Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery Part 24

He said nothing.

Sophie took my hand. "Should I call nine-one-one?"

"Nah. I think he's just pouting."

"Something's pinned," Fred said. "Maybe crushed a little."

Sophie began to cry.

I sighed. "Hang on, I'm coming." I pointed at Sophie. "Stay away in case it tips back over."

I walked around the other side of the car, squatted, looked in the windshield. Sure enough, Fred was folded up on the front pa.s.senger-side door, which was now acting as the floor. It looked like all his weight was on the point of his right shoulder. "That's probably not good," I said.

"Come get me."

I straightened and pushed on the Chevy's roof. Didn't like the way the car rocked. Squatted again. "If I climb up to the driver's door," I said, "it might tip."

"So kick out the windshield, dumba.s.s."

That was a good idea. The safety gla.s.s shouldn't bother Fred if we were careful. I told him to close his eyes, stepped back, and stomped with my left boot. Took me half a dozen kicks to knock a third of the windshield from its frame. While I did, Sophie came around, sniffling. "Are you okay?" she said.

"Fine, sweetie," Fred said. "Now watch out you don't get gla.s.s in your eye."

I took my T-shirt off and was surprised to see it sweat soaked, until I thought about what I'd spent the past twenty minutes doing. When I ran the Busch Series, back before they put suit coolers in the cars, we used to sweat off fifteen pounds a race.

I used the T-shirt to protect my hands, grabbed a handful of safety gla.s.s, and rolled it up toward the left side of the car like it was a sardine-tin lid. I flopped it over the left fender, made sure it wouldn't slip and hit me, dropped to hands and knees.

Now I had my head inside the Chevy. I smelled gas. "It would be a d.a.m.n good idea to get you out of here," I said. "Where are you pinned?"

"It's this side. Feels like maybe my right hand is between the seat and the door. Can you see it?"

"Well..." I wriggled in, extending my neck.

That's when my father cold-c.o.c.ked me. The right hand he'd been playing possum with came at me like a cast-iron skillet, caught me flush on the nose. I saw a white flash, then got a thump when my head dropped and hit the windshield pillar.

"Hey," Sophie said. "Hey!"

"Wreck me in the last corner, you dirty h.o.m.o?" Fred said, trying to grab my hair. "I'll show you dirty..."

But my hair was too short to get a grip on. I waggled my head to clear the pain, then popped him in the nose with a couple of rights. I was on two knees and my left hand, so I couldn't get much on the jabs, but they slowed him down.

"Ha!" Fred said. "You still punch like a girl!" He pulled his left knee to his chest and let fly with a flat kick, going for my nose again. I shifted, but his boot caught my right ear and tore it some.

"Come on, Dad." I put both hands up to surrender.

"f.u.c.k you I'll come on!" Fred pistoned the leg again, caught me in the chest, knocked the wind out of me.

That p.i.s.sed me off. My nose, my ear, now my wind. I got the red-mist feeling around my eyes that meant deep trouble as often as not.

While I tried to catch my breath, Fred went for the kill shot, kicking with both legs this time, aiming at my face.

I caught an ankle with each hand, tightened my grip, felt the red mist taking over my head.

When Fred saw my face, he stopped cussing me out. "Hey now," he said.

"Conway?" Sophie said.

They were too late. I got a foot under me and rose, still grasping Fred's ankles. I pulled him straight through the empty windshield frame, not caring much if I cut him up on the way out.

I dragged him through dirt, screaming at him, calling him a stupid old rummy c.o.c.ksucker who couldn't drive for s.h.i.t. As I dragged, his shirt rode up all the way to his neck. His belly was loose, his chest scrawny, the whole mess fish-belly white except for lots of black hair.

Something about that hair lit off half a memory-shirtless Fred fixing a clapboard in Mankato, me looking on, maybe eight years old, wondering if I'd ever have chest hair like that, my father smiling as he explained how he got the b.u.t.t joints just so-and ratcheted my red-mist fury. I dug my heels in and set my weight against Fred's.

Then I began to spin like a discus thrower. Fred slowly rose from the ground, flailing, grabbing at nothing, saying things I couldn't hear while I whirled him in circles, did a couple of full 360s ...

... and let go, tossing my father in a dumb little arc that carried him ten or twelve feet. He landed on his back, then snapped the back of his head to hard-packed dirt. His arms and legs splayed. He didn't move.

I breathed myself calm, felt the red mist drain from my head, replaced instantly by a Jesus-I'm-an-a.s.shole vibe that I know too well.

Sophie rushed past, and the way she looked at me was worse than anything she could have said. She knelt next to Fred, turned to face me. "His eyes are closed, Conway!"

I said nothing.

"I think you killed him!"

"Doubt it." I needed to move away while the worst of the shame washed through me. I walked over to Fred's Chevy, leaned on the roof, pushed. It rocked a little. I pushed harder. The car rocked three inches, but when it settled back toward me it rocked four. d.a.m.n thing might fall over on me.

I deserved it.

I glanced at Sophie and Fred. He was propped on his elbows. I'd just knocked the wind out of him, maybe put him on queer street a few seconds.

I kicked little ruts to set my heels in. Then I put my back against the Chevy's roof and spread my arms.

Then I pushed.

My boots locked into the ruts, and I felt the push start deep in my thighs. The push rose through my rear end, into the small of my back.

When the Chevy tipped a foot and a half, I got my fingers around its drip rail, and that helped. I rose, gripped, rose. That might have been when I began to scream.

My thighs screamed back, wanting to quit.

