Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 16

  * * * * *

  I was in a room with no ceiling. Salinger was standing next to me. It was cold, and the sky was white as snow. Suddenly a car pulled up, and two figures got out. One had fangs like a vampire. I couldn't see the other one's face. But I knew that they had come for me.

  I tried to finish the work I had been given: to run blank paper through a printing machine. It was crucial that I read what was printed on the paper. The two figures came ever closer. The one with the fangs had his mouth open, poised to puncture my throat. He was going to drain my blood from me, to suck my life away so that he could live.

  I was shivering in a cold sweat. Now they were inside the room. I could see that the other figure was a woman, but I couldn’t make out her face because she had turned into a cat. The man lunged toward me, seizing me by the throat. As he sunk his fangs into me, I shoved him away with all my strength. I grabbed Salinger. Suddenly Salinger and I floated effortlessly above the scene, and the two figures receded.

  I awoke drenched in sweat. The comforter was bunched at my feet, and Salinger was snoring on the pillow next to me. I looked over at the clock: 4:01 AM. I stared up at the beamed ceiling and let the tears run into my hair.

  Lydia's earlier comment came back into my mind. As valiantly as I had fought to survive the cancer, had I come to Door to die? Was I seeking a place to die a clean death free of the messiness of a husband and friends? On some instinctive level, did I believe it was too late? The cancer docs reassured me again and again that I was free of the cancer, as far as they could tell, assured me they had caught it in time. Yet my own G. P. had missed the lump during my annual checkup. I was the one who had found it, by then as big as a golf ball. My body had betrayed me, and I could never count on it again, no matter what they cut out of it or shot into it. This body was a time bomb, and a volcano.

  I rolled over toward Salinger and pulled her close. She half-opened her eyes, licked my face and went back to sleep. It was some time before I could erase the picture of Carl Peck biting into my neck, his dark hair slicked back, his grey eyes impenetrable as stone, his callused hands on my skin.

  20

  Saturday, November 11, Present day

  I pulled into Lot 3 of Newport State Park. The snow had stopped, as if it exhausted itself and needed to take a breather. The lake was running hard and fast up the snow-crusted beach. I wrapped a wool scarf across my face and headed toward Europe Bay Trail.

  I had awakened at seven with the aftertaste of the vampire dream still strong. A heavy snow had fallen overnight that blocked the doors and rimmed the windows. Though the radio predicted more snow by afternoon, I decided to head up the peninsula. I was going to suffocate if I had to stay in the cottage, where that dream invaded. I needed escape.

  Europe Bay Trail partially paralleled Europe Bay, beginning at Lake Michigan and turning back at Europe Lake. Except for the Lynd Point spur, Europe Trail was sheltered by both evergreens and deciduous trees. I knew it well, because Tom and I had hiked it many times during our vacation visits here. It had a picturesque loop called Lynd Point that jutted out toward Lake Michigan. Back home in a box in the bottom of the hall closet were dozens and dozens of pictures I’d taken off Lynd Point. Whenever I’d asked, Tom had patiently posed, giving the stark clean landscape the human element I desired.

  The hike was hard going. The snow reached over the tops of my hiking boots and soon caked the outside of my thermal socks. But the cold felt honest.

  I turned right off Europe Bay Trail toward Lake Michigan at the Lynd Point spur. As I reached the beach area, a blast of wind took my breath away. I stood stark still for a moment. Though the sun was blinding, it added no warmth. I shielded my eyes and looked out at the horizon. Sky and water made a single white sheet, distinguished only by movement. Suddenly I sensed that I wasn’t alone. I turned around.

  Behind me near the rim of evergreens stood a man. From this distance, I couldn’t make out his features but it was obvious what he was doing. He was urinating. Either he hadn’t seen me, or he didn’t care that I saw him. He was standing sideways and taking his sweet time. Finally he zipped up his pants and turned in my direction. For a second, I thought he was going to move toward me. Instead he flipped me off and then abruptly marched down the trail away from the beach.

