Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake)

by Rachel Caine

  I pause when I spot a glint in the light and crouch to examine it. A broken beer bottle, label long tattered from being out here for years. I mark it anyway and move on.

  Prester’s grid is not rich in clues. I finish north to south, start east to west, and I’m halfway through (and an hour in) before I spot something odd. I examine it, trying to figure out what it is; it’s just a shape half-hidden by a scramble of ferns, but it looks wrong. I carefully move the plants and take a closer look.

  Smooth. Pale. Curved. Organic.

  This has nothing to do with our missing woman, but this is bone. My heart starts beating faster, but I talk it down. Probably just an animal, I tell myself. That would make sense; it is the middle of the damn woods. I know it’s risky, and the TBI boys will probably, righteously, scream about me tampering with evidence, but I don’t want to be that stupid local who fussed over a deer skull either. So I crouch down and start carefully working the dirt away from the sides.

  It’s a human skull, buried in the ground chin down. Whether it was fully covered before and rain washed it visible, I can’t tell, but when I get to the brow ridge and orbital sockets, I know for a fact it’s human, and probably male, since the brow ridge is large. I stop, back off, plant an orange flag, and key my radio.

  “Got something,” I report to the deputy manning the table back down the hill. “I’m going to need the scene commander up here, now.”

  “Yes, Detective,” she replies crisply. “I’m sending him now. Y’all need forensics up there, too?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. I think that’s the end of the conversation, but after a short pause she comes back.

  “Did you find her?” She asks it tentatively, almost reverently.

  “No,” I said. “Something else. No sign of our missing woman.”

  She doesn’t respond this time. I wait, staring at that half-buried skull.

  Who are you? I wonder who put him out here in the dirt too. And why the hell he’s so close to the drowned car in the pond. Because something—nothing logical, something deep at the base of my brain—is whispering that it can’t be a coincidence. We like things to make sense and be logical, we cops. I know this probably won’t mean a damn thing except some drunk hunter broke his leg and got eaten by the proverbial bear, but . . . still.

  It’s connected. I know that, even if I can’t prove it yet.

  My grid quickly turns into a crime scene, and after initial questioning by the scene commander—a TBI lieutenant, white and brusque, who demands to know why I partially uncovered the skull and doesn’t much listen to the answer because asking is enough to fill in the box on his mental form—I drop back to lean against a tree and watch from a distance. Their approach is pretty clean, all things considered, and it being an old crime, not a fresh scene, they don’t have to worry about footprints. Hairs and fibers, though, they do worry about, and everybody hovering over the skull ends up with forensic paper coveralls, or they don’t make an approach at all. A tech approaches me to gather hair and fiber samples in case I’ve shed on the dirt or skull, and I’m fine with that. It’s just protocol.

  What isn’t protocol is the way the scene commander throws out opinions like he’s shaking off water. Probably a drifter. Out in these woods? Unlikely. Homeless folks don’t hang around in the woods by preference, and if he were homeless, he’d have had a pack, some kind of tent, something. There’s nothing I can see anywhere nearby. Some drunk who decided to sleep it off in the wrong place. Or a suicide.

  Accidentally dead people and suicides don’t generally bury their own skulls. I know the skull could have gotten separated from the body by scavengers; could have rolled here from uphill, come to that, and gotten buried in mud naturally. I wonder if I should mention it, because not one of the people on scene is looking that direction yet.

  I don’t. Instead, I head up the hill.

  It’s a tough climb, friable rock shattering into gravel under my feet, slick vegetation nearly sending me down again, but I manage. I arrive at the top breathing hard, sweating under my jacket, and put my hands on my hips as I slowly turn a circle. Here at the top it’s still shady but not the same nightfall it was down below, and I don’t need the flashlight to identify the grave. It’s old, but not more than a couple of years, I’d judge. Shallow, and disturbed plenty by scavengers, which explains the skull tumbling down the hill. I don’t dig into the dirt this time, just observe; I don’t have to touch a thing to see three rib bones sticking out. Tattered fabric flutters in the wind.

