Kill Devil Falls Page 6

  “Boys … please.”

  Frank motioned at Mike and they walked a short distance away, had a brief huddle, then returned.

  “You sit tight,” Frank said. “Mike’s gonna watch you. I won’t be long.”

  “Where are you going, Frank?”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Goddammit, Frank!”

  It was no use. Frank trotted off down Main Street. Mike escorted Rita into their double-wide, told her to sit on the couch. The place was a mess. Empty beer bottles, dirty dishes, comic books, PlayStation game cases scattered around.

  “You want a beer or something?”

  “No. I want to get the fuck out of here.”

  Mike took a seat perpendicular from Rita, used a remote to turn on the TV. The reception had issues.

  “No matter what we do, just can’t get no decent picture,” Mike explained.

  “That’s a real shame,” Rita said. She considered making a break for it. As if he could read her mind, Mike shifted the crossbow on his lap so that it lined up with her chest.

  Time passed. A lot of time. Frank finally returned to the trailer, told Mike and Rita to wait. Mike complained that he had to piss. Frank took a turn watching Rita with the crossbow.

  Rita continued trying to convince Frank to let her leave. He refused. Eventually, Rita heard a vehicle arrive. Frank and Mike took Rita outside.

  When she saw the Ford Explorer, County Sheriff painted across its side, Big Ed and Teddy in the cab, she almost ran. Instead, her knees gave way and she thumped down onto the ground.

  Frank helped her to her feet, whispering in her ear, “Go ahead and tell ’em about the pot farm. They won’t do shit.”

  As they were driving back up Main Street on the way to Donnersville, Rita in the back, Big Ed silent, Teddy scratching and fidgeting, a call came over the radio. Shooting in Sardine Valley. Big Ed and Teddy were the closest law enforcement and a shooting was always a priority. Teddy suggested, timidly, that he watch over Rita while Big Ed drove over to Sardine Valley.

  “I can hold her in the Old Log Jail. It’s still got working cells.”

  Big Ed hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed.

  “You sit with her until the marshal arrives or I get back, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now, hours later, she was still in the cell. Still waiting to blow town.

  Rita’s heart leaped as she heard a key jiggle in the front door. She got up, went to the cell door, squinted through the iron slats.

  A man stepped through the doorway. He reached over and switched off the overhead light. But not before Rita saw the hunting knife.

  She knew then she wasn’t leaving Kill Devil Falls. Not ever.

  5

  THE FRONT ROOM OF the Trading Post served as a bare-bones mini market. There were a couple of half-empty aisles with haphazardly arranged shelves displaying goods—canned food, bottled water, toiletries, household items, coffee, tea, boxes of crackers, cookie tins, and what looked like a lifetime supply of Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies.

  Along the rightmost wall was a small refrigerator unit with plastic strips dangling down. Inside were a few jugs of milk, egg cartons, packaged meat, cheap beer, and some other perishables.

  Straight ahead, in the back right corner, was an open doorway. Helen smelled hot food. Pie crust. Coffee. Her stomach rumbled.

  “Restaurant’s there,” Teddy said. “Restroom’s on the other side, if you want to use it.” He pointed toward a door in the back left corner.

  “Yes, that would be great,” Helen said.

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  Helen passed through the aisles, opened the door to the restroom. The toilet seat was up, its rim splattered with urine. Gross. She wadded up toilet paper, wet it in the sink, thoroughly wiped down the seat. She used the toilet, washed her hands, re-tied her ponytail.

  Much better. Now for coffee and hopefully a quick car fix and on the road.

  Teddy was waiting just outside. He gave her a shy smile and led her into the restaurant.

  Inside, it was a no-frills affair, with cedar-planked walls, a worn wooden floor, ancient water-spotted ceiling tiles. A row of chipped and cigarette-scarred orange melamine tables occupied the lion’s share of the restaurant space. A long, narrow picture window along the top of the right wall admitted a blush of dying light. A navel-high counter ran across the back of the room, with an open kitchen area behind it.

