Part 36 (1/2)
D. Bourne
”What's that?” Warren wanted to know.
”It's the session notes of Karen's psychiatrist.”
”Well, what the h.e.l.l was she doing with it?”
I glanced down at his confused face. ”That's the question of the hour, isn't it?”
With Warren's blessing, I kept the session notes and pictures of David Wetterau with the other woman, then I gathered the other photos, the clothes, the broken watch and pa.s.sport and wedding invitations, and placed them back into the box. I looked in at what served as evidence of Karen Nichols's existence, and I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger and closed my eyes for a second.
”People can be tiring, can't they?” Warren said.
”Yeah, they can.” I stood and walked to the door.
”Man, you must be tired all the time.”
As he locked the barn back up outside, I said, ”These two guys you said were around Karen.”
”Yeah.”
”Were they together?”
”Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
”Anything else you can tell me about them?”
”The redheaded guy, like I said, was a snot. A weasel. Kinda guy thinks he's smarter'n everyone else. He peeled off a stack of hundreds when he checked her in like they were ones. You know? Karen's all sagging into him, and he's looking at her like she's meat, winking at me and Holly. A real piece of s.h.i.+t.”
”Height, weight, that sort of stuff?”
”I'd say he was about five-ten, maybe five-nine. Freckles all over his face, dweeby haircut. Weighed maybe one-fifty, one-sixty. Dressed artsy-silk s.h.i.+rts, black jeans, s.h.i.+ny Docs on his feet.”
”And the other guy?”
”Slick. Drove a black '68 Shelby Mustang GT-500 convertible. Like, what, four hundred of them produced?”
”Around there, yeah.”
”Dressed rich-boy shabby-jeans with little rips in 'em, V-neck sweaters over white T-s.h.i.+rts. Two-hundred-dollar shades. Never came in the office, never heard him speak, but I got the feeling he was in charge.”
”Why?”
He shrugged. ”Something about him. The geek and Karen always walked behind him, moved real fast when he spoke. I dunno. I maybe saw the guy five times, always from a distance, and he made me feel nervous, somehow. Like I wasn't worthy to look upon him or something.”
He wheeled his way back through the black fields, and I followed. The day grew deader and more humid around us. Instead of pointing toward the ramp at the back of the office, he led me to a picnic table, its surface covered in small splinters peeking up out of the wood like hair. Warren stopped by the table, and I sat up on top, pretty sure my jeans would protect me from the splinters.
He wouldn't look at me. He kept his head down, eyes on the divots ripped in the gnarled wood.