Sadie's Mountain (34 page)

My cloth purse feels meaningful as it’s pushing up against my hip filled with my phone and my panties covered in blood, DNA, and someone else’s sin.

He’s had a hold of my hand for nearly the entire hour, but has said nothing about how it’s been shaking in his.  “Are you ready?” he asks, as he turns the key to kill the engine.

I nod my head yes as I feel a wave of nausea hit me like a bucket of water. I force myself to take a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say, as I shove open the light door harder than I need to and dash out walking toward the brick building contrasted only by the metal letters spelling out West Virginia State Police. For a minute I think it just might say
what justice will feel like.

Dillon opens one of the glass double doors for me. As we enter it smells of fake wood, coffee, and crisp apparel. All the troopers are wearing deep hunter green uniforms. It’s busy inside. Before anyone speaks to us, Dillon says, “Sergeant Daniels, please.”

The young trooper behind the counter nods and disappears into a hallway. My legs want to walk or move. They do not want to be still. I look up at Dillon. His jaw is clenched. He’s crossing his arms across his chest. He’s in his jeans. The light colored ones that hang on his hips just so. A crisp white shirt. He turns to me and his eyes soften around the edges.

He reaches down and takes my hand in his. I watch him as he looks at my hand for a moment, then his eyes slowly move up to mine. It’s like his eyes are speaking to me. He looks nervous, but hopeful.
That’s how I feel, too.

“Sadie Sparks,” says a voice from behind the counter. A tall thin man in a hunter green uniform, probably in his late forties, with light brown eyes walks out from behind the counter and shakes my hand. His grip is firm and trustworthy. “Dillon McGraw,” he says, taking Dillon’s hand into a firm shake. “We’re going to do the interviews separately, if you don’t mind,” he says, unwavering.  “I’ll be meeting with you, Miss Sparks, and Trooper Norman will be meeting with you, Mr. McGraw,” he says.

“Doctor,” I say, before I realize I was going to say it.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, as Dillon nervously moves his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s fine,” Dillon says, looking at me apologetically.

“Dr. McGraw,” I say, quickly and look down.

“Thank you. Dr. McGraw,” he corrects himself. I look up at Dillon as if to tell him I’m sorry.

 He leans down to me and says, “This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is a good thing. Just tell them everything, baby. Okay?”

“I will. I promise.” He kisses me softly at first and then as he’s pulling away, he leans into me, urgently kissing me once more. This kiss is a promise. A pact, and I accept. I let go of his hand one finger at a time, turn and follow the deep green suit down the hallway. I turn once as Dillon is introduced to a short, stocky man who’s wearing a straight wide-brimmed hat indoors.

I have a bad feeling about this.

As we walk down the hall I say, “Dillon doesn’t know who did this to me,” to the officer who nods in acknowledgment and motions to the third door from left.

He opens the door and I step in. It’s cold in here. Too cold. I realize I left my blazer in the car. I shiver once—deep and heavy like a dog shaking off after a dip in the creek and practically fling myself into the stiff looking chair tucked under the Formica table with the metal legs. I hate pressed wood with plastic veneers. It’s like something pretending to be pretty, hiding the ugly, but doing a very bad job at it—maybe it reminds me of me.

I wonder where Dillon is. For some reason I need to know that before we start. “Where’s Dillon?” I ask as he takes the seat opposite from me.

“He’s in the room next door,” he says, honestly, evenly. “Is there anything I can get for you? A pop? Water?”

Although my mouth feels like the Sahara Desert, I shake my head no and rub my arms so that friction will ease the goose bumps popping up to protest the chilly air. “Would you like a coat?”

“Yes,” I say. My mouth almost won’t open to let the words out as my jaw is clenched and I’m shivering in waves and spurts. I rub the lump in my throat through my teal scarf.

He disappears and I search for lint that may be hiding on the top part of my only pair of jeans. When he returns, he’s holding a hunter green trooper coat. I sink my arms into it and turn to face him. At least the outside of me will be warm.

“Miss Sparks, thank you fer coming in. While we’re in here, I’d like ya ta call me Herman.”

“Herman,” I say, to try it out.

