Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  Status and position were esteem needs to all humans, regardless of our economic or social position. Riana was nothing more than a Pavee, outcast by normal society, yet the head of her own social group. A big fish in a small pond. We all need to feel like we’re a bit better than those around us. Some people establish their status through money, brand-named clothing, expensive cars.... Others, like Riana, perhaps because financial means are so limited among us Travellers, do so by manipulating and bullying others. She’d done so through grade school, high school, young adulthood, and now she’d arrived on top. By Bone Gap standards, she had it all. Married, five boys, a double-wide trailer, and a famous husband. Nevan’s sexual orientation threatened all that. It threatened her pack position.

  She tried first to manipulate Nevan by threatening him, beating it out of him. But it didn’t work. Then Addy became a direct threat. A settled girl, coming around and threatening her—Addy needed to be put in her place. Or eliminated. Or maybe Pusser was right: Things simply got out of control and Addy ended up dead. And then there was Pete, another pack member under Riana’s rule: covering for Addy’s murder, threatening my family . . . all of it carefully orchestrated by Riana.

  I’d seen this type of thing on other occasions, too. Years ago, in Iraq, New Year’s Eve; a party on base, music, liquor . . . and Emily. Lance Corporal Emily, from somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. A pretty farm girl. Tough, resilient, and, unfortunately that night, drunk. Bleary-eyed and stumbling, she was cornered by a pack of guys who blocked her way and surrounded her like hungry wolves, groping her, running their hands up her skirt. None of them would have violated her on their own, but together, as a rowdy, horny pack, they became animals of a different nature—predators. It took a half-dozen of us ladies to rescue her from their single-minded pursuit. But even then, the damage had been done. Maybe not physically, but psychologically. Victimized by her own.

  Pack mentality. Collectively, humans can do so much good, but with a bad leader, that same collection of people so often descends to its lowest common denominator. It’s our animalistic nature.

  And Nevan. What type of psychological trauma had he suffered at the hands of his own family? Hopefully, he and Eddie had escaped far, far away from all this ugliness.

  * * *

  I woke at three the next morning, my mouth dry, my body soaked with sweat. The craving for a pill already thick on my tongue. I walked through the darkened trailer to the kitchen. Out the window, there was nothing but stillness. The blackness of night had settled heavy on Bone Gap. And on me. Yesterday had been a difficult day and I’d taken more pills than normal, but today would be better. I was going to cut down on my dosage again.

  Water spurted from the tap. I cupped my hands and raised palmfuls to my mouth. I lapped and slurped like a dog. My dog. That was the problem. I couldn’t sleep without my dog. My bed felt empty and lonely without his warm body curled around mine, our breathing in sync, rhythmic and comforting. I was alone. He was alone. Was he having nightmares, too? Did he think I’d abandoned him?

  I went back to my room, tried to sleep for a couple hours, but couldn’t. At six, I phoned Pusser at home. He’d lived in the same home for almost forty years, a one-story ranch on Depot Street. He loved to tell the story of how he scrimped for the down payment on an officer’s salary to buy the place for his new bride. Many wonderful years they’d spent in that little house. It was a happy little story that Pusser told over and over, but never finished. I only recently learned the ending of the story. Mrs. Pusser was a fastidious housecleaner. She held firm to the adage: “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” That’s why she’d shot herself in the bathtub. She couldn’t bear the thought of all that blood and brain splatter mussing up the house.

  Pusser finally answered, his voice graveled and abrupt. “What is it, Callahan? It’s six in the morning.”

  “I know. And I can’t sleep because my dog’s not here. When are you going to get him out of the doggy slammer and get us back to work?”

  “It’s just a matter of timing. I’m working through this crap with the mayor’s boy, trying to get—”

  “What is there to work through? We got him for drug dealing, right?”

  He grumbled over the line. “Winnie Joyce recanted her testimony. She says Golden Boy didn’t bring anything to them that night except a little beer.”

  “The mayor got to her. That’s what’s going on here. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know it. What do you want me to do about it? Maura and Addy were the only other two who could testify against him.”

