“People who murder other people don’t think straight. If some guy shot Travers in his kitchen, moved the body in the man’s own truck, then hid the truck in the man’s own garage, I don’t think he’s the kind of criminal who’s going to find it illogical to attack a woman who sticks her nose into his business.”
“It doesn’t sound like you suspect Francy anymore, anyway.”
“I haven’t ruled anybody out. I talked to Mrs. Travers today and she’s cleared up some of the personal details, that’s all. We would be progressing quicker if you and your aunt hadn’t decided to play Underground Railroad, though.”
“Have you talked to Freddy yet?”
“I’m on my way to do that now,” he said. “You haven’t, have you?”
“No. I was going to have a chat with him after talking to Spit at the hospital, but then I stopped off at the Travers’ to get Lug-nut and I found the truck instead. I can’t do everything for you.”
He frowned. “You’re not involved with him in some way, are you?”
“Freddy? Hardly. Why?”
“Just something you said. Never mind.” He fidgeted and looked at his notebook.
I cast my mind back to our heated conversation in the hospital corridor. Then I laughed, remembering.
“Oh, you mean my fiancé? That was a joke. A Spit-joke. He knew what I meant.”
“You’re always joking about things like that. First Mr. Hoito, then Freddy. You’re one very confusing lady.”
“I like to be unpredictable,” I said. “I like to play with people’s expectations of me. What amazes me is what people will believe, once they decide you’re different. It’s fun.”
“It’s fun being different, is that it?”
“More or less. The problem is, once you get a taste for the unconventional, the normal becomes absurd.”
“Like having a phone or electricity? Or co-operating with the police? You find these things absurd?”
“If you can manage without them, yes,” I said.
“If you co-operated with us more, we’d be solving this thing quicker,” Becker said. “And if you had a phone, then we could call to check on you instead of me hiking up here every damned day.”
“Why does everyone suddenly have this thing about me being okay?” I said. “I’ve been living alone for three years with no trouble at all, and now everyone suddenly thinks I’m this soft, fluffy, vulnerable little cream-puff. What is it with you guys?”
“And if you had a phone,” Becker went on, ignoring what I was saying, “I could call to ask you out instead of having to do it in person.”
“What?”
“But that would probably be too conventional for you and you would just write me off as another one of those absurd normal guys you joke about.”
“Are you asking me out?” I said.
“Well, yes.”
“Are you allowed to do that?”
“Not really, seeing as you’re involved in the case. If you’d just keep out of it, it wouldn’t be so far out of line.”
“Oh. That’s why you want me to mind my own business? So you can ask me out? Holy shit.”
“Watch your language. How about tomorrow? I’ll pick you up.”
“Tomorrow? I—well, sure. Yes. Thanks. What time?”
“Seven-thirty. I’ll bring the statement for you to sign and I won’t come in a police car, unless you think that might be fun and different.”
“No police car.”
“Right. Thanks for the coffee. See you.” He almost ran out of the cabin, his face crimson. He left his pen behind. It was a nice pen, a Shaeffer. It was still warm.
Seventeen
Edge of the forest you lose your breath
trip over a sliver of bone
flat-nosed to the cinnamon loam
you laugh at death.
—Shepherd’s Pie
Mark Becker and I are wading hand in hand through a spring meadow on soft-focus. We are looking for a secluded spot to spread out a blanket and have thumping, roaring, unprotected sex. I am so hot I am holding my crotch. Suddenly we are surrounded by a herd of large, ferocious white poodles, all snarling. Their teeth are long and yellow. Mark reaches for his gun…
I sat upright, totally bewildered, interrupted by a nightmare in the middle of a wet-dream. Lug-nut was hysterical, throwing himself against the door of the cabin and I was frozen solid in bed, one hand still glued to my privates, the other stubbornly refusing to respond to my command to grab the matches and light my bedside candle.
Becker had been right. I should have gone down to George’s for a couple of nights. Now I was about to be raped and murdered and Becker would find me first. Or George.
I stayed in that horror-movie mode for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Lug-nut was making too much noise for me to be able to hear what was outside, but I felt it—a presence, and I just sat there, hoping it would go away. I said “please” a couple of times, but I don’t know who I was addressing or if I said it aloud. When the presence went away I was too frightened to say thank you.
The dog finally moved away from the door, still whining, and I lit my candle, slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the kitchen area, lighting every candle and oil lamp I could find. No phone, eh? No electricity. No gun. “I can take care of myself,” I’d said. Well, that only applied for as long as I was certain that nobody was out to get me. I looked around the cabin. The only weapon I could find was my hatchet, a beautiful little Estwing with fine balance and a leather handle.
I picked it up and hefted it. Solid, yes, but with a reach of about eight inches. I supposed I could bonk an intruder on the head with it if he got close enough, but it would be a messy business. If I lived till morning, I resolved to ask George if I could borrow his shotgun—not that I know dick about guns, but a firearm would make me feel a hell of a lot braver than the hatchet made me feel.
I made a big fuss of Lug-nut, praising him for scaring off whoever it was—I had no illusions that it had been a raccoon.
Then I made coffee and settled in for the seige, propping myself up in the armchair next to the stove, cradling the hatchet.
When I woke up, I was stiff and sore. The hatchet had fallen to the floor and Lug-nut was guarding it with both paws, as if it might escape.
I groaned and stretched, discovering a nasty ging in my neck which prevented me from turning my head to the right. If somebody tried to sneak up on me from behind, I was dead.
I lit the burner under last night’s coffee and sat at the kitchen table, whimpering. I have never been good with pain. Aunt Susan once told me never to go into the spy business. She said that the enemy would be able to get secrets out of me just by threatening to cut my fingernails.
Lug-nut was padding around the cabin with a distressed look on his face. I finally realized that he had to go out to do the thing that dogs must do, and I hauled myself upright and opened the door, following him to get a bead on the morning.
While the dog peed against the porch steps, I examined the dead squirrel nailed to the front door.
It was a big one. It had been shot in the head with what