by Kay Jennings
“Yeah. Lots of times.” Joey glanced at his mother. “Not to do anything bad—just to get out of the house.”
“Was it easy to climb out?”
“There’s one bush right outside his window, have to avoid it. But it’s easy, close to the ground.”
“Did you ever climb out of Emily’s window?”
“Nope. No reason to. But it would be easy—her room is right next door to Jack’s.”
“Did Jack ever tell you anything bad about Emily?” Fern spoke for the first time.
“No. Well, sometimes he would say she was annoying him. But it wasn’t bad.”
“What did she do to annoy him?” Fern continued.
“He didn’t like it when she touched his stuff, like his letterman’s jacket or his backpack or his books—stuff like that.”
“Did Jack ever say he wished Emily was dead?” asked Matt.
“Nope.”
“Do you know if Jack ever bit Emily? Or anyone else?”
Joey’s mother physically blanched, and stared at Matt. Fern patted her hand reassuringly.
“What do you mean?” Joey asked.
“Did Jack ever bite Emily on the neck or anything? Like maybe playing around?”
“No. I don’t think so. That’s kinda weird.”
“You’re sure, Joey?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. He didn’t do it.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“I just know. Jack’s not like that. He’s my best friend.” He started to cry.
* * *
Matt and Fern were silent in the car until Matt pulled out of the Hawthorne’s driveway. Fern broke the silence.
“So, Jack lied,” she said. “He left the movies and went God
knows where.”
“Looks that way, yes. Are you OK?” He couldn’t see her eyes to know what she was feeling, as she was turned away from him, staring out her window. Her usually pale skin was now white as a sheet.
“I may never sleep again at night, but I’m OK.”
“We have to stay calm, Fern. All we know for sure is that Jack wasn’t where he told us he was on Friday night. We still don’t have any hard evidence, and he could have been anywhere. He might have gone home and gone to bed early. We don’t know.”
“Why would he lie?” Fern said quietly.
“He didn’t totally lie—he did actually go to the movie. I admit he certainly didn’t tell us the whole truth. But let’s think for a minute: What was his motive? Marjorie has way more reason to want Emily dead. Having said that, Jack has seemed—how shall I say this?—a little off at times to me. Sometimes he’s perfectly normal, and then other times he’s a little nutty and creepy.”
“You just described almost every 14-year-old boy on the planet,” she said. “But I think I need to talk to Jack next. I’ve been so fixated on the parents that I haven’t paid much attention to Jack or Gary. I guess, deep down, I couldn’t believe one of the kids could do this. He’s 14, Matt. Fourteen.”
Matt changed direction in the car suddenly, and turned left on the road to the jetty.
Fern looked over at him. “Where are we going?”
“We are going to look at the ocean. Consider it your afternoon coffee break.”
He pulled the car up to the front parking spot facing the ocean. The Twisty River was racing to join the sea on their right, and the jetty was standing strong, doing its job. There was only one other car in the parking lot—a Volvo with Idaho plates.
Matt and Fern didn’t get out of the car, and, instead, sat comfortably together looking out to the ocean, with its combative white-topped waves and slate water. They could see four fishing boats just out past the bar. Way out near the horizon, what must be a very large, ocean-going ship was running parallel to the beach.
“I hope one of those guys is catching my dinner,” Matt said.
Fern smiled. “That’s what I always think, too, when I see fisherman out there. “It didn’t take you long to get completely spoiled on having fresh seafood.”
“Hey, there are worse vices. I don’t smoke, I don’t gamble.”
“You left out ‘drink’,” she noted.
“I don’t drink,” he added. “Too much, anyway.”
“I didn’t used to drink too much.” Wistful.
“But you do now? This case is causing it?”
“I was a nervous wreck when I got home the last two nights,”
she admitted.
“Look, Fern, this case is as bad as it gets. As bad as any I’ve ever worked on.”
“Good to know,” she said weakly.