  “So he gets off scot-free again?” I swallowed down the anger rising in me. Hatch Anderson was nothing more than a scumbag drug dealer. And once again, Daddy was going to get him out of trouble.

  “Listen, Callahan. I want you back. And your dog. I hate the idea of him being locked up the way he is. Just trust me. I’m working on it.”

  I took him at his word and hung up. But it bugged the crap out of me that the Anderson kid was going to get nothing more than a slap on the hand.

  Outside, lights were just starting to break through the darkness: a pinpoint of a porch light here and there, headlight beams from early-morning commuters, and the soft glow of kitchen lights. Morning was dawning over Bone Gap. Winnie Joyce would be getting ready for school. I threw on my parka and headed out the door. She had some explaining to do.

  CHAPTER 42

  They stood next to the car in a knitted huddle of bright hoodies and legging-clad stick legs, long strapped purses bumping against their butts as they shuffled their feet to keep warm.

  They shifted in even tighter as I approached. “Good morning, girls.”

  Furtive glances, but no takers. Heads bowed closer together, whispered words rising in the air along with thin ribbons of cigarette smoke. The trailer door slammed, and Winnie appeared, car keys dangling in her hand. She traipsed over, tugged at the faux-fur collar of her coat, and peered at me through darkened lashes. “What do you want?”

  “The truth.” I eyed the cherry-red Mustang parked nearby, sales sticker plastered on the passenger window.

  She glanced at the girls. “I’m busy right now.” She pushed past me and was immediately engulfed in her circle of friends. Someone passed her a cigarette. A ruby ring glowed from her finger as she inhaled. More giggles, more glances my way. You can see us, but you can’t be us. The story of my life. The fringer, always somewhere that I don’t belong.

  They turned their backs . . . and poof! I’d gone invisible. Chitter, chatter, chitter, chatter . . . talk of boys and movies, nails and makeup, boys and boys and . . . “He’s so cute.” . . . “Did you see that slut come on to him at lunch?” . . . “He looked at me in gym class.” . . . “No freakin’ way!” . . . I watched and listened. I was surprised to see Winnie at the hub, orchestrating from the middle, her friends the spokes that made the wheel turn: the dark-haired, doe-eyed girl, rounded shoulders and soft-spoken, still waters; the bold blonde with boy-teasing cleavage, sexy even under the folds of her hoodie; and the go-ahead-and-walk-all-over-me girl, the bottom-feeder, probably put there because of the birthmark on her cheek. (No matter what we say, beauty isn’t more than skin deep.) They all played a role in their group, their dynamics, reflecting my own high-school clique. Maybe all social groups were the same, with certain positions to be filled, and each of us choosing and filling those roles.

  I hadn’t seen Winnie as a “queen bee” type before. More of an underling, Maura’s sidekick, playing second fiddle. Which made sense now that I thought of it—who better than the second fiddle to fill a vacancy in the lead seat? Now she seemed confident, powerful, the concertmaster even. I cleared my throat. “New car, Winnie?” Mouths quieted, brows raised. No one wanted to turn, to admit that I did still exist, that I was visible, like an inflamed pimple on prom night. Cover it up; ignore it; maybe it will go away. “Where’d you get it?”

  Winnie’s eyes were two dark pits of tar.
/>   Blondie straightened her shoulders. “You don’t have to answer her, Winnie.” The gatekeeper protecting her queen.

  Winnie’s lip twitched. “She doesn’t intimidate me.”

  Quiet One folded her arms across her chest, eyes darting from me to Winnie. Oh no! Oh no! Conflict.

  I ran my fingertips along the Mustang’s hood. “I’m just wondering where you got it, that’s all. It’s beautiful.”

  Bottom-Feeder placed her hand on Winnie’s shoulder. “Why shouldn’t she have something nice? Everything she’s been through. Her best friend’s death, police questions, Hatch’s—”

  “Shut up!” Winnie shook off the girl’s hand.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Winnie glared her down until she shrank back into the circle, back to her proper underling position, then turned on me. “What is it you want?”

  To get you alone and scratch your eyes out for taking hush money from the stupid mayor and his drug-dealing kid. “Maybe I want a ride in your new car.”

