Murder in a Very Small Town Read online

  “Never drove this. Be patient, okay?” he said, climbing in and settling behind the wheel. “The plow’s already down and that’s good, but damn, look at this transmission.”

  Wiki followed his eyes to a cluster of levers and shifters, and none of it made sense to her. She left that to Jame and watched the wipers continue to sweep snow from the glass. She heard the mashing of gears and felt the tow truck struggling in response to what Jame was doing. This went on for nearly a minute before the vehicle began to back up.

  “Next stop is clothing for you. Unless we get shot,” she heard him say. She did not respond or acknowledge.

  “That was a joke,” he added.

  She didn’t reply, but eyed him with alarm and uncertainty.

  The wrecked cars receded from view as Jame backed up and stopped. He tortured the transmission again and turned them around. She felt the heat from the vents increase and heard him ask, “Better?”

  When they were slow rolling back to town, she replied, “Yes. And thank you.”

  Beyond the wide yellow hood of the truck, she could see snow curling up along the ridge of the plow.

  “I need to raise it, but not sure how,” Jame said to her, also seeing the snow slipping over the top of the blade.

  The two of them rode silently the rest of the way to town. When they made the turn past the big pine tree, Jame turned off the headlights. They passed the Quickee and started up Main, the dark cottages and the lake to their left and the shadowed storefronts on the other side.

  They came upon the mayor’s cottage and his car. The open car door was the only light on Main. Jame braked the plow, and they both sat looking at the light on the snow.

  “I should get out and go close that door,” Jame said.

  “Huh? Remember the guy, shooting people?”

  “The mayor’s a good guy.”

  “Drive on.”

  They drove on.

  “Is this smart? What we’re doing?” Wiki asked.

  Jame was frowning at the view.

  “Might not be,” he admitted. “But I’ve gotta check on my folks.”

  He slowed the truck to a stop. “Up there,” he added.

  Wiki follows his gaze up to the left, to the top of the church.

  They sat in silence, looking at the steeple. Its shape was indistinct in the darkness.

  “Be right back,” he said quietly.

  Wiki turned her eyes to him and arched one eyebrow. “In there? No. And why?”

  “No, not there,” he pointed out her window, “but there.”

  She looked. It was a house or maybe a store because it had a slim parking lot. The building had large windows, and there was a small outbuilding close to the street.

  “Be back in a couple of minutes. Lock the doors,” Jame told her.

  She felt another freezing blast as he quickly opened his door and climbed out. She watched him with the unfamiliar rifle in her hands. He jogged past the yellow hood and stomped through snow to the parking lot. He disappeared behind the outbuilding, and she remembered to lock the doors after resting the rifle across her lap.

  A minute passed. Then another. Wiki watched for Jame, and realized that she was feeling way too warm. She studied the dash, found the thermostat, and clicked it two notches down. Looking up, she saw Jame approaching through the snow with something bulky in his arms. He crossed through the headlight beams, passing the front of the truck and plow. She unlocked the doors from her side and when his door opened, he climbed in awkwardly, holding a bunch of clothing.

  “That was fucked up—sorry. Mostly shoes.”

  Wiki nodded, once, as though she understood.

  “Get dressed right,” he told her, adding, “please.”

  “Okay. Where are these from?” She began sorting through the pants, sweaters and even a pair of white, but nastily stained gloves.

  “Donation drop-off,” he explained.

  She’d never heard of anything like that before, but she puzzled it together with the church on the opposite side of the street.

  She scooted forward and pulled off her long black coat. Jame looked away as she selected a pair of corduroy pants and a wool sweater and set the other clothes on the floor. She quickly pulled her dress up along her body. The dress went up over her head, and she was completely naked.

  Jame’s eyes went to her pale, small, and wonderfully curved breasts. They were rocking in an indifferent way as she struggled the pants up along her thin legs. He didn’t know if she saw him staring and that didn’t concern him. He noted her fingers buttoning the fly of the pants, but his gaze stayed on her chest—until the heavy sweater lowered. Then he looked away.

