Time of Departure

by Douglas Schofield

  I was silent. After a mile or so, I said, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “That you know too much.”

  He grinned. “Really? I thought I wasn’t young enough to know everything.”

  “Very funny! Don’t play with me, Marc! What have you got? Some secret source you’re not telling me about?”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re younger.”

  I growled in frustration. I wasn’t going to let him off this time. I grabbed his arm. “Listen! If you’re so damned sure about what Lipinski is going to do, what are we doing? I mean, what are we doing right now?”

  “Getting there first,” he replied. He gently removed my hand from his arm, gave it an affectionate squeeze, and placed it back on the steering wheel.

  21

  Marc looked up from the Levy County map on his knee. He pointed. “That should be it.”

  I braked and swung the car off the gravel. We passed between two faded white stakes that had been driven into the leaf litter on either side of a double-rut driveway that wound into a forest of tall, spindly longleaf pines.

  “It should be about a quarter of a mile,” Marc said.

  “Here we go again,” I muttered uneasily as we moved into the forest. “I do the driving, but you’re the one in the driver’s seat.”

  “It only seems that way.”

  “What are we going to find here?”

  “Only what we need to know.”

  “You’re talking in riddles again!”

  He didn’t respond. I glanced over at him. His head was bowed, and he seemed to be lost in thought.

  We followed the ruts at crawling speed. Eventually, the trees opened up and we were at the edge of a large clearing. I stopped the car. Directly ahead was a dilapidated breezeway-style cottage—what Southerners used to call a dogtrot, and today’s green architects still do. The basic design consisted of two adjoining cabins with a narrow breezeway between them, all under a common roof. In this case, the front entry into the breezeway was sealed off by a door. A lopsided veranda extended across the front of the entire structure.

  The place appeared uninhabited. There were no vehicles in sight, the corrugated iron roof was covered in rust, and the walls looked like they hadn’t seen a coat of paint in twenty years.

  Marc tossed the map onto the dash. “Let’s take a look.”

  I eased my car across the clearing and stopped in front of the house. We got out. I scanned the ground. There was no sign of vehicle tracks other than our own.

  I walked toward the cottage. As I got closer to the veranda, I noticed that vines from a line of bushes planted along the front had wound up, over, and around the railings. In a few places, they had crept all the way across the veranda floor.

  Small, dark pods dangled from many of the branches. I picked one off and peeled it open.

  Crab’s eye peas spilled out into my hand.

  “Marc!”

  No answer. I turned.

  Marc was gone.

  Then I heard his voice. “Claire!”

  I hurried toward the rear of the cottage. When I rounded the last corner, I stopped in my tracks. The back of the property consisted of a few sagging outbuildings and an overgrown stubble grass field that ran off toward the banks of the Suwannee River. In the distance, thick cypress trees lined the edge of the water.

  But what riveted my attention was Marc. He was standing, almost transfixed, staring at the back of the cottage.

  The rear wall of the building was completely overgrown with crab’s eye vines. They covered the windows, much of the peeling door that closed off the rear end of the breezeway, and in several places, they reached as high as the eaves.

  While I was still absorbing this sight, Marc came out of his trance. He strode over to the back door. He tested the handle. The door was unlocked. He began tearing away the vines that would hinder entry.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Marc, don’t! We need a warrant!”

  He turned back to me. He’d been preternaturally calm when we got out of the car, but now he was sweating profusely. His shirt was mottled with dark, spreading stains. His face wore a haunted expression. “You might need a warrant. I’m a civilian.”

  “You’re a state agent!”

  “Based on what? Grayson ordered me off the case, and the cops won’t listen to me! I’m a private citizen.”

  I rushed toward him. “I’m not a private citizen, and you’re with me!”

  “No, Claire. You’re with me.”

  He pushed on the door. Its baseboard scraped and chattered for a few inches and then jammed.

  “Breaking and entering is a felony!”

  “Only when there’s criminal intent.”

  “It’s still criminal trespass!”

  “So arrest me!”

  He shouldered the door. It swung inward, hinges squealing. He shot me an apologetic look and stepped through the opening.

  I stood frozen. Marc had just forced me to make a decision. I ran the known facts through my mind: the crab’s eye pea in Jane Doe’s locket; the toxin levels in Amanda Jordan’s bone marrow; the possibility that Tribe had learned serial dilution from his sister’s textbooks; the fact that he had lived here during the key time period; the location of this property in the red zone on Charlie McNabb’s probability map.

  I ran the odds. They were dead against us. It was one thing to drive onto the property and discover the crab’s eye pea vines. It was quite another to enter the building without a warrant.

  I was halfway back to the car when it hit me.

  Looking back, I can only describe it as an overwhelming combination of recklessness, anger, and curiosity.

  It stopped me in my tracks.

  I took a deep breath, retraced my steps, and entered the cottage.

  * * *

  The dogtrot hallway was no more than four feet wide. The floor was bare plywood, swollen from moisture and blotched with mold. An open doorway on the left revealed a stripped-out kitchen. There were no appliances. A ragged pattern of holes and bent hardware on one wall stood as mute testimony to plundered cabinetry. A clutter of camp-style kitchenware gathered dust in a chipped enamel sink.

