Dark Signal Read online

  The door at the back end of the container car swung closed, hit the frame, and flew open with force. A dark figure emerged from the shadows. In his heavy coat and hood, gloves and boots, and this far away at this wonky perspective, there was no way I could identify him. One hand cradled the other. With clumsy movement, he grabbed the handholds and swung himself on the metal ladder. His boots slipped from the rung and he dangled for a second before pushing off and landing on the ground with a muffled oooof!

  Still unable to breathe, I struggled like a turtle on my back. My legs and arms barely moved. I sucked unsuccessfully to draw in air, helpless as the man pushed himself to his feet and took off with a lumbering run. He stumbled over the tracks and up the hill.

  “Stop!” I yelled with as much force as a week-old puppy. “Sheriff. Stop!”

  By the time he topped the ridge, I’d managed to push myself to my knees. Blood gushed from my forehead, the only warmth in the whole state of Nebraska. Wiping my eyes, I hauled myself up on shaking legs. I hadn’t scrambled more than halfway to the top of the hill before the rumble of a diesel engine sent a wave of frustration through me.

  It took another couple of minutes before I struggled far enough up the hill to look over the other side with the eye not constantly washed out by blood. By then, whoever had been there was a frozen memory.

  18

  I found a towel behind Elvis’s passenger seat and pressed it to my aching forehead and waited for the heat to thaw my right hand. Every time I pulled the towel away to assess the damage, the blood coursed before I could get a look. I’d need stitches. My options were limited.

  A drive to Broken Butte to the emergency room, an hour away, with me pressing and wiping and the blood dripping, didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to alert the rescue unit and pull several people away from their beds.

  It might be a good time to introduce myself to the new vet Sarah told me about. Heath Scranton. I drove back to Hodgekiss, past my parents’ house to the end of town. The street spilled out to the open front lot of the vet clinic. A few years ago, Doc Bunner, long-time vet, built a Morton Building with a barn and clinic on one side, an office between, and a two-bedroom house on the other. Then he up and died. For several months, the ranchers in Grand County had been hard pressed to find veterinary care. Now we were back in business with this new guy.

  Lights shone from the clinic side, and I let myself into the office, towel pressed to my forehead. Like a hospital, veterinary patient care wasn’t a nine-to-five kind of job. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and horse, with a smidgeon of rusty birth fluid. An old black lab lifted his head from a dog bed in the corner and thumped a tail at me.

  “Doc Scranton?” I walked behind the counter, through the exam room with its stainless steel table and floor-to-ceiling cupboards and counters, and thudded through the open door toward the lights of the barn.

  Rapid footsteps on the concrete of the barn headed toward me, and a blond man, midthirties, muscular build, rounded a corner. “Here.”

  Wow. Sarah had been right. Heath Scranton was hot. Sizzling. About six four, he had broad shoulders and a face like a Disney prince. But my forehead throbbed and stung, and my arm was tired from holding the towel up. I’d have to charm him with my feminine wiles some other time. “Sheriff Fox. Kate. Can you sew me up?”

  His friendly grin dribbled from his face. “Stitches? For you?” He focused on my forehead, no doubt seeing the blood-drenched towel and my reddened fingers and wondering what was going on.

  I made it seem as normal as possible. “It’ll probably only take a couple.”

  He stood in front of me, in his insulated coveralls, all handsome and confused.

  “I ran into a door. Not a big deal.”

  He kept his eyes on my injury. “But I’m a vet. I’m not licensed to work on, you know, people.”

  I pulled my hand away, glad the bleeding had let up enough it didn’t waterfall into my eye again. “Sure. And I won’t tell anyone. But I’ve got some things I need to attend to, and I can’t run all the way to Broken Butte. I grew up down the street. With a lot of brothers and sisters. Believe me, we kept Doc Bunner in cigars with all the stitches he supplied over the years.”

  Still, Scranton didn’t twitch. “But it’s your face.”

  I shrugged and wiped at the dribble of blood sliding down my forehead. “Gives me character. Can you help me out?”

