A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

“Hardly. A production company is sending someone to meet with me about making my book into a movie.”

  I felt lightheaded. I turned around so no one could see my face.

  “Right,” Mike said. “Tomorrow Beth will pick you up and you’ll head to your apartment—”

  “Condo,” Robert said with irritation.

  “—condo in Bigfork to drop off your materials, go to your meeting, then you’re heading to Seattle. Here’s a phone with my number on speed dial.” He handed it to Beth. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any problems. Special Agent Mandy Black will meet you at the conference center and take care of the reconstruction. She’s fully aware of the plans. Her number is also in the cell.”

  “What about you?” Robert asked Mike.

  “I have some additional work for Gwen. I’ll stay here until it’s completed. I’ll watch her house tonight, then drive her to Seattle to join you.” Mike stared straight at Robert.

  Interesting. A dominant stare.

  Robert tried to maintain eye contact, then looked down.

  Mike turned to me. “Here’s a cell phone for you.” He winked.

  Beth missed the wink, but caught my expression. She stood. “Gwen, could I see you for a moment?”

  I followed her into the studio. She closed the door. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” Beth was my best friend. She wouldn’t leave if she knew Mike was setting up a second trap with me as bait. All I could give her were half-truths. “By you delivering the reconstruction to Seattle, Mike is free to stay here and watch the house until Deputy Howell arrives. I’ll finish the report and email it to the press. Deputy Howell’s picking up the memory card of Jane Doe, which is now evidence, and following up on the hand.”

  “Why don’t we all stay and drive to the conference together? You could ship the sculpture.”

  “As I told Mike, it’s soft clay. It has to be hand-carried. Look, the conference doesn’t start for a couple more days. I’ll join you as fast as I can.”

  Beth chewed her lip, looking unconvinced.

  “Please?”

  She finally shrugged. “Let me make some calls first. Then we should be going if we expect our charade to work.” She strolled to my desk and picked up a stack of papers. “Here’s my research on everything we talked about: Emma, Hamilton, tunnels under Temple Square, Nauvoo, death masks, fringe groups, and so on. In case you need to review anything.”

  “Thanks, Beth.”

  Aynslee was oddly silent as she packed, hugging her school backpack like she was afraid someone would steal her T-shirts. Robert made no bones about his displeasure in leaving his precious car. I secretly hoped a hungry raccoon would find the Porsche upholstery a tasty tidbit.

  I wrote the article on Joseph Smith surviving the Carthage shootout, then made sure it went out to all the major news sources. With any luck, it would appear in the online locations before morning. Good-bye, reputation. Such as it was.

  In a performance worthy of an Emmy, we rearranged the vehicles, loaded Beth’s SUV with Robert’s boxes, and loudly said our good