by E H Davis
“Mind if I ask the questions.” It wasn’t a question.
“Jeez, what a —” blurted Teddy, silenced with a glare from Jens.
Arms folded over her chest, Trooper Morrison glanced from father to son, assessing while Jens recounted the story of the man they presumed to be a doctor, who had tried to take his own life but was thwarted by the bear.
Jens wondered if her suspicion was an acquired trait, requisite for her job, or one that came naturally to her.
Jens recounted the incident with Daniel at the convenience store in Ossipee, and how he knew he was a doctor because, along with other clues, he had saved the life of the cashier. Jens explained how he and Teddy deduced he was from Florida. He described how they’d found his SUV with the doors open, keys in the ignition.
All the while, Trooper F. Morrison wore a sour expression that reminded Jens of a redneck sucking on a tooth.
“What line of work you in?” She adjusted her belt, rolled her shoulders like a weightlifter.
Jens smiled, knowing what was coming.
“Writer. Crime novels.”
“Leave me do my job,” she said, flashing him what would pass for a smile.
“When we first got here, his SUV, a black Cadillac Escalade, was parked there.” Teddy pointed to a vacant spot in the lot. “We found a wallet in the trash barrel.”
Prompted, Jens handed her the driver’s license salvaged from the fire.
“You can make out a few letters, like ‘D’ and ‘a’ in the first name and something ‘o’ in the last ...” Teddy’s voice trailed off at her annoyance.
“We were halfway up the trail when we heard a gunshot coming from the ledge,” said Jens. “When we got there the bear had his head between her jaws, likely protecting her cubs on the ledge below.”
“Three gunshots were reported by the woman in the cottage at the foot of the trail.” She held Jens’ eyes.
“The first shot was the victim’s, self-inflicted.” He held her eyes steadily. “Then I fired twice, at the bear.”
“You kill her?”
“Grazed her,” answered Teddy.
“That stop her?”
Jens shrugged, nodded.
“So where’s the gun?”
________
After climbing back up the trail and beating the brush around the cap rock for the gun, unsuccessfully, they trudged wordlessly back down the trail.
Sgt. Morrison put them in the back seat of her cruiser, insisting on driving them home as a courtesy but, really, Jens knew it was to check out where he would be for future reference. Her suspicions bothered him, making him feel guilty for no reason.
As they drove out of the preserve, past the dried-up riverbed and dense woods, Sgt. Morrison reported back to her station on her two-way radio.
“The unsub is being taken to North Conway Presbyterian,” answered a female voice tinged with French Canadian cadences. “Condition unstable; hasn’t regained consciousness. You get a positive ID?”
“Negative,” answered the trooper, keying in the microphone. “Put out an all points on a black, late model, Escalade Cadillac SUV with Florida tags, though they might’ve been swapped.” She released the transmit button on the two-way and glanced back at Jens and Teddy in the back seat.
“Either of you catch the SUV’s plate number?”
Jens met her watchful eyes in the rearview mirror. They were blue-grey, he noticed, not just blue.
“Only that it was a Florida plate.”
Jens glanced at Teddy, who mouthed nope without looking away from the fleeting scenery. They had just turned onto Mountain Ledge Rd., with its alternating mix of farms and sprawling, red-roofed country homes carved into the hillsides. The cruiser’s engine groaned as it took them up the steep grade.
The radio crackled. “Any sign of foul play?” asked the dispatcher.
“Civilians aboard. Fill you in back at HQ.”
“Roger that,” said the dispatcher, ending the connection.
“So, Corbin, would I know any of your books?”
Jens named his published titles, beginning with the best known one, The Killing Kind, nominated for a “Poe,” named after Edgar Alan Poe, he explained.
Sgt. Morrison shrugged.
________
Finally, at a bend high up on the ridge, she pulled into the drive at Jens’ cabin, a modest two-story, single family home of notched cedar logs perched on a hillside, with a view of the sloping woods and surrounding mountains. In the driveway, Jens’ late model 4-WD Subaru was parked beside a tarp-covered fishing skiff on a trailer.