  My heart was beating a little too fast. He had seen me, and he hadn’t cared. His hostile gesture confirmed that. I felt I had two choices. I could scurry back to my truck, or I could continue hiking. I had only been walking for about fifteen minutes. I had come here to clear my head, and I was not going to be intimidated by some loser. So I trudged forward down the beach.

  By the time Lynd Trail turned inland back to Europe Bay Trail, I was beyond cold. The trees enclosure offered some relief. I looked back over my shoulder, still wary of the brazen snow whizzer. All I saw was a white canopy of trees bending over the trail. I pushed onward, determined to finish the entire 9.2-mile trek.

  When I reached the thickest part of the woods, I heard something moving behind me. I told myself it was probably a squirrel. From the many hikes I'd taken with Tom, I learned that small animal sounds are amplified in the deep woods. Whatever it was, it was coming closer. I quickened my pace. Then I heard a shout and began running. The snow slogged my boots as I headed around a stone mound, and the pursuer was too fast. I felt a yank on the hood of my parka as I was pulled backwards. I lost my balance and fell hard. It took me a full minute before I realized that it was Rob Martin standing over me.

  “Why didn’t you stop!”

  “I’m alone in the woods, and some maniac is chasing me. Would you stop?” I struggled to my feet and brushed the snow off my jeans, trying to regain my dignity. “Besides, the last time I saw you, you were telling me to get the hell out."

  “You shouldn’t be here by yourself.” He shoved his hands under his arms.

  I was in no mood for the helpless woman routine. “You made that perfectly clear on the beach.”

  “On the beach? I haven’t been on the beach.”

  I looked at him quizzically. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the urinating man’s attire. Though I thought he was wearing a hat. Martin was hatless. I couldn’t be sure either way.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, annoyed with myself. “I thought you’d still be at the hospital.”

  He ignored my ploy to change the subject. “Did something happen on the beach?”

  “I ran into some loser taking a piss. He flipped me off.”

  “And you thought it was me?” He burst out laughing.

  “A logical deduction,” I answered, “considering you ran me off the road a few nights ago. That is, if it was really you.” I didn’t think any of this was that funny.

  He stopped laughing. “I said it was me.”

  “By the way, I never did get a chance to ask you. Did you even check to see if I was breathing before you left me there?”

  His face went blank. “I told you I never meant to run you off the road. I panicked. It was a stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.”

  Martin’s hostility and anger, I could deal with. His contriteness threw me off guard.

  “You’ve got every right to alert the police,” he continued. “But I hope you won’t. Sarah needs me right now.”

  So that was his motive. Everything for Martin circled back to Sarah Peck. “I’ll think about it.” I pointed to his reporter’s notebook, which was sticking out of his pocket. “Doing research for your column?”

  He looked down. “Always. Aren’t you? That is, always pursuing some angle?” He left me with the rhetorical question, and started walking down trail.

  “I hear Sarah’s out of the coma.” I followed after him. “Has she said anything to you about why she attempted suicide?”

  He stopped and turned so abruptly that I almost ran into him. “Sarah’s been through enough. She needs to be left alone.” There was a clear threat in his last comment.

  “Look, I’m only trying to help.”

&n
bsp; He grabbed my arm. Through the layers of down filler, I could feel the strength of his grip. I was grateful he had clenched my right arm and not the left, where I was still so sore. “Let go of me,” I growled in a low voice.

  His face was close enough for me to see gold glints in the red stubble on his cheeks. “What did you think I was going to do to you?” His tone was neutral, as if he was asking me what I had had for breakfast.

  “What do you mean?” I could feel his fingers loosening on my arm.

  “Before, when you were running.”

  “I had no idea, since I didn’t know it was you chasing me.”

  “But now you know it was me. Think about that.”

  I waited until he disappeared into the woods before I headed back to the parking lot. Maybe it had been him on the beach.