  It took more coaxing than it took to convince Mose and Zeke to go to bed, but he eventually agreed. He settled me in the clinic exam room and swabbed the gash while I practiced not wincing.

  “You say you ran into a door?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Chasing a bad guy. Which is why I need to get back to work.” I clenched my teeth as he dabbed on topical anesthetic.

  “This is against all principles. I shouldn’t be practicing medicine on a person.” Worry lines danced between his eyebrows. But I focused on his blue eyes. Whether he’d think it was lucky or a bother, every single woman in Grand County, and some who weren’t single, would be all over him like gravy on mashed potatoes.

  “You’re aiding in the apprehension of a criminal. It’s perfectly legal.”

  He grinned despite himself. “Really?”

  By the time he’d put three stitches into my noggin, I was ready to down a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and sleep until it healed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t done with my night. Heath wouldn’t take any money, and I respected that ethic. I’d figure out some way to compensate him. But that would mean I’d need to get to know him a little better.

  Darn.

  I might be able to slip that plan into a conversation to appease a sister or two later, but the idea of getting to know someone held little appeal for me now. God, my head hurt.

  My next stop involved a short drive to the other side of town. It was after eleven, so I didn’t expect any lights on. They weren’t. I knocked and waited. Knocked and waited. Knocked and the door finally opened.

  Clete Rasmussen filled the doorway like an angry grizzly wearing a purple terry robe, his white hair sticking out six ways to sundown. “What?” His mouth opened at the sight of my bloodstained forehead and what must be swollen flesh.

  Behind him, his wife’s voice floated out. “Who is it?”

  Clete twisted his head over his shoulder. “County business. Go back to bed.” He opened the door wider to let me in.

  I stood in the entryway, illuminated only by a hallway light. “Actually, it’s railroad business.”

  He frowned at me and ushered me around a corner to the kitchen. In a big city, they might call Clete’s house a midcentury brick bungalow. In Hodgekiss, it was an old brick house they hadn’t done much to update. The kitchen was closed off from the living room on the other side of the front door. With a booth under a window, there wasn’t a lot of room left for counters.

  “What’s this about?” Clete whispered, a volume I didn’t know he possessed.

  I relayed my adventure at the tracks. “You need to call the BNSF security and get them up to investigate. I’ll go out to meet them.”

  Clete put a hand on my arm, the most caring gesture I’d ever seen from him. “No. You need to get some rest. I’ll make the call and go out there. I’ll wait for the investigator to show up.”

  I didn’t want to, but I agreed to let Clete handle it. As trainmaster, it was his job.

  I should do it myself. Probably ought to call Trey and get him up here. I wanted to think everything through and figure out who was out there, who killed Chad. But my head throbbed, and before I could be useful, I needed to get some sleep.

  19

  Cold morning light left the kitchen as gloomy as I felt. My boots clunked on the kitchen floor, making a racket in the quiet house. I felt as though someone had pounded me with a sledgehammer. My back felt especially tender. Next time I took a swan dive from the top of a double-stack railroad car, I’d make sure someone provided a net.

  “You look nice.” Even though they were spoken sof
tly, the words startled me. Mom slumped at the table, resting her head on one hand, the elbow propped on the surface. Dark circles sagged under her eyes. I doubt she registered any more detail about my appearance than the splash of color. She looked like three-day-old road kill. “Thanks. Funeral.”

  She wore a vague expression that matched her disjointed voice. “Oh. That railroad accident.”

  In her working phases, Mom didn’t pay much attention to the real world. “How’s the new piece?” I asked.

  She waved the hand not responsible for keeping her head from slamming into the table. “It’s junk. I think I’ve lost the creative juice. I don’t know. Maybe I’m done sculpting.”

  This pasture was well trampled. But her normal low cycle coinciding with the anniversary of Glenda’s death was a double whammy. “I’ll bet it’s a great piece.”

  She straightened the scaffolding arm, and her head sank to use it for a pillow. “We’ll never know. It’s in a million bits, scattered on the studio floor.”

