Interpreter for the Dead Page 8

  "I'll make you a deal."

  All eyes turned to Dane.

  "If they come out of that house empty handed and don't arrest me on the spot, I'll sign this property over to you - free and clear."

  "Easy words. Even I know a verbal agreement ain't worth the paper it's written on."

  Dane spun the oilcan in his hand and held it near his face, his right hand raised.

  "I, Michael Dane, being of sound mind and body, do hereby transfer ownership of my home and land to Mr. Albert Loomis if I don't leave here today in the back of a sheriff's van facing drug possession charges."

  Dane tossed the oilcan to him.

  "How's that? Deal?"

  "You are out of your mind."

  A screen door slammed in the distance.

  The sheriff and his dog came out first, followed by Spurlitz with the other dog. The dogs nosed each other playfully, their giant tongues lolling out of their mouths. None of them seemed especially excited.

  Dane's expression quickly faded from confidence to confusion to concern, as both men made their way to the back of the van with nothing in their hands except leashes.

  Spurlitz looked downright dejected.

  Dane's voice came out in hoarse, dry whisper.

  "No fucking way."

  What the hell had he just done?

  Spurlitz lit a cigarette and leaned on his car, ignoring the sheriff who was struggling to handle the dogs while digging out the keys to the van.

  He gave Dane a limp-wristed wave to come over and talk.

  Loomis waggled the can at Dane, grinning from ear to ear.

  "Just doin' their jobs, smart ass."

  "Albert." Kate Loomis protested weakly, unable to hide the delight in her eyes at being the new owners of the very ground they were standing on.

  Dane stumbled toward the car, shell-shocked.

  What the hell had he just done?

  Spurlitz waved at the crowd.

  "Mikey can play again in a few minutes, folks."

  Dane felt as if he'd fallen through a frozen pond. He was getting pulled down, down, down. His father's coat no longer seemed to keep out the cold of the morning.

  Spurlitz misinterpreted the look on Dane's face, mistaking the dread to be regret for the printing press joke. Subconsciously he fed off Dane's despair, the feeling buoying him up a bit. It almost made up for the dogs not finding anything.

  "You look like crap. Guess you know you're in deep shit with that printing press stunt. Pretty smart, the way you did it though, gotta give you that."

  His mouth moved, leaking cigarette smoke with every word, but Dane didn't hear any of it.

  What the hell had he just done?

  "The dogs came up dry, but I think you know I'm going to be on you like stink on shit from this point on-"

  "Michael!" AJ shouted.

  Dane had no time to react before he felt the impact against his side and was thrown to the ground.

  His hands flew up to ward off the dogs' teeth, the barking so loud he thought his eardrums were going to burst.

  "Tango! Foxtrot!"

  The German Shepherds disengaged, but circled around while he struggled to get up, still growling and barking. The sheriff moved up on him, gun drawn and leveled at his chest.

  "Stop right there. Freeze! Hands in the air! Up!"

  Dane hoisted his arms skyward in classic surrender style, still on his knees.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see people in the barn milling around in horror, many of them with their hands over their mouths.

  Spurlitz peeled himself off the side of the car, more shaken by the attack than Dane.

  "What the hell, Charlie?"

  "Dogs caught wind of something just before I let them inside. He's holding."

  "On him?"

  "They've never been wrong before."

  Dane tried to get to his feet.

  "I don't know what kind of bullshit you're trying to pull-"

  The sheriff put the gun right against the side of his head and Dane thought he heard someone scream.

  "I said don't fucking move. Check his pockets Daryl."

  Spurlitz could barely contain himself.

  "You got the camera going? I don't want there to be any questions about this!"

  "It's rolling. And it looks like we got at least a dozen witnesses."

  Spurlitz circled behind Dane and reached into the side pockets. Dane flinched at his breath in his ear.

  "You can't be that stupid, can you Mikey?"

