No Coming Back (5 page)

Acquiescing, I bring up the photo on my phone and slide it across the tabletop, past the untouched envelope. One of his wiry eyebrows tilts at the picture glowing on the screen, then the ruddy color drains from his skin as his eyes focus properly on the image.

I’ve never seen Lars look even remotely shocked before. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him that isn’t fueled by anger.

“She was buried under the tree,” I say. “The bedrock is close to the surface up there. It looks like the snow weight got too much for it and brought the whole thing down.”

“Is this Hangman’s Tree?”

“Yeah.”

He picks up his coffee and slurps, loudly.

There’s a tremor in his hand. Coffee-stain liver spots jiggling on loose skin. “Are they positive it’s her: Jenna?”

“How many other women do you know who have gone missing in Harper?”

He shrugs. “Hard to say for sure, son. A lot of holidaymakers, explorers, and general outdoorsy people come through here. No one keeps tabs on anyone. Who’s to say it isn’t some lone hunter on the wrong side of a bear?”

“Stuffed under a tree?”

“I’m just saying. It’s not impossible. Wolves take their prey back to their dens all the time. What we’re looking at here could just be the result of some unlucky hillwalker failing to measure up to the great outdoors.”

Lars’s points make sense, but something about his quick-
to-dism
iss reaction feels off somehow and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I watch him take another long look at the picture, as if
memorizing
every detail, every brittle bone fragment. He’s
definitely
shaken, and I’m surprised by it. Lars has seen his fair share of
skeletons
over the years, most of which he’s skinned himself, but this one has him itching to run a mile.

“You take any more photos like this, any high-definition
close-up
s?”

“You’re lucky I got this.”

He nods. “I’ll get you fixed up with a real camera. So what did the sheriff’s men say?”

“That they’re treating it as a recovery operation. Once they ship the remains back to Duluth, they’ll run the DNA to confirm the identity. Aside from that, like I say, there’s no story here, Lars. The people had their conviction for Jenna’s murder a long time ago. As far as the state’s concerned, the case is closed.”

But Lars doesn’t look convinced. “Well, like I keep saying, there’s always a story, son. You just have to read between the lines.” He points at the phone. “If you’re right about this being Jenna, then it’s the biggest story to hit Harper in recent history. People need to read it and we have a responsibility to publish it.” He leans forward, over his pancakes, suddenly wearing the face of a man on death row. “Make no bones about this, Jake. There are opposing forces at play in this town. A clear divide between the truth and the lies. You’ve experienced it for yourself; it’s robbed you of half your life. Those same people have perpetrated a cover-up for years. As purveyors of the truth, it’s our duty to expose them for what they are.” He pushes the envelope across the table. “So you need to decide which side you’re on and where you’re prepared to make your stand.”

Chapter Six

A
yellowish glow blanches the eastern cloud cover as I hunch into my coat and head away from the diner. The sidewalk is salted, but patches of ice lie in wait underfoot. It’s quite a trek back to the house on Prescott. I haven’t slept in over a day, and only intermittently before that. Caffeine is giving me a welcome burst of energy, but I know it’ll be short-lived.

Lars has told me to call into the office Monday morning, to sign contracts. But I’m not sure I’ll take him up on his offer. Then again, I’m not sure I’ll decline it either. Certain situations have taught me the benefits of mutual backscratching. One thing is clear: if I am to go about my business in Harper unhindered, then having Lars Grossinger’s weight behind me will help open doors and loosen lips. Even at a personal price, I’d be a fool to ignore that kind of leverage.

A car creeps past, taking it easy on the slushy surface.

Jenna fills my mind as I head home.

I think about her a lot—more so in the first few years following her disappearance, and recently, very recently, following my homecoming. She never fully leaves me, never has. I feel her presence when I close my eyes, smell her scent on other people, all of it
provoking
memories:

“Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” Jenna asks as we stare at each other over milkshakes, the day she leads me to believe we can run away together, a week before my world implodes.

“With you, of course,” I answer, stupidly, before even thinking.