“Yours?” The trooper pointed her chin at the Subaru.
Jens shook his head in disgust.
“Yes, it is, and no, we’re not planning on going anywhere soon and why the hell would you need to know that anyway?” he said angrily. “If you have any suspicions, spit them out, otherwise, let’s go, Teddy.”
He jerked the door handle, only to find it locked.
“Shit! Shit!”
He slammed his shoulder against the door. He knew he was acting foolishly, overacting perhaps, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Sgt. Morrison took her time writing down the Subaru’s plate number. She turned around in her seat.
“There’s still the matter of what happened to the gun — I know, small detail.” She smiled insincerely.
“Maybe it fell off the ledge in all that chaos,” offered Teddy. “It was a rad high ledge.”
“Chaos, eh?” After a pause: “Any objection to my searching you?”
Jens shook his head in disgust. “No good deed goes unpunished.” He shared a conspiratorial look with Teddy. “Book us or let us go.”
He jerked the door handle again.
“Calm down.”
She laughed — a lovely trill, thought Jens, that offset all the macho posturing.
“You put a line like that in your next book, you’re off the bestseller list.” Her smile seemed genuine. “Anyway, be prepared for the likelihood that your friend may not make it.”
“His name’s Daniel,” Teddy barked, having missed the shift in her tone.
Sgt. Morrison released the rear door lock, got out, and leaned against the cruiser, waiting for them to step out.
Jens handed her the doctor’s Rolex.
“Found this up on the ledge. We noticed him wearing it back at the convenience store.”
“Inscription says ‘To Daniel, Always, Leah,’” piped in Teddy.
F. Morrison whistled at the bejeweled watch as she took it from Jens.
“Conscience just kick in?”
“Let’s go, Teddy.”
“Hey, I’m just doing my job.” She laughed unapologetically.
Jens stomped up the gravel path to the cabin, resolved not to look back and give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she’d gotten under his skin.
Yet, he had to admit, he liked her. She reminded him of his former students whose brash confidence belied their insecurity.
Chapter Fourteen
While Trooper Morrison backed out of the drive, Jens sent Teddy ahead to get the key from the realtor lockbox attached to the front door. Walking up the pebbled drive to his cabin always gave Jens a rush of pride, reminding him that this was the house that The Killing Kind, his second novel, had financed. The Poe Award had generated book sales, along with a substantial advance on his next two books. Both had fared well, though not as well as expected.
“Whew, it’s stuffy in here,” Teddy shouted from inside the foyer.
“Open some windows.”
Out of habit, Jens surveyed his house and grounds, finding everything in order. He walked around to the back of the house and mounted the deck with a smile. He loved to sight down the grassy slope of his property, which extended deep into the woods without encroachment from other homes. After today’s ordeal, he appreciated the solace this view afforded him.
Having to justify his existence as a writer, as he’d been forced to do with Sgt. Morrison, a
lways made him aware of how precarious a livelihood he’d chosen. With the glut of fiction on the market, Jens knew that publishers soon lose interest in older authors, especially ones who fail to regularly make the bestseller list, opting instead to put their money and effort into the next wunderkind. It’s sexier to promote the young. Youth worship is the malaise of the 21st Century, seen in nearly all media. Jens visualized an infinite influx of twenty-something writers in every genre, all poised over their keyboards, flush with the pride of completion, finger pressing the “Enter” button, their printers spewing manuscripts. It did not matter that their novels were not especially well-written: editors would fix that. What mattered was a youthful point of view and a “fresh” story. The rest was image, promotion, packaging.
Sitting beside Teddy in the mudroom, Jens removed his dusty trail boots, sighing with relief as he put on house shoes. He inhaled the comforting, familiar odors. He loved the smell of pine pitch coming from the saws and axes clamped to the wood-paneled wall. The familiar smell of wool laced with sweat lingered on ski sweaters and jackets arranged on hooks along the entrance. While Jens unlocked and opened the window, working the hand crank, Teddy brushed past him into the house proper.