  Two men sat together at the table closest to the counter, industriously levering forkfuls of meatloaf into their mouths. One was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, wearing a sloppy handlebar mustache, a Dickies insulated jacket, and a dirty green John Deere cap. The other was skinny, with a meticulously groomed Zorro mustache and straw cowboy hat.

  An old man sat alone at a second table. He wore thick glasses and a plaid hunting hat with ear flaps. Patches of white hair dotted his face, bearing witness to a lack of shaving precision. His purple-veined nose indicated poor blood circulation and perhaps a drinking habit. A fork was pinched awkwardly in his calloused hand. He was slowly and methodically working through his plate of food, bits of which were spilling onto the table as he shakily brought the fork to his mouth.

  The restaurant’s final patron also sat by himself, at the table furthest from the others. He was young, in his late twenties, dressed in a San Francisco State sweatshirt and jean jacket. He had pale skin and startlingly blue eyes, with the longish light brown hair and delicate bone structure of an eighteenth-century Romantic poet. He ate silently, engrossed in a dog-eared textbook.

  “Teddy,” called out a woman behind the counter. She waved her arms, setting off a cacophony of clatter from various bangles on her wrist.

  “Evening, Mrs. P,” Teddy said. “That’s Mrs. Patterson,” he whispered to Helen. “She runs the place.”

  Teddy headed for the counter, with Helen trailing behind.

  “Who do we have here?” Mrs. Patterson asked.

  Helen estimated Mrs. Patterson to be in her mid-fifties. She had a thick mop of curly red hair and sharply penciled eyebrows, and wore a generous application of eyeliner and crimson lipstick.

  Helen was acutely aware that all eyes in the restaurant were on her.

  “This is the US Marshal up from Sac,” Teddy said. He nodded to the two men seated together as he passed their table.

  “Gents.”

  “Deputy Dawg,” the big one said.

  “You know I don’t like that.”

  “I know.” The man grinned at Helen. Something green was lodged in his teeth. “I’m Frank.” He nodded at Zorro. “This is Mike. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Deputy Marshal.”

  Frank laughed.

  “That’s a real pretty name for a real pretty lady.”

  “This the Frank and Mike you were telling me about?” Helen asked.

  “Yeah,” Teddy said.

  Frank’s grin dropped off his face.

  “What you been telling the pretty marshal about us, Teddy?”

  “Her car won’t start. She wants to know if maybe you and Mike can take a look.”

  “Is that so?” Frank said, turning to Helen.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Please. It’s important I get back on the road as soon as possible.”

  “Okay.” Frank resumed smiling. “We’ll get that fixed up for you. Soon’s we finish our dinner. Right, Mike?”

  “Sure thing.” Mike touched a finger to the brim of his cowboy hat.

  “Not to be a pain, but I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Helen said.

  “Just give us a few minutes, all right?” Frank said, peevishly.

  Helen didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. She needed Frank and Mike’s cooperation. “Sure.”

  “Can I get you all some coffee or something?” Mrs. Patterson said.

  “Coffee would be great, Mrs. P,” Teddy said.

  “How about you, dear?”

  “Yes, please.” Frank and Mike looked to be ha
lfway through their meal. Helen hoped they were fast eaters.

  “I’m Alice Patterson, by the way.”

  “Helen Morrissey.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Mrs. Patterson was wearing a brightly colored, body-clinging dress that extended down past her knees. As she bustled around behind the counter, Helen noted her nicely proportioned hourglass figure—apart from her breasts, which appeared two cup sizes too large for her frame. And they were hard to miss, given the dress’s plunging neckline.

  When Mrs. Patterson leaned over to pour coffee into two mugs, the rounded globes of her bosom threatened to burst forth like the brown waters of the Mississippi breaching a New Orleans levee. Helen concluded they were fake.

  In addition to the colorful dress, Mrs. Patterson wore an eclectic jumble of jewelry. A triple loop of necklaces, multiple bracelets, long dangling earrings, rings on eight fingers. Her taste ran toward the talismanic. Helen spotted a crucifix, an ankh, a variety of gemstones, a Star of David, and a variety of other symbols she didn’t recognize.

  “Sugar or cream?” Mrs. Patterson asked.

