Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [27]
I believe the natural inclination of anyone looking at a vehicle for the first time would be to look into the driver’s side window. That’s what I did. You look at where you would sit if you had this car. You look at the steering wheel, where your hands would be. You might check the mileage from there. That was my theory, still is, but Odd got into the passenger seat without any hesitation.
No way would I get into that vehicle, either side. Dry and hardened blood, and if I’m not mistaken, brain matter, was all over the dash, the seats, the passenger window, and the back window. He ignored all that and settled himself into the seat. He shut the door and turned his head a few times, as though trying to click into a position, which he did finally: looking across the imaginary driver and through the open window, at me.
He put his hand to his throat and swallowed hard. “Something’s wrong here,” he said.
“What?” said I.
“That window is open.”
“Yes,” said the father.
“And this one closed?” The passenger window was all but opaque with dried blood and specks of other stuff.
“Everything is like it was.”
“The killer must have gone to the driver’s side,” I said. “Shot James, then Jeannie.”
“No, something’s wrong. They talked to the killer through the open window. They knew him.”
“Maybe the window was open ‘cause they wanted some air. They were necking, the place got steamed up,” I said.
“No, they would have just cracked it then. It was raining that night, hard. They wouldn’t roll the window all the way down unless they were talking to someone, unless they knew who they were talking to. The killer stood on that side. They talked to him. Then Jeannie clutched Jimmy’s arm, so hard she left bruises there.”
Jimmy?
Odd’s hands seemed to clutch at an imaginary arm, and they trembled. They were out of his control, shaking in the air, clutching to nothing. His eyes glazed over. There was a terror on his face I had never seen before. In fact, it was no longer his face. That expression of fear did not, could not, come from Odd Gunderson. I was standing where the killer would have been, and so he was looking at me, and never in my life have I engendered such fear in another human being, but, of course, it wasn’t me. It was whoever Odd was seeing where I was standing.
“Who are you looking at? “ I asked him. “What’s his name? Odd? Odd? Who is it?”
When I said his name, his head jerked sideways in an involuntary spasm, and he was back. The face was Odd’s again.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
Across the hood of the car, I looked at the old Indian who had brought us here, Drinkwater, and I thought I saw in him the flash of recognition.
10.
I made the decision I was in the better condition to drive, and so I did, back to the part of the island under county jurisdiction. Our old Indian guide wanted to show take us himself to Karl’s Auto Repair, but I settled for directions instead. I told him, politely, to get on with the rest of his day.
The garage was easy to find. Seven cars were parked outside and two were up on lifts, a mechanic under each of them.
“Which one is Karl?” I asked Odd, as we approached, half-testing, half already believing that of course he’d know.
“How should I know?” he said.
“Karl Gutshall?” I asked, when we got to the open bays.
The tall one on the right turned and came out from under the lift, looking us over. He wore greasy coveralls baggy in the butt and a gimme cap backwards on his head. He was my age. I noticed both the little and ring fingers of his left hand were missing. I wondered if anyone around here was still in one piece, and if we would be by the time we got off this damn island.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“We’re from out of town.”