Improbable Solution

TEASER EXCERPT

Gus stared at her, standing slightly breathless and flushed. How had he ever thought her plain?

He stared at her a long time, trying to understand where she was coming from. Finally he said, “Didn’t you hear what I told you? I killed my wife.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you had a very good reason to,” she said primly. And smiled.

“Lady, you are crazier than a loon,” he said, feeling an almost irresistible urge to smile back at her.

“That’s why I’m here,” she agreed. “Now, are you going to answer me?”
Gus had no choice. One way or another, he had to get this woman out of his system. Until he did, he would have no peace. He couldn’t even run again as long as she held him here.

FOUR STARS!
The magic that weaves itself through the story is a fascinating mystery, and the ending is a bit of a surprise.
— Susan Mobley, Romantic Times

PROLOGUE


Awareness...
Memory...?
Movement at interface with emptiness...
Mobile. Animate. Ephemeral...
Vital/inert/mobile/immobile/like/unlike...
Sensation/smell/touch/taste...taste...taste...?
Vibration/smell/taste/hear...hear...HEAR...?
"Good land...homestead...settle...good land...crops...cattle...good land..."
"Build...house...town...settle...land...church...build...build...
BUILD!"
Whiterock...town...Carruthers...name...house...store... Carruthers...church...name...Whiterock...name...Carruthers... Whiterock...Carruthers...name...?
More...more...more...unit...integer...augment...increase... reproduce...?
I/we/us/you/they/them///who...who...who...who...name...name...NAME...?
WHITEROCK?
I/we/us/you/we/me/I/us/WHITEROCK!!! Identity. Gratification.
Energy. Strengthen. Strengthen WHITEROCK. Strengthen fortify empower WHITEROCK.
Sensation? Not taste/smell/hear/touch.
Word...name...designation...nomenclature?
Emotion? Excitement? Sentiment? Wrong...weak...feeble...need word!
Passion?
More. Something more...love?
Strength. Passion.
Power. Passion.
Endurance. Love!
Love. Energy.
Love energy.
Good.

CHAPTER ONE

WHITEROCK (E-12) pop. 639 elev. 3,151 ft.

Whiterock, established 1888, was originally a farm community, but in 1894 the vast beds of diatomaceous earth (locally called chalk beds) were discovered to be of marketable quality. An early pioneer, Abner Carruthers, already a cattle baron of considerable wealth and regional influence, established the first mine and mill in 1896. The town grew to a maximum size of 5,321 in 1930, but when the market for diatomaceous earth declined during and after WW II, the population slowly declined to its present level. Consolidation of county school districts in the 1970s led to the closure of the local high school, although a grade school still serves the surrounding agricultural areas. Gas and food are available, but there are no other tourist facilities. Whiterock Chamber of Commerce, P.O. Box 12, Whiterock, OR 97947.

