Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  “You okay, Callahan?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” I threw back my shoulders, gulped the crisp air. A flock of birds released overhead, dark wings batting against the cold grayness.

  “So, what do you think of Grabowski?” Parks asked. We’d already discussed her son’s academic struggles, hubby’s current obsession with basketball, a clogged septic line, her mother-in-law’s pending visit, the extra ten pounds she’d gained over the holidays, on and on.... Now, apparently, she wanted to discuss Grabowski. I was used to working alone. All this talking made me crazy.

  I glanced at the map and scanned ahead for my dog.

  “Oookay,” she sighed. “Guess I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t buy into all his psychoanalysis bullcrap. Like this perp. Grabowski’s come up with some cockeyed profile on the killer. I mean, get this. Male. Organized. Which basically means the crime was premeditated. Like we hadn’t figured that out already.” She rolled her eyes. “Probably a first- or secondborn child. Intelligent, but not well educated, socially inept, lives rurally, cut off from the rest of society.” She grinned my way. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  Yeah. Every male Traveller in Bone Gap.

  “And there’s something else,” she continued. “Pusser and him are buddies, I hear. Worked some big case together way back—”

  “Hold up.” I’d stopped. We were high on a ridge overlooking a steep ravine. I had a visual on my dog. He’d hesitated by a cluster of fallen trees, his tail flat and rigid—he was on scent. We maintained our distance and watched as he worked his way down the slope, his nose etching a telltale tunnel through the snow-laden forest floor. From our vantage point, I couldn’t tell where the scent was leading him.

  Parks watched him work, fingering the cross around her neck. “The Jefferson County girl.” She shivered, her eyes darting upward, then back, scanning the charcoal dark tree trunks. A small breeze rattled the bare branches, inciting the alarmed, high-pitched cry of a nearby chickadee. His call echoed off the snowpacked ground and pierced the frozen silence.

  “I’m going to check it out,” I said. “Stay here.” I started down, knees bent and leaning forward for balance. My feet slid out from under me, I grabbed a sapling, and it snapped under my weight. I tumbled back on my butt and slid a couple yards before regaining control.

  “Callahan?”

  I clenched a tree and caught my breath. “I’m good!”

  Down a ways, Wilco broke into rapid barking, alerting to a find. I scrambled back to my feet and hurried toward the sound. He was just ahead of me, standing in front of a cluster of trees. Something was there, but I couldn’t see from my vantage point. I started down, slid some more, and came to a stop a few feet from my dog. He went schizo, prancing and pawing, then shooting off again on another scent. I rolled over and stood up. Pain shot through my rib cage and down my right hip. “Stupid dog.” I swiped at the mud and snow that caked my face. My hand came away with blood.

  Parks came down to where I was. “You’ve got a nasty gash on your temple. You gonna be able to walk back out of here?”

  “I’ve walked away from worse than . . .” My voice tailed off. Parks’s gaze was trained over my shoulder. I turned and saw what she saw: the back end of an overturned ATV.

  We surveyed the wreckage. The vehicle was covered in a thick layer of mud and snow, the front end sunken into the soft ground. Rounded packets of dried grass and twigs stuck out of the wheel wells, where mice and other small rodents had built their nests. Another animal had sharpened its claws on the vinyl seat, leaving it hanging in shreds. Lodged under the wheel was a piece of material, a torn piece of clothing, or a rag, discolored from exposure and the elements, and stained dark black along the edge where it’d wicked up someone’s blood. A small stain, but enough for Wilco’s nose to detect.

  Parks chipped caked mud off the broken license plate, revealing a couple numbers. The rest were gone. “The plate’s damaged. But we’ve got a partial. Looks like this happened a while ago.”

  I tensed, jerked back. A while ago, yes. Last fall, to be exact, when the leaves had turned orange and yellow and dirty blood russet and . . .

  Parks sensed something. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  She scanned the ridge above us. “No one could drive through this gulley. Someone must’ve drove it off the ridge.”

  Or pushed it off.

