Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  Silence fell over the crowd. Pusser emerged from inside the trailer, shot me a glaring look, and joined the officers. “Yup. That’s what we’re looking for. Document it and bag it.”

  He walked over and held out another bag. “Care to tell me what this is, Mrs. Meath?” The bag held an address scrawled onto a piece of scratch paper.

  She clamped her lips tight.

  “This is an Augusta address. Is this where your son is?” Pusser yanked the toothpick from his mouth and tossed it aside. “Answer me, Mrs. Meath.”

  “Most of these knackers got kin down that way.” It was one of the officers. Pusser shot him a look.

  Kitty turned her eyes my way. They were wet now, but her jaw jutted out firmly, her mouth nothing more than a mere slash across her face. A mother would do anything to protect her child. But was she protecting him from prejudices and unjustified accusations, or did she know that her son was a killer?

  Pusser spoke to the officer. “Take her in. We’ll question her at the department.”

  “What?” I latched onto Kitty’s arm. “Don’t do this, Pusser. It isn’t necessary.”

  “It’s my call to make, Callahan. Not yours.” He lowered his chin until his mouth was just inches from my face. “Not that that ever seems to matter to you.”

  His gaze bore into the side of my face. I stood my ground, but fought back the dread rising in me. His breath was hot against my ear. “I’ve got things to take care of now, but later, you and me, we’re going to talk about what happened today.”

  He broke away and motioned to the officer, who clamped cuffs on Kitty’s wrists and turned her toward his cruiser. Her body went slack. I stepped in and reached out, afraid that she might collapse, but she righted herself. Her body stiffened with anger and her features distorted into an ugly mask. She strained against the cuffs, leaning down and spitting at my feet. She raised crazed eyes and met my gaze. She uttered one word: “Traitor.”

  * * *

  Pusser called me at eight the next morning. “The Augusta police have Nevan Meath in custody.”

  I slid my coffee mug onto the kitchen counter. “Is he talking?”

  “No. But he will. I’m counting on you to make that happen.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Meg was at the counter, buttering her toast. Her eyes darted my way.

  “And what about Hatch?”

  “He claims the Meath kid came up there with the baseball bat and went ballistic, threatened to kill him, and bashed the hell out of the Keenes’ car. That’s when Hatch left.”

  “He left Maura up there alone with Nevan?”

  “I can’t arrest him for being an asshole.”

  “What’d he say about the pregnancy?”

  “He admits that the kid could be his, even agreed to DNA testing. He says he would have stepped up to the plate. Taken responsibility for the kid.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. We can’t prove it one way or the other. But the bat has paint on it, and it looks to be a color match for Maura Keene’s car. It’s being analyzed now.”

  “That bat was out in the shrubs. Anyone could have planted it there. Hatch could have done that.”

  “You’re grasping at straws, Callahan. Is that because Nevan’s a Pavee?”

  I gritted my teeth. “You’re making assumptions. Is that because he is a Pavee?”

  Pusser moved on. “We’ve got a team up at Stoners’ Draw now. Probably a waste of time, but I’m going to have them collect what they can. See if there’s anything to tie Nevan to the crime scene.”

  “There is.” I told him about the engine oil. “Could be his. Maybe not, though.”

  Silence on Pusser’s end of the line. I hadn’t hesitated to tell him what I’d found—even though it could implicate a Pavee. He got my point.

  Finally, “I’ll alert the techs. It still wouldn’t prove that he was up there that exact night. But we have witness testimony for that.”

  “I’m not sure how reliable Hatch is as a witness,” I offered.

  “It’s what we got for now,” he replied.

  “Anything on the other missing girl?”

  “No. Nothing substantial yet.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. I braced myself. I knew what was coming.

  “You’ve been walking a thin line with me, Callahan. I was going to fire you yesterday, but it looks like I’ll need you for this Meath thing.”

  “What do you mean?” Although I knew what he meant. My only useful skill was that I was a Pavee, someone to keep around for times like these when my ethnicity came in handy.

