Текст книги "Never smile at strangers"

Автор книги: Jennifer Jaynes

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 8

HE ROLLED A polished half dollar-sized stone around his palm. He’d found it on the bank of the pond and hoped it would remind him of the power he’d had with those who now rested at its bottom. Although it was only morning, it was already humid and it made his hand uncomfortably moist.

He dropped the stone in his pocket and rubbed his palm against his pant leg. Once it was dry, he studied the faint scars on the inside of both hands, an unpleasant reminder of the morning his mother held both palms against a hot burner on the stove. He was nine and she’d been in one of her moods. The seared skin had smelled awful. Her high-pitched laughter still rang in his ears.

He heard a scream. His head shot up. Trembling, he looked out at the pond, to the place where he’d let the girl sink. It was black, its surface unblemished.

He walked closer to the water’s edge and something in the tall grass plopped into the water. Stepping sideways, he tripped on a thick branch. He steadied himself, but the wetness from the pond’s edge had already seeped into his muddy rubber boots.

He heard it again. The cry of a human in agony. The sound was deafening. He shook harder.

Still staring at the pond, he covered his ears, and stumbled backwards. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m afraid, too.”

He thought back to her face as he’d wrapped her in the first lawn bag. The pale lips and the pastiness of her skin. The dead had a rigid stare, unforgiving. He was relieved that he’d duct taped her eyes so he wouldn’t have to feel their blaring judgment.

He breathed freely after killing her, and felt an elation and blissful calm no other act that he knew of could bring. He would have kept her longer if it hadn’t been for his sister. If she found out, it would be all over for him. He finished wrapping the girl and, an hour before daybreak, he was done. Carrying the body in his arms, he felt a startling rush of power and had even begun smiling.

He took her to the very far end of the pond, the place where he docked the small boat. As the girl sank beneath the water, another scream rang out and echoed against the still sky.

He shuddered with joy.

Chapter 9

ERICA DUVALL WAS a loner. She always had been. Her mother had been a loner as well. Not understood, not wanting or needing to be understood. Her mother had hated the people of Grand Trespass, and had wanted nothing more than to get away. Now she was gone.

After she finished the mystery novel she’d been writing, she left. In the middle of the night ten years earlier, with only a backpack, the clothes on her back, and a dream, she crept out of the house and fled Grand Trespass. But she made a mistake. She left Erica behind, the person who’d loved her the most.

Still, to this day, Erica didn’t understand why she hadn’t taken her with her. Or why she hadn’t at least said goodbye.

Erica had always been different from the other kids, which had, on its own, been social suicide. The other children didn’t like her, and she loathed them. She always felt awkward and uncomfortable in anyone’s presence. But that rarely bothered her anymore. She didn’t need anyone in her life except for her mother.

Now spread across the living room floor were magazine clippings, a thesaurus, balled up scraps of paper and scribbled-on receipts. She sat on the leather couch staring into a notebook. For the last three days she hadn’t been able to string more than two sentences together. She was stuck between chapters five and six, and she wasn’t even sure the first five chapters were good enough. The short stories hadn’t been this difficult. In fact, they had come easily and her teachers had always marveled at them.

The trouble was she had to write a novel. Not just any novel, but a great one. One her mother would be proud of. If she were proud, she wouldn’t be able to help but love her again, right?

She wondered if her mother had ever fought the demon of writer’s block. Every time Erica had watched her write, the writing had seemed to come so naturally. She had her routines. In the mornings, she’d pace for a half hour or so in her satin pajamas with her favorite mug between her hands. An Ole Miss mug that she carried everywhere. She called it her muse. She drank coffee or jasmine tea from that mug and tried to get the rhythm she needed for her writing by swaying to a Janis Joplin album, sometimes even Fleetwood Mac or Meatloaf, depending on her mood or the material she was writing.

She never listened to the Cajun music Erica’s father listened to, full of its whining accordions and muddy soul, the music that often blared when he was passed out drunk on the couch or the kitchen floor.

