Run Away(44)

“The father doesn’t sound amenable,” Yvonne said. “A mother might be more understanding.”

“Sexist,” he said.

“Yep.”

“How are things at work?”

“We got you covered.”

Simon hung up and moved back to his car. He took out his phone again and started to listen to the messages. Word about the shooting had somehow not yet made the papers, so most of the messages were mercifully client-rather than solace-related. He returned some of the client calls, not mentioning his own situation, making it just another workday. Doing something routine was comforting.

He was blocking on Ingrid. He knew that. But he also knew that was the right way to go right now.

Half an hour later, while discussing with Dr. Daniel Brocklehurst, a neurosurgeon at Mount Sinai, the financial benefits of retiring in Florida versus Arizona, Simon spotted the mourners coming back over the gentle hill. They were led by Wiley Corval and the clergyman. Wiley’s back was bent over in apparent if not melodramatic grief, and the clergyman had his arm around his shoulders, whispering what Simon assumed were words of comfort. The other mourners trailed them, some squinting up into the sun, others nodding to passing tourists.

In the back of the group—way in the back, come to think of it—was Enid Corval, Aaron’s mother. For a brief flash, Simon imagined them as a pack of gazelles and him the lion, readying to take down the one farthest away from the pack. Silly image, but there you go.

But that one would be Enid, the mother.

Simon kept watching. Enid looked distracted. She glanced at her watch, slowing her walk, staying farther and farther back from the rest of the mourners. Alone.

Odd, Simon thought. She was the mother. You’d think a few of them would be with her, putting an arm around her, offering her comforting words. No one did.

She was also dressed differently. The rest of the group, including Wiley Corval, had gone with the blue-blazer, khaki, loafer-sans-socks spirit, even if that wasn’t exactly what they were wearing. Poor man’s yacht club. Enid wore mom jeans, Velcro white sneakers, and a stretched-out cable-knit sweater that was a yellow usually found on a Ticonderoga pencil.

Wiley and the clergyman started up the porch steps. The receptionist who’d helped Simon greeted Wiley at the door with a buss on the cheek. The rest of the mourners filed in after him.

Except Enid.

She was now trailing the group far enough that she remained outside after the door had closed. She glanced left, then right, then headed behind the inn.

Simon wasn’t sure what his move was here. Get out of the car and confront? Stay where he was and see where she was going?

When Enid Corval disappeared around the back of the inn, Simon slid out of the car to get a better view. He spotted her getting into a pickup truck. She started it up and put the truck into reverse. Simon hurried back to his car and hit the ignition button.

Thirty seconds later, he was following Enid Corval’s pickup down Tom Wheeler Road.

The road was lined with low stone walls offering a modicum of protection to the vast farmland on both sides. Simon didn’t know enough about this area—were these real farms or for show or what?—but most looked pretty worn and dilapidated.

Fifteen minutes later, the pickup truck pulled into a dirt parking lot with like-minded vehicles. There was no sign visible advertising a name or description for this establishment. Enid got out of the pickup and headed toward a converted barn with aluminum siding, like it’d been snapped together. The color was faux bright orange, like a clown’s hair.

Simon pulled in, self-conscious of his Audi, and cruised to a far corner. He looked to his left. Hidden from the road on the far side of the barn were a couple of dozen motorcycles lined up in two anally straight lines. Harley-Davidsons for the most part. Simon didn’t know much about motorcycles, had never been on one, but even from this vantage point, he could spot the iconic Harley logo on a few of the bikes.

Enid was heading across the dirt lot for the saloon-style doors. Two husky men in leather chaps and black bandannas poured out into the lot before she arrived. Their thick, somewhat flabby arms were loaded with tats. Both sported paunches and the prerequisite beard. Bikers.

They greeted Enid warmly with handshakes and hugs. She kissed one on the cheek and disappeared inside. Simon debated waiting for her to come back out—this place clearly wasn’t his usual hangout—but that seemed like a waste of time. He turned off his car and started for the swinging doors.

When he pushed them open, he somehow expected that the music would stop and everyone would turn and stare at the interloper. But no one did. There was also no music playing. A television old enough for rabbit ears showed a baseball game. The bar was odd. Too wide in spots, space enough for a dance maybe, but Simon doubted that there’d been one recently. There was a jukebox in the right corner, but it was unplugged. The floor beneath him was mostly dirt, the same as the parking lot.

Enid Corval took a seat at the bar. Considering it was only eleven a.m., business seemed pretty brisk. There were maybe ten people scattered amongst the thirty or so stools, equally spaced apart, no one right next to anyone else, like men’s urinals in a public bathroom. They all huddled over their drink, eyes down in protective, don’t-converse-with-me mode. A group of bikers on the right played pool on a table with ugly rips in the green fabric.

There were cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon everywhere.