  “The driver didn’t walk away from this accident.” She reached for her radio. “I’ll call in the plate number.”

  No need. I can tell her who the victim was. Nausea rose in the back of my throat. Of all the places, all the areas it could have been . . . it was here.

  Parks lowered the radio and shot me a curious look. “You okay? Do I need to request medics?”

  “No. I’m good.” I cocked my thumb uphill. “My dog took off. I’ve got to go find him.” At the top of the hill, Wilco spied me and bounded back. Relief washed over me at finding him, then fear. My dog had unburied and exposed a secret that was about to turn my life upside down.

  He sensed my emotion, bristled, and lowered his head. But just for a second before his nose twitched and his focus switched back to his work. He bounded uphill, his tail tensed and curled as he raised his nose and peered at a couple tree trunks, then lowered it again and continued upward. I gulped in air, my head spinning as I dragged myself behind him.

  He alerted again. This time his bark echoed from inside a rocky cavern.

  “What is it? What’s he found?” Parks had come back up the hill and stood next to me.

  I unclipped the lead leash secured to my belt and headed for my dog. “Wait here,” I told Parks. “I need to get my dog out of there first.”

  I bent over and shuffle-stepped toward the back of the cavern, secured Wilco’s leash and drew him backward, away from his quarry. He pranced proudly at my feet while I bounced the beam of my flashlight over his find. Not a body, but a skull and bones. And some other items: pieces of deteriorated clothing, a shoe, just one, and a pocketknife . . . and . . . and a bullet.

  My stomach sank. If this is who I think it is . . . No, it is. It has to be. I’d never known where the body was hidden, but how many times had I seen that very ATV tearing around Bone Gap? This had to be him. And if it was . . .

  I bent down and plucked the bullet from between two rib bones.

  “Is it another girl?” I startled, slid the slug into my pocket, and glanced back. Parks stood at the entrance of the cavern, leaning over and peering inside. She cocked her head, trying to see around me, nervous fingers once again caressing the cross that hung around her neck.

  “No. It’s not a girl.” Part of me—an ugly, selfish part of me—wished it were the Jefferson County girl.

  I turned back and stared at the skeleton, nothing more than a heap of dirt-covered bones, really. Shocks of dread and fear coursed through my body. A ghost from the past had come back to haunt me. A man who, in life, had tormented and brutalized me, and now, in death, was going to completely destroy everyone I held dear.

  Dublin Costello. That dark cloud that had hung over my family this last year was about to pour its acid rain on us.

  CHAPTER 8

  My phone screen glowed bright in the dark night air. I leaned against my car and scrolled through my photos, trying to focus on each and ignore the sound of my dog peeing on my front tire. The Lurchers caged in the backyard caught a whiff of Wilco’s scent and erupted into a raucous spurt of barking. They didn’t appreciate a canine intruder in their territory.

  Things had calmed down at Ona’s. I’d arrived at her camper twenty minutes earlier and found only Colm’s vehicle parked outside. The good priest consoling the bereaved, I assumed. Or perhaps finalizing plans for Maura’s funeral. In either case, I thought it prudent not to interrupt them, so I passed the time by scrolling through more pictures I’d taken of Maura’s journal.

  January 1

  Nevan and me snuck out and went to a New Year’s party last night at an old farmho
use. A bunch of kids from school were there. I got knackered on rum and Cokes and puked on the floor. So embarrassing! Especially at midnight when Nevan and me snuck a New Year’s kiss. My mouth probably tasted like puke.

  Not much different than my New Year’s Eve, minus the kiss. And the party. I’d spent the night with Wilco and a fresh bottle, passed out on the sofa before the ball dropped in Times Square, woke up two hours later cold, alone, and wondering if living through another year was worth it. I must’ve decided it was. Here I am. Still cold, still alone. I zipped my parka over my chin, looked at the trailer, then back at my phone. I scrolled through to her final entries.