  Wiki was staring out the window, looking calm and focused. She pulled her dress on over the clothing and Jame wanted to ask why, but he was still seeing her perfect buoyant breasts.

  Wiki worked herself back inside her long black coat. She shook her hair twice, brushed it to the side of her pale face, and pulled on one of the smudged white gloves.

  Jame watched her pull on the second glove and put the rifle back into her lap. She said, “Now to your parent’s place?”

  Jame blinked. He felt her watching him, waiting for a reply. He blinked a second time before nodding.

  “Before we get shot,” she nudged.

  “Yeah. Yes,” he agreed. He released the parking brake, and they drove slowly past the church to the edge of town. He watched the short and rectangular C.O. go by.

  “Do you really think you killed whoever?” Wiki asked. She had turned around on the seat and was looking out the back window.

  “Really? I don’t know. Don’t think so. I shot at someone up in the bell tower.”

  Up ahead was the turn off to the snow-covered dirt road that circled three-quarters of the lake. Straight ahead was Main Street’s dead end. There was a sign that said so. When Jame turned to the left, he also clicked on the headlights.

  “There’s no way we can make it without seeing,” he explained.

  “Fucking boots,” she said.

  He looked; she had one knee raised and was starting to lace.

  “Why’d you put your dress back over the clothes?”

  “Because I’m a girl,” Wiki replied as if the question was redundant.

  “Yes…” Jame started and stopped. It wasn’t a clever retort. I’m a girl brought her naked body forefront.

  “Wish there was moonlight,” Wiki was leaning forward, looking up into the sky. She sounded hopeful.

  Jame reached for her hand. It held the rifle barrel, which pointed at the roof. Jame shook his head, shaking off the impulse.

  He shifted the plow truck into gear as gently as possible. Looking out his window, he put his foot on the brake and kept the clutch engaged. There was the lake, framed by two small houses.

  Beyond the frozen, snow-covered lake, a brilliant orange and white light was rising.

  “Shall we?” He heard Wiki say, suggesting they get going.

  Jame was staring. A lake house was going up in flames.

  Cain Lorenzo sat on the idling snowmobile turned backward on the seat. Item three was going up in flames. His home was burning brightest from the inside, the flames also climbing out the kitchen door and igniting the carport and the side of the house.

  The fire was interesting. Destruction on a grand scale. The windows gave off wavering lemon-yellow illumination and angry cracking sounds. Black smoke was boiling out and upward into the sky.

  His bedroom was at the back of the house and out of view. He watched Abel’s bedroom burn from the inside and was satisfied; there went all of his sister’s girly stuff and the bed where they had had some of their fiercest fights.

  The flames found the wood of the sun porch and began to feed. Cain felt the heat from twenty yards away. The wind and the snow had paused, and it would be a quiet night if not for the burning home sending loud crackles and crashing sounds.

  Cain knew he had to move on. When the fire reached the basement, it was going
to find the open gas valve. His father had written on the list, “An effective accelerant.”

  The flames reached up into the roof, and he felt the heat on his face, which was illuminated by the flickering light. He heard a shout, didn’t turn, and didn’t care; probably their neighbor, Eric, the telephone company guy.

  He didn’t hear the footsteps because of the deep snow. There was another shout, much closer. Then Eric’s silhouette was between him and his view of the fire. Eric had his arms out to his sides, palms out, like Jesus, and he was standing too close, considering the open gas valve below the house. Eric was not on the list—Cain’s father had said he had no beef with him, calling him the hopeless, irrelevant doper. Cain had a vague idea about what “irrelevant” meant, so he didn’t think to shout to their neighbor or suggest that he really ought to move back, like maybe a hundred yards back.

  Instead, Cain looked to the chainsaw and the heavy rubber gloves bungee-tied to the back of his seat. The gloves were new; purchased just for him and item four. Cain tightened his grip on the rifle across the handlebars and drove away.