Putting his thoughts aside about his value to publishers, Jens gave himself over to the pleasure of deciding what to make for dinner. Cooking was one of his rare indulgences, for it offered timely gratification while engaging his creative impulses. He had a variety of dishes to choose from the shopping he had done earlier. Tonight, he decided, he would keep it simple — chicken breast in spicy mango sauce, basmati brown rice, and steamed broccoli drizzled with olive oil. Under his tutelage, Teddy’s palate was becoming sophisticated. Jens looked forward to his son’s culinary critique.
“Open all the windows,” he called. “Upstairs, too, please.”
“I’ll get the basement.” Teddy headed for the lower level, where there was a recreation room and a bedroom, outfitted with bunk beds where he slept.
Jens felt a twinge of suspicion as he watched Teddy disappear downstairs, wondering why he was volunteering to air the basement. Teddy never did any chores without being asked and coaxed numerous times. Jens knew, from talking with other parents of LDs, Learning Different kids, that volunteering was generally not in their repertoire.
He shrugged it off and stepped inside, gliding on the laminated maple, tongue-in-groove flooring, taking it all in with a rush of pleasure.
Here, more than at the sprawling, two-story farmhouse they owned in Lee, he felt most at home. A library of his favorite books, an eclectic collection that represented twenty years of deep reading in just about every genre and topic imaginable, lined the shelves around the room and continued along the stairway up to the loft and beyond. His wife’s vivid watercolors from an earlier period adorned the wall. A sofa flanked by deep leather chairs, positioned before the fireplace, completed the rustic ambiance.
Teddy popped back into the main room, a little out of breath.
“That was fast. Everything all right below?” He could tell when Teddy had something on his mind, like now.
“Daddio, can I play a little Xbox? Just ‘til dinner?” He worked the crank on the window in the kitchen alcove, which gave onto the porch.
Jens opened the window beside the sink. He leaned against the butcher block island in front of the stove and took down a copper sautéing pan from among the burnished pots and pans hanging overhead and placed it over a burner on the stove. He loved to cook here. He loved to be here. Unconsciously, he ran his hand along the surface of the butcher block, which he kept rubbed with lemon oil. He turned back to Teddy
“We didn’t come up here to play Xbox. You can do that in Lee. You got a whole shelf of summer reading to choose from in your room. What about that new Poznanski I saw on your night table — Erobus. Have you started it?”
“Can’t I just chill?”
Annoyed, Teddy went to the topographical map of the White Mountains mounted beside the fireplace and red-lined the day’s trail with a magic marker.
“C’mon, just ‘til dinner?”
When Jens didn’t answer, Teddy poured himself a tall glass of juice from the refrigerator, gulped it down, and poured himself another. He grew serious.
“What would you have done if the bear hadn’t stopped?”
“I’d have shot her.”
“Where?”
“In the woods.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. Not. No really, where?”
Jens chuckled.
“You always want to know the hypothetical ‘what if?’ You’ve been doing that since you were old enough to talk.”
“And you’ve told me that at least a thousand times.” He sipped his drink. “I’d have shot her in the ear. Blown her brains out.” His hand a gun, he pointed it at Jens. “Bam! Bam! Bam!”
“Great.” Jens pushed his hand away. “What about her cubs?”
Teddy shrugged. “Were you scared?”
“Very. And you?”
“If I say ‘yes’ will you let me play Xbox?”
Jens really wanted to ask Teddy more about the question he’d raised earlier — about the stability of his marriage. But now was not the right time.
“Just until dinner,” he relented.
Teddy threw an arm around him and hugged, making Jens wonder how much longer he could expect to enjoy such tender mercies.
Chapter Fifteen
After putting the chicken in the oven, Jens went to the master bedroom, which he shared with Vivian on the rare occasions she joined him here. She preferred the house in Lee, with its spacious horse barn converted to a studio, where she could disappear to paint when the mood struck her.