  "I don't know what the fuck you think you're trying to pull." His hands dipped slightly as he turned his head to look at Spurlitz.

  "I said keep your fucking hands in the air! Don't get between him and the camera, Daryl. Lawyer might try and use that."

  "Nothing in the left pocket. Shit, nothing in the right."

  "Check his pants."

  Spurlitz came out with nothing but a wallet.

  "Toss it to the dogs."

  The dogs sniffed it for a brief moment, then came right back to Dane.

  "Clean."

  "Where you got it, Mikey? Please don't say in your underwear."

  "I don't have shit, you asshole, and you know it!"

  Spurlitz laughed, pumped on adrenalin.

  "It don't matter what I know, Mikey. It's what they know."

  "Check inside his jacket."

  Daryl Spurlitz reached down inside the jacket, and for one stupid moment Dane thought about pulling him down between himself and the sheriff, letting the trigger-happy bastard unload into his buddy.

  "Oh yeah. Bingo."

  He extracted his hand and opened it up, revealing a handful of pills.

  One of the dogs went ballistic.

  "What is it?"

  "Tango says your friend's carrying speed. Put them in this evidence bag while I cuff him."

  The metal bit into his wrists. The sheriff ratcheted the cuffs on tighter, and then used them to yank Dane to his feet.

  The cameras were useless. He had nothing.

  The sheriff dragged him to the van, the dogs nipping at his heels. Shoving Dane inside, he slammed the door shut with a dull thud that left him in sudden silence.

  Through the window he could see McConnell and the rest still gawking, holding the children close to them.

  Spurlitz had him. The man had actually out-thought him.

  Spurlitz and the sheriff high-fived each other. It made his stomach turn. The van rocked as the dogs jumped into the caged area behind him. It rocked again when the sheriff hopped in the front seat. He adjusted the rear view and eyed Dane gleefully.

  "And I thought I wasn't going to catch any fish this week. Sit back and enjoy the ride. We'll be to the jail before you know it."

  AJ stared as the van turned onto the main road, following the parole officer's vehicle. Albert Loomis stared after it too, the oilcan in his hand forgotten as he shook his head in disbelief.

  Oren McConnell started his truck up. AJ tried to flag him down, but he just dropped his eyes and pretended he didn't see her coming.

  Chapter 12

  Dane figured it out hours later, as he absently rubbed the fingerprint ink from his hands.

  Somebody had murdered his father.

  He'd been too busy damning himself to think about anything clearly during the arrest. Now with the stench of hobos and drunks thick in the air - now he had plenty of time to think.

  Spurlitz hadn't planted the meth in the jacket, of that he was pretty sure.

  The man had been too genuinely surprised when the dogs took him down. The search had been simple harassment, just another round in the pissing contest. If he were going to plant anything it would have been inside the house.

  The sheriff was a possibility, but he'd never been to the house before. But Miller, the trainee, had.

  No. Neither one was bright enough nor slick enough, Dane decided.

  That left only everybody else who had enough time to gain access to the medicine cabinet.

 
The bottle was, of course, gone. It had to have been taken sometime after his father died, but before Dane moved into the house. He didn't even have to check the medicine cabinet to know it was missing; Spurlitz had done it for him his first day back.

  Dane had been in homes where the translucent orange plastic bottles literally overflowed their medicine cabinets, the numbers of medications seemingly in direct proportion to the homeowner's income tax bracket.

  The more money people made, the more the pill bottles seemed to spread. Setting up colonies in kitchen cabinets and on bedroom nightstands, ready to put the recipient into whatever state of mind the current situation necessitated.

  A little something to wake up.

  A little something to get to sleep.

  A little something to get through the day.

  A little something to make it all seem worth it.

  There'd been no bottles in his parents' house when he grew up there. They had never even gone to the hospital, no matter how sick anyone got.

  Except once, not long before he left.

  His mother began waking up in the middle of the night, coughing painfully. She denied anything was wrong whenever he asked her about it.

