Cover Your Tracks Page 7

  CHAPTER 15

  Even at the ripe old age of sixteen, Margo was still excited to attend her father’s annual university picnic at Riverfront Park. The event, for faculty and their families only, was always held in early September, just before classes began. Almost always, the weather was still warm, and she looked forward to all the planned activities—badminton, softball, and without question, the whitewater rafting. Not only was the event fun, but it also marked one of the few occasions when their father seemed to bend some of the rules, if only slightly. Was this because he enjoyed the picnic or because Professor Anthony Fletcher didn’t want to play the martinet in front of his peers?

  On that day, he pulled the old Country Squire into the lot parking lot and stopped near the attendant, a young blond woman wearing cutoff jeans and a halter top.

  “Hi, Professor Fletcher,” the woman said in a German accent. “Go to the third row, make a right, and take the end spot by the woods. The shade will keep the car cool.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Stuhlmeyer,” their father said.

  Margo wanted to hide under the seat. She was riding in the way back next to her little sister, Blanche. Greta Stuhlmeyer was their father’s graduate student, a mathematical whiz. Not only was Greta brilliant and really pretty, but she was nice. Margo liked her. She didn’t act snooty or nervous like a lot of the other students. She was at the park now because the grad students got to work the picnic grounds in exchange for the right to hobnob with the faculty.

  Their father gave a perfunctory wave to Greta then pulled the car around to the parking space.

  “I’m going to get a halter top like Greta’s,” she whispered to her older sister, Heather. “The boys will love it.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” their father said. “No daughter of mine is going to dress like a slut while she’s living under my roof.”

  Margo couldn’t believe he’d overheard.

  “Oh, Anthony, stop,” their mother said. “She’s a teenager. It’s just talk. Leave her alone.” What a surprise that Margo’s mother had come to her defense.

  They parked the car and went to the gathering. Margo didn’t have to hang around her parents or sisters. She found some friends and was having a great time. But just as she was about to go river rafting, her mother called her over.

  “Margo, honey, do me a favor. Go back to the car and get my purse. I left it under the front seat.”

  “Why can’t Heather go?” Margo asked.

  “Because I asked you to,” her mother replied.

  Margo groaned and then sprinted to the station wagon, determined not to miss the bus taking the kids over to the river-rafting site. She got to the station wagon and was about to reach for the door handle when she froze. A shrill gasp and a deep groan emanated from the car’s interior, as if someone were hurt and in pain. Jarring horror-movie clips began flickering across her field of vision, as if she were watching a damaged film that had been cut and re-edited. Was she witnessing a murder? No, not that. Large, full breasts flapped up and down and hit the seat. Her father’s flat, bare, old-man’s ass—how did she know it was his ass?—bounced crazily, as though he were playing some silly game of leapfrog, only he was missing his jumps. Her father was bouncing off the backside of the girl, not just any girl, but Greta, his graduate student. That halter top that Margo had so admired lay over the bench of the front seat. What? No. How stupid her dignified father appeared. So fucking stupid. Disgusting. The groans of those strangers inside their family car rose an octave.

  She wanted to cry, to scream, to murder them both. She wanted to run away. Instead, she steeled herself and calmly walked over to the front passenger side door, inserted the key, and opened the door. She got her mother’s bag from underneath the seat without looking back.

  “Margo.” It was her father’s voice, but not any father she recognized.

  “Mom forgot her purse,” she said and shut the door.

  She raced back to the picnic area, tossed her mother’s purse on the picnic table, which was set to perfection, and kept running until she was two blocks out of the park. At an intersection, she screamed so loudly and so long that she stopped traffic.

  She’d been saddled with her father’s duplicity for the rest of her life. She didn’t tell her mother, didn’t tell anyone, because it would’ve been her word against her father’s, and her father’s word had been, and to this day still was, the law. And even if her family had believed her, wouldn’t the consequences have been worse? She would’ve broken up her family, and Blanche was so young. How could she do that to her sister? How could she break her mother’s heart? And so, she became an involuntary coconspirator in her father’s infidelity—his crime—and had remained silent all these years.

