Usually after work he headed over to River Dell. These days, no one used the old park at the end of Claire’s cul de sac. If he went in the back way, he could hide his car in the trees on the far side and walk along the bank of the creek until he reached her place. Because she didn’t expect anyone to be looking in, and there were no roads with any traffic, she rarely bothered with blinds, except in her bedroom. She pulled those down every night, but he often got to see her finish work at the salon, eat, watch TV, maybe visit with her sister. Sometimes he even followed her to Laurel’s or to the book group.
He’d gone to her place as soon as he left Hank’s yesterday and today, but both times he’d found her house locked up and empty. He wasn’t sure when she might return. The firefighters had finally put out the forest fire; it’d taken them most of two days. But Isaac wasn’t around, either. Claire had to be with him.
If she was with me, I’d never bring her back. It’s too dangerous here.
He drove through town a couple of times, then stopped at the store to spend the change someone had left on one of the tables he’d bussed at Hank’s. Fortunately, he wasn’t hungry because he didn’t have much money and there wasn’t any food at home. He’d been smart enough to have a burger for dinner, even though it was only four o’clock when he finished work.
He could afford a candy bar, but after he ate it he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Tuesday afternoons weren’t all that eventful in Pineview. Add to that the fire, and how worried everyone had been about it spreading—and the whole town was tired. Everyone seemed happy to go straight home, although it wouldn’t be dark for four and a half hours.
Jeremy put on his brakes as he passed the Kicking Horse. There were a few cars in the lot. He could always come back later. Maybe things would pick up. But it wasn’t a place he usually went. He’d avoided it in the past because he hadn’t wanted to run into his father. He avoided it today because he didn’t want to run into his father’s friends.
That left him with no distractions. And he was running low on gas. Time to head home whether he wanted to or not.
“Hi, Dad,” he called as he walked in. His father couldn’t answer, but playing this game had worked last night. It felt better to pretend. Pretending meant he could be nice and his father would be nice in return. It also meant he didn’t have to face what had really happened.
He kept that up for an hour or so, told his father all about his day and Claire being gone and the fire getting put out, but eventually he ended up pacing outside the door to the crawl space. He needed to go under there to make sure he’d done a good job burying the body. He’d tried to check last night, but it’d been too soon. He’d merely stood by the door and cried.
It was still too soon, but he couldn’t let it go any longer. He also wanted to check that he hadn’t left anything behind. His father used to say he’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached to his body.
Gathering his nerve, he quit pacing, unfastened the locks and opened the door. But he barely poked his head inside. A quick peek was all he could stomach.
Fortunately, he couldn’t detect anything other than the dank odor he smelled every time he went under the house. He figured that meant his father had enough dirt on top of him. He couldn’t see much of a mound, either, even when he pointed a flashlight right where he’d done the digging.
He shifted his light to the suitcase. He should’ve buried Alana at the same time, but he’d been so tired. And he kept picturing her with empty sockets and clumps of hair falling off her scalp and feared he’d have nightmares about zombies if he disturbed her. The last thing he wanted was to wake the dead.
Breathing a tentative sigh of relief, he closed up the crawl space and went back to the living room. Everything looked okay here, too. He’d returned the gun to its cupboard above the fridge and cleaned up the blood. He’d scrubbed the living room some more last night. It seemed as if every time he sat down he spotted another drop of red somewhere, but he didn’t see any now. The only thing that worried him about the living room was the bullet hole in the wall. He didn’t know how to fix it. He’d tried to cover it with a picture, but he couldn’t hang a picture so close to the ceiling. There wasn’t room.
That hole’s so small. Who’s going to notice?
Eager to escape the living room almost as much as the crawl space, he climbed the stairs. He’d never been allowed in his father’s room, not since his mother walked out on them. His father had made a habit of locking the door whenever he left, but Jeremy had known how to pick that lock since he was twelve.
Tonight, the door stood wide open. No lock-picking needed.
With the owner of the house gone for good, Jeremy was tempted to move out of the basement, away from all the things he feared. He had his own little cemetery going, just like the one in town—without the headstones and flowers. But if someone found out he’d switched bedrooms, it could give his father’s absence away.
He sat on the bed, staring at the clothes hanging in the closet, the hamper, the cast-offs on the floor, the bottle of cologne on the dresser, the messy pile of newspapers on the nightstand with the reading glasses on top. Jeremy had slept on the couch last night, but maybe he’d sleep here tonight. Just one night. He wanted to go through the photo albums hidden up in the attic above his father’s closet. One of those albums contained pictures of his mother.
But he decided to rest until he felt more like himself.
Scooting toward the pillows, he was about to curl into a ball like he’d seen Claire do so often after David’s death, when the loud jangle of the phone startled him.
He jumped off the bed, but he wasn’t sure whether or not to answer. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Would that make whoever it was come to the house?
That was a risk he couldn’t take…?.
Rounding the bed, he snatched up the handset. “Good evening. Salter residence.”
“Who’s this?”
“Jeremy. Who’s this?”
“No one you need to be concerned about. Where’s Don?”
This wasn’t how people normally acted when they called. Jeremy’s hands were already beginning to sweat. “Downstairs.”
“Good. Get him.”
“I c-can’t.” Jeremy wiped his free hand on his jeans. “He, um, he’s indisposed at the moment.” His father had taught him to say that if he was in the bathroom.
“You mean he’s shitfaced again?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, is he drunk?”
Jeremy didn’t answer. He hated to actually lie…?. “He can’t come to the phone,” he repeated. “But I’d be happy to give him a message when he wakes up, if you’d like.”
There was a slight hesitation. “I’m not sure it would be worth my while.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t remember from one minute to the next, can you?”
That wasn’t nice. Why would anyone say that? Jeremy hadn’t done anything to make this person mad, had he? “Who is this?” Jeremy asked again.
“You don’t need to know. I’ll call back.”
But that voice. Jeremy was pretty sure he recognized it. “Deputy Clegg?”
There was no answer. A dial tone suddenly hummed in his ear.
26
Nancy Jernigan, the P.I. Isaac had hired, had discovered some interesting details about the incident in Les Weaver’s office. Most notable was the fact that the dead man’s wife, Shannon Short, claimed they’d been expecting a loan from her parents, which would’ve relieved the financial stress that had supposedly caused her husband, James, to take his own life. That, together with her insistence that Les had asked James to bring his gun to the meeting because he was interested in buying it, raised some questions. Les’s motivation in the murder wasn’t as clear, but Nancy felt James’s business partner could’ve put him up to it. Apparently, Ted Abrams blamed James for the failure of their business and was determined to collect on the life insurance set up to protect him in the event of James’s death.