Ghost Roll (4 page)

“This lady's with the county,” Trent said to his wife. “She wants to look around.”

“Why?” The woman's scowl intensified. “We ain't done nothing wrong. We got a legitimate business here.”

“If that's so, then you won't mind if I take a look around,” Bell said.

“I do mind.” The woman crossed her heavy arms. She had a pointy chin, and she lifted it and stuck it out as if she could use it as a weapon if she so chose. “Mind a lot, matter of fact.”

Trent's voice was cloying, hopeful. “Now, Deb,” he said.

Debbie acted as if he hadn't spoken, and doubled down on her scowl: “You got no right, lady.”

Bell thought about it. She could insist, but she had no real authority at the moment, a fact that Debbie Emery apparently knew. It seemed clear that the proprietors of Little Miss 'n' Mister Day Care were engaged in something other than wiping noses and handing out juice boxes, but to prove that, Bell would have to return with a warrant and a deputy sheriff.

“Fine,” Bell said. She smiled. She'd never met the mother yet who wouldn't take a compliment. “Those must be your kids. They're very well-behaved. When my little girl was their age, she'd never sit still like that.”

“You gotta show 'em who's boss,” Debbie snapped. “Can't let 'em get by with nothing. Boy's name is Jerry. Girl's Meagan.”

“Pretty names,” Bell said.

She'd gone too far. She saw that immediately. The suspicion jumped back into Debbie's eyes, and her lip curled. “I'll thank you now to leave. We're running a business here. You got no call to be harassing us.”

Bell held up both hands to indicate she was withdrawing. Better for the Emerys to think they were in the clear; if they sniffed any resistance, they'd bolt and set up shop in another county. That's not what Bell wanted. She didn't just want them to be out of Raythune County; she wanted them to be out of business, period. And locked away, so they couldn't keep selling pills to the desperate addicts who lived in these mountains.

She allowed herself a last glimpse at Jerry and Meagan Emery, still sitting on the rug. Each child had picked up a toy. They were peering at it, as if not quite certain what to do with it. The hair on their heads had been cut to a stubble, making the color hard to determine. They had turned-up noses, like Trent Emery, and pointy chins, like their mother. The faces had a disturbing blankness. There was none of the energy that children their age usually demonstrated, none of the natural effervescence, none of the joy.

Bell's first call when she left here today would be to the director of Raythune County Child and Family Services. Jerry and Meagan Emery did not appear to be physically injured, and thus Bell had no legal basis to intervene right now, but she wanted a caseworker's opinion. Not all of the abuses that children endured were the kind you could see. She knew that very well. She also knew that the invisible scars—the ones on the psyche instead of the skin—could be the worst of all.

*   *   *

Shortly before midnight, a twenty-two-year old resident of Raythune County named Derek Bannon was booked into the jail. He had been arrested by Deputy Charlie Mathers for reckless driving along Route 47. A search of his glove box revealed twenty-eight small plastic bags, each filled with Vicodin and Percocet tablets. In his conversation at the scene with Deputy Mathers—if “conversation” was the right word for Bannon's abject, tearful sputterings of regret and vows of repentance, offered because this was his third arrest in as many months and he was looking at serious prison time now, not just a slap on the wrist and fatherly advice from a judge that he really ought to consider turning his life around—Bannon admitted that he'd procured the narcotics from Trent and Debbie Emery, who had set up shop in that old building along Route 6. “The one that used to be a chicken processing plant?” Mathers had pressed him. “Yeah. Yeah, that's it,” Bannon had replied, nodding helpfully as he went on. “Claim they're running a day care. That's how they explain all the cash, coming in every day like it does.” And then, because of the vigorous nod and the quantity of alcohol he'd consumed prior to embarking on his distribution run, Bannon had vomited on the deputy's boots.
“Sorry,”
he'd mumbled. “Sorry bout that.”

Bell received the text from Mathers at 11:58 p.m. She was still awake, reading in the broken-down brown chair that dominated her living room with its scruffy charm.
Gotcha,
she thought, nodding to herself with deep satisfaction. Now she had what she needed. Come daylight, she'd get the warrant, pick up Deputy Mathers and return to Little Miss ‘n' Mister Day Care.

