Thicker than Blood

  Arson?

  Pulling herself off the floor, she dropped the book. The bedroom held more of the same. Blackened walls and water everywhere. A metal frame and springs were all that was left of her bed, her clothes completely destroyed.

  Turning from the horror, Christy looked out the window. Only one or two pieces of jagged glass remained, leaving no barrier from the icy wind. The secondhand computer Hunter gave her that sat underneath the window had been transformed into a gnarled heap of plastic and metal, the keyboard keys melted together as one.

  She could hear Mrs. Mendoza and the other neighbors gabbing in the street. Bunch of pigs. Reporter boy was only looking for a story, the more tragic the better. Mrs. Mendoza basked in the attention. This was the excitement of the year for them all. And she despised them for it.

  “Anyone been up?” someone asked.

  “I just wanna get back to bed.”

  “Got all her stuff, I guess.”

  That was the last straw. Christy stuck her head out the window. “Shut up!”

  Faces shot toward her.

  At the top of her voice she cursed them all.

  “What’s she doing up there?”

  “Hey, you better come down, lady.”

  She retreated and grabbed for the only object on the computer table that survived the heat, a ceramic mug, and hurled it across the room where it shattered against the wall. She threw the skeleton of the lamp, the melted keyboard, everything she could see, until the table itself crumbled to the floor.

  Sick, Christy collapsed with it, too spent for tears. She took in gasps of the putrid air as the plink, plink of dripping water played on.

  ***

  Vince relaxed in his recliner by the gas fire, stroking Socrates’ velvety fur. The lithe animal purred in his lap, kneading his leg.

  “There,” Vince whispered. “Happy now?”

  He puffed on his cigar, every few minutes taking a sip of brandy from the rare tumbler he’d bought online from a dealer in Wales. While Christy drank for the buzz, he drank for the experience. The sensation on his tongue, the aroma in his nostrils, the texture of the glass against his fingertips.

  Vince held the tumbler up to the fire’s light, and the amber liquid glowed. Fire. That’s what alcohol was. Play with it and you’ll get burned, which is why he never did. It brought too much pleasure for him to ever risk having to give it up. He never drank more than one glass a day and was proud of his strength to control himself.

  He returned the tumbler to its coaster, glass clicking on marble. All the lights remained off, along with the heater. The same way his own father used to keep the house most evenings.

  Vince stared at the mesmerizing flames and suddenly saw Father’s angry face dancing in them, appearing like he had the night Vince discovered his mother’s empty closet as an innocent eight-year-old boy. Those eyes. Those powerful hands that could strike without warning.

  “She left because of you.”

  “Dad . . .” He backed away from his father.

  “She hated you. That’s why.”

  “No!” Tears stung Vince’s eyes. “She loved me. She did!”

  Father grabbed him by the front of his shirt, eyes bugging in fury. “You drove her away, boy.”

  Curling his fingers around the recliner’s armrest, Vince brought himself back to the present, alone in his own dark study where the shadow of his hunched form projected onto the bookshelves. Driven her away. His own mother, Abby, and now Christy.

  He gripped his head in shaking hands, breathing long slow breaths. It had to stop. These women couldn’t keep leaving him like this.

  ***

  Christy spent the rest of the day back at the White Horse. After drinking for a few hours, by midnight she found herself parked between two semis at a truck stop with the engine running for warmth and a fresh bottle of sherry stashed under the passenger seat.

  All night trucks released their air brakes and rumbled past her window. Jolting awake sometime past four, she reached for the sherry and poured some into her plastic travel mug. She yearned for the buzz to help her sleep again, but it didn’t come. Instead of bringing numbness, the alcohol pushed her deep into depression. The shock had passed, and she was now forced to face the truth.

  Everything was gone.

  The firemen let her collect what she could, but that only amounted to a few dishes and silverware. Not a scrap of clothing. She was stuck with the shirt on her back and her fleece jacket, both reeking of smoke and useless against a frosty night.

  She never had gotten around to buying renter’s insurance. What little cash she had would probably run out by tomorrow. Her credit cards were already close to their limits. How could she live off that? Finding a new apartment would take time, but even if she did find something, she knew she couldn’t scrounge up even enough for a deposit. There was a chance Harvey would let her live at Aunt Edna’s house until it sold, but pride kept her from calling to ask. If she did, he’d know she’d destroyed Aunt Edna’s books. How could she face him now? The thought of returning to Vince actually came to mind, which disgusted her.

  Christy swallowed more sherry and regarded the passenger seat. A small piece of paper sat next to the bottle. She picked it up and reread May’s address and phone number. As the sun began to rise Christy slogged to the truck stop restrooms. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton, and she had the start of a bad hangover. A tourist with a camera around her neck held the bathroom door open, but Christy didn’t have the energy to say thank you. At the first grimy sink she splashed cold water on her face. Maybe she should pick up a newspaper. The classifieds might have something. She might be able to—

  She stopped herself. Did she really want to plan for the future? Maybe no future was the best future of all.

  Christy hung on to the sink with both hands and looked at her sorry, dripping face in the mirror. Arson. The cops weren’t ruling it out at this point. Could Vince hate her enough to set that fire? Had she pushed him too far at the White Horse? She couldn’t even remember what she’d said in the haze of her martinis.

