The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

by C. J. Box

  His running watch told him he was making better than usual time. Before long, even though he had to listen closely, the sounds of the falls grew closer with each step. The sun was still not up, but the silver and yellow lip of the bowl that surrounded the treetops seemed to pulse as it spread. David told people he could smell rocks, that Indiana limestone had a specific scent, like ice, or sand, which he also claimed had their own smells. His close friends, Simon and his ex-wife Cheryl and his daughter, shook their heads and laughed at David. He began a trot now, the hiking boots holding the soft spring mud, making them heavier.

  He jogged through a bend and past a rounded stack of cobbled rock that’d been a foundation to an old milk house, then picked up the pace until he was on a path worn by people trying to explore the little caves tucked above on the brittle cliffs that had once been places of shelter for the Miami and Potawatomi tribes. He slowed his pace to a brisk walk and then stopped, listened for the waterfalls of Shanty. David pushed a button on his watch, and the milliseconds ceased their frantic tallying. He drank from a water bottle made of recycled aluminum. It had a filter so tap water could be used, but David filled the bottle from the already purified water he kept stacked high in the pantry. Through a tangle of red-budded branches he could see the water cascading off the flat layers of rock, and always he recalled the first time he’d seen it as a kid, exploring on his own and finding Shanty Falls before he knew its name and believing he’d made a mammoth discovery.

  David replaced the water bottle into its leather holster and took a few more steps, looking up each time to fully take in the area. He stopped abruptly before his mind could decipher the paleness lying at the edge of the rippling waters. David looked behind him. He crouched, stood, and crouched again, this time squinting. The body was naked except for a pair of gym shorts. It was stocky. He called out something he thought sounded like a question but was not words. He stepped closer and looked behind him again, over his shoulder and up toward the caves in the cliffs, now mostly out of sight except for one of the larger ones, the opening crooked and toothy, a yawning expanse of black. David pulled his phone from the Patagonia khakis, glancing all around, then back at the screen. The signal near the falls was almost always nonexistent, sporadic at best. The 911 digits remained on the screen above the 00:00 that would not advance by even one second. David stepped forward, then back, but the service didn’t change. He shoved the phone back into his pants pocket. He walked backward for a few steps, then sideways, before moving closer, stopping about forty feet from where the body lay. He thought he smelled blood, maybe a whiff of whiskey. It occurred to him to quickly take a few photos. The camera on the phone ticked them off wildly. He hit Record and narrated what he’d found, the time, what he was about to do. “I’m approaching to assist if necessary. No cellular service. Will head back toward house to get a signal and phone the authorities.”

  He took a deep breath and swallowed. “I’m coming to you,” he said, and the sound of his voice was like a stone dropping into the water, hollow and rippling out through the bare trees. “I’m here to help,” he added, once again checking his surroundings, startling just a bit when a squirrel leapt from limb to limb, the crack and thump as though someone were jumping on him. His heartbeat settled and he pushed on, not unafraid. At the edge of the water, he bent down and made sure his feet were planted firmly so he could duck-walk the rest of the way. This close he could see the chest rising and falling, slowly, with the kind of effort infants use in fevers. He saw too now that the pale body was female, with small swells around deep pink nipples. She moaned and turned her head, and he saw her face was bruised, a gash over her right eye, bleeding, the streaks of red giving way to a watery rose across her cheeks. David recognized the facial features. She was a young woman with Down syndrome, and he rushed to her, skidded across the slick rocks and knelt beside the girl, and kept calling her honey and stroking her short blond hair with one hand as he tried the phone again with the other.