I pushed and I screamed.

The car came up another foot but didn't want to move any farther. I'd run out of leverage: My knees were nearly straight now. I let the scream die, watched my right leg quiver. Sweat stung my eyes. If I bailed out now, I could quickstep out of the way before the Chevy tipped toward me.

I'd be d.a.m.ned if I was going to bail out.

I breathed three times, then pushed again. I pushed with everything I had. This time the scream started deeper and rose higher.

I pushed. I screamed.

And felt the car shift past the tip-back point as gravity became my ally. The Chevy fell away fast, bounced once on all four tires, groaned, squeaked.

And came to rest, the only sound a drip-drip-drip as neon-green antifreeze hit dirt.

In the quiet I leaned forward, breathed, put both hands on knees, watched my legs shake.

After a while I walked to Sophie and Fred. They were staring at me. Sophie's eyes were huge. Fred looked old and small and scared. I extended a hand. He looked at it for maybe ten seconds, then took it. I pulled him up.

"I'd do it again," my father said.

I thought he was talking about trying to wreck me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Quiet drive to Shrewsbury. Sophie, sitting in the middle again, said nothing and tried not to touch me. Fred jammed himself against the pa.s.senger door, arms crossed, and mumbled to himself. Every few minutes I glanced over without turning my head, and it made me sad. What with his stubble and his dirty chin and the mumbling, he looked like what he'd been for twenty years or so: a b.u.m. One time, his torso shook enough to make me nervous. But when I asked if I should pull over, he waved me off, rolled down his window, and sucked air.

Charlene's SUV was in the driveway when I pulled up, so I just dropped the two of them off. As Sophie slipped across the bench seat, I said her name.

"Don't worry," she said before slamming the door. "I won't tell her."

Smart kid.

Alone in the F-150, headed for Framingham, I called Randall.

"'Bout time," he said when he picked up. "You teased me with your text last night. Big news from Hebron Crossroads?"

"You going to see your insurance lady soon?"

"Seven tonight for dinner. Is that soon enough?"

"Think you can get your grubby paws on her laptop again?"

"Note that I'm bypa.s.sing the easy joke regarding my date and my grubby paws," he said, then paused. "The thing is, I like her a lot. I'm not sure I want to push my luck and monkey around with her databases every time we're together, do you see? It's a big deal, a firing offense."

"Myna Roper had Tander Phigg's kid. A daughter."

"Wow."

"That's nothing. The daughter is Patty Marx."

"What? Nonsense."

I told him about Myna's shotgun wedding to Bobby Marx, her daughter's lifelong nosiness, the picture I'd seen. Each time I clicked in a new fact, he whistled. "So write this down," I finally said. "Diana Patience Marx, born late 'sixty-two, graduated from Clemson in I guess the early eighties."

"That may be worth pushing my luck for." Click.

In Framingham, Trey Phigg's rented Dodge was gone and there was n.o.body home except Dale and Davey. They were happy to see me. I let the three of us into the upstairs apartment, figuring I should give Trey and his family the downstairs for now. I spent ten minutes catching up with the cats, stripped off clothes that were filthy from the dirt oval, and hit the shower. Left the clothes on the bedroom floor, knowing Dale and Davey would have a ball sniffing them.

As I rinsed dust from my hair I remembered there was more to Ollie's story about his Montreal connection. He'd tried to tell it in Enosburg Falls, but I'd cut him off because I wanted to hit the road. Dumb. Mental note: Call again, see how Ollie's knee was healing, ask him to finish the story. I wished I had a cell number for Ollie, didn't like the way Josh had blocked access last time I called.

I wouldn't tell Ollie about Tander Phigg's seventy-five grand. Keeping some info tucked in your back pocket is a hard habit to break. Montreal was looking more and more like the one who took out Phigg, but I couldn't rule out Ollie-maybe working with Josh, maybe not.

I dried, dressed, and brought a load of dirty laundry downstairs. Tossed it in the washing machine and was headed upstairs again when the kitchen door opened. Trey, Kieu, and Tuan came in, laughing and chattering.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said, not wanting to surprise them, as I headed toward the sound. When I stepped into the kitchen, Tuan rushed me. He had a red balloon from T.G.I. Friday's, the string looped around his wrist, and I guessed it was what he was jabbering about.

"The miracle that is helium," Trey said, laughing some more as his son tugged on the string, then let the balloon float to the ceiling.

"Good dinner?" I said.

Kieu nodded, cut her eyes to Trey, then back to me. "Very good," she said, putting a hand over her belly. "Very ... big, very much." It was the first English I'd heard her speak, so I nodded to show I understood. She blushed and put two Styrofoam leftover containers in the fridge.

When Tuan calmed down some, I motioned Trey into the living room. We sat.

"Five happy years," I said.

"How was your interview?"

"Myna Roper is a nice lady. Drinks too much, probably the only way she can fall asleep. But nice. Solid."

"And?"

"She lives in a trailer," I said, "but it's a nice trailer, you know? Down south, folks plant a double-wide somewhere and call it home, and n.o.body looks down on them."

"It's not your style to hem and haw, Conway. Please tell me whatever there is to tell."

"You have a half sister."

His mouth opened. "Pardon me?" he finally said.

"Your father loved Myna Roper. He got her pregnant. They didn't think that would fly in 1962, even in New York City. That's why your father caved to his father's threats and came back here."

"And Myna Roper had a baby girl."

"She was supposed to have an abortion. Your father always thought she did. But she couldn't go through with it."