“I simultaneously kick myself and pat myself on the back for getting you involved. Honestly, your instincts are so solid, and you have been a rock since Saturday. I can’t imagine how I would have coped without you and Jay. At the same time, I feel awful for dragging you into this hot mess. It’s unfair of me, and I wanted to say that. No matter how it turns out. I wouldn’t blame you if you called in sick tomorrow. And maybe you should.”
“For heaven’s sake, why do you feel guilty?” She turned to look at him. “It’s my job!”
“Your job on the first day was to fight for the Bushnells and make sure they were OK. I didn’t have to bring you in for the psychological profiling piece. I knew you didn’t have any homicide experience, and I knew what a toll this case would take. It was unfair of me to grasp at everyone and everything that might help me. I should have relied on the crime team and my own department, and left you out of the down-in-the-weeds details.”
She turned to confront him. “I resent that. My contribution is as important as anyone’s, and, in fact, my work might be the catalyst that helps you solve this dumpster fire. Is this a Texas thing? Women are coddled and don’t belong in a gritty workplace?”
“You know I don’t think like that.”
“I thought I did.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman. It’s because this is an evil, evil murder, and it’s particularly tough on you and Jay who have not been down this road before. Ed and Patty and I have seen it all, and we’ve formed a shell of sorts. But you, you’re raw, and I remember what that feels like. I’d like to be able to protect you from that.”
“Well, you can’t. I feel needed, and it would be harder on me if that went away than how the next shocking development will feel. Please don’t take that away from me.”
“I won’t, if you’re sure. I have every confidence in your skills; I just don’t want you to be traumatized for life.”
“I’ll be much worse off if you don’t ever solve this case, and I didn’t do everything I could to help you. Don’t protect me, dammit.” She stuck out her hand, and said “Deal?”
Matt shook it and repeated, “Deal”, but he did not smile at her.
CHAPTER 32
Monday, 5:20 p.m.
If Matt hadn’t felt the pressure before, he sure felt it now. Mary Lou informed him that “everyone in Chinook County watched KVAL-TV last night, and they are all rooting for you.” Plus, it was clear that the DA was waiting for the slightest misstep by Matt to swoop in and humiliate him by taking over his investigation.
Matt sent his team home just after 5:00 p.m. Everyone was exhausted, and he wanted to think about today’s revelations. There were too many swirling thoughts in his head, several of them conflicting and confusing.
Even though sunset would soon come and nightfall would be upon him, he wanted to go for a run on the beach in the hopes of clearing his head. There was a streak of clear sky out on the horizon beyond the gloomy cloud cover, and he thought he might catch a break with the dwindling light, and could likely make a five-miler before it got too dark.
He pulled on the same sweats he’d worn last night and his Nikes, negotiated the bluff steps, and sprinted north from his cottage, that damnable tunnel pulling h
im inexorably toward it. When he ran up to it, thankfully there was no one around. He pulled up the police tape and ducked under it.
It was darker inside the tunnel, although he could see through it to the dimming light of the setting sun at the opposite end opening. He felt the side of the tunnel, and it was damp and cold. There appeared to be plant life growing on the walls—ferns, moss, and something like a star fish perhaps? The tide was coming in, but only a trickle of the surf reached his feet, barely enough to wet the soles of his running shoes.
Who could leave a fragile, small child alone in this tunnel? What kind of monster could do it? Who was he looking for? Matt closed his eyes for a moment, and listened to the waves breaking softly as he rubbed his hand over the ancient rock wall. Idly, he wondered how long this particular rock formation had been here. Talk to me, doggone, tell me what you saw! The rock maintained its centuries-old silence, mocking him. Only the shallow waters eddying about his feet whispered to him.
All the family’s statements were technically in sync, and all their individual stories added up, with the exception of the Jack bombshell from Joey. But something about the Bushnells was funky.
He thought back, one at a time, to every homicide he’d been involved in over the past twelve years. Bottom line, there were no similarities between any of his past cases and Emily’s death. None. Nothing he could call on at all.
