Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(41)
And maybe there are more of them. Melvin always did have fans.
“The last thing he wrote,” Sam says, “was that she begged him to kill her. Begged him for hours. He recorded it. He says he’ll send me the tape.” He swallows. “I’m talking like he’s still alive. But he must have planned this out, and there’s somebody out there mailing things for him. So it’s like he is still alive.”
I flinch, because once again Melvin’s found some unspeakable cruelty to inflict. I wait until my voice is steady, and then say, “I found the name and address in Richmond. Kez is on top of it, and we’ll stop him from doing more damage. Melvin hoped to make you his last victim. Don’t let him do that to you.”
He nods slowly.
I’m not sure he can resist.
After a few silent moments, he stands up, gets his toiletry kit, and goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower start. I lie back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. It’s clean, no water stains, which is a wonder. I hate this. I hate that Melvin is standing invisibly between us, grinning like a skull.
I strip down to a light tee and panties and climb into bed; it’s so hot and humid that I toss the comforter back and leave just the top sheet. The shower runs a long, long time. It’s easier to stay in there; I remember all the times I tried to wash away the pain, the guilt, the unspoken rage. He needs to feel clean again, but I doubt he’ll find it in the bath.
When he comes out, finally, I hear him stop for a moment. Trying to see if I’m asleep, I think. So I say, “It’s okay if you want to take the other bed. I understand.”
He switches off the light that sits between the two beds. I feel his weight settle in next to me, then the gentle heat of his body as he moves close. I’m on my side, and I look back at him, then turn to face him. The kiss he gives me is gentle, almost regretful. I curl up against him, never mind the heat of the room, and his skin smells like the lemony motel soap that will always, from this moment on, remind me of grief and loss.
We hold each other in the dark, and we don’t talk. I’m almost afraid to breathe. There’s something so fragile between us that the slightest tap might shatter it.
It might be the most intimate we’ve ever been.
After the promised morning breakfast, and an argument with my daughter about whether or not pajama pants are appropriate for McDonald’s, Sam drives us into Wolfhunter.
It’s not much to look at, after all. The downtown—well, the whole town, really—is just about a ten-by-ten-block grid, with dirty-fronted shops along the main drag and faded clapboard houses leaning beside rusted fences.
It looks like a town that long ago surrendered. I doubt if more than a thousand people call it home. The only real virtue to it is that it’s close to the large, lush national park, so I suppose the transient visitors keep the place on life support, if not alive.
The main street contains the same you see in every southern small town . . . a junk accumulation masquerading as antiques; a kitschy tourist store with lots of Confederate flags and bumper stickers designed to offend; a café that proclaims BEST PIES IN TENNESSEE and is probably lying. Pickup trucks and old SUVs with bumpers wired on, and nothing that’s been washed in a year. Judging by the weather-beaten look of everything I can see, there’s a paint shortage. Keeping up appearances requires some kind of aspiration.
The police station is just one street off the geographic center of town: a storefront operation that reminds me of old westerns, complete with a hand-painted star on a big plate-glass window. Not exactly the hardened, terrorist-resistant bunker of modern urban centers.
After my shower this morning, I took Kez’s advice: I wrote phone numbers on my inner forearms in black permanent marker. It seems like a little too much paranoia, but better too much than too little. When I walk into this place, I’m essentially stepping into a dark room without a flashlight. I don’t know who to trust. I don’t even know if there’s going to be a floor underneath me, metaphorically speaking. Best to be prepared for a fall.
Sam parks right in front, and says, “I’m your one phone call if you end up needing one. Right?”
“And my bondsman,” I say, and try for a smile. I don’t feel too good about this suddenly. “Okay. Everybody, get back to work on Operation Wolfhunter. I’ll call when I’m ready to leave the station. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sam says, and kisses me. He brushes hair back from my face. “Be safe, Gwen.”
“Be safe,” I tell him in turn, and then I lean over the seat and kiss my kids before sliding out into the thick, humid air of morning. The smell of the trees is powerful, overcoming any kind of car exhaust; there aren’t that many cars on the road. It’s a good smell at first, but then when I become accustomed to it, there’s a dark undertone of dead things rotting under leaves. Of a stagnant river, ripe with mosquitoes. I’m not imagining it.
This town smells like death.
I try not to breathe deeply, and manage to smile and wave at Sam and the kids as he backs the SUV up into the street. I watch them until they’re up over a hill, heading back toward the motel. There are a few people on the street, and I realize I’m drawing stares. Or glares. It’s hard to tell the difference, but they’re definitely noticing me.
I push open the door to the police department and head inside. The reception area’s small, barely the size of my living room. There are some old wooden chairs up against the wall, and a bench that started life as a church pew. There’s also a wooden counter, and a woman sitting on the other side of it typing away on a computer that’s just barely aware of the internet age. She’s fiftyish, white, with no-nonsense graying hair, perfect makeup, and cat-eye glasses. “Help you?” she asks without stopping her typing.