The Woman in the Woods Page 4

  Even allowing for the girl’s delicacy, Dobey was still tempted to continue on his way and let someone else take care of her, a person better equipped to deal with a teenage girl. He was also aware that the last thing a young woman in trouble wanted was for some overweight, middle-aged guy in a truck to pull up and offer help. At the very least she’d have the right to be cautious, and if she had any sense, she’d start shouting to high heaven until the cops came.

  Yet if everyone took that view, the pathways of the world would be littered with the remains of even more of the poor and the lost than they already were, and Dobey didn’t want to be responsible for adding another casualty to the list; not that day, and not any day. So he turned back, stopped a little ahead of the girl, and got out of his truck. Now that the decision had been made, he wasn’t sure of the correct distance to maintain, or what to do with his hands, and he wondered if her proximity and prettiness had somehow caused him to regress to adolescence.

  The girl flicked a sideways glance in Dobey’s direction, like an animal sensing the approach of a possible threat, signaling awareness as a prelude to possible flight.

  “Did someone tell you this was a bus stop?” Dobey asked.

  The girl’s shoulders sagged, and her eyes briefly closed. She already knew, without being told more, that she’d been fed a crock of shit. It was just a matter of waiting to see if an attempt would soon be made to offer her a second helping.

  “You saying it’s not?”

  “The bus company says it’s not. I don’t have much influence either way.”

  “Then why is the sign still up there?”

  “That,” said Dobey, “is a very good question. The answer, I guess, is that either nobody cared enough to take it down, or somebody cared too much.”

  The girl hid her mouth inside the collar of her coat and stared north. During the course of their brief conversation, she had yet to look directly at Dobey.

  “Where are you trying to get to?” he asked.

  “Chicago.”

  “You have family there?”

  “A friend.”

  “Where you coming from?”

  “Carolina.”

  “Jesus. North or South?”

  “South.”

  “Double Jesus.”

  Although he couldn’t see her mouth, the girl’s eyes crinkled enough for him to know she’d smiled.

  “So how come,” Dobey asked, “you’re sitting on a bench out here, where—officially—the buses don’t run?”

  The girl’s eyes met his at last.

  “Because another guy in a truck picked me up about twenty miles south of here, told me he’d give me ten bucks for a hand job, then dumped me when I wouldn’t put out.”

  Dobey patted his own vehicle.

  “Then I guess you’ll be avoiding trucks for a while,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Sorry” didn’t seem worth the waste of oxygen.

  “I guess so,” said the girl.

  Dobey stared north. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl’s head turn again in the same direction.

  “If you squint up the road a ways,” he said, “you’ll see a sign for a diner called Dobey’s. That’s my place: I’m Dobey. Assuming you can tear yourself from your bench, I might be able to offer you a plate of food, a cup of coffee, and maybe a slice of pie to follow. And while you’re getting outside of all that, I can make some calls and see if someone trustworthy, and preferably female, might not be heading into Indianapolis, or at least somewhere with a bus route, which would set you on your way to where you want to be. How does that sound?”

  The girl gave the question some thought.

  “It sounds good.”

  “You want me to take your bag, save you the trouble of hauling it up there yourself?”

  “No, I’ll keep it.” Then: “Thanks.”

  “Very sensible of you, and don’t mention it,” said Dobey. “You got a name for the reservation?”

  Another crinkle.

  “Mae.”

  “Like the month?”

  “No, Mae with an ‘e.’ ”

  “Well, Mae with an ‘e,’ I look forward to seeing you again very soon.”

  Dobey got back in his truck and drove on, and fifteen minutes later Mae with an “e” opened the door of the diner, took a stool at the counter, and ate enough to put Dobey’s business briefly in the red while he called Esther Bachmeier. Esther came over and sat with the girl for an hour in a corner booth, and when she returned to Dobey, Mae with an “e” was crying, and Esther wasn’t far from crying either.

  Mae with an “e” didn’t go on to Chicago, or Indianapolis, or anywhere else that day—or the next, or even the day after that. In fact, Mae with an “e” stayed in Dobey’s second trailer, the one he’d bought for his already expanding book collection, for three weeks, the longest any of the women would ever remain. When she did eventually depart, it was for a shelter in Chicago, and Dobey missed her like a lost limb. In time, Mae with an “e” left the shelter for an apartment so small she had to step outside to change her mind, but it was safe, and warm, and her own space. She now lived in a larger apartment in St. Paul, Minnesota, with a baby boy and a guy who didn’t drive a truck and wasn’t a prick. She sent Dobey a card each Christmas, and called him every couple of months, and she’d come down to stay in that same trailer a few Novembers back to help celebrate Dobey’s sixtieth birthday.

  So Mae with an “e” was the first, and the others followed. Dobey remembered them all, every one, even those who stayed only a night, but Karis Lamb he recalled more easily than most, because Karis Lamb had been very, very scared.

  And very, very pregnant.

  CHAPTER

  X

  Warm rain now falling in earnest on the woods of Maine, warm rain falling on field and marsh; the song of spring.