Gus Loring topped the hill and looked down into the valley. Whiterock, Oregon--as gray and colorless as the surrounding desert, as dismal as the dreary rain that streaked his windshield. A sorrier excuse for a town he'd never seen, and he'd seen some real losers these past three years.
He drove down the main street and counted the boarded-up stores. More than half. Those with OPEN signs on their windows or doors didn't look much livelier, except for the Bite-A-Wee Cafe.
He pulled into a diagonal parking slot about half a block from the cafe; he hadn't eaten breakfast before he left Ontario.
All three booths were occupied and only two seats were open at the U-shaped counter. He took the one closest to the door, out of an irrational need to know escape would be easy.
"Mornin'," the stocky fellow next to him grunted.
Gus acknowledged it was, indeed, morning.
"Paper?" the old duffer on the other side offered, shoving the front page of the Idaho Statesman at him.
Gus took it, planning to hide within its folds. A reddened hand shoved it aside and plopped a coffee cup before him without spilling a drop.
"Cream?" The hoarse voice of the waitress fit her appearance. Big, raw-boned, out-of-a-bottle blonde, she looked more ready for the stage than a family café in a dreary little town in Oregon. Her eyeshadow was blue and gold, her rouge bright pink and her lipstick a violent fuchsia.
"Please," he said, and a brown pottery pitcher appeared before him, its fat sides beaded with moisture, the cream within it thick and golden.
"What'll it be?"
He gave his order, the smells contained within the small, warm room awakening an appetite he hadn't had for months. Years?
It was a good thing he had the cream--the coffee would have taken paint off a battleship. Sipping cautiously, he worked his way through the paper, aware that desultory conversation was going on all about him. That was all right. He'd gotten pretty good at being the invisible man.
His breakfast arrived before he finished the first section of the paper; the platter looked almost big enough to contain a turkey. It held two eggs, four slices of bacon, an enormous mound of real hash browns and two thick chunks of golden-toasted homemade bread. As he stared, a catsup bottle, one of hot sauce, and a pottery crock of jam materialized with the same abruptness as had the rest of his breakfast.
"More coffee?" the waitress said as she refilled his cup.
"No," Gus said. "I don't think my stomach will stand it." But he said it softly, to his eggs.
"Better get used to it, bub," his stocky neighbor said. "Georgina, she don't think coffee's fit to drink unless it dissolves the spoon you stir it with."
Gus grinned, but didn't answer. The fellow seemed friendly. Gus wasn't into friendly these days.
He finished his breakfast, marginally aware it was one of the best he'd ever eaten; that jam must have been as homemade as the bread. Tossing bills on the counter to cover his meal and a generous tip, he left. As he pulled the door closed behind him, he heard the waitress call out, "Come on back, now."
Back in the truck, he checked his route book. A torn, almost illegible photocopied map was taped inside the front cover. Four of the six stops here in Whiterock were within a block of the main street, which comprised the entire business district. He looked at the tiny print more closely. Yes, it was even called Main Street.
He delivered the small package of medicines to the drugstore, paper products to the small grocery store and the grade school, shop rags to the implement dealership and roller towels to a tavern that reminded him of something out of a John Wayne western. The last drop was at a big old house, larger by far than its neighbors and set right in the middle of a spacious lot that showed signs of having been nicely landscaped once. Now it was overgrown and weedy, with a lawn that should have been mowed last fall and a hedge that had grown into an undisciplined wall.
The house itself reminded him of the one he'd lived in as a child with its white siding, black shutters and uncompromising squareness. Whoever built this house, he decided, had come from New England.
A small, discreet sign just above the doorbell read Mending and Alterations. He rang.
The door opened within seconds. "Yes?"
He peered through the screen. "Dry cleaning," he said.
The screen opened, and a slim white hand motioned him inside. It was like walking into a cave. The only light in the house was the white flicker of a TV from the room on the left.
She took the bundle he handed her.
"You're early. Wait here." She disappeared into the gloom. Her voice sounded young, but her body, clothed in shapeless sweats, spoke of middle age. A lank ponytail hung down her back, vaguely blond. Yet, her scent was sweet--floral with just a hint of something indefinably feminine.
His eyes gradually adjusted as he waited. The hall was wide, with a stairway to the second floor about fifteen feet from the front door. A narrower passage led past the stairs to a partially open door through which Gus could see the pale gleam of kitchen appliances. Doors opened off the hall, but he couldn't see what they opened into, for all the rooms were darkened by drawn shades.
He stepped to the left and peered into the room with the television. A man sat slumped in a big, overstuffed chair before it, his face slack, his eyes fixed on the rolling picture.
The woman returned, carrying several hangers holding plastic-protected garments. "Where's Ed?"
"He quit last Friday." Gus had been hired Monday morning, put to work with a minimum of instructions and even fewer questions. All Frank Tsugawa had checked was that his commercial driver's license was current and his last employer had been whom he said. This was his third day on the job.
"I can carry these out," she said as he reached for the hangers.
"No problem," he said, just before his fingers touched hers.
Touched...and jerked back from the shock.
She snatched her hand away just as quickly. The garments dropped into a soft mound at their feet while they stared at each other.
"Static electricity," she said after a moment, bending to pick them up.
Gus looked at the floor. Some kind of wood. And he was wearing sneakers. Nothing in his engineering curriculum had ever led him to believe static electricity could result from a combination like that.
