by Webb, Debra
I nod my understanding. “If Letty was satisfied, then we should be as well.”
Still, I am convinced we must look at each piece of the past, no matter how agonizing. Someone took those dog tags after James was already dead and buried. They took them to use as evidence to seal his fate if Natalie and Stacy were ever found. I say as much to my friend.
“But he died a whole week after the girls disappeared,” Ginny reminds me. “I don’t see how that’s possible knowing what we know.”
She’s right. I chew on that detail for a moment and then I measure my words carefully before suggesting another terrifying scenario, “Is it possible someone else knows what really happened? That person may have taken the dog tags from your car for that same purpose, which would mean…” Again I swallow back the misery. “You get what I’m saying.”
“It would mean that piece of shit wasn’t the only person involved.”
Disbelief and shock thickens between us.
“If that’s what happened,” Ginny dares to venture, “we both know there’s only one, maybe two people it could be.”
A strange anticipation starts to build inside me, quashing the disbelief and the shock, fueling my wavering strength and courage. I look my old friend straight in the eye. “If that’s what happened, how in the world will we ever prove it?
I cannot imagine any possible way.
“I don’t know.” Ginny swipes the tears from her cheeks. “I just don’t know.”
I grab her hand with both of mine. “But we have to try.”
21
EMMA
There are lines that officers of the law, like Letty, cannot cross. In my work there are also strict rules and procedures that must be followed when excavating remains. I am fully aware that what I am about to do is completely illegal.
But I’m doing it anyway.
Delbert Yarbrough lives on Little Indian Creek Road. It didn’t occur to me until I decided to drive to his house that his home is located along a narrow side road right off the larger road that runs alongside the woods at the base of the same mountain where my sister’s remains have lain all these years.
Indian Creek Road. I realize as I turn onto the side road that will take me to the Yarbrough’s home why I remembered the terrain in the area of the cave. I had never been to that cave until I went down with Letty. But, long ago as a child, I went fishing in Indian Creek with my dad, Letty and her dad. We walked a good distance through the woods, maybe just a few hundred yards from the opening to that very cave. Of course, my memory dates back to before Natalie disappeared.
Died. She died, I remind myself.
A new sort of pain trickles through me. It feels different from the pain of the past twenty-five years although we all understood on some level that Natalie was never coming back. Still, this is a new ache that burrows in a different place in my chest—the very center of my heart where hope once resided.
Indian Creek begins at the Tennessee River and twists through the woods for miles, growing smaller until it ends on the north side of neighboring Madison County. Along this part of the greenway that follows the creek there is nothing but trees and the mountains on either side of the long, winding road that cuts through it. The occasional house pops up, mostly older residences that were once a part of vast farms. Little Indian Creek Road where Yarbrough lives was, obviously, named for the smaller tributary that trails off from the main creek. More modern homes have popped up on Little Indian Creek Road over the years.
The Yarbrough home sits a few hundred yards from the road, overlooking the creek. I pull into the driveway before Yarbrough’s and park at a gate maybe fifty yards from the main road. A large wooden sign marks the property as belonging to a hunting club. Since it’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday I don’t worry about my car being in the way. Hunting clubs have bought up wooded property all over Alabama for seasonal use. Even in season, the members rarely show up except on weekends. At least that was the way of things when I was a kid.
I guess I’ll find out if that routine has changed.
The chill in the air has me lifting my shoulders up around my ears and hugging my arms around myself. Ironically the priest’s hoodie continues to come in handy. I traded Helen’s old sweater in for the freshly washed hoodie this morning. I tell myself this was not because I wanted to be reminded of him but because I’m not really a sweater girl. Considering all the other problems I have at the moment, I decide not to ponder the notion.
I walk back to the road and continue on the short distance to the next driveway. I check my cell, make sure it’s on silent and tuck it into my hip pocket as I start down the gravel drive to the Yarbrough property. I used to ride over with my mother or dad to pick up Natalie when she had spent a Saturday night with Stacy. Natalie usually went to church with Stacy when she was at her house and vice versa.
Glancing up at the tree canopy over the road I wonder if Stacy and Natalie ever explored the woods near the cave. Cold trickles through me and I shiver. This is too far from where the bus crashed to believe they walked here and just left Mr. Russell and me to fend for ourselves. Someone had to have driven them those nine or ten miles. The Yarbrough place is only five or six miles from town but there is no crossroad from Indian Creek to Long Hollow Road. However my sister and her friend got to the cave, they had to travel back past the bus into town and to the other side, closer to the western town limits, and then down Indian Creek Road.
Would Natalie have ridden right past the bus knowing I was still there with the dead bus driver?
Not willingly. I am certain of this.
I reach the end of the drive where the trees have been cleared and a two-story log house stands. It’s so quiet I can hear the water beyond the house. Mr. Yarbrough’s truck is not in the drive. I glance at the garage but decide to go to the front door and knock. I can always tell him that my car started acting up and I pulled onto that other drive to avoid blocking traffic. Not that there is a lot of traffic but I doubt he will question my reasoning, after all I’ve lived in large cities for the past fifteen years.
