Payne & Misery Read online

  Without stopping to see what they would do next, I broke into a run. I tore around the garage, racing through thick underbrush toward the car. Tree branches tore at my hair, and thorns on the manzanita bushes sliced one of my shirtsleeves. I grabbed the car door, panting and out of breath. How fortunate that I left it unlocked! My hands felt thick and clumsy as I fumbled with my keys, but at last I managed to insert the right one into the ignition and retreat. I passed the driveway in time to see Will standing near the back of his pickup, hands on hips, staring toward the street.

  As I reached Star Mine Road once again, I made a mental note of the name on the street sign—Sierra Vista.

  No one followed. What a relief! My hand shook as I wiped my brow. When did I cross that invisible boundary from law-abiding citizen into this dangerous, unfamiliar territory? And why? A trickle of blood soaked through my shirt and dripped down my arm. I reached into my glove compartment and tugged out a container of Wet Wipes. The antiseptic liquid stung. With my hand shaking, I could hardly wipe off the blood.

  I needed help. Now. Who could I go to? Would God be interested? Though not completely certain, I gave it a shot. “God, are you listening? Give me a sign or something if you are. The thing is, I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’m sure I haven’t handled this correctly. I shouldn’t have broken into the Paynes’ house or spied on Will and his lady friend. Please forgive me. If there’s a way to help Lila and find Molly, please show me what to do next. In the meantime, I ask for your protection, even though I don’t deserve it.”

  Plump tears rolled down my cheeks. I waited. The situation remained unchanged but my shaking stopped. The tight feeling of helplessness relaxed as if massaged by a giant invisible hand. In its place, I felt a surprising calm—a sense that I wasn’t alone. Although not a concrete answer, in my experience, sudden calmness didn’t usually follow a panic attack. Maybe God heard me after all.

  On the drive home, I pondered my sheltered, conservative life. Though impulsive by nature, I’d never ventured into anything truly risky before—never pressed outside my comfort zone where my need for safety bound me tight. Mostly, I let life happen, rolling with whatever came rather than pursuing a calculated plan—certainly not God’s plan. I only called on him when life spiraled out of control. Like now.

  So how had I come to intervene in someone else’s problems— someone who never once asked for my help? Who was I to help Lila? Her life choices had spun her far outside my own personal boundaries. I had no experience, no resources. No power to change anything in her life. Did God grant power for such things? I knew he wouldn’t approve of breaking into houses and spying on strangers. My motives might be righteous, but my methods hardly were. Definitely, I had acted wrongly.

  One thing I knew for sure: I would never do anything this stupid again.

  17

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When I drove into the sanctuary of our driveway at last, Jesse’s one-ton Dodge dualie greeted me from its usual place in front of the garage. I dashed into the house calling him, but he didn’t answer. I found him in the backyard, hunched over the gate, studying the still-burning mound below. Outfitted in a hunter green wool pendleton with brown suede patches on the elbows, he looked handsome and serene—a salve on my wounded spirit.

  Jesse acknowledged my arrival with a brief nod, gazing away under his white Stetson. “That rain last night washed out any footprints we might’ve seen by the gate. I called the fire department. They said there’s probably no danger of the fire burning out of control, since everything’s still wet, but they’ll send someone out anyway. Will must’ve started burning sometime in the middle of the night. It’s been blazing since before I went to feed the horses.”

  He focused full attention on me then, taking in my tattered sleeve and the dried blood. “Christine! What happened?”

  Not that I expected him to understand—why would today be any different from any other day—but in a rush of words and emotions, I told him about Ed’s call, the “coincidental” meeting with the McCarthys at Kmart, and finally about following Will to see The Other Woman.

  True to form, he got hung up on one part and interrupted. “Wait a minute. You followed him and then went up to the house to peek in the windows?”

  I laid a hand on his arm. “That was stupid. I won’t do it again, honest. It scared me but good.”

  He frowned. “And your arm?”

  “When I raced back to the car, I caught it on some stickery branches. It looks worse than it is.”

