The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  When the song ended, Lyman escorted Michelle back to the table and thanked her for the dance. Pink smiled and pushed the plate toward her. “The finest ostrich burger in all of Ardenwood. How was your dance?”

  “Good,” Michelle said, sipping the liquor Pink had put in front of her. She couldn’t believe how jumpy she was over what she had to say to Pink. She felt like a smashed watch—the cogs, gears, and springs exposed. She drained the glass, and the sting of the liquid spread through her sinuses. Pink handed her a glass of water. “Whew, it’s really strong,” she said, downing the water.

  “Pink,” Michelle began. “There are things I didn’t tell you earlier, things I need you to hear. But they’ll sound even crazier than the other stuff. And if you couldn’t believe that, then . . .”

  “Hell, Mrs. Stage, if you got something you need me to hear . . . well, I’ll listen. Maybe it ain’t about me believing anything. Maybe it’s about you needing to say some things, get ’em off your chest.”

  “This isn’t easy to say, Mr. Souder. It’s about the night my husband, Cliff, disappeared. Remember how I told you about Cliff going down the mountain looking for the light—”

  “I thought you said you were the one that went down the mountain in the dark,” Pink said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

  Michelle stuttered a bit. “Well, that’s how it ended up, I guess. But originally Cliff was missing—”

  “This here is a dad-blamed difficult yarn to follow,” Pink said, taking a drink of corn liquor.

  “I know it is,” she said. “But remember how I said I called the police and Sheriff Fisk arrived with—”

  “Elmer. Yep.”

  “Yes, Elmer,” Michelle said. She glanced down at her hands, then back to Pink. She tried to settle herself before speaking. “Well, Sheriff Fisk told me a story about how the state police had dug up the entire yard at the cabin, at your cabin . . .”

  Pink jerked backward, his expression dark. “Why would he tell you such a thing? That never happened . . . Why would they dig up the yard at my cabin?”

  “They were looking for a body—”

  “A body!” Pink shouted. Heads turned toward their table. “Whose body?”

  “Isabelle’s.”

  Pink’s eyes pressed to slits, cutting fat creases across his cheeks. “Why the hell would Loudon go and say a fool thing like that? He’s lost his cotton-pickin’ mind. I’m gonna have a talk with—”

  “He won’t remember saying it,” Michelle told Pink. “He didn’t say it here . . . in this . . . oh, never mind. He wouldn’t remember, that’s all, so there’s no use talking to him.”

  Pink sat a moment, glaring at the floor. “Let me get this straight. You said your husband doesn’t remember any of this, and Loudon and Elmer don’t remember any of this, but you do.”

  The statement was more accusation than question. It made Michelle uncomfortable.

  “How was she supposed to have died?” Pink asked. “Who buried her there?”

  Michelle gulped down the last of her corn liquor, thinking about the bubbles, hundred proof. Proof. That’s what she lacked. “Everyone thought you did, Pink. They believed you killed Isabelle and buried her at the cabin.” The words sounded harsh and she couldn’t believe she’d said them out loud.

  At first Pink just stared at her, the way one might regard a door-to-door salesman. Then he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stage, but you’re nuttier than a PayDay candy bar! But you are entertaining!”

  Pink stood up and placed a twenty on the table near Michelle’s plate. “The least I can do is buy you dinner,” he said. “Thanks for the memorable evening!” Pink shuffled through the club, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers, laughing all the way to the stairs.

  *****

  Lyman walked in silence beside Michelle, opening the door for her when they got to his truck. The sky was quilted with dark clouds, the faint smell of winter riding the crisp night air. Michelle wished she’d brought a jacket with her. She pulled the door closed as Lyman climbed in behind the steering wheel.

  “I appreciate the ride,” Michelle said.

  “Where you staying?” he asked.

  Michelle was about to say the Ruby Motel. “Do you know where Mr. Souder lives?”

  “Pink?”

  “Yes. Can you take me there? To his house?”

  Lyman turned the key in the ignition. “That’s not a good idea. Pink’ll have my ass if I take you over there. What you want to go there for anyway?”