  February 6

  Mother’s heart is broken. I’ve never seen her cry so much. She said the baby will bring us shame and embarrassment. And now she says she’s going to try to talk Nevan into going through with the marriage, just to make things look right. She says it would be the best thing for the family. I hate my life. I wish I was normal, not some freak Pavee. I don’t fit in anywhere.

  This was dated a few days before her death. I already knew the baby was Hatch’s, or at least Maura had thought it was. What had happened during the time between the first part of January and this entry? She’d gone from being in love with Nevan to having another guy’s child?

  A flash of movement from the house drew my attention upward. Colm stepped out and made his way toward me. I slid my phone into my pocket. “Hey there.” My eyes were immediately drawn to his neck. Instead of his usual white collar, he wore a wool scarf tucked under a heavy black fleece jacket. A knit hat was pulled low over his forehead. Somehow he looked younger. More like the old Colm I used to know. And loved. Maybe still did. I lowered my eyes. “How’s Ona doing today?”

  “Not well. I’m worried about her.”

  She’d lost her only daughter. What did he expect? I met his gaze, saw his worry. “What do you mean by ‘not well’?”

  “I work with grieving people all the time. She’s especially distraught.”

  “How’s that?”

  He searched the air for answers. “I’m not sure I can explain it. It’s as if there’s more there than just sorrow.”

  “Like what?”

  “Fear. That’s what I’m sensing from her. She’s scared of something. She wouldn’t talk about it. Actually, she hardly talked at all. I tried to pin her down on funeral arrangements tonight, but she was too upset. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Metal cages clanked and rattled in the backyard. The Lurchers were going crazy. I craned my neck and saw Eddie out back, tossing scraps onto the concrete floors of their pens.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Colm asked.

  He meant about Maura’s death, not knowing about the remains I’d just discovered. I rocked forward on my toes, opened my mouth, then shut it again. We’d never discussed it, but Colm knew about Dublin Costello. He also knew that my grandmother had killed the man. Gran herself had told him, in a confession that I’d happened to overhear. Now Dublin’s body had been discovered and I’d stolen evidence from the scene. Right or wrong, guilt wracked my conscience. I wanted to confide my transgression. Get his opinion, or approval—was I justified, for the sake of protecting my family, or not? But could I trust Colm?

  “Brynn, what is it?”

  “Nothing.” I took a step back and crossed my arms over my chest. He was a priest, yes, meaning he could be trusted with anything. Or at least he could now. But I’d trusted him once, years before he became Father Colm, and he’d betrayed that trust. Seemed to be a pattern in my life. I’d loved my mother; she’d abandoned me. I’d loved Colm; he did the same. And most recently I’d opened up to another man, Kevin Doogan. He’d left me behind, too. Then there was Gramps, the one man who should have protected me, but in the end loved his ideals more than his own granddaughter. There was only Gran. She’d given up so much to protect me. I owed her the same. Didn’t I?

  “Brynn?” Colm looked worried. “Something is obviously wrong. Let me help you.” He stepped forward, close enough for me to see a tiny scar under his jawline. I didn’t remember it being there when we . . .

  I took a deep breath and changed gears. “There is something bothering me. There’s been a new development. The autopsy showed that Maura was pregnant.”

  Sadness shot through his eyes. “Oh, no. A double homicide then.”

  “She was only eight weeks along, but, yes, Tennessee law rules it as a double homicide, no matter the gestational age.”

  “The way I see it, it would be a double murder at any stage of pregnancy, no matter where the mother lived.” I nodded and he glanced back at the trailer. “Does Ona know?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Do you think the killer knew she was pregnant?”

  “Maybe. I don’t think Maura was chosen randomly, the killing is too personal for that. She knew the killer.”

  “That means you should be able to narrow down the list of suspects. If she wasn’t that far along, she probably hadn’t told many people.”

  “Even if she told one person, and that person told another . . .”

  “Anyone could have heard about it.” He nodded. “The Jezebel reference . . .”

  I shrugged. Nothing could be certain at this point.