Her mother had despised the music and everything it stood for. She was a native of San Francisco, not a Podunk southerner from a town that barely existed on a U.S. map. She often told Erica that her greatest mistake had been following her father to Grand Trespass. She said she’d been blinded by love. A mistake she seemed to work night and day for over a year to fix.

After finishing her writing, her mother dressed and they’d make a snack together, usually pan-fried beignets. Then they’d sprawl on either end of the couch, eat, and watch old movies together.

But those days were over, at least for now.

Erica had been nine and her mother twenty-six the year she left. That was ten years ago, around the time her father began coming home late from work. For the long months leading up to her departure, the writing was all her mother could think about. She tackled it as though she was making up for ten years of wasted life.

Erica sighed and tossed her notebook aside. She flipped off the lamp and closed her eyes.

***

AN HOUR LATER, the front door swung open. Disoriented, Erica opened her eyes. The overhead light flooded the room, and she sat up. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

It was her father, and he was talking to someone.

A musky odor filled her nose and she sneezed. She watched her father scan the room.

“Oh, hi Hon.”

He carried a paper bag in his left hand and held the hand of a busty, blonde woman with his right. The source of the atrocious smell.

Erica sized up the woman’s long red fingernails, a color her mother would never stoop to wearing. It sent men the wrong message. Or maybe in this woman’s case with her father, the right one.

Erica scrambled to pick up her things on the floor. Her things were private. Not for her father to see, much less some blonde bimbo.

“Erica, this is Pamela.”

Pamela took a step toward Erica and extended her hand. The woman wasn’t much older than she was.

“Hi. It’s so nice to finally meet yooooh!” she squealed.

A mixture of anger and confusion washed over Erica. Finally? Erica shoved everything into her backpack and stood, not accepting the woman’s hand.

Her father cleared his throat. “Erica’s a writer,” he said, smiling. A fake smile. The type he used when he was selling used cars at the lot or when there were strange women in the house, though she’d never seen one quite this young. “She’s working on a book.”

“You are?” Pamela asked, apparently unaffected, her voice still annoyingly cheerful.

Erica groaned and marched across the living room, past the aquarium that was once full of her mother’s guppies. She had tried to keep them alive after her mother left, but one by one, they’d all bellied up. She’d mourned every one as though she were grieving her mother.

“Have you eaten dinner, honey?” her father asked.

Without bothering to answer, Erica escaped to her room.

***

NINETEEN TEA CANDLES lit Erica’s room. She’d dumped the twentieth candle into her bedside garbage can, part of a ceremonial act she’d seen her mother perform several times. Nineteen flames now twisted on their wicks, swaying against the air conditioner that had just kicked on in the small room.

 She leaned against her headboard listening to one of her mother’s Janis Joplin tapes. A bottle of white wine she’d bought from the young clerk at the general store rested between her legs. She took a sip, watching the flames’ shadows dance across the walls and splintering bookshelves of her room.

Her mother had believed the candles gave her creative energy. Erica sipped as she waited to feel some of her own. But she was distracted. Images of the new hussie’s young face and long red nails had her preoccupied. She shook the images from her mind and took a longer sip, then another.

Sometimes during the candle ceremonies she swore she could feel the energy. Other times, she felt nothing, and only ended up falling asleep with the candles lit.

There was a knock on her door.

“What?” she seethed.

Her father opened the door. “Honey...” he started, coming in and sitting on her bed.

She moved to the chair by her window.

“Honey, we need to talk.”

“About?” she asked, trying to sound as indignant as possible. Her mother had been indignant with him, especially after his late nights at the car lot.

“It’s about your manners. Your attitude.”

She raised an eyebrow and studied the floor. She hated people’s eyes, they made her anxious. She didn’t like what she saw in them. Judgment, indifference, hate, ignorance. She couldn’t even bear to look into her own father’s eyes most times. He was as ignorant as all of them.

Her words were an angry hiss. “Excuse me?”

He glanced at her nightstand and saw the wine bottle, but when he spoke next, he said nothing about the alcohol. Instead of being relieved, it infuriated her more.

“You were very rude to Pamela tonight. I don’t—”

“She’s still here, isn’t she?” Erica interrupted. It was already ten o’clock. There was no reason for that strange woman to still be in the house.