Most people would assume that two artists living and working under the same roof would make a perfect match, but he knew that the best marriages between creative types designate one spouse as the artist and the other the nurturer, channeling his or her energy into the home and children. In their marriage, he did both, juggling his time like a miser.
While writing and teaching the occasional fiction-writing class at the university, he nurtured his wife as well as their son. Meanwhile, Vivian neglected them and the house to pursue her art, which was little more than a hobby as far as he was concerned, though she took herself quite seriously.
This was a bone of contention between them, especially lately, with the pressure on him from his publisher and agent to produce a bestseller, something that would decisively transcend his dependable, crafted crime stories and catch fire with his readers. Like the Swedish novels of the late Stieg Larsson and those of the husband and wife writing team “Lars Kepler,” he needed to let his writing take his readers to unknown territory, with a character or a subject that defied expectations. For this he needed his wife’s support — and her faith. Instead, like narcissists who repel one another, they squabbled over household chores and responsibilities and, sadly, over money. Here, at the cabin, he was free at last to indulge his imagination.
He scooped up his pen and composition book, which served as a diary, and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cabernet from a bottle he’d opened to air for dinner.
“Teddy, I’m going out back to work,” he called down to the basement, where he pictured Teddy seated in front of the flat screen TV, frenetically thumbing the toggle switches of his Xbox controls, his concentration total. No attention deficit when he was playing, Jens noted cynically.
“Right!” Teddy yelled back.
Glass in one hand, his diary in the other, Jens managed to open the door to the deck and settle into one of the wooden chairs positioned with a view of the mountains in the distance.
He thought about the protagonist of his crime series, a tenacious Portsmouth, New Hampshire police detective of French-Canadian descent and spirited temperament named Honore Poulon.
The distinctive chatter of a mockingbird calling out to its mate gave Jens pause.
A thought occurred to him, no doubt stimulated by the events of
the day and the bear’s turning on Teddy. What is the worst thing that can happen to a parent? The answer was obvious: to lose a child. And the worst way, bar none? To a predator.
It was a fear that had obsessed him when Teddy was younger and they were living in L.A., an apparent magnet for child molesters. The tabloids were full of sordid stories, and neighborhood watches distributed the names and addresses of registered sex offenders. When Teddy was four, he’d wandered away in a department store, and Jens had panicked before finding him hiding in the clothing racks.
A shadow fell over the curtain of his inner eye. When it lifted, a young woman bodied forth from the recesses of his imagination. Deep sorrow was etched in her face, her cheeks bathed in tears. Like a distant call to arms, Jens heard the mockingbird’s mate chatter back. Jens began to write as though possessed.
Cassie Melantree is a thirty-something private investigator, whose seven-year-old daughter was abducted by a pedophile, a local civic leader, and slain only moments before Cassie crashed his secret lair. She’s on a mission. Applying the investigative skills of her former profession as a reporter, she devotes herself to helping other families whose children have been abducted. These are the victims whose melancholy faces stare out at us from milk cartons, accusing us of indifference, taunting our naïve complacence.
The land phone was ringing inside, in the kitchen. Jens ignored it, refusing to interrupt the flood spilling through his fingers onto the page.
In some cases, she saves the children in the nick of time, returning them to the safety of their homes; in other cases she’s too late, uncovering their mutilated bodies, allowing their families at least the solace of mourning; in still others, she fails to bring closure to the wounded families, either because the culprit is dead, or there just aren’t enough clues to rescue the child or pin the heinous act on a particular suspect, even if Cassie knows he’s guilty ( she has powerful instincts which she trusts implicitly).
The phone continued to ring. Jens ignored it.
These are the hardest cases for Cassie to recover from, as she knows the pain and panic of a parent with a child missing. Her heart goes out to the parents of these children and to the kids themselves, undergoing soul-shattering abuse at the hands of conscienceless monsters, human only in so far as they walk and talk like the rest of us. These are the cases she never puts out of her mind, which haunt her even as she embarks on a new one.
