Could she really say that their baby had been a mistake?
Lena sat up in bed, not wanting to think about it anymore.
She made her way to the sink area and took her toothbrush out of her bag; she had not wanted to leave it by the sink last night. God only knew what people got up to on the cracked, plastic basin. The room was even more disgusting than she remembered; the carpet cupped the soles of her shoes as she walked across it and the sheets on the bed were so nasty that she had slept in her clothes. She had basically lay there all night, falling in and out of sleep, startling at any noise, afraid that the creepy night manager would use his passkey and try to catch her off guard. This was just the kind of place where that sort of thing happened.
She had slept with her gun by her hand.
The photograph from the newspaper was seared into her brain, and when she wasn’t worrying about being raped and killed, she worried about her mother, the lies she and Sibyl had been told. It was clear now that Angela Adams had not died after two weeks spent lying comatose in the hospital. She had lived at least six months past Lena and Sibyl’s birth. On the day the picture had been taken for the newspaper, she had held them in her arms, posing for the photographer as she told the reporter that she thought it was a travesty that her husband’s murder had gone unsolved. “I loved Calvin more than my own life,” she had told the reporter. “He should be here now being a father to these precious little babies.”
Her words were much more saccharine than Lena would have liked, but the sentiment hit home. Her mother had loved them. She had been devastated by the loss of their father. She had held them in her arms.
Lena walked around the room as she brushed her teeth. When had Angela really died? And how? Hank had said that the thug leaving his house was the man who had killed Angela Adams. The drugs had let down Hank’s guard, and she was certain that he had been telling the truth, or at least the truth as he saw it.
But did Hank mean the man had actually, physically killed her mother? He was certainly old enough to have been around when Calvin Adams was shot and killed. Had the thug been the one who ordered the hit on Calvin all those years ago, leaving Angela with no husband and two twin daughters to raise on her own? Had it been too much for Angela to bear? Had suicide seemed like the only way to make the pain stop? Lena could understand the draw. There had been many times in her life when she had considered the option herself.
Suicide might explain why Hank had lied about the timing, the mode, of Angela’s death. He didn’t want the girls to be burdened with the legacy of their mother’s suicide. Lena could understand—if not forgive—that. At least there was some kind of logic to the lies.
If her mother had killed herself, it would also make sense that Hank was trying to do the same. Lena had seen it many times as a cop: suicides ran in families. Without a doubt, if Hank maintained his present lifestyle, he would be dead before the month was out. Whatever he was doing to himself, it was completely and entirely deliberate. Lena had never thought of Hank as anything but a survivor. You didn’t shoot junk into your veins for twenty years and still keep breathing if you had a death wish. You didn’t suddenly stop hanging on to your life by your fingernails unless someone gave you a damn good reason to let go.
Lena spat into the sink, then used a bottle of water to rinse her mouth.
Hank had always been careful, as if he could distinguish himself between being a user and an abuser. For all his blackouts and open sores, he was careful about one thing. If speed was Hank’s religion, he prayed at the altar of his veins. This was where the dope entered his system, and he was rigorous about making sure he took care of them. He never cooked with the same needle he injected with because the spoon or cotton could kink the tip and leave a bigger scar. He always used new needles, fresh alcohol swabs, and vitamin E to keep the tracks down. He didn’t smoke before he shot up because that made the veins harder to find, the needle less likely to hit at the right spot.
Sure, there were times when his need overcame his logic; the track marks scarring his forearms, the way he sometimes lost feeling in his hands and feet because the veins couldn’t get enough blood to his extremities, betrayed that fact. But, as drug addicts went, he had always been fairly careful.
Until now.
Lena turned on the water in the shower, then changed her mind, thinking she would feel even more filthy if she stepped her bare feet into the soiled, gray bathtub. She checked the lock on the door, then quickly took off her clothes, changing into a fresh pair of underwear and slipping back into her jeans from the day before. She found a T-shirt in her bag and kept her eyes on the door as she put it on.
Hank wouldn’t talk to her. He had made that clear yesterday. Whatever his reasons, she knew that he was stubborn—as stubborn as she was. No matter what she said, how much she begged or beat him, he wouldn’t talk until he was damn good and ready. The way he looked yesterday, unless a miracle happened, he would more than likely take his secrets to his grave.
Lena caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. It was tilted down toward the bed, spidery lines meant to give the appearance of lace framing the corners. She didn’t see Sibyl anymore when she looked in the mirror. Sibyl would forever be trapped in a particular time that would never allow her to move on. She wouldn’t have tiny lines around her eyes or the faint trace of a scar on her left temple. Her hair wouldn’t get those few streaks of gray Lena had found in the bathroom mirror last week and, much to her shame, had plucked out with a pair of tweezers. Even if she’d lived, Sibyl would never have gotten that hard look to her eyes, that flat, cold stare that sent out a challenge to the world.