*   *   *

At 7:30 the next morning she and Mathers were within a mile or so of the day-care center, with Mathers at the wheel of the county-owned black Chevy Blazer and Bell in the passenger seat, when Bell's cell rang. A glance at the screen told her it was Hickey Leonard, one of two assistant prosecutors who reported to her. She took immediate note of the sound of his voice—it was subdued, not crisp and matter-of-fact—and asked Mathers to pull over.

“What's going on, Hick?”

“Got some bad news. Couple of hunters found a body this morning.”

“Homicide?”

“No. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

“Okay, then.” Bell didn't want to sound impatient, but she had a busy day ahead, a day that would start with the shutting-down of a drug distribution facility. Suicides were hardly a priority. “Where was it?”

“In the woods up by Smithson's Rock.”

With that information, the dark sense of dread began its slow, deliberate climb in her mind.

“The ID's still preliminary,” Hick went, “but it looks solid.” He paused. “Name was Quentin Harless. Had a picture in his wallet—that old friend of yours. Matt Harless. Apparently Matt was his son.”

“Jesus,” Bell said. She was startled at the confirmation, even though she'd anticipated it, the moment she'd heard the location. “Did he leave a note?”

“Yeah. There was a note. Folded up real neat-like and stowed in his pocket. Matter of fact, it was addressed to you, Bell. It's in an evidence bag—we gotta treat this as a mysterious death, of course, until the coroner officially says suicide, even though it's damned obvious. But you can read it through the plastic. I'll hang on to it until you get back to the courthouse.”

“Read it to me,” Bell said.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Hickey cleared his throat. “It's on plain notebook paper. One sheet, front and back. Written with a blue fountain pen. Real good penmanship.” He cleared his throat again. “Dear Bell. I'm grateful to you for telling me how to find this place. I've been standing here for several hours now this evening, watching how the light makes the color of the mountains change. Matthew told me how beautiful this place is. He called me a few days before he died. We hadn't spoken more than twice in the previous decade—and here he was, calling me early in the morning, using words like ‘lovely' and ‘inspiring.' Those aren't words that I taught him. Beauty was not something I paid much attention to. Or thought anybody should pay much attention to. We had more important things to do. Things like duty. Honor. Sacrifice. This business of standing around and admiring a sunrise—that was just silliness. A waste of time. And I told him so. I made fun of him. Told him to man up. How do you like that, Bell? The last conversation I ever had with my son and I all but called him a sissy. Imagine that. No, I didn't know that I'd never speak to him again. But it still haunts me. He was trying to make me understand how he had changed, how his love for Amatullah had transformed him—and I wouldn't listen.”

Hickey paused. “You want to hear the rest of it?” he said. “Seems kind of private, and maybe you'd rather wait until—.”

“Go on.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and resumed reading. “I was wrong, Bell. I was wrong about so many things. When I think about how I raised Matt, I am tormented by what I did to him. I made him hard. I made him cold, just like me. He was afraid of my scorn, my disappointment, and so he became what I wanted him to be. I wanted him to have a consequential life, a life of ambition. A life that mattered. I didn't want him slowed down by emotions. And what did I end up doing? I made him more vulnerable than he'd otherwise have been. It's like locking up your child in a sterile room—you keep him safe, yes, but the moment he steps foot out in the world, he's prey to even the mildest and most ordinary of germs. He has no defenses. No tolerances, built up over time. When Matt got to Iraq and met Amatullah, he didn't know how to handle all that he was feeling. It was as if I'd never taught him how to live in the world. And so as I stand here, Bell, and think about what I did to my son, I realize that it was abuse. It was child abuse, plain and simple. Now that I've had that revelation, I cannot live with who I am. I have no right to live. I destroyed him—and he went on to destroy others. But I'm the true cause. I hope you can understand why I must perform an act of penance. I am a man of honor. And this is what a man of honor does. Sincerely yours, Quentin Harless.”

