The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  Leaning back against the sofa cushions, she stared at the headline and relished the moment. Over twenty-­four hours had passed since Rountree handed down the sentence, and she was still absorbing and savoring her triumph.

  But when she unfolded the front page, she beheld an image that nearly jolted her from her seat. The article carried a large photograph of Madeleine Thompson. Smiling.

  Claiming victory.

  Outrage washed over her as she stared at the photo in disbelief. In a fit of temper, she crumpled the paper and flung it across the room.

  A minute passed as she sat and fumed, stewing over the enormity of Madeleine’s hubris. But finally she reined in her hurt pride—­she didn’t go to trial in the Taney case to get her picture in the paper.

  Rising from the couch, she picked the wadded newspaper off the floor and carried it into the kitchen, smoothing it on the counter as she prepared a pot of coffee.

  She was still reading the article when she heard a knock. She opened the door beaming after spying her visitor through the peephole.

  “Ashlock!” she cried. “You’re a welcome sight; I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.”

  “That’s mighty nice to hear.”

  “Well, get on in here. Where the hell were you yesterday? I thought you’d be at the sentencing.”

  “I hated to miss it,” he said, then broke into a smile as she held up the wrinkled newspaper like a trophy. “That’s a heck of a win. You made us proud.”

  “It’s our win, Ashlock. We’re a team,” she said, adding with a hint of acid, “Of course, the real credit should go to the fabulous Madeleine Thompson.”

  Ashlock dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Everybody knows who won that case.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile. “Have a seat, Ash. What can I get for you? Diet Coke? I’ve got coffee made.”

  “Sure, I’ll take a cup.” As she moved into the kitchen to pour the coffee, he said, “I should’ve called before I came over. Not polite to come by unexpected like this. You’ll think I was raised in a barn.”

  “Ash, you are welcome anytime. Drop by whenever you get the notion,” she said, handing him a steaming mug. “Now sit down and tell me what was so important that you missed out on the sentencing yesterday.”

  She sat on the couch and patted the spot next to her. As Ashlock joined her, he said, “We found Al Taney.”

  “No!” She groaned with relief. “How did you run him down?”

  “Roy Mayfield tipped us off to a ­couple of his regular hangouts, and sure enough we nailed him.”

  “Roy’s talking?” she asked. Scooting sideways on the couch to face him, she sat cross-­legged on the cushions.

  “Singing like a bird.”

  “Ah, confession is good for the soul,” she said with a sardonic nod.

  Ashlock settled into the couch a little. “Roy would like to lay everything off on Al. But we’ve got Roy’s cell phone, and his computer.”

  “So Roy was photographing the girls.”

  “All three.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me that. Tiffany.” Elsie sank back onto the sofa and looked away from Ashlock.

  He continued, “Roy was just starting out. He and Al were drinking buddies at a dive on Frisco Street. Al had shown Roy some Polaroids, but Roy wanted to take it into cyberspace. He liked to hang out in those porn chat rooms, and he got the idea they could make big money off the girls. He took stills with the phone, or snippets of video, then uploaded it onto his computer. He’d accessed some Web sites that show kid porn and was offering to provide the product.”

  Outraged, Elsie shook her head. “Horrible. Oh my God. And what did Donita think about the enterprise?”

  “Oh, you know Donita. Didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’. But she knew more than she’s letting on. Because she helped Roy plant the Polaroids in the box of Kris Taney’s personal stuff and pass it on to you.”

  Elsie gave a huff of disgust and rose to grab a plate of cookies from the kitchen. Sitting back down, she asked, “So didn’t Kris Taney want in on the porn thing?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you suppose?”

  “Roy told us that Kris didn’t want strangers to see the girls naked. Now, whether his aim was to minimize his chance of being caught, or he was just keeping them for himself, we just don’t know.”

  “Because he ain’t talking.”

  “Nope. Worthless son of a bitch.”

  Elsie shook her head. “I keep beating myself up for not seeing what was going on at the Taneys’. I always sensed something was rotten. From now on I listen to my gut.”

  She took a meditative sip of coffee. “Tina says the girls are doing okay in foster care. She found a placement that took them both, thank God. But Ash . . . ” she said with a sigh.

  “What?”

  “I wish I knew about Charlene. Wish I knew she was okay.”

  “That’s the other news I had for you. We’ve got a lead. We think she’s in Poplar Bluff, down by the Bootheel. Poplar Bluff police are checking it out. I’ll let you know.”

  “Good, I’m so glad. Get that girl out of the Bootheel. You know what they say about the Bootheel.”

  “What?”

  “They say, if you took the Bootheel of Missouri and gave it to Arkansas, it would raise the IQ of both states.”

  Ashlock groaned and shook his head.

  With a hint of irony, Elsie said, “Noah grew up in the Bootheel.”

