Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

His gloved finger prodded the foam. “Wonder who got lucky first.”

We left the property, now cordoned by tape. Judy Weisvogel stood by the side of the cube talking softly to Valerie. The girl twirled her hair and rocked from foot to foot. Weisvogel took a tissue and dabbed Valerie’s eyes. As I passed, Valerie’s eyes met mine and narrowed with contempt. She flipped me off. Judy Weisvogel frowned and drew her away.

What would Allison think about my technique?

What did I think?

I drove away, staying focused on a plastic baby bracelet.

Milo said, “Looks like you made a fan, back there.”

“She’s resentful Cherish entered the room. Furious at me for prying the information out of her. Another violation of her turf.”

“Turf. Like a little wife. Sick.”

“It’s going to take a long time for her to realize what he did to her.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Your job’s tougher than mine.”

I got on the freeway and pushed the Seville hard. “I think you’re clear on the search. Cherish definitely wanted someone to find the souvenirs. She left the box out for Wascomb, hoping he’d open it. Knew that even if he didn’t pry, he’d eventually call the authorities and the truth would come out.”

“Don’t think the truth means that much to her, Alex. She abandons those kids and splits with all her clothes. Maybe with the money and the gun, too, unless Drew got there first. Which, upon reflection, he probably did. Bad guy like that, his nose for trouble would be good. For all we know, he’s already partying at Caesar’s Palace, has himself a new identity.”

“Valerie said he was called away to moonlight. At a church. You could try to find out all the places he worked, see if his whereabouts can be traced. If the call was righteous.”

“If?” he said.

“There’s the other possibility,” I said. “Cherish got the money and the gun. And Cherish has a boyfriend.”

The drive to Soledad Canyon took forty minutes. I parked a ways up the road and we walked toward the campground. Milo unsnapped his gun but kept it holstered.

No ravens, no hawks, no sign of any life in a grimy gray sky flat as flannel. Despite my heavy foot, the drive had been tedious, marked by heavy stretches of silence, the gravel pits, scrap yards, and cookie-cutter houses set into dusty tracts that seemed more depressing today. Developers would chew up the desert for as long as they were allowed. Families would move in and have babies who’d grow into adolescents. Bored teens would chafe at the heat and the quiet and days that ran into each other like a tape loop. Too much of nothing would breed trouble. People like Milo would never be out of business.

Neither would people like me.

As we neared the entrance to Mountain View Sojourn, Milo stopped, got on the phone, checked to see if the BOLO had snared Drew Daney’s Jeep.

“Nothing.” He seemed almost comforted by failure.

Business was slow at the campsite. Two RVs in the lot, the generator silent. That and a fresh coating of dust and the apathetic sky gave the place a desolate feel.

No sign of Bunny MacIntyre. We headed straight through the trees.

Barnett Malley’s black truck was parked exactly where it had been, in front of the cedar cabin.

Windows rolled up.

Milo ’s gun was out. He motioned me to stay back, proceeded slowly. Looked into the truck from all sides. Continued toward the cabin’s front door.

Knock knock.

No “Who’s there?”

The welcome mat was in place, covered by dry leaves and bird crap. Milo disappeared behind the south side of the cabin, same as he’d done the first time. Returned and tried the front door. It swung open. He went in. Called out, “C’mon.”

Rustic, wood-paneled space, rubbed clean and smelling of Lysol. As vacant as Drew Daney’s hiding hole.

Except for the piano. Chipped, brown Gulbransen upright, sheet music held in place on the rack with a clothespin.

Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date” on top. Beneath that: Country Songs for Easy Playing. “Desperado” by the Eagles. “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.

Empty gun rack on the wall. Through the disinfectant came the smell of male sweat and old clothes and machine oil.

A voice behind us said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

Bunny MacIntyre stood in the doorway. Her auburn perm was wrapped in an orange scarf and she wore a blue-checked western shirt tucked into straight-leg jeans. A necklace encircled her wattled neck. Silver and turquoise, peace symbol dangling from the central stone.

Barnett Malley had worn it the day we’d tried to talk to him.

MacIntyre took in Milo ’s gun and said, “Pfft. Put that stupid thing away.”

Milo obliged.

She said, “I asked you a question.”

“Looks like you’ve got a vacancy, ma’am.”

“And it’s gonna stay that way.”

“Shucks, ma’am. And here I was thinking about country living.”

“Then do it somewheres else. This is my place. Gonna be a painting studio,” said MacIntyre. “Shoulda done it a long time ago. Now you leave right now, you don’t have my permission to trespass. Go on.”

Dismissing wave.

Still smiling, Milo strode up to her quickly. When he was a foot away, the smile was gone and his face had darkened.

MacIntyre stood her ground but it took effort.

Milo said, “When did Malley leave and where did he go? And no bullshit.”

MacIntyre’s pink lashes fluttered. “You don’t scare me,” she said, but strain thinned her smoker’s voice.

“Don’t want to scare anyone, ma’am, but I will cuff you and haul you in for obstructing justice if you give me any more lip.”

“You can’t do that.”

He spun her around, brought her arm behind her. Gingerly. Regret weakened his eyes.

A look that said An old woman. This is what it’s come to.

Bunny MacIntyre howled. “You damned bully ! What do you want from me?”

Her voice was all strain, an octave higher. Milo released her arm, spun her back so she faced him.

“The truth.”

She rubbed her wrist. “Big brave guy. I’m filing a complaint.”

“I’m sure it was a thrill having him here,” said Milo. “Younger guy, I’m not judging. But now he’s gone- with a woman his own age- and things out in the real world have grown ugly, so it’s time to toss the May-December fantasies and help me get to the truth.”

Bunny MacIntyre gaped. Smiled. Slapped her flank and roared with laughter.

When her breathing finally slowed, she said, “You thought he was my boy toy? Man, are you stupid !” More laughter.

“You’re covering for him,” said Milo. “All for a platonic relationship?”

MacIntyre laughed herself hoarse. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! He’s family, you dolt. My sister’s son. She died of cancer and so did Barnett’s father. And despite what the government claims you’ll never convince me it wasn’t because of all that radiation.”

“ Los Alamos.”

She blinked. “Let me tell you, they got all kinds of crazy things going on there. Few years back there was a huge fire, burned thousands of acres black but spared the lab. That sound logical? Supposedly it was set on purpose by some Smokey Bear types to control forest fires and the winds blew it out of control.” She snorted. “Tell it to the marines.”

“Barnett’s your nephew.”

“Last I heard, that’s what you call a sister’s son. I’m all he’s got left, mister. He’s an orphan, get it? I was willing to take him in from the beginning but he didn’t want a handout so I sent him over to Gilbert Grass. When Gilbert retired, I told him I could really use the help. Which was true. Is helping family illegal now?”