That’s the one thing I learn after she’s dead: I speak before engaging my brain. Early on, it gets me in trouble—sometimes big trouble—and I am never able to talk my way out of it. But beatings make for great teachings. They teach me restraint, diplomacy, the power of silence. But it’s all too late to save me and Jenna.

“Maybe in a house by a lake,” I add, again without giving it any real thought. “With kids and a dog. Yeah, that would be nice, perfect.”

My outburst of visceral honesty makes her laugh. It’s
genuine
, and without a hint of condescension. Of course, I am heavily biased. I am seventeen at the time, smitten, and Jenna can make cuss words sound sexy.

She smiles. “Okay then, how many kids?”

“I don’t know. Three, four. As many as you’d like! Whatever makes you happy, Jenna. Us happy.”

At this point in our relationship, Jenna and I have been seeing one another for three months. It’s still fun and curious, but we both sense there’s a seam of seriousness underlying our interactions. Don’t get me wrong, we are happy with our slice of the pie. As happy as any dating teenagers with bright futures lighting our way should be. But we’re both aware that dating is base camp and there’s a long, hard climb ahead if we ever hope to reach the summit before sunset.

The views will make it all worth it, won’t they?

Jenna’s laugh settles into a smile, sucking blood into my cheeks.

I love that smile, that pure, brilliant, infectious smile. I can’t imagine thinking anything different, or ever living without it.

Playfully, she reaches across the tabletop and caresses my hand. “Jake . . .”

My skin tingles at her touch, as it always does. The electricity that moves between us is anything but static. Her fingertips dance on the back of my hand, keeping tempo with my heartbeat. Cheesy to the point of puking, I know.

“Exactly how will we live by a lake when you’re a successful
New York Times
journalist and I’m a trailblazing surgeon?” she asks.

Small town people with big player dreams.

“Well, let’s see . . . for starters I’m pretty confident New York has lakes. We can live in a big house outside the city. You know how much you love the water, the woods. Maybe have an apartment in the city during the week, overlooking Central Park.”

“New York.” She breathes the words with awe, as though this is the first time she’s pictured herself anywhere other than humdrum Harper.

Jenna isn’t intimidated by the thought of uprooting and
beginning
again. It excites her. And, right then and there, it excites me, too.

At seventeen, we both know it’s a glimpse of a possible future, from a distance, through rose-tinted lenses. We both know there are a million and one obstacles standing in our way, preventing us from ever getting there: detours, distractions, landslides.
Journalism
is my chosen path—just as hers is medicine. The end of high school is in sight. College is in our crosshairs. We have discussed our dreamed destinies, in depth and in every detail. We are aware of the pitfalls of studying apart, of attending different academies. The general
consensus
is that long-distance relationships fail. We aren’t naïve. We know the odds are stacked against us. But we have to try. We
want
to try. How else can we realize our dreams if we never have them to begin with?

“Pulitzer Prize winning journo,” she grins.

“Head of neurological surgery,” I reply.

“Two girls.”

“Two boys.”

“A house by the lake.”

“Don’t forget the dog!”

We laugh and slurp our milkshakes like teenagers without a worry in the world, reveling in escapism and what could be.

A week later she is gone. Taken. Lost. Possibly dead. And all our imaginary flights of fancy are clipped, crashing to earth, aflame.

I never saw Jenna again. My childhood sweetheart.

Until today.

“Olson.”

I look up from my feet, so distracted by my thoughts that I haven’t noticed the cop car pull up to the curb ahead of me or the officer standing next to the open passenger door. It’s not Krauss’s Interceptor. It’s a black-and-white Ford Mustang with black alloys. One of those muscle cars driven by men with inferiority complexes. The officer has a metal
Chief
pin on his collar, polished to
perfection
.

Shane Meeks.

He’s early forties, with short white-blond hair and irises the color of glacial lakes. Imagine a grown-up version of a child from the movie
Village of the Damned
, and here he stands. The
similarity
is not restricted to his external appearance either. Internally, Meeks is just as disconnected from his humanity as one of those soulless
Hollywood
half-breeds. As a teenager, Meeks was a bully. On
several
occasions the only thing standing between me and his fist was my brother. More than once there was no intervention.

