Too Close to Home (19 page)

I continued my walk around the perimeter. Looking. Listening to the conversations around me. Gathering information
I feared that “cooperation” through official channels would be much slower to provide.

A tall, thin man with wire-framed glasses and wispy hair had been moving from one set of remains to the next, squatting down close to each sheet to look carefully at them. Sometimes turning a skull over to examine it or using calipers or a tape to measure a rib or a piece of spine or a bone from an arm or leg.

An intact rib cage and spinal cord with a bit of clothing still clinging to it seemed to catch his attention for a moment.

“Scoliosis,” he murmured.

Then he moved on to the adjacent sheet. Number nine.

Behind him, a young woman carrying a clipboard made another quick note, as she did whenever he spoke.

Another time, he pointed to the forearm with the partial hand still attached.

“See that. Teeth marks. Gnawed the fingers right off.”

The young woman nodded, looked a little green and took another note as she moved away from sheet number eleven.

The last set of remains they examined brought them close to me.

“Odd,” he said as he stood.

That softly spoken word focused the young woman’s attention—and mine—on him. He spoke to her as a teacher would to a student, and I wondered if that didn’t define their relationship.

“Consider the numbers you’ve recorded and what we’ve seen,” he said. “Skulls with relatively large external occipital protuberances. Long bones that are, overall, quite large and robust. Femoral shaft circumferences consistently exceeding eighty millimeters. Every femoral head we’ve measured is well over forty-five millimeters. What does that tell you?”

It certainly told me nothing.

The young woman seemed stumped, too. She glanced down at her clipboard as if the answer was there.

“No, don’t look at your notes,” her older colleague snapped. “Look around you. And think!”

Apparently unoffended by—or simply used to—his tone, she took a little time to work it out. The tall man stood quietly, not looking nearly as impatient as he had sounded, a slight smile playing across his features as he watched her.

Pride, I thought. And maybe a little affection.

Abruptly, the young woman lifted her head.

“Well?” he said, soliciting her opinion.

When she spoke, she sounded awestruck.

“Males,” she said. “All of these victims are men.”

I waited to shake my head until I had moved past the teacher and student. And in my mind, I scolded them for jumping to conclusions. What you have now might be all male, but the ground search is still in its earliest stages. Maybe the remains you’ve examined so far belong only to men, but one victim is definitely a woman, I thought. Which means the continuing search will probably turn up at least a few more female victims. And more victims who are buried along the ravine, not in it.

In the time it took me to walk completely around the perimeter, three more numbered pushpins were added to the map and three more plastic sheets were filled with soil-encrusted remains.

Even I could see they were male.

I
went home before dusk.

There was no point in staying and watching the makeshift morgue expand one tarp at a time when there was nothing I could do there. Unlike the others at the scene, I had a town to take care of. No matter that I’d already had a grueling day and would have preferred to spend the evening sitting on the back porch and pitching balls to my dogs. It was Friday and, within a few hours, the action at the bars on Dunn Street would be in full swing. It was my job to make sure nothing swung too far out of control.

But first, I needed a shower, clean clothes and maybe a decent meal. One involving fresh vegetables and protein. After that, I figured, I’d be pretty much ready for whatever life threw at me.

Before leaving my SUV I took my holstered gun and the inhaler from my glove compartment. Temporarily, I hitched
my gun belt around my waist and tucked the evidence bag into my pocket. Then I crossed the yard to the kennel area, spent a moment fiddling with the latch on Possum’s dog-food bin, and scooped out a heaping portion of kibbles as he bounced and barked with anticipation.

“Sorry, bud,” I said as I dumped the food into his dish. “No playtime tonight.”

Whatever canine disappointment Possum might have felt was lost in tail-wagging enthusiasm over his food. He didn’t even notice when I let Highball out of his kennel and walked in the direction of the house. Highball followed me across the yard, wagging his tail happily as I detoured briefly to my garden—a quartet of staked tomato plants that flourished on heat, humidity and neglect. After a quick inspection convinced Highball that the ripe tomato I pulled from the vine was not a tennis ball, he trotted to the back door and waited.

Briefly, I disrupted our routine by taking my boots off before letting us inside. Despite my trips back and forth through the stream—and though the smell I detected on my boots was now mostly in my imagination—a dog like Highball should have perceived the odor of decomposition still clinging to the rough leather. And he would have, even a few months earlier. But Highball simply sat patiently at my feet. Old and oblivious.

I felt a familiar twinge of sadness as I pushed open the door and watched him go directly to the empty food dish beside his cushion. He stared eagerly at it as I dumped my gun belt, car keys, the tomato and the contents of my pockets onto the kitchen counter next to the phone. Then I went to the pantry, measured out his kibbles and supplemented that meal with a can of soft food especially formulated for elderly dogs.

As Highball pushed his gray muzzle happily into his dish, I patted him.

“You’re a good boy,” I murmured. “A very good dog.”