“Well, yeah. Pamela’s still here. And she’ll be here a while. She’s. . . staying over.” He pointed to the candles on the windowsill. “You need to be careful with those. Make sure to blow them out before you go to—”

“Sleeping over? Where? Where will she sleep?”

“Erica, how many times do we need to—”

Her head was spinning from the alcohol. “In your bed?”

“I’m a grown man, honey. If Pamela—”

“You’re still married!” Erica shouted. Tears swelled behind her eyes and she turned so that he couldn’t see her face. She was disappointed that she’d raised her voice. He’d mistake it for her caring, and she didn’t.

The muscles in her stomach knotted when she thought of her father sleeping with another woman. She wasn’t sure why. She knew her mother would never return to him or Grand Trespass. So it shouldn’t even matter.

Often she’d fantasize about sneaking into her father’s bedroom in the middle of the night and ending both him and the whore he was laid up with. That would show him. It would be so easy. But she had too much to lose. Namely, her mother.

The voice behind her softened. “Your mother hasn’t contacted us in ten years. I looked very, very hard for her. We all did. We couldn’t find her, honey. I’m not sure what happened. . . or why she hasn’t tried to get in touch with you, kiddo. I know she loves you.”

Erica remained silent, not wanting to believe him. She wanted to believe that her mother had contacted her father, and had tried to get in touch with her, but her father had in some way come between them. Her mother was perfect, something her father definitely wasn’t.

“Erica, I don’t understand why you have to make things so difficult. I try. I really do.”

He tried? She hadn’t seen him try. Did he think that the last several years of courting loose women and working late most evenings at the dealership was trying? How about giving her a rickety decade-old Ford F-150 that broke down twice a month, or caring nothing about her life? Was that trying?

Her father stood. “I’m sorry you feel this way. I really am. But I have a life, too. And I’m going to live it, honey.”

He walked to her bedroom door, then turned. “You’ll like Pamela. She’s a great lady. She’s different than the others. You’ll see.”

With that, he closed the door.

Now alone, the tears skidded down her cheeks. She wanted to scream at the door and say things that would hurt him. She wanted to hurl the wine bottle. She hated him. He was the reason her mother left her.

Chapter 10

LUKE’S DINER WAS never empty. Someone was always sitting at a table or lingering at the counter between the hours of six o’clock in the morning and eleven o’clock at night. Sometimes it was the attendant from the gas station across the street who hung out there to avoid her husband. Other times, it was some lonely widower, blue-collar worker or weary person or family passing through town.

Lazy-eyed Chris Robicheaux owned Luke’s and black & white photographs of his family and Grand Trespass adorned the walls. Among them was a nearly life-sized photo of his late daughter, Luke Anne, who had died two years earlier in a drowning accident on Trespass Bayou.

Haley found something eerie about the little girl’s gaze. Every time she saw the photograph, she was forced to turn her eyes away. Maybe it was the fact that the girl had died so young. She just looked too wise in the photo, too knowing. Her image made Haley wonder if the dead knew more than the living.

Chris was in his mid-twenties, but didn’t seem old enough to have a child. Especially a dead one. Usually when folks had kids, they had a haggard look about them. As though they were simply aging faster or had grown up in a way that was impossible for those who were childless. Chris didn’t.

Haley had stopped at Tiffany’s house before her shift that morning to find the usually well put-together Mrs. Perron naked of her usual face spackle and in her robe, clutching their poodle, Lucky, so tightly that he had yelped. Seeing Mrs. Perron, incoherent and with dark circles beneath her swollen eyes, she had a flashback of her own mother in the hospital the night of her father’s accident.

Haley took two food orders and passed the slips through the window to the kitchen trailer out back. Standing in front of the coffee urns, she massaged her temples. There was an excruciating pain behind her eyes, the pressure she always suffered when she’d had too little sleep or was under too much stress. She’d managed to get only an hour of sleep the night before. The Nyquil she kept at the side of her bed for the insomnia no longer did the job.

