The fields, p.24
The Fields, page 24
Somewhere, she heard screaming. She left the table and stepped out onto the porch. It was late afternoon, light splintering through the trees. It hurt her eyes. Her skin looked weird—all mottled red. The air was rent with another shriek. Her brother was near the barn, collapsed on his knees by the wood pile. There was a saw in the grass beside him.
Hoyt was screaming like an animal and clutching his wrist, blood spurting through his fingers. Their mother flew across the grass toward him, her cries joining his. Their father was inside the house, shouting down the phone for an ambulance. Her kids were in the window, faces shocked against the glass. No one seemed to notice Lizbeth as she walked toward her brother. Her heart was hammering, wild as a drumbeat. She wanted to turn back, but her feet kept walking her forward. The blood was almost black, spilling in lines down Hoyt’s arm. She wanted to look away, but her eyes were transfixed by the pulsing wound.
No.
She twisted, trying to escape. Not wanting to continue.
Her brother was still shrieking, her mom holding on to his arm, fingers slicked red. Lizbeth had almost reached them. She could smell the metal tang on the air, like old pennies warm in the hand. It was all going to happen again.
“My God. Is she awake?”
A man’s voice filtered through the screaming. The sunlit world around her cracked.
“She’s probably just dreaming. I’ll up her dose.”
“You told me you’d keep her under. That she wouldn’t know any of this.”
That voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Her mind was swimming with confusion.
“I’m trying my best, OK!”
“Your best?” There was a thud and a clatter. “It ain’t good enough, Goddamn it!”
Lizbeth’s eyes flickered open. Her relief at leaving the dream faded as she saw the rows of beds and the white walls of the plastic cocoon. She was still in that place. Wherever—whatever—it was.
There were two figures at the far end. One had his back to her. He wore a faded T-shirt, curly gray-blond hair skimming the neckline. He was looming over another man, who was pushed up against a cart. This man was wearing green scrubs. She had a flutter of memory—a man and a woman dressed like that. Taut voices and tired eyes.
“You swore you’d fix this! I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Put my life—my family—on the line for you!”
“I just need more time!”
The curly-haired man was shaking his head, not listening. “And now with the cops sniffing around my place? Christ!”
“You’ve got your son to thank for the cops. You should be thanking me for the fucking lawyer I just busted my bank open for!” The man in the scrubs bent to pick up something off the floor. It was a pair of scissors. He straightened, wielding them like a weapon. “You’re not the only one who’s suffered here!” Emotion cracked through his voice.
The curly-haired man took a step back. After a pause, he shoved a hand through his hair. “What if I take her to a hospital?”
“You really want to take that risk? I told you what he said he’d do if any of this got out. He’s in too deep now.” A sharp exhalation. “We all are.”
“We can’t go on like this.” The curly-haired man’s voice was low. “John’s been asking questions. He knows something’s wrong.”
“You’ve not told him anything?”
“No. But I don’t know how much longer you expect to keep this quiet from the rest of them.” The curly-haired man flung a desperate hand toward the beds. “Or from the Goddamn world!”
“What about the pills?” The man in the scrubs put the scissors back on the cart. “You said you had a lead?”
A pause. “One of my sons got the name of someone who’s been selling Fenozen. Some deadbeat called Charles Moore.”
That voice. So familiar. Lizbeth tried to lift her head, but she was too weak. The world was growing dim around her. She was sinking into darkness again. Waves of fatigue washed over her. She was powerless to stop the tide from taking her.
“If we stop them getting to the street, we might be able to slow this down. Buy ourselves some time.”
Lizbeth could hear the screaming in her mind. The tide was washing her back to the dream.
Not a dream. A memory.
“Swear you’ll help her.”
“When the deal is done, she’ll get the best care possible. You have my word.”
Sunlight and screaming. She was walking toward Hoyt again. The blood was gushing from that wound. She was almost on top of him. Her mother’s face was changing. Turning from fear to confusion. Her father was yelling.