  Ashlock shot her a look. “Anything new with him?” he asked in an offhand manner.

  “That shithead. He texted a ­couple of weeks ago to tell me that we were through—­like it wasn’t over till he decreed it. He’s FBO with Paige, lucky girl.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Elsie sighed and said, “Hey, Ash.”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t honest with you about me and Noah. That day we went to the Apostolic church.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel bad about lying to you. It seems stupid now.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need to go into it. I dealt with it.”

  Surprised, she said, “What? What happened?”

  “I reported it to Internal Affairs.”

  “At the police department? But you didn’t have any information. I didn’t tell you anything.”

  “Breeon came to see me the Monday after the party. She gave a statement, and I put in my observations. It’s confidential; can’t talk about what went on at the disciplinary proceedings. But it needed to be done.”

  “Huh. Okay, then. So what will happen? They won’t fire him.”

  “Can’t go into it. He’s on the night shift. He’ll be on nights for a long time.”

  Elsie hid a smile. Noah hated the night shift. She was lost in her own thoughts until Ashlock tapped her knee and asked, “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No,” she said, adding, “Lord, I don’t think I’m fit to be seen. Look at me, in my Saturday rags.”

  She thought she saw a flash of emotion play over his features, but he turned his head away. He said, “I think you look terrific. How about a burger?”

  Setting her coffee carefully on the table, Elsie studied him: something about his manner indicated that he might want their friendship to head in a new direction. “I don’t know. I’ve got someplace I need to go this afternoon.”

  “I won’t keep you out all afternoon. We’ll just get a burger at the chili place on the North Side.”

  She faced him and said earnestly, “I don’t mean to sound like an idiot. But is this lunch? Or is it a lunch date?”

  He didn’t smile. He looked back at her and asked, “Would you like that?”

  “What about that woman you’ve been seeing? Caroline Applegate?’

  Ashlock looked a little sh
eepish as he said, “I broke it off. Didn’t seem fair to take up her time.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “Not when it’s you I want to be with.” He gave her a direct look; she felt it all the way to her toes. “So what do you say? Would you like that? If it’s more than just lunch?”

  She didn’t need time to think it over. “Yeah,” she said, breaking into a smile. “I’d like it a lot.”

  Pulling on her coat, she headed out the door with Ashlock. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light of heart.

  Chapter Forty-­Nine

  WEAK AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT cast a glow on the red brick hotel that housed the Battered Women’s Center of the Ozarks. Elsie pulled her car up to the front door.

  She hefted a box of clothes from the backseat along with her Wal-­Mart bag, then entered the hotel and walked into the lobby. The woman with the long gray braid sat in an ancient rolling chair behind the front desk. She looked at Elise for a moment, as if trying to recall where she might have seen her before, then good-­naturedly asked, “What can I do for you?”

  Elsie set her box on the counter. “I heard you could use clothing donations.”

  “Mercy, yes. Sometimes women come in here with just the clothes on their backs.” Peering into the box, the woman said, “These is nice.”

  “Oh,” Elsie said modestly, “they’re used, all of them. I went through my closet and boxed up things I don’t wear. Mostly because they’re too small,” she confided ruefully.

  “We’ll find someone who can wear them,” the woman assured her.

  Opening the Wal-­Mart bag, Elsie said, “I got some toiletries and stuff, too. You need toothpaste and shampoo and Tide, right?”

  Taking in the contents of the bag, the woman rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “This is a gold mine. Heavenly days. You know what we need. Now, let me get you a tax receipt.”

  As the woman sorted through a file folder in search of a form, Elsie leaned on the wooden counter and said, “This is nothing; I’m glad to help. It’s little enough I can do.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am,” the woman asked, with pen in hand.

  “Elsie Arnold.”

  The woman scrutinized her, as recognition dawned on her face. “You’re the prosecutor. The Taney prosecutor.”

  Elsie nodded, privately pleased at the acknowledgment.

  The woman crossed her arms and beamed at her. “That was something, what you did.”

  “Thank you,” Elsie said. “It wasn’t just me. A lot of ­people worked together to make that happen.”

  Nodding, the woman agreed. “It takes a mess of ­people to do anything worth doing. You know,” she said, as inspiration washed over her face, “we’re so shorthanded here, it’s a struggle staying open. We have to have someone at the desk day and night, and I’m having a time trying to cover it with volunteers.”

  Elsie’s glow faded as the woman’s meaning struck home. She could see where this was headed. “I don’t think I can help you. I work full-­time.”

  The woman persisted. “The weekends is the toughest. Lots of my help has to be home with their kids, and the college girls who volunteer won’t sign on for a weekend time. Could you ever help us out on Saturday or Sunday? Just to fill in?”