Again he reached for the hangers.
***
This time Sally was careful not to touch him. She wasn't sure what had happened, but she did know she hadn't felt a shock like that since she'd stuck a bobby pin into a wall plug at the age of five.
He left without another word.
Curious about the man who'd replaced Ed the would-be ladies' man, she watched through the screen door as he trotted down the walk to his truck.
Wide. That had been her first impression. His shoulders were wider than a man's had any business being. His hair was a blazing, true red, without a hint of orange. The rest of him wasn't anything special. There seemed to be just the hint of a belly under the white shirt with the Tsugawa Linen Supply logo on its back. His forearms, revealed by sleeves rolled to just above his elbows, were sinewy and tanned, his hands broad and capable, with long fingers.
He must be just over six foot, she decided, even though the shoulders made him seem shorter. His mouth was wide, too, and looked as if it would smile easily; and his eyes were the deepest, most wonderful green she could remember.
That rear view should be on a calendar.
Startled, Sally bit her lip. Where did that thought come from?
***
After Whiterock, Gus had stops in Harper, Westfall and Juntura, all wide spots in a road that wound through sagebrush-covered hills where the only living creatures he saw were a couple of watchful pronghorns and a suicidal jackrabbit. A long day--he didn't get back to Ontario until almost six, not because he'd had so much to do but because he had so many miles to cover.
Frank Tsugawa came into the drivers' room and perched on the edge of the table.
"Have any trouble finding your stops?"
"Huh-uh." Gus barely paused in his counting. "Fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five." He set the short stack of nickels aside and slid the three dimes over beside them "Ninety-five." He balanced with his sales slips. "Sure is a lot of nothing between here and there," he commented, putting the few bills and the loose change into the zippered bag. "I'm surprised you make any money."
"I don't, not on that route." Frank straightened the stack of receipts. "But I don't lose too much, either, since I get a commission on the dry cleaning and prescription deliveries." He looked at Gus, speculation in his eyes. "I talked to Roger Franklin this morning."
Crap! He shouldn't have put Roger's name down as a past employer. His former partner wasn't above using underhanded methods to get Gus back.
"He told me you're a hell of an engineer." Frank said. "Seems to me you're wasted on a job like this."
"Well, I happen to want a job like this," Gus snapped. Damn it! Next time he'd simply say he'd been self-employed for ten years and forget to mention he'd had a partner.
Frank sat silent for a moment, the quintessential "inscrutable Oriental." Finally, he slid off the table and stood in the doorway, not looking at Gus.
"He wouldn't tell me what you're running from, but he said you'd been doing it for three years."
Gus made a formless sound of agreement, not trusting his voice.
"Just give me some notice, will you? I can't depend on drifters showing up at the right moment like you did." With a casual wave, Frank walked away.
"I'll be damned," Gus said. A couple of times before, his employers had discovered what he really was. They'd both let him go, insisting he was overqualified and likely to walk at the first opportunity.
He finished up his check-in and dropped his route sheet and moneybag into the lockbox on the office wall. With its hours of mindless driving, its lack of pressure, this job was as close to perfect as he was going to find. No one was depending on him for anything but regular linen deliveries. The last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed, was another job that demanded his total dedication.
He'd never walked off a job until the nightmares grew so bad he stayed awake all night to escape them. That meant he wasn't likely to kill anyone else, didn't it?
***
Sally Carruthers paused at the edge of the front porch and wondered if winter was going to last all year. There hadn't been any snow on the ground for a month, but the soil still harbored rock-hard pockets of frost.
Perhaps springtime would pass by without pausing in Whiterock. Bleak, cold winter would turn to bleak, hot summer, as it had done every year since she came back. Even the grass barely became green before it turned brown.
Her life matched the weather. Bleak. By her own choice. No one had forced her to come back to Whiterock. No one had demanded she stay with her father.
When she thought of returning to Seattle or Portland, of once again creating magical worlds out of cloth and glitter and imagination, she had to tell herself she was here because she wanted to be. Still, sometimes, in the middle of the night, she prayed for Pop to die and set her free. Free to leave Whiterock and find a life again. In the morning, she always hated herself. Pop had given her life, love, security. She owed him the contentment and dignity of spending his last years in his own home.
As she did each morning, once she had Pop settled before the TV, Sally went to the post office, the liveliest place in town. It sat at the corner of Main and Second, two blocks down and four blocks over. She was never gone long, thirty minutes maybe, but she always felt as if she had been set free.
"Good morning, Grip," she said to Mrs. Alpin's bulldog at the first corner. "How are your roses this morning?"
"Getting ready to leaf out, Ms. Carruthers," she answered for the asthmatic dog as he wagged his stump of a tail. She waved at his owner, sitting frail but alert behind white lace curtains. One of these days, she should stop and visit. Too bad the old woman was so perceptive. If anyone could discern the wicked, selfish thoughts Sally harbored in the middle of the night, Elizabeth Alpin could.
"Slim pickings this morning," Sally commented to starlings and crows that scattered before her along the cracked sidewalk on Fifth Street. They scavenged people-leavings, replacing them with sticky white droppings that clung to soles. Sally picked her way carefully past the library.