  “I’m sending you and Grabowski to Augusta to bring the Meath kid back. I need you along for the ride, you know, Pavee with Pavee. I wouldn’t want the kid screaming prejudice later.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sure you do. So get packed. I need you two on the road first thing this afternoon. I got your psych eval scheduled for Tuesday morning.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll take a urine test, too.”

  My mind raced. A urine test?

  “Just a precaution. No big deal, right? You’ll pass?”

  The booze wasn’t a problem. It’d be out of my system by then. But the Vicodin? I’d just taken a couple to kick the day off. “This Tuesday? I don’t know if I can—”

  “You don’t have a choice, Callahan. Make it work.”

  CHAPTER 21

  February 7

  Things are getting really bad. Everything is out of control. It was a mistake to tell, and Nevan is paying for my mistake. I can’t even trust leaving my journal around here. I can’t wait to leave this place.

  “What do you think of this?” I turned down the radio and read the entry to Grabowski. After nearly three hours of pumped-up banjos and mandolins, the silence was blissful.

  He glanced sideways at my phone. “I thought there was a new department policy prohibiting the use of private phones for police business.”

  “You’ve never broken a rule before?”

  “Have you ever actually followed a rule before?”

  “What are we missing here? This entry is dated the seventh. By then, she’d already told Nevan, her mother, her brother, and even Hatch knew. So did she mean one of those people, or did she confide in someone new? Why was Maura worried about Nevan here?”

  “I wondered the same thing. It’s possible she went to someone outside her normal circle. According to you, Traveller girls don’t normally end up in that sort of trouble.”

  I watched the road signs whisking past us. Willed myself to ignore the obvious signs of our Pavee transgressions. My own youthful sexual fling that strayed far from acceptable Pavee morals. Premarital sex, and with a settled boy, no less. Sin topped with sin. I knew neither of our actions reflected Pavee standards. But . . . there was more to Maura than just being another young Traveller girl in trouble.

  I remembered what Winnie had said, that Maura got a rush out of leading Hatch on. Maybe she led on other guys, too. And the journal showed another side to Maura. A manipulative side: lying to her mother so she could go out partying, sleeping with one man while engaged to another. And Winnie also said she threw Hatch’s affection in her face.... Who else might she have infuriated with her manipulations?

  “We need to dig more into Maura’s social circle. Maybe look more at the Fisher kid, see how well he knew Maura.”

  “Waste of time. Frank seems to think Nevan’s the guy.”

  “His logic is clouded by his prejudices.”

  “If he’s so prejudiced against Travellers, then why’d he hire you?”

  “I come in handy in cases like these. It looks good to have a Pavee on the force.” I thumbed toward the seat behind us. The department’s SUV had come automatically equipped with a K9 cage in the far back. “And I came with a dog. He loves Wilco.” All I was to Pusser was a dumb Pavee with a smart dog.

  Grabowski glanced in the rearview mirror. “That’s true. Frank lo
ves your dog. We all love your dog. He might be your only redeeming quality.”

  “Thanks.” He had no idea how close to home that statement hit. And hurt.

  He chuckled, then sobered. “The way I see it, you’re the one with the prejudice problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re ignoring the facts. Probably because Nevan is a Pavee. Think about it. He was the last person to see Maura alive. A witness saw him vandalize Maura’s car. . . .”

  “Hatch isn’t exactly what I’d call a reliable witness.”

  “Maybe not, but the bat was found at Nevan’s residence. And he ran. Why run if he wasn’t guilty of something?”

  And there was the oil stain, which, if it tested positive, would put him at the abduction scene. “Simple. Pavees never trust the law.”

  Grabowski didn’t respond. I knew it sounded like an excuse. I didn’t bother to say the bat might have been planted—that really reeked of defensiveness. Was Grabowski right? If Nevan wasn’t a Pavee, would I be eager to pin this on him?