  Thump!

  The sound seemed to come from behind the kitchen wall. I hurried along the passageway. A door was open. I looked in.

  The room was carpeted in wall-to-wall shag. Much of it was flattened with age and, in places, threadbare. Unworn sections near the walls were the color of pale urine. The fulvous wallpaper was equally unappealing. The sole sign of the room’s previous use was a narrow cot jammed against one wall. There was no mattress, just a frame of angle iron rails with a sagging sleep surface of discolored cord and rusting wire.

  Marc was kneeling near a small open closet. A wooden crate sat on the floor in front of him. The words OCEAN SPRAY were stenciled across one end. The crate appeared to be sealed, its top seated into the frame formed by the tops of the four sides.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.

  He didn’t reply. He felt around with his fingers, located a gap, and pried the top loose. He set it aside. From where I stood in the doorway, I could see folded clothing.

  Marc raised his head. “To answer your question … some psychos like to keep trophies.” He reached for the top garment. He held it up. It was a woman’s pleated skirt.

  A familiar prickly sensation rippled down my spine.

  No, please! Not now!

  “Marc, right now would be a really good time for us to leave! Please!”

  The back of my neck started to burn. I could feel perspiration starting on my forehead and upper lip.

  Marc ignored me. He extracted another garment. He rose to his feet and shook it free of its folds.

  It was a woman’s dress.

  He held it up, facing me, and seemed to be about to say something when he happened to glance down. Abruptly, he tossed t
he dress aside, dropped to his knees, and seized the next piece of clothing visible in the crate. Another dress … an older-style blue floral print.

  He rocked back on his haunches, fingers fumbling, searching around the neckline.

  “What is it?”

  “Laura Ashley,” he replied, reading the label.

  “She was a designer! What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I was starting to feel very sick.

  “Claire…”

  “What?”

  “It’s Mandy’s dress.”

  I backed out of the room and ran.

  * * *

  When he found me, I was leaning against a tree, retching my McDonald’s breakfast into the shrubbery. He put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged him off. I felt in my pockets for a tissue, gave up, and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my windbreaker.

  I could feel him watching me.

  “Women’s clothes,” he said. “Old. Out of style.”

  “Tribe had a sister, remember?” I croaked.

  “One skirt. One blouse. Three dresses. All different sizes.”

  I wheeled to face him. “What? No Denny’s uniform with Ina’s name tag still in place?” I asked. “No jogging shorts with Victoria’s Social Security number stitched across the ass?”

  “No. Just that blue dress.” There was a catch in his voice.

  “I read the reports, Marc, and I have a damned good memory! Amanda Jordan was last seen, quote: ‘wearing a blue floral dress.’ No mention of a Laura Ashley design!”

  “It’s her dress. I was with her when she bought it.”

  I let out a breath. “Secrets, secrets…”

  “It was more than a year before she disappeared, and it was never a secret.”

  “Why wasn’t the designer label mentioned in the reports?”

  “It was.”

  “I would have remembered!”

  “It’s there. I’ll show you when we get back.”

  I sighed, exasperated. “You had no right to go in there! Now we’re screwed! You’ve destroyed our case!”

  “I want you to come back inside.”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “I’m the one who did the searching, not you. I’m the one who will swear the affidavit for the warrant, not you.”

  “Do you actually believe that will make a difference?”

  “I want you to see something. I want you to see this so you’ll know you can’t stop now.”

  He took me by the hand and led me back to the cottage.

  In the hallway, Marc turned right through an open door. I had noticed the door when I first entered, but it had been closed. I followed him into the cottage’s tiny living room, which was marked by a few pieces of decaying wagon-wheel furniture. In an adjoining dining area, a rotting area rug had been folded back, revealing a rectangular-shaped black void in the floor.

  Nearby, a cross-braced section of wooden flooring leaned against the wall.

  “A trapdoor?”

  “Yes. Leading to a basement … with a dirt floor.”

  “You think—?”

  “I know. Give me your cell. The battery died in mine.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “No one. I want to show you something.”

  I handed him my phone. “Come.” He led me to the opening. He switched on the phone’s flashlight feature and shone the light into the void. A set of rough wooden steps led downward. The light wasn’t strong enough to reach the floor below.

  Marc handed me my phone. “Go down eight steps and shine the light thirty degrees to your right.”

  I hesitated, staring at him. He encouraged me with a nod.

  With a growing sense of dread, I did as he asked. He held my arm, then my hand, to steady me as I descended. I kept the light pointed at my feet and counted the steps. By the sixth step, Marc released my hand. By the eighth step, I was below the main floor level.

  I pointed my cell phone’s penlight to the right, as he had instructed. I played the beam right, swept it left, and then quickly back to the right. The pale light showed where runnels of intruding rainwater had spread a stain of black mold down the inside of the unpointed stonework foundation. Where the water had flowed onto the earthen floor, it had hollowed out a shallow depression.

  Something white glinted in the bottom of the depression.

  I steadied the light.