“Get in,” he says. “I mean it, Olson. Don’t mess with me. Get in. I’m not asking.”

I drop inside. Meeks goes round to the driver’s side and slides in behind the wheel, closes the door.

The vehicle smells of coffee and cologne. Both of them cheap.

“Congratulations on the promotion, Meeks. They say scum always floats to the top.”

My comment is rewarded with a sneer: “Don’t get smart with me, Olson. This isn’t a good day to get smart. Close the door; you’re letting the heat out.”

I don’t. I leave one foot on the road. “What do you want,
Meeks?”

His lips curl with contempt. Meeks never hid the fact he
disliked
me, loathed me. He had his reasons. None of them made any sense.

“Let’s you and I get something straight from the get-go,” he says. It’s not quite a snarl, but the sentiment’s the same. “It’s Chief Meeks to you now. I’m the law in this town. Round here, I’m top of the food chain. I own people like you and I don’t like the smell of bullshit. One whiff of it and I’ll come down heavy, like a brick shit house falling from on high. You get me? If you think Harper’s a soft landing, you’re mistaken. Give me an ounce of trouble and you’ll pay for it by the pound.”

This is our first conversation as adults and already he’s acting childish. I’m not intimidated by his little
‘get out of Dodge’
speech. Meeks is small-fry compared with some of the bullies I’ve had to deal with, insignificant. We both know it.

His colorless eyes frisk me over. Balls of inhuman ice rolling round in their sockets. He’s smaller than I remember, just like everything else around here.

He taps a piece of chewing gum from a packet and pops it in his mouth. “Harper’s not the same place it was twenty years ago. Most folks have moved on. Got themselves whole new lives. They don’t need some convicted troublemaker dredging up the past and making them feel uneasy all over again.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Yeah, sure. And I guess time will prove it one way or the other. I heard what happened with your dad and I’m sympathetic to a point. He was a better man than you’ll ever be and didn’t deserve a runt like you, and that’s the only reason I’m giving you a little latitude here. All the same, it’s a big mistake on your part coming back. Jenna’s murder hit this town hard. Feelings still ride high in some quarters. Everybody knows you killed her. Understandably, some folks still hold a grudge.”

And I have no doubt Meeks is one of them.

Prior to my arrest, Meeks had an unhealthy interest in seeing Jenna’s killer brought to a swift justice. Meeks knew Jenna through association with Gavin, her older brother, who was his best buddy in those days. They were a deadly double act, like an evil Abbott and Costello. Back then, Meeks was a patrol officer in his mid-twenties, but I knew he had his sights on Jenna, despite both the age and intellectual difference. His jealousy was palpable whenever he saw the two of us together.

“For the record,” he continues, chewing the gum, “I’ve
spoken
with your PO in St. Paul. You’re lucky you’ve got a nice guy there. He was real accommodating, illuminating. So we have this
agreement
in place. While you’re in my jurisdiction, you’ll be checking in with me on a daily basis—without fail—or you risk violating the
conditions
of your parole. You get me? So that means staying out of trouble, Olson. I mean it. It’s my job to keep the peace; I don’t need to hear anyone complaining about you
upsetting
them.”

It sounds like Meeks learned all his lines from a B-movie. Monotone stereotype. His intention is to intimidate, but he doesn’t scare me one bit, not anymore. I say nothing; words can incriminate. Meeks isn’t thrilled with my homecoming, and he won’t be the only one. I’m a dagger, plunged through the fabric of the community, and Harper is tight-knit. When things are that close, gossip spreads like bloodstains.

“And that includes going where you have no right going,” he adds, referring to my trip to The Falls this morning. “Keep your nose out of police business.”

“Sheriff’s business,” I correct.

His top lip pulls up, like he’s just tasted something unsavory. “Don’t take advantage of my charity, Olson, or I’ll ship you back to Stillwater quicker than you can shit yourself. Now get out of my car.”