  “Neither, thanks,” Helen said.

  “Both,” said Teddy.

  “I know how you like your coffee, Teddy,” Mrs. Patterson admonished. She poured a slug of cream and spooned sugar into his cup. She set the two mugs on the counter.

  Helen sipped. “Mmm. Good.”

  “Of course, dear. Life is unpredictable and capricious. But in those areas where we have control, we should pursue perfection. Like our coffee.” She winked.

  Helen smiled. “Are you from here, Mrs. Patterson?”

  “Oh, good lord, no.” Mrs. Patterson’s earrings tinkled like tiny wind chimes as she shook her head. “I’m from southern California, originally. But that was many miles traveled and lifetimes lived ago.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  “What brought you to Kill Devil Falls?”

  “I suppose it was the beautiful scenery. And fresh, crisp mountain air. A welcome change from the Valley.”

  “San Joaquin Valley?”

  “San Fernando.”

  “Ah.”

  “I used to be in the pictures. That’s where I met my husband, Jesse. He was a director.”

  Teddy took his cup of coffee and walked off toward the tables. Mrs. Patterson prattled on.

  “It was fun and glamorous, in the beginning. Bright lights. Parties. Handsome men. Lots of cocaine. Oops!” Mrs. Patterson slapped a hand over her mouth. “Please don’t arrest me!”

  Helen laughed. She wondered what kind of “pictures” Mrs. Patterson was referring to. San Fernando was synonymous with the porn industry, and Mrs. Patterson certainly had the physical attributes of a retired XXX starlet.

  “Anyway, the good times eventually came to an end, as they are wont to do.” Mrs. Patterson picked up the coffee pot and topped off Helen’s cup. “The industry changed, times got tougher, profits became deficits. The air got smoggier, people meaner, and eventually Jesse and I decided to get far, far away from it all.”

  She placed the pot back in its cradle.

  “And you can’t get much farther away from it all than this.”

  “No, that’s for sure,” Helen said.

  “We’ve been here fifteen years now, if you can believe it. We arrived just before the county condemned the land.”

  “The deputy told me about that. So you were one of the residents who sued the county?”

  “Honey, it was Jesse and me who started the whole lawsuit. And won it, on behalf of all these folks.” She leaned in and whispered, “I mean, take a look. You think any of these country bumpkins had a clue about how to fight city hall? Most of them can barely read a bubble gum comic strip.” She tittered.

  Helen nodded, turned to have a quick glance around the room. Mike was licking remnants of meat loaf off his fork. Frank poked at his teeth with a toothpick. Teddy sat silently next to the old man, staring off into space. The old man dozed, his chin propped on his hand. Young Byron in the far corner, engrossed in his textbook, seemed the only relatively urbane person in the restaurant.

  “You gentlemen about ready?” she said to Frank and Mike.

  “We’re finishing our drinks.” Frank held up a beer bottle.

  Helen held her temper in check. She turned back to Mrs. Patterson, sipped from her coffee mug.

  “Where’s your husband now?” she asked.

  “Upstairs having his late-afternoon constitutional.”

  “Constitutional?”

  “He’s napping. Jesse’s getting a bit up there in years. He likes to take a nice siesta before dinner. He should be down in a minute or two.”

  “A nap sounds pretty good.”

  “In lieu of a nap, how about some meatloaf? I make the best in town.”

  “I’m sure you do. But I need to get back to the jail.”

  The young man in the jean jacket appeared at her elbow, empty plate in hand.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Sure thing, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence placed the plate on the counter, stole a glance at Helen, quickly looked away. The textbook under his arm was titled The Complete Guide to Small Game Taxidermy.

  “Do you have cherry pie tonight?” Lawrence asked.

  “Sure, Lawrence. I’ve got it all ready for you.” Mrs. Patterson set a foil-wrapped paper plate on the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  He laid a ten on the counter, smiled awkwardly at Mrs. Patterson, nodded shyly at Helen, hurried away.

  “What’s his story?” Helen asked, after Lawrence had disappeared through the door leading to the market.

  Mrs. Patterson shrugged.