Her fitful sleep had been shattered with nightmares. A macabre series of troubling puzzle pieces. Someone banging at the front door. Her opening it to find a brittle, elderly woman on roller skates clutching Tiffany’s disembodied head by her once-beautiful, but now matted strawberry-blonde hair. . . Opening her mother’s bedroom door only to find it barren of everything but a dark cloud of love bugs. . . Running through the woods, fleeing a screaming, faceless person.

She stroked the heart-shaped pendant that hung around her neck, the replica of Tiffany’s, and whispered: “Where are you, Tiffany?”

“You say something?” Austin asked, setting the food order on the counter. “You look like you’ve left the state of Louisiana.” The diner’s main cook looked at her curiously.

Haley jolted. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were there. Was just talking to myself, I guess.”

He flashed her a crooked grin. “I wouldn’t let that get too out of hand. We’ll have to start worrying about you.”

He studied her and the sparkle in his blue eyes faded. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It was a lie. She was far from fine. Two nights had come and gone since anyone had seen or heard from Tiffany. Several men were now at city hall with the Perrons. At nine o’clock, a search party would begin scouting the woods.

“You sure you’re okay?” Austin asked. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m sure.”

He grabbed a newspaper from the counter, fished out the crossword puzzle and folded it in half. Before returning to the kitchen trailer out back, he rested his hand on the trailer door. “If you need anything, just holler. You know where I’ll be.”

She nodded.

The cowbells dangling from the front door of the diner rang out and the owner, Chris, appeared. He was dressed nicely in a crisp navy button-down shirt and black slacks. His face was, as always, fresh-shaven and even in the distance, his strong cologne cut through the usually-comforting aromas of brewing coffee and frying bacon.

Chris was always well dressed, more so than the rest of them. Maybe it was to take some emphasis off of his lazy eye which was so out of harmony with the other eye it was difficult to tell exactly what he was looking at.

Haley shielded her eyes from a ray of sunlight that had found its way in through one of the diner’s dusty windows and went to pour him a cup of coffee. As she sat the pot back down on its burner, she felt Chris’s hand on her shoulder. Chris had always been hands-on. Perhaps a little too much. But as much as she didn’t like it, she knew he meant no harm.

“Just heard about Tiffany,” he said. “Any new word?”

She shook her head and handed him the coffee.

“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured. “You know, when you mix with folks you shouldn’t mix with, you’re just asking for trouble.”

“She isn’t with Charles. Sheriff said he spoke with him last night.”

Chris mumbled something under his breath and reached beneath the counter for the shift schedule. “If you want, you can go on home. Kim can cover the floor before Erica’s shift. She should be in any minute.”

“No, it’s okay. Better to keep busy,” she said, wiping the counter.

He stood with the schedule and studied it briefly. Then, his good eye met hers while the lazy one seemed to study the two customers behind her. “I’m sure she’s just run off and is in one piece. No need troubling yourself anymore than you already are with your daddy and all.”

She hadn’t run off. Haley was sure of it. But she was too tired to argue, so she said nothing.

Chris’s hand was on her shoulder again. He gave it a little rub and Haley tried not to shrink away from his touch. “Change your mind about taking off early today, let me know. I’ll be out back.”

Chapter 11

BY TWO O'CLOCK, the lunch crowd at Luke's had moved out. Chris and Austin were scrubbing the grills in the trailer out back, preparing for the dinner crowd, and Erica was working the floor. As she walked through the front door of Luke’s for her shift, Haley was leaving, too rattled to finish out the day.

Erica hauled a rack of clean silverware from the kitchen and set up at the counter to roll it, all the while mulling over the possibility that something could have really happened to Tiffany Perron. She’d heard men shouting the girl’s name in the woods that morning and wondered what was going on. The word was she went out on Saturday night and no one had seen her since.

Most of the townsfolk who frequented Luke's that morning didn't seem to be quick to get excited about her disappearance. The ones who knew the girl seemed to suspect she was just off somewhere with a boy. It was the people who didn’t know her who seemed to be doing the majority of the worrying.