  I solemnly plant one of my neon flags, stand up, and key the radio. “Got something up the hill,” I say. “Looks like the rest of the body.”

  From where I’m standing, I can see everyone stop, turn, and look up at me.

  I don’t say anything else.

  The TBI agent is on a slow boil now, not because I’ve found the body but because I’ve disproven his popped-off theories. I’m told to fall back and keep going with my grid search . . . although the bootheels of all those officers have left me with a mess that will make it ten times harder. I don’t argue. I slip and slide back down the hill, flick on the flashlight, and start where I stopped. There’s a lone deputy standing guard down there, roping off the area around the skull; we nod, and I keep moving. It’s another hour before I’m to the end of the pattern, and I report in what little I’ve come up with—couple more glass bottles, a plastic water bottle, and a shotgun shell casing that looks too weathered to be of much use. I head back through the trees to the table, and I’m surprised to see the sun’s already sliding toward evening. Didn’t feel that long, but when I check my watch, a wave of exhaustion hits me. I haven’t slept much in the past forty-eight, and while I can keep going, it’s not real smart. I’ll start to miss things. My reaction time will turn to shit, which when you carry a sidearm is a real problem.

  I phone myself off duty with the station and head to Pop’s warm, cozy cabin up the hill from Stillhouse Lake. I bounce my car up the steep gravel road to the flat parking area—just big enough for my dad’s truck and my car—and when I step out into the chilly evening air, I catch the smell of the place. I breathe it deep, closing my eyes. Fresh, clean trees, and no lake scent this far up. Dad’s cooking up fish, and I have to swallow a sudden burst of saliva as I realize how damn hungry I am. When did I eat? I can’t remember anymore.

  I knock, wait for his yell, and enter the side door. Javier’s dog, Boot, bounds to his feet, panting, and comes to me for his welcome petting. He’s well behaved, even in the face of the smell of food. I hug his big, muscular neck, and he gives me fond licks. “Lock your damn doors,” I tell my dad as I stand up again. He doesn’t turn around from the stove, just waves a big iron fork over his head.

  “Anybody comes for me in here, I’ll stick ’em on the grill,” he says. “Filleted.”

  “Catfish?” I guess, and come to look over his shoulder. My father used to be taller, broader, before age shrank him down; it’s always a little disorienting, and a little sad, to reconcile this wiry man with the big, booming one who used to pick me up in one arm. Ezekiel “Easy” Claremont. One hell of a father, even in the worst days. And we had some bad ones after Momma died: not enough money, way too much grief. My pop gave up a lot to take care of me. Time for me to do the same for him, as much as he’ll allow.

  “You back off now, I only made enough for me.” He shoots me a sharp look, though. “You skip lunch, girl?” I just shrug, which I know he’ll take for yes. He shakes his head and reaches for a big metal spatula that he uses to cut that generously sized sizzling fish portion in half. He turns both pieces in the pan.

  I wash my hands and get down plates and set the table, an old ritual that still conjures up the ghost of my mother, long gone, though the memory of her smile still lingers. These were her plates—worn, chipped in some spots, but precious to her. I get him a tall glass of water and set out his pills, and grab myself a Coke.

  “Least you can do is get me one of those beers, since I’m cook
ing for you,” he says.

  “You know those meds say you can’t drink alcohol with them.”

  “I know that beer ain’t got much alcohol in it anyway.”

  It’s a familiar grumble, and I let it go. I know—and his doctor knows—that he sneaks beers time to time. Hasn’t hurt him much, though I worry. I find the potatoes and spinach he’s already made warming in the oven and put them on the table, and by that time, the fish is done. Pop carries over the heavy skillet and slides the portions out; I stop myself from taking over when I see his arm shaking. He doesn’t need that out of me, not right now.

  “Your leg’s a little better,” I tell him. It’s true. His limp’s not as bad as it was a week back.

  “Be better still once it warms up and stays warm,” he says. “That cold’s a bastard. Sit yourself down, get some food in you. You need it.”