  Her top lip was busted so severely the inside was nearly inverted, swollen and twisted, looking like a wad of bubble gum was stuck to her teeth. David placed his hand under her head and turned her face toward him. “Shhh,” he said. Her head lolled away from him, and for a brief shock of a second, David feared her head would slip from his grasp and smack onto the limestone. The water slightly gurgling around them was pinkish, and colder now. He gently placed her head back onto the rocks; David paused only briefly before deciding on carrying her out of the falls and away from the water. He put an arm under her short legs and the other behind her neck and carefully rose, as if the earth might open up below them. David took measured, planned steps forward, inspecting the footholds so that each one was firm. The task seemed to help him gather his air, and as he placed the girl down, he made sure to set her in place like a doll, holding her torso to him so he could use one hand to shuck off his jacket. He wrapped it around her, eased her back, and folded her arms over, pulling the zipper up to her chin, which was blue-green, like turquoise, with another gash right in the center, red flesh filleted and parted.

  David tried the phone again, but the bars were not there. He looked around and brushed his hair back, scooted up next to the girl. He placed two fingers at her pale throat; the heartbeat was faint. She rolled her head toward his touch and said, “Daddy.” The word brought the pang of anguish it does for all true fathers; he heard in it his own daughter’s voice as the girl sputtered with a cough and said again, “Daddy,” this time with a weak plea.

  “It’s okay,” he told her, taking off his denim shirt and placing it over the jacket. “Honey, I don’t have any cell service out here.” His words seemed to calm her and she stopped moving her head from side to side. “I live a couple of miles away. I can run back and call 911 and I’ll run as fast as I can back here.” The girl was still, her breathing slow and barely perceptible. David stood up, then knelt again and leaned over her and whispered in her ear. “Hang on, honey. I promise I’ll be back.” He gently touched her cheek and turned around and started to run.

  In just a white undershirt, David sprinted back along the worn path, calculating the time it would take. He could walk the distance in just over twenty minutes; sprinting, he might shave off a quarter of the time, plus a few more minutes because he’d be able to get a signal once into one of the open fields. He rounded the bend where the rock foundation jutted out, then up along the sagging fence line. Blackbirds floated from the trees and mourning doves exploded out of the taupe fescue in the ditch. His lungs burned, and his eyes watered from the wind in his face. David thought then of Samantha, living in Chicago, a pediatric nurse, her mother a nurse too, the two of them living their lives as if men only weakened them, which was probably true. Samantha had told him over and over that taking a yearly CPR and first-aid course was just as important as his insistence on recycling, but during her last visit he’d waved her off again, saying he’d get around to it. He could see Sam at the girl’s age, an awkward teenager, and the image of the little girl alone near Shanty Falls gave him more energy, and he pumped his arms and pushed the balls of his feet with force into the ground while his thighs ached and the image of the barns and the side of his house came into view in the distance. He stopped abruptly and pulled out his phone. The operator was clear and calm, the voice forgiving and hopeful. David swallowed and caught his breath. In one clean and concise rush he said, “I’m David Holzer. I live at 220 Pike Road, close to Shanty Falls. On my morning walk I found a girl. She’s hurt badly. Please send an ambulance right away.” The operator repeated the information and David confirmed it. “Hurry,” he said, “she’s lost a lot of blood.” He put the phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.

  It occurred to him he could get back to the girl more quickly.

  He sprinted toward the barn the Price brothers owned. They kept three ATVs inside, under tarps, for some reason only using them in the fall. He yanked off the dark green canvas and saw the keyholes empty. He searched the walls and
found three sets of keys on an old hay hook. He put all three in the ATV ignitions. It’d been years since he’d ridden a motorcycle in college, but after a couple of false starts he found reverse with his foot, and was out of the barn and hitting second gear. At the edge of the woods he used his cell to call 911 again. “Tell the paramedics and police there are two ATVs with keys in them in the barn.” The operator told him they’d sent along a sheriff’s SUV.