  I turned and looked out the window. It was getting close to sunset and we were still about an hour north of the South Carolina border. We’d gotten a late start and it’d be dark when we got there, so Grabowski and I planned to get hotel rooms tonight and get Nevan first thing in the morning. I had a plan of my own, too: shake off Grabowski as soon as possible and go to the address Colm had given me for Doogan’s family. I glanced down at my hands. My fingers trembled slightly. It’d been about five hours since my last pill. Is that a long time? I didn’t know. I’d been on the take-as-needed regimen for the past couple years, popping a pill when the pain got to be too much. Or the anxiety. Or the stress. Or just when I needed to chill.

  “I’ve known Frank a long time,” Grabowski continued. “He’s a good guy. A good cop. No way he’d let anything influence his judgment on a case.”

  “Guess I haven’t known him as long as you. Every time something goes wrong, he looks our way. All cops do. That’s the way it’s always been.” Why was I saying this? Pusser had always treated me and my family fairly. Why was I so eager to sell him out? “I didn’t really mean that.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “It’s hard for me to trust people. Even Pusser.” Fit for duty? Urine test? The ungrateful SOB. And after all my dog and I had done for him. Five hours since my last pill. I’d spent most of that time feeling pissed at the world, second-guessing myself, my job, whether I should beg off from this assignment, finally deciding to push through. I’d done this before, the first day was hard, but nothing like the second and third day. We’d be back by then. I’d take a day or two off. Get through this.

  Grabowski was still talking. “Give him a chance. He’s a good guy. This case is hard for him. It reminds him of something from his past.”

  “The girl in the picture?”

  A nod. “Her name was Josephine. Jo. Their only child.”

  My mouth went dry. Pusser’s daughter. “Where is she? Is she dead?”

  “Probably. She was a senior in high school when she went missing. The same age as Maura.”

  “But that must have been . . .” I tried to put together a timeline in my head, but my brain was turning at half speed.

  “Twenty-two years ago, this month.”

  My chest heaved. Everything rushed in on me at once: things I’d said, things Pusser had said, the way his eyes clouded with sadness at times.... “I didn’t know.”

  “His wife went crazy with grief. She died exactly two years after Jo went missing.”

  “How?”

  “Suicide.”

  I swallowed hard. Standing on that cliff, I’d relished only my selfish release from my miseries, without a thought to the pain I’d inflict on others if I jumped. Pain like the ghostly images that haunted Pusser every day of his life from a missing child, a wife gone forever. Selfish, selfish. Pusser had needed his wife to help bear their burdens. And Wilco and Gran needed me. Gran especially. She needed me to take care of her, provide for her. I quickly slid my hands under my legs, hiding the shakes from Grabowski.

  His eyes stayed steady on the road. “Frank always thought her boyfriend had something to do with it. He was no good. The type of guy you hate to see your daughter with. Frank had forbidden her to see him, but she snuck around. He knew it at the time. Cops’ kids can’t get away with anything. All the guys in the department kept an eye out for each other’s kids. But Pusser let it go. He figured she’d come to her senses about the guy.”

  “Why didn’t Pusser like the boyfriend? What was wrong with him?”

  “Oh, you know. Always in trouble. Shoplifting, underage drinking, small-time vandalism . . . minor stuff compared to what kids are into these days. But after Jo went missing . . . well, you’d have to understand what that type of thing would do to a parent.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Frank spent every waking moment searching for Jo. And he hounded the boyfriend. Put patrol on him twenty-four/seven and harassed him every chance he got.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the state pen. He’s been in for fifteen years. Armed robbery. He’s probably in his late thirties or early forties now. He’s up for parole in six months.”

  “Pusser must be crazy knowing that he’s going to get out. What’s his name?”

  “Jack Doherty.”

  “Doherty?” I knew the name. A cold dread etched my spine. “Was he a—”

  “Yes. He was from Bone Gap.”