  This, too, seemed to be part of her process. “You’ll do another.”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  I lowered myself to a chair next to her, stifling a moan. She reached out and ran a finger along the embroidery of my jacket. “This is an extraordinary work.”

  She’d bought me this wool blazer from a boutique in Santa Fe several years ago. She was showing at a gallery and made a rare appearance at a First Friday Art Walk. She said the jacket called to her from across the plaza. It had been searching for the woman it was made for and begged her to bring it to me. In Mom’s world, things like that happened. I’m sure she’d spent a good portion of the show’s commission on the jacket. I loved it. If I ever had a daughter, she’d probably love it, too. It had that kind of timelessness.

  I ran my hand along the soft wool. “Ted always wore his uniform to funerals.” I had considered it. It didn’t seem right.

  Mom’s hand dropped, and her critical inspection took in the midcalf flared skirt and dress cowboy boots. “It’s a sign of respect to dress for a funeral.”

  I got up to make coffee. “Would you like some tea?”

  She didn’t answer so I made her a cup while my coffee brewed. I set our cups on the table.

  We sat together in silence for a while. Misery drifted off Mom. She hadn’t showered for a few days, probably hadn’t eaten much, and maybe hadn’t even gone to bed after Louise left last night. The piece that had consumed her and then led to her despair might have been great. But after a few days in her condition, she’d be no judge. Several times I’d tried to convince her not to destroy something when she was in this strung-out state. When she’d come out the other side and was planted more or less in sanity’s garden, she agreed her perspective could get skewed and delusional while on the tail end of her manic surges. But she could never seem to avoid that slide.

  In the stew of mental illness, the Foxes had learned to swallow the bitterness of Mom’s gravy.

  “I had no idea the house could be so quiet,” I said.

  She closed her eyes. “It roars, doesn’t it?”

  “After all those years of kids fighting and playing, you must love this peace. I’ll bet you work better without us around.”

  Mom opened her eyes and, with what appeared gargantuan effort, pushed up and let gravity flop her back in her chair. “I like the noise. I tried to fill the house with children so the silence wouldn’t swallow me.”

  “But you hide from the chaos in your studio.”

  Mom had a diamond of a smile. Seeing it slide onto her face made me feel like a prospector spotting the glint of fortune in his pan. This morning, her smile struggled through exhaustion. “I wasn’t hiding. If I could, I would sculpt in the middle of the kitchen with all the coming and going.”

  “But we weren’t even allowed into your studio.”

  “That’s more for your protection than for mine. Your father insisted and I acquiesced.”

  “Why?”

  She indicated the silk kimono wrapped loosely around her. “Although I believe in the beauty of the human form, you father is a little more inhibited. Even more than that, this town has a repressive streak. So, since I can’t be encumbered with clothes when I work, he thought I ought to have my own space.”

  “You worked down there so we wouldn’t see you naked?” I’d never understood how she didn’t freeze to death. Her basement studio hunkered below the house with a side patio scraped outside to create a walk out with a bank of windows, giving her light and making her feel open. When she worked, it was as if a fire burned inside. As the work high faded, she’d gradually add thicker layers until, like the rest of us, she’d venture out in heavy sweaters to survive the winter.

  “I hated it when you all traipsed off to school. For those hours, the walls creaked and the ghosts whispered. But then, your footsteps would pound on the ceiling, and you chased it all away.”

  I had no idea.

  “These days I’ve had to make peace with the ghosts. They’ve been cooperative for the most part. Then you come back for a day or a few hours. The grandkids run and you kids argue and my soul settles.”

  “I always thought we distracted you, and when you’re working, you wished we weren’t around.”

  Mom’s haggard eyes moved to my face, as if she were too tired to turn her neck. “You kids were the only reason I could work. You made it possible for the flames to leap around me. Now, with most of you gone, the fire that filled my work has to heat the rest of the house.”