  Nearing my truck, I spotted a dark blue, rusted-out pickup parked at the other end of Lot 3. My stomach clutched at the Woulff Orchards sign hanging in the back of the cab. I looked around quickly, but didn’t see Renn Woulff. Hurriedly, I jerked open my truck door and jumped in. I jammed the key in the starter, revved the engine, and put the truck in reverse. A thump sounded. I looked to my right. There he was, grinning at me through the passenger side window. Before I could react, he pressed his open mouth on the window and ran his tongue up and down the glass, smearing it with his saliva.

  “Get the hell away from my truck, you drunken pervert, or I’ll run you over!”

  He pulled away slowly. “You know you want it, baby! Don’t fight it!” he yelled. His hand went for the door handle.

  I pushed my foot down hard on the gas and tore out of the lot, slipping and sliding on the snow- slick surface. When I looked in the rear view mirror, Woulff was standing perfectly still, still wearing that shit-faced grin and giving me the finger, for the second time that morning.

  21

  Monday, November 13, Present day

  “Miss Girard?”

  “Yes,” I answered groggily into the phone. I looked over at the clock. It was eight A.M. I had slept through my alarm.

  “This is Deputy Chet Jorgensen. Officer Ferry asked me to call you, about them bones ya found. Only got the preliminary report here, from the pathologist. He sent ’em on to a forensic anthropologist for further analysis.”

  I waited for him to continue. I heard a rustling of papers. Then he cleared his throat. “The bones are probably those of a human newborn. Okay, then. Looks like ya were right there. About ’em being human and all.”

  “What about the age?”

  “Newborn,” he repeated.

  “No, how old were the bones?”

  Again I waited, and Deputy Chet took his time to answer. “Like I said, gotta wait till we hear further from that forensic anthropologist. Could take one, maybe two months.”

  “But you’re going to investigate this, right?”

  “Ahead of you on that. Already run it through missing persons. Didn’t turn up nothin’.”

  “Is that it?” I was so frustrated that I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it cross-eyed.

  “Till we hear from that forensic anthropologist, nothin’ else we can do.”

  “This child was buried in a cave. Was there any sign of trauma?” I was now fully awake and wishing Jorgensen was here so I could shake some sense into his thick Viking brain.

  He didn’t say anything. I could hear voices in the background. “Hold on, there. Let a man finish.”

  I sighed deeply.

  He lowered his voice. “The pathologist who first looked at the bones said something about the top of the head bein’ caved in. But he wasn’t goin’ to speculate. So until we hear . . .”

  I finished his sentence for him. “From the forensic anthropologist, there’s nothing else you can do. There must be something else.” I was beginning to think that if I ever wanted to commit a crime, Door County was the perfect place. The fact that the police felt crime didn’t happen here seemed to make it so in their minds.

  “Look, you do your job and let me do mine, okay then?” His tone was even, but I knew that he was annoyed.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.” I wasn’t about to let him have the last word.

  “We’ll handle it.”

  “We’ll see.” I wasn't sure if he had heard me because the line went dead. I hung up the phone and called the paper. “Marge, it’s Leigh. Is Stevens in?”

  “Well, good morning, early bird.” I didn’t know if she was being sarcastic or not. “No, he’s not in yet. What can I do you for?”

  “Give him a message.”

  “Just a second, hon. Okay, shoot.”

  “Tell him I’ll be a little late this morning. And that I’ve got the preliminary results on the post mortem examination,” I hesitated, not sure how much to say about the post mortem.

  “Now what post mortem examination would that be?” Marge asked. This time I knew she was being sarcastic.

  “What one do you think?” She knew exactly what I was talking about.

  “I’m only making sure you weren’t working on something else, hon,” she replied. “That’s something, isn’t it? You finding those bones. Makes you wonder how many bodies are buried in the woods around here.”

  * * * * *

  Monday morning: I decided not to call Sarah Peck, but just drive over to her house. Freshly released from the hospital, I expected to find her home, and I wanted the element of surprise. Besides, I was pretty certain she would refuse to see me.

