Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [33]
“You?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll know,” said Odd, “before we leave this island.”
Under normal circumstances I don’t rattle, but normal circumstances had flown some time back and what we were into now was paranormality at its best. I was not used to anger in Odd, and I was not used to that resolute tone in his voice. Most of the time he could hold four opposing points of view simultaneously, which works against you as a cop. Often he seemed unsure of himself, of the path, and of the destination. Now I was impressed. And so was the chief, if not a bit worried about the steady equilibrium long enjoyed by his little island reservation.
I told him why we had dropped by, to see about the current health of our boy Houser. He got on the phone to his wife, speaking in Shalish, which I thought impolite, but considering my own mouth I could not object. I waited and watched his face for some reaction. Nada. He hung up and said, “Much improved.”
We drove there in two cars, again. Odd was deep into himself and I left him wherever that was, wondering only about what Connors did for lunch and was he alone or with Esther. Did he bring a sandwich from home and eat it quickly in the break room, or did he and Esther go to Pizza Hut and urge the last piece upon each other?
We pulled up next to the chief’s car in front of his house. The first thing I noticed was that Stacey and her mom had decamped from his front porch.
“Where’s your wailing little friend?” I asked, when we got out of the car.
“Half way to Spokane, I hope,” he said.
We followed him up the stairs to the room where they were keeping Houser. He was sitting up in bed, taking broth without assistance. The window was open and the cool air cleansed the sick room. He gave the empty bowl to Mrs. Shining Pony and thanked her. I asked her what his temperature was.
“Ninety-nine, point six,” she said.
“That’s not bad,” I said.
“It’s dropping.”
She took his tray and left the room.
“How’re you feeling, Houser?” I asked.
“Better,” he said. “Much better. I thought I heard Stacey…”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I think they heard her in Bellingham.”
“Is she still here?”
“She’s a little girl, what do you care? She’s with her mother, where she belongs.”
“Houser…?” The patient turned to the sound of Odd’s voice and found him sitting by the window. “How did it start? With Stacey.”
“What do you mean?”
I interrupted. “Houser, do you remember me reading you your rights?”
“No.”
“Then I’m gonna do it again,” and I did, and we all waited until he told us he understood.
“You know we’re cops, ain’t? Him and me? From Spokane? And we’ll be taking you back there for booking?”
He understood all that.
“All right, so if you want to talk to Odd, or anybody else, without a lawyer present, be my guest.”
“What did you want?” asked Houser of Odd.
“I want to know how it started, with Stacey. She’s fourteen, you’re thirty-something. Did she come to you? Was she looking for a guide? A sexual guide? Was she a virgin at the time?”
“She still is,” said Houser.
What?
12.
I wondered if Houser was clever enough to be laying down a defense, that being that the crime in question never occurred. Or at least not the crime of penetration. But if that was the case, what was he doing with a fourteen-year-old girl clear across state on a little island hard against Canada? Nature walks? And besides, if he was lying, one quick peek with a professional eye would catch him.
“We were running away from rumors and hatred and intolerance.”
Pul-leeze! He was running away from the law that keeps grown men out of the pants of little girls. I wanted to cover his face with the pillow, snuff the sucker out, but Odd was gentle with him, wanting to hear the whole story.
“How did you meet?” he asked.
“In church,” said Houser.
I wanted to puke.
He was in the row behind her and across. She was sitting with her mother, and she kept turning to look at him, until their eyes met.