‘Right here,’ said a grumpy voice. ‘Behind you.’
Blair jumped and turned around. Tom Olson was walking around the house toward the front porch, hauling a canvas wood carrier, filled with logs cut into woodstove-sized chunks.
‘Oh hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Blair Butler.’
Tom Olson, a man of about forty, had hair that might have been blond or gray. He had a short beard and mustache that framed his pale, lined face. His eyes were light-colored too and he gave the impression of someone who never went out in the sun. He climbed up on the porch and deftly turned the front doorknob with his left hand.
‘Come on in,’ he said.
Blair followed him into the compact house and stood, waiting, while Tom unloaded the log carrier into the basket beside the woodstove. There was a fire visible behind the glass door of the stove and the temperature in the room was warm as a result. Nothing else about the room seemed warm. The only sources of light, other than the curtainless windows, were from a fluorescent fixture in the kitchen and the television screen, which combined to give the room a cool, gray glow. Tom walked over to the TV and turned it off.
‘Have a seat,’ he said.
Blair perched on the edge of a wooden chair. She looked around at the house. The furniture was minimal, but the room was tidy. There was nothing decorative in the room. No books. No magazines. No photos. A laptop sat on the dining room table with a coffee mug beside it.
Tom sat down in an easy chair.
‘So,’ he began, without preamble. ‘Brooks said your sister gave Muhammed an alibi on her deathbed.’
‘Yes,’ said Blair. ‘She told me that she was with Muhammed when he picked up Molly and that they dropped her at her house. I feel certain that she was telling the truth, but Mr Whitman said that it won’t hold up in court. He said I need to have some facts to back it up or it will never even get to court.’
‘What took her so long?’ Olson asked.
Blair hesitated. ‘Is it important?’
‘You might as well tell me or you’re wasting my time,’ said Olson.
‘She was afraid for my uncle to find out about her … and her relationship with Muhammed. They were … close.’
‘Close how? Lovers?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but … probably.’
‘So what changed her mind?’
‘I guess when she realized that she was dying, she knew that any hope for Muhammed would die with her. And besides, my uncle couldn’t do anything to hurt her at that point.’
‘Why tell you?’ Olson demanded.
Blair shrugged. ‘I guess she trusted me.’
Tom Olson nodded and pursed his lips. He peered at Blair.
‘You her only family?’
‘Yes, well, she has a son, but he’s only ten.’
‘So she dumped her guilty secret on you.’
Blair grimaced. ‘We went through a lot together as children. When we were kids we relied on each other for everything. Not so much in recent years … I mean, she and I had very different lives.’
‘Nonetheless, she told you.’
‘She wanted me to try to clear his name. I guess she thought I could be trusted to do it. I thought it would be a simple matter of telling the police what she told me, but it has turned out to be anything but simple.’
Tom shrugged. ‘A lot of man hours went into putting Muhammed away. They’re not going to let him go without a fight.’
‘Mr Whitman said you were on the police force when it happened. Do you agree with them?’ asked Blair. ‘Did you think he was the right man?’
‘At the time? Sure.’
‘And now? Can you see that this might have been a serious miscarriage of justice?’
Tom Olson shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. I’ll look into it.’
Blair hesitated. ‘There are just a couple of things which Rebecca Moore and I discovered that I thought might be relevant …’ Blair waited for him to encourage her to speak, but Olson said nothing. Blair forged ahead. ‘… We found out that Muhammed dropped Molly at the end of her driveway that day. He was certain about that. We don’t know how Molly got to the spot in the woods where her body was found, but a mailman, who was asleep in his truck in the woods, heard something like a big thud, which might have been a body being dumped. Also, a neighbor heard somebody – not Molly – banging on the Sinclair’s door that afternoon, and pleading for help.’
Tom Olson nodded in a non-committal way. ‘Could be relevant. Might not.’ The detective didn’t seem to have any more to say.
‘I just want to be clear. I’m hiring you to investigate this in order to help Muhammed.’
‘If that’s how it turns out …’ he said.