That voice.
44
From Black Hawk County to Des Moines, it was a two-hour drive on roads that arrowed endlessly through miles of cornfields, scattered with farms, silos, and one-gas-station towns. Nothing changed but the light: crimson darkening to indigo. Riley knew it didn’t change for days in the vastness of the Corn Belt. There was something oppressive in its monotony.
She had never felt so free as when she’d hitchhiked west from Okoboji, seeing the prairies of Nebraska slip into haze behind her and the ramparts of the Rockies rising ahead; through Colorado and Utah to the Pacific, bloodred peaks and deserts giving way to towering sequoias, air tanged with salt and pine, roads winding through golden fog over chasms that tumbled to the ocean.
God, it felt good to be driving. To be leaving the circles she’d been walking in this case, headed in a new direction. She was taking a risk, but with Logan to cover for her there was no reason Reed would find out. If she ended up with something from her meeting with the senator that could help her solve this case, any fallout from her unauthorized trip would be worth it.
With every mile her mind cleared. She felt deep relief, knowing Hunter hadn’t returned. She’d left a message for Bob Nolan, telling him to forget the trace. She felt unburdened, too, by the argument with Ethan. The grenade had been pulled, the shock of the blast was over, and now, perhaps, they could begin to sort through what had been thrown up. Her only worry was Maddie, but Ethan called to say the girl had arrived safely at her mom’s. She’d refused to see him, but he planned to go around first thing. After Riley warned him about the rattler in the shed, Ethan hung on the line a moment longer as if he wanted to say something else, but then finished up with a quick goodbye.
Des Moines glowed on the skyline long before she reached it. Streetlights were eventually joined by the glare of billboards; Wendy’s and Walgreens, motels and fast-food joints. A seedy-looking bar advertised a bike rally on its light board.
RIDE WITH US TO THE BADLANDS.
It had rained here recently, the streets slick. Everywhere, signs shouted about the state fair.
COME! MAKE A THOUSAND MEMORIES!
It was the city she had spent her first years in, but she hadn’t been back in a long time—not since the academy at Camp Dodge. For her, the whole city was the scene of Hunter’s crime. Ground zero. Des Moines had changed, though. She hardly recognized parts of it. There were new skyscrapers in the financial district, while the brick buildings that spanned the streets of downtown—façades still advertising businesses that had folded decades ago—were home to hip-looking taprooms and bustling restaurants. A rainbow flag hung outside a gay club.
Riley checked into a modern business hotel at the bottom of the hill near the capitol. She ordered room service—a limp Caesar salad and two glasses of tepid white wine that she drank while scrolling through her cell. There was a reply from the pest control service she’d left a message for. A man called Bub promised to call her in the morning about the rattlesnake. There was a message from Logan, saying he’d made a start on the contacts they had for Sarah Foster. No one matched the profile yet, but he was planning on going in early to continue digging. After that, she climbed into the starched sheets and slept surprisingly well.
The next morning, she woke early. Ignoring the four-dollar bottle of mineral water on the nightstand, she drank from the bathroom tap, which tasted of metal. The sky over the city was slate-gray. The meteorologist on the news warned that a storm front building in the southeastern half of the state could generate a supercell by the evening—the kind of storm that spits out tornadoes. The storm had already brought down power lines in the South and they warned of patchy cell-phone coverage through the day. Riley hoped to be heading home before the worst of it.
The diner she’d been told to go to was a ten-minute walk from the hotel, on the hill that sloped up to the capitol, but there were still two hours to wait. She spent them on her laptop in one of the new coffee bars downtown, going back over the investigation, among the frenetic energy of students from Iowa State. Just before ten, she made her way up the hill. State fair signs were plastered all over the street, with pictures of Thrill Ville rides and country music singers at the grandstand, the Big Slide, and the five hundred things you could eat on a stick. Corn dogs and battered Oreos, deep-fried cherry pie and funnel cake. Several boards highlighted the Iowa Food Prize, and she wondered if John Brown and Zephyr Farms still had a chance at winning the prestigious award for their new corn after all the trouble that had begun in their fields.
