by AR Simmons
When she dropped him off at the Hawthorne County courthouse, however, he was surprised to discover that he actually wanted the dead-end job. He went up the steps thinking that it was really pathetic. He remembered an auxiliary deputy from Breton County. The victim of a bad former marriage and self-pity, the man had embraced excesses including overeating, arch conservatism, and misogyny. Richard was thin, moderate, and enjoyed the company of women, but like that man they all used to make fun of, here he was, vying for the consolation prize.
Even if this comes through, it’s as close as you’re gonna get.
The Sheriff’s Office was sparsely furnished and squared away, shipshape. A graying man in khaki stood as he entered and greeted him with a firm handshake. He was a good foot taller than Richard and had a formerly athletic physique now rounded with age and declining physical activity. They exchanged names. The Sheriff, a man called Shively, had some sort of southern-sounding nickname that Richard didn’t quite catch.
“I read your resume,” he said.
Richard hadn’t sent one, but of course, Jill had.
“Your experience is a bit thin, but the criminology classes are a plus. Do you intend to finish your degree?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Richard.
It was a lie, but telling the sheriff that he had no intention of wasting the time and money on a useless degree wouldn’t help land the job.
“Tell me about the felony homicide,” said the sheriff, coming straight to the point as he stared Richard in the eye.
Richard blinked, looked away, and shrugged.
“The guy killed several people. He was playing games with me, and he intended to kill the woman I eventually married. I was only trying to restrain him when it happened. He pulled a knife and nearly killed me. I killed him.”
“Was it self-defense?”
“I think it was. Technically, though, I attacked him first. He may have only pulled the knife in self-defense. I had him in a chokehold, but I wasn’t trying to kill him. He probably didn’t know that.”
Shively nodded as he studied Richard for a long, silent moment. “So who did you know with enough clout to swing a pardon for you?”
“No one. The pardon wasn’t about me. It was about him. He collected women—’harvested them’ would be a better term. I guess the Prosecutor just didn’t want to do his duty.”
“Didn’t want to do his job?”
“He went to the Governor on my behalf. Crazy, huh?”
Shively nodded again. Then he got up, signaling an end to the interview.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Richard asked.
“Not at all.”
“Why did you take the time to interview me? I mean, what department could afford to take on someone like me.”
“You do carry a lot of baggage—too much if what you did was some sort of vigilante thing. However, good help is hard to find. You have the right training: Marines and then the criminology classes. I thought you were worth a look.”
Shively’s use of the past tense confirmed what Richard had suspected, that the interview had been a formality, granted no doubt only because of Jill’s importunity on his behalf. He ought to be angry with her, but instead he was only profoundly disappointed that her efforts had failed.
“Thanks for your honesty, sir,” he said, offering his hand again.
“Life’s too short for anything else,” said Shively. “I wish you well, Mr. Carter.”
•••
He was okay with it until he saw Jill’s face. It was obvious to him that she expected good news. How could she?
“How did the interview go?” she asked as she got in the car.
“He didn’t offer me a job,” he said, looking over his shoulder to check traffic before pulling back onto the street.
Richard was peeved with her for putting him through it, but angry with himself for being naive enough to hope that something could come of it.
“I knew I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being hired.”
He didn’t say it to hurt her, but it did. She realized that by arranging the interview, she had opened an old wound. Richard had wanted the job more than he admitted to her or even to himself. She had added to his torment by giving him the illusion of hope.
“It was a stupid idea,” he grumbled.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she looked away to hide them from him. “Sorry,” she choked out.
“Hey,” he hurriedly said. “I was talking about me, not you.”
She shook her head, dismissing his attempt to redirect his thoughtless remark.
“I was talking about something I did in the interview,” he improvised. “I … I tried to impress him with my … knowledge in criminology. All the while, he had my college transcript so he knew how many hours I’d taken.”
Given the circumstances, Richard thought it was a pretty good lie, and an acceptable expedient since it harmed nothing and spared Jill’s feelings. Jill knew it was a lie, but pretended to believe it. They were paving the problem over with mutual pretense.
“This won’t work,” Richard said after they had driven some ten miles in silence.
“What?”
“I was mad at you for making me go to the interview, and I was mad at myself for wanting the damned job. That’s why I said your idea was stupid. I love you, and I appreciate that you were trying to do something for me, and I’m so sorry for hurting you like that.”
“And I’m sorry for … interfering,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”
“Well, some good came out of it. I think I’ve got my head on straight again. This should just about finish off any of that foolishness about a career in law enforcement. You know what that cracker sheriff thinks? He thinks I was a vigilante.”
Despite it being her second language, Jill’s English was better than Richards. Every now and then, however, a word or allusion puzzled her.
“Vigilante? In Spanish that means watchman. What am I missing?”
“I don’t know where the term comes from, but they’re people who take the law into their own hands to right a perceived wrong.”
“He accused you of that?”
“Not in so many words, but that’s what he thinks. He also seems to think I was pardoned because of my connections—like I’ve got any.”