‘I promised my sister that I would try to get justice for him,’ said Blair.
‘Look, all I have is your say-so. No offense, but I need more than that.’ Tom pressed down on the arms of his chair and abruptly rose to his feet. ‘I’ll look into it. That’s all I can promise you.’
That’s all I’m going to get, Blair thought. It didn’t seem like nearly enough.
‘You’re leaving town?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Well, I … yes, I have go back. I have a company in Philly to run. Why? Is that a problem?’
‘Not for me,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t need anybody looking over my shoulder.’
Blair stood up and pulled a check from her pocket. ‘Is this enough to get started?’ Blair asked, handing it to him.
Olson reached for the check with his left hand, examined the amount and then tossed the check on the old trunk that served as a coffee table.
‘Is that a yes?’ Blair asked.
‘I’ll see what I can find out for you,’ he said.
‘Ok, well … thanks,’ said Blair. She also handed him her card with her phone numbers and email. ‘I want to know, whatever develops.’
‘Will do,’ said the investigator. ‘Can’t promise anything.’
‘I understand that,’ said Blair.
‘Don’t call me every day. If I have something to say, I’ll call you.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Blair. ‘I’m pretty busy as a rule.’
The meeting seemed to be at an end. ‘All right then. Thank you.’
Tom Olson waved her off as if he were swatting a fly and picked up a poker to prod the fire in the stove.
Blair hesitated, but the investigator seemed to have nothing more to say. Suit yourself, Blair thought. Without a backward glance, she left the little house and got back into her car.
You’re doing the right thing, she thought. You’ve hired someone to look into this. You’ve fulfilled your promise to Celeste. It’s all you can do.
When Blair got home, there was no one in the house and no sign of Malcolm. Immediately she felt a little jolt of panic. Ellis drove in to the driveway a few minutes later and entered the house. Blair met him at the door.
‘Where is Malcolm?’ she asked.
‘Went over to his new family’s house,’ he said in a mocking tone. ‘Sleeping over.’
Blair was relieved and happy to hear it. ‘He wanted to go?’
‘I guess so. He got off the phone and asked me to drive him there.’
Blair looked at her uncle with a slightly more compassionate eye than before. ‘I know you want him to be happy, just like I do,’ said Blair.
Ellis snorted. ‘I want him out of my hair,’ he said.
‘You want me to fix you some dinner?’ Blair asked, trying to be conciliatory.
‘I’m going out myself,’ said Ellis. ‘Taking Darlene to the VFW buffet.’
Blair did not take offense that she was not invited. The VFW buffet did not interest her in the least. And besides, this sounded like a date. She did not want her bemusement to show.
‘That will be nice,’ she said. ‘Seems like you and Darlene are becoming kind of close.’
Ellis looked at her accusingly. ‘Something wrong with that?’
‘No. Certainly not,’ said
Blair.
‘You can get your own dinner,’ he said. ‘There’s food.’
‘Oh sure. I’ll grab something from the fridge. I have to pack.’
‘You going somewhere?’ asked Ellis.
‘Yes, actually,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving. Going back to Philly.’
‘You might as well,’ said Ellis.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Blair. ‘I’ll probably leave early.’
‘Less traffic,’ said Ellis, jingling his keys as if impatient to be on his way.
‘I’ll see you,’ she said.
That night, Blair found it hard to sleep. She could not deny that she felt a certain relief at the thought of going home. She had never belonged in this house, in this town, except for a brief moment when she and Molly had been friends. At the thought of Molly, Blair felt the old sadness, but there was no use dwelling on it. She had done all she could to find justice for Molly and for Muhammed. It was time to return to her real life.
The gray light of dawn was coming through the gauzy curtains when Blair finally fell into a deep sleep. She was awakened by the keening of a saxophone. At first she thought it was her alarm, and then, as she swam to consciousness, she realized that it was her ringtone.
‘Hello?’
‘Blair. It’s Janet. Janet Sinclair.’
‘Hi Janet,’ Blair muttered, confused.
