Copper River (33 page)

I
t had been a hard day for Ren. Although his mother insisted he miss no more school, he wasn’t able to concentrate. At lunch when Amber Kennedy dropped her notebook beside the table where he was eating and bent to pick it up giving him a clear view down her blouse, he barely noticed. His worry about Charlie consumed him.

He ditched his afternoon classes and searched for her. He tried her father’s trailer, then in a moment of brilliant deduction thought about the abandoned lumberyard next door. She wasn’t there, either. He checked the old freight warehouse on the harbor that had most of the windows broken out and pigeon droppings spotting the concrete floor. No Charlie. The only other possibility he could think of was that she’d broken into one of the summer cabins on the lake or along the river, but there were way too many to check them all.

He stopped at the Farber House and Mrs. Taylor let him use the phone to call home. No one answered. He left a message saying he was hanging out in town for a while, and not to worry. He’d be home in time for dinner.

He went to the picnic shelter where he’d got high with Stash and Charlie and where all the trouble had begun. He sat on the table and watched the river sweeping past in striations of white and black water.

Where was Charlie?

He’d been worried before, only to find that she’d taken care of herself just fine. He shouldn’t be worried now, he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. Everything important in his life seemed to have changed or be changing. His father dead. His mother lost in grieving. Charlie getting weird. Bodine suddenly a scary place. He wished he could go back and stop time, freeze everything in place. He longed for it all to be comfortable and familiar, like the ground under his feet.

He finally got up, followed the Copper River to the old mine, and checked it again. Empty.

It was late when he started home. The Huron Mountains were eating the sun. The woods were full of long shadows. Far to the east, a few feathery clouds were already tinted with the glow of sunset. His mother was probably home from work, making dinner. She’d be worried. Still, he walked slowly, weighted. By the time he reached the Killbelly Marsh Trail, the sun had gone down and the path he followed was a tunnel of cool blue light. He turned off the trail and headed through the trees toward the cabins, past the shot-up car behind the shed. His mother’s Blazer was parked in front of Thor’s Lodge, but the Pathfinder was gone. Ren stepped inside the cabin and found it empty. The evening light through the windows illuminated the place with a steely grayness. Ren sensed something was wrong and wondered if an emergency had pulled the adults away. He left the door open and hurried to the kitchen, hoping for a note.

He found it on the counter, anchored in place by the toaster:

For a moment, he felt relieved.

Then he felt a draft of air on his neck as something moved in the room behind him.

“Hello there, Ren,” said a deep, unfriendly voice at his back.

T
hey turned off the highway south of town onto a narrow paved drive that wound through a grove of alders. Sunset was near and they plunged into deep shadows. On a curve still out of sight of Gary Johnson’s house, Ned Hodder, who led the way, braked to a slow stop. He got out and waited for the others to join him.

When they all stood together, he said, “It’s a couple hundred yards around this curve. A one-story ranch. Attached garage on the north. There’s maybe fifty yards of clear ground between the trees and the house on all sides, except for the backyard. That sits on a little cliff that drops straight down into the lake.”

“Let’s come at it from the north,” Cork suggested. “We can use the garage to hide our approach. Check it for Stokely’s truck, too.”

“We need someone to cover the house while we’re doing that,” Hodder said. He looked at Dina who had her Glock already out. “You okay with that?”

“If I’m covering from any kind of distance, I’d rather use my rifle.”

She opened the tailgate of the Pathfinder, spent half a minute, and returned with a Ruger .44 and the walkie-talkies from the resort. She gave one unit to Cork and kept the other for herself.

“You any good?” Hodder said, indicating the carbine.

“She’s good,” Cork told him. “Believe me.”

Ned went back to his vehicle and lifted a shotgun from the trunk. Cork recognized a Mossberg twelve-gauge, a popular law enforcement firearm. Hodder shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time I had to pull this thing out for anything but cleaning.”

“If you’re not going to use your Glock, Dina, you mind if I do?” Cork said.

She gave it over, along with an extra clip.

“Get yourself in a good position,” Hodder instructed Dina—needlessly, Cork knew. “Jewell, you stay close to her, okay?”

“Use that Motorola,” Dina said. “Let us know what’s going on.”

“Will do,” Cork replied.

Hodder headed into the alders, Cork right behind him. They walked carefully, conscious of the quiet and everything they did that broke it. They took five minutes to work their way to a place north of the house, where the garage would block any view of their approach. Cork let Dina know they were in position and ready to move.