Sibyl would never know that their mother had lived however long—at least long enough to hold them. She would never know that just as Lena had always predicted, Hank had finally given in to his addiction. Nor would she stand at his graveside, cursing him for his weakness.
Hank was going to die. Lena knew there was no way he could pull himself out of his current condition without some kind of medical intervention. Yet, every time she thought about him, she didn’t see the Hank from the last twenty-five years, the one who dutifully attended his AA meetings and ran to Lena’s side whenever she called him. She saw the addict of her childhood, the speed freak who chose the needle over his nieces. When Lena thought of his state of decline, she felt the rage only a child can feel toward a parent: you are all I have in the world and you are abandoning me for a drug that will destroy us all.
That’s what addicts didn’t see. They weren’t just screwing up their own lives, they were screwing up the lives of everyone around them. There were some nights of Lena’s childhood when she had actually kneeled on the side of her bed and prayed that Hank would finally mess up, that the needle would go to far, the drug would be too potent, and he would finally die. She had envisioned adoption, a mother and father to take care of her and Sibyl, a clean place to live, order in their lives, food on the table that didn’t come out of a can. Seeing Hank now, knowing the state he was in, Lena could not help but recall those sleepless nights.
And part of her—a very big part—said to let him die.
Lena sat on the bed as she tied her sneakers. Thinking about Hank wasn’t going to get her anywhere but back in bed feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do today, but her top priority was getting out of this dingy room. The library’s microfiche archives didn’t go past 1971. The newspaper office was based out of the back room of an insurance company, so Lena didn’t have much hope that they kept old issues. Still, she would try to get in touch with the weekly’s editor, a man whose full-time job was picking up roadkill off the interstate.
Lena supposed she could find her mother’s death certificate through the proper state office, but she would need Angela’s Social Security number, place of birth, or at the very least her last known address in order to help her narrow the search. She knew both her mother’s and father’s birth dates from her own birth certificate, but beyond
that, there was nothing. The hospital might have kept a billing address or other pertinent information, but she would need a warrant to get that information. She had thought about trying the county courthouse, but according to the message on their phone, they were closed while asbestos tiles in the floor were being removed.
Since the motel was right next door to Hank’s bar, Lena decided she might as well start there. Technically, the Hut was not in Reese’s city limits. Like a lot of small towns all over America, Elawah was a dry county. If you wanted to buy liquor, you had to cross the county lines into Seskatoga, which explained why the Elawah sheriff’s department spent most of its weekends scraping teenagers off the road that led out of town.
Lena opened the door to her room and immediately closed her eyes, her retinas screaming at the sudden light. She blinked several times to regain her vision, staring at the floor of the concrete balcony. Just to the left of her foot, she saw a small, red X chalked onto the ground, maybe three inches square.
She knelt down, running her fingers along the red mark, wondering if it had been there when she checked in last night. It had been dark, but the ancient sign outside the motel cast enough light to see by. But, Lena hadn’t been looking at the ground as she walked into the room. She’d been concentrating on the basics: bringing in her bag, finding her toothbrush, falling into bed.
Lena looked at the tips of her fingers, saw that the chalk had transferred to her skin. The chalk mark didn’t mean anything except that the maid didn’t clean much. Judging by the state of Lena’s room, the woman wasn’t exactly thorough.
Still, Lena glanced around as she stood back up. No one jumped out at her, and she went to the balcony and scanned the parking lot. Except for a motorcycle parked in the handicap space, her Celica was the only vehicle there.
She looked back at the ground. An X. Not a swastika, not a cross. Just a red X to mark the spot.
Lena wiped her hand on her pants as she strolled across the balcony toward the stairs. She kept her eyes on the ground, looking for other marks, trying to see if any of the other rooms had been singled out. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just cigarette butts, trash, and a few leaves, though the closest tree to the motel was about twenty feet away in the forest that ran behind the building.
She stopped in the front office to get a cup of coffee. There was a box of change by the pot, requesting fifty cents for each cup. Lena dropped a dollar in the box and stood looking into the parking lot as she poured herself a cup.
“Nice morning,” a man said. She turned toward the front counter and saw that it wasn’t a man, but a teenager—the redheaded would-be gangsta she had seen in the Mustang outside the school yesterday.
She said, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Work release,” he told her, leaning against the wall behind the counter. His T-shirt was so big the shoulders lapped around his elbows. He had a belly on him, but she could tell from his large hands and feet that he would lose that in the next few years as he grew into his body. He would still have that carrot-colored hair, though, and those freckles would never go away.
“I’m Rod,” he told her. “You want some Halloween candy?”
“No.” Lena remembered the decorations from the library. Halloween was two nights away. She hadn’t even remembered what day it was.
He asked, “Are you a cop?”
So much for being undercover. “What makes you say that?”
“You talk like a cop.”