It was over 48 hours since the discovery of Emily’s body, and no one was cracking. The family was, for the most part, behaving as one would expect them to behave. They had a couple of potential leads on suspects, several loose ends to follow, and some serious pounding the pavement ahead of them, but usually by now, Matt had a theory, at least. So far, nothing made any sense. The facts were all seemingly unrelated pieces on a chess board. What was the connection?
Matt left the tunnel and continued his run. As he approached one of the deeper, wider streams feeding into the ocean, he paused to carefully pick his route across it, selecting the biggest, flattest rocks for his path.
His thoughts returned to the Bushnells, and although there was nothing overt in their reactions and behaviors, he couldn’t shake how they didn’t seem close-knit as a family. Instead, each of the three kids seemed distant from each other and from their parents. Marjorie and Fred said the right things, but they didn’t touch each other much, and they didn’t hold onto their three surviving children as hard as Matt would expect in the circumstances. If the same thing had happened in his own family, Matt knew his parents wouldn’t loosen their grip on any of them, no matter what.
The mist was beginning to settle in above the sea as Matt judged he’d run about two-and-a-half miles. With not much daylight left, he turned around to head home. It felt so good to stretch his legs and fill his lungs with the crisp, fresh air. His stride was strong, and his gait was even and smooth. He couldn’t think of any reason why he wouldn’t take this run along this breathtaking stretch of land every single day for the rest of his life.
But he was not in denial; Matt understood that if he didn’t solve Emily’s murder, he might not have this job for long. Whatta we got? I have two parents, two brothers, and one sister—and I’ve only ruled out Susan as the killer. Plus, I have one old man who some think is crazy and who just happens to live right above the murder scene. Throw in the weird stranger-in-town at Port Stirling Links who won’t tell us why he’s here. Also, they tell me the drug trade is active up and down the coast—have I fully explored that yet? No. Why did Jack lie? What’s he hiding? What drove Marjorie to an affair with Craig Kenton? Is she unhappy in Port Stirling? In her marriage? Was Emily going to blow the whistle on her mother? Lots of questions still on Day 3. I need to get my shit together on Day 4.
* * *
Guzzling water and starving after his run, Matt decided he’d grab a quick bite at the Inn at Whale Rock. Once Emily’s killer was behind bars, he’d settle in to a routine and start cooking, but for now it was convenient to have a healthy alternative a few blocks down the road.
“Howdy, Tex,” Vicki greeted him.
“I thought you might have tonight off,” replied Matt. “Being Monday and all.”
“I usually have Monday and Tuesday off, but there’s a group checking into Port Stirling Links today, and they’ve got a reservation about an hour from now. Boss wants me here both nights, in case they come back tomorrow. It’s low season, so I take what I can get.”
“Makes sense,” Matt said, and thought about the plight of a waitress dependent on tourism—can’t be easy during the slow months. “What’s good tonight?”
“We’ve got a homemade oyster stew that’s to die for, if that’s
your thing.”
“I think it might be my thing,” he smiled. “Bring me whatever beer you think I should try tonight, a bowl of oyster stew, and your rib eye steak, medium-rare. Better throw a vegetable on the platter with the steak.”
“I wouldn’t let you not have your veggies,” Vicki said, wagging her finger at him. “It comes with a baked potato and some spinach.”
“Perfect. Make it so, Vicki.”
When she brought his beer—today’s tap was Ninkasi ‘Pacific Rain’, how totally appropriate—she stood silently by his table, fiddling with the tie on her apron. Matt waited. After a couple of beats, she said, “Have you made any headway yet on finding our killer?”
“We have some leads we’re following, but no one behind bars as of tonight. I wish I had better news.”
“I look hard at every customer who walks through our door and wonder if he’s the murderer. It’s gotta be a man, right?”
“We haven’t ruled out anyone yet—male or female.”
“Well, I’m keeping my eyes and ears open. We need to get this creep before it starts scaring off business.”
Matt hadn’t considered that a killer on the loose would hurt whatever tourism Port Stirling had in January, but, of course, Vicki was correct. “I can use all the help I can get, but I will get him. Or her. Take it to the bank, Vicki.”
“I know you will, Tex. I know you will.”