  I decided to tell him about the latest turn in the case. “There’s another girl missing.”

  “What?”

  “Not a local girl. She’s from south of here. Jefferson County.”

  “You think it’s connected to Maura’s murder?”

  “We don’t know yet. They’ve put out an alert.”

  “Let’s pray she’s found safely.”

  “You pray. I’m more of the take-action type.”

  “You could do both.”

  I bristled and looked away. He sighed. “Well, I’ve got to get going. A delivery is coming in for the food pantry tonight. I need to help unload the truck.” He said good-bye and turned away. I watched him leave and regretted my decision not to confide in him. He knew what Dublin had done to me all those years ago. And he knew that Gran had killed Dublin in self-defense. He knew the whole story, but it’d come to him in a confession. Anything I said to him now would be held sacred and private as well. And Colm wasn’t the type to break the rules.

  Unlike me.

  I shoved my hands into the pocket of my parka, my fingers nudging against the cold steel of the bullet nestled deep in the folds of fabric along with a half-dozen chalky pills.

  Guilt and relief, all in one pocket.

  CHAPTER 9

  Maura Keene’s funeral was the next morning. Outside, the crusted snow sparkled like diamonds in the morning rays of the sun. Inside, the church dampened the senses with sullen mosaics of suffering saints and bleeding hearts. Mourners sat with heads bent, hands clasped respectfully, and shoulders trembling with emotion. I’d come in late. Gran and Meg were a few pews ahead of me. The woman next to me smelled of jasmine perfume and cigarettes and a tangy undercut of lasagna. Early-morning baking. Comfort and nourishment for the bereaved. How thoughtful.

  The procession commenced as bagpipes emanated haunting tones of “Danny Boy” as the family followed behind the pall-draped casket. Ona and Eddie were first behind the coffin. She wore a clingy black chiffon dress stretched tight over her breasts and hips, perhaps pulled from the back of the closet, or borrowed from a thinner friend. The rosary beads, twined between the fingers of her left hand, clinked as she walked, keeping time with the sound of her heeled footsteps, her right hand grasped under Eddie’s arm for support; not for herself, but for him. His lips trembled, his unpatched eye blinked tears that landed in wet, puckered stains against his polyester suit. Midaisle he swayed, Ona stopping to grasp him quickly with both hands. A collective gasp echoed throughout the sanctuary. “His twin,” the lady next to me whispered, and then nodded, as if that said it all.

  Opening prayers mumbled through the sanctuary, a reading and another, all probably poignant and meaningful, had I been able to focus. My t
houghts wandered in and out, my eyes taking in every mourner as a possible suspect. The church was segregated: Travellers and settled, two easily distinguishable groups. Pavee men in black suits, hair slicked back, gold crucifixes on thick chains, and arms protectively around their women, who sat pretty in their hats over teased hair and garishly applied makeup. They needed to look their best as if, by association, this tribute elevated Maura’s status as she approached the Pearly Gates, seeking entry. A sharp contrast to the monotone, conservatively groomed group of settled mourners tightly huddled in the back pew: the principal from McCreary High, a few teachers, Maura’s boss from the diner, and a couple others, too. The rest were kids—classmates, I assumed. They sat with their heads hung in sadness, or was it shame? How many had actually been nice to the weird girl? A gypsy freak from Bone Gap.

  I sat in my jeans and a sweater, neither somber nor garish, the perpetual observer, never an insider to either front.

  As we rustled to stand once more for another offered prayer, two pews up, Riana Meath turned and waggled her fingers my way.

  All this time, since my return to Bone Gap, we’d been avoiding each other. Lately she’d acted like we were best friends again. Maybe she’d changed. Tragedy often did that to people. Nothing changed a person like death and mortality slapping you in the face.

  “Today the world feels dark.” I peeled my eyes from Riana and focused on Colm as he began his homily. “A brightness, a true light in our lives, has been extinguished. We face unbearable grief, but yet we do not weep alone. . . .”

  Wrong. I glanced to the front. Ona wept alone.