"Mornin', Miz Sally," old Ernie Green called out as she passed his bench at the front of the brick building. "How's your pa?"
She mentally spoke the words along with him, for they never varied.
"About the same," she answered, as she did every morning, "and how are you?"
"Gettin' older." He cackled. "And meaner."
"Aren't we all," Sally agreed. Older? Yes, she was getting older. When she came home to nurse her mother through her last illness she'd planned to go back to her career after the funeral. Instead, she had stayed with her father for a while. He'd been irritable and absentminded, conditions she assumed were a result of the terrible strain he'd been under during her mother's long illness.
But he hadn't gotten better, and finally she'd taken him into Ontario to the doctor.
"What'd you think of the hunk?"
Sally broke from her brown study to see Georgina sweeping the sidewalk in front of the Bite-A-Wee Cafe.
"Sorry, Georgina, I was wool-gathering. Did you say something?"
"Yeah, I asked you what you thought of the hunk yesterday." Georgina patted her bright blond hair and whistled. "Best lookin' piece of man to come to town in a long time."
"I must have missed him," Sally said.
The café owner's long-standing affair with her cook was an accepted fact in Whiterock, as was her total fidelity to the relationship. It didn't keep Georgina from looking.
"You couldn'ta missed him, not if you got your regular delivery."
"Oh, you mean the new man on the linen truck?" Sally shrugged. "He was just a man."
Sure, and she was so hungry for a man that a single touch of his fingers had galvanized her.
"Yeah, right. A tiger is just a pussy cat, too." Georgina leered. "He's a little loose around the edges, but I'll bet he cleans up real good."
"If you say so."
"I do. I do, and so would you, if you ever did anything but take care of your pa. Are you gonna waste away in that big old house, or are you gonna have a life?"
"At this point, I don't think I have much of a choice." Sally stepped around Georgina and walked briskly in the direction of the post office.
There was no one else to take care of Pop, no one at all. While there was money enough to put him into a nursing home, she couldn't do that. He'd been born in the big house on Fifth Avenue and he would die in it, if she had any say in the matter. When she was small she'd loved listening to him tell the stories he'd heard from his grandmother, how her great-great grandfather Abner Carruthers had come to Whiterock in 1878, living in his wagon while he built first a barn, then a house. He'd opened a feed store a few years later, and the town had been born. His son, Wallace, had built the big house.
No, she had no choice. That she was gradually losing herself, little bit by little bit, didn't--couldn't--matter. Sally knew her duty to her ancestors, her responsibility to her father. Once he was gone he would never know how quickly she shook the chalky dust of Whiterock, Oregon, from her feet.
The postmistress, thankfully, was not at the counter when Sally entered. She pulled the National Geographic and two bills from the box and slammed it shut, jerking her key free.
"That you, Sally Carruthers?"
"Yes, Wilma, it's me." She made herself smile at the short, square woman whose shoulders scarcely showed above the counter. "How are you this morning?"
"So-so, just like always, till the weather warms up." Reaching under the counter, she brought forth a fancy tin and pushed it towards Sally. "Have a mint."
"No, thanks. I've really got to go--"
"Land sakes, child, you look like you haven't slept in a week!" Again, Wilma pushed the mints toward Sally. "Take one. You could use the sugar."
Obediently, Sally accepted one of the cellophane-wrapped, green-striped mints.
"Pop had a bad night," she admitted. "I didn't get much sleep."
"Oh, my. What'd he do this time?" Since Wilma had been through the same thing with her mother a few years back, Sally never felt shy about sharing her troubles. She had to talk to someone, and at least Wilma simply listened and never, never showed pity.
Sally couldn't handle pity. It ate at her already fragile emotional defenses.
"He got it into his head that the taxes were delinquent--you know he was never late paying his taxes in his life! If he didn't get over to the assessor's office in Vale right then, they'd take the ranch. He practically tore his room apart, looking for his car keys."
Wilma simply shook her head in understanding.
"So, I gave him an old set of keys, thinking that would satisfy him. It seemed to, because he quieted down."
"That's a blessing."
"Not really. As soon as I went back to my sewing machine, he snuck outside and tried to get into my car."
Not that a few more scratches in its paint mattered, she supposed. Not beside the dents where he'd taken a hammer to the trunk lid last month.
"I got him back inside and into bed, but I couldn't get to sleep for worrying he'd wake and start in again."
"Did he?"
"No, and this morning he's in one of his melancholy moods. I don't know which is worse."
The sight of tears running down her father's sunken cheeks almost broke her heart. In some ways, she preferred his manic periods.
She reached across the counter and squeezed Wilma's hand.
"Thanks," she said, knowing Wilma understood why she was grateful. "I've got to go." She'd stayed longer than she should.
Pop hadn't ever gotten into trouble when she'd left him, but she knew how easy it would be for him to do so. He still had his strength. What he was lacking was common sense and judgment. Like that time she'd caught him laying bacon slices on a red-hot stove burner. Or when he'd let the bathtub run over, or when...
Never mind. She hated to remember all the potentially disastrous things he'd done. What she had to do was think about the Pop she loved--the hearty man with a ready smile and broad shoulders, the generous man who shared his time and his energy with his neighbors. Not the shambling, testy, almost mindless hulk who hung onto a life without hope, without future.
Stop it! How do you know he's not in there somewhere, trying to get out? Isn't that why you chose to stay with him, instead of putting him in a nursing home?
Despite her worry, she never walked as fast, going home. It was too much like going back to prison.