  Now, imprisoned in this snowshed, Margo felt the same kind of deep rage at her circumstances—lost, defenseless, and devastated by life’s unfairness. She picked up a rock and hurled it at the wall as hard as she could. The sharp ping reverberated throughout the tunnel. She picked up another and threw that one too. Then she screamed in frustration. She was filled with a combination of anger, fear, guilt, and the desire to run as hard and as fast as she could to get away from this place. The baby shifted along the front of her belly.

  Protect the baby.

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach and started singing “I See the Moon,” an old lullaby her mother sang to her and her sisters:

  Over the mountain, over the sea,

  Back to my home where I long to be

  Oh, light of my life, he shines on me …

  What she would give to hear her mother’s voice again.

  There was a crunching in the snow near the shed’s entrance. She turned, expecting to see Nick. Instead, a scrawny but large male coyote padded inside, his head down, his ears back, and his teeth bared.

  Adrenaline fired through her veins. She stifled a scream. Show no fear, she told herself. She looked for a stick, a shard of metal from the tracks, anything she could use as a weapon—rocks! She bent over, and as quietly as she could, filled her coat pockets. She stood and threw a rock at the animal, not coming close to hitting it. The coyote growled and advanced. She raised her arms, waved them wildly, and shouted at the animal, hoping to frighten him into retreat.

  The coyote approached cautiously but with a look of predatory determination.

  She wasn’t about to let a crazed animal harm her unborn baby. Rearing back, she threw another rock, which missed but came close enough that the animal veered away slightly. She hurled more rocks and screamed at the animal. Her screams came reflexively now. The coyote didn’t leave but instead turned in a circle and confronted her again. She stomped a foot and hurled another rock, this time hitting him on the snout. The animal yelped, then hopped back and to the side.

  Some of the rocks made contact but most of them fell to the ground. She was angry, not only because of the coyote, but also because she might not survive out in this wilderness even if she got rid of the animal. She was so goddamn angry.

  The next rock struck the coyote in the head. The animal yelped, arched its back, and turned around but, to her chagrin, he circled back. He was bleeding. When she saw the blood, she let loose with another stone barrage. Still the coyote wouldn’t flee. He was thin, and there was drool around his muzzle. Coyotes rarely attacked humans, Nick had told her, which meant that this one was probably rabid. Or desperately in need of food. She reached into her pocket to reload but found that she’d run out of ammunition. When she bent over to scoop up more rocks, the animal charged. Her hands scraped across the ground until she found another rock. She straightened just as the animal was upon her. Before she could throw the rock, the coyote lunged and sunk its teeth into her coat. The animal yanked and growled. Using her free hand, she hit him in the face with a rock. He wouldn’t loosen his grip, wouldn’t go down. As strong as the animal was, she wouldn’t go down either, wouldn’t expose her neck to his teeth.

  With a sidearm motion, she struck the animal hard r
ight below his left ear. The crack of rock against skull echoed throughout the shed. The coyote whimpered and let go.

  She stomped a foot and raised an arm, brandishing the rock. Instead of turning tail, the coyote growled as it stepped back a few strides, about to regroup for its next attack.

  The light at the shed’s opening dimmed. Nick Eliot stood at the entrance.

  CHAPTER 16

  Nick worked his first job at age fourteen, throwing newspapers. At fifteen, he lied about his age and was hired on as a weekend dishwasher at the Howard Johnson’s—nasty work, but it paid well for a fifteen-year-old, and besides, one of the perks was a free meal. At sixteen, he graduated to custodian and jack-of-whatever trade, working at the local gun and tackle shop. He learned to shoot and fish, thanks to the store’s owner, who took him out on weekends. By the time he was seventeen, he’d earned enough money to buy his first car, a faded-green Pontiac GTO junker that barely got him around town.