  He was the only one she could imagine doing something like this, but she had trouble believing it even of him. He was crooked, sure. But was he capable of arson?

  After visiting the nearest stall, she bought a cup of coffee that tasted like flavored water, but at least it was hot. Back in the car she melted into her seat, cradling the Styrofoam cup and turning the engine back on for the heat.

  What a total mess she’d made of her life. Here she was, thirty-three years old, a homeless piece of garbage with no hope of ever amounting to anything. What if she did find a place to stay? Even a job? Right. She had no skills. No degree. The best she could hope for was another minimum wage deal that barely paid the rent.

  And the next decade would hold more guilt and heartbreak. But then she’d be old and ugly. No man would want her. If only she’d been home when the fire broke out and died of smoke inhalation. That would’ve been a blessing, because life sure was a curse. Why should she keep going now?

  Mindlessly, Christy glanced at her cell phone, still plugged into the charger cord in the lighter. There was one new voice mail. Must’ve come in while she was in the bathroom. Dialing in, she listened to Vince’s voice: “Christy, whenever you get this, call me. Give me a chance to help you. There’s still time to work things out.”

  She threw the phone onto the seat. “Just leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  ***

  The Happy Trails Motel was anything but happy. Tonight only the V and c in Vacancy were glowing, and foot-high weeds grew underneath the sign. Most of the lightbulbs outside the rooms were missing. Christy counted three cars in the lot.

  She parked directly in front of room 112 and walked to the door with her car key brandished and ready to jab eyes. The door was made of thin fiberboard, flimsy enough for one good kick to bust it in. The chain was missing, the dead bolt broken.

  Flicking on the light, she recoiled
as a cockroach scurried across the shag carpet. Stains and smears were all over the walls. One of them even looked like dried blood. She clutched the cheap suitcase she’d bought at Walmart. How was she going to sleep in a place like this?

  By making herself, that’s how. She had no alternative. It was either this or another night in the car, and the pain in her back screamed in protest at that idea.

  She chucked her suitcase at the only chair and turned on another light. Peeling back the wrinkled bedspread, she checked underneath each pillow for more roaches, then eased herself onto the mattress, which groaned against her weight.

  This was the end of the road. The way she saw it, she had four possible courses of action. One, move back in with Vince. It was better not to even think about him. Any conversation with Vince in this state could scatter what little resolve she had left. She was vulnerable enough right now to be seduced again.

  Two, wait this out until Aunt Edna’s money came. Next to impossible with the little she had. Harvey would lend her anything she asked, but she wasn’t going to drag him into this.

  Three, take what cash she did have and buy the biggest bottle of the deadliest pills she could find. This idea was more appealing with each passing minute. But there was a fourth idea.

  Still lying on her back, Christy dug the paper with May’s address out of her pocket. She had it memorized but read it once more anyway, then let her arm flop to the bed with the paper still in her hand. She never thought she’d be the one to initiate anything with May. Meeting at the funeral had been hard enough. But May was the only family she had left. For some reason that was starting to matter.

  Christy drew her cell phone from her purse. What was the worst that could happen? May could reject her. She wasn’t sure how that would feel. She didn’t want to get hurt or to hurt May again, but seeing her after all these years gave Christy a glimpse of what it could have been like between them. They could’ve been close. Been friends. She never realized how much she’d lost by running away.

  But May knew nothing of how she’d lived her life these past fifteen years. The last thing Christy wanted was to expose her closet skeletons. If she couldn’t forgive herself, she couldn’t expect anyone else to, either.

  She punched in the number but waited to push Send. Just a quick phone call. Only a conversation. She wouldn’t have to see May face-to-face. But what would she say? What if May asked questions? What if she was mad at her for ditching her at the funeral?

  Christy took a deep breath. Come on. Just go for it.

  She touched the Send key. Her pulse boomed.

  On the third ring a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?” It wasn’t May.

  “Is . . . can I speak to May?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know where she is right now. Can I take a message for her?”

  Christy’s heart fell. “No, that’s okay. I’ll try later.” But as she set down the phone, she knew she wouldn’t.

  Chapter 12

  Hunter penciled a neat thirty dollars on the flyleaf of Custer and the Great Controversy, then glanced at the antique clock above the door. It was nearly closing time, and he was looking forward to it.

  With Christy gone, his workload had doubled. He knew he should’ve started searching for someone to take her place, but mentally he wasn’t ready for that. He couldn’t bring himself to put in the ad. Perhaps it was irrational. What she did was inexcusable.

  The bell above the front door jingled, and a man in a three-piece suit entered. Hunter put him in his sixties—receding hairline, bespectacled. Some sort of businessman. Hopefully he wasn’t planning on browsing. Hunter hated when people showed up five minutes before closing and expected you to stay open while they searched the shelves, only buying a three dollar paperback in the end.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The man came toward him. “I’m looking for Christy Williams. I understand she works here.”

  Hunter reached for another book. “Actually, she’s out for a couple days. But I can give her a message when I speak with her again, if you’d like.”