After that, I poured myself a big glass of water from the tap, took several gulps, quickly rubbed the back of my arm across my eyes, and refocused my attention on the present. Away from the inevitable day in the near future when I would have to bury my old companion.

As I did every evening when I returned home, I made sure pen and paper were handy, then hit the flashing message button on the answering machine.

The first was from Katie. Whispery, sincere.

“I hope you like your surprise.”

The answering machine announced that the message had been left at 12:42. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Not understanding the message upped my anxiety and, along with it, the acid level in my stomach.

Before playing the next message, I went to the fridge intending to cut myself a slice of cheese. And discovered the surprise. Katie had made me a cake. The kind usually reserved for the hotel’s guests on special occasions. Single serving, tiny and perfect, it was encased in a paper-thin layer of marzipan and sprinkled with something that made it glitter like an ornament. This cake was decorated with miniature roses. Yellow Cherokee roses.

Nice, I thought. It didn’t solve any problems, but it reminded me how sweet and thoughtful my sister could be. How hard she was trying to do the right thing. And the gesture gave me hope.

I picked up the cake, carried it back to the kitchen counter, and took a bite as I listened to the next message. Inside the marzipan wrapper, the cake was yellow with ribbons of dark chocolate dividing three uniformly thin layers.

On the answering machine, the next caller was Aunt Lucy.
Her voice was calm and pleasant even though her message was all business. As was typical when we spoke about the Underground, Aunt Lucy’s message was deliberately vague. But it conveyed a wealth of information.

“I’m going out of town this afternoon, honey. To meet an old friend for dinner. I’ll be back before midnight. Thought you’d be pleased.”

She’d called at 2:00 p.m.

Though I didn’t envy Aunt Lucy the long drive to rendezvous with another Underground volunteer, I was happy for Jackie. Pleased she was on her way to a new life. Mostly, though, I was thrilled that she was well away from the Cherokee Rose. Now only regular guests remained for Katie to interact with, and I had a little more time to resolve the issue of her involvement with the Underground.

Maybe, I thought as I took another bite of Katie’s lovely cake, there was some middle ground. Maybe Katie could be convinced to focus on some other aspect of the Underground, one that didn’t involve direct contact with abused women. Like finances. Despite private donations, demand for services were a constant drain on Underground resources. My sister was clever, good with money and investments. She could really make a difference.

As I hit Erase, the phone rang again. Before I could review the last message.

“Oh, good. You’re still home.”

The relief that I heard in my grandmother’s voice was completely out of character. And absolutely alarming.

“What’s wrong?” I blurted, abandoning the last bit of cake on the counter.

“Our special guest checked out earlier, but I saw her husband a few minutes ago.”

I had no doubt that Gran was talking about Hector Townsend.

My first thought was that Jackie’d had a moment of doubt. Beatings destroyed a woman’s confidence, often making her believe she couldn’t survive apart from the very person who mistreated her. So sometimes, no matter how vigilant we tried to be, women traveling along the Underground contacted their abusers. Told them where they were. Jackie, I feared, had done just that. Called Hector to come get her, then changed her mind again. And escaped with Aunt Lucy. Leaving Gran to deal with an enraged, possessive and physically powerful man who could easily recognize her from the hospital. Might assault her to get information. Or just to get revenge.

“I’m on my way,” I said as I grabbed for my gun. “If he trespasses, call 911. Tell them you’re Officer Tyler’s grandmother and a man is threaten—

“No. Brooke. Honey. Listen to me!” Gran said urgently. “I was running errands and saw him drive his motorcycle off the ferry. He was headed up Route 146, so he’s probably long gone. But I decided it was a good idea to tell Katie about him and to have her work late tonight. Until Lucy comes back home. And I want you to keep your eyes open, too. You’re the police, so I’m sure you can handle any trouble he makes.”

“Of course I can, Gran,” I said as I moved my fingers away from my gun belt and let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Though I hadn’t taken the job in Maryville just to protect the Underground, there were certainly advantages to my position. If I saw Hector tonight—and it seemed to me the bars on Dunn Street would be a magnet for someone like him—I’d find a way to discourage him from remaining in town. Arrest him, if need be.

“I saw the evening news,” Gran was saying. “And I’m
proud of you. Finding all those people who were executed out there. Anyway, as busy as you’ve been with that, I wasn’t sure I’d even catch you at home.”

And that explained the relief in Gran’s voice, I thought. She hadn’t expected to reach me so easily. Cell-phone reception out at Camp Cadiz was nonexistent, and routing an emergency call through dispatch required an explanation—some good excuse for using official channels for personal business. Claiming a family emergency risked calling attention to the other activities taking place at the Cherokee Rose.

“So just do your job,” she said. “Oh, by the way, I moved that antique of your grandfather’s downstairs.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Knew that she’d rolled back the rug beside her bed, lifted one of the floorboards, and unwrapped the revolver from the piece of old patchwork quilt that protected it. After eight years in the darkness.