  “Don’t do it, Winnie.” Blondie again.

  Winnie faltered a bit, a tiny crack in her façade, then recovered with an icy stare. “No time. We’ve got to get to school.” She pointed the key fob. Two sharp beeps pierced the air.

  “Just a short ride. Down the road and back again.” I smiled. “Unless you’d find that intimidating.”

  Quiet One darted glances between us. Oh no, a challenge!

  Winnie raised her chin, her eyes glimmering. She tossed her school notebook on the front seat and ordered, “Get in!”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, she was doing about seventy down Highway 2. She had one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with the radio. I clutched the door as we crossed the centerline, not once, but twice. “Easy, Winnie, you don’t want to wreck your new car.”

  “You scared?” she sneered.

  “Yeah. Damn right I am.”

  She laughed. We swerved again.

  “Maybe you should keep both hands on the wheel.”

  “I’m a good driver.” As if to prove the point, she went faster. We were up to almost eighty. “Can that piece of crap you drive go this fast?”

  She had a point. My car hardly ran these days. Especially after Pete and friends got done with it. I ran my hand along the Mustang’s buttery upholstery, car envy rising from somewhere deep inside me. How ironic. Almost thirty, I’ve worked hard my whole life, served and sacrificed, and what do I have to show for it? A piece-of-crap car, while little Miss Priss here drove a brand-new Mustang. “Where’d you get the car, Winnie?”

  “I bought it.”

  Yeah, with hush money. The mayor paid her to pull her testimony on his son. “I noticed the new ring. A gift?”

  A smile tugged at her lips.

  “Let me guess. From Hatch?”

  “So? He likes me.”

  “He’s using you.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Maybe I don’t mind being used.”

  “He’s a drug dealer. And Maura would still be alive if it weren’t for the drugs he gave her that night. She would have been able to fight off her assailant.” I rubbed my neck, thinking of Riana’s grip, Pete’s muscular body. Truth was, Maura wouldn’t have stood a chance against those two, drugged up or not.

  “You’re not going to put that on me.”

  “You’re the witness that links Hatch to those drugs. All you have to do is testify that he gave them to you and Maura that night.”

  “You’re jealous of my new car. That’s what this is.”

  “This has nothing to do with cars.” Truth was, Pavees loved their vehicles: cars, trucks, motorcycles, RVs, anything with wheels. Took pride in whatever they owned, even if they couldn’t afford an I’m-so-vain blue Mercedes or a red-hot Mustang. Which was why it was an ultimate Traveller insult to bash in even a clunker like mine. I thought of Maura’s smashed headlights. Nevan denied vandalizing it. And why would he? It just didn’t fit. Not considering . . .

  I looked over at Winnie. “You called Nevan that night because Maura was making out with Hatch, right?”

  Her smile faded. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. Leave it to you to try to spoil my fun.” She cranked up the radio.

  I turned it down again. “I’m just trying to figure out how things happened that night. For Maura’s sake. She was your friend, right?”

  “Yeah. My best friend. That’s why I called Nevan. She was making a fool of herself.” She tossed her head, as if flipping loose hair aside or dislodging thoughts. “Besides, I thought he should know. I felt so bad for him. They were engaged.”

  Only they weren’t. They’d broken up. Nevan had no interest in Maura besides friendship and she’d moved on. And she’d cared enough for him to keep his sexual orientation a secret. Even from her best friend. So, why would he bother going up to Stoners’ Draw that night?

  “Was Nevan upset to hear that his fiancée was with another man?”

  She hesitated. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Not as much as you would have expected, though, right?”

  She shot a glance at me. “He was furious, of course. What man wouldn’t be?”

  A man in love with another man. Nevan had no reason to attack her car. He claimed he didn’t do it and that the car was intact when he left there. So if the car was fine when Winnie left them, and when Nevan left, maybe Riana or Pete did it when they went up there to kill Maura? Then later, when word blazed through the clan that Nevan was a suspect, Riana planted the bat? Maybe. But that still didn’t answer the real question: When was Riana there, and why did she kill Maura at all?

