“I did, but he isn’t completely swayed. He thinks the knife angle might have been affected by the positions of the people involved, or that Hurley could have hired someone to do the killings. He’s going to look into Hurley’s financial affairs next to see if there is any suspect activity. But I think the knife angles, along with that little speech you gave earlier, are enough to make both him and me want to dig a little deeper.”
“Good. At least he’s willing to give Hurley the benefit of a doubt.”
“What are you and Hurley going to do?”
“I don’t know. Hide out for now. Try to come up with something.”
“He needs to come in, Mattie. If he’s innocent, we’ll find a way to prove it.”
“But if he’s in jail he won’t be able to investigate things on his own. And whoever’s behind this seems to have a pretty extensive reach.”
Izzy sighs again. “Okay, but promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Based on your earlier reaction, I think I already have.”
“Yeah, about that . . . we’ll talk some more. If it turns out Hurley has nothing to do with this, I’ll find a way for you to keep your job.”
“Thank you, Izzy. I owe you big.”
“Yes, you do.”
“So I guess it’s rather presumptuous of me to ask you for one more favor?”
“What now?”
“I need someone to take care of Hoover and Rubbish for me until I can get back.”
Izzy chuckles. “No problem. Just know that if Dom spends too much time with Hoover you might not get him back.”
I hang up the phone, and while I’m turning it off I tell Hurley what Izzy told me about the angles of the knife wound and Richmond’s plan to look into Hurley’s finances. “It sounds like Richmond is at least keeping an open mind,” I conclude.
“It’s a start,” Hurley says, turning the car around and heading back the way we came. “But if I don’t come up with something else pretty soon, you and I may both end up behind bars.”
Chapter 36
The remainder of our drive is done by the light of a full moon, a good thing because after stopping at a twenty-four-hour gas mart to pick up some staples, Hurley drives us deep into the woods along a rutted, dirt road. I’m feeling like Hansel and Gretel when we arrive at our little hidey-hole, which turns out to be more a shack than a cabin. The scary thing is I suspect it looks better now than it really is and once daylight arrives, all its flaws will be clearly visible—assuming we survive the night. It’s basically a one-room, wooden structure with a front porch that’s falling off and a roof that looks like it’s sagging in the center and ready to cave in any moment.
“Is this place safe?” I ask Hurley, getting out of the car. The night air has turned bitterly cold and I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to get warm. I’m only feeling the cold because it’s so early in the season. Eventually we Wisconsinites adjust to the frigid temps of winter and by February, when any normal person would think Hell is frozen over, we might open our schools an hour or two late. “And does it have heat?”
“It’s a little rough,” Hurley admits, eyeing the place. “I haven’t been here for a while but it will have to do for now. Come on, where’s your camping spirit?”
“Camping spirit? You got the wrong girl. My idea of roughing it is a hotel without room service.”
Hurley grabs a flashlight from the car and uses it to examine some rocks beside the stairs. A moment later he lifts one of the rocks, produces a key, and unlocks the door.
From what I can see in the beam of the flashlight, the inside of the cabin isn’t much better than the outside. The place is primarily furnished with cobwebs and the few pieces of human furniture look like something I might see at the estate sale of someone’s great-grandmother. The air smells musty and damp, and I hear something scurrying about off in one corner.
“I think I should have let Parking Lot Guy grab me,” I say. “I’m betting his accommodations would have been better.”
“Assuming he let you live long enough to enjoy them,” Hurley fired back.
Well, yeah, there is that.
“I need to go outside and start up the generator.” He turns to leave, taking the only light source with him.
“I’m going with you,” I say, falling into step behind him.
I’m relieved to discover that the generator, which is at the back of the house beside a huge pile of chopped wood, has a large fuel tank attached to it. Hurley checks the gauge and says, “Good, there’s plenty.” As soon as he gets the generator started, he loads us both up with wood from the pile and we head back inside.
A short while later we have lights, our packages have been hauled in, and Hurley is stacking wood in the fireplace, which fortunately comes equipped with matches and a basket filled with packets of firelighter stuff.
“This should help brighten the place up,” Hurley says when he strikes a match and puts it to the firelighter. A few minutes later the kindling catches and the wood starts to crackle.
The fire is warm and reassuring, but a more pressing need comes to light. I turn around to look at the rest of the place and that’s when it hits me. “Hurley, where are the facilities?”
“Facilities?”
“You know, the bathroom?”
He picks up the flashlight and hands it to me. “Outside and around to the left,” he says.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Afraid not. There’s toilet paper on the shelf by the door over there. Want me to go with you and hold your hand?”
“No. But I wish you’d told me about this before I ordered a caffeinated drink with dinner.” I take the flashlight, grab the toilet paper, and head back outside in the direction he mentioned. There, on the other side of the cabin in all its smelly, ramshackle glory, is the outhouse.
I walk over and open the door, shining the flashlight inside. “Great,” I mutter as I look at the bench with two holes cut into it side by side. “A high-class outhouse.” I step inside and shine the light down into one of the holes. Just a few inches below the seat is a tower of spiderwebs with a half dozen little spiders in it and one gigantic one that I swear is as big as the burger I ate for dinner. I shine the light into the second hole, relieved to see that this one doesn’t have an arachnid condo built inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever peed so fast in my entire life, and when I’m done, I use the flashlight to examine my crotch and the inside of my pants before I pull them back up, just to make sure nothing has tried to move in and homestead either spot.
Back inside, I’m delighted to see that the fire is now a roaring, crackling source of heat and reassurance. I return the toilet paper to the shelf and walk over to the fireplace, turning my back to it to warm up.
“Glad to see you didn’t fall in,” Hurley says.
“Or become some giant spider’s bitch,” I toss back. “Have you looked down those holes out there? It’s the New York City of Spidervilles. And I’m pretty sure I saw a red hourglass on the belly of one of the residents.” I shudder at the memory and edge a little closer to the fire.
“I use them for target practice,” Hurley says with a grin.
With nature’s call out of the way, my mind takes in the rest of the room. There’s a couch facing the fireplace, a card table with two folding chairs, a utility sink in what I’m guessing is supposed to be the kitchen—though I notice it has no faucets—and a number of built-in shelves and cabinets.
After taking note of what is here, I then notice what isn’t: a bed.
“Where are we going to sleep?” I ask Hurley, who is loading logs into a woodstove beside the sink.
“The couch is a sleeper sofa. This place isn’t designed for winter living so we’ll have to tend to the fire through the night if we want to stay warm. Want to go fetch some more wood?”
Not particularly, but I suppose I need to pull my weight. Reluctantly I grab the wood carrier and the