  One Friday afternoon in late May, he was driving toward the outskirts of town. Donnie Hollis was in the passenger seat. They were heading toward a run-down Little League baseball field, but not to play baseball.

  “Over there,” Donnie said, pointing.

  Nick drove into the baseball field parking lot and parked his car. The field was on the edge of the forest.

  “Where?” Nick asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Look at the pine tree, dead center.” Donnie opened his car door. “Come on, let’s get closer.”

  “You’re definitely morbid, dude.” But Nick got out and followed.

  Donnie led him across left field to the tree line and pointed. Nailed to a tree, in a crucifixion pose, was a dead cat, which had been skinned from the neck down. Last week, the skinning victim had been a squirrel. The sight was gruesome but also oddly fascinating.

  “Now that takes balls, even though the guy doing this must be one whacked-out crazy motherfucker,” Donnie said with more than a tinge of admiration.

  Nick shook his head. “You do this Donnie?”

  “Me? Hell, no.”

  “You wouldn’t admit it if you did. Who would?”

  “My crazy mother says it has to be a witch doctor. New Orleans voodoo and black magic have finally made their way to sunny Arizona, she says. I think she’s right for once.” He paused to spit. “This look like voodoo to you, dude?”

  Nick studied the dead cat some more, then said, “What do I know about voodoo? I do know I’ve seen enough.”

  “Guy like you who likes to hunt and fish, never thought Soldier Boy would be a wuss.” Donnie began clucking like a chicken between laughing and flapping his arms.

  Nick put a hand on Donnie’s shoulder and shoved him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Soldier Boy before I have to use something other than words to convince you?”

  Donnie stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, Nick. Don’t go wacko on me.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Wow, those little punks showing up here tomorrow to play ball will sure go bat-shit crazy when they see that dead cat. Seriously, what kind of sick fuck does this kind of crap so little kids can find it?”

  Nick stared at Donnie. Why did he still tolerate the guy? Maybe because all Lone Rangers, no matter how solitary, need a Tonto. “You tell me what kind of guy would do this, Donnie.”

  Donnie shook his head but then smiled. “Hey man, I’ve got a hot chick lined up for you this weekend. Caroline from St. Mary’s High. Me and Debbie are picking up a bottle of Jimmy B. We’re heading to the lookout Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’ve got to work,” Nick said.

  “Debbie told me the chick puts out, goes all the way if she likes a guy. Debbie told her all about you.” He grinned. “She likes big guys, smart guys. Can’t wait to meet you.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Dude, you know how those Catholic girls like to screw. You have my word, she’s hot shit. She’ll be pissed if you don’t show.”

  “That’s your problem. I’m sure you can handle them both.”

  Donnie chortled, but his eyes showed hurt, as if he, not Caroline, had been rejected. As Nick had said, that wasn’t his problem. His involvement with Donnie Hollis would only go so far. Nick didn’t hang out with Donnie on the weekends. The kid didn’t know how to stay out of trouble.

  “Come on, Nick.”

  “No can do.” The truth was that Nick wasn’t interested in the whores that Donnie dug up. Once a girl like that dug her claws into a guy, they never let go of him, not a guy with a wallet. Besides, Nick had some last minute studying to do. Tomorrow morning, he was taking the GED exam, and after he passed he would get out of high school early. He was done with school, done with his parents, done with Arizona.

  Donnie pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket. His mom now let him smoke. For that matter, Mrs. Hollis let him do anything he damn well pleased. No way would Nick’s parents even consider allowing him to smoke even though he would be eighteen in a week.

  “Here,” Donnie said, tapping the pack to kick up a cigarette.

  Nick took one. Why not? Donnie lit his own and then Nick’s. Nick inhaled, trying not to hack and cough. For the next half hour, they stood around blowing smoke rings and shooting the breeze. Then it was time to find the mouthwash.