  “You could’ve been seriously injured. What if he caught you? You should never have followed him.”

  “I know. I’m done playing detective. Really! I’m glad you called the fire department. We’ll let the authorities handle this from now on.”

  I could see Jesse didn’t believe me and wanted to reprimand me further, but before he could continue, a red pickup slowed out on Mustang Hill Road. The pickup sported an official emblem affixed to the door, probably the Nevada County Fire District logo. Sure enough, the vehicle rolled down Will’s sloping driveway and parked in front of the detached garage.

  Jesse opened our gate and ambled toward the fire mound, so I followed through the weedy pasture. The fireman moved toward the front of the house. I picked my way down the hillside, heading for the fire. Jesse reached the blaze about the same time the fireman did, with me arriving just afterward.

  The fireman might’ve been in his late twenties, although age of anyone under forty had become harder to decipher as the years rolled by. He wore blue work pants and a nylon windbreaker with a fire station patch sewn on the left side. On his clean-shaven face, he also wore an expression of boredom.

  The young man introduced himself as Fire Prevention Officer Jason McCullough. Jesse shook his hand and nodded toward our house while he returned the introduction, indicating where we lived and identifying himself as the one who called in the fire.

  Officer McCullough studied the gray house. “Is anyone home?”

  “Don’t think so. The truck is gone,” Jesse said.

  Officer McCullough assessed the burning pile of almost-consumed boxes. Most only smoldered. Little flames shot up periodically here and there. Heat still radiated from the mound. A slight breeze continued to swirl the smoke. “Well … he had a big fire here. How long has it been burning?”

  “Our neighbor saw it fully blazing at six thirty this morning,” Jesse said. “So he must have started it before that.”

  I feared Jesse hadn’t supplied enough information, so I added, “He’s burning boxes filled with clothes and stuff from his house.”

  The fireman faced me.

  I continued. “The woman who used to be here lived virtually as a prisoner, but now she’s gone. We don’t know what happened to her, but it’s probably not good. Our dog’s also missing. We found her dog tags beside that garage, so we know they took her.” I pointed.

  The officer raised his eyebrows. Jesse frowned.

  I couldn’t stop babbling. “We never saw these people before. No one knows them, even though they’ve lived here for over ten years. They don’t have furniture in their house, but they have furniture stacked in the garage. There’s no food in the kitchen, but there’s a locked refrigerator near the woodpile.”

  I paused and glanced from the fireman to Jesse and back again. Now the officer frowned too.

  Jesse looked at the ground before speaking. “My, uh, wife’s been visiting here the last few days to help this woman. Actually, there are a few irregularities.”

  Officer McCullough cleared his throat. “The fire seems contained enough so it won’t spread, although someone should be in attendance as long as it’s still burning. The burn ban won’t officially be lifted until mid-October, so technically he should’ve gotten a permit.”

  Jesse’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

  I remembered my earlier conversation with Ed. “Our neighbor thought the ban was over with the first rain.”

  Officer Mc
Cullough looked away and shook his head. “We got a lot of rain last night.” After a moment’s pause, he glanced back at me. “There’s little actual danger.”

  My lower lip dropped open and I blinked at him. How could he be so casual? Beside the smoke, the fire discharged a heavy, unctuous odor. That must be cause for concern. “How about that awful oily smell?”

  But he shrugged that off too. “Probably used diesel as an accelerant. That accounts for this black smoke.” He shifted feet and divided his look between Jesse and me. “It’s not a legal fire. We’ll have to take that up with the owner. About the rest …” While he paused, he shifted again and glanced toward the house. “I’m not sure you’re talking to the right person. Have you contacted the sheriff’s department?”

  I wanted to stomp my foot. Doesn’t that just figure? We had finally connected with an authority, but he didn’t want to get involved.

  The unhelpful fireman circled the fire once again. It looked as if he studied the burning mass as he walked, perhaps gathering facts with which to make his final evaluation.