  Bones.

  The bones of a human hand.

  22

  The judge was a widower. The mid-level shelves on two walls of his otherwise packed personal library were lined with evidence of a long, and apparently blissful, marriage. Photographs of his departed wife on their many trips abroad were interspersed with curios and memorabilia collected on those wanderings. From where I was sitting, I could see exotic bird feathers, a matched set of brass Chinese guardian lions, and a blowgun.

  Judge Evan O’Connor sat behind an antique desk that had a green tooled leather writing surface. If he hadn’t been wearing faded sweats, he could have passed for a character in a Dickens novel. All that was missing from his round, kindly face was a set of muttonchop whiskers.

  Marc and I sat silently while the judge sealed the jurat on the affidavit Marc had just sworn. When he finished, he said, “Thank you, sir. Wait outside, would you, please?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.” Marc stood up and looked at me. “I’ll be in the car.”

  When the door closed behind him, Judge O’Connor said, “Claire, you look like hell!”

  I took a deep breath before I replied. “Tough day, Your Honor.”

  “This could have waited till morning.”

  “It’s Judge Barlow’s week in chambers.”

  The judge scratched an ear. “I guess he’d be a problem.” He caught himself and gave me a sharp look. “Not that I condone judge-shopping, young lady!”

  I suppressed a smile. “Of course not, Your Honor. May I speak frankly?”

  “I would hope you always would.”

  “Even during his chambers week, Judge Barlow can be…” I hesitated.

  The judge finished for me. “Unapproachable?”

  I nodded.

  Judge O’Connor tapped his fingers, thinking. “I’m not happy with this prior entry. You, of all people!” He took a long breath. “I’ll issue the warrant, but only because I’ve accepted your argument that I would have issued one in any event, just on the evidence already in your possession before the entry.”

  He passed the warrant across the desk to me.

  “I’m stretching a point here. Please don’t embarrass me!”

  * * *

  It was an hour past sundown and the Suwannee River property was ablaze with lights. Unmarked squad cars and Florida Highway Patrol cruisers sat parked at odd angles. The cottage’s breezeway doors had been removed from their hinges, front and rear, and a cube van was positioned next to the front entrance.

  Marc and I were standing near my car, which was parked outside the ring of police vehicles. To say we both felt completely drained would be an understatement. “Shattered” would be a more fitting description. We’d had only about six hours’ sleep in the last two days, but we couldn’t leave.

  We had to know.

  As we watched, two figures wearing protective suits slid a pallet bearing an almost flat body bag into the back of the van. A few seconds later, Lipinski, Geiger, and Terry Snead appeared in the doorway. Terry had removed his protective headgear, so I knew it was him. He conferred briefly with the two cops and then broke away and stepped up into the van.

  Geiger started walking toward us. He was carrying a plastic evidence bag. As he approached, he was shaking his head. He looked at me. “I told him,” he said. “I told that drunken ass you might be right!”

  I tried to head off that line of discussion. “I counted seven body bags.”

  “Yup. Seven. All buried in the cellar.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “Yeah. Seven here, and two by the highwa
y. One too many. Some girl never got reported.”

  “Tribe might help you with that. I just talked to Sam. He wants him picked up tonight.” Lipinski joined us as I was speaking. His eyes were locked on Marc. “Did you hear that, Lieutenant?” I asked.

  Lipinski grunted.

  “Is that a yes?” I asked a little testily.

  “Yes! Set it up, Jeff.” He was still staring at Marc.

  “Keep us informed,” I said to Geiger.

  “Us?” Now he glanced at Marc.

  “Yes. Us.”

  “Okay. Leave your cell on,” he replied.

  “What’s that?” I asked, nodding at the evidence bag.

  “A gun. We found it under the cellar stairs, jammed behind the butt end of a floor joist. Found a slug, too. Dug it out of the floorboards next to the trapdoor.”

  I felt Marc shift from his position next to me. He leaned back against the car and asked in a careful tone, “What kind of gun?”

  Geiger held up the bag. In the faint light, I made out the shape of a snub-nosed revolver. Geiger’s answer confirmed my impression. “Colt .38 five-shot. Ted says it looks like a Third Series.”

  “Serial number?”

  “Can’t get at it. There’s so much corrosion, the cylinder is welded tight. I’m going to drop it at the lab.” He walked off and started talking to a pair of uniformed officers.

  I started moving around my car, heading for the driver’s side.

  As Marc opened the passenger door, Lipinski grabbed him by the sleeve. “Explain it to me, Hastings!”

  Marc pulled free. “Explain what?”

  “How you knew that trapdoor was there?”

  A second passed. Neither man blinked.

  “Detective work, Ted.” He got in the car, and then added through the open window, “You should try it sometime.”

  I got behind the wheel and started the engine. We pulled away. I could see Lipinski in my rearview mirror, staring after us.

  Our headlights picked up the entrance to the double-rut driveway that led out through the pines. I headed for it.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” I said, keeping my eyes ahead. “About the trapdoor.”

  “I just followed the outline,” he replied.

  I looked at him. His face wore a strange expression.