My excuse will be that I felt compelled to come and apologize for not keeping him informed of mine and Letty’s efforts to figure out what really happened to Natalie and Stacy. Of course that’s another of my lies but he won’t know. I’m a very good liar. Only recently have I realized that perhaps the reason I am so good is because I’ve been lying to myself for twenty-five years.
I have pretended that I could live with never knowing the whole truth.
I cannot.
After several knocks with no answer I check out the garage. The side door is unlocked. Two skylights prevent the interior from being dark or the need for turning on lights. Yarbrough’s truck isn’t in the garage. There’s a four-wheel ATV and a riding lawn mower. On the far side of the garage is a large gun safe. Not surprising. Most males and a considerable number of females below the Mason-Dixon Line own at least a hunting rifle or a handgun. There’s a large chest style freezer. Shelves line the walls. Paint cans, tools and plastic storage containers fill the shelves. Because I watched far too many horror movies when I was a kid I check the freezer. Meat and vegetables fill the large frozen space.
I set my hands on my hips and survey the garage once more. No cans of spray paint. Nothing else that looks out of place. I head back outside. Behind the garage two large garbage cans stand at the end nearest the house. I open the lid on the first. White kitchen trash bags fill the can to capacity. No loose trash, no spray paint cans. I shake my head in resignation and heave a sigh. No matter that I can’t see any cans of spray paint, I smell them.
One by one I remove the four heavy kitchen trash bags. The can is empty otherwise and spotless. Who scrubs their garbage cans? Probably Helen does exactly the same thing. Shaking my head, I start with the bag that was on top. Sure enough, under a wad of damp paper towels and soiled paper plates I find three cans of spray paint, two red, one black. I stuff the trash back into the bag and heft all four ba
ck into the trashcan.
I should call Letty but I’m torn between giving her the pleasure of seeing that the person who defaced her father’s headstone is arrested and causing Mr. Yarbrough more pain.
I move to the back of the house. Might as well have a good look around while I’m here. If he shows up before I leave I’ll stick with my story of my car acting up. I climb the steps up to the rear deck. From there I can see the water of the creek. The drop from the backyard to the water isn’t more than thirty or forty feet. A wall of glass that peaks at the vaulted ceiling looks out over the backyard and the water. I cup my face and lean close to the glass. Inside the house looks exactly as I remember. Same leather sofa, worn and wrinkled with age. Two wood and leather chairs that I now recognize as classic Mission style flank the fireplace.
Before I can stop myself my hand lights on the doorknob and turns. The door is unlocked.
I freeze.
There is no way I’m going into this house. To do so is vastly different from walking onto the deck or even going into the garage. A home is intensely personal. This is Mr. Yarbrough’s private space.
This is breaking and entering, locked door or no.
I leave the door closed and head down the steps. It’s not until I’m on the ground again that I realize my heart is flailing. I can just imagine what Helen would say if she saw me now. She really would think I’d gone around the bend.
Maybe I have.
Before I head back around front I walk to the other side of the deck. Another set of steps, these concrete, lead down to a door that is apparently an exterior access to the basement. I scan the foundation of the house and see none of those small, narrow windows that suggest a basement, but that only means this one is completely underground.
“I’ve come this far.” Without giving myself time to change my mind, I descend the twelve steps to the door. It’s metal. No glass. I resist turning the knob and do an about face to go back up the steps. I stall. Near the toe of my hiking boot, lying against the riser of the first step up is a narrow, shiny object about four or five inches long.
I reach down and pick it up. Lip gloss. Pink lip gloss. It’s fairly new. Not damaged or worn as it would be if it had lain in the elements for more than two decades. I imagine that Yarbrough has had his share of girlfriends. Maybe a friend who has a teenage daughter.
Even as I tell myself these things adrenaline is pumping through my veins.
Every instinct warns me to go. Now.
This time I don’t walk. I run. My boots seem to mire in the gravel as I push as hard as I can toward the road. If I can just make it to the road, I can walk through the edge of the woods to the other drive. If push comes to shove I can veer into the woods before that but I have no desire to get lost in these unknown woods or to go plowing through the thick underbrush and end up falling into a sink hole. A shudder quakes through me.
I make it to the road and relief weakens my knees. Still, I keep running until I’m out of sight from the road and well down the hunt club driveway. I stall at the driver’s side door of my Prius and realize I left my fob and my bag in the car and that it’s unlocked.
“Jesus Christ.”
Not until that moment do I realize that I am still grasping the lip gloss. I thrust it into my back pocket and reach for the car door. I check to make sure all is as it should be before climbing behind the wheel. Enough three-point turns later to equal about fifteen and I speed toward the paved road then screech to a halt just in time to ensure no one is coming before I blast out onto the Little Indian Creek Road.
The oncoming vehicle to my right doesn’t register as any sort of threat at first. As it grows nearer the white color clicks in my brain. Closer still and I recognize the driver.
