The Witch Of Agnesi Part 6

Before she could change her mind, she punched in Wendy Newlin's number.

CHAPTER 4.

BONNIE LAID INTO THE GAS. SOMETHING in Wendy Newlin's voice came across unnat-ural, bordering on creepy.

Not so much what the woman said- "Why sure, honey, come on by. You know the way?"-sounding more like Scarlet O'Hara graciously inviting a poor neighbor to barbeque than a woman whose son was missing.

Yes, definitely creepy.

She slapped the steering wheel. "We would have been there already, Alice, if you hadn't taken so long turning over. I've got no use for a persnickety Subaru. It would serve you right if I just traded you in for some-thing more reliable." She lowered her voice. "And faster, dammit."

An idle threat.

She'd drive Alice until the car's wheels fell off. h.e.l.l, longer. A year and a half ago both the front wheels had come off. And yet, here was the old hag, still chugging across the plains.

Ben loved this car. He cursed it-more than once promised to send Alice to that great sc.r.a.p heap in the sky-but he was the one who named the car Alice after a girl he'd kissed in the second grade.

Bonnie inhaled deeply-a faint reminder of pipe smoke and instant coffee. "I can still smell you, my love." She wrinkled her nose. "Truth is, you kind of stink."

The familiar double row of poplars appeared in the distance. Bonnie slowed.

The Newlin ranch sat close to the southern edge of East Plains. She'd once taken Peyton home after a Knowledge Bowl practice and was surprised at the metamorphosis in the place. The mysterious military family transformed what had once been a working ranch into a palatial estate.

They'd torn down the paddocks, the outbuildings, and the main redwood log cabin and replaced them with a sprawling adobe split level complete with arches and arcades of stucco. A bright green tennis court sat in incongruous decadence against the dull tans and browns of the surrounding desert. Like Twelve Oaks of Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind, rows of trees lined a half-mile lane leading to the house.

Dim orange light, like banked coals, reflected from multi-paned stained-gla.s.s picture windows, spanning fifty of the hundred-sixty foot pueblo style wall. Heavy rough-hewn beams pierced the adobe just beneath a tiled roof. Everything about the place looked clean, brand new, and expensive.

Rumor had it Colonel Newlin's family had money-a brother or maybe an uncle-had been senator in their home state since the invention of rope. Ralph certainly couldn't have afforded the changes on what the Air Force paid him.

Surrounded by what seemed like an acre of flagstone, Wendy Newlin sat cross-legged at a wrought-iron patio set, a cigarette as thin as a darning needle between her lips. Probably the Colonel didn't let her smoke inside.

An open peach-and-lavender cashmere sweater hung across Wendy's knees covering a white tennis top and shorts. She waved then brought a gla.s.s to her lips.

Bonnie pulled up next to the patio and came around the Subaru.

Stubbing out her cigarette, Wendy set the drink on a small gla.s.s table. She attempted to stand and stumbled. Trying to steady herself with the small table, she sent her drink cras.h.i.+ng to the flagstones. The gla.s.s shattered. The table toppled. The circular gla.s.s top sprang free. By some miracle, it spun like a coin but didn't break.

Wendy lurched upright and stood staring at the devastation, her shoulders heaving.

Bonnie ran, and the woman turned a flushed face her way.

"Oops." Wendy's eyes were full with tears, but they were tears of laughter.

Drunk as a cattleman after branding.

Wendy bent to clean up.

Bonnie restrained her, squeezing her shoulders and pulling her close. "We'll get it later. Can you walk?"

Wendy's head swayed in the approximation of a nod. "Of course, silly." Her breath was heavy with the semi-sweet aroma of whiskey. "Can you?"

Ah yes, drunken comedy. "I'll do my best. Hold on to me." "I'll do my best. Hold on to me."

Luckily, the front door was open. She supported Wendy across an ecru carpet that felt three inches thick and plopped her onto a sofa the size of a small mining town. Wendy sc.r.a.ped a bleeding foot against an ivory-hued ottoman, painting a lightning bolt of blood along its side.

Colonel Ralph Newlin would probably be incensed at the stain, but then again, Colonel Ralph Newlin might possibly have to go screw himself.

Makeup caked the right side of Wendy's face, not quite hiding a ma.s.sive bruise. Bonnie pinched the woman's chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted Wendy's face to the light of a hanging lamp.

She toppled sidewise on the couch.

Bonnie grabbed the front of Wendy's tennis s.h.i.+rt. "Oh no, you don't." She lifted and jammed the woman into a crook of the couch.

Wendy stared down at the wrinkled front of Bonnie's blouse and giggled. "You're strong."