  “Did you see Riana that night up at Stoners’ Draw?”

  “No. I told you. It was just me and Hatch and Maura, and then I left.”

  “And you went to Jacob’s house?”

  She took a fast turn, swerving as she rolled her eyes in answer.

  “So you and Jacob were pretty good friends, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You’d been to his place before?”

  “A few times.”

  “Are you and Jacob . . . ?” I let the question hang.

  She laughed. “No way. Jacob’s nice to me”—that roll of eyes again, like who wouldn’t be nice to Miss Priss—“but he’s, you know, kind of weird. All we do is hang out and play video games.”

  Weird. I had to agree there. Like having his mother’s body holed up in a stinking pig pit. Yet . . . he was respectful in his own way, too. Mrs. Fisher, the flowers, pretty dress, teddy bear . . . respected and treated right.

  My mind zoomed in on the image of Maura’s body in that blood-splattered cave. Yes, she was stabbed, but the way she was laid out, her skirt adjusted just so, tucked around her legs, prim and proper. Maura’s body was given some respect. Could it be that Jacob’s confession wasn’t coerced by Harris? He’d really been there? But what was Jacob’s connection to Riana? My eyes slid toward Winnie.

  “Did Jacob know Riana?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe a little. He knew Nevan. Maybe he’d met Riana at some point.” She looked my way. “Why do you care? Thought you cops had Riana pinned for killing both Addy and Maura.”

  “Addy, yes. But Maura . . .” I cocked my head at her and she faced forward, refusing to make eye contact now. “You don’t mind lying about Hatch’s drugs to enjoy a few pretty perks. Are you protecting Jacob, too? Because he’s a friend?”

  Winnie tensed. “That’s stupid! I’ve gotta get back to my girls.” She swung the wheel over, the car careened into a U-turn, her notebook slid to the floor at my feet as I was thrown against the side door.

  I grabbed my head where it hit the side window. Ouch! But I knew I’d hit a nerve with Winnie, too, and I persisted. “Jacob’s video games, occult stuff, right? He had a thing about death, didn’t he? Did he tell you what happened later that night?” I saw her jaw clamp and she stepped on the accelerator. We would be back any minute now and I didn’t know what button to pus
h. But I could smell that I was close.

  She sped through a stop sign, twisted around a corner, knocking me to the side again, my feet tangling in her now-opened and upside-down notebook on the floor. I reached down to the floorboard, picked it up, and as I turned it over to set it back on the seat, my eyes fell on a paper she’d written for a class. Big, loopy script. The same as the bold and bloody handwriting desecrating the cave where Maura had been dragged and killed . . . Suddenly my blood boiled.

  Winnie wasn’t protecting Jacob at all. I’d underestimated her. We all had. Especially Maura. Winnie wanted to be the queen of the clique all along. Motivated by desire for Hatch, envy over Maura’s relationship with him, and her own sick need for status, she’d wanted to eliminate Maura. She used Jacob, the weird boy, and his obsession with satanic video games, to help her carry out her scheme. No, Winnie wasn’t protecting Jacob—she was protecting herself.

  The only connection between Addy’s murder and Maura’s murder was the fact that both were orchestrated by manipulative bitches. “What did you offer Jacob, Winnie?”

  Winnie’s head snapped my way. A curve was coming up. She was going too fast. “Winnie, keep your eye on—”

  A tire dropped at the road edge, the car jerked and swerved, we spun out of control.... Winnie screamed and slammed on the brakes . . . screeching tires, burned rubber. I braced myself. We hit the ditch hard, glass shattering, metal popping, then silence.. . .

  My head spun. Then a noise drew my attention: Winnie was out the door and running.

  I pushed at my own door, but it wouldn’t open. I climbed across the seat, snagged my foot on the steering wheel getting through the driver’s door, fell, and hit the cold, squishy ground. I recovered and went after her.

  I closed the distance as her new designer boots slipped on the moldy layers of wet leaves. Just inside the woods, I leapt and tackled her. We hit the ground with a thud. She kicked and twisted, threw a punch meant for my face, but it hit my chest. And damn it hurt! I punched back. Only, I didn’t miss.