Imagine that, thought Mary dryly. Give poor people a little money and they turn out to be just regular folks!
“And look at this,” Jen picked up another pile of papers. “Look at these numbers on the kids who’ve disappeared and never been heard from again. In the past decade you’ve got one in Haywood County, one in Swain, and five in Pisgah!”
“And they’re all white?” Mary ruefully thought of Jonathan and the Cherokee proclivity to strike out for greener pastures when things weren’t working out.
Jen said, “Every one was white, female, and under eighteen years old. Kids run away all the time, but most are heard from again. These are still on the police books as unsolved disappearances. Cold cases, I suppose.”
“So what’s your theory?” asked Mary.
“We think someone in Pisgah County is preying on little girls,” Dana said from the doorway.
Jen nodded. “Somebody able to intimidate most into silence, and able to get rid of the ones who threaten to talk.”
“What about their fathers? Sexual molestation is a family crime.”
Jen shrugged. “Unless Pisgah County has become the dysfunctional-family capital of North Carolina, the reported incidences should reflect that of the general population. We’re spiking these graphs to high heaven.”
Mary took the cup of coffee Dana offered. “Have you told the police your suspicions?”
“We told Stump Logan.” Jen’s voice was bitter. “He got a good laugh out of it. He said we were just . . .”
“Two frustrated dykes trying to stir up trouble,” Dana finished her partner’s sentence. “He was of the old ‘all lesbians need is a good fuck from a real man’ school.”
Mary shook her head. She could just picture Logan leaning back in his chair, smug in his possession of a dick and a badge. “Have you tried Jerry Cochran?”
Jen nodded. “He was a huge improvement on Logan, but he said he couldn’t act without harder evidence. Names, dates, places.”
“Do you have any names? Of the ones who disappeared?”
“I do.” Jen reached for another folder, this one full of newspaper clippings. “I’ve got six, dating back a decade. If you add Bethany Daws to this list, in Pisgah County, a girl winds up missing every seventeen months. You want them all?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I do.”
Jen thumbed through her papers and handed Mary a sheet that listed the names of the vanished. “That’s all the ones I’ve come up with. There are probably more we’ll never know about.” Sighing, she looked at her partner. “Dana and I don’t have a child, but I can’t imagine a worse hell than having one walk out the door and never be heard from again.”
“Neither can I,” said Mary, remembering her own personal hell when Lily Walkingstick went missing at the tender age of three months old, another bit of Stump Logan’s handiwork. “Can I take these files with me?”
“If you think they might help find out what happened to these poor girls,” said Jen.
“I do.” Mary gave a sad nod. “Though I’m officially working on the Bethany Daws case, I have the feeling that whatever happened to these girls, happened to her as well.”
Not far away, Bethany Daws had been the topic of conversation among another group of people. Three men had been discussing the young woman for the better part of the evening and were now bidding each other good night.
“It’s a wonderful thing to do, Deke.” Reverend Carl Matheny stood on the steps of the First Baptist Church and gave Deke Keener’s hand a sincere shake. “Our denomination has taken a lot of heat over our attitude toward women. This will let everybody know that here, at First Baptist, we consider our sisters important members of Christ’s flock.”
“I totally agree, Deke.” Bob Forsythe awaited his turn to pump Keener’s hand. “The Bethany Daws Camp for Girls will be a wonderful ministry. What a great way to remember that poor little girl.”
Every day of my life I remember that poor little girl, Keener thought bitterly as he accepted the thanks of the two men. “It’s the least I can do for Glenn,” he said, faking a humble smile. “He’s like my own brother.”
“He and Paula will be thrilled,” said Reverend Matheny. “How about I set up a ground-breaking in the next few days? Get a photographer out from the paper?”
“Just let me know when to show up.” Deke headed down the church steps. “I’ve got to be at a job site tomorrow morning, so I need to run. It’s been a pleasure, though.”
“Thanks again, Deke!” called Bob Forsythe. “We’ll see you real soon.”