  What is there to differentiate one copse from another: a particular arrangement of trees, an unusual combination of shrubs? In this case, an incision on the bark of a black spruce, like a timeworn wound on aged skin, long healed but still visible, if one knew where to look. Call it a star, cut behind creeping ivy, as though the one who made it wished to leave some sign of remembrance without attracting the attention of the curious.

  A mark, a grave.

  The voice of the rain intoning a name.

  It was the season of awakenings.

  Sleeper, awake.

  CHAPTER

  XI

  Quayle was observing Dobey’s features as one might watch a film projected on a screen, anticipating the revelations—or the fictions—to come. Dobey had never claimed to possess a poker face, but he felt certain that even had he been so gifted, Quayle would have been able to see through it with ease. Dobey thought Quayle’s eyes revealed much about the man—an undeniable perspicacity, even a certain cruel humor—yet remained entirely untroubled by humanity. Sitting before him was like finding oneself under the scrutiny of a minor god.

  “Let us assume,” said Quayle, “that you’ve already tried to deny knowledge of Karis, and in reply I have opined that I don’t believe you, and given you some warnings you would be unwise to ignore. It will save us both a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t know where she went,” said Dobey.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. When did she arrive here, and how long did she stay?”

  Dobey had decided that his best, even only, hope was to answer every question as fully as possible while giving away as little as he could, and in that manner buy himself time. He was praying that Carlos had gone with his gut and called the police, so that even now Chief Dwight Hillick might be gathering his troops. He supposed he could have attempted to give Carlos some sign that all was not well, a little wink or gesture, but from her place of concealment the woman had whispered to Dobey exactly what to say, and made sure his face and hands were in full view as he spoke. Her voice had been surprisingly soft, but her breath stank worse than her body, as though she spent he
r downtime giving blow jobs to diseased truckers at flyblown rest stops without even pausing to wash out her mouth in between.

  Quayle clicked his fingers before Dobey.

  “Back with me,” he said. “I hope you’re just taking a moment in order to ensure a precise recall, and not because you’re procrastinating, or composing a lie.”

  “She stayed for a few days.”

  “When?”

  “About five years ago, maybe more. I don’t remember the exact date, but it was around this time of year. Still cold.”

  “Why didn’t she stay longer?”

  “Some do and some don’t. We get girls who need time to rest and figure out how to turn their lives around, to find work and earn a little money. I can always give them a few hours here or there. Then there are others who are too scared to stay. They want to keep running because they’re afraid that whatever is pursuing them might catch up if they stop.”

  “Such as?”

  “Bad memories, bad people.”

  “Which do you think I represent?”

  “Possibly both.”

  “You know, you’re wasted in the food service industry. You should have gone to college. You had a future in psychological analysis. Now you barely have a future at all. Did Karis tell you why she was running? Think hard. If I have any doubts about the veracity of your statements, I may need to cross-check your answers with Ms. Bachmeier.”

  “It was a man,” said Dobey. “She was running from a man. What else would it be?”

  “Did she give you his name?”

  “I didn’t ask. I rarely do.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I let them share with me what they want, but I don’t go chasing details.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve heard enough, and there’s only so much I can take.”

  “Sensitive?” said Quayle.

  “Guilty,” said Dobey. “What some men do to women makes me ashamed of my sex.”

  The sentinel at the door continued to watch the lot, a suppressed pistol hanging by her side. Dobey briefly wondered what might have made her the creature she was, at what might have been visited on her by men—because men it must have been; he’d grown adept at identifying their mark. Whatever she’d suffered, it had forged her into something awful, but it wouldn’t stop Dobey from hurting her in his turn if he had to. He didn’t think he could get to her before she had a chance to fire her gun, but he could probably tackle Quayle. The small nightstand beside the bed contained a lot of useless shit—old coins, plugs for cell phones that weren’t even manufactured any longer, broken pencils, expired painkillers—but it also held a fixed-blade KA-BAR and a Sidewinder revolver in .22 Magnum. If he could take down Quayle, use him momentarily as a shield, and get his hand inside the nightstand—

  “No,” said Quayle.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Quayle dipped a hand into one of his trouser pockets, produced a coin, and flipped it to Dobey, who caught it instinctively.

  “Take a look,” said Quayle.

  Dobey did. It was a 2005 Kansas state quarter, slightly battered and scratched, bearing the words “In God We rust” because a grease mark had prevented a clean pressing. Mint, it was probably worth a hundred dollars, but less so in its current state. Dobey recognized this particular example because it was one of the coins he stored in his nightstand, plucked from the register and added to the other rarities kept there with the intention of someday selling them on.

  “My colleague appropriated the gun and the knife, but her areas of expertise don’t extend to numismatics,” said Quayle. “Tell me, Mr. Dobey, do you know the tale of the Comte de Chalais?”

  It took Dobey a moment or two to answer. If Carlos had gone to the police, they would have been here by now. The gun and knife were forfeit. His life was forfeit.

  “No, sir,” he said finally, “I don’t.”