“First ‘a all, we’re bein’ recorded in here. See the camera mounted up in the corner there?” he says, pointing to the glass eye bearing down on us. “I know this is hard on ya, so I’d like to tell you, honestly, that I’m investigatin’ more than just the break-in at your momma’s house on last Friday night. I have reason ta believe that incident is related to a’ unreported rape that took place ten years ago. Is that correct?”

I nod my head, yes. My face feels like a statue’s—cold, numb.

“Do you know the man who broke in, Miss Sparks?”

“Sadie, please.”
Deflect.

“Sadie.” I nod my head yes. “Who was it, Sadie?” he asks, his voice warm like sitting by the fire on a cold winter’s night.

I want to say it. I open my mouth, my aching jaw almost feels as though it’s creaking over from silent to the truth. Now that my mouth is open, I have to get the words to come out. I’ve never said it. Not out loud.

My heart quickens as I’m about to say it.

“Donnie McGraw,” escapes from the dry open cave of my mouth. I wince. It’s like I’ve expelled a demon into the air around us. I’d swear it’s heaving itself around into the walls of the room. He nods his head to acknowledge my admission.

“Thank you, Sadie,” he says, as he leans in and steeples his hands on the table. “Now, were you raped ten years ago in Ansted, West Virginia?”

I nod my head, “Yes. But Dillon doesn’t know it was his brother. Please, he can’t find out.”

“The trooper’ll wait for him to say who he thinks the suspect is.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you. Now, I need you ta’ tell me what you remember.”

“I have evidence,” I blurt.

“What do you have?”

“A recording and...” I stop and pull the cloth purse from my shoulder. “Here,” I say, setting it on the table between us.

“I have your permission ta look in your property?”

“Yes.”

 He opens it and takes out my phone, then the plastic baggie holding my pink panties. He sets them down one next to the other. What a simple act, but how it means so much more. How it’s one more step toward
what justice will feel like.

“There’s a recording on the phone with him admitting what he did, threatening me and Dillon. The panties were mine. He cut them and then ripped them off me in the shed after he’d cut my throat. Dillon found them in the shed the other day before he burned it down. I picked them up. Are you going to take them to the crime lab?” Once I can talk, I really do. It’s like a dam broke open.

“Yes, I am,” he says, in his warm fire voice. “I’m gonna step out and get the evidence bags. Be right back,” he says.

As the door shuts behind him, I hear raised voices coming from somewhere in the building. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I put the sleeves of the jacket up to my cold nose. It smells like my daddy’s cologne—both good and bad at the same time.

When he comes back in, he looks slightly rattled. “Is everything okay? Did they tell him something?” I ask.

“No need to worry, Sadie,” he answers. I watch as he pulls on the latex gloves one at time. He opens a paper pad, lays it down flat, rips apart the locked baggie and takes the panties out, setting them on the paper so that they are open and flat. It makes me squirm. For some reason, they remind me of a butterfly pinned into one of those glass boxes.

He pulls out a camera, takes a picture, flips them and clicks again. “It’s good that you gave these to me directly. It’s better in court if it don’t change hands too much before it gets to the Crime Lab.”

“Yes, I see.”

“They’re in good shape. Where were they when you found ‘em?”

“Dillon said they were in the corner of the shed between the floor boards and the wall slat.”

“Could be a problem. DNA is harder ta read after it’s been exposed to the elements like that.”

No. I know they have something embedded in them to save me. They have to.

“I have something else.” I slide open the lock on my phone, click the app and press play. Donnie’s words bounce around from wall to wall as if the spirit of what he did to me hides behind every word.

“I’m gonna need ta take this phone, Sadie,” he says.

“Take it? I need it. Can’t I just send you the recording from the phone?”

“I’m sorry, but our technicians are gonna need to validate when it was recorded, and that it was recorded from this device.”

“I have to text my assistant by two o’clock or she’s going to make the post live. I mean publish this recording on my blog,” I say.

“Did you threaten him with that?”

“Yes. To keep him away,” I say through a shaky voice.

“So, the post ain’t gonna go live unless your assistant gets a text from you each day?” he asks, sitting back in the chair behind my evidence out in the open for the first time. No longer in the dark. No longer a secret.

“Sadie, you should have her delete it.”