Deke hurried across the street to his car. Dear Christ! Usually he loved doling out little gifts to the Baptist Church—playground equipment here, a church van there. Tonight, in that meeting, he felt as if fire ants were crawling just beneath his skin. He did not need to be sitting there planning a camp in memory of Bethany Daws. He needed to be out looking for those tapes that Bethany had waved in his face the day before she died. Every day that passed with Standingdeer still awaiting trial was a day that his own life could be ended by a cassette played for the wrong set of ears. He had to laugh at the irony of it all—a sword did not hang over his head—just a few bits of shiny brown tape encased in some small plastic boxes.
As he punched the keyless remote that Kayla Daws had once played with, a Pisgah County police cruiser slowly approached. Deke’s stomach clenched. Had they found them? Were they coming to arrest him, right here, in the shadow of the church? Suddenly he saw the rest of his life spooling out like a bad TV movie. Mr. Keener? The cop would say. I need to take you over to the Justice Center. Some tapes have surfaced that Sheriff Cochran would like to talk to you about. It would be civilized, as arrests go; after all, he was the Prince of Pisgah County. But eventually Cockroach would cuff him; George Turpin would read a laundry list of his perversions in court while all his fat Rotary friends would sit punching each other and laughing. He would spend the succulent years of his life in prison and when he got out they would tag him like a dog, make him report in to the cops, and list his address on every pedophile website in the world. There would be no place he could go where people wouldn’t try to root him out like vermin.
Near panic, he was about to get in his car and tear down the alley when the cop car rolled on by, serenely patrolling the soft summer night. He watched, breathing hard, slowly realizing that they weren’t after him. It’s okay. You might not have found the tapes, but neither have they.
He got into his car, sweat stinging his eyes. He needed to formulate some kind of new plan. It was just a matter of time before those tapes surfaced and someone with a badge and a gun showed up at his door.
If I only knew what they said, he thought as he eased the Lexus down Main Street, waving at Bob and Carl. If I only knew what she had on me. Maybe nothing, he told himself, as he drove out Hiawassee Road. Maybe it was all a trick, just to keep me away from Kayla. He smiled at the irony of that. Here he was, driving himself crazy to find something meant to prevent him from doing something he had no intention of doing at all. He stopped at an intersection, then the car turned almost by itself, down Glenn and Paula’s street. Suddenly he was passing their house, 1 Audrey Drive. The tapes had to be there, somewhere, he decided. Bethany didn’t go all that many places. She’d just put them someplace he’d yet to find.
He drove to the corner, then turned right, pulling off the street at the service road that ran behind all his houses. Set fifty feet back from the plot lines, it gave repairmen access to the properties without cluttering up the look of the neighborhoods. Though dressed in a sport coat and tie, he got out of his car and started down the dark service road toward Glenn’s house. When Bethany was little, she’d played for hours in her backyard. Maybe she had some secret hiding place there he’d overlooked.
The pungent aroma of pine mingled with the sweet smell of new-mown grass. A few late-summer fireflies dotted the night and he could hear the gurgle of the small creek that meandered through the woods. Though creeping toward
a murder scene in the dark might give people like Cochran pause, to Deke it felt like coming home. He was still just as comfortable in the woods as he had been that long-ago night with Tracy Foster.
When he reached the low bushes that bordered Glenn’s property, he stopped. The backyard looked just as he’d remembered—Kayla’s basketball goal hung over the garage, Darby’s never-used doghouse sat beside the patio, an old tire swing swayed gently from the big oak in the middle of the yard. How Bethany had loved that swing when she was little! Often he’d seen her whirling like a dervish in the thing, only to get up and stagger away, dizzy and giggling. He squinted at the tree in the dark. Wonder if she had any hidey-holes there? A knot, widened by an owl or a squirrel, big enough to stash some tapes? He was just wondering if he dared creep across the backyard and check it out when he heard something over his shoulder. He turned. A soft growl rumbled from the trees behind him. It sounded much bigger than a dog, and the low, throaty snarl evoked warning; something was protecting its territory.