  After Nick finished the exam the following day, he pumped his fist. He’d aced it. He was sure of his results as soon as he completed the test. He wanted to celebrate, and for a brief moment considered calling Donnie and telling him that he would go out on the date with Caroline. But Donnie, like his father, seemed always to be on the cops’ radar, and Nick didn’t need any trouble. Nope, nothing would interfere with his plans to leave home, and that exam score had just assured his ticket.

  Sunday morning, Nick’s mother knocked on his bedroom door. “Nicholas, wake up.”

  Nick threw back the covers. “What is it?”

  “Get out here, now!” His mother was upset, which meant his father was upset. It wasn’t the first time one of his parents had rousted him out of bed for some imagined infraction.

  “Okay, all right. I’m coming,” he said.

  Nick opened the bedroom door and looked down into his mother’s face. The days when she’d stood over him like some ogre had long passed. He’d surpassed her in height by the time he started the seventh grade, and now, at six-four, he towered over the small-framed woman, who stood five-four in heels.

  “Get dressed,” she said. “The pigs are downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “Some maniac nailed a dead squirrel to the oak in our front yard, and some bigger idiot called the cops.”

  Nick drew in a long breath. “What do I have to do with this?”

  “You tell me, Nick. The cops say you were seen at the Little League field a couple days ago admiring another one of these atrocities. And now there’s a dead animal nailed to the tree in our front yard. You figure it out.”

  Nick dressed and greeted the officers with a polite good morning. His father, arms tightly crossed and lips pursed in anger, stood next to the cops. His father was probably angry for two reasons—because Nick was a target and because he hated cops.

  Nick, his parents, and the police all sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Nick,” one of the officers, the older one with the graying hair and leathery skin, said.

  “I’m not going to let him become a victim of police oppression,” Nick’s father said, his chest puffed out and his fists clenched in the posture of a protective parent. When an outsider attacked Nick or Nick’s mother, Mr. Eliot would come to their aid. In these instances, infrequent as they were, Nick would, despite himself, feel fleeting warmth toward his father. “Our son has nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s okay, Mom and Dad,” Nick said. He raked his hands through his hair and looked at the police. “How can I help you, officers?”

  “Seems the front yard of your house was the location of t
he latest animal killing,” the older cop said. “You were seen at the baseball field looking at a dead cat. Do you know who’s doing this?”

  “No idea.”

  “You went to the ballpark just to take a look,” the officer said. “How did you know about it?”

  “I didn’t,” Nick said. “A friend insisted I go see it. He thought it was funny.”

  The cops exchanged a quick look.

  “He thought it was funny,” Nick repeated. “I thought it was totally creepy. Disgusting.”

  “Except there’s a problem,” the older cop said. “You said there were two of you. There wasn’t a report of two teenagers. Just one, fitting your description.”

  Nick glanced at his parents. His mother was chewing on a thumbnail. His father looked as if he wanted to take off his belt, except such punishments had stopped a year ago, after Nick grabbed the belt out of his father’s hands and wrapped it around the old man’s neck—he didn’t keep tightening the belt for long, only long enough to make his point.

  Nick shook his head. He was going to join the army, volunteer for combat. If he did well enough, the government would pin a medal on him. He couldn’t let these accusations about a dead cat spoil it for him.

  “The fact is, officers, I was out there with Donnie Hollis,” Nick said. “He was the kid who insisted that I go see the spectacle.”

  “Donnie Hollis?” the older cop asked. “Figures.”

  “Hollis is your pal?” the other officer asked.

  “I wouldn’t call him that, sir. He’s a kid I’ve known since first grade, so we go way back. We’re very different. You should talk to Donnie. He’ll confirm that both of us were out there. And if I’m not mistaken, and I mean no disrespect, officers, it’s no crime to look at a dead animal. If it was, people would go to jail for looking at roadkill.”