  “He’s only been up here a few weeks. His grandma owns a house at the end of the road. She finally up and left a year or so ago, shut up the house, probably didn’t bother to inform the county. Suddenly, Lawrence appears out of the blue. He says he’s from the Bay Area, is an artist, up here to work without any distractions. Real quiet, keeps to himself, eats dinner here every night, otherwise doesn’t talk much or socialize. Takes his dessert to go.” She leaned in closer to Helen and whispered, “I’d swear every time he comes in, he reeks of booze, though.”

  “Did you see what he was reading? A taxidermy book.”

  “Well, I guess it takes all kinds.”

  Mike approached the counter with his and Frank’s dishes.

  “That was real good, Mrs. P. How about some of that famous pie for dessert?”

  “You bet, Mike.”

  Helen watched incredulously as Mrs. Patterson cut two generous slices of pie, laid them on plates, pushed them across the counter. Mike set one of the plates in front of Frank.

  “How about you guys have dessert after looking at my car?” she asked.

  Frank shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth, sprayed pie crust as he answered.

  “Two minutes. Give us two minutes.”

  “You boys make it quick now!” Mrs. Patterson said. “The marshal’s our guest, and she’s got a job to do.”

  “All right, all right.” Frank waved his fork in sullen agreement.

  “You sure you don’t want a slice, dear?”

  “I’m sure, thanks.”

  Helen looked over at Teddy. The old guy at Teddy’s table was awake and making a mess of a homemade cigarette. As she watched, Teddy reached out, took the paper and tobacco, carefully rolled a cigarette, handed it back for the old man to lick.

  Mrs. Patterson followed her gaze. “That’s Mr. Yates. Third of his line to live in Kill Devil Falls. His grandfather came over around the turn of the century. From Wales, to work the mine.”

  Yates’s desiccated tongue poked between his chapped lips like a turtle’s head, ran along the edge of the cigarette paper.

  “The industry was pretty much done by the 1920s, certainly around here,” Mrs. Patterson continued. “Mining was in the Yates’ blood, though. After Yates’s grandfather retired, his father kept chipping away at the mountain, even when t
he operation was officially closed. And it’s an open secret that until a few years ago, Yates was still regularly digging at night. Always looking for that vein of gold—the motherlode, the one that went undiscovered. He and his father are probably single-handedly responsible for half the holes running beneath town. Yates’s father was even caught with a load of dynamite once.”

  “Lucky he didn’t blow himself up.”

  “Yes, but let me tell you, if the entire mountainside caves in one day, it’ll be the Yates’s fault. All three generations of them.”

  “What about those two?” Helen whispered, nodding at Frank and Mike.

  “Quite a pair, aren’t they? You know, there’s about twenty-five empty houses on this street, most of them don’t have electricity or water, but still, plenty of space available. And those two squeeze themselves into a double-wide trailer like a couple of hamsters in a cage.”

  “Are they … ?”

  Mrs. Patterson giggled.

  “Lovers? No. I’ve never seen one of them with a girlfriend, but that’s just because they have no social skills, not because they’re gay.”

  “What do they do? I mean, for a living?”

  “Mainly odd jobs around town. Electrical work, mechanical work. Kind of the local handymen. I don’t think they have a lot of expenses beyond video games and a little … ” She pantomimed smoking a joint.

  “I see.”

  Helen knew she couldn’t leave Rita alone in the jail for any longer. She set her mug on the counter.

  “How much for the coffee?”

  “On the house, dear.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I insist.”

  “Well … thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Helen walked over to Teddy.

  “Deputy,” she said. “I’m going to head back to the jailhouse and wait for you there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Teddy said. He stood up, fingered the skeleton key dangling from his belt. “Can’t get in without this, anyway.”

  Helen nodded and headed for the market, Teddy at her heels. Frank and Mike would be along in their own good time, no sense in breathing down their necks, getting herself worked up.

  She halted when she heard a muted rattle, crash, and thump coming from behind the counter. She turned, exchanged a confused look with Teddy. There was a closed door, one Helen hadn’t previously noticed, in the back corner of the restaurant.