David Corbett - The Devil’s Redhead

To what end, he wondered.

He’d managed to shoot the cars coming and going, but due to the timed exposures they’d most likely reduce to nothing more than a blaze of headlight and blurred masses of shadow. Still, he’d caught a few shots of the men coming in and out, milling around the cars, and that might lead to something. The truck that had left just a while ago would resemble a long, milky smear flanked by moth-like wings of haze. One spot would be clear, the truck’s grill and cabin, maybe even the driver in silhouette, caught as the aperture closed. Abatangelo would bathe the prints in Acufine to sharpen the grain, then blow them up fivefold to see if he could make out the license numbers.

For all the preceding activity, the place seemed strangely quiet now. He presumed the truck had taken off the last incriminating whatever; the compound was locked up, any contraband removed, he supposed, and if they had a meth lab back there they’d hauled off the chemicals and dregs and dumped them, probably in a neighboring rancher’s well water. The man who had been posted at the county road had driven off with the others and hadn’t come back. The ranch house was lit up here and there, squares of light curtained dully, just another lonely house in the shadow of Mt. Diablo in eastern CoCo County. A scented wind rustled the trees. From within the drowsy herd milling below, a bull let out a moaning roar and shook its head, rattling the clapperless bell strung around its neck.

Bending down to peer through the viewfinder again, he spotted a distant, solitary figure. A woman. Dry-mouthed, he watched each step. Even after all this time, the years of having nothing but memories of her in his mind’s eye, he knew.

She hurried down the gravel lane away from the ranch house, walking with her shoulders hunched, arms tight to her body, battling the cold. As she passed the barn he dug the lens cap from his pocket, fit it into place and bagged his equipment, shouldering the tripod for the run downhill. Shel reached the first outbuilding, lifted the rolling aluminum door and disappeared inside. Shortly a truck engine shrieked then purred and headlights sprayed the gravel outside.

He scrambled down the moonlit hillside scattering cows. Reaching the Dart in its blind of pampas grass, he threw his tripod and camera bag into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. He put the keys in the ignition but did not engage the starter. Instead, he sat low in the seat, waiting.

Minutes passed. It was possible she’d taken the road west instead, he thought. He should hurry then, follow. He didn’t move. His mind raced, his body sat. Then headlights broke the hill and a Pathfinder streamed past in low gear. Abatangelo caught a glimpse of her profile.

Shel drove with one hand on the wheel; the other hand held her head. She had to get out of the house, needed to drive, be out in the open air. For just a short while. She felt reasonably certain they wouldn’t begrudge her that. They hadn’t even bothered to post a man at the gate, which was normal for uneventful nights when the compound sat dark and empty, nights when it was left to Frank and Shel and Rowena to make the place look like any other out here, nothing more than occupied. Just another off night, she thought, that’s what this was. That said something. It said she’d held up her end of the bargain. Frank had stayed in the saddle, he’d gone out to do his bit. And what she’d told Felix was true: She knew nothing. She could not connect anyone directly to anything, no matter what happened; she posed a threat to no one. That said, she told herself, not too far. They’ll sense it somehow, track you down just to brag about how they did it, if you stray too far.

In her rearview mirror she spotted the pair of headlights. They were two curves behind her, gaining. It was Felix, she thought. It had all been a test, see if she’d stay put. Her throat clenched. This wasn’t the sort of thing he’d want to handle personally. Maybe it was Bud Lally. Maybe it was the Mexicans everyone was bitching about. Maybe they were coming for Frank. And when they found her instead, what then?

She slowed, and the lights kept coming. Whoever they were, they weren’t just following, they meant to catch her. She tapped the accelerator once to gain some distance, floored it suddenly, but no more than a thousand yards later she eased her foot off the pedal entirely. The truck slowed to a stop. No more running, she thought. Too far to any crossroad, no turnoff, no escape. Make your peace. If they mean to get you, they will.

The car in pursuit rounded the turn and drifted to a stop behind her, headlights remaining on. Please don’t drag this out, she thought, so I won’t be tempted to beg. Only one man left the car. She could not see if others remained behind. But of course, she thought, he’s huge. She swallowed hard, fighting an impulse to retch, and leaned her head against the window glass, peering into the mirror. Something in the walk, the docking hips, the loping gait and the cock of the head, it seemed familiar.

The figure came up alongside and rapped lightly on the window glass. She found herself taking deep breaths through her mouth, eyes closed. Get it done with, she thought. Opening her eyes, turning, she bolted at the sight of the face, screaming, “Oh good God!”

“It’s me,” Abatangelo shouted through the glass. He pressed his hands to the window. “Hey, hey, don’t be scared. Just me.”

The music from the barroom jukebox blared so loud the ladies’ room mirror shivered above the white row of sinks. Shel had been standing there several minutes, unable to muster the will to step out into the bar where Danny sat waiting.

At the sight of him, the moment she recognized his face and realized she wasn’t daydreaming, a knot unraveled in her chest. It had gotten worse as they’d driven to town, him following behind in his own car. She’d started sobbing so hard she’d thought of pulling over. But then he would’ve pulled over, too, and she couldn’t let him see her like that. It was ridiculous, really. The complications boggled her.

In better times, younger times, such dim prospects would have inspired in her a steadying defiance. Now, with Danny at the bar, she wondered if she was equal to the task of simply sitting next to him and holding up her end of the conversation. She couldn’t tell him what was going on. He’d want to take charge, pull her out of the pit she was in, and that would get him killed.

Several sinks down, two youngsters fussed at themselves, yammering at their own reflections. The nearest was a sinewy blonde in a spangled shift that clung to her shape like a body stocking. She was pretty in the local manner, everything in place, nothing too stark or ethnic. Straight teeth. Boyish of hip and wow of boob.

The other girl was on the chubby side, wrapped tight in a pink dress that pinched up her cleavage. Her hair erupted above her head in coils of syrupy henna. She brought to mind something Shel had read years before on a bathroom wall: CUTE- LAST STOP BEFORE UGLY.

The blonde gripped her clutch and snapped it shut. Using her hip, she nudged the door open. Music blared through the opening like a train horn. The blonde and her homely sidekick left without so much as a glance back at Shel. The door swung quietly behind them.

Shel stared at her hands, clutching the sink edge, avoiding her reflection. When she did look up finally, she confronted the middle-aged woman she had become. How long will it take him, she wondered, to decide this was all a wild mistake?

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and bit her lip to make it flush. Overall, she thought, addressing her own image, you look used.

Abatangelo positioned himself at the bar in such a way as to put the greatest distance between himself and the jukebox. It was the size of a tanning stall and the music it bellowed consisted of throbbing mush punctuated by schoolboy grunts. He disliked it less from a distance.