They could see the whole of the backyard clearly, a neat square of lawn with only a few random autumn leaves lying unraked on the grass. Trees edged the yard to the north and south, but to the east it opened toward the lake, which in the waning light was a stretch of calm water the blue-black color of a new bruise. Above the lake hung a few wisps of pink cloud, scars on the pale blue body of the sky.

“Check the garage first, see if Stokely’s truck is there?” Cork said.

Hodder nodded. Together they slipped from the trees and dashed across the yard. Cork’s leg was a howl of pain, but it held up and he reached the garage only a moment behind Hodder. He leaned against the side and put his weight on his good leg. The constable crept to the front of the garage and peered through the windows that ran in a row across the broad door. He turned back and gave Cork a thumbs-up. Stokely’s truck was there.

“What now?” Hodder said.

“Let’s see if we can pinpoint their location inside.”

They eased along the wall to the back of the house and around the corner. They ducked under several windows where the curtains were drawn, then came to one that was clear. Cork could see kitchen cabinets and the glow of a light deeper in the house.

“Ever been inside before?” he whispered to Hodder.

“Couple of times. Kitchen opens onto the dining area. Living room’s just beyond that.”

Cork hesitated, then risked a peek through the window. The kitchen was dark as was the dining area beyond. In a dim lake of light in the living room, Johnson sat in an easy chair facing the television. The TV set was on, but the screen was an empty blue.

“Johnson,” Cork said, “but no Stokely. The curtains on the other dining room wall are open. Maybe I can get a better look from there.”

Cork made his way to the far side of the house. The angle through that window was better and he saw most of the living room. He also saw Calvin Stokely.

“Well?” Hodder said when Cork returned.

“Stokely’s with him.”

“Armed?”

“Dead. He’s lying on the living room floor in a pool of blood.”

Hodder squinted. “Jesus.”

“Johnson’s armed. Just sitting there staring at a blank television screen holding a handgun. Your jurisdiction. How do we play it?”

Hodder looked at Cork and at the kitchen window, his uncertainty clear in his face.

“Keep an eye on him,” he finally said. “I’ll try the back door. If he moves, you’ve got to let me know.”

“Will do.”

Hodder took his time with the screen door, which opened without a sound. He turned the knob on the inside door and inched his way into the kitchen. Cork watched him move to a place where he could observe Johnson for himself. Hodder signaled Cork inside and raised his Mossberg to the ready. Cork slipped through the kitchen door, the Glock in the grip of his right hand. The air in the house carried the thick, sweet smell of blood.

Johnson didn’t move, didn’t seem at all aware of their presence. Still as a stump, he stared at the blue television screen.

Hodder barked, “Police! Drop the weapon, Gary!”

Like a man in a dream, Johnson slowly turned his head. His face was slack, his eyes distant.

“Drop the gun, Gary,” Hodder ordered.

Johnson’s eyes took a slow stroll from Hodder to the pistol in his own hand. He looked at it without interest.

“Do it now, Gary! Drop it!”

Johnson’s fingers gradually opened and the pistol clattered to the hardwood floor. Hodder moved forward and kicked the weapon well out of Johnson’s reach. He looked down at Stokely, at the blood gone nearly black around him.

Hodder said, “Keep him covered while I cuff him.”

Johnson stood up and lifted his empty hands. “You don’t need to do that, Ned. I won’t give you any trouble.”

“Just turn around, Gary. Put your hands behind your back.”

Hodder slipped the cuffs on, pulled a card from his wallet, and went through Johnson’s Miranda rights. Cork radioed Dina and Jewell. A minute later, they came in the back door. When they saw the body and blood, they stopped. A small yet audible breath escaped from Jewell, but she didn’t turn away.

“What happened, Gary?” Hodder said.

“What it looks like. I killed him. If he sat up right now, I’d kill him again.”

Cork checked the rest of the house but found no sign of Charlie. When he came back, Ned was questioning Johnson.

“You say you shot Stokely last night?”

“That’s right,” Johnson replied.

“You were still holding the gun when we found you.”

“Thinking of using it on myself. I was afraid if I put it down, I wouldn’t be able to pick it up again.” His face was haggard, his eyes deep-set. He looked like a man who’d been through not just a battle but a long, hard war. “Terrible things have happened, Ned, more terrible than you can imagine.”

“Try me,” Hodder said.

“They killed children. They kidnapped them and raped them and killed them.”

“We know. We found graves at Stokely’s cabin. How is it that you know?”

Johnson thought a long time before answering, but not, Cork surmised, because he didn’t know the answer. It was a difficult thing to talk about.