“Scat!” he whispered, knowing that most animals could be spooked by a single word. He listened for the sound of something retreating through the woods, but heard nothing except the gurgle of the creek. Satisfied that he’d scared whatever had growled into submission, he returned his attention to Bethany’s tree. He’d just decided that a visit to the old tire swing might be a good idea when a breeze gusted from the trees behind him. Suddenly the sharp tang of bear replaced the aroma of pine, and an odd coldness seemed to envelop him. Deke tried to turn, to look back, but his neck felt as if it were bolted, rigid and immovable, to his body. His heart started to race as his tongue thickened in his mouth, useless as an old sock. He tried to loosen his tie, but his fingers would not move and he knew then that he must be having some kind of fit, no doubt brought on by the stress of those goddamned tapes! Then he heard that growl again. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, closer and far more ominous than before.
Forget the tree, he told himself. You’re having a stroke. If you don’t get out of here now, tomorrow they’re going to find you dead in the middle of your own service road!
Again, that deep growl rumbled, so close now that he could almost feel whatever-it-was’s breath on the back of his neck. All at once his paralysis lifted, and without thinking of Glenn or Paula or any of the neighbors, he sprinted along the road, his tie flying out behind him, his legs pumping as if something with teeth and claws snapped at his heels. He knew he looked ridiculous, he felt ridiculous, yet he knew, too, that going one step slower would cost him his life. When he came to the end of the service road he skidded around the corner, unlocking the Lexus with his remote, diving into the driver’s seat and locking the doors behind him. Gasping for breath, he turned on headlights, fog lights, every light he had, waiting to see a bear or a coyote or perhaps some huge feral dog. Instead, he felt a thud against his door that lifted the car on its springs, as if some large, ferocious beast had missed killing him by mere inches. Yet as hard as he peered into the bright field of light that now surrounded his car, he saw nothing but heavy brush and tall pines; heard nothing but the frantic beating of his own heart.
“Jesus,” he whispered, gripping the steering wheel with trembling hands, suddenly realizing that he’d just felt the spectral tap of Bethany Daws upon his shoulder and that from here on out, he had far more than just some lost cassettes to worry about.
31
A few hours later that night, Avis Martin sat pressing one ear between the banisters of Kayla Daws’ staircase. “So when’s he going to pass out?” she asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” Kayla whispered back, unnerved by the sounds of the baseball game issuing from the television in the den. Her father’s nights usually traveled a predictable course—he pulled his recliner in clear view of the kitchen door, turned on the TV, and then sat cleaning his deer rifles, as if preparing to blow away any new intruder who might venture into their house. As the national news came on, he would start the first of his dozen nightly tall boys, and for the next four hours he would alternately drink and weep or drink and curse his way through prime time TV. By the time Jay Leno concluded his monologue, Glenn Daws usually sat unconscious in his recliner, his last can of beer fallen to the floor.
Tonight, of all nights, however, had been different. While he’d still sat with his rifle across his lap, on this night he’d stayed relatively sober, caught up in watching the Braves battle Chicago. Every time Kayla had tiptoed past the den she’d found him staring at the TV screen, frowning in concentration. The one night she and Avis had plans that depended upon his passing out on schedule, he’d stayed awake! All afternoon they’d gathered their supplies, made sure they had enough to eat, enough air in the tires of their bikes. Now if her stupid father would just get the hell to sleep, they could get their mission under way. It was nearly midnight now. If they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t be able to make it back before daylight.
Avis started to say something else, but Kayla shushed her. “Wait!” she cautioned. “I hear something.”
She listened, then crept halfway down the stairs and listened again. Underneath the muffled roar from Wrigley Field she was certain she now heard the rhythmic yawp of her father’s snoring. She looked up at Avis, pointed to the den, and sneaked down into the hall. Then she stopped. Before they went any farther, she needed to be absolutely certain that her father was asleep. If he awoke bleary-eyed and saw two figures lurking near the door, he might very well put a bullet through both of them.