  The headlight of the snowmobile poured into the trees. Three Quarter Road didn’t connect to town. It ended right there, on the other side of Eric’s place, but there was a trail known to hunters and the occasional hiker.

  Cain drove slowly. The brush slapped his knees and shoulders. The trail rose, fell, and twisted. Halfway to town, the headlight pushed inside a tunnel of black trees. That’s when the flames found the basement. The lake illuminated as the explosion shook the ground.

  Ten minutes later, Cain steered out of the trees and onto dark and silent Main Street. It was good to be running smooth and slow again.

  Snow was falling again, in waving sheets. The snowmobile’s headlight was painting a cone of light. He didn’t look to the Quickee as he passed it, or the mayor’s open car door a ways further. He noticed that the town plow had been through, carving a low flat furrow that made steering easier. He rode to the C.O., which was item four.

  Cain was certain that his father had earlier emptied the building, one way or another. The shoebox of a building was heavily secured by Dent standards. His father had planned for that as well. Cain lowered the chainsaw and gloves over the wrought-iron fence at the back of the building and climbed over.

  The next step was the only one on the list that had a question mark. Cain gathered up the saw and gloves and started along the back of the building, intentionally not looking at the back door. It was either tethered open by the dope-smoker, or it was locked. Cain liked the tension of possible disappointment. He climbed up the steps before he looked up, but he grinned as he did so; he had already noted the spill of light from inside.

  The C.O. lighting was bright and harsh and the mainframe a dull gray. The only color came from the horizontal strands of hundreds of blue and white swirled wires. Cain walked along the frame, stepping past a rolling ladder attached to the ironwork above. Thirty yards further, a narrow set of steps led down to the right. Cain pulled on the thick rubber gloves before descending with the saw. The cable vault was little more than a narrow concrete pad. The vault was bisected by fat, insulated cables that left the building through goo-packed holes. He started the chain saw before climbing down the steps.

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  Wesley Lorenzo sat on the front porch swing of the Lee’s cottage, rocking back and forth slowly. He was sure they were away—no truck under the carport—but he really didn’t care. If the old couple popped up, he would drop them. For the past fifteen minutes, the cottage at his back had been silent.

  He heard his boy before he saw him. The snowmobile had a nasty, high-pitched motor even when running slow; the same sound as an idling chainsaw.

  He rocked the swing by sweeping his warm black boots back and forth. He was thankful for the sound of the snowmobile; it was drowning out the creaking of the swing chains. His arm rested on the swing rail, and his rifle lay in his lap. The first shimmer of the snowmobile’s headlight sparkled on the snow to his right. It was distracting, but he kept his eyes on the dark storefront of the Sew What shop. As the snowmobile passed by, Wesley ignored its irritating noise.

  He waited until the sound of the snowmobile was faint, and then until the vehicle stopped running. He continued looking at the shop, to the second story windows where there was an apartment.

  Before his wife ran off, she and he had been inside the small apartment at least five or six times. She had taken a job in the shop below, working the shifts the owner didn’t want—evenings and Saturdays. She and the owner had buddied up, and Wesley watched but didn’t say much. The owner’s boyfriend wasn’t to Wesley’s liking. The guy was too young and he knew he’d never marry her—just ride her until he got bored. The two men watched one another more than they talked.

  The guy did get bored and decided to start riding Wesley’s wife. Now they were both gone. It had been one year since Wesley noticed her emptied closet and dresser. No note. She had left the closet door and drawers wide open, as though she was saying something. Or, maybe she was just in a hurry. He had no mind for that. He had been shocked at the time—for a day. Then his hunger refocused on other town women; in particular Viv, the hot one who owned the Quickee. This was the same season his anger had expanded—the uppity cunt had refused him. Worse, the townies had kicked off a second investigation.

  “Of my tactics,” he breathed, forming a cloud.

  The incidents in question were not worthy of his attention.