‘Listen, Blair. I just got a call from Lucille …’ When Blair, still groggy, did not respond, Janet continued, ‘… From Yusef Muhammed’s mother.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Blair, frowning in the darkened room.
‘She’s at the hospital. Muhammed was rushed there from the prison very early this morning.’
Blair suddenly felt wide awake. ‘Why?’
‘He tried to kill himself.’
‘Oh no,’ said Blair.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Janet. ‘He left a note saying that he had no hope left. Something like that.’
‘Oh God,’ said Blair.
‘I think he took it hard that Rebecca had given up on his story.’
And that I was going away, seemingly given up on him too, Blair thought guiltily.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘At the Yorkville Hospital, Lucille is up there now. I told her you would go up there and see him. I thought that might help.’
‘I will. I’m going,’ said Blair. ‘I’ll just get dressed.’
The hospital was quiet when Blair arrived, the early shift just going on duty, replacing those who had seen the ill and broken through the night. Blair bought a cup of coffee from a vending machine and then walked up to the desk. The receptionist was almost unnaturally cheerful for the hour.
‘I’m looking for Yusef Muhammed,’ said Blair. ‘He was brought in here earlier from the prison.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the receptionist. She hit a few keys and studied her computer screen. ‘He’s still in the ER. Are you a member of the family?’
Blair remembered her experience at the prison. ‘I’m his attorney,’ she said.
‘Ok,’ said the receptionist, and began to give her instructions on where to go.
‘I know where it is,’ said Blair. She decided she would rather follow the signs herself and curtail this conversation. She could hardly believe how smoothly her ruse had worked, but Blair did not want to press her luck. She immediately started down the hall to the elevators.
She rode downstairs and followed the signs for the ER. Once she arrived, it was easy to locate Muhammed. There were two armed uniformed officers standing outside one of the cubicles that was walled-off with flimsy fabric.
The officer nearest her stopped Blair before she could get to the curtain.
‘Hold it there. Who are you?’
‘My name is Blair Butler.’
He looked down at the clipboard he was holding. ‘I don’t have any Blair Butler on my list.’
‘I’m his attorney,’ Blair protested.
‘I.D. please,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blair, trying to sound exasperated. ‘I just heard about my client and I came running over. I didn’t bring any I.D.’
‘Can’t let you in then.’
‘I have a right to see my client,’ Blair insisted, wondering how much trouble she was going to get into for impersonating an officer of the court.
Just then, the fabric curtain was pulled back and Yusef’s mother, Lucille Jones, emerged from the cubicle. Blair recognized her from years ago. Lucille looked distressed and exhausted. Blair’s eyes widened as the older woman gazed directly at her.
‘Thank you for coming, Ms Butler,’ said Lucille. ‘Do you want to talk to Yusef?’
‘I do,’ said Blair.
‘I’m going to go get me a cup of tea,’ said Lucille. ‘You go on in.’
The officers seemed helpless to contradict the mother, bowled over by shock and sorrow.
‘You know this woman?’ asked one of the officers.
‘I should do,’ said Lucille indignantly. ‘This is my son’s lawyer.’
‘Ok, ok,’ said the officer to Blair. ‘Go ahead.’
Lucille held back the curtain and Blair slipped past her into the cubicle, whispering her thanks. Lucille nodded, dropped the curtain and went in search of her tea. Blair sat down in the chair beside the hospital bed.
Muhammed lay on the white sheets, his eyes closed and his dark skin color leeched to a blotchy beige. The bed was surrounded by monitors and blinking lights. He was tethered to the machines in half a dozen places by clear tubes. His left wrist was fastened to the bed with a handcuff. Around his neck was a ragged, red and bruised multicolored wound. Hanging, she thought. He tried to hang himself.
Blair sagged and had to will her stomach to calm down at the thought. How desperate could a person be? He was an innocent man who had already served fifteen years for a crime he did not commit. She had dangled hope in front of his eyes, and then, without much thought, had torn it away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
Muhammed’s eyelids fluttered and he moved his head slightly. His deadened gaze settled on Blair. He didn’t say a word.