“No!” I shout.
Why am I shouting?
I take my voice down a few notes, “I’m sorry, but if he does something to me, that’s my only proof of who did it.”

“Well, text her now. Tomorrow you’ll need to make otha’ arrangements. But I don’t recommend using this as a weapon.”

“I’m not deleting it,” I say under my breath. I open the messenger app. Crap it’s 1: 49. I was almost late. I text Jenny and hand over my phone.
One more step.

“The evidence you’ve given me should be enough probable cause to get an arrest warrant in the next few days. But I need a statement from you. Are you ready to do this?”

Am I ready? Can I handle this? I’m shaky, really shaky, but the lump in my throat is gone. I can breathe. I can do this. I deserve this. I imagine flowers blooming in my dreams.

“Yes,” I say, and nod my head.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he says, in his warm fire voice. “Do you remember the date of the attack?”

“It was in May. Mid May of 2002,” I say. Just then, I hear a voice. A voice I know. Dillon’s voice, screaming, “Who’s your suspect?”

“Dillon,” I say, jumping up out of my seat.  “Did they tell him?” I scream, and back myself into the corner of the too small room.

“Sadie,” Sergeant Herman Daniels says, with his hands up to calm me down. I jump as there’s a loud booming thump against the wall opposite from me, too fast and way too hard.

“What happened?” I cry. “Oh, God! He knows, doesn’t he? They told him?”

“Just wait here. I’m going to go find out what’s going on,” he says, as he disappears through the door.

I force myself to walk toward the wall that I share with Dillon. I put my hand on it, then the side of my face, my ear. “It’s okay, baby,” I croon. I want to hold him. I wanted to be there when he found out so I could help him through it. I’m sure he’s known for a long time somewhere deep in the back of his mind. But just like momma dying, knowing and having it happen are two different things.

I listen to the muffled voices through the wall. Feel the pain he’s enduring in this moment. The ultimate kind of betrayal he’s feeling for the first time. The aching reality. And then it hits me again.
Dillon’s not going to want me after what his brother’s going to do to me.
The thought I had when I was in the shed, immobilized by a fishy knife and an evil brother’s disgusting intentions.

We may not be able to move on from this. It may just be too close to home for him. It may be the thing that pushes him away for good. I thrust myself away from the wall.

I want to leave. I want to get on a plane right now. The guilt. The dirty feeling covering me, he’s going to see me like that for the first time. He knows what his brother did to me. How disgusting I am. He’s too good for me. Always has been.

It’s fine. I don’t care if he doesn’t love me anymore
. My imaginary wall back in place soothes me, protects me.

Is this what justice feels like?

Chapter Twenty-Seven—Like The River, They Say

I feel like I’m in a tunnel as I trip over my own foot, stabilize myself, and then walk stiffly back to the chair, tucking my legs under the Formica table. I feel very blank—cut off from my feelings. Safe. Numb.

Dillon knows,
I think. But I have no feelings about that. It’s as if all of that just happened to someone else that I don’t know. A woman who was normal for a brief moment in time, but she’s gone and been replaced by Numb Girl. Regular Sadie will replace Numb Girl in time—just like before.

I’m silently making plans, because that’s what I do. I’m going back to Momma’s house tonight. I’ll just pick up my one small bag from his house, ask Missy to come pick me up. Tomorrow’s the funeral. I need to call Jenny. She needs to book me a flight back to my house in California. There, it is orderly, clean, sterile. Lonely. No, there’s nothing wrong with solitude. My stomach hurts, but I ignore it.

Sergeant Daniels comes back through the door. His brow is sweaty. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it before sitting down across from me.

“How is he?” I ask, calmly. I sound like a robot.

“Honestly, Sadie, he ain’t takin’ it too well. Seems he’d had some inklings, but he wadn’t expectin’ us to confirm that we suspect his own brother. He’s angry, but he ain’t hurt. He threw a chair. That’s the sound you heard. We’re a’ talkin’ to him ‘bout how he needs to calm himself down or else he’s gonna mess up our investigation. He goes after his brother and we got us a whole other mess a’ problems.”

“No, we don’t want that,” I say, staring at the fake knot in the plastic Formica table. I want to scratch it down clear to the pressed wood.