  CHAPTER 22

  We pulled into Augusta a little after eight, got a couple bags of fast-food burgers to go, and checked into the local flophouse, adjoining rooms on the first floor. As Grabowski headed to his room, I asked for the keys to the cruiser to run a few personal errands. He didn’t ask what type of errands and I didn’t offer an explanation. More than anything, I wanted a hot shower and bed. I was nearing thirteen hours without my meds, an intense aching had settled into my muscles. Still tolerable now, but I knew it was going to get worse. Much worse. But this was my only chance to see Doogan, so I headed out of the lobby, tossing the grease-soaked bag in the trash on my way. Couldn’t stomach even the smell, but hadn’t wanted Grabowski to suspect anything was off. From the car, Wilco looked longingly at the tossed bag, but he’d wolfed down his plain burger patty before we’d left the drive-through’s parking lot.

  Colm had contacted the priest at the church where the photo was taken and got not only an address, but the name of the woman in the picture—Katie Doogan. She lived in a large community of Travellers outside North Augusta. Years ago, a reality TV show was filmed here. People had watched that show and assumed that all Travellers lived the same, but our clan lived nothing like these people. They’d integrated more, opting to live in large traditional homes, while we maintained more mobile residences: trailers and, for some, manufactured homes like Gran’s, larger and more comfortable for the older set, but still moveable. In short, our clan was still wheeled. These folks were rooted in place. Travellers who no longer travelled, but Pavees nonetheless.

  Many of the homes in this area were mansions by anyone’s standards, but the address I had was for a more modest brick home tucked along a side street off Kildare Road. My pulse kicked up a notch when I spied Doogan’s bike in the driveway. I parked next to it and huddled in the front seat with Wilco, willing my heart rate to slow. My eyes took in every detail of this place as I tried to steady my nerves.

  I flipped down my visor and looked in the mirror. My scar stood out, dark and splotchy against my all-too-pale skin. My face was drawn; my eyes were flat and hollow; my nose red and dribbling.... The shakes had returned. Not just my hands, but my whole body trembled. I was a wreck. I thought again of the beautiful woman in the photo. No wonder he left. I shook it off. None of that mattered. I was here for only one thing: to find out about the gun. The one loose end that could tie my grandmother to Dublin Costello’s murder. Nothing more.

  The woman in the picture answered t
he door. She wore a deep green silk scarf around her neck. My fingers flew to my own neck and my scar, bare and exposed. Her eyes were a golden-hazel color that seemed to look right through me.

  “I’m Brynn Calla—”

  “I know who you are.”

  Such a simple statement, but it said so much. She knew. Doogan must have told her about me. Had he told her everything? My mind raced for words. I had none.

  Doogan appeared at her side, placing his hand on the small of her back. He looked down at Wilco, a brief smile crossing his lips, then up at me. His smile faded. “Hello, Brynn.”

  I’d mentally prepared myself for this moment, telling myself that I wouldn’t react to him, but the second I saw him, my breath caught and a familiar tingling burst through me. I couldn’t control it. My med-deprived blood held my pituitary gland at gunpoint, demanding a shot of endorphins that a certain sexual release could bring.... I lowered my gaze and forced myself to talk. “I have to speak to you about something. In private.”

  The woman clenched his arm. Her expression turned icy cold.

  I looked to Doogan for any indication of what he was going to do. “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Through a mutual friend.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you about my grandmother. Something’s come up. It’s important.”

  He turned to the woman. “It’s okay, Katie. I’ll only be a couple minutes.”

  “No. I don’t want you to talk to—”

  “It’ll only take a minute. I’ll be right back inside.”

  She shook him off, wheeling and storming away. He watched her go. His jaw tightened and then relaxed, but when he turned my way, a look of sadness crept into his eyes. But the sadness quickly changed to something else as his gaze swept hungrily over my body.

  Every nerve in my body sprang to life. Withdrawals, I reminded myself, that’s all this is, just my body playing tricks on me. I cleared my throat. “Your wife?”

  His expression hardened. He pushed past me and walked toward the side of the house. I followed, speaking to his back. “And you have children.”