I held my watch up so I could read the radium dial in the darkness. Ten past one. Almost eight hours. An interminable length of time. “What’s that parcel number again?”
Mick repeated it, and I followed suit to fix it in my memory. He said then, “Luck, huh?” and I said, “And a prayer,” and we rang off.
Runyon, listening, had gotten the gist of the conversation. “How far away is Nevada City?” he asked.
“Maybe three hours from here.”
“Wait a while longer or head out now?”
“I’m ready to move, but once we get up there the waiting’ll be worse with nothing to do. Might as well stay put for the time being. There’s still a slim chance Lemoyne will show.”
Slim and none. It was almost four when we left the house-right out through the goddamn front door-and there hadn’t been a smell of Lemoyne the whole time.
There was no gain in taking two cars, as Runyon pointed out. He wanted to drive and I let him do it; he had better nerves and not as much personal or emotional stake in this. We left my car in the Safeway parking lot on San Pablo, in a slot next to the red Toyota. It seemed like the best place, and there was a kind of protective symbolism in it too. A feeling that if we took care of her car, we could take care of her. Another thin little hope to hang on to.
It was still dark when we picked up Highway 80 and headed east, but the first faint light of dawn had begun to creep into the sky by the time we cleared the Carquinez Bridge. Runyon drove the speed limit: there was no hurry yet. I sat staring out at the highway, watching the light traffic and the landmarks and yet seeing it all as if through a filter.
Lemoyne had had Tamara and the child at least thirty-six hours now. Thirty-six hours, and another four or five before we got to Parcel Number 1899-A6 in Rough and Ready. And maybe they’d be there and maybe they wouldn’t. And if they were there, maybe they’d be alive and maybe they wouldn’t.
Long haul for Runyon and me, but it was nothing compared to the nightmare the two of them had been riding.
25
ROBERT LEMOYNE
It was already dawn when he woke up.
At first he didn’t know where he was. He sat up, rubbed his eyes. His head felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton, but he didn’t have a headache this morning-no pain at all. Then he saw the slatted bars of daylight coming in through gaps in the walls and realized he was in the barn. On the old army cot in the storeroom. Another night on the cot in the barn.
He stood up, stretched, and went outside through the rear door. Cold. Always cold up here in the mornings. Got down into the twenties sometimes in the winter, when the snow level dropped below three thousand feet. He remembered two or three times they’d been snowed in, once for three days. Never go through that again if he could help it.
Blackberry vines were heavily tangled back there-he’d have to get the weed-whacker out, not that it stopped those suckers from growing wild. Nothing stopped them. He walked over there and took a leak on the vines. That wouldn’t stop them either.
By the time he finished he was shivering. Should’ve put his jacket on. He started back into the barn, changed his mind, and went around to the side where he could see the trailer. Mia was up. The kitchen lights were burning; he could see them faintly behind the drawn curtains. She’d have the base heater on, but not a fire started in the wood stove; she didn’t like to build fires. Lazy. Be getting breakfast ready, and it wouldn’t be much because she was lazy about that too. Eggs, toast, cereal. Hungry. He hadn’t eaten in a while.
He took a few steps that way and then stopped. What if she was in one of her bitch moods again this morning? She’d been in one last night… must’ve been or he wouldn’t have slept in the barn. Yelling at him, calling him all kinds of names, scaring Angie. If he went over there now, she might start yelling again and he couldn’t take any more of that. It’d wake up Angie, scare her all over again. She was only six years old, she didn’t understand grown-ups fighting and yelling all the time.
His head hurt a little now and the cold made his teeth chatter. He turned and hurried back inside the barn and found his jacket and put it on. The first thing he saw when he put on the lights was Angie’s dollhouse. Pride swelled in him when he looked at it. Best damn dollhouse anybody ever built for his kid. Biggest, too. Too big for the trailer. But he just couldn’t stop adding stories, adding rooms-it was three stories now and twenty-two rooms. When he finally finished it, got it all smooth-sanded and trimmed and painted, Angie would be so excited she’d probably wet her pants. She didn’t know what he was building out here in his workshop. Mia didn’t know. His secret. His big surprise for his little girl.
Put a smile on his mouth, thinking about how her face would light up and she’d throw her arms around his neck and tell him it was the best present she’d ever had. Made him want to do some more work on the dollhouse, as early as it was. He took a piece of plywood from the stack, measured it carefully, then turned on the bench saw and put on his goggles and cut four new wall sections. He added those to the stack he’d already cut-a pretty tall stack, now, but you never knew how many wall sections you might need. When he was done with that, he used the belt sander on some of the sections he’d already fitted until the grain felt smooth as glass.
The ache behind his eyes got worse and finally made him stop. He took two more Percodan-getting low, he’d have to finagle a new supply pretty soon-swallowed them with the last of the mineral water, and sat down on the cot and lit a cigarette and waited for the pain to go away. But it didn’t. Dulled a little, that was all. He got up and went to the front of the barn and stepped out again into the cold morning.
Lights on in the trailer. Mia, Angie… only it wasn’t, not anymore. That little girl in there wasn’t his little girl. Looked like her, but she wasn’t Angie. And the woman wasn’t Mia. Black, not white-Dark Chocolate. Strangers.
He went back into the barn and sat on the cot again. Angie, gone. Mia, gone. For three long years he’d been alone.
Alone.
Except for strangers in the trailer. Two of them this time. Why had he brought them here? The little girl, yes, because for a while he’d tried to make himself believe she was Angie. But Dark Chocolate, why her? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t think straight. His head hurt so bad now he felt sick to his stomach.
But he knew what he had to do. He didn’t have to think about that. He knew in his gut, and that made the hurt even worse because he never wanted… he only wanted… all he ever wanted…
He got up and found his shovel and pick and and took them out the rear door and around past the blackberry tangle and through the trees and up onto the little knoll. The grass grew tall up there-grass and ferns and milkweed. So tall he couldn’t see the graves even when he was standing right in front of them.
He tore some of the grass away, pulling up huge clumps and hurling them away. Then he could see the graves. One large, one small. No markers… he didn’t need markers to know… they deserved markers, didn’t they? A little moan came out of his throat. Wetness leaked from his eyes.
Angie. Mia.
Alone.
For a long time he stood looking down at the grassy mounds. Cold wind dried his cheeks, started him shivering again. He listened to it in the trees, in the eaves of the barn. It made sounds like a shrieking harpy’s voice. Mia’s voice. Screaming at him that last night, calling him names, telling him she’d get a restraining order if he didn’t leave her alone, telling him she was going to sell the property and take Angie away, back east someplace, telling him he’d never see her again never see her again never see her again until he couldn’t stand it anymore and he’d stopped the shrieking harpy’s voice
… he’d lost control and he’d… and Angie, she’d come out of her bedroom crying and saying Don’t hurt Mommy leave Mommy alone! and he’d… his head felt like it would burst and he’d swung out blindly and the crying stopped too and Angie… all the blood on her face where she’d hit the wall and she didn’t move… both of them lying there so still… oh God no!.. not Angie, his baby, she couldn’t be… he couldn’t have… she wasn’t dead she wasn’t