  Eleven inches of snow had fallen over the weekend. This morning, a hard sun bleached the snow crystalline white. The blueness of the sky was blinding. In Chicago, the streets would already be aslosh in salt and dirty snow. I savored the open expanses of pure white.

  Sarah lived just north of Bailey’s Harbor, the more secluded side of the peninsula. The nature conservancy preserve, the Ridges Sanctuary, and various other pieces of protected land saved the Lake Michigan side from the quaint over-development of bay side villages like Egg Harbor and Fish Creek.

  Unlike her parents’ mailbox, Sarah’s was stenciled with her name and address and edged with tiny, hand painted lady slipper orchids. Sarah’s handiwork, no doubt. I pulled into her driveway and followed the winding, deeply wooded gravel road. Patterns of light splattered my windshield here and there, lifting the gloom created by the dense evergreens.

  As my truck emerged into a clearing, it was struck by full sunlight. Immediately the feeling of claustrophobia lifted. I felt as if I’d stumbled into an alternative world. Ahead of me high on a bluff stood Sarah’s house: one of those silver Airstream mobile homes from the fifties that slightly resembles an alien space ship. I climbed out of my truck and heard the familiar lapping of water. Sarah had wisely situated her glittering house so that it afforded a spectacular view of Lake Michigan.

  As I ascended the gentle bluff toward the mobile home, I noticed a small cedar outbuilding several yards to the right of the trailer. It too, overlooked the water. I knocked several times at the front door of the Streamliner, but no one answered. Sarah had to be home, and in that small a trailer, she had to have heard me knocking. For whatever reason, she wasn’t answering the door. I was about to leave when I caught the sound of music coming from the cedar house. As I walked toward it, I recognized Billie Holiday’s smoky voice singing, “God Bless the Child.”

  The outbuilding was a structure of brown cedar shingles and glass windows. The wall of windows faced the lake in an expansive view of the water. Its whole purpose was to capture light. This was indeed a perfect studio for an artist. The vista was so dazzling, I had to shield my eyes as I looked out over the water. The lake flashed and rolled in azures and aquamarines of such changing translucence, I figured a person could spend a lifetime trying to capture it and never succeed. Everyday the canvas and the palate would be obstacles that had to be overcome, because the scene could only be interrupted, not translated.

  Again no one answered my knock. I knew Sarah was inside. Against
all propriety, I turned the front door knob. Though I was still uncomfortable with the idea of unlocked houses and keys left in car ignitions, I took advantage of the situation and walked in.

  Sarah was standing before a wall-sized canvas that was bathed in light. Fiery yellows, raging reds, blasts of blue, garnet greens swirled over and off the edges of the canvas. Where there was no color, the white shone with an intensity that almost hurt my eyes. She didn’t hear me come in, and I was so taken by the painting that I didn’t announce myself. I looked from the canvas to the wall of windows. Then it struck me. She was painting the view from these windows, but the colors were all wrong. The serenity of the realistic scene had been blasted open to what Sarah must be seeing underneath.

  The music tape clicked off, and I jumped. Sarah turned around to switch the tape and saw me. If she was surprised, she hid it well.

  “I’m working,” she said, grabbing another tape and slipping it into the recorder. Bob Seger’s raspy voice scratched and rolled out around us.

  “That’s pretty powerful,” I said.

  She wiped her brush across a paint-smeared rag. It looked like blood.

  She squeezed another color from a tube and swirled it on the palate with a knife. She wouldn’t even look at me.

  “It’s definitely not your usual Door scene,” I continued.

  “Don’t try and con me,” she said, purpling the horizon with slashing strokes.

  “Okay, I won’t,” I conceded. “Did your mother tell you I visited you in the hospital?”

  “My mother says a lot of things, most of which make little sense.” She had thickened the horizon in her painting until it looked like a barrier that kept the water quiet. Sarah wasn’t going to let me ease into asking what I needed to know.

  “What happened Friday night after you left me at the caves?”

  She turned toward me with a hard stare. For the first time, I saw her in full light. Her face was drained of color, and her eyes had dark circles under them.