  “That leaves me in a bind,” the man said, extending his hand, which Hunter shook. It was a little sweaty but iron firm.

  “I’m Harvey Kurtz. I’ve been a friend of her family’s for many years. I haven’t been able to contact her for days. I was hoping to catch her here, but it looks like I’m out of luck. Thanks, anyway.” He turned to leave just as a customer appeared at the counter with an armful of books to buy. Folks were trickling in from all corners of the Barn with their purchases.

  Hunter would have to check them out. But something in him didn’t want to let Mr. Kurtz go. A friend of Christy’s family? He didn’t even know she had family. Everything about her personal life was a mystery to him. And now Hunter was watching his chance to find out walking away.

  “Sir?” he called after the man. “Can you wait a minute? I’d like to talk to you about Christy, but I have to help these people first.”

  Twenty minutes later Hunter locked the store’s door and pulled two chairs toward the potbellied stove. Its warmth was welcome. When the sun went down the room chilled exponentially. He shook Mr. Kurtz’s hand again. “Hunter Dawson. Thanks for waiting. We’ve been friends, but she hasn’t told me much about her family. I hope you don’t mind, but I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about her. How long have you known her?”

  “Her father and I were in the Marines before she was born.” He folded his hands in front of his chest. “And you?”

  “I hired her four years ago,” Hunter said, hoping Mr. Kurtz was picking up his genuine concern for Christy. Even after all that happened he wanted to help her if he could. There had to be more going on than he knew.

  “Maybe I could ask you a few questions as well,” Mr. Kurtz said. “I feel responsible for my late buddy’s daughters. Christy’s become reclusive, and I’m not sure why. Is she okay?”

  Hunter took a moment before answering, then looked the older man in the eyes. He hadn’t discussed Christy with anyone but Pop before, but something about Mr. Kurtz made him want to. He could tell they shared something in common. They were both worried about her. What if she really was in trouble?

  “Did you know she has a drinking problem?” Hunter asked quietly.

  Mr. Kurtz sighed. “I suspected it.”

  “She’s been late to work many times, due to that, I’m guessing.”

  “Her parents were alcoholics,” Mr. Kurtz said. “They were both killed in an alcohol-related accident fifteen years ago. They were coming home early from a business trip so they could be there on her eighteenth birthday.”

  “Wow,” Hunter said.

  “Yeah. How’s that for a birthday present? She never told me, but I know she felt responsible. Can you imagine what that would do to a kid? A couple days later she dropped out of contact with me and her relatives. I found her, but she’s been very guarded with me.”

  “Maybe she was hiding the drinking?”

  Mr. Kurtz removed his glasses and placed them in his pocket. “I think so. I’m a little concerned. She hasn’t returned my calls for days.”

  Hunter watched the stove and shoved a log inside. Sparks shot out. He closed the door, thinking about the Hemingway in Christy’s car. How could she stand there and deny any involvement as emphatically as she did? Everything pointed clearly to her as the culprit. Maybe that’s what bothered him. The facts fell into place too neatly. Or was he letting his growing feelings for her cloud his judgment?

  “She’s had some other trouble too,” Hunter said.

  Mr. Kurtz’s eyebrows raised, but he let Hunter continue.

  “We’ve had some valuable books stolen from the store. I’ve wondered if it was an inside job, but I haven’t been able to prove anything. Just two days ago another rare book went missing from that case over there.” He pointed toward the display beside the register. “I found it in Christy’s car.”

  Another raise of the eyebrows fro
m Mr. Kurtz.

  “I’m having trouble believing she’d do something like that, but I also found out she’s been dishonest with me before. That’s why I wanted to talk with you. I need to know more about her so I can figure this out.”

  “What was her explanation?”

  “She denied taking it and accused her ex-boyfriend, who also works here, of trying to frame her.”

  Mr. Kurtz tapped his thumbs together. “Could he be?”

  “She lived with him for a while, and he wasn’t good to her.” Hunter didn’t look at Mr. Kurtz. He could only stare at the glowing embers through the stove door. Abby never breathed a word either, but her bruises and quiet fear spoke for her. Abby finally escaped by moving out of state. She said it was because she wanted a change in scenery, a new life, but Hunter knew she left to escape Vince. He hated him for that. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Mr. Kurtz got a determined look in his eye. “Well, let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?”

  ***

  Christy shifted her car into fifth gear and focused on the red lights of the semi in the distance. A snow squall had overtaken her, and she could barely see the road. She wanted to think she was being gutsy taking this step, but she knew better. She couldn’t do anything for the right reasons. Everything she did revolved around her stupid self.

  All night she’d debated. Between that and worrying about some pervert breaking into her room, she’d gotten no sleep. By 5 a.m. she realized it was pointless to keep trying and checked out of the motel. After studying the map, she was on the road by six.

  Heading toward Elk Valley. Toward May.

  Christy kept pace with the 18-wheeler long after the snow cleared. It was desperation that drove her, really. Nothing noble at all. And what would May think of her unannounced visit? The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  Deep in thought, the miles flew by. Their childhood had been normal enough. School. Goofing around. They’d never been best friends or anything, but Christy had always loved May.