Grand Trespass, albeit small, wasn’t innocent of its share of crime. Erica’s mother, having done exhaustive research on the town for her mystery novel, used to tell her about the ugly going-ons that most tried to hush. An estranged spouse planting a bomb in a mailbox. Domestic disputes resulting in six bullet wounds to the head. Drunk driving fatalities, home invasions, check fraud, ritualistic acts involving the town’s domestic animals. Grand Trespass wasn’t a close-knit town by any means. Rightfully, people tended to be mistrusting. They kept to themselves, shielded their private business from town criers, and the smart ones locked their doors. Her mother had speculated that boredom, rampant alcoholism and general malaise were the chief culprits of the town’s woes.

The plump, 50'ish attendant from the gas station across the street sat at the counter talking with Kim Theriot, Luke's assistant manager. Erica listened to the two as she rolled the silverware.

“What do you suppose happened to the Perron girl?” the attendant asked, lighting a cigarette. When she exhaled, Erica could see that the butt bore a disgusting red ring from the woman's lipstick.

Kim wore a Houston Oilers t-shirt and was squeezed into a pair of blue jeans. She sat slumped next to the cash register, focusing on a crossword puzzle. “No tellin',” she muttered. “Tiffany has ants in her pants. Always has. Probably up and left the state knowin' her. That's all she ever talks about anyway. Goin' off. Leavin'. Becoming some big movie star.” She chuckled. “As if.”

Erica hated Kim more than she did Tiffany. And that was saying a lot. Kim was two years older and had been one of the nastiest bullies Erica had to deal with growing up. In grammar and high school, Kim picked on her relentlessly, spreading rumors and labeling her a devil worshiper. Once in the school’s bathroom she even threw a live cockroach in Erica’s hair. But Erica always acted as though she didn't give the older girl a second thought. She'd never admit to Kim or anybody that she could be hurt.

“Show them your weaknesses, and you'll be forced to own them. That's all they'll be able to see in you,” her mother had told her. She’d been right, but still, it hadn't protected her from the constant pain.

Chris wandered in from the trailer and went quietly to the front door. He stared at the sugarcane field across the street.

“A bunch of folks from Chester and Truro just began a new shift in that search of theirs,” the attendant said. “A man from Lafayette and some hounds of his are out there with them.”

“Sounds like the sheriff is takin' this pretty serious,” Chris muttered.

“He's just protecting his ass is all because she’s Julia Perron’s daughter,” Kim grunted, setting the puzzle aside. She unwrapped a piece of gum. “Knows he won’t have a peaceful dinner ‘til she has some answers. But you mark my word. There's goin' to be a lot of pissed off people when they find out she's just out gallivanting. That girl's lived a charmed life. She always will with those looks of hers.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame. All those poor folks spendin’ their blessed Monday not getting paid a red cent because they’re tryin’ to find her. They already have trouble enough puttin’ food on the table.”

Kim popped the gum in her mouth and looked up. A sliver of bright sunshine danced across her face, emphasizing the cavernous pock marks sprinkled across her blotchy cheeks. “Those windows are filthy,” she said, shielding her eyes and scooting her stool a foot to the left. She winked a beady eye. “Mind takin' some cleaner to them, Miss Erica?”

Erica’s face burned. Although technically she knew she shouldn’t argue with Kim because of her status at the diner, she also knew Chris would have her back if she did. He’d done it a number of times before. “Not in my job description,” she muttered, avoiding Kim’s eyes. “But it might be in yours.”

The attendant giggled heartily, streams of smoke flying out of her nostrils.

Kim straightened in her seat and squinted. “Excuse me, ma'am? Care to say that again?”

Soon, you'll be gone, Erica reminded herself, trying to remain calm. You'll be out of Grand Trespass, and you'll never look back. And Kim, she'll remain here with her crossword puzzles and bad skin. . . and rot.

“You ever wonder why you get such a kick out of bullying people younger than you?” Erica asked. This time she met Kim’s glare. “Because it’s pretty pathetic if you ask me.”

Chris appeared amused, but interrupted anyway. “Now, now, girls. Although I usually enjoy a good cat fight, today’s not the day.” He grabbed some paper towels from beneath the counter and walked to the door that led to the trailer. He regarded them again and although they stood just a couple of feet apart, with his lazy eye, Erica couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or Kim. “Let’s enjoy some peace and quiet today with everythin’ goin’ on out there. Forget the windows. I’ll get ‘em myself.”