  "Just flu. Go back to bed. No worry your father."

  But the sounds got worse and worse, and later he told his father, the concern overriding the fear of rebuke.

  She denied it when Henry confronted her, inadvertently turning her husband's anger toward both of them for needlessly worrying him.

  Eventually, Michael could no longer ignore the death rattle that carried all the way out to the barn. He had been cleaning saddles, trying to convince himself she wasn't getting worse, but not being able to buy it. He dropped the soap brush into the bucket and headed to the house, determined to do whatever it took to get his mother into town to see a doctor. His father stopped him.

  "Where you going?"

  He willed his hands not to shake as he signed.

  "Mom is sick. Very, very sick. You do not care. I am taking her to the hospital. I don't care what you say."

  He could have dodged the blow, but did not. It would be the last time his father ever touched him.

  Stumbling backwards, barely staying on his feet, he wiped the blood from his mouth. Never taking his eyes from Henry Dane's, he spat a mouthful of blood on the ground and continued to the house.

  He found her bent over the sink, her body racked with spasms. Taking her by the shoulders he turned her around. His heart caught in his throat. Her signs were half formed, shaky, and she could not focus on him.

  "No worry, Michael. I'm okay."

  The screen door slammed behind him. Michael stepped aside, giving his father time to take in the black phlegm staining the front of his mother's nightgown, and the vomit tangled in her hair.

  Scooping her up in his arms, Michael was shocked at the weightlessness. She weighed nothing. His father just stood there with his mouth hanging open.

  Michael pushed past him and carried her to the truck, setting her gently inside. Henry Dane rushed out behind them. Michael braced himself. He met his father at the driver's side, yanking the door out of Henry's hands.

  "You stay, call hospital. I drive truck," Henry said.

  Without hesitation, Michael landed his fist right in the center of Henry's face, sending him backward. Eyes wide with shock, Henry didn't try and stop him as Michael started the truck up.

  "I drive truck. You go to hell."

  Later in the ICU of Boulder Community Hospital, his father sat in the chair beside her bed, staring out the window.

  Henry was oblivious to the sounds of the life support machines and the whispered conversations in the hallway.

  "Did you see how bad she looked? My God."

  "Stage Four, I can't believe she's still alive..."

  "She should've been brought in months ago."

  No, his father didn't have to hear any of that. Henry Dane never listened to or saw anything he did not want to. Neither did his wife or son.

  Not now.

  Dane took a deep breath, and let it go.

  The bottle.

  There must have been a bottle and somebody must have known what was in it and substituted some or all of the pills with crystal meth. He doubted his father had become a meth addict in the years since he'd left.

  Substituted?

  That seemed like a lot of work.

  Tainted?

  Dane closed his eyes.

  He imagined somebody sitting at the kitchen table with his father, sharing a cup of coffee, asking to use the bathroom. They would find the bottle in the cabinet, or maybe sitting on the sink.

  You can find out a lot about people from their medicine cabinets.

  Not doing anything now, but coming back later. Quickly dunking some or all of the pills in liquid crystal meth, they could blot them dry, and put them back in the bottle.

  Easy.

  Then after the old man dies, after the old ticker just gives out, go back and retrieve the bottle.

  Just have to be careful of the neighbors seeing you come or go.

  Unless you are a neighbor.

  Dane thought about all the families that lived in the valley, all the ones he knew growing up. But did he really know any of them? He thought back to the little barn dance Oren McConnell had put together that morning. Apparently none of them knew as much about his father as they thought they did. Or even about their own families, for that matter.

  He remembered the surprise on AJ's face. "Did you know about that Dad? Did you know it was that bad?"

  What would Oren tell her? Would he say he had seen the red welts across a nine-year-old boy's back and had simply told the boy that his father wasn't really as bad a person as he might seem?

  Probably neither one would speak about it again. Families and neighbors (hell, all people in general, Dane knew) could be counted on to not do anything to rock the little boats they sailed across the sea of life in.

