Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  I stepped between him and Pusser, trying to soothe Eddie’s emotions. “That’s not what we’re saying. We’ve just got to check out all the angles.”

  “Angles?” He picked at his lip as he spoke. “You mean ‘suspects’? Nevan’s a suspect.” Pick . . . pick . . . a spot of blood burst forth. He swiped at it, then stared down at the red smear on his fingertip.

  “Something you want to tell us, boy?”

  Eddie’s head snapped toward Pusser. “No. Why?”

  Pusser stared at him.

  Eddie shifted, crossed and uncrossed his arms, then wheeled and bolted out the door.

  I followed. “Eddie. Stop!” But he was already halfway across the yard. As he ran past Pusser’s Tahoe, Wilco erupted in snarls from his cage in the back of the cruiser. Eddie, startled, scrambled to keep his feet under him, disappearing between the neighbors’ trailers.

  “Let him go.” Pusser came up behind me. “We need to find the Meath kid, while things are still fresh. See what the Joyce family says, too.”

  He was right. We could catch up to Eddie later.

  I rolled the tension from my shoulders, inhaled the cold mountain air, and took in my surroundings. The sun was slipping below the late-winter horizon. Low hues of diffused gray gave way to slivers of brilliant orange and yellow that cast a warm glow over the snow-blanketed ground. A pretty sky and clean snow didn’t change things, though. Bone Gap was nothing more than a glorified parking lot: a conglomerate of trailers, mobile homes, motorcycles, souped-up muscle cars, and jacked-up trucks, all haphazardly arranged and crammed into a rural backwoods holler. Hicksville to most outsiders. Home to us Pavees. I looked back at Ona’s place, a sky-blue, yellow-trimmed tag-along camper, barely big enough for a weekend getaway, let alone a permanent residence for a widow and her two children. One child now.

  The sound of Ona’s sobbing leaked through the camper’s thin walls and filled the night air. “I should go back in there. She needs someone to sit with her.”

  “Call someone. Your grandmother, maybe. Or the priest. You’ve got work to do. Finding justice for Maura.”

  Justice. Pusser had no idea how strong our clan’s sense of justice could be.

  I pulled my collar tight against a sudden breeze. There was movement in the trailer next door. And the one next to it, too. Curtains shuffled and blinds parted as neighbors peeked through backlit windows. Pusser was looking at me, frowning. “What is it?”

  “You remember that fatal car accident a few years back?”

  “Head-on out on Highway 2? Two men died.”

  “Yeah. Rory Keene and Cormac Meath. Eddie and Nevan’s fathers. Two women widowed, two families without fathers. That’s when the families became close.”

  Pusser frowned. “Bound by a common loss. And now, more loss, but even worse this time. A kid, child really.”

  “Word will be out soon about Maura’s death. When people hear the way she was killed, the wicked brutality . . .” I glanced at Pusser’s pockmarked face, stoic and void of any real emotion. No way was he going to understand this. “Maura was young, pretty, about to be married. She comes from a good family who’s already experienced a horrific tragedy. . . . What happened to her wasn’t right.”

  “Nothing we deal with is ever right. You know that, Callahan.”

  I rotated my neck, rubbed at my marred, war-burned skin. Yeah. I know that better than most. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain to me what you mean. And do it fast. We need to talk to the fiancé.”

  “Eddie’s right. Nevan didn’t do this. This wasn’t one of us. No Pavee could do what was done to that girl.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  The yonks (or “wayward”) among us—scammers and thieves—had earned a certain reputation for all Travellers. And rightly so. Our society had its share of issues. But this type of evil? I couldn’t accept that. I looked back at the Keenes’ front yard and the statue of the Virgin Mary placed front and center, in a place of great reverence, and surrounded by colorful plastic flowers, even in the winter months. The same could be seen in front of almost every trailer, mobile home, and camper in Bone Gap. A homage to our faith. A fervent, deeply felt faith that dictated the very moral fabric of our culture. And the threads that bound that fabric were the family and clan code. Murder rarely happened among Travellers. When it did, it was dealt with inside the clan, swiftly and mercilessly.

  “I just am. No Pavee did this. I’m sure of it.”