  “Henri de Talleyrand-Périgord, the count in question, was a French nobleman, close to Louis the Thirteenth, who made the mistake of plotting against Cardinal Richelieu, a gentleman who, in the manner of many great conspirators, disliked having conspiracies aimed at himself. Richelieu ordered Henri to be executed, but his confederates bribed the executioner to absent himself in the hope that Henri’s life might be spared. Instead, Richelieu entrusted the task to another prisoner, also condemned to death, but unfortunately lacking the skills required to perform a successful decapitation. It took thirty-four blows to sever Henri’s head, and he was still alive until the twentieth. The lesson for you, Mr. Dobey, is that even if one is certain of death, one can die easily or one can die in great pain. So, Karis Lamb: What. Did. She. Say. To. You?”

  “She said,” Dobey replied, “she was running from the devil himself.”

  Quayle sat back.

  “I’d like to be able to assure you that she wasn’t speaking literally,” he said, “but it would be a lie.”

  CHAPTER

  XII

  The earth is never the same after winter. The season briefly seals the landscape, holding it in suspension, but only at the cost of a greater transformation with the coming of spring.

  As frozen ground thaws, the ice beneath melts, and the earth sinks to fill the spaces created. But this process is not consistent: the quantities of ice, and the speed of the melt, will vary, with the result that a previously flat surface may become pitted and uneven over the years, its weaknesses waiting to be exposed.

  The spruce was among the oldest in the copse. It was only to be expected that it should someday fall, or so it would later be said, as though the imminent revelation were entirely in the natural order of things.

  Not everyone would concur with this view. The tree, whispered those who knew of such matters, was not so old, and the slope upon which it stood remained relatively stable. There was subsidence, but not so much that it should have caused the spruce’s hold upon the earth to be so fatally undermined, and certainly not so abruptly, with the thaw barely commenced.

  But fall the tree did, and as it fell the rain eased, descending more gently now, the very heavens complicit in what was about to occur.

  CHAPTER

  XIII

  Karis Lamb had made it as far as Seymour, Indiana, when she called the diner asking for Dobey, but he was at a warehouse in Columbus looking at broilers. Wanda Brady, Corbie’s mother, had a catering background and covered for Dobey a couple of afternoons a week, and it was she who answered the phone. Wanda was prescient enough to detect the urgency in the woman’s tone, and to agree, if not to give out Dobey’s number, then at least to pass on a message to him.

  “She says she’s run away from a bad situation, and she’s pregnant,” Wanda told Dobey when he answered his cell. “She’s sitting in a Starbucks in Seymour.”

  So Dobey dialed the number Wanda gave him, and a woman picked up and said her name was Karis, and she’d heard that Dobey helped people like her.

  Dobey did not think of himself as a good man. He acted as he did because it had become unconscionable for him to do otherwise, but experience had taught him to exercise a modicum of care. On more than one occasion, women and girls helped by him had later been tracked down by boyfriends, husbands, family, and were either forced to return by their tormentors or went back of their own volition, in some cases for reasons that Dobey didn’t even wish to contemplate.

  At least two of those women later did what Dobey asked every woman who passed through his care not to do, namely mention his refuge to anyone else, not unless that individual was in a similar situation to the one they themselves had fled. The result, in the first case, was an abusive telephone call. The second involved a visit from a man named Derrick Flinn—guess whose hick family couldn’t even correctly spell a first fucking name, boys and girls—who arrived at the diner with a Ruger on his hip, thanks to Indiana state law’s ongoing silence on open carry. Dobey was all for the Second Amendment, but even at the best of times he regarded anyone who entered a restaurant,
store, or public park while flaunting a gun as a cocksucker of the highest order, and that went double for Dobey’s own place of business.

  So Derrick Flinn took a stool, ordered a coffee, and engaged in some general conversation with Dobey that Flinn gradually steered around to the subject of those who involved themselves in the personal lives of other men, and most particularly their relationship with their womenfolk, which is when Dobey began to recollect a thirty-five-year-old woman named Petra Flinn. Petra had come to him a couple of months earlier with so many dark bruises on her torso and thighs that Dobey might have taken her for black in the wrong light were it not for the fact that her face, her arms, and her legs below knee level had been left untouched—so she could still wear dresses in public, she said, and not embarrass her husband on social occasions.

  Derrick Flinn didn’t attempt to visit violence on Dobey, didn’t make any threats, didn’t even raise his voice, but the forty minutes Flinn spent in the diner were among the most unpleasant of Dobey’s life, as Flinn squatted on the stool dressed in browns and greens, like an armed toad, while Dobey wondered if, when Flinn started shooting, he might kill Dobey alone and spare the staff.

  Eventually Flinn thanked Dobey for his time, paid for the coffee, and left. He drove home and, since he was on a roll, beat his newly returned wife so badly that he stopped her heart, and was now serving life in the state prison up in Michigan City. So men like Derrick Flinn were among the reasons Dobey was very careful when any woman asked if he could come get her rather than have her travel to him.

  “Who gave you my name?” Dobey asked.