoiling as if she'd seen a snake slither out of the glove compartment. All of this in a half second, and at least he had the wit to sense he'd conducted himself rudely, and with a woman looking for her missing loved one. He wrenched his thoughts out of the absurdly adolescent male fantasy.
“Charleston's out of the way. Let's head back this way,” he pointed, “and we can swing on back through East Prairie and Bayou City.'
“All right,” she said icily.
“We could go to Sikeston, back down sixty-one to Kewanee, and swing back through New Madrid, then take you back to the motel. You want to do that?'
“Okay, let's try Sikeston,” she said, “and we can see how it goes from there.” Sharon pushed all thoughts away but those of her father's whereabouts.
How many contacts would it take before she generated a single positive lead? Quite casually, a hideous thought intruded, and she realized a very frightening portal had been unlocked inside her mind. The crushing fear that something was terribly wrong returned and wrapped itself tightly around her.
The pickup truck smelled of leather, oil, Ray's aftershave, and something she couldn't place. She guessed it was her own anxiety.
Sikeston proved to be the reverse of Cape; everywhere they went, Aaron Kamen had already been there. When she left the last location she was exhausted, and they went back to Bayou City directly.
She thanked Meara, he said he was glad to help, and they each left it at that. She went inside and took two showers, one hot and one cool, crawled into bed, found an easy-listening station on the fm, turned the music down to enough of a murmur that it could compete with the cowpokes ramrodding the eighteen-wheel longhorns down Highway 80, and fell fast asleep.
Meara sped away from the motel and within minutes was knocking on Rosemary James's mobile-home door. Her friend Brenda opened it and nodded a bored hello, screaming “Rosie” down the length of the trailer. “You got company!'
“Hi!” she said, coming out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel. “What a nice surprise. What are—” He shut her lips with a hard kiss, pulling her with him, laughing, as they moved down the hallway to the bedroom.
“Tell Brenda you'll see her tomorrow.'
“Brenda, I'll see you tomorrow,” she called out, and Brenda was running her mouth about something, but the door was shut, and they weren't listening, concentrating on touching each other with heat and urgency, as he locked the door and eased her back on the bed.
Maybe forty, forty-five seconds later he said, “Sorry about that.'
“
They made love oddly, at least for them, him tucked into her from the back, and then he was spent and pulling his Levis and boots back on, telling her adios.
Rosemary's neck ached from trying to kiss him over her shoulder and she said to him as he went out the door, “Come again any time,” actually one of her funniest remarks, while she rubbed her neck and followed him out.
Meara was surprised to find Brenda still sitting in the living room, working a crossword puzzle.
“I'm just leaving,” she said, without looking up.
“Don't go on my account,” he murmured, saying to Rosemary, “Later,” and kissing her good-bye. She stood in the doorway until the truck was out of sight.
“Don't that beat all?” Brenda sneered.
“That's my love life for ya,” Rosemary said, half smiling. It was her day to think of funny things. “A pain in the neck and a pain in the ass.'
40
Meara was up before dawn and on Sharon Kamen's case for real. He watched the rain break before sunrise and the red ball came up casting fiery rays of scarlet, crimson, pink, purple, lilac, and lavender light across the ribboned rain clouds of dark blue and gray.
Sharon was dressed, luckily, had hung up the phone moments before, and was writing a quick note, when someone knocked on her door. She was genuinely taken aback to see Ray standing there.
“Hope I didn't wake you?” he said, a polite questioning tone in his voice.
Yeah, she thought, I always sleep fully clothed. She shook her head no.
“There's flash flood watches forecast and it's probably gonna get a little hairy around here. I talked to this old boy I know, me and him go way back, and I asked him about this guy who lives in New Madrid. He's about seventy. I told your dad about him but I didn't think to put his name on your list. He's a river rat. Got these two boys meaner'n snakes, and a couple girls worse than they are. They poach. Dynamite fish.” He then said a word she didn't recognize. “I know they jacklight, bunch dogs—pick up strays, all that good stuff. If he was the guy and your dad braced him about it, well I think we might ought to go to Sheriff Pritchett with it, the guy in New Madrid, too.'
“We?” She still didn't get it.
“There's another old guy in New Madrid would be worth talking to, and this would be a chance to drive in. You might have to boat there if you don't go now.” He made boating in sound like something incredibly tedious and complicated. “Better we go ahead and get started, if you think you want to.'
“Let me think for a second,” she said. He had a point. She'd barely been able to hear on the phone. That would probably be the next thing—the phones would go. “Maybe we could just call down there?” But he was moving toward the parking lot.
“Water's already in a lot of the terminals. Come on, Sharon. Might be your only shot for a while if that river pushes on in.'
She got her purse and slammed the door. “I need to come back right away, though, Ray. I've got scads of stuff to get done today.” Her tone was not particularly gracious and she didn't care.
Neither did he, apparently, as he didn't bother to reply. She got in the truck, which didn't seem quite as dirty as it had the day before, and shut the passenger door. A young, male, adenoidal jock's voice sing-songed through rip ‘n’ read weather news:
“It's the wettest on record. Thirteen inches for the month. We had our wettest day yesterday, with eight point twenty-seven inches. Flash-flood watches forecast for the Missouri Bootheel and southern III—” Meara stabbed at the station selector but it was as if the second station were an unbroken continuation of the first.
“—above flood stage at Frankfort and portions of the parkway are closed this morning. Evacuation is under way along the Cumberland where many communities are flooded as the rivers reach record levels. The flooding—”
