N is for NOOSE Read online

  It wasn’t until I was midway through town that I caught a glimpse of the truck falling into line half a block back. I could see now that one headlight was sitting slightly askew, the beam directed downward, like someone with one crossed eye. I checked in all directions, but I could see no other traffic and no pedestrians. At this late hour, the town of Nota Lake was deserted, stores locked for the night with only an occasional cold interior light aglow. Even the gas station was shut down and cloaked in darkness. The streetlights washed the empty sidewalks with the chilliest of illumination. Stoplights winked silently from green to red and then to green again.

  Was this a problem or was it not? I considered my options. My gas gauge showed half a tank. I had plenty of gas to get back to the motel, but I didn’t like the idea of someone following me and I didn’t want to try to outrun my pursuer if it came to that. Highway 395, leading out to the Nota Lake Cabins, represented one long continuous stretch of darkened road. The few businesses along the highway would be closed for the night, which meant my vulnerability would increase as the countryside around me became less populated. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The panel truck still hung half a block back, matching my speed, a sedate twenty miles an hour. I could feel myself shuddering from some internal chill. I turned on the heater. I was desperate to get warm, desperate for the sight of another human being. Didn’t people walk their dogs? Didn’t parents dash out for a quart of milk or a croupy child’s cough medicine? How about a jogger I could flag down on sight? I wanted the driver of the panel truck to see that I had help.

  I turned left at the next street and drove on for three blocks, eyes pinned to the rearview mirror. Within seconds, the panel truck came around the corner behind me and took up its surveillance. I continued west for six blocks and then turned left again. This street paralleled Main, though it was narrower and darker, a quiet residential neighborhood with no houselights showing. Ordinarily, I keep a gun in my briefcase, which is tucked into the well behind the VWs backseat. But this car was a rental and when I’d left Santa Teresa, I was with Dietz. Why did I need a weapon? The only jeopardy I imagined was living in close quarters with an invalid. Given my nature, what scared me was the possibility of emotional claustrophobia, not physical danger.

  I was checking the rearview mirror compulsively every couple of seconds. The panel truck was still there, with one headlight focused on the street and one on me. I’ve taken enough self-defense classes to know that women, by nature, have trouble assessing personal peril. If followed on a darkened street, many of us don’t know when to take evasive action. We keep waiting for a sign that our instincts are correct. We’re reluctant to make a fuss, just in case we’re mistaken about the trouble we’re in. We’re more concerned about the possibility of embarrassing the guy behind us, preferring to do nothing until we’re sure he really means to attack. Ask a woman to scream for help and what you get is a pathetic squeak with no force behind it and no power to dissuade. Oddly, I found myself suffering the same mind-set. Maybe the guy in the panel truck was simply on his way home and I happened to be taking the very path he intended to take all along. Uh-hun, uh-hun. On the other hand, if the driver in the truck was trying to psych me out, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of any overt reaction.

  I refused to speed up. I refused to play tag. I turned left again, driving at a measured rate as the blocks rolled by. Ahead of me, close to the intersection, was the Nota Lake Civic Center with the sheriff’s headquarters. Next door was the fire department and next door to that was the police station. I could see the outside lights showing, though I wasn’t sure the place was even open this close to midnight. I coasted to a stop and idled the engine with my headlights on. The panel truck rolled up even with my car and the driver turned, as before, to stare. I could have sworn there was a smile showing through the red-rimmed knit mouth. The driver made no other move and, after a tense moment, he drove on. I checked the rear license plate, but it was covered with tape and no identifying numbers showed. The truck began to speed up, turned left at the intersection, and disappeared from sight. I felt my insides turning luminous as adrenaline poured through me.

  I waited a full five minutes, though it felt like for ever. I studied the street on all sides, craning my head to scan the area behind, lest someone approach on foot. I was afraid to shut down my engine, worried I wouldn’t be able to get the car started again. I squeezed my hands between my knees, trying to warm my icy fingers. The feeling of apprehension was as palpable as a fever, racking my frame. I caught a glimpse of headlights behind me again and when I checked the rearview mirror, I saw a vehicle come slowly around the corner. I made a sound in my throat and leaned on the horn. A howling blare filled the night. The second vehicle eased up beside me and I could see now that it was James Tennyson, the CHP officer, in his patrol car. He recognized my face and rolled down the window on the driver’s side. “You okay?” he mouthed.

  I pressed a button on the console and opened the window on the passenger side of my car.

  “Something I can help you with?” he asked.

  “Someone’s been following me. I didn’t know what else to do, but come here and honk.”

  “Hang on,” he said. He spotted a parking place across the street and pulled his patrol car over to the stretch of empty curb. He left his vehicle running while he crossed the street. He walked around to my side of the car and hunkered so we could talk face-to-face. “What’s the story?”

  I explained the situation, trying not to distort or exaggerate. I wasn’t sure how to convince him of the alarm I’d felt, but he seemed to accept my account without any attempt to dismiss my panic as foolish or unwarranted. He was in his twenties by my guess and I suspected I’d seen more in the way of personal combat than he had. Still, he was a cop in uniform and the sight of him was reassuring. He was earnest, polite, with that fair unlined face and all the innocence of youth.