“No wonder you’re upset. When I spoke to him, he seemed like a nice man.”
“Oh I think he’s decent enough. I’m just carrying the wrong kind of baggage for the job.” he looked across at her. “Are we still mad at each other?”
The argument ended with a velvet lash, the soft but firm placement of blame.
“I was never angry with you, Richard,” she said solemnly.
Chapter 11
November 17
A bitterly cold wind buffeted the truck as Richard drove out in the county to give an estimate on a sagging porch. The chill had awakened an irritating road cricket, so he turned on the radio to drown it out. More upset over the job interview than he thought he should be, he resolved to lose himself in physical work. This morning at least, he could forget both the Blue Creek position and his quixotic campaign on Molly’s behalf. That’s what he thought before the boy soldier dream popped into his mind like a movie trailer, followed quickly by flash images of Katie Nash lying disheveled and askew on a bed and McComb slumped in a tub of pink water.
Official theory held that McComb’s head injury had come when, weakened from loss of blood and the effects of the Valium, he fell while getting into the tub (or perhaps when trying to get out after changing his mind about suicide). It was possible, just as Nash being the victim of a sexual predator was possible, but the combination was difficult to believe.
Come on, Richard. What do they have in common?
Molly.
“Yeah, right. Throw in that they were both kind of hefty too. Which means what? That their killer was probably a weightlifter?” he grumbled sarcastically, his breath visible in the cold cab of the truck.
Each was with Molly on the night Mancie was taken.
The blacktop to Walnut Grove came up just as an old song he used to like began, a haunting refrain about the singer-songwriter’s dead son. He had always imagined that the song had begun as a therapeutic catharsis for the grieving father. The lyrics brought to mind McComb’s dilettantish efforts. “Cold Tears” probably was meant to signify enduring grief, the kind that wrecks the rest of one’s life. It seemed odd that he had picked a theme like that for Lyla’s breakthrough song.
“Only a crocodile has cold tears,” he muttered. “Hot tears are more like it—the kind your Honeybunch would have cried had Rafferty been able to foil her grab for Peele’s money.”
Listening to the lyrics, he suddenly remembered something he had forgotten to include in the timeline he had worked out earlier. Lost in thought, he drove past his intended destination without realizing it. Then things started falling into place, and he just looked for a place to turn around. He could be wrong—ridiculously wrong, but there was one sure way to find out. He drove seventy-five and eighty on his way back to town.
•••
“Mr. Carter,” gasped Molly, going white when she saw him at the door. “What’s wrong?”
Dread bloomed in her face.
He smiled reassuringly. “Nothing. I just came by to see if you could help me. I should have called first. I’m sorry.”
“Oh … uh, come in. It’s cold out,” she said, sagging with relief. “You want me to help you with what?”
“I need to talk with Lyla. You know her, right?”
“Sure, but she don’t like me. But then again, I don’t think she likes nobody.”
“But she doesn’t know me at all. If I go alone, it’s like a complete stranger had come to bother her.”
Molly was clearly skeptical, but he didn’t think she could turn her “godsend” down.
“You mean now?”
“Yeah. She lives over at Blue Creek. You know where that is?”
She nodded and turned toward the bedroom. A moment later she came out, pulling on a jacket as thin and worn as she was. “What do you think she can tell us?” she asked.
“I think McComb confided in her,” he said as they went across to his truck. “Now that he’s dead, she might be decent enough to tell us if he said something.”
“I wouldn’t count on her decency,” said Molly dryly as she buckled in.
“I’m not,” he replied as he hit the defroster to clear the windshield, “but maybe I can read her actions, her body language while we’re talking.”
“You really think this is going to do any good, Mr. Carter?”
“You never know until you try, Molly. All I know to do is look everywhere I can think of, and ask every question that comes to mind.”
Cold front clouds slicing in from the northwest overtook them before they got twenty miles. Incredibly, it got even colder. The windows steamed up as a gusty tailwind shoved them toward Blue Creek.
•••
“What now, Mr. Carter?” asked Molly, eying the locked security gate.
“We go around,” he said as he steered to the right.
Dry weeds scraped loudly on sheet metal as the old truck wallowed diagonally across the ditch and past the gate riding down thumb-sized saplings. Molly gripped the dash until they reached the driveway on the other side.
“Can’t be trespassing if there isn’t a keep out sign,” he joked, trying to ease her tension.
Trespassing wasn’t the cause of her anxiety, however. He felt her eyes on his face.
“You know something, don’t you?” she said.
He kept his eyes on the drive as if he were having trouble following it. “I wish I did, Molly. But no, I don’t. We just need to talk to Lyla.”
A sudden snow shower all but obliterated the view as the sharp wind sent giant flakes hurtling into the windshield. The furious spate ended as quickly as it had begun, but the wind continued unabated, whistling loudly and buffeting the truck. They made a sharp turn around a cedar glade, and the cabin appeared, sitting well back from the water’s edge.