  I’d thought of her as flawed and maybe a little crazy—okay, more than a little. I’d accepted her stretches of neglect and indulged her affection when she rejoined the family. All along, I thought I was the more stable and adult in our relationship, understanding she loved on her own schedule.

  I often wondered why she’d had so many children. Now I knew. She needed us to hold her to the earth. With all our noise and drama, we crowded her soul back into her body.

  The kitty clock ticked. I shoved my chair back. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. Get some sleep, Mom. You’re teetering onto the crazy side.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “What happened to your face?”

  Without thinking my fingertips brushed the stitches on my forehead. “I fell off a railroad car.”

  She shrugged in an it happens sort of way. “It’ll leave a scar but the stitches are even.”

  “Maybe I’ll wear bangs from now on.”

  She chuckled. “So adventurous, like your namesake.”

  I bent over her and kissed her forehead. I don’t know how much I acted like Kate Hepburn, but I wished I had her height and dignity—and a few of her dollars wouldn’t hurt, either.

  20

  Funerals for young people draw crowds. No church, and not even the Legion hall, could contain the two or three hundred people expected for Chad’s service. The district cancelled school for the morning and used the high school theater, with spillover herded to the wooden bleachers in the gym to watch on a remote feed.

  I stood in the gym doorway and searched the bleachers. Sarah and Robert sat with Michael and Lauren. Jeremy, the second-to-youngest Fox, named for Jeremy Irons, dropped down next to them. Louise and Norm huddled up a row with their two oldest kids, Ruth and David.

  An arm draped around my shoulders, and I tilted my head to Douglas. Mom lucked out the year the twins were born when Michael Douglas won for Best Actor. Douglas, never Doug or, God forbid, Dougy, pulled me close. Five years younger than me, and often under my supervision, Douglas never said much. He was like a gentle bear. Even as a little kid, he knew when I needed support, and he’d magically show up by my side. “Fall on your face when you passed out at the Long Branch?”

  I scanned the bleachers. “Bull-riding accident.”

  Though she rarely spoke of it, we gathered Mom grew up in a status-obsessed family in Chicago and hit the hippie trail early. She’d met Dad in San Francisco after he’d finished his Vietnam tour. I c
ouldn’t imagine the conversations that led them to move back to Dad’s hometown, among the provincial and clannish Foxes and all their extended, eccentric relatives, but Mom made few concessions to Sandhills conventions. She didn’t feel obligated to attend funerals or weddings or high school sporting events.

  Dad, on the contrary, knew what was expected of a Fox. He made sure we all knew, too. Aside from Diane, who’d made her escape to Denver, the sense of obligation Dad dribbled into our midnight bottles soaked into our veins.

  Douglas and I joined the rest of the family to watch the sad service on the TV that Principal Barkley wheeled in on a utility cart. I gave various explanations for my face, from running into May Keller in a dark alley to skydiving at midnight. None of my family members seemed too concerned about a few bruises. Standard operating procedure for me.

  I settled next to Sarah. Movement at the doorway caught my attention. In his crisp state trooper uniform, Trey Ridnoir filled the gap. He studied the crowded bleachers. Maybe he scanned for suspects. I watched him watching us. He was far enough away I couldn’t actually see his eyes, but I knew they’d be keen and assessing.

  Ted used to stand in the doorway of events, just like that. In his uniform, he provided safety and authority. I dropped my eyes to my skirt and embroidered jacket. When I looked up, Ted and Roxy filled the gym doorway. Supported by his cane, Ted leaned close to Trey, and they spoke with serious faces.

  Even though she seemed pale and subdued by her normal standards in a long skirt and leather duster, Roxy still flashed like a neon bar sign. She kissed and hugged everyone trying to enter the gym.

  I needed distraction and turned to Sarah. She looked too pale and maybe even a little green around the gills. She wore her chestnut hair in a ponytail. That wasn’t unusual for everyday, but she believed ponytails were lazy. For dress-up occasions she generally wore it smoothed with the blow dyer, a process that took ages with her thick hair. Her eyes and smile had a limp quality that worried me. “Are you feeling okay? Still got that bug?”