"Well, Kibbe and I were working on evidence that Renard is still alive and that he's come back to town here." Then, "I've got to go. Somebody's coming. Like I said, Payne, I'll watch for you."
SEVEN
Most homicides are cut-and-dried. No big surprises along the way. You do the legwork, you interview enough friends of the deceased, you get a clear picture of the deceased's life and thus a pretty good sense of who killed him and why. And then you keep eliminating suspects until your best bet comes along.
What you don't get very often is the possibility that a man long thought dead turns about to be alive.
I.e., the one and only voodoo child, Paul Renard.
I was still thinking about Renard when I saw Tandy come up on top of the field from the bank below. She was moving slowly, her shoulders slumped. The news obviously wasn't good.
When she reached the car, she opened the door and dropped into the seat. "It's all my own fault."
"What is?"
"That I lost my gift. I pissed it away trying to be rich and famous."
"No more images?"
"Of the infant, yes. Of where the infant was, no."
"We can come back tomorrow."
"No, I'm done."
I touched the back of her head gently, cupping it in my palm. She said, "You're such a gentle lover. I really appreciate that."
"Yeah. Like the time I knocked us out of bed and you cut your head on the end table."
"You were just a little horned up that night. But most of the time you're really nice." She shook her head and stared down at her hands. "Shit. Shit." Then, "Shit."
"You need a meal and a few glasses of wine."
"I need a lot more than that."
I decided not to tell her about Chandler's call. Information that she didn't need right now. But I did ask, "How did you find out about the Rick Hennessy case, anyway?"
"Rick Hennessy's lawyer."
"Oh."
She looked up at me. "How come you want to know?"
"I'm just trying to find out all about Kibbe."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense. I mean, Noah did what he usually does to check out a prospective case. He called the editor of the local newspaper and the editor told him everything. Faxed him a bunch of stuff, too. At first, I wasn't very interested. I thought it sounded like bullshit. All the stuff about Renard and possession. I'm very leery of that sort of thing. But after I read the faxes, I got interested. How Rick started dressing like him and getting into voodoo and supernatural things. I thought it'd be an interesting story from a legal standpoint."
"So Noah came out here?"
"Noah and Laura. They used it as kind of a makeup vacation. They'd broken up again. You know, the marriage thing as usual. They're always breaking up. Noah has been a pretty boy all his life. He isn't used to women turning him down. Plus, emotionally, he's a very hungry guy. He's kind of a vampire. He wants to take her whole life over. Doesn't want her to think or do anything that he doesn't approve of in advance. I can see why he was married three times. And that's why he and Laura always get into it."
"Because she wouldn't marry him?"
"Right. And he was getting violent again. He even hit her a couple of times. He'd go on a binge, smashing things, ransacking rooms. He's got a terrible temper. She really does love him. But her first marriage just spooked her. The way Bob drank and everything. She doesn't want to go through that again. I know she's arrogant and cold, but she's a true-blue type. She's always faithful to her men, even when they treat her badly. She intimidates them, I think. They're afraid they're going to lose all that beauty." She smiled sadly. "It's like having your fortune taken away from you, I suppose."
"But they patched things up and came out here?"
"Right. And sort of laid out how the show would go. The production company really started getting cheap with travel when the ratings started to fall. They said they wanted me to come out here and shoot a little 'test footage, as they called it. And when they saw it, they'd decide how much money they wanted to spend on covering the trial."
"You didn't know Kibbe?"
"No. I never even heard of him until he was killed." Then, "Oh. Damn."
"What?"
"Headache."
"Just came on?"
"Just like that." She put her head back against the seat.
We drove several miles in silence. She'd groan every once in a while was all. A couple of times, I reached over and held her hand briefly. She gave me a brief squeeze to let me know she appreciated it.
I was thinking about Noah Chandler. So he'd been the one who'd shot at us. So he'd been the one who'd arranged for Kibbe. So he was one of the ones pushing the notion that somehow Paul Renard was alive.
I assumed Laura knew everything Chandler wanted to talk about. He didn't seem bright or ambitious enough to do any of this on his own. He wanted Laura and Laura wanted the show. To get Laura, he'd had to help her save the show. And that, for some reason I still didn't understand, had involved Kibbe.
The cry was almost sexual.
In fact, when I turned to look across the seat at her, the way she was writhing in the moonlight, all sharp sensuous angles, I thought she might be having a sexual experience of some kind.
"Are you all right?"
She didn't answer.
Another moan and then a spasm of some kind and then a loud cry that carried a sense of finality. And then she slumped in the seat.
"Are you all right?" I said.
"We need to go back there."
"Where?"
"The trestle."
"Why?"
"Now I know where the body is."
I grabbed the shovel from the trunk and followed her across the moonlit field, down the bank, and onto the sandy dry creek bed.
She rushed on ahead of me, stumbling sometimes, hurrying, hurrying. A frantic air about her now.
I could imagine what she was going through. She wanted her power back. For a woman who thought so little of herself, her power was her whole identity, her sole reason to ever take pride in herself and her skills.
I was afraid for her. What if this was another false alarm? There were only so many reassurances I could whisper; only so many hours I could hold her.
I knew how badly she needed for this to be real. I said a silent prayer that she'd find what her mind had told her she'd find. She hastened on ahead of me.
It was four or five degrees cooler now. An autumn chill upon the land.
Sounds of frogs and snapping twigs and feet stomping into damp, silty sand.
Smells of night air and stands of jack pines and dirty polluted water, the trickle of creek carrying with it the stench of the factories it passed to the east, where industry was burgeoning and the creek was wide, deep, and fast.
Sights of deep shadow from the canopy-forming trees, then a burst of treeless moonlight suddenly, and then the angling shadow of soaring clay cliffs on our left.
And then, momentarily lost in the shadows, she cried, "Here!"
I caught up with her.
I clipped on the flashlight I'd brought along and shone it on a sandy area beneath an overhang of the embankment.
"In there?"
"Yes. Hurry. Please."
"You hold the flashlight."
She took it from me. Shone the beam on the exact spot.
I jammed the shovel into the wall just beneath the overhang and got to work.
The sandy exterior was only a half-inch deep or so. Behind it was good true Iowa soil. With plenty of tree roots, rocks, and tight-packed earth.
At one point, she said, "Oh, God, Robert. What if I'm wrong?"
"I'll just keep digging."
"What if nothing's there?"
I looked back at her. "You just hold the light steady."