"And you only smell that way." She swung Wendy's sandaled feet up onto the ottoman. "Stay with me. I'm going to clean up that b.l.o.o.d.y foot."

The living room opened onto a country kitchen resplendent with hanging copper cookware. A trio of kitchen towels hung from wooden hooks next to an oversized refrigerator. Bonnie s.n.a.t.c.hed all three towels, stepped to the sink, and doused them with cool water.

"Hang in there, sweetie," she yelled from the kitchen.

Bonnie cleaned the foot, removing a sliver of gla.s.s then attacked the makeup. Gently, she removed the foundation, revealing a nasty muddy splotch that cov-ered Wendy's face from left ear to cheek.

"You need to get some ice on this. Where's your husband?" She didn't even attempt to hide her anger.

Wendy's hand fluttered to her bruise. "Gone." She cupped her other hand next to her mouth.

"He'll come back with jewelry. Be real sorry." She giggled.

I'd say sorry doesn't cover it by half. "Are you going to be here when the Colonel shows?" "Are you going to be here when the Colonel shows?"

"I have to." The words came out an apology. "What will Peyton do if I'm not here?"

Bonnie sat down on the carpet, her knees wrapped in her arms. She studied the woman. She had to admit to a certain grudging admiration, but her anger splashed it with contempt. "How long have you put up with this?"

Wendy clapped her hands over her ears. "I don't want to talk about it."

With a force she didn't intend, Bonnie s.n.a.t.c.hed the woman's hands into her own. Wendy tried to pull away, twisting and whimpering like a child in full tantrum.

Bonnie held on until Wendy met her eyes. "You're going to have to, if not with me then with Social Ser-vices. I reported your husband this morning."

Wendy stopped struggling. Her hands, then her entire body went limp, long red hair falling over her face. "Why?"

"Oh, come off it, Missus Newlin! Some part of you must have known I wouldn't let abuse continue with one of my students. I did what you should have done long ago."

Her eyes hard, her face pulled tight, Wendy lifted a ferocious glare toward Bonnie. "You think you know everything about me. You don't know s.h.i.+t."

That's the second time in as many days someone's told me that. They're probably both right. "Then school me," she challenged. "Then school me," she challenged.

And it looked as if Wendy might do that very thing when her face went ashen. She sprang from the couch, half ran half crawled past Bonnie, and scuttled down a carpeted hall. She lurched into a side room. The un-mistakable sounds of vomiting came from the room.

Bonnie waited a few minutes and followed. She turned on the bathroom light. The rotten fruit smell of liquor vomit hung strong in the air.

Wendy sat in front of the commode, her arms draped along the rim.

Driving the old porcelain bus.

"Think you'll survive?" Bonnie pulled a bathroom towel from an oak rack and tossed it.

Wendy wiped her face and turned an icy stare to-ward Bonnie. She opened her mouth with the apparent intention of saying something scathing. A burp a ste-vedore would be proud of exploded from deep in her throat.

Bonnie looked away. She bit her lip trying to keep a straight face. Then she erupted in laughter. She thought of running from the room, but when she turned back Wendy was smiling.

Wendy flushed the toilet and pushed away. "You are one queen a.s.shole." She set her back against the oak paneled wall of a combination bathtub and spa that looked big enough to wash a baby elephant. A laugh turned into a snort. She covered her mouth as if she could retrieve the embarra.s.sing sound then laughed again. "Where the h.e.l.l did that come from?"

Bonnie stared at the woman, liking her. "I wouldn't worry about it. On you, a snort looks good."

With effort, Wendy scrambled to her feet. "I'll be right back." She returned with a pack of Virginia Slims and sat back down on the floor. "Do you mind?"

Bonnie did mind. She hated cigarette smoke and was certain she would hate it even more in this con-fined s.p.a.ce. "No, go ahead."

The woman's hands shook as she tried to ignite a match.

Bonnie took the matches and lit the cigarette. She lowered the toilet seat and sat.

Wendy inhaled deeply, tilted her head back and blew out a great cloud of smoke. She fisted the cigarette high over her head. "Up yours, Colonel Ralph Newlin, and the jet you rode in on. Look at me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'm smoking in the house." She flicked an ash to the floor.

Wendy's eyes went liquid. "We had a s.h.i.+t bird of a fight. Both said some horrible things. I told him when Peyton returned we were leaving. Ralph stormed out. Gave me something to help me remember him." She laid her fist against her bruise.

Bonnie wanted to embrace the woman, but some-thing hard in Wendy Newlin's face made Bonnie keep her distance. "I'm so sorry."

Wendy's eyes became steel slits. "I'm not. I should have left that d.i.c.k-head years ago."