  “I have to. I’m running out of time.” The cab of Lyman’s truck was dark, the dash lights a faint yellow, making everything look nicotine-stained, even though the truck smelled of fresh pine. “I want to apologize to him,” Michelle finally added.

  Apologizing was part of her reason for wanting to go, but mostly she had to meet Isabelle, look into her eyes. Michelle didn’t know what she expected to find, but time was compressing, squeezing out options and hope. How long would it be before Cliff found her? And now that she’d made a fool of herself with Pink, would he call Sheriff Fisk and tell him he’d found the crazy woman from Atlanta?

  Lyman switched the headlights on and backed out. They wound down past the apartments onto the main road. All the shops were closed, except for Anthony’s Restaurant, the plastic sign boasting big screen television and some upcoming fight on HBO.

  Light from an oncoming vehicle filled Lyman’s cab, then quickly passed, leaving them in darkness again. Michelle had paid no attention to the route Lyman was taking to Pink’s house; she’d never have been able to find her way back. It worried her that she’d cast her faith with the stranger sitting across the seat. She knew nothing about Lyman except that he was great on the dance floor and had a knack for making mountain whiskey.

  Lyman drove past some tall shrubs and made a right turn into a driveway. The house in front of them was pale and small, the windows dark. Lyman’s headlights revealed a boat and trailer sitting next to the house. A tan metal shed sat behind the boat. When Lyman cut the headlights, everything went black.

  “Is this Pink’s house?” Michelle asked.

  “No. It’s mine.”

  Lyman got out of the truck and walked around to Michelle’s door. She quickly pushed the lock down, then leaned over the seat and pushed his down. Lyman stared through the window. She pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. “Whatever you have in mind, Lyman, it’s not happening,” Michelle said.

  “I mean no harm, ma’am. I promise,” Lyman said, raising his hands as if he were under arrest. “It’s just that I want to phone Pink first, see if he and Isabelle are up to company this late. It’s after eleven o’clock, and Isabelle’s a sickly woman.”

  Michelle lowered the gun, shocked, as if she’d been watching someone else threatening Lyman. If Lyman hadn’t thought she was crazy before, he certainly would now. “I’m sorry,” she said through the glass, not yet ready to unlock the door.

  “I just thought you might like to come in. But you can wait in the truck if you feel more comfortable.” Lyman turned and headed for the house.

  “Wait,” she said, unlocking the door, throwing it open. “Wait, Lyman. I’m really sorry. You must think I’m a nutcase. I’m just . . . frazzled is all.”

  “Frazzled?”

  “Going to Mr. Souder’s house was probably a bad idea. I’m staying at the Ruby Motel. Do you know where that is?”

  They got back in the truck and Lyman drove out to the highway. In less than fifteen minutes they were turning under the Ruby Motel sign. Lyman eased the truck into a parking space and left the engine running. They had not said a word since they’d left Lyman’s house.

  “Thanks for the dance, and everything,” she said. “Sorry about the gun.”

  “It’s none of my business, ma’am, but if you’re one of Pink’s . . . lady friends, you might
want to steer clear of Isabelle. She may be sick, but she’s nobody to cross.”

  Michelle nodded and stepped down from the cab. Lyman backed out of the space and vanished down the empty road. Michelle felt like a fool. She pushed her hand past the gun in the purse until she felt the plastic diamond room key. After letting herself in, she bolted the door. She dropped her purse on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, letting the events of the evening wash over her. This is ridiculous, she thought, starting to see things from Darcy and Cliff’s perspective. It scared her though, as if she were giving up on Cassie. She undressed and went into the bathroom. Everything was surreal. She was about to step into the shower when she heard a knock at the door.

  Chapter 17

  Pink often thought about killing Isabelle, the same way he thought about hang gliding, or running for President of the United States—fleeting notions with no foothold in reality. Fantasies. Yet hearing Mrs. Stage accuse him of murdering Isabelle and burying her in the yard set off an avalanche of emotions, something Pink wasn’t used to. He knew Mrs. Stage was troubled and probably a bit eccentric, but he wished he hadn’t just walked out on her. He thought about driving back to get her then decided to see if Claire was home instead.