“The girl in the lake,” he finally responded. “I got to thinking about her. When I put it together with what Charlie and Ren told me yesterday, I had a sick feeling I knew what was going on. I left Jewell’s place and drove straight to Marquette to confront Bell. He’d been drinking. It didn’t take much to get him to admit things. Hell, he was delighted to talk.” His face drew taut and his hands made fists. “In Africa, I saw the aftermath of genocide, and I saw that same look on the faces of the men responsible, a grotesque kind of rapture. I knew how to make myself cold and hard so that I could ask the right questions to get the answers I needed. He even showed me a videotape he’d made of what he and Stokely did, and he invited me to join them. He thought I was an animal like him.”

“Why would he think that?”

This time Johnson didn’t answer. Jewell spoke for him. “You were with him and Stokely and Tom Messinger twenty years ago, the night the runaway girl was killed, weren’t you, Gary?”

He stared at her and denied nothing.

“What happened that night?” she asked gently.

His gaze went distant for a while. Static whispered from the television. In the kitchen, the refrigerator motor had kicked on. Dina shifted on her feet and a floorboard squeaked. These were normal, everyday sounds, yet in the terrible quiet of the house, in the repugnant presence of violent death, they seemed macabre and out of place.

“We were coming home,” Johnson began. “We’d been drinking, celebrating, feeling good. We stopped for gas just outside Marquette, and she was there. She asked us what was up, where we were going. She said she’d be happy to party with us. We still had beer. Instead of going home, we drove to an old overlook along the lakeshore. One thing led to another and she was willing. We drew straws. Tommy went first. He wasn’t used to drinking and he was already almost gone. He went with her to the car. A few minutes later he came back, puked, passed out. Stokely went next, then Bell. Then it was my turn. I don’t know what Stokely and Bell did to her, but she was a mess, huddled in the backseat, crying. She didn’t want me there.”

He paused, tears in his eyes.

“It was my fault. All my fault.”

“Why?” Jewell asked.

“I’d spent that autumn on the sidelines with a damn cast on my leg. I missed the whole championship season. Now I was going to miss my turn with that girl. I went back to the other guys, told them. Stokely, Bell, they said like hell. They went to the car, pulled her out, held her down.”

Through the big window at the back of the house, Cork could see the light slipping away. At the horizon, the line between lake and sky was hard to distinguish. Dark like a black fog crept into far rooms, and the light from the lamp that lit the dead man seemed to grow brighter.

“I raped her,” Johnson finished. A line of tears glistened down both cheeks, but he went on. “I did it and then I left her. I stumbled away. Christ, I was sick at what I was doing, what I’d done. I made my way down to the lakeshore and threw up. I wasn’t far enough away that I couldn’t hear Stokely and Bell going at her again. I knew I should do something, but it was like I was in the middle of a nightmare and I couldn’t move.

“When I got back to the others, the girl was still on the ground. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t moving. I don’t know what they did to her, but I knew she was dead. Stokely, Bell, they took her body, threw it in the lake. I didn’t even try to stop them. Superior wasn’t supposed to give up its dead, except this time it did. Tommy was devastated. He took it all on his shoulders. We killed two people that night. I’ve spent my life trying to put the memory behind me. I left Bodine thinking if I ran far enough, maybe…”

Jewell said, “Africa wasn’t far enough?”

“Whenever I closed my eyes, she was there. You can’t imagine the sleepless nights.”

“Why come back to where it all happened?” Cork asked.

“You’re a cop. Don’t criminals always return to the scene of the crime?” He looked immeasurably tired. “When my father got sick, he asked me to come home and take over the paper. Running away hadn’t done me any good and I thought maybe coming back here and facing the demon might free me.” He stared down at Stokely’s body. “If I’d been a good person, a strong person, I’d have ended this the night it all began.”

“It’s ended now,” Jewell said softly.

“You think so?” He was a huge man, but he seemed to shrink, to condense into himself, a great balloon deflating. “It never ends.”

“What did Bell tell you about him and Stokely?” Cork asked.

“He said for years after that night on the lakeshore they would go over what they’d done to the girl. They fed on the grisly details like ghouls. I’m running all over the world trying to forget, and for them it was the heart of their lives. Bell said they planned other killings but never went through with them—until they began driving trucks cross-country. They came across kids looking for rides everywhere. Tender meat, Bell called them. And so it started. Always kids, always runaways. They brutalized them, killed them, buried them somewhere off the highway where they’d never be found.