The gold dome of the capitol gleamed beneath the brooding sky. Riley thought of her father, who’d spent his last years in that building with Bill Hamilton, helping him on his path to the governorship.
How many blind eyes did you turn for him?
The diner was straight out of the fifties, with red leather stools around the counter, rickety booths, and stained menus. This was the Des Moines she knew. There was a glass case filled with slabs of pie. A man flipped patties and over-easy eggs on a sizzling grill while a pasty-faced waitress served a couple of men in denim overalls.
Riley picked one of the booths, as far from the other patrons as possible. The waitress brought coffee. It was proper coffee. Strong enough to start an engine, her grandfather would have said. Her cell rang, vibrating on the Formica. It was Logan. She went to pick it up, but the door opened with a clang of the bell above it and in walked two women. One was in her twenties, dressed in a smart suit and holding a briefcase. The other, older, with cropped sandy hair and large dark glasses, was State Senator Jess Cook.
Riley switched her cell to silent and rose to greet her. “Sergeant Riley Fisher, Black Hawk County Sheriff’s Office.” She held out her badge. “Thank you for meeting me, ma’am.”
“Jess is fine. I’m not governor yet.” Cook slid into the booth, her eyes still hidden behind the dark glasses. “This is my assistant.”
The young woman sat beside her boss, opposite Riley.
Cook got straight to business. “You said in your message that it was to do with this case in Black Hawk? The murders?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Riley fixed her badge on her belt as she sat. She paused as the waitress came over.
“You wanna order?”
Cook answered. “Just coffee.” Her tone was clipped and tense—nothing like the friendly, easygoing manner she’d displayed on the campaign trail. She seemed agitated, nervous even.
Riley guessed these allegations about a connection to Mission Earth must be weighing heavily on her so close to the election. “I’m looking into the background of one of our suspects,” she told Cook, her voice low. “I believe he could have some association with Governor Hamilton.”
Cook stared at her from behind her glasses. “Then why aren’t you talking to the governor?”
Riley glanced at the men in overalls, now tucking into plates of fried food. The waitress was chatting to the man at the grill. “I’m not sure I’d get the most comprehensive response.”
Cook cocked her head. “You’re not saying the governor—? That he could be involved in some way?” The question was light, but there was a tone behind it.
“I don’t know anything for certain,” Riley said quickly. “But I do want to understand the governor a little more. His associations.”
“And who better to ask than his rival?” Cook’s tone was dry. “So, it’s my opposition research you’re after?”
“I know you’re busy, ma’am. But any help would be greatly appreciated.” Riley glanced out of the window as a car passed. It was a black SUV with tinted windows, driving slowly. “There are lives at stake.”
Cook cradled her coffee, but didn’t drink. She was silent for a while. Riley wasn’t sure she would answer, but then she turned to her assistant. “Give me a minute.”
The young woman hesitated, looking between her and Riley, then rose and headed out.
“Not here,” said Cook, her attention back on Riley. “Where are you staying?” She nodded when Riley gave her the name of the hotel. “I’ll have my assistant leave a message at reception. I’ll tell you where and when.”
Riley stood when the senator did. She waved her hand as Cook went to pull a wallet from her pocket. “But you think you can help?”
“I think we might be able to help one another, Sergeant Fisher.”
Riley sat as Cook slid out of the booth. Through the window, she watched the senator and her assistant climb into a red Toyota hybrid, which pulled away, heading up the hill toward the capitol.
“You want the check?” asked the waitress, eyes on the mugs of coffee still steaming on the table.
“Thanks.”
Riley’s cell vibrated again, reminding her she had a voice mail. It was from Logan. She listened, fishing in her pocket for cash.