She peeked around the corner. Though the room was dark, she could see her father splayed out in the recliner, rifle across his lap, snoring with one arm slung over his face. Quickly she counted the beer cans around his chair. Just nine—down three from his nightly dozen. That might be enough to keep him asleep long enough for them to leave, but would it be enough to keep him sleeping through their return? She sighed, not knowing what to do. If they left right this minute, they had a pretty good chance of getting back in time, despite Avis’s total lack of talent at pedaling a bicycle. If they waited, who knew if they would ever have the opportunity to go again? Kayla knew how badly Mrs. Martin hated to let Avis come over here, and next week, school would start.
Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed back to the bottom of the steps and motioned to Avis to come on down. Tonight was the night. She had to try to lift this curse that had afflicted what was left of her family. She was going to prove Ridge Standingdeer innocent, even if her father shot her dead in the process.
Avis crept down the steps at Kayla’s beckoning, relieved to finally be doing something other than waiting for Mr. Daws to tap out. This was undoubtedly the creepiest house she’d ever set foot in, with Mrs. Daws holed up in her bedroom while Mr. Daws drank himself stupid in front of the TV. As hopelessly dull as her own parents were, at least they kept normal hours and had decent food to eat. Every time she looked in Kayla’s fridge, all she saw was beer and little half-empty cartons of take-out Chinese food. She didn’t really care, though. After she’d discovered Bethany’s diary, Kayla had decided she was a genius, and was happy to do her bidding in their detective endeavors. For the first time in her life, Avis felt important.
“Is he asleep?” She reached the bottom step and nearly tripped over her own feet.
“Yes.” Kayla grabbed her before she fell. “We’ll have to pass the den door to get to the garage, so be careful. You can’t make any noise!”
“Where’s Darby?”
“In my mom’s bedroom. Anyway, he’s too deaf to hear anything.”
Avis followed Kayla through the dark house, her mouth dry with fear. Keeping to the wall like mice, they edged along the foyer until they came to the doorway of the den. Mr. Daws sprawled with his rifle in front of the TV, his mouth wide and snoring, oblivious to the fact that the Braves had scored a run. Again, Avis thought of her own family. Her dad sometimes fell asleep in front of the TV, but he usually had his banjo in his lap, his rifle locked far away, in a
trunk in the basement. She watched as Kayla tiptoed silently across the doorway, then motioned for her to join her.
Now came the tricky part. Avis knew they had to get out of the house without waking Mr. Daws. Willing her usual clumsiness away, she started across the doorway on tiptoe, every nerve in her body attuned to Mr. Daws’ snoring. Braaaaaaack, sooooooo. Braaaaaaack, soooooooo. Halfway to the door, a nervous giggle escaped her throat as she seemed to see everything as if from a great distance—Mr. Daws sounding like a buzz saw, Kayla looking like a scared rabbit. She clamped her jaws together, trying hard not to burst out laughing, when suddenly the snoring stopped. She froze, staring into Kayla’s eyes. Had Mr. Daws woken up? Was he now aiming his gun at her head?
With her gaze locked on Kayla’s, she stood like a statue. For what seemed an eternity, all she heard was the ball game, then Mr. Daws gave a strangled little snerk and resumed his snoring. Once again, she began to breathe. For now, they were still okay.
They sneaked into the garage, rolled their bikes into the driveway and pedaled off into the night, Kayla riding smoothly while Avis followed behind, awkwardly trying to shift the gears. She managed to keep up with Kayla on the level stretches, but when the road went uphill, she fell behind, often just pedaling after the distant red dot of Kayla’s rear reflector. They met no traffic, so they rode down the center of the pavement, their tires hissing like snakes in the darkness. Halfway to Laurel Overlook they stopped for water and a candy bar.
“How much farther is it?” gasped Avis, her thighs feeling as if someone was toasting them with a blow torch.
“Not much.” Kayla took a long drink of water. “But it’s all uphill. Through really thick woods.”
Legacy of Masks Page 25