  Kenny worked second shift at Ardenwood Power and didn’t get off until one in the morning. Pink wasn’t sure what Kenny did at the power company, but Claire had told him once that Kenny was a stationary engineer. “Does that mean he stands there and does nothing?” Pink had said. Claire explained that Kenny kept the machinery running, fixing motors that broke down or needed maintenance.

  Claire and Kenny’s house was dark when Pink pulled in the driveway. He tried the front door, then the back. The back was unlocked. He could hear the television in the bedroom and crept toward the doorway, following the blue glow.

  “Claire?” he called. “You up?”

  “Who is that? Kenny?” she called back, appearing in the doorway a moment later wearing a nightgown and big puffy slippers. “Pink. What the hell you doing here? Kenny’ll be home in less than an hour. Are you crazy?”

  “No, Cuddle Cakes, I’m horny.”

  “You know I hate when you call me that, don’t you?” Claire turned and nodded for him to follow. “I have to finish this first.” She climbed on the bed and sat cross-legged, showing Pink a jigsaw puzzle box, hundreds of colorful puzzle pieces scattered across a square of plywood sitting on the spread. The photo was of some kind of horse. Pink was never good with horses, and horses never liked him much either.

  “How much longer is that going to take?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been working on it all week.”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, Claire! Kenny’ll be home in less than an hour!”

  “I already told you that, Pink. You got some kind of bur in your shorts. What’s bothering you? Isabelle? She bitchy tonight?”

  “She’s bitchy every night. Hell, do your damn puzzle. I’m not in the mood anymore anyway.” He sat in the chair opposite the bed and found himself staring at Claire’s bare thighs where her nightgown had hitched up, unable to get his mind off Mrs. Stage. He felt worse than ever he’d made fun of her. He liked her, liked talking with her, liked the quality of their silence when they weren’t talking. He and Isabelle never really talked anymore. Bickering and fighting consumed every waking moment, leaving no time for conversation. Then again, they never had been big talkers, needing a more physical expression to communicate feelings.

  “You wanna help?” Claire asked, handing Pink the box lid. Pink stared at the picture.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun,” she said.

  ”I’m not good at puzzles.”

  “There’s no skill involved, Pink. It’s just a puzzle.”

  He wanted to tell her about Michelle, what Michelle had said about the cabin, about Isabelle. “You think Isabelle’ll ever get well?” Pink said. He got up and stood at the window.

  “Come away from the window, Pink. Neighbors might see.”

  Pink leaned his forehead against the glass and swiveled his head from side to side. Claire and Kenny had no neighbors for a hundred yards in either direction. Pink came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re having some kind of woman problem,” Claire said, pressing the horse’s eye into place.

  “Aw, what do you know about it?” Pink leaned over and wrapped his fingers around her ankle, sliding them up over her calf, her thigh. “I’m getting back in the mood.”

  Claire straightened and pushed his hand away. “Did you hear that? It’s Kenny.” Claire jumped up and grabbed her robe off the door. “Shit, Pink. Go out the back.”

  “Well, hell, Claire. Don’t you think he’s seen my Suburban in the driveway?”

  “Don’t just stand there—”

  “We’ll tell him Isabelle’s doing real bad tonight and I came over to get something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Christ, Claire, I don’t know. She’s your sister. What would she want?”

  A moment later Kenny appeared in the doorway, his metal Thermos clutched in his hand. “Pink helping you with the horse’s ass?” Kenny said to Claire.

  “Pink came over to get something for Isabelle . . .”

  “Soup,” Pink said. “She can’t keep anything down and the stores are all closed. I thought you and Claire might have some . . .”

  Kenny smiled. “Well, sure, Pink. We got lots of soup. Come on out to the kitchen and see what hits you.” Kenny turned in the doorway and disappeared down the hall. Pink shrugged at Claire. Claire pushed Pink away and glared at him.