  David zipped around the back of the farm and down the long stretch before the curvy footpath along the river bottom and caves. At the stone foundation, he stood slightly and kept driving, looking ahead, the smell of gas and oil somehow calming. His arms were cold and he said a short prayer in his head, asking that the girl be spared shock. He slowed down when he saw some movement, and something hard and cold froze in the center of his chest. As he shifted down to first gear, the ATV jerked and threw him forward a little, the wind now stronger and biting. He stopped completely and had to squint to make out a figure in the distance, shrouded some by low-lying bushes and several massive tree trunks that had fallen. He shut off the motor but kept his eyes on the person moving slowly in circles. “You there,” yelled David, and he slid his phone from his pocket and damned himself for not bringing along the rifle he used to scare off foxes from his set of four hens. The figure kept pacing in circles. The motor on the ATV ticked as it cooled, like an old clock. In the far distance, the sirens wailed and receded, came back a little louder each time. David thought about just sitting it out, but he’d told the girl, no, promised her he’d be back. He climbed off the ATV and stood next to it. The voice of the girl, and Samantha’s too, came rushing back into his mind. He heard them both calling him Daddy. David stepped forward and kept going, his stride long and heels thudding in the earth. “Hey, you there,” he said, and David pointed in the person’s direction. “Stay where you are,” he commanded. David sniffed in deeply as the person finally heard him and stiffened, but only momentarily, before waving his arms and starting to jog in David’s direction. “I said stay where you are!” David stopped too. At this distance, in the path, he could see the person was a young guy, barefoot but holding a pair of shoes like they might be precious or explosive. David stepped to the side of the path and could make out the girl’s pale skin, about forty feet behind the guy. In David’s absence she’d moved, still on her back, but legs positioned now as if preparing to do sit-ups, her feet planted on the cold ground, her knees shining like white saucers. “You know her?” asked David. The guy stood there like a surprised deer. “Tell me, son,” said David, as he took steps forward. “You hear the sirens as well as I do. Better let me know what’s happened here.” The guy held on to the shoes, dangling at his side. David was within ten feet now, and could see the kid was familiar; he’d seen the face, the wide brown eyes and full mouth; he’d seen that face from the shoulders up before, but he couldn’t place it. David stopped again. The sirens seemed to fade some now. “What’s happened?” asked David.

  The kid took a step forward, but David put out his hand. “Stay put.”

  The kid’s mouth opened and he seemed as though the air had been knocked out of him. Finally he said, “I didn’t mean to.” He looked over his shoulder at the girl, who moaned.

  David yelled, “I’m back, honey, just like I said. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  “She said she couldn’t wait to tell everyone we were dating.” The kid looked at the shoes, which David could see were expensive.

  “Did you hurt that girl?” asked David, and he recognized in himself a palpable hatred for the kid, his spoiled face and styled haircut. He wore a wristwatch that gleamed even in the dull light of the gloomy forest. The thought surged in David, but the kid suddenly wore the expression of a child ashamed of its behavior. David took two more steps forward. The sirens looped back around and steadily grew closer, like a dream at daybreak, fading and at the same time rushing to be acknowledged.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said the kid. He kept his shoes at his side, held away from his hip as if they were baby shoes about to be dipped into a bronze bath for keepsakes.

  “But you did hurt her, son,” said David. The morning turned sunny as a large cloud eased by, and the wind dropped back, the trees stilling and the only sound the falls, water cooing and the bare canopy warming. David walked the last few steps to the boy. “Have you seen what you’ve done to her?” he asked.

  The kid started to sob, and for a moment it seemed he might pass out, but instead he collapsed into David’s arms. From behind, David could hear voices, and the sound of an ATV motor immediately cut off. David held on to the kid and yelled over his shoulder, “She’s just up ahead, to your right. Hurry, please hurry.” A rush of bodies gave off the scent of soap and deodorant, the start of a shift. David allowed the kid to go limp in his arms. Overhead, the thwack, thwack of helicopter blades thumped like woofers in a jacked-up trunk of an annoying Monte Carlo. David pushed the kid’s head to rest on his right shoulder, so he could see what they were doing with the girl. David caught the bright green flash of moss, the wet silver dullness of the limestone, and against those pulsing colors the pale legs of the girl, her feet bouncing each time they applied pressure to her chest. The helicopter hovered just over the treetops, the bare branches swaying, before it eased backward and rose, circled back to what David assumed would be his garden area, flat and wide open. The treetops now quietly undulated and lessened their movements. David noticed the kid’s sandy-brown hair fluttered back into place, his scalp covered again. The paramedics barked instructions, sounding angry at their work, at what had been presented them. The kid sobbed into David’s shoulder. Dogs brayed behind them, their barks hyper and insistent. David pushed the kid’s head up, and it wobbled not unlike the girl’s earlier. “You need to get yourself together, son.”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. The kid stepped back and let out a labored exhale. He still held the shoes in his right hand, his knuckles pink. “I didn’t mean it.”