“You cleaned it up, didn’t you?”

She laughed at that.

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s nicely polished. And now it’s in the safe behind the counter, so if anyone ever tries to rob us…”

Armed robbery. That was the excuse that we always held at the ready. Just in case we were confronted by someone like Hector. It was an explanation that law enforcement would readily accept. A strategy that we’d been careful enough—and fortunate enough—never to have used.

But I’d never had any trouble imagining my Gran acting in such an extreme emergency. Now, as I continued speaking on the phone with her, I could see her taking my grandfather’s gun from the safe. I pictured her as I often had, her sinewy arms extended, pale eyes focused and intent through her thick lenses, arthritic hands unwavering. Gran would face an intruder courageously, without regard for her own welfare.
Just the way
her
great-grandmother had faced down a posse while a group of runaway slaves had hidden just yards away.

If the need arose, Gran was more than capable of pulling the trigger.

I’d hung up the phone, pushed the answering machine button again, and was about to take the last bite of cake when I heard the third message.

My sister’s voice again. Still whispery.

Now furious.

“I saw the way everyone was smiling at you on TV. If you tell them, I swear—”

The message and the threat cut off as Katie slammed down the phone.

The answering machine beeped—3:20 p.m. Some station, I realized, had broken into their regular programming and broadcast a segment of the news conference. And I knew there was a small TV in the kitchen of the Cherokee Rose. Katie liked to leave it on as she worked.

Suddenly, I lost my appetite for the cake my sister had made especially for me. I dropped it into the garbage, wiped my fingers on my jeans. Spurred by a half-spoken threat I didn’t fully understand, my anxiety—my suspicions—returned in a rush. But now they made less sense than ever.

Katie couldn’t have been involved, I told myself. Not in all those murders. They’d taken place over decades. She’d been too young….

But what about just one murder? The one that didn’t fit the pattern?

Once more, the inhaler that I’d found—the inhaler that now shared the kitchen counter with my gun, car keys and a ripe tomato—took on significance.

I punched Chad’s number on the speed dial. Not because I wanted to hear a friendly voice or because my sister’s threats made me feel abandoned and alone. I called him because I needed a professional’s perspective. At least, that’s what I told myself.

Two rings and a few minutes of small talk later, I gave him an update on the crime scene. Twenty-one bodies for sure. Another half-dozen tarps filled with random bits of clothing and miscellaneous body parts. Search efforts so far limited to the bottom of the ravine.

Then I told him that all the recovered bodies seemed to be male.

“Weird,” he said, which pretty much summed up my feelings. “I wonder how our Jane Doe fits in?”

My question exactly, I thought.

“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe she doesn’t.”

Then I spoke my next thoughts out loud. And though Chad had no way of knowing it, I was telling him why—at least, in this instance—I thought it was unlikely that Katie had committed murder. Despite the secret she thought I knew. Despite her threats. Despite the inhaler.

“It’d be a coincidence, wouldn’t it, if someone else killed our Jane Doe?” I said. “And then, by chance, hid the body along the same stretch of ravine where at least twenty other people were executed?”

“One hell of a coincidence,” Chad said with enough passion that I believed him. “Even if all the other victims
are
men.”

Then he stopped speaking abruptly, as if he was thinking over the words he’d just said or chasing some wisp of a thought.

I knew him well enough that I waited, not interrupting. And though pacing was an obvious remedy for the impatience I felt, I used the time instead to tuck the bagged inhaler into a
roasting pan I rarely used. By the time I stepped back down from my kitchen stool, Chad was talking to me again.

“Maybe it has do with the fact that she
is
female. So she was executed, just like the men. With a bullet through the brain. But, unlike the men, her body wasn’t just shoved into the ravine like so much garbage. The place was remote and the odds were against finding her, so our killer could simply have left her out in the open. But someone made sure that the body wasn’t exposed to the weather or scavengers. I bet, at the time, the inside of that old tree looked pretty secure. In an odd sort of way, our Jane Doe was buried. Or, at least,
placed
somewhere permanent. Undisturbed. Out of respect, maybe. Or love.”

And that, I thought, let Katie off the hook.

I put my gun away as I always did unless I was wearing it or cleaning it. No matter that I lived alone and wasn’t expecting company. Too many people—among them, Katie—had keys to my house. So I locked it into the gun box in my bedroom and then I showered.

For the second time in the past several days, I stripped and dumped my filthy clothes in a plastic bag, isolating them from a hamper full of more conventionally dirty clothing. Once again, I ran the shower hot, scrubbing away—at least from my flesh—all residue of the day’s activities, the day’s discoveries. And then as I stood in the shower, I checked for ticks, running my hands through my hair, below my breasts, over my entire body. Alert for anything that felt like a freckle, but hadn’t been there when I’d showered that morning.

Finally clean, but far from refreshed, I turned off the shower and dried myself off. Then I wrapped the towel around me, intending to step across the hallway into my bedroom. To get dressed.