  Pop is right, of course. I’m ravenous at the smell of the fish—blackened Cajun-style—and I barely wait for the prayer before I dig in. Home spice melts on my tongue, and for the first time all day I feel right. Safe. We eat without talking much, and every bite of it feels like love from him to me.

  I’m torn about telling him about the baby. On the one hand, I know he’ll be so happy about it he could bust . . . and yet, I want to tell him when Javier’s here with me. I want to share this with Javi, the joy my father’s going to feel. It’s just another week. It’s all I can do not to blurt it out, but I hold back. Somehow. And I know part of the reason is that I don’t want Pop to fuss over me and nag me about dropping out of this case.

  “Anybody stop in?” I ask him. Our friends often do, just to make sure my father’s okay all alone up here, though since Sam and Gwen moved off to the big city, they don’t come as often as they did. A couple of other neighbors make a point of it, though; one especially nice older lady from Norton drives all the way out once a week to have coffee and pick up his grocery list and make sure he’s set up. I feel guilty about that, but I think she’s sweet on him and I don’t want to step in the middle of whatever that is.

  “Sam just checked in,” Pop says. “He’s been off flying today. Guess it makes him happy.” Pop’s voice sounds grim, and I remember how much he hates to fly. Always has, as long as I can remember. He’d rather spend days on a bus going to visit relatives than take an hour on a plane. “And you can stop telling people to call me all day. I’ve got my damn cell phone, and I know who to call if I fall and can’t get up.”

  “You call 911,” I tell him briskly. “Not friends.”

  He sends me a look that tells me I’d best step back. “I know that.”

  “Fish is tasty, Pop,” I say, and that mollifies him a little. “What’d you put in the spinach?”

  “Garlic and lemon. Fresh lemon, not that stuff in the bottle.” He lets a little space go by before he says, “You’re into a bad one, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty bad,” I tell him, and eat the spinach. It’s lost its taste now. I’d forgotten about the little girls for the span of a whole few minutes, and it hurts like a betrayal. I know the little baby inside me right now is too small to feel, but I still think I feel the flutter of its tiny forming heart. I should tell him, but at the same time, I don’t want to tell him. Not until this thing is over, and Javier is here. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I know you don’t want to tell me.”

  “Pop.”

  “Can’t bottle that up inside, you know that. Javier’s gone off to the Marine Corps, ain’t he? Who you talking to about the case, then?”

  “Gwen,” I say. “I talked to Gwen. She’s helping me out on this.” He grunts, which is his way of saying he both approves and still wishes I’d put it on him. But I can’t, not this. I just don’t feel right about that. “I’m probably going to be doing some long hours on this. I’ll make sure people come by and help you out if you need it.”

  “I’m not a damn shut-in, and I don’t need folks coming up here all hours knocking on my door. They can call if they got something to say.” Once my father’s feathers get ruffled, his spurs come out, too, and I hold up a placating hand.

  “Okay,” I say. “We got any dessert in here?” Dessert always diverts my dad. He’s got a bit of a sweet tooth.

  “Chocolate cake,” he says. “Myra brought it by last week.” Myra is the Norton woman, and maybe my father’s side piece, but I don’t want to think about that. I just get up and get us slices of the cake, which is homemade and rich as hell. Myra’s a good cook. We eat it up and forget our rough edges, and the rest of the half hour I spend there is easy and calm. I wash up and put things away and leave him tuning in to a boxing match. Night’s fallen dark and heavy around the lake, but the stars are out, stark and beautiful. I lean against the car and finish up the last of my Coke before I three-point it into the recycling bin. I whistle for Boot, and he comes bounding down the stairs and into the back of the car.

  Cruising around the lake road is a strange experience now; I always look over at the house where I first met Gwen Proctor. It looks the same. Odd I won’t find her there now.