  Over his right shoulder David sensed three or four deputies. He heard the words “Back up” or “Step aside.” He couldn’t say for certain what they were instructing. The kid’s eyes shifted into an awareness then, as David raised his hands and nodded for the kid to do the same. David thought of the pictures from his mother’s Bible, the color ones where Jesus was arrested, the ones where his arms and hands were above him, palms nailed to an old wooden cross. “You best put those shoes down,” said David, but the kid hesitated, glanced at them. “I don’t want to get them dirty,” he said as he let them slip from his hand. They landed on a mound of green moss. The kid raised his hands as David had, held them the same way.

  Paramedics whisked the girl by them on a stretcher, her mouth covered in an inhalation bag, as the sheriff’s deputies instructed through bullhorns for David and the kid to keep their hands up, to get to their knees, slowly. They both went down as if entering cold water, and as the kid’s knees hit the ground, his exhaled breath was laced with the acrid stink of thrown-up liquor, so strong it made David hold his own breath. They were instructed to put their hands behind their heads. As someone gripped David’s wrist and applied cuffs, he said out of the side of his mouth, “I’m the 911 caller.” He watched as the kid was handcuffed and lifted from the kneeling position. They walked toward the black SUV, escorted by the deputies. One of the ATVs sat nearby. Two news vans were stuck in the wet muck of the field up toward the old fence line. They were put in separate cruisers. Now that David could see the deputy, he recognized her from the Chamber events. “Mr. Holzer,” she said. He nodded, suddenly aware how tight his muscles were, the wracking pain in his head. “I’ve got to read you your rights,” she added. The idea was nearly comical to David because of how surprised he was to hear these words, words he’d only heard in movies. The deputy smiled. “Only protocol, of course,” she said. David listened as she began, and he looked out the window and into the other cruiser, where the kid sat with his arms behind him, using
his head to motion toward David.

  * * *

  The sheriff’s office smelled of burned microwave popcorn. David had always become mildly queasy from the smell, even when his mother had made it on the stove, the pulsating red coil like a planet from his science book. The stink of it reminded him of the kid’s vomit breath. David sat back in the office chair; they’d put him in a conference room, offered him coffee and even snacks. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. The female deputy appeared, balancing two cups of steaming coffee, not the Styrofoam kind from a drip pot but two large recycled containers with the stamp of the eco-green brewer that was constantly busy, opening two new sites near Midland University and putting the chain stores nearly out of business. “You like it black, double sugar?” she asked as she handed David the fibered cup, flecks of maroon in the cardboard ring meant to keep fingers from burning.

  David nodded and rose, took the coffee carefully, as if it might detonate. “Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. The deputy’s name was Shelby, he remembered now, about four or five years younger than Samantha; she’d had a wicked jumper, if he recalled correctly.

  Shelby sat down at the table, blowing over her coffee, and though he couldn’t say why, it reminded David of how Samantha’s mother had soothed her, soft and with determination, a kind of warriorlike reverence for lost sleep. “I suppose,” she said, taking her cell phone from a holster and placing it on the desktop, “you’ve already realized he’s saying he found her with your jacket on. That he’s also saying that he was the one to find her, and that you showed up later, returning to the scene of the crime?” Shelby had shot three free throws in the 2004 regional playoffs, a technical foul, and she’d won the game, while Samantha had cheered the team on.