  Pusser rocked back on his heels, snow crunching under his boots. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  “Nevan’s not here.” Mrs. Meath spoke to me through the barely cracked door of her double-wide mobile home. Her drawn face looked washed out in the glow of the porch light. We’d come straight to their trailer, while Pusser sent one of the other deputies to the Joyce residence to question Winnie.

  Barking erupted from several large dog kennels positioned along the tree line on the edge of their lot. The Meaths earned extra money breeding dogs. Lurchers mostly. A fast, intelligent mix, usually between a greyhound and some sort of herder, and the best hare-coursing breed around.

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “No. ’Fraid not. He’s a grown boy. He doesn’t always tell me where he’s going.”

  I looked toward the side of the mobile home. A security light bounced off the chrome accents of Nevan’s jacked-up Silverado. I shifted and wedged my foot between the frame and the door. “When are you expecting him back?”

  She wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Can’t be sure.”

  Something wasn’t right. I’d known Kitty Meath most of my childhood. Her oldest daughter, Riana, and I were the same age. When we were younger, a group of us girls used to come over and play with Barbies in the back room of this very trailer. Riana was always the boss of Barbie world and of our group. Her doll was the most beautiful, married the prince and lived happily ever after, while my doll became the ugly underling—a precedence I could never shake.

  “Mrs. Meath. Kitty. Don’t you remember me? Brynn Callahan.”

  “I remember you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to where Pusser stood, then looked down at my dog, tethered at my side. Both watched intently.

  I pressed her. “Can we come in?”

  “I’m ’fraid now’s not a good time. Sorry.” She backed up, preparing to shut me out.

  Pusser’s hand shot out and clanged against the metal door. “Maura Keene is dead, Mrs. Meath. And we need to talk to your son.”

  Anger sparked in her eyes. Not surprise, not shock, not sadness, but anger. She’d already known Maura was dead. But how?

  “I told you he ain’t here.”

  Pusser stepped forward. I ducked out of his way. “Where is he?”

  “Like I said. He’s out. I don’t know where.”

  A door slammed at the back of the trailer and dogs erupted into a barking frenzy. Pusser stiffened. “He’s making a run for it.”

  I reacted first, bolting from the porch with my flashlight in hand, Wilco’s leash in the other. I reached the backyard with Pusser on my heels. He yelled over the Lurchers’ barking, “Do you see him?”

  I bounced my beam over the backyard: an old picnic bench, a birdfeeder, a lopsided swing set... “No. Nothing.”

  Behind us, an engine roared to life. I turned, ready to run back, when a popping sound came from up ahead. I panned my light, caught a flash of movement. “There! Heading into the trees.” I unleashed Wilco and took off in pursuit, whipping branches clawing at my face, tearing my hair, my boot-clad feet sliding on the snow. I stumbled, fell, got up again. I spied Wilco running like an arrow, darting between nearby tree trunks. He’s not trained for pursuit, attack, or anything other than sniffing out dead bodies, but he loved fun and games. Like a late-night romp through the woods.

  I stopped. Panned my light again. Nothing. I’d lost him.

  Pusser caught up to me, leaning forward and panting into his rad
io as he relayed Meath’s address.

  The dispatcher responded, “Roger that. Backup in progress.”

  Pusser disconnected and sucked at the air like his life depended on it. “Damn kid. If I catch him, I’ll—”

  “Shh!” I held up my hand. A faint whimpering noise came from our left.

  It grew louder. Footsteps crunched over the forest floor, approaching quickly.

  Pusser relieved his holster strap and rested his palm on his weapon. Wilco trotted back to my side and stood by, alert and on watch, with both his ears and nose twitching. I grabbed ahold of his collar and aimed my flashlight in the direction of the sound.

  A figure approached. Pusser’s stance stiffened. He drew his weapon. “Get your hands up, Nevan. Now!”

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I’m hurt.” It wasn’t Nevan’s voice we heard, but Eddie’s.

  Pusser lowered his gun. “What the hell? Where’s the Meath kid?”

  I thought back to the engine I’d heard roar to life.

  Eddie bounded from the shadows, holding his eye. He hunkered down and whimpered like an injured pup. Blood trickled between his fingers. “My eye . . .”