  “Lots of soup,” Kenny said, pulling cans down from the cupboard. Claire followed Pink into the kitchen. “Tomato, cream of broccoli, chicken noodle . . . that’s supposed to be good when you’re sick, right?”

  “I’ll take the chicken noodle,” Pink said. “And the tomato, if you don’t mind.” He thought he might eat them both when he got home.

  “That’s what family’s for, Pink.” Kenny shoved the cans into Pink’s opened palms. “Hope Isabelle’s feeling better soon.”

  Pink thanked him again, said goodnight to Claire, and hurried out to his Suburban, thinking the lie had gone pretty well. When he reached the driveway he stopped and scratched his ear. Kenny had parked his pickup truck directly behind Pink’s Suburban, the bumpers practically touching. Pink didn’t want to go back in and confront Kenny and ask him to move his truck; it might tax Kenny’s charitable mood. He opened Kenny’s door and tried to pull the shifter into neutral. That was the problem with automatics; nothing worked without the key. He pushed on the front fender, trying to roll the truck back enough to pull his Suburban forward and back out around it. The truck barely rocked, the tires unmoving.

  Pink started his Suburban and pulled forward until the front bumper nudged the siding on the house. It made a crinkling sound. “Damn. I hope he didn’t hear that.” He backed up, cutting the front wheels hard to the left until his back bumper kissed the front bumper of Kenny’s truck. For several more minutes, Pink pulled forward and backward, unable to move his vehicle much more than a foot in either direction. “This’ll take all year. I’ll run out of gas before I get out of the damn driveway.”

  With the motor running, Pink got out of the Suburban, hitched up his trousers, and shuffled toward the front porch steps. He cleared his throat before knocking.

  “Door’s open, Pink.” It was Kenny’s voice. The sound of it bothered Pink, as if Kenny had been expecting him to come back. Pink went in. Light from the kitchen bled into the dark living room. In the dim setting, Pink could make out the outline of Kenny sitting in the lounger, Claire sitting on the couch dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Kenny smoked a cigarette with one hand and pointed a chrome-plated .357 Magnum pistol at Pink with the other.

  “Trouble getting out?” Kenny said.

  Chapter
18

  Michelle turned off the shower and waited for another knock. It came like the last sound in the world. At first she thought it might be Lyman, or maybe Pink, but mostly she figured it was the police. Pink probably called Sheriff Fisk, related the crazy things she’d said at the Hilltop and how he’d found her earlier that evening curled on the floor like an overdose victim. Pink may even have told Fisk the story about the cabin and Cliff disappearing. Fisk would surely remember her then, the woman they’d taken away in an ambulance, the drugs they’d shot her full of to end her ranting.

  The knock came louder this time, and Michelle wished she had undressed and showered in the dark and just gone to bed. Weariness overtook her, anxiety propping her back up. She couldn’t have Sheriff Fisk take her to the station for threatening Lyman with a gun.

  “Shit!” She grabbed her blouse and jeans off the bed and struggled to put everything on at once, pushing her feet into her shoes. Still buttoning her blouse, she hurried back to the bathroom, to the small window above the toilet. She snapped her jeans then ran back for her purse, the gun. The window looked too small. The pounding continued at the door, growing louder, impatient. She thought she heard someone shouting her name.

  Michelle climbed up on the toilet and jerked the window open, the top of it pulling down slightly. She tried to wrestle it free from the aluminum frame so she could fit through the small space.

  “Michelle, open up!” someone called from outside.

  She pounded the metal on the side with her palm, trying to free it then grabbed the top edge of the glass and pulled down with all her weight until it shattered, showering her head and arms. Glass scattered across the toilet and floor like hail.

  “Michelle! Open up. Are you okay?”

  Using the barrel of the gun, she broke the remaining glass from the window frame, sliding the barrel back and forth along the aluminum until all the pieces were gone. She stared at the opening for a long moment before the tears started. If she pulled the entire window frame out of the wall, the hole would still not be large enough for her to crawl out.