  “Well, I can see where that’d worry you. It seems creepy to me, too,” he said. “Might have been a guy sitting in the bar. Sometimes the fellows around here get kind of weird when they drink. Sounds like he was waiting for you to come out to the parking lot.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “You didn’t notice anybody in Tiny’s staring at you?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Well, he probably didn’t mean any harm, even if he scared you some.”

  “What about the truck? There couldn’t be that many black panel trucks in a town this size.”

  “I haven’t seen it, but I’ve been cruising the highway south of town. I was passing the intersection when I caught a glimpse of your headlights so I doubled back. Thought you might be having car trouble, but I wasn’t sure.” He tilted his head in the direction of the police station. “They’re locked up for the night. You want me to see you home? I’d be happy to.”

  “Please,” I said.

  He escorted me the six miles to the motel, driving ahead of me so I could keep my gaze fixed on the sight of his patrol car. There was no sign of the panel truck. Once at the Nota Lake Cabins, we parked side by side and he walked me to the cabin, waiting while I unlocked the door and flipped on the light inside. I intended to check the premises, but he held out an arm like the captain of the grade school safety patrol. “Let me do this.”

  “Great. It’s all yours,” I said.

  I make no big deal about these things. I’m a strong, independent woman, not an idiot. I know when it’s time to turn the task over to a cop; someone with a gun, a nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, and a paycheck. He did a cursory inspection while I followed close on his heels, feeling like a cartoon character with slightly quaking knees. If a mouse had jumped out, I’d have shrieked like a fool.

  He glanced in the closet, behind the bathroom door. He moved the shower curtain aside, got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. He didn’t seem any more impressed with the place than I’d been. “Never been inside one of these before. I believe I’d take a
pass if it came right down to it. Doesn’t Ms. Boden believe in heat?”

  “I guess not.”

  He got to his feet and brushed the soot from his knees. “What kind of money does she get for this?”

  “Thirty bucks a night.”

  “That much?” He shook his head with amazement. He made sure the windows were secured. While I waited in the cabin, he made a circuit of the place outside, using his flashlight beam to cut through the dark. He came back to the door. “Looks clear to me.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  He let his gaze settle on my face. “I can take you somewhere else if you’d prefer. We got motels in the heart of town if you think you’d feel safer. You’d be warmer, too.”

  I considered it briefly. I was both keyed up and exhausted. Moving at this hour would be a pain in the ass. “This is fine,” I said. “I didn’t see any sign of the truck on the way out. Maybe it was just a practical joke.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. World’s full of freaks. You don’t want to take something like this lightly. You might want to talk to the police in the morning and file a report. Wouldn’t hurt to lay the groundwork in case something comes up again.”

  “Good point. I’ll do that.”

  “You have a flashlight? Why don’t you take this tonight and you can return it to me in the morning. I got another in the car. You’ll feel better if you have a weapon.”

  I took the flashlight, hefting the substantial weight of it in my hand. You could really hurt somebody if you whacked ‘em up the side of the head. I’d seen scalps laid wide open when the edge hit just right. I felt like asking for his nightstick and his radio, but I didn’t want to leave him denuded of equipment.

  I held up the flashlight. “Thanks. I’ll drop it off to you first thing.”

  “No hurry.”

  Once he was gone, I locked the door and then went through the cabin carefully, doing just as he’d done. I made sure the windows were locked, looked under every piece of furniture, in closets, behind curtains. I turned the lights out and let my eyes adjust to the dark, then moved from window to window, eyeing the exterior. The black wasn’t absolute. There was a moon up there somewhere, bathing the surrounding woods in a silvery glow. The trunks of the birches and the sycamores shone as pale as ice. The evergreens were dense, shapeless, and compelling against the night landscape. I should have gone to another motel. I regretted the isolation, wishing that I could find myself safely ensconced in one of the big chains ��� a Hyatt or a Marriott, one with hundreds of identical rooms and numerous in-house security. In my current situation, I had no phone and no immediate neighbors. The rental car was parked at least a hundred yards away, not readily available if I should have to make a hasty exit.

  I leaned my forehead against the glass. From out on the highway, I could catch flashes of light as an occasional car sped by, but none seemed to slow and none turned into the motel parking area. Times like this, I longed for a husband or a dog, but I never could decide which would be more trouble in the long run. At least husbands don’t bark and tend to start off paper trained.

  I remained fully dressed and brushed my teeth in the dark, barely letting the water run as I washed my face. Frequently, I paused, listening to the silence. I took my shoes off, but kept them by the side of the bed within easy reach. I crawled under the covers and propped myself against the pillows, flashlight in hand. Twice, I got up and looked out the windows, but there was nothing to see and eventually I felt calm return.

  I didn’t sleep well, but in early morning light, I felt better.