  “Let me see.” I raised the flashlight. “Move your hand.” He did. I recoiled and gagged. A piece of a twig, about half an inch long, protruded from Eddie’s eye. It’d impaled the iris.

  “Son of a—” Pusser was back on the radio, calling for an ambulance.

  I took Eddie’s elbow. “Do not touch your eye. Do you hear me?” He cried out, pushed me away, and sank to his knees. “No, you don’t, Eddie. Get up.” I yanked him back to his feet and pulled him through the woods.

  He stumbled on, half crying and half babbling. “It hurts.... I can’t see. . . .”

  “Shut up, boy.” Pusser was losing it. The only thing he hated more than the woods was exerting himself. Not to mention being duped. “You did this to yourself. Didn’t no one ever tell you you’re not supposed to run from the cops?”

  Somehow we made it to the back, to the trailer, where Eddie collapsed on the snow and balled up in pain. The Lurchers broke into wild barking. I flashed my light their way and saw Wilco prancing along the perimeter of their cages, tormenting them with his freedom.

  Then I turned my beam to where Nevan’s truck was parked earlier. Gone. That was the engine I’d heard.

  Pusser swore, looking at the same empty parking spot. “You were the decoy.” He stood over Eddie.

  Eddie balled up tighter. “No. No.”

  “Like hell you weren’t.” Pusser squatted and got right up in his face. “You know what I think? I think you and Nevan were in on this. You helped him kill your sister.”

  “No. I would never hurt—”

  “Was it your idea or his?”

  “No. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Pusser leaned closer yet, shouted, “Someone plunged a knife into your sister’s heart, Eddie. Your buddy, Nevan? And now you’re covering for him?”

  Eddie clenched in tighter. His chin was buried against his chest, arms over his head.

  “Look at me, boy.” Pusser grabbed him by the wrists and ripped his arms down. I moved in closer and trained my light directly on them. The twig in Eddie’s eye twitched as the boy shook, crying out in pain. Pusser was out of line. Too aggressive. Where was that ambulance? Pusser gripped his shoulders. “Why’d you kill her? Were you strung out on drugs? Or something else? What type of sick stuff are you into?”

  “Hey. Easy, boss. He’s injured.”

  Eddie went limp in Pusser’s grip, his mouth slack and dripping drool mixed with streams of tears and blood that traced lines down his face. His left eye was almost swollen shut around the wooden projectile; his right eye round and glazed with fear. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”

  “Then why’d you come warn Meath?”

  Eddie blubbered. “Because no one would believe . . . Nevan didn’t kill my . . .”

  A siren sounded in the distance.

  Pusser shook him. “You’re a liar, Eddie.”

  With each shake, Eddie’s head snapped back like a broken bobblehead. He screamed out in raw pain; then he went quiet and limp.

  I grabbed Pusser’s shoulder. “That’s enough. Let him be.”

  Pusser stood and wheeled on me, his eyes flashing. “He knows something.”

  I leaned in and lowered my voice. “You’re crossing the line. The kid’s in pain.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about Maura Keene? You think that girl didn’t suffer? There may be even more girls we don’t know about. Have you already forgotten what we saw out there today?”

  I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut against the image of Maura’s young body—raw edges of flesh, blackened blood splattered on pale white skin—all of it burned into my memory along with the war-torn bodies of countless dead soldiers, all too young, all gone before their time.... “No. I haven’t forgotten. I never forget.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After Eddie was transported to the hospital, Pusser went to the office to find out what his other deputies had discovered from Maura’s friend Winnie Joyce. I went back to Ona’s place to check on her.

  People had already gathered, spilling out of the small camper and into the front yard, clustering together in groups: young and old, tearful and pissed off. Wilco and I lurked behind a blue Chevy truck, engine running, doors open, stereo emitting some angst-filled teen song while a pack of boys stood on the other side with fisted hands, fleece zipped over puffed-up chests, and mouths spurting curse-laced bravado. A square-jawed kid took the lead. “I’m going to find the bastard who did this and beat the shit out of him.” He had a camo hat pulled low over his forehead. I’d seen him around, but couldn’t remember who he was.