She drew on the cigarette. "Almost fourteen years later, here I am." She gave a short laugh-air escaping from a dying balloon. A curtain of smoke poured from her lips and nose.

"Where did he go?" Bonnie tried not to let her dis-taste for the smoke show on her face.

Wendy shrugged, more of an I-don't-care than an I-don't-know. "Probably woke up one of his pilot bud-dies. Spent the night calling me a b.i.t.c.h."

Bonnie's heart broke for this damaged family. She wanted to despise Ralph Newlin, but couldn't even work up to disdain. The man would lose everything and likely convince himself it wasn't his fault. Wendy would cobble together a life for her and her genius son. As for Peyton, he'd be a bone his parents would shred between them as they tore at one another. Who could blame him for running away from this train wreck?

"Have you heard any news about Peyton?" Bonnie asked, already knowing the answer.

Wendy shook her head. "I spoke with an Amber Alert representative before I went to bed and again this morning. I gave him Ralph's number at the base. The officer, Keene, I think his name was, said he'd keep me informed."

Bonnie debated telling this already overburdened woman the news of Stephanie Templeton's death and decided against it. Wendy didn't look like she had room on her plate for another tragedy.

A clock sounded from the family room, and Bon-nie absently let the gongs wash over her. Not until the sixth did she realize the truth. She sprang out of her seat. "Is that time right?"

Wendy squinted up at her through a smoky haze. "I suppose, why?"

"I promised to meet someone in the Springs at seven."

Wendy lifted the toilet lid and dropped in her ciga-rette. "We'd better get you on the road."

Bonnie offered Wendy a hand, but she refused.

"I feel a lot better." Shakily, she used the spa's wall to stand. "I can see why Peyton likes you. Come back, please. I'm going to need a friend over the next couple of months."

"I can always use a friend." Bonnie led the way through the house and onto the flagstone patio. "I promised I'd help you clean up this mess."

Wendy waved away the offer. "I don't even want to think about cleaning right now."

Bonnie thought to argue, but let herself be per-suaded. She climbed into the Subaru. "I'll give you a call this evening."

Wendy nodded.

The ancient car wheezed as if it might self-destruct and finally turned over. Bonnie offered an embarra.s.sed smile. Alice lurched back toward the poplar lane, now in deep shadow. In her rearview mirror Bonnie watched Wendy Newlin open her front door and be swallowed by her giant home.

SIX MILES OUT, BONNIE REACHED A RIGHT-ANGLED crook on Coyote Road, the major dirt artery that earlier took her to the Newlin place. The Subaru shuddered. Bonnie patted the cracked dashboard. "Don't do this, Alice. I'm already running late."

The car decelerated, slowing to less than twenty miles an hour. Bonnie jammed the accelerator to the floor, but the pedal felt spongy. The Subaru continued its decline. Bonnie tried fluttering the pedal, something which worked in the past, but to no avail. Alice drifted to a stop.

"d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n." Bonnie banged her fists on the steering wheel. "I wasn't serious about trading you in. You know I'd never do that."

Alice gave a final shudder and died.

"Thank you very much." Bonnie slumped back in her seat. She stared out her window. The sun hung low over Pike's Peak, promising a glorious sunset. She was in no mood to enjoy it.

Bonnie reached for her f.a.n.n.y pack and the cell phone within. Her hand froze in mid-air then came to rest on the empty pa.s.senger seat. An image of the pack sitting on her desk at school appeared in her mind. "Well, Alice, I picked a fine time to forget my purse. Double d.a.m.n."

Six miles back and down a half mile of lane, she wouldn't reach the Newlin place until well past dark. The idea of the trek made her body ache. She wished she'd paid more attention to the houses she pa.s.sed on the way. In the back of her mind she remembered Rhi-annon Griffith, Ali's mom, had a ranch out this way. If memory served, it couldn't be more than a few miles, just over the next rise to the north.

If I leave right now, I could make the ranch and call Capulets Cafe. Leave a message for Armen.

Cursing, she pushed the Subaru off the road into a sandy ditch which bordered Coyote. With any luck, she'd get a tow truck to move Alice out of harm's way before some drunken cowboy slammed into the car.

Bonnie debated walking along the dirt road, but the curve up ahead changed her mind. For the next two miles, it perversely headed east, away from where she pictured the Griffith ranch. She'd reach the ranch quicker cutting diagonally across the desert. She strug-gled over a wire-mesh fence and set off across scrub gra.s.s and sand.

By the time Bonnie reached the crest of the rise, she knew she'd been deluding herself. Stretched out before her was more of the same gray-brown landscape she'd just hiked across. Another rise beckoned a half mile north. A sensible voice whispered she should turn around right now and go back to Newlin's, but she ig-nored it.