  Inwardly, Elsie fought against the suggestion; avoiding the woman’s eyes, she shouldered her purse and backed away a step, determined to escape. After living with the Taney case night and day for weeks, she didn’t want to take on more suffering. She was tired, worn-­out. She needed to recoup.

  “I’m so busy. I work on weekends a lot of the time.”

  “You could bring work here,” the woman suggested. “Mostly you just sit and wait for someone to come in, or the phone to ring.”

  “No,” Elsie said firmly. “I can’t.”

  The woman sighed with regret. “Well, it was worth a try.” Over her shoulder, she called into the back room. “Britney? You still back there?”

  The door opened and a young woman appeared. Clearly, she was a recent arrival; her battered face was healing, both eyes still ringed with bruises.

  The gray-­haired woman gestured toward Elsie’s donations. “Honey, will you carry that stuff upstairs? It needs to go to the storage room on the second floor. Ruth can show you.”

  Silently, the young woman did as she was bid. As she picked up the box of clothes and balanced the Wal-­Mart bag on top, Elsie turned her head away, taking care to avoid staring at the woman’s injured face.

  The older woman leaned over the counter and called up the stairs. “Ruth, you hear me? Give Britney a hand with the donations.”

  Elsie looked up the stairway, where a girl with uncut hair appeared. She wore the long skirt of a Pentecostal. As she helped Britney carry the box of clothes, Elsie realized that Ruth must be the sister of Naomi, the girl who had given her the note to deliver here.

  The gray-­haired woman initialed the tax form and offered it to Elsie. Looking at her curiously, the woman asked, “Have we met somewhere?”

  “Not sure. Maybe.” Grasping the paper, Elsie fled the building. As she slipped into her car, she let out a breath, grateful for her getaway. Reaching into her purse, she found her keys without looking and started the ignition.

  I can’t do it. I’m too busy.

  But something pricked at her, a whisper in her head.

  I don’t want to, she insisted to herself. I don’t want to be in there. And a thought took shape: I don’t belong in there.

  While the engine idled, she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror, and her eyes narrowed. Liar. Hypocrite.

  As the reality and shame of the truth washed over her, Elsie’s nose stung and her eyes brimmed over. She covered her face, fiercely ordering herself to stop. Crying in public mortified her.

  But she knew the reason for her dismay. It was the knowledge that the women inside the shelter were no different than she was. She’d been on the receiving end of an abusive attack, ignored the signs leading up to it, and lied to cover it up. The ignominy of her victimization and the duplicity of her attempt to distance herself from it cut deep.

  Popping open the glove compartment in search of a Kleenex, she only turned up a McDonald’s napkin. She seized it gratefully and blew her nose.

  Resting her forehead against the steering wheel, she had a moment of clarity.

  This isn’t about me. It isn’t about me at all.

  She turned off the ignition. It took some courage to walk back into the lobby after her hasty departure.

  Approaching the woman who still stood behind the desk, Elsie spoke in an offhand manner, to counter her red eyes and swollen nose. “You know, Sunday mornings are actually good for me. Maybe once or twice a month.”

  The woman grinned. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Elsie said, meeting the woman’s smile. “Sign me up.”

  Acknowledgments

  TAKING THIS NOVEL from the seed of an idea to publication has been a long journey, but I received much-­needed assistance along the way. I want to thank my editor, Trish Daly, for her vision as we crafted the story into its final form, and for liking Elsie’s shortcomings as well as her strengths. My agent, Jill Marr of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary agency, is an angel with a halo; thanks go to her for taking on an Ozarks hillbilly and shaping the manuscript with her sharp editorial eye. I want to thank Andrea Hackett for help with publicity, and Peter Weissman for excellent copyediting.

  Showers of thanks go to friends who were early readers of the book and who rooted for me along the way: Lisa, Patti, Julie, Kathy, Amy, Laura and the neighborhood pals; Laura and Louise at NACC; my wonderful students at Missouri State, especially my advisees in AKPsi. And Alan, who taught me the meaning of hashtag.

  My family has provided support in countless ways, from the legal expertise given by my brother John and sister Susie, to the editor
ial suggestions and encouragement from sisters Carol and Janice.

  But above all, I must thank the three ­people who mean more to me than words can express: my beloved husband Randy, my precious Ben, my darling Martha. You are my rock and my salvation.

  About the Author

  NANCY ALLEN practiced law for fifteen years, serving as Assistant Missouri Attorney General and as Assistant Prosecutor in her native Ozarks (the second woman in Southwest Missouri to serve in that capacity). During her years in prosecution, she tried over thirty jury trials, including murder and sexual offenses, and is now a law instructor at Missouri State University. The Code of the Hills is her first novel.

  @TheNancyAllen

  Facebook.com/NancyAllenAuthor

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE CODE OF THE HILLS. Copyright © 2014 by Nancy Allen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition April 2014 ISBN: 9780062325945

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062325952

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