Page 47 of Badlands

Among the knickknacks, letters, and other material Mrs. Vine had lent Corrie was a small photo, unframed and soiled, of Molly in her wedding dress. Curtis was only partially in the frame, butthere was enough to indicate he’d looked lean and handsome—hard to believe he’d morphed into the creature sitting across from them.

Formalities over with, O’Hara got down to business. “Mr. Curtis, do you have an idea why we wanted to speak to you today?”

Curtis shrugged.

“Aloud, please, for the microphone.”

“No.”

“We’re here about your ex-wife. Molly Vine.”

Curtis showed no sign of interest. He knew Molly had disappeared, of course, but he may not have known her body had been found—jailhouse TVs weren’t usually tuned to news channels.

“You knew she was missing?” O’Hara asked.

“Sure. Good riddance.”

“Are you aware her body was just found in the desert?” O’Hara said.

“Her…body,” Curtis replied after a moment.

“Yes.”

“And you’re here to, what—get a confession out of me, or something?” Curtis scoffed.

“She’d been there about five years,” O’Hara added.

The only response Curtis made was to slowly roll his tongue across his teeth: upper set first, then the lower.

Corrie leaned forward to ask a question. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Vine?”

Curtis wheeled his eyes toward her in mock surprise. “Shetalks!” he said. A leer came over his face. “Does she do anything else?”

“Answer the question,” O’Hara said.

“Look, I broke up with the bitch, what, twenty years ago? I ran into her once or twice, maybe nine, ten years back.”

“Where?” O’Hara asked.

“Gas station in Tesuque.”

“Did you converse?”

Curtis laughed. “I wasn’t sure it was her, to be honest—until she caught sight of me. Then she got in her car and peeled out of the station like a NASCAR driver.”

“How much did you know about her life after the divorce?” O’Hara asked.

Curtis shrugged again. “It’s a small world. You hear things. I know she dropped out of grad school, got a job as a teacher somewhere.”

“Do you know why she left school?” O’Hara asked.

“Probably couldn’t handle the grief. Of losing a prime specimen of masculinity like myself.”

“Try again,” said Corrie sharply.

Curtis looked at her appraisingly a moment through the scratched and greasy Plexiglas. “I figured she’d probably realized what a fake and a loser that professor was.”

“You mean Oskarbi,” Corrie said. “The one who filed a restraining order against you.”

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