“Hey, Sarge.” Logan sounded excited. “We think we could have a match for the…” The line crackled, his voice fading. “… name’s Charles Moore. He’s an ex-boyfriend of Sarah Foster’s. Patrol spoke to him weeks ago when Gracie first went missing, but he claimed not to have seen her in months. Schmidt left messages for Moore last week, but he was one of those who never got back. According to her sister, Sarah Foster saw him for six months or so. She broke it off after she was fired from the pharmacy. He’s white, forty-three, and drives a pickup. He lives out on…” The growl of an engine obscured his words. “… very isolated. And get this, boss: Moore has been unemployed for a while now, but he worked for years—as a butcher.” There was a muffled voice in the background. It sounded like Schmidt. “Listen, Sarge, we’re almost there. I’ll call you back.”
Riley hardly noticed as the waitress came to take the cash. The words of Jim Meyer, the ME in Mercer County, sounded in her mind as he pointed to the cuts on Gracie Foster’s body.
I would say whoever made them has worked with flesh before.
45
The Dodge Charger bounced violently along the rutted road.
Logan cursed as his cell was almost jolted from his hand. “Jeez, Schmidt, are you aiming for every pothole?”
“Sorry.” Schmidt was hunched forward gripping the wheel, squinting through the dust clouds.
The fields were parched, the grass knotted with weeds. It looked like no one had cultivated them in years. An ancient tractor stood in one, rotted with rust. Farm buildings loomed in the distance, at the end of the dirt road.
Logan managed to jab the call button. Pressing the cell to his ear, he gripped the door handle. “Agent Klein? Yes. We’re almost there. No, you need to take a right off Hawkeye Road. About a mile past the Brewer Stud Ranch. Say again? Agent?” Logan looked at the screen. “Crap. I’m losing signal.”
Schmidt shook his head. “They’ll be hunting for a turning point for a bit.”
“Keep going?” Logan stared at the distant buildings: a box-frame farmhouse, a barn, and a crumbling silo pointing to the overcast sky. “Or wait?”
“If Moore’s home, he’ll have seen our dust already.” Schmidt didn’t take his foot off the gas. “Don’t want to risk him running.”
Logan glanced back at his cell. Nothing from Riley yet. He wished he had pressed her about what the lead in Des Moines was. He thought about the bandage on her hand, curled up just enough for him to see the split skin of her knuckles. No kitchen accident.
Up close, the farm buildings were even more dilapidated, the timbers of the house bleached by sun and rain. The shutters were closed over the windows. It looked like no one had lived here for years. The barn doors yawned into gloom, rusting hulks of machinery visible deeper in. More rundown outbuildings loomed beyond the house, near the silo. There was a pickup truck in the yard, beat-up and caked with dirt, but still far more contemporary than its rambling surroundings.
Logan nodded to it as Schmidt pulled into the yard. “Goodyear tires.”
They got out of the car, wary as they crossed to the house. Scraps of rubbish drifted aimlessly, food cartons and plastic tangled in the weeds.
“What’s that?” Logan diverted to what looked like a piece of clothing. He halted as he reached it. “Christ!” It was a dead dog. What was left of its fur was crumpled over its maggoty body. A spray of dark matter had dried in the dust beside its head.
“Who the heck would shoot a dog?” Schmidt muttered in disgust. “And just leave it there?”
The air was heavy. There was a reek coming from the house, which grew worse as they neared it.
“Shit,” breathed Logan. “What is that?”
The door was ajar, leading into rancid darkness.
Logan took out his badge, but kept his free hand near his gun. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Mr. Charles Moore? Black Hawk County Sheriff’s Office. We need to speak with you.”
There was a noise somewhere within. It sounded like the thud of a door. Logan put away his badge and drew his gun, nodding to Schmidt, who followed suit. They entered the house, weapons gripped. The stench was overwhelming. Logan had to fight the urge to put an arm over his nose. He breathed shallowly through his mouth.