  The fire burned smaller now than in the morning. Just the center flamed constantly. Random embers glowed throughout the rest of the mound, occasionally spawning baby fires that flared a few moments before dying down again.

  Officer McCullough returned to where we stood. “Nothing here requires my attention. Looks like he’s just burning trash.”

  “But—”

  Jesse stopped me with a glare. He turned to thank the fireman without enthusiasm, and we watched as he wandered back to the red truck, hands stuck in his pockets. He waved out the open window as he reversed and drove up the sloping driveway.

  I faced my husband. “So much for Jason McCullough, Junior Fire Officer. Now what?”

  But Jesse’s attention had shifted to something in the debris, which he stooped to examine. “What does that look like?” He picked up a blackened stick to poke into the ashy pile. “Part of a mattress?”

  He dug around another few seconds, and sure enough, a small piece of mattress ticking emerged, a tiny chunk with charred edges. He gazed up at me. “Whose bed do you think this would be? If it’s Lila’s, why is he getting rid of her mattress without waiting to see if she comes home?” He stood. “I think it’s time to call the sheriff, don’t you?”

  I agreed with my whole heart. Surely they would pay attention.

  We climbed home through the pasture in silence, latching the gate behind us.

  Jesse dialed the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office. “I’m not sure who to talk to about this. There seems to be a problem at my neighbors’ house.” He listened. “My name is Jesse Sterling. I live on Paso Fino Place.” He gave our address. “They live on Mustang Hill Road. Their name is Payne, Will and Lila.”

  He outlined our concerns, beginning with my visits to the tiny woman and ending in today’s bonfire and Jason McCullough’s visit. He mentioned the bruises on Lila’s arm and neck, as well as her apparent terror. He left out the part about me breaking into the Paynes’ house and what I found there. Neither did he mention me following Will to his girlfriend’s.

  Then he paused to listen. … “Yes.”

  He stared at the floor. … “Okay.” He hung up and faced me. “The dispatcher will refer the call to a deputy who’ll come out to investigate. Probably in a day or two.”

  I drooped, crestfallen.

  Jesse draped an arm around my shoulders. “I know. She said they only have two detectives and they’re both working on another case. Don’t forget, we have moved to the country. But it’s best for this to be handled properly, in case there was an actual crime. For now, let’s forget about Lila.”

  I rolled my eyes. What about Molly? How could we forget?

  As if reading my mind again, Jesse said, “We need something to do. How about the groceries? I’ll help you bring them in.”

  By then, the frozen stuff had melted and soaked the boxes and bags, leaving lumps and puddles in the back of the Jeep. The groceries had become a room-temperature mess, much of them unsalvageable. I gritted my teeth as I flung the wreckage directly into the garbage can.

  This is the thanks I get for trying to help someone in need. Lila’s plight had trashed my life, in more ways than one. And where, oh where, was Molly?

  18

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday night and Tuesday morning dragged on while we waited for a deputy to investigate. I hiked the neighborhood, searching and calling Molly’s name without finding a single clue. I knocked at every door within a one-mile radius. None of the neighbors had seen Molly. I called the newspaper to place an ad describing her, with a plea for anyone who’d seen her to call. It wouldn’t be printed until Friday.

  A deputy still hadn’t shown up by late Tuesday afternoon, so Jesse called again. The dispatcher reassured him an investigator would come, and would we please be patient, as they were severely understaffed. Jesse strongly advised the dispatcher about Will’s habit of disappearing by afternoon, so they should send a deputy in the morning. I couldn’t believe no one took this situation more seriously, but I didn’t know what to do about that.

  Will left as usual late Wednesday morning. Still no sign of the brown Buick. The fire continued to smolder, but Will had apparently finished purging the house.

  Foreboding hung like a lead necklace around my neck. I struggled to occupy my mind with other things but only enjoyed minimal success.

  In frustration, I called Zora Jane and explained that Jesse had called for a sheriff’s deputy to investigate the two disappearances. “I’m so tired of doing nothing, Zora Jane. I just hate to wait. I’ve always hated it.”