*   *   *

There was too much to do right now to react to the contents of the note, to let its devastating meaning seep into her soul. Bell had become very good at compartmentalizing her emotions. She hung up and told Mathers to drive. “You sure?” he said. “We can come back later if you'd rather deal with—.” Bell interrupted him: “Drive.”

The gray building looked dingy and makeshift in the early sunlight. The Impala was parked on the other side of the building, over by the playground on which, Bell guessed, nobody ever played, including Jerry and Meagan Emery. Mathers shut off the Blazer's engine and hung his arms over the wheel, perusing the place through the front windshield. The deputy was significantly overweight, and his brown uniform fit him like a sausage casing, but he'd worked for the sheriff's department for over thirty years and was good at his job, even the parts of it that required physical nimbleness. His heft never interfered with his effectiveness.

“Don't see no kids being dropped off,” Mathers said. He grinned when he said it, because they both knew that the real business being done inside this place had nothing to do with child care. “What's the plan, boss?”

“The way news travels around here,” she said, “they already know we've got Bannon and that he's ratted them out. So let's be extra careful, okay? I'll go to the door and show them the warrant. I'd like you to wait by the vehicle, in case they try to run.”

“Roger that.”

Bell had just opened the Blazer door when they heard an engine rev. The Impala came tearing around the side of the building, dirt spitting out from under its wheels. The car was old and decrepit, and the quick acceleration was almost more than it could take; it shimmied and wobbled from side to side, the motor shrieking its pain.

Bell lunged out of the Blazer, hearing, from somewhere behind her, the agitated voice of Deputy Mathers: “Get back in the car! Dammit, Bell—don't you dare—.”

Trent and Debbie Emery must have been loaded up and ready to go when Bell and Mathers arrived, ducking down in the car to hide their intention to exit. No matter: She wasn't going to let them get away. Bell wasn't an impulsive person by habit, but times like these, something came over her, an iron conviction:
I have to stop them. They can't get away with this.
There were a thousand places to hide up in these mountains and other mountains just like them; the Emerys would bide their time, then start again somewhere else. Spreading their poison.

Not if I can help it,
Bell told herself, ignoring Mathers and running toward the churning, lurching Impala. She'd get in front of it, forcing the driver to stop. They wouldn't run her down. She was sure of it.

Well,
she hastily corrected herself,
fairly sure, anyway.

But she hadn't reckoned on the unsteadiness of a battered, hard-used car, one difficult to control when the accelerator was mashed to the floor. Through the front windshield she saw Trent's face; in his eyes was a mixture of fear and confusion as he yanked at the wheel, trying to avoid hitting her. The car fought back, kicking up dust in a frantic sideways skid. Bell caught a flash of Debbie's face in the passenger seat, a face avid with hate. In seconds, Bell knew, the Impala would strike her, and the anticipation of that fact seemed to please Debbie.

The car fishtailed wildly, giving Bell a last chance to jump out of the way. She took it. She struck the ground shoulder first, scrambling to her feet and then running like hell until she was clear. The Impala whipped in a tight half-circle turn and then straightened out, heading for the highway and escape. Bell looked back at the Blazer. Deputy Mathers had tumbled from his vehicle and stood with his service revolver out in front of him, feet spread and knees bent, aiming for the Impala's rear tires.

“Charlie—no!” Bell cried out. As the car swept past her she'd seen two more faces, both in the back seat: Meagan and Jerry Emery. She didn't want to take a chance on hurting the kids.

The high-pitched twang of back-to-back gunshots made Bell flinch and wince, lifting her shoulders in a quick defensive hunch. But it wasn't Mathers. The shots had come from the passenger side of the Impala. Bell saw Debbie draw the handgun back inside the window. The car continued on.

“Damnation!” Mathers fumed. His left rear tire hissed and sank.

As the Impala grinded away in a choking boil of exhaust fumes, Bell watched the dirty rectangle of the back windshield. She saw the face of the young boy. Jerry Emery. He must've been perched on his knees on the backseat, hanging on as the car rocked and spun. His sister was probably crouched on the floor, scared out of her mind.