Sarah's mother poured some brandy into a glass and handed it to her. She did not like brandy. but she gulped it down anyway. It burned its way down to her stomach and she coughed. "Oh gosh!"
"What is wrong?" Mother asked, concerned.
Sarah took a deep breath. "I had reprimanded him- Ryan- because he did not seem very upset about Diana. It was as if he was not disturbed at all to see her lying there, bathed in blood. I told him that nobody deserves to die alone and scared. And now that you tell me that his mother..."
Sarah could still recollect Ryan's expression when he had turned to look at her, his gaze dark and threatening, and she still remembered recoiling away from that icy anger in his eyes.
Sarah and her mom then sat in silence until she had finished the brandy and was feeling more like herself again. "So mom, tell me about the plans for the party," Sarah said, forcing herself to sound upbeat and normal. "You told me that Tony Stevenson is coming, but who else, except for the family? And who is doing the food?"
They then lapsed into small talk about the upcoming birthday party, and nothing more was discussed about Isabel Johnson or her son Ryan that night. But the next morning after Sarah had dropped her mother off at the spa, where she was spending half a day being pampered for her party, later on, Sarah pondered on the hours that stretched out before her, and the catering crew currently taking their house apart, and she thus decided to go for a drive.
Ryan had been right when he had told her that she probably had not come down his way a lot while growing up. She had never actually been to the area which was marshy land, but she knew where to find it; on the southern side of Miller Rubber plantation, a few acres just outside the St. Louis proper.
Sarah had driven past the place before, looking through the windows of her Dad's car, but this was the first time she had turned off from the highway to the southern side of the plantation. It was a rutted one-lane track leading down through the trees. The rocky ways than leading to the wetlands. It was a very damp and gloomy place. A small stream ran through it. But where it could have been picturesque and pretty, it was just indolent and muddy. It looked unhealthy as if it was carrying a disease. A half a dozen rusted trailers; or mobile homes in her new, professional lingo- were scattered through the spindly trees and a few shacks squatted here and there amongst them.
The few cars present in the wetland were American, old and rusted, some of them had missing parts, and none of them seemed to have been driven for years together. Sarah's immaculate orange Ford-Mustang seemed to be out of place here as a prize mare among the mules. The car was the only thing she had gotten in her settlement after her short-lived marriage to Jack Brown, aside from the chunk of money that was presently reducing from her saving account with every month that went by, and no income coming in.
She turned off the engine and got out. The slam of the car door sounded very loud in the silence. And it indeed was very silent here. There was no chirping of birds heard, nor any sound of children playing, no music nor any conversation. Even the brook seemed to be very silent.
It was as if a teacher had ordered her pupils to remain pin-drop silent. But as Sarah was here, she thought she might as well explore the place. There was no name or number here, or for that matter, there were no mail-boxes. There was nothing to indicate where Isabel Johnson lived amongst these depressive shacks. The place looked deserted and neglected. There was no sign of life and no one who could give guidance to Sarah.
Just for kicks, since she was here anyway, Sarah made her way over to the nearest of the shacks and scrutinized through its dirty window, The interior was empty, except for some debris on the floor, such as broken articles, crumpled papers, wires, etc. It seemed to have been deserted for very long.
Stepping carefully around broken bottles, beer cans, twigs, pieces of tar, and wood, she moved to the next home. It was empty too. Sarah thought her mother was right; people had been deserting the place like rats fleeing a sinking ship. There was nothing more left for her to do there but to go home. She turned about to go back to her car and stopped with a sudden gasp.
He had moved so quietly through the grass that she had not heard him, and now he stood between her and her car. For a second, with the sun in her eyes, all she could see was a tall, dark figure, and she recoiled.
He did not move. Not when she stumbled back, not when the heel of her insensible shoe got caught in a hole, and not when she fell on her butts, on the dusty ground, with her skirt pulled up to her thighs. The only thing that moved was his appreciative eyes, from Sarah's face to her feet, thoroughly enjoying her predicament.
"Didn't your mom teach you better manners?" Sarah inquired coldly, despite her burning cheeks. The tiny smile on his lips transformed into a dangerous grin.
"Hell, no. My mama always said, grab what you can get, because it will otherwise be gone before you realize it," he said.
He held out a hand. Sarah hesitated, trying to remember whether anyone had ever said anything about Ryan Johnson being in the habit of forcing himself on women.
"Or you can stay there," he added, pointedly. Sarah took the hand he offered and let him haul her to her feet. They both stood contemplating one another in silence for a moment.
"Are you following me?" Sarah asked him finally.
"Why would I be doing that, may I know? This is my place."
"I thought you were in Kansas City," Sarah said to him.
"And I thought you were in Kansas," Ryan repeated the same thing.
"It is my mother's birthday. I came down for the party," Sarah replied.
He did not answer. After a second Sarah added, awkwardly, "I heard about what happened to your mother. I am sorry."
"So you came to offer your condolences?" He asked her.
Sarah shrugged. It was not as if she could tell him that she had come to that place out of mere curiosity because she had been wondering if there might have been a connection between Isabelle's death ad Diana Walter's murder.
In the silence that followed, the sound of a car engine, coming closer, echoed in that silence. Sarah turned to see a car come bumping down the track. It stopped a few feet away, and the driver's side door opened with a screech. An Afro-American woman emerged from behind the steering wheel and waddled towards them.
She was about the same height and age as Sarah but was approximately four times her weight. Her breasts were as huge as a football and had equally large butts. She had worn a dark pink dress with spaghetti straps, which had been made probably for someone half her size. She had bleached her hair blonde and curled into big, fat curls, and her lips were painted a deep cherry red. She looked like a drag-queen. Her eyes were small and half-buried in fat, but she managed to give Sarah a dirty look anyway, before turning to Ryan. She asked him, "Who is she?"
Ryan opened his mouth, but Sarah interrupted him. "I am Sarah Miller. Who are you?"
She didn't answer, nor give any indication of having heard her. The woman asked Ryan, "Why have you brought her here for?"
"He did not bring me," Sarah replied. "I came on my own."
"What do you want from this skinny little white chick, Ryan, when you can have Melanie?" the black girl asked him. She then tried balancing her weight on one foot and thrust her other ample hip out.
Sarah controlled herself from smiling. "Please don't worry. You know that I am going. I can see you have got your hands full here, Ryan."
Sarah then gave him a patronizing pat on the arm. The muscles under the golden skin were as hard as granite. He met her gaze but did not say a word. Melanie growled deep in her throat.
Sarah found herself moving a little faster than usual as she headed for her car.