In the morning I was still tired, and achy, as though I might be coming down with something. I put a kettle on the stove, and while the water was boiling I called the police station. Dick was there but not accepting personal calls. I spoke with Verne Erickson, and he said Dick had been holed up in his office most of the night. Hadn’t gone home, and as far as Verne knew, hadn’t eaten or slept either. He blamed himself for John Faith getting away from him. The fact that neither Faith nor his body had been found yet only made him feel worse.
But that wasn’t the only reason Dick was in such a state. I knew it, and I’m sure Verne did, too, even though neither of us mentioned it. Dick’s feelings for Storm. Whether or not he’d been seeing her again, she’d meant more to him once than just sexual gratification. It was painful to think that even he might not have realized how much he cared for her until she was dead.
Before we rang off I said, “I’ll stop by his house in an hour or so and take care of Mack. You might tell him when you get the chance.”
“I will. Thanks, Audrey. He’s probably forgotten all about the dog.”
And me, I thought. Mack and me both.
Tea and a Pop-Tart for breakfast. Ten minutes in the shower and another twenty to dress and put on my face. I was shrugging into my pea jacket when the telephone rang. I hurried to answer it, thinking that Verne had relayed my message and Dick had thought to call me after all.
“Hello? Dick?”
“Dick’s what you want, huh?” Thick, muffled man’s voice. “Well, dick’s what you’re gonna get, and plenty more besides. Gun of yours won’t stop me next time. You’re dead, bitch. Dead as Storm Carey — and soon, real soon.”
Trisha Marx
Saturday started out just as shitty as Friday ended. I didn’t get much sleep; at first I was too depressed and cried a lot, and then later there was all this noise, people driving around and yelling, a helicopter or something flying overhead in the middle of the night. I felt so down I didn’t even care what was going on. Then this morning I was sick to my stomach and spent five minutes in the John trying to hurl as quietly as I could so Daddy wouldn’t hear. Morning sickness again. Just freaking great. Then, after I got dressed and went downstairs, Daddy wanted to talk about Anthony. I told him we’d had a fight and it was all over between us, but I couldn’t tell him about the baby yet. No way. He asked me how I’d gotten home last night, and the way he asked it I knew he already knew and that somebody must’ve seen John Faith dropping me off and snitched about it. So I told him what’d happened, everything except that Anthony and I’d been smoking dope and how close I’d come — so close it scared me when I thought about it — to falling off the Bluffs into the lake.
And he said, real dark and grim, “You’re lucky, Trisha. You don’t know how lucky. After that Faith character brought you home, he went out to Mrs. Carey’s house and killed her. Bashed her head in.”
“What!” I stared at him with my mouth open. He wasn’t kidding. “John? It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do anything like that...”
“Well, he did. Chief Novak caught him out there, and there was a fight and the Chief shot him.”
“Oh, God, he’s dead, too?”
“Looks like it. He went into the lake, probably drowned. They haven’t found the body yet.”
“All the noise last night — that’s what it was?”
“Yeah. Whole town was in an uproar. I stayed here — didn’t want to leave you alone again.” Daddy rubbed his right hand; the knuckles looked scratched, as if he’d been in a fight himself. “He got what was coming to him, by God. Just not soon enough. Started causing trouble the minute he showed up in Pomo.”
“He didn’t cause me any trouble,” I said.
“You’re lucky, like I told you. If it hadn’t been Storm Carey, it’d’ve been somebody else. Could’ve been you.”
I felt sick again, and this time it had nothing to do with being knocked up. Mrs. Carey killed — that was awful. I didn’t know her very well and people were always saying what a slut she was, the same people, I’ll bet, who were saying John Faith had killed her and who wanted him to be dead. I remembered last night on the Bluffs, how he’d dragged me away from the cliff edge and the stuff he’d said to me there and on the drive home, and I couldn’t believe he’d gone and bashed Mrs. Carey’s head in right afterward. No matter what Daddy said, what anybody said, I didn’t believe it.
Daddy tried to get me to eat some breakfast, but I couldn’t. I would’ve hurled again if I’d tried to swallow so much as a glass of milk. He had to work half a day at the lumberyard, he said, but he’d be home around one and he wanted to find me here when he got back. I said okay. The last thing he asked before he left was did I intend to see Anthony anymore. I didn’t lie to him. I said no way, José, and I meant it. Whatever I decided to do about the baby, Anthony wouldn’t be any part of it. Anthony was a big pile of dog crap I’d avoid from now on.
Selena called after Daddy left and wanted to talk about all the excitement last night; she sounded positively thrilled. I told her I couldn’t talk now, I’d call her later, but I knew I wouldn’t. The only person I could talk to today was Ms. Sixkiller.
Upstairs I put my makeup on, fixed my hair, and was ready to go at twenty of nine. Twenty minutes was about how long it’d take me to walk to Ms. Sixkiller’s house. I wished Daddy hadn’t had to work this morning, because then he might’ve let me have his pickup for a couple of hours. Man, how I’d love to have a car of my own. Selena’s folks bought her an old Volks bug for her seventeenth birthday, but Daddy says we can’t afford a second car, even a junker, thanks to the Bitch. That’s what he calls Mom; he won’t even say her name anymore, not that I blame him. Probably be years before I can afford to buy myself a car, even longer if I have the kid—
Shit! Cars, babies... I don’t know what I want or what I’m gonna do. I’m so screwed up. How’d I ever get this screwed up?
It was as cold this morning as last night. Sky all gray and twitchy, the way I felt inside. I walked fast over to Lakeshore Road. A car went by and honked, but I didn’t bother to look and see who it was. What was the word for when you felt this way? Apathy? Right, apathy. If apathy was gold, I’d be as rich as Mrs. Carey was—
But I didn’t want to think about Mrs. Carey.
When I got to where I could see along the north shore, there were a couple of big boats out and one of them looked to be the sheriff’s launch from down in Southlake. Still hunting for John Faith’s body. Everybody hurts, everybody wants to stop hurting. Well, he’d stopped hurting, all right. Poor John Faith.
Poor Trisha. When am I gonna stop hurting?
The more you hurt, the more you care. You’ll be all right if you don’t let yourself stop caring...
Ms. Sixkiller’s house was like a cottage, a real retro type with a tall brick chimney and shingles and stuff. Her father built it a long time ago, when Indians didn’t mix much with whites. He made some money hauling freight in wagons and boats and bought the land and built the house and pissed off all his white neighbors, but he wouldn’t move or sell and they couldn’t drive him out. Good for him. He must’ve been oneG141 tough old dude. His daughter’s pretty tough, too. Best teacher at Pomo High, and that’s not just my opinion. She’d listen, help me if she could. She had to help me because there just wasn’t anybody else.