“No, it’s a coffee shop. Just some other people.”
“Anyway, Zack, the thing is, I can’t go on this way. I can’t take the stress. It’s not just hard on me, it’s hard on the kids. If you were a cop or something, you know, maybe I could understand, try to live with it. But you’re not really cop material.”
“No,” I said, twisting a bit more. “That’s true.”
“Look, I have to go. Frieda’s looking for a linoleum update. Maybe we can talk again in a day or so. Think about what I’m saying.”
“Sure, honey,” I said.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The man flipped the phone shut. “That was touching,” he said, and then, without warning, ripped the rest of the tape from my eyes, taking half my eyebrows with it.
I screamed, even more than when he’d ripped the tape off my mouth. Then, as light filled my eyes, I blinked to let them adjust.
He was a big guy. Work shirt, John Deere hat, jeans, work boots. Gray stubble, needed a shave.
Claire Bennet stood further back, and she looked taller than I remembered her, although that might have had something to do with the fact that my face was pressed against the barn floor. “Mrs. Bennet,” I said, trying to be cordial. “And you,” I said, my eyes darting toward the man in the tractor hat, “are Mr. Bennet?”
He nodded slowly. “Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for Trixie,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Zack Walker. I used to be Trixie’s neighbor, we became friends. Just, you know, friends, nothing more than that. Then we moved away from Oakwood, but Trixie and I, we kept in touch.”
Claire Bennet said, softly, “She’s mentioned him, Don.”
Don Bennet said, “How do we know that’s who you really are?”
“Check my wallet, my driver’s license. In my back pocket.”
He rolled me over onto my stomach, wriggled my wallet out of my pants. Suddenly, this all felt a little too intimate. I rolled back over and watched as he opened it up, looked at my various cards. He held my license up, compared the image to the person before him.
“That would have been when I still had eyebrows,” I said.
He tucked my license back into the wallet, set it aside. “So what do you want with her?”
“She dragged me into this mess. Now I want to know what’s going on.”
“How did you get here? What led you to this house?”
“Do you think you could untie me first?”
Don shook his head. “You answer my questions and then we’ll see.”
“A gas station receipt in Trixie’s car. It led me as far as Groverton. I asked around, in the kids’ clothing store—”
Claire Bennet drew in a sharp breath.
“And that led me up here.”
“It sounds legit, Don,” Claire Bennet said.
“I don’t know. I don’t trust him. I think I may have to try a little harder to get the truth.”
“This is the truth,” I said.
“Honey,” Don said to his wife, “you go into the house, make sure Katie’s okay.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just go. Mr. Walker and I just need a moment here to talk, alone.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not lying to you. This is the God’s honest truth I’m telling you here.”
“Okay,” Claire said, turning to leave. “Just do what you have to do.” And then she left.
“Now it’s just us,” Don Bennet said. He took one of his meaty hands, made it into a fist, and pounded it into his other hand.
“Jesus, Don, do I look like some kind of thug? Do I look like—” and I searched for the right word, “some sort of biker?”
His fist, on its way into his palm again, froze in midair. “Biker? Why do you say biker?”
“Isn’t that who Trixie’s on the run from? Some exbikers? From Canborough? I figure Trixie must have seen something, that she’s been on the run ever since.”
“How do you know this shit?” Don’s face was a mask of desperation. “I need some real answers, pal.”
And he brought the fist back, winding up for a punch I’d never forget.
“Don!”
He whirled around.
“Don! Stop!”
I knew the voice instantly, even before I could see her. As she moved into the barn, she appeared first as a head, then a torso, then legs.
“Jesus, Don, what the hell are you doing?” Trixie asked. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“You know this guy?” he asked her.
“Trixie,” I said.
She cracked a smile at me. “Well,” she said, “most recently.”
26
WE WERE ALL SITTING AROUND the kitchen table.
Claire had put on some coffee and was thawing a Sara Lee cake from the freezer. “Maybe I could just put that on my head,” I said, rubbing my noggin where it had hit the post.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.