***

MOMENTS LATER, THE cow bells clattered and Rachel Anderson, the creative writing teacher from the community college walked in. Rachel, wearing a long lavender skirt, her long, blonde hair pulled into a neat French braid, scanned the diner. Settling her sunglasses on the top of her head, she went to the counter and politely addressed the group. “Good afternoon.”

Erica noticed Kim and the attendant glance at each other.

Everyone in Luke's knew about Tiffany's affair with Rachel's professor husband, Tom, and they knew that Rachel only came in to intimidate her. Before learning about the affair, she'd never stepped foot inside Luke's. Erica admired the woman for being so confrontational, visiting her husband's mistress every day. She had balls and was taking a stand. There was no mistaking that the woman was strong and Erica liked strong.

“Just a cup of coffee, please,” Rachel said to Erica, smoothing out her skirt and sitting down.

Soothed by the woman’s presence, Erica reached for the pot of coffee.

“They’re out searching the woods by the Johnston's old place now,” the attendant said. “I hear the brush is so bad out there, it could take hours to cover just a few-hundred feet.”

“Searching the woods? Am I missing something?” Rachel asked, tearing open a packet of sugar. Erica studied Rachel's long, thin fingers, her polished nails, clear and beautifully shaped. She admired the elegant way her hands moved as she tore open the small square package. Rachel was perfect just like her mother.

“Tiffany,” Kim announced, “she's gone missing. You didn’t hear?”

Rachel's eyes darted from Kim to the attendant. “Missing? What do you mean missing?”

“No one's seen her in two days. She left her Mustang in the parking lot over at Provost's Saturday night. Never made it home.”

Rachel dropped the sugar packet she was holding and granules spilled onto the counter. She stirred her black coffee although she hadn't dropped any of the sugar into the cup. She looked disturbed and Erica noticed a tremor in her hand. “They have any idea where she could be?”

“Sheriff talked to her boyfriend,” Kim said. “He says he don’t know where she is. No one knows much else.”

The diner went silent.

The attendant pulled her tube of lipstick from her pocketbook and smeared it against her thin lips. As always, she smeared it just outside of the lines, in hopes of making her lips look fuller, when all it did was make her look like a clown. Erica noticed that every now and again, she would study Rachel. She wasn’t sure if it was out of envy, curiosity. . . or suspicion. People in Grand Trespass were generally suspicious of folks who stood out and most women didn't seem to particularly care for Rachel, but Erica believed it was only because they were jealous. Like Erica's mother, Rachel didn't talk like the other ladies. “Sugah,” “sugah dahlin,” and “cher,” this and that. “Cher bebe and Mon cher!” She didn't dress in muumuus and walking shorts and leave the house in old sweats. No, Rachel had pride, grace, style, and an education. . . assets that ruffled the feathers of so many of the women in Grand Trespass.

Erica had admired her since taking her first writing course at the community college. And now she was taking a writing course for each of the summer terms. She was one of the few people Erica had ever grown to like. And she liked her a lot. She was the closest thing to her mother she had ever known.

“Haley Landry was the last to see her. They went to Provost's together,” the attendant said. “Sheriff’s been making his rounds, talkin’ to folks. The Perrons organized a search party. Folks have been searching the woods all day.”

“Any signs of foul play?” Rachel asked, fingering a gold tennis bracelet on her wrist.

“Not that we know of,” Kim said. “That’s why I think all of this is bullshit. If she was someone else, no one would get questioned for at least another day or two. I’m convinced she’s just run off. Either a stunt for attention or she’s found some new boy.”

The attendant shook her head, lipstick stuck to a yellowed top tooth. “I don’t know. Haley and Tiffany are best friends. She’d know if Tiffany just ran off. Poor gal looked like death when she left. And after the horrible, horrible way her daddy died, bless her little heart. I hate to say it,” she said, crossing herself. “But I don't have a good feelin' about the Perron girl. Not a good feelin' a'tall.”