  A runty kid got in on the action. “No shit, man. You know he’s out there in the woods somewhere. Bring your daddy’s shotgun and we’ll flush him out tomorrow.”

  They all liked that idea, except one dissenter. “I don’t know, man. Ya hear what the coppers did to Eddie? Messed him up. Shot out his eyeball.”

  “Frickin’ pigs. They ain’t going to do nothin’ for us.”

  I moved on, threading my way toward the front door. Colm popped out before I got there. His face was drawn tight, not the saintly expression of comfort he might offer from his pulpit, but the fatigue of dealing with the realities of his flock. A beautiful woman clung to his arm, all tears and teased hair, soft leather calf-high boots, her slim hips swaying next to the priest. She looked up and a thousand memories flooded my mind: jump ropes and Barbie dolls, bras and makeup, talk of boys and first kisses. Riana Meath, Nevan’s oldest sister. She was always pretty, popular, and my best friend, or at least she was until I refused to marry Dub Costello. Then she turned on me, slamming the door to our friendship, as if sealing off an enemy at the front door of the clan, and ensuring my alienation with a final vicious act.

  I’d managed to avoid her since I’d returned to Bone Gap. Not hard to do. She ran in a whole different crowd than me. Yes, Pavees have cliques. And I was no longer in hers. The few times we’d accidentally run into each other, we both pretended the other was invisible. Hard to do now that we were standing five feet from each other.

  Unlike me, Riana Meath hadn’t changed since high school, still the center of attention, still smoldering hot (as opposed to burned up, like me), and every man’s wet dream. She’d known it then; she knew it now.

  Colm whispered something in her ear, comforting words, or a prayer, or whatever a priest would say. She pressed closer and nodded, all doe-eyed and mournful like. Hot jealousy shot through me, then chilling guilt. I still wasn’t over him.

  He noticed me. “Brynn.”

  She noticed me. “Brynn!” A little squeal, a smoky hug. Guess her pack-a-day habit hadn’t changed over the years, either. “Brynn, sweetie. God, isn’t this horrible? That poor girl.” She stepped back, gave me a once-over, and grabbed both my hands. “And I heard you saw her . . . her body. You poor thing! You must be traumatized.�
��

  I muttered something appropriate, because I should be traumatized, but I wasn’t. Dead bodies had become commonplace for me and Wilco. Wilco? Where is . . . I tracked him across the yard, caught up in a circle of young girls, his tail tucked and head bowed, submissive as they took comfort in his soft fur and brown puppy eyes. And people say dogs don’t feel empathy. My dog was more empathetic than me. I’d grown calloused and jaded and felt absolutely nothing for Riana, who was apparently torn apart by Maura’s death. Her penchant for drama made real and feigned emotions hard to discern. My indifference and skepticism probably had something to do with past run-ins with Riana—I could carry a grudge forever—or the fact that her nails were once again clenched around Colm’s arm. She was going on about how her brother would be devastated over his fiancée’s death. Maura was the love of his life. They all loved Maura. She was family . . . family!

  More sympathetic words form Colm, followed by a soft pat on her arm. My belly turned greasy and bitter from the green acid churning in my gut.

  Riana moved from bereft to angry as she tried to make sense of the way Maura was murdered. “Evil,” she said. And she blamed heavy-metal music, graphic video games, social media, and every other thing teens are into. She blathered on and on, Colm comforting her, until a loud metallic whoosh and a fiery explosion pierced the air.

  I ducked and covered my head, my mind instantly propelled into one of my parallel worlds. This time it’s a recovery mission on the outskirts of Baghdad. It’s sunset. I hear the distant Muslim call to prayer, that haunting echo over the city. My recovery unit is following the ground invasion after a massive air strike campaign. It’s exhausting. So many bodies: soldiers, civilians, innocents, children. Yet, war sounds still pierce the sky: the whomp, whomp of copter blades, the revving of Humvee engines, the whir of diesel generators, explosions and machine-gun barrage, mortar, and . . . It goes on and on. Everything happens at night. And like the distant clamor of an approaching train, the sounds consume the dark stillness, growing and increasing, merging and blending, until it becomes a single obliterating roar. . . .