Delbert Yarbrough.
He recognizes me at the same time and slams on his brakes, sliding to a stop right in front of me and simultaneously blocking my path.
The smell of hot rubber fills my nostrils and I almost gun it hoping to cut between the ditch and his rear bumper. Not even this damn Prius is that small.
Before he can get out I do. I march right up to him as he climbs from his vehicle. “I was headed to your house.”
I hope to God that my face looks more relaxed than it feels. My lips are posed in a smile but they are fighting me. They want to tremble. My entire body is suddenly shaky. “It’s been so long I took the wrong turn.”
His eyes nothing but slits, I feel him assessing my face, my body language. His casual button-down shirt and jeans tell me he has either retired or has taken some time off himself.
I work hard to appear innocent. I’m usually quite good at this part but it’s that damn lip gloss and what it might mean that’s messing with my ability to remain calm.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I wanted to apologize.” I tuck my thumbs into my pockets to prevent crossing my arms. “Letty and I should have told you what we were doing.”
He stares at me, his eyes wider now, searching mine. “So tell me.”
I push onward as if we’re on the same page. “You were right about Letty. She has taken some personal time. We believe we can find the whole truth about Stacy and Natalie. Our concern is that the task force will be so focused on proving James Cotton killed them that they won’t look at anything or anyone else.”
He steps in toe-to-toe with me. I stand my ground.
“Are you stupid or just crazy? That bastard did kill them.”
I flinch but I refuse to be bullied. “Maybe I am and maybe Mr. Cotton did do it. But we need to be sure, Mr. Yarbrough. Let’s just consider for a moment that Mr. Cotton didn’t do it. That means whoever did has gotten away with murder for twenty-five years. Can you really spend the rest of your life convinced that justice has been served when all we have is a piece of evidence that anyone could have put in that cave?”
For a moment he stares at me as if he remains convinced that I have in fact lost my mind. His expression is hard, unyielding. Then his face softens the slightest bit. “And if you find that he’s the one, can the two of you live with that?”
Though his question gives me pause, I say what I feel. “The truth is what we want, whatever that is.”
He looks away, his arms hanging at his sides. “You know, I used to dream about her all the time. I had no idea she was so close.”
I reach out, put my hand on his arm. “I still dream about them sometimes. I’ve taken that bus ride a million times, I think.”
His gaze collides with mine, the misery I see in my mother’s eyes and in my own stares back at me. “And you don’t remember anything besides them walking away?” he demands.
“I wish I did. I’ve even had regression therapy and there’s nothing.”
I hesitate for a few seconds on the rest of what I’ve been thinking but I figure I need to go the distance to ensure his suspicions about me being this close to his house don’t stir again.
“Obviously to get from Long Hollow Road to Indian Creek Road they had to be riding with someone.” That part was the only logical conclusion, now for the supposition part. “I know my sister. She would never have ridden past the bus again without stopping to get me and to check on Mr. Russell. We both know she didn’t get to Indian Creek Road in a car or truck or whatever without passing the bus. There are no side roads that connect that road and this one.” I point toward Indian Creek Road.
“Maybe they did stop and you’d already set out on foot.”
I shrug. “Maybe so, but the point is Natalie and Stacy were with someone and it wasn’t James Cotton because he and his wife only had one car and my mother and Letty’s were in Birmingham in the only car the Cottons owned. When they returned, James was already out in the woods with my father looking for Natalie and Stacy.”
His eyes narrow again. “He could have kept them at his house until he had access to his car. They had that old storage shed out back. The girls could have been in there.”
“That’s possible, too. But the po
lice searched their house, the shed, the car. Do you really think Mr. Cotton was capable of covering his tracks that perfectly? Not a single hair was found in his vehicle. Not a single trace of evidence anywhere in the house or the shed or in the yard. Nothing. Even if Natalie and Stacy got into the car with someone they knew versus some stranger, there came a point when there was a struggle. Struggles leave all manner of trace evidence behind. Hairs, blood, other body fluids. Where is the evidence?”
Delbert Yarbrough has no answer for that question.
The problem is, neither do I.
22
My cell is blowing up by the time I reach Indian Creek Road.
I drag it from my back pocket. Letty.
“Hey.” I make the turn onto Indian Creek.
“Where are you?”
“Where are you?” I echo.
“I was just about to head back to the farm but Chief Claiborne wants to see us in his office ASAP.”
Oh hell. “I swear to you that I did not break the law…much.” If Yarbrough has already called the chief of police, then he was more pissed off than I realized when we parted ways. Usually I read people better than that.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re talking about.”
Oh hell. “Why does Claiborne want to see us?”
“Really? You’re going to do this to me?”
I blow out a breath and admit defeat. “I was still mad at Delbert Yarbrough when we parted ways this morning so I decided to have a look around his place.”
“Oh my God. Please tell me you did not go into the man’s house.”
I switch the phone to the other hand. “I did not go into the man’s house.”
“Just tell me what you did, Emma.”