  Sour grapes? Just reality.

  And the current reality was that everybody in the valley was up to their asses in debt. Dane knew firsthand what some people were capable of doing for money.

  But it could very well be personal.

  Michael could not remember anybody that his father hadn't pissed off at least once.

  That didn't narrow the field down at all.

  Strangers?

  The first thought that had come to his mind before anything else had been the real estate developer, Caywood. He'd been ruthlessly pursuing their property for a long time. If anybody stood to gain from the demise of Henry Dane it was somebody in a position to buy the land cheap, preferably at auction.

  "Supper time, gentlemen."

  The guard grabbed brown paper bags from a large cardboard box and tossed them around.

  "Who ordered the Philly steak?"

  A toothless wino chortled from one of the benches. "Right here boss," he said. The wino caught the bag, greedily unwrapped the bologna and cheese sandwich and shoved it into his mouth. Most of these guys wanted to get caught just to get a bed and some food. "My compliments to the chef."

  A bag landed between Dane's legs. Peering inside, he winced against the smell of rancid mayonnaise.

  "You gonna eat that?"

  Dane shook his head and handed the sandwich over. On the outside, he wouldn't have given what was inside that bag to a dog, let alone a human being. It just wasn't-

  Dog.

  Dane sat upright, his mind racing.

  His father had buried his dog the day before he died.

  If the dog hadn't died, it would have made getting back in the house a hell of a lot more difficult. The dog ran loose, according to AJ, which meant that somebody could have just picked it up.

  Not if it was anything like Brandy, Dane thought, still aware of the wound on his leg.

  Nor would they have shot it, too obvious. And trying to deliberately run it down would have been nearly impossible.

  He had it.

  D
ane pushed himself off the floor, his knees popping as he went to the door and called out for the guard. Had he spoken during processing? Would they even remember if he had? He doubted it.

  "What is it?" the guard said irritably around a mouthful of bologna.

  "Ah ned to mak a fone cahl," Dane said, effecting the monotone of someone with a severe hearing loss and signing to top it off.

  "What? No phone calls until after six."

  Dane pointed to the clock on the wall with urgency. It read four forty-five.

  "TTY service shut dohn at five. Haf to cahl my wife, let her know pick up kids from daycare."

  "Geez. Hang on."

  Dane waited until the guard returned with the key, hoping AJ would be home.

  "You got two minutes," the guard set the machine on the counter and turned back to a basketball game on TV. Dane typed in the phone number, hoping he remembered it right and that it was still valid.

  Numbers and words flashed across the tiny one-inch by six-inch wide screen.

  DIALING...DIALING...DIALING...

  The minute hand on the clock seemed to speed up. The words on the screen changed. Somebody had picked up.

  THIS IS AJ.

  AJ THIS IS MICHAEL DANE. I NEED YOUR HELP.

  MICHAEL? WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME ON THE TTY? I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN JAIL.

  I AM. THIS WAS THE QUICKEST WAY TO REACH YOU.

  The guard tapped his wrist to indicate time was about to run out.

  AJ?

  "Time's up, man." The guard put his hand over the phone, giving Dane a moment more to end the call before he ended it for him.

  AJ?

  YOU FAKED BEING DEAF TO GET A CALL OUT ON THE TTY? YOU DO NEED HELP.

  She ended the call.

  He deserved that. It'd been a long shot anyway.

  Back in his cell, he curled up in a ball, silently praying this was all some paranoid delusion.

  Chapter 13

  The ancient Econoline van rumbled across Boulder, the roads already thick with morning commuters. Occasionally someone in a passing car would notice the occupants all wore orange jumpsuits and quickly look away.

  None of the commuters bothered to look at the Flatirons. They were too busy cutting each other off in their rush to get to jobs they most likely hated. The tremendous slabs of uplifted rock protruded at an angle from the plains on the West side of Boulder, jutting high above the horizon.