Lemoyne coming out of the woods. Carrying Lauren with one arm, slung loosely up across his shoulder, head wobbling, thin arms dangling.
Dead, he killed her!
The thought brought on a surge of emotion so intense her whole body shook. But then, as Lemoyne plowed through the tall grass toward the trailer, she saw the child’s head move, one arm slide upward and the small hand clutch at his shirt collar. Sweet Lord Jesus. Not dead, but… hurt? Couldn’t tell from here New thought: Don’t let him see you at this window.
Tamara pulled the frying pan down, backed off quick. Scrapes and gouges on the wall… if he came in here, he’d know right away what she’d been up to. Nothing she could do about it, except try to keep him out of here.
She ran into the kitchen, set the frying pan on the drain-board, splashed cold water on her sweaty face. There were a couple of raw scrapes on her fingers, too, she saw then. Make up an excuse if he noticed them. She washed away the dribbles of blood, used the dish towel to dry off.
Lemoyne was out front by then. Through the kitchen window she saw him come into view, still carrying Lauren in that careless slung-up way. Maybe this time he’d just unlock the door and walk right in and she could cave in his skull with the frying pan. But she knew he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.
She heard his key rattle in the lock. Then, “Come on out here, Dark Chocolate. Bring some mineral water with you. Two bottles.”
She put the pan away in the drawer. He’d bought half a dozen plastic bottles of Crystal Geyser at the store, sucked on one all through lunch. She took two more from the fridge, opened the door, and stepped out onto the tiny porch.
He’d set Lauren down on the bottom step, was standing off a few paces with a cancer stick hanging out of his mouth. The little girl sat slumped, her face sheened with sweat, the residue of what looked like vomit around her mouth. She perked up a little when she saw Tamara, scooted over, and clutched at her pant leg.
“Kid’s sick,” Lemoyne said. But not as if he was concerned about it. Flat voice, no feeling in it at all. “She puked out there in the woods.”
“I told you, man.”
“Put the water on the step there. Then take her inside, put her to bed.”
“She needs a doctor.”
“No doctor. The hell with that.”
“You want her to get worse, maybe catch pneumonia?”
“I don’t care.”
“Don’t care? Your own daughter?”
“She’s not Angie,” he said in that same flat voice.
“What?”
“She’s not my little girl. I don’t know who she is.”
Tamara set the bottles down, scooped Lauren into her arms. Inside the trailer, as Lemoyne locked the door again, she took a closer look at the girl. No visible marks on her, no sign that her clothes had been messed with.
“What’d you do out there in the woods, honey?”
“Nothing. He wanted to play a game.”
“What kind of game?”
“Angie’s game. Naming things. Trees and things.”
“He didn’t touch you or anything?”
“Uh-uh. But he didn’t like it when I threw up. He yelled at me. I couldn’t help it, Tamara. I was dizzy, I couldn’t help it.”
“I know you couldn’t.”
“He yelled at me another time too, ‘cause I couldn’t play Angie’s game. I’m not Angie, I don’t how to play her game.”
Tamara carried her into the smaller bedroom, put her down on the bed, and covered her. Cool enough in there now with the window open, air coming in.
“I feel awful,” Lauren said. “Awful hot.”
“Try to sleep, okay? You’ll feel better after you wake up.”
“Can I go home then? I miss Mama and Daddy.”
“I know, baby, I know.”
All afternoon, Lemoyne left them alone. He spent a few minutes in the barn, the rest of the time on his ass under a shade tree on the creek bank, drinking bottled water and smoking and staring off into space. The tree was too close to the trailer, fifty yards or so, for Tamara to mount another attack on the window screen. She couldn’t use the frying pan without making some noise, and in the country quiet noise carried; the one time she tried, it brought him over quick. But all he did was stand out front for a few seconds and yell at her to knock off whatever the hell she was doing. Didn’t seem to be worried, or even to care much.
That was bad. Another bad was him sitting over there like that, brooding. Third and worst was him not wanting anything more to do with Lauren, saying, She’s not Angie, I don’t know who she is, in that flat voice. Long as he’d believed she was his daughter, she’d been safe enough-they both had. But she couldn’t be what she wasn’t, and she’d gotten sick, and now his fantasy was busted and he’d lost interest, didn’t care about her anymore.
A liability, that was all she was now. Same as Tamara Corbin, the Dark Chocolate Dick, had been all along. Two liabilities on his hands, and only one thing he could do about them.
Question was, how long would it take for him to juice himself up to it?
Bigger question than that, girl: Is there any damn thing you can do to stop him?
20
The 1100 block of Willard Street had more life to it at this hour, just past dusk. Lights in most of the houses, a guy watering his front lawn, a Hispanic couple walking a dog, a kid doing tricks on a skateboard. Number 1122, the house Tamara had been staking out, still appeared deserted-windows all dark, driveway empty. I parked in front, checked again to make sure my cell phone was on and functioning, then went up and thumbed the doorbell anyway. No answer.
When I came back to the sidewalk, the Hispanic couple was standing nearby, watching their pooch take a leak on a curbside tree with all the rapt attention of a pair of scientists studying a laboratory phenomenon. I tried them first, but their English wasn’t good and my Spanish even worse and I had trouble getting across what I was after. The kid on the skateboard didn’t want any part of me or any adult; all I got out of him was a sneer and some slang phrases that were even less comprehensible than the Hispanic couple’s English. The guy watering his lawn was on the same side of the street, a couple of houses removed from 1122. I went on down there to see if he had anything to tell me.
A little, it turned out. There were nightlights along the front walk and two more on a pair of gateposts, so when he came over I got a good look at him. In his upper seventies, lean, energetic, with a full head of wavy hair that didn’t seem to have much gray in it. And the friendly, gregarious type; before I was able to start unloading my questions, I knew that we shared a first name and that his last name was Powers, he was a retired production manager for Sikorsky Aircraft in Connecticut, and that he’d moved out here some years ago to be near his married daughter.
“Oh, sure,” he said when I managed to steer the conversation to Tamara, “I noticed her. Parked across the street the past couple of nights. ‘Ninety-six Toyota Camry, probably red. Cars are a hobby of mine.”
“Saw her as well as the car, is that right?”
“Yep. I like to take walks around the neighborhood after supper. Helps me digest. She was crossing the street when I came out, on the way to her car. Passed under the streetlight up there, so I got a pretty good look at her. Nice-looking young black woman.”
“When was this?”
“Last night, around eight or so.”