  “Everybody does, Christine.”

  Disgustingly cheerful as always.

  “I can’t get my mind off this. I’m way past anxious, rounding the bend toward panic. I just know something awful has happened to Lila and Molly.”

  “You need a project to occupy your mind. Better yet, get out your Bible and read what God has to say. You’ll find help and comfort there, I’m sure of it.”

  I didn’t tell her that my former attempts to read the Bible had been even less successful than my childhood prayers. My mother’s King James Bible confused me. How did people understand such archaic language? When I got off the phone, I roamed into my office and knelt beside the footstool of my rose-print chair. “God, I’m sure you know how much I hate waiting. Are you punishing me by making me wait? Or have you even heard my prayers in the first place? Zora Jane says you did. So help me think of things to do while I wait for your answer. You are working, aren’t you?” If he knew everything as Zora Jane said, surely he wouldn’t forget.

  Now for a project to fill my time and my mind.

  With no small amount of trepidation, I approached the computer, intending to produce a few flyers advertising our missing dog. The computer scowled back, face dark and menacing. I sighed and punched the power button. At least I remembered how to turn the thing on. I watched it run through booting-up, remembering the pain of quitting the job I loved at the library.

  Technology had turned my familiar world upside down in a matter of weeks. I couldn’t keep up. They bought a monstrous new computer—the latest and best—and hired a kid, a girl half my age, who knew everything about it. She was supposed to teach me, but instead she mocked my hesitance and lack of expertise. Laughed at me. How did I get to be a librarian without knowing anything, she wanted to know. I had given up rather than admit my incompetence.

  But now, I must learn—just this one poster program. I set my mouth in a firm line and got to work.

  After struggling for half an hour, I gave up. Computer language baffled me. Why couldn’t they just write these stupid manuals in English? If only I could find a good computer class—something for someone who knew nothing and understood even less. Except for retrieving and sending e-mail and playing games, my efforts to conquer my PC frustrated me.

  Instead of a polished computer poster, I’d make one the old-fashioned way. I coll
ected several pictures of Molly and glued them onto light blue construction paper. With my markers, I added contact information. I posted one under our cluster of mailboxes and one each under the next-closest mailboxes on either side. I stepped back to survey the results. Not professional looking, but serviceable.

  As I passed the Paynes’ driveway, I didn’t see Will’s truck. So I made a detour to the gray house, just in case Lila had come home without our noticing. No one answered the door. The house remained as muted as before—maybe even more neglected looking, if possible. The air smelled of smoke. I didn’t hear a sound except an occasional crackle from the fire.

  An urge to do something for Lila overwhelmed me. Not knowing what else to do, I prayed. “Please, God, please protect her. She has no one else to help her.”

  When I ambled past the attached garage, I couldn’t resist the urge to peek inside. To the right, the old-fashioned refrigerator hummed as usual, padlock snapped firmly in place on its door. But something was missing along the side.

  What is it?

  Mentally, I ticked off items I’d seen before: mason jars on wall crosspieces; the same garden tools; chains and ropes on hooks; aluminum folding chairs.

  My gaze stopped at an empty spot. A gas can with worn red paint occupied that space the first time I snooped inside the garage. The gas can. Well, sure. Will used it to hold accelerant for the fire. My eyes roamed onward. The row of storage cabinets at the rear looked undisturbed. I gazed upward. The rafters held the usual assortment of fishing poles, crates, and boxes. Layers of dust muted everything.

  I hesitated. Something else was missing.

  The suitcase.

  I stepped into the cool garage for a better look.

  Just underneath where the brown suitcase rested before, the pile of wood showed signs of disturbance. Someone had climbed up to pull something down. I scrambled onto the unstable wood. Several pieces clattered to the floor. Even on tiptoes atop the pile, I couldn’t reach the shelf with the tips of my fingers. Whoever retrieved the suitcase had to be tall, like Will.