She tasted the coffee and tried not to gag. “How do you know what a cop talks like?”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
Lena fished her change out of the honor box. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.”
“Junior watches it all night,” he said, probably meaning the clerk who had stared at Lena when she checked in last night as if she was the first woman he’d seen in his life. “He’s got porn tapes he keeps under the couch. Mr. Barnes doesn’t know. He’s the owner.” The kid gave her a big grin. “You can watch some of them if you want.”
“Wait for that.” She started to leave, but changed her mind, thinking she might as well try. “Hey.” The kid was still leaning against the wall, waiting. “I saw a man the other day,” she began, resting her coffee cup on the door handle, trying to appear disinterested. “He had a swastika on his arm.”
The kid stood away from the wall. His voice went up three octaves. “A swastika like Hitler?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
“You think that’s cool?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, no, it’s obviously, like, wrong.” He leaned back against the wall. “I just meant it as in good for him for, you know, like not being ashamed.” He lowered his voice. “There are some people in this town who have some white sheets in their closet.”
“Like who?”
“Well…” The kid realized he had an angle to work. “Why don’t we go back in the office and we can talk?”
“Why don’t you call me when you get some fuzz on your peaches?” Lena moved to push the door open just as a woman was walking in.
“Christ,” the woman hissed as Lena’s coffee spilled down the front of her shirt. She was older, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled up into a blue bandanna. She was trim, too—about Lena’s height—and pissed as hell. “Watch where you’re fucking going.”
“Sorry,” Lena apologized, but the woman still scowled as if Lena had done it on purpose.
“Just fuck off,” the woman barked, pushing past Lena and going into the office. She slammed the door so hard that the pictures hanging on the wall rattled.
Lena asked the kid behind the counter, “What’s her problem?”
“She’s the maid.”
That explained why the motel was a rat’s best friend. “She always that pleasant?”
The carrot shrugged, still smarting from Lena’s brush-off. “Better you than me.”
Lena left the building, feeling bad for the woman, thinking she’d probably be pissed if she had to work at this dump, too. It was one thing to work a crap job when you were young, but the lady had to at least be pushing sixty. She should be retiring to Florida, not cleaning motel rooms for pocket change.
Lena walked across the parking lot, wishing she’d put on a jacket before heading out but not wanting to go back into the miserable room to fetch one. The sun was already busy burning off the fog, and she knew that in a couple of hours, she’d be glad she was in short sleeves.
She dumped the rest of her coffee into a storm drain as she crossed the street, glancing down to see if it ate through the concrete. There was a Stop ’n’ Save catty-corner to the hotel, just opposite Hank’s bar. She tossed her empty cup into the trash as she walked into the general store, which was little more than a front for selling cheap beer. She had sneaked out of Hank’s house many a night to hang out behind the store with the other bad kids from high school.
Inside the store, the air-conditioning was already on full blast in anticipation of the coming heat. Lena walked past the coffee machine and grabbed herself a Coke. As she paid, she had the vague feeling that she knew the woman working behind the counter, probably from high school, but neither one of them was particularly interested in starting up a conversation. Lena dropped her extra pennies into the cup and headed back out the way she had come.
She stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the traffic to clear. The motel was directly across the street, and she saw that some creative vandals had broken the lights in the sign so that at night “Home Sweet Home” would turn into, “Ho eet me.” What else had the vandals done to the motel? Were they the ones who had scratched the red X in front of Lena’s door? The mark was bothering her. She wondered how long it had been there and if someone was trying to send her a message. Whatever it meant, she wasn’t getting it. Still, she looked around as she waited for a truck to pass, her skin tingling, her gut telling her that she was being watched.
As casually as she could, Lena glanced over her s
houlder. The woman behind the counter at the convenience store was staring out the window.
Candy, Lena suddenly remembered. That was her name. They had called her “Corny” because someone had said that she walked like she had a corncob stuck up her butt.
There were times that Lena thought she wouldn’t take all the money in the world to be back in high school.
The traffic cleared and she popped open the Coke as she started to cross the street, wondering how in the hell Hank’s shitty bar had managed to help put Sibyl through college and bail out Lena more times than she wanted to admit. The Hut was a three o’clock bar, the kind where everyone started to look good around three in the morning. Desperation hovered like a black cloud over the place, and she suppressed a shiver as she got closer to the building.
The bar didn’t even have a sign out front; everybody knew what it was. The roof was thatched on the front, but what looked like a case of mange had set in around fifteen years ago and Hank hadn’t bothered to fix it. Tiki torches with orange and red lightbulbs banked the front door, which was painted to look as if it had been fashioned from grass. The exterior walls were decorated in a similar theme, but the paint was so faded you couldn’t tell what you were looking at unless someone gave you a clue. There were windows all along the front, but they had been painted black so long ago that they had taken on the appearance of rotten wood.