  I was blessed with a full three minutes of hot water before the pipes began to clank. I walked out to the highway into a morning filled with icy sunlight and air clear as glass. I could smell loam and pine needles. There was no sign of the panel truck. Nobody in a ski mask paused to stare at me. I had breakfast at the Rainbow, taking a certain comfort at the mundane nature of the place. I watched the shortorder cook, a young black girl working with remarkable efficiency and concentration.

  Afterward, I returned to Selma’s.

  Her sister-in-law, Phyllis, was in the kitchen. The two of them were working at the breakfast table, which was covered with paperwork. File folders were spread out, lists of names on legal pads with removable tags attached. I gathered they were determining the seating for some country club event, arguing about who to seat by whom for maximum entertainment and minimum conflict.

  “Nawp. I wouldn’t do that,” Phyllis said. “The fellows like each other, but the women don’t speak. Don’t you remember that business between Ann Carol and Joanna?”

  “They’re not still mad about that, are they?”

  “Sure are.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Well, trust me. You seat them together, you got a war on your hands. I’ve seen Joanna throw one of those hard dinner rolls at Ann Carol. She bonked her right in the eye and raised a welt this big.”

  Selma paused to light a cigarette while she studied the chart. “How about put her at Table 13?”

  Phyllis made a rueful face. “I guess that’d do. I mean, it’s dull, but not bad. At least Ann Carol wouldn’t be subject to an attack by flying yeast bread.”

  Selma looked up at me. “Morning, Kinsey. What’s on your plate today? Are you about finished in there?”

  “Almost,” I said. I glanced at Phyllis, wondering if this was a subject to be discussed in front of her.

  Selma caught my hesitation. “That’s fine. Go ahead. You don’t have to worry about her. She knows all this.”

  “I’m drawing a blank. I don’t doubt your story. I’m sure Tom was worried about something. Other people have told me he didn’t seem like himself. I just can’t find any indication of what was troubling him. Really, I’m no better informed now than when I started. It’s frustrating.”

  I could see the disappointment settle across Selma’s face.

  “It’s only been two days,” she murmured. Phyllis was frowning slightly, straightening a pile of papers on the table in front of her. I hoped she had something to offer, but she said nothing so I went on.

  “Well, that’s true,” I said. “And there’s always the chance something will pop up unexpectedly, but so far there’s nothing. I just thought you should know. I can give you a rundown when you have a minute.”

  “I guess you can only do your best,” Selma said. “Coffee’s hot if you want some. I left you a mug alongside that little pitcher of milk over there.”

  I crossed to the coffeemaker and poured myself a cup, taking a quick whiff of the milk before adding it to my coffee. I debated whether to mention the business with the panel truck, but I couldn’t see the point. The two of them were already back at work and I didn’t want to have to deal with their concern or their speculation. I might net myself a little sympathy, but to what end?

  “See you in a bit,” I said. The two didn’t lift their heads. I shrugged to myself and moved into the den.

  I stood in the doorway while I sipped my coffee, staring at the disarray that still littered the room. I’d been working my way through the mess in an orderly fashion, but the result seemed fragmented. Many jobs were half done and those I’d completed hadn’t netted me anything in the way of hard data. I’d simply proceeded on the assumption that if Tom Newquist was up to something he had to have left a trace of it somewhere. There were numerous odd lots of paperwork I wasn’t sure how to classify. I’d piled much of it on the desk in an arrangement invisible to the naked eye. I was down to the dregs and it was hard to know just where to go from here. I’d lost all enthusiasm for the project, which felt dirty and pointless. I did have six banker’s boxes stacked along one wall. Those contained the files that I’d labeled and grouped: previous income tax forms, warranties, insurance policies, property valuations, various utility stubs, telephone bills, and credit card receipts. Still no sign of his field notes, but he might have left them at the station. I made a mental note to check with Rafer on that.

  I set m
y mug on an empty bookshelf, folded together a fresh banker’s box, and began to clear Tom’s desk. I placed papers in the box with no particular intention except to tidy the space. I was here as an investigator, not as char in residence. Once I cleared the desk, I felt better. For one thing, I could see now that his blotter was covered with scribbles: doodles, telephone numbers, what looked like case numbers, cartoon dogs and cats in various poses, appointments, names and addresses, drawings of cars with flames shooting from the tailpipes. Some of the numerals hid been cast in three dimensions, a technique I employed sometimes while I was talking on the phone. Some items of information were boxed in pen; some were outlined and shaded in strokes of different thicknesses. I pored over the whole of it as though it were hieroglyphic, then panned across the surface item by item. The drawings were much like the ones sixth-grade boys seemed to favor in my elementary days ��� daggers and blood and guns firing fat bullets at somebody’s cartoon head. The only repeat item was a length of thick rope fashioned into a hangman’s noose. He’d drawn two of those; one with an X’d-out phone number in the center, the second with a series of numbers followed by a question mark. In one corner of the blotter was a hand-drawn calendar for the month of February, the numbers neatly filled in. I did a quick check of the calendar and realized the numbers didn’t correspond to February of this year. The first fell on a Sunday, and the last two Saturdays of the month had been X’d out. I paused long enough to make a detailed list of all the telephone and case numbers.