Blair took a deep breath. She had planned to go back, to get busy on the lifesaving work of creating human tissue on a computer printer. It was important work. It would offer hope and options to people who had neither down the road. She believed in what she was doing and she enjoyed it. People looked at her with admiration and wanted the knowledge she possessed. But looking at this man here, languishing from his near-successful suicide attempt, she felt ashamed of the choice she had made. Right at this moment, whatever she planned to do back in Philadelphia did not seem as important as this one life. This man was in a hopeless situation. She had promised to help him, and then she had walked away.
‘Sorry for what?’ he croaked in an almost inaudible, raspy voice.
‘Well, for a lot of things,’ said Blair. ‘For one thing, I’m sorry about Rebecca. It turned out she was only in it for herself. And I’m sorry that I was ready to leave with the job undone. I hired a detective, figuring he could take over and do more than I could do …’
‘Tom Olson …’ said Muhammed, disgust audible in his quiet, despairing tone.
‘He was a cop on the case!’
‘Well, yes, I did know, but he assured me …’ Blair looked at Muhammed, who had closed his eyes again.
‘Fifteen years ago he arrested me,’ said Muhammed slowly. ‘This is the guy you choose to help.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blair. ‘He said that he would be unbiased …’
Muhammed let out a harsh cry of disbelief. ‘He called me last night. He said there was no hope that I would ever get out of prison.’
‘He said that?’ Blair asked, confused.
‘He wasn’t kidding,’ he cried, and then he began to cough and gag at once.
‘I’m sorry,’ Blair said. ‘Are you all right?’
Muhammed nodded, although the sickening cough continued.
Lucille suddenly appeared at the break in the curtain. ‘Yusef?’ she cried. ‘Are you ok? Is my son ok?’
‘Oh no,’ said one of the cops on sentry duty. ‘One at a time. Not till the lawyer leaves.’
‘Let me in there. My boy is sick in there,’ Lucille protested.
Blair stood up and motioned to Lucille. ‘I’ll be right out.’
Muhammed shook his head slightly on the pillow. A tear leaked out of his left eye and ran down to his ear.
Blair hesitated and then reached out a hand and placed it on his. His fingers were icy cold.
‘Listen to me. I know you did not kill Molly,’ she said. ‘I won’t leave until you get justice,’ she said.
There was no response from the man cuffed to the gurney.
Even as she said it, Blair did not know how she could live up to that guarantee. Rebecca was gone and Tom Olson had as good as administered threats. There was no one who was going to help her, Blair realized. Her heart sank at the realization that she had almost escaped, but fate had held her back. She would not walk away again, she thought, from this life that was precious beyond measure to no one but God and Lucille Jones. It depended on her determination. There was no wriggling out of her responsibility. It was that simple and that impossible.
‘I swear,’ she said.
NINETEEN
Blair stood on the porch and banged on the front door. Tom Olson’s car was there and she could hear someone moving around in the house. But no one answered.
‘You might as well open the door,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘I’m not leaving.’
Finally, she heard the locks being turned and the door was pulled open. Tom Olson glared out at her. He was barefoot, wearing plaid flannel pajama pants and a frayed T-shirt.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Blair. ‘May I come in?’
Tom turned his back on her. ‘I suppose. It’s freezing. I need to get dressed.’ He walked toward the back of the house.
Blair came inside. She could smell coffee brewing. There was the beginning of a fire in the woodstove, but the room was still freezing. She glanced at her watch. Seven a.m. She didn’t care. It served him right.
She went and sat down on the upright wooden chair where she had sat yesterday. Tom was gone for a few minutes. He emerged in a heavy, chamois shirt, jeans and unlaced work boots. He paid no attention to her presence, but went to the woodstove, opened the door and threw in some more sticks and closed the door again. Then he walked over to the kitchen counter, and poured himself a mug of coffee from the coffeemaker.
The Girl in the Woods Page 15