  I check my phone in the car. No calls, but Gwen’s emailed that she’s heading out to Valerie tomorrow to interview neighbors and see if there’s any sign of a stalker in Sheryl’s life. It’s late, but I need to run down Sheryl’s ex, Tommy Jarrett. The old detective theory of “it’s always the husband” is cliché because it’s mostly true. If not the husband, it’s almost always someone close—family, friends, ex-partners, neighbors. I’d have to eliminate Tommy anyway to go anywhere else. An investigation is a spiral, moving out. And when you miss something, you have to go back to the beginning.

  I prefer going at odd hours if I plan to doorstep somebody, but it’s closing in on ten at night, and that’s pretty late in these parts. Still . . . I have the nagging feeling I’d best push on. I don’t locate an address for Tommy, but there’s an Abraham Jarrett living out in the sticks beyond Norton. Good bet. I head there and text Prester once I roll to a stop at the destination. I give him the address and what I’m there to do. He sends back BC30 . . . which, in Prester-speak, means be careful, and that he expects a check-in thirty minutes from now. Good enough. If I don’t have backup, at least I’ll have someone alert for trouble and getting help rolling fast.

  The Jarrett place is . . . pretty typical. Half-farm, half-junkyard. The small farmhouse on the property hasn’t got a roof, and I don’t think anybody’s lived in it in decades, but there’s a seminew single-wide trailer sinking into the dirt not far away. It’s maybe half a mile out of Norton proper, but it might as well be in the heart of the wilderness, it’s so dark and quiet around here. Lights are on in the trailer, though, and that gives me a little confidence.

  I walk up the steps and knock briskly on the flimsy door. I hear heavy thuds, footsteps moving toward the front of the home, and then the door flies open with such force I’m glad I moved a few treads down, out of respect. An old, grizzled white man glares down at me. “What you want at this hour? Jesus wept, it’s late.” But then he blinks, and sees the badge I’m holding out, and his body language shifts. “You here to tell me you found him? My boy?”

  “You’re talking about Tommy?” I ask, and he nods and comes out on the steps. He’s wearing a checked bathrobe that’s too thin for the cold, but he doesn’t seem to care. Weathered old house shoes on his feet. I glance behind him inside the house—habit—and see that it’s fairly neat. That’s unexpected. “I’m here about him, yes. You’re saying he’s missing?”

  “I’m saying he left a long while back, and nobody believes me when I say he wouldn’t have done that,” Abraham says. He squints at me. “You must be new. Never dealt with you before.”

  “I’m Detective Claremont,” I tell him. “Can I ask you a few questions? I know it’s late, but it may be important.”

  He rocks back and forth in his slippers for a minute, then nods. “You want to come on in? Have some coffee?”

  “I’d be much obliged.” I’m guardedly plea
sed to be welcomed. At least he’s talking. That’s a good start.

  Inside, the trailer is just as neat as the glimpse implied. The carpet’s old, but there’s very little clutter. Photos on the walls, and some generic dollar-store art. Nothing in the place makes me think there’s been a woman living here for years, if ever; the small touches all seem masculine. My gaze catches on a framed Confederate flag as I turn, and I take a beat, then move on. Not exactly unusual in this part of the world, but indicative of several things.

  He’s getting out a couple of mismatched mugs, and there’s a half-full pot of coffee in the machine. He pours and, without looking at me, says, “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine,” I say. He sends me a look, as if to figure out what I mean by that, then nods and carries the coffee over to the small two-person table. We sit. “Late to be making these kinds of calls, ain’t it? You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”

  “I know it’s late,” I say. I let the implied threat slide. “Sorry about that, sir. I know you were probably just settling down for the night.” I put some warmth in my voice, and it helps; his shoulders come down a touch. Anything I can do to disarm him right now is useful. “I didn’t know about your son’s case. Can I ask—”

  “He’s been gone over a year now,” he says. “And I’ll tell you what, I think that woman of his killed him. I said as much to the other detective, but I don’t think he even listened.” I hear the anger, and see the muscle harden in the line of his flabby jaw. “Damn shoddy job he did. Said my son just ran off and left his pregnant wife. If that’s true, why’d he sign over his damn car and house to her first? And his whole bank account too? Man’s going to run out on his responsibilities, he takes what he owns.”