Page 55 of The Killing Plains

“This ain’t a good time, actually. Jolene don’t feel much like company.”

“I understand. But it’s important,” Colly said.

Carmen glanced over her shoulder, then shook her head. “Some other day.”

She started to close the door, but Avery pushed forward. “You do the housekeeping for the counseling center, right? I’d think twice about blowing off Brenda Newland’s sister-in-law.”

Colly laid a hand on Avery’s shoulder, pulling her back. “We know your family’s been through a lot, Ms. Ortiz. This won’t take long.”

Carmen hesitated, chewing her lip. Finally, she stepped aside.

The place was poorly lit and reeked of cat litter and stale cigarette smoke. Carmen waved them towards a shabby sofa, where two cats were curled on a blanket. Avery shoved them to one side and flopped down on the center cushion. Colly, who was allergic to cats, joined her more tentatively, her eyes itching. She looked around.

A frail-looking woman sat in a recliner on the other side of the room. She was staring down at her folded hands and seemed oblivious to the visitors. Like her sister, Jolene Hoyer appeared prematurely aged. She couldn’t be past forty, Colly thought, but her hair was dull and the skin of her neck was already beginning to slacken. She was dressed in a housecoat of the sort worn by elderly women, and an old-fashioned knitted throw covered her legs. On a nearby table sat a box of tissues next to a framed school photograph of a stocky, ginger-haired boy.

Carmen lowered herself into a rocking chair beside her sister. “Sorry, Jo. They said it couldn’t wait.” She removed the rubber gloves and laid them across her knees.

Colly leaned forward. “Mrs. Hoyer—”

“Useless bitch! You freakin’ psycho!” a voice shrieked.

Colly jumped, her pulse racing. In a corner of the room, a large gray parrot was watching them from a stand that Colly had taken for a floor lamp.

The woman in the recliner looked up. She wore bright pink lipstick; the effect in the haggard face was garish and macabre. “Don’t mind Fred,” she mumbled.

“Some mouth he’s got,” Avery said.

“He picks things up from TV.”

“From Jace, more like—”

Colly cut Avery off. “Mrs. Hoyer, I’m very sorry for your loss. Did Carmen explain why we’re here?”

The woman stared with unfocused eyes. “I already told the Rangers everything I know.”

“We’re reviewing their findings.”

“Shut your hole, freakin’ psycho!” Fred screamed.

The bird’s voice was piercing and toneless, like something mechanically generated. Forcing herself to ignore it, Colly sized up Jolene Hoyer. She was clearly distraught and possibly under theinfluence of some drug; a hard-hitting interview would probably backfire, though a soft touch might work—as long as Avery didn’t blow the whole thing up.We should’ve worked out a game plan beforehand, Colly thought, rubbing her watery eyes.

“What can you tell me about Denny, Mrs. Hoyer?” she asked. “The police file doesn’t give me a very rounded picture.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Jolene’s face. Her eyes drifted to the photograph on the table. “Handsome, wasn’t he? All them freckles. Denny looked like a boiled shrimp after ten minutes outside, but he was so stubborn about sunblock.”

“My grandson’s the same way.” Colly thought she saw a brief, responsive flicker in the other woman’s eyes. She pressed on. “I know you saw a side of Denny nobody else did.”

“He was a handful.” Jolene touched the frame with her fingertips.

“The more you can tell me, the better.”

The room grew silent except for the muttering and clucking of the parrot, who was now preening itself on its perch. Avery shifted impatiently. Finally, Jolene cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was flat and dull.

Denny had worried her from the start, she said. Even as an infant, he would fly into rages, screaming until he made himself sick. Later on, he struggled in school. He had trouble reading, and being big for his age, he took out his frustrations on the smaller kids. When she married, Jolene hoped that having a man in the house would help, but Jace and Denny never got along. In the last couple of years, he’d fallen in with a bad crowd—older boys who spent their days smoking pot and getting into trouble. She’d pushed him to sign up for baseball, thinking that a hobby might help.

“He liked it okay, but he felt out of place. Most of them kids been playing since the peewee leagues. Denny just wanted to belong somewhere. No one ever gave him a chance.”

“The Sandleford brothers did,” Avery said suddenly. “They hired him at the fireworks stand, but he trashed the place.”

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