“Hey, while we’re on the subject of business, I’ll want to bring my department here for dinner once we catch our killer and things settle down. Can you set me up?”
“Sure thing. We’ll make it a celebration. And, thanks.” He knew that she knew that he was trying to throw some business her way, but that was OK.
* * *
Alone in his cottage at the end of this brutal Monday, feeling tired to the bone, drowsy, and mellow courtesy of Ninkasi, Matt relaxed in front of his fireplace, staring into the flames while hundreds of images and thoughts raced through his head.
Storm-tossed waves making the ocean the enemy. Marjorie the liar. Rain pummeling the windows. Jack picking crab off his sweater. A Farewell to Arms, thanks Papa. Oyster stew. Gary’s first-term grades. The fragrance of his green tea steaming hot, mixed with oak wood smoke. Bernice pulling back the sheet covering Emily’s body at the morgue. Fred and Marjorie calmly ID-ing her. This morning’s dishes in the sink. Wash them. Where is the knife. How old is Sylvia Hofstetter. Not that it matters. Wind sucking the life out of his walls. Fern’s hair is nice. What about a funeral. Patty Perkins should be police chief. Golf resort but doesn’t play golf. Flashlight—any missing. Bloody clothes. Lights flickering. Candles.
Fern’s hair is nice.
* * *
Matt woke up sprawled out on his sofa in front of the dying fire. One leg was half on and half off the sofa, and there were just a few doomed embers remaining in the grate. So, so weary.
Why is it so dark in here? What happened to my lamp and the light in the kitchen? He swung his feet onto the soft, warm carpet and stood up slowly while his eyes adjusted to the nearly pitch-black room. He was quite sure the lights were on when he dozed off. He looked out his north window, trying to see if the lights were on in the next house over, but it was st
ill stormy, and he couldn’t see anything through the weather. The fog, which seemed to roll in more nights than not, was also back. There were no signs of life outside his walls, and for a moment Matt considered that he’d been sucked up by an alien spacecraft and placed somewhere in a black hole. He stretched.
What was that sound? It came from the area of his entry foyer. Was someone knocking at his front door? Matt, barefoot, made his way silently toward the door. There it was again. What the hell was that noise? He took another step and banged his leg on something hard, forgetting about his sofa table in the dark abyss that his living room had become. That’ll be a nice bruise on my shin tomorrow.
“Who’s there?” Matt said, standing now in front of his closed door. The noise stopped.
“Is someone there?” he repeated. No answer.
He flipped the switch for his porch light, but nothing happened. The power must be out. Great.
Mary Lou warned him to keep flashlights handy; apparently the power went off at random times in Port Stirling, especially during winter storms. Matt felt around in the dark for his hall table; he remembered that he’d put a flashlight in the center drawer. Success!
He turned on the flashlight, which, much to his relief, came on instantly. Slowly, Matt unlocked his door and slid the dead bolt back. He opened his door a crack, and a gust of wind hit him flush in the face. He recovered, pulled the door open wide, and quickly scanned his front porch with the beam. Nothing and no one. Utter darkness, and buckets of rain. The wind threw the rain straight into Matt.
As he bent his head down to protect himself from the elements, he saw a branch that had clearly blown off a tree in his yard, and was brushing up against the side of his house. With every gust of the strong wind, it would bang against his wall and then fall back to the grass. Mystery solved. If only they were all this easy, thought a jumpy Matt. He picked up the tree limb and moved it out into his yard, where he would wait until daylight to deal with it.
Firmly grasping his flashlight, he made his way to the fuse box, where he flipped the switches. Nothing happened. So, it wasn’t only his house; the whole town, or at least, Ocean Bend Road was out of power. Back inside, Matt threw a couple of logs on his almost-out fire and stoked it up to a nice blaze. The huge fireplace, strategically placed in the center of his cottage, would keep him warm tonight. He backed up to the fire and put his hands behind him to dry off. Life was pretty basic when one was faced with the fundamentals. A roof overhead, food in the pantry, and a warm fire. No killer with a knife at his door.