A dock ran what appeared to be fifty feet or more out into the lake. A bundled-up woman stood motionless near the end of the pier, staring out across the lake. She turned and began to walk back. Her head came up, and she stopped. For a frozen moment, she stood staring at them. Then she sprinted toward them, waving a small blanket as they drove up. Richard had to stop abruptly to keep from hitting her. He rolled down the window.
“Thank God you showed up!” gasped Lyla Peele. “The nanny fell into the lake, and I don’t know where my baby is. Oh God! Oh God! You’ve got to help me find her!”
“My cell’s in the glove box. Call 911!” Richard said to Molly as he threw open the door almost knocking Lyla down.
Without waiting for a response from either of the women, he bolted toward the pier. What he had taken as a half-submerged log near the end of the dock turned out to be a person floating face down. He tore off and tossed aside his jacket, and then leapt feet first from the end of the dock, intending to land as close to the body as possible. Only when he was in mid-air, did he wonder how deep the water was. The shock of the cold water was no less severe than he anticipated, but somehow he managed not to gasp when he hit it. He plunged totally beneath the surface without reaching the bottom. Somehow he managed not to inhale water, and came up directly beside the body.
When he turned the slight woman to her back, sightless black eyes stared skyward. A gash gaped in her hairline, oozing no blood. He had seen enough in Somalia not to wonder if she were alive. Pulling against the cold water and weighed down by jeans, flannel shirt, and work boots, he finally reached the shallow water near the base of the dock. Shivering in the biting wind, he dragged her up onto the dry grass where Molly and Lyla stood.
“I got an ambulance on the way. I told them how to get around the gate like you done,” said Molly breathlessly. “I’ll give CPR. Find the baby.”
Richard knew CPR would do no good, but didn’t say so.
“She must have slipped on the dock and hit her head,” said Lyla as if in a trance. Then she shuddered and fell to her knees. “Where’s my baby?” she shrieked. “Where’s my angel?”
Hair prickled at the back of Richard’s neck. He pushed the feeling aside. He had no time for it.
He had to think. The baby was in the frigid water, but where?
No boat. So it has to be near the dock.
“Find my angel,” wailed Lyla. “Bring her back to me!”
“Be careful, Mr. Carter,” grunted Molly, busily trying to resuscitate the dead woman.
The water should have felt warmer than the wind. It didn’t. He waded out quickly until he was chest deep, braced himself against a piling, went under, and opened his eyes. Surprisingly, the water was clear enough to make out the dark shape of the next piling. With no sun, however, visibility was a mere two or three blurry feet. Making his way to the end of the dock, he searched with numb hands along the bottom on the left side. Lungs bursting, he broke surface near the end of the dock. The water seemed to be about eight feet deep.
No current so the baby has to be near where it went in.
He went under again, intending to search back along the right side, but changed his mind.
Too shallow. It’s off the end of the dock, he thought just as sunlight broke through clouds to light the water.
There!
Something pale appeared beyond and below for a split second before the sun went dark again. He went up for air, and then surface-dived, fighting downward through the pressure in what he hoped was the right direction.
Nothing. A mirage.
Something appeared just to his left, darker this time. He touched it, and knew immediately. There was no feeling of triumph, just desperation, determination, and a profound feeling of loss. He wanted to hope, but dread pressed in on him heavier than the pressure, and colder than the life-stealing water.
Why? If
you brought me here, why couldn’t you let me get here in time? Why did you let me get so close if this was the way it had to be?
Richard pulled toward the surface holding the dead child to his chest as if to comfort it. He broke surface to find Lyla kneeling on the dock, a blanket draped over her shoulder. Beyond her, he saw the flashing lights of an ambulance speeding up the drive.
“Give me my baby,” said Lyla.
“I’ve got it,” he replied, gaining his feet as he made his way alongside the dock toward the bank. “Get them over here, Molly!” he yelled.
The ambulance was making straight toward them already.
“Give me my baby,” Lyla repeated as she spread the blanket open to receive it.
He waded out and snatched it from her, threw it to the ground, and fell to his knees clutching the child. He cleared the airway and stripped the zip-up jumper from the limp body. Its eyes were closed, which was good, but he felt no heartbeat. A woman dropped to her knees beside him.
“Let me,” she said, shoving him aside. “How long in the water?”
“Lyla?” asked Richard when she didn’t respond.
“I came outside to look for the nanny about fifteen minutes ago I think. At least that long,” said Lyla. “She shouldn’t have brought my angel out here. I don’t know how many times I told her not to do that.”
Richard stood, seeing that another EMT had taken over for Molly. He licked his lips, tasting something sweet. Puzzled, he looked at the lake, wondering if antifreeze could have gotten into the water. Molly came over and put a comforting arm around Lyla. Lyla stiffened, and then turned to embrace her.
“You’re must be freezing in that cheap jacket,” said Lyla. “They don’t need you now that we have professionals here. Why don’t you go up to the cabin and warm up?”