  A gust of white wind swept Main Street, and Wesley’s gaze drew a line down to the store’s windows and door. He stopped the swing, but did not stand until the wind stopped. Carrying the rifle in his left glove, he crossed to the Sew What and pounded five times on the door, clouting it. Then he crossed back to the Lee’s porch swing. Sitting down, he raised his rifle and sighted on the shop. In the circular view of the scope, he had the shop’s entire big glass window. He had planned to center the crosshairs to the right, to the front door, but there was a narrow light crossing the inside of the shop. He kept the rifle on the big window as the candlelight roamed forward.

  The rifle cracked, and he stayed within the scope long enough to see the bullet hole in the window and its surrounding shattering expand. Raising his head, he looked along the rifle barrel to the inside of the shop. The light—candle or whatever—had fallen.

  Wesley watched and waited. He looked back through the scope and nudged the view to the front door. The door did not open. He waited a full minute. Lowering the rifle, he looked at the shattered shop window. No new light or movement, but he could see her, in his imagination and his sense of what should be; flat on her back on the wood plank floor, very dead, and no longer causing any trouble. He could see the round purple hole in her forehead and her prone body and the red spray of blood forming a V.

  Wiki watched the narrow road weave, rise, and fall. Jame was glancing at the road and the fire across the lake; mostly watching the fire, especially after it expanded with an explosion he couldn’t hear.

  The plow truck came to a crunching halt. He and Wiki were thrown forward. Jame turned from his window after leaning back for the wheel. They had clearly hit something heavy.

  “Have insurance?” Wiki asked.

  Sure enough, the back end of a car was raised up over the plow top. The car was smashed and crumbled. In the white headlights, they could see the underside of the car. Jame looked at the plate: Arizona.

  “Damned tourists,” he said. Who else would park on the side of the road when there’s a driveway?

  Jame searched for reverse with a few misses and gear grindings. The plow rolled back and the car fell. He backed up another ten yards and steered to the left. As they rolled forward, plowing the left shoulder, Jame returned his attention to the fire across the lake.

  They were just a ways past the wrecked car when Wiki saw a small group of faces shrouded in dark hoods. Four people in dark bulky clothing stepped into the headlights. Wiki elbowed Jame. The group
of four trudged to the front of the plow as Jame pressed the brakes. Wiki noted that two were carrying rifles.

  “Know them,” Jame said, setting the parking brake. “Seniors,” he added.

  This didn’t mean anything to Wiki. Her hand tightened on the rifle when Jame opened his door.

  Jame climbed out and a fifth face joined the others from behind, thick glasses reflecting back. Jame appeared in the headlight glow and the others half-circled him, except the one with thick glasses. Wiki saw the one in glasses was a girl. She turned her attention to the others. She couldn’t hear voices, but they were all talking and Jame was nodding and talking as well. Only the girl in the glasses was silent and still. She was one-step back from the group and staring at Jame. Wiki again turned her attention to the others, especially the two with rifles. The barrels of the rifles pointed away from Jame and the plow.

  The group crossed to the right side of the road. One of them pointed to the wrecked car, offered an expressive comment, and laughed. Jame turned his grin and shaking head.

  Jame got back in behind the wheel. The road before them was empty except for the girl in the glasses. She had watched Jame walk away, and she was studying his side of the plow. When he released the parking brake, she turned away and started toward the pack of guys. She took a few more steps and stopped, looking back and forth in both directions. She didn’t move any further.

  “They’re gonna bag themselves a bad guy,” Jame explained to Wiki. “I just hope they don’t shoot each other.”

  “They look young.”

  “Yes. Teenagers. I know them from high school.”

  Wiki was watching the girl in the glasses. She asked, “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen,” she repeated.

  “Well, yeah.”

  The plow rounded a bend in the narrow road. There were black snow-frosted elms on Wiki’s side of the road. She saw the outline of a driveway, a mailbox, and a house set back in the woods. One window had a weak wavering light.

  “Who’s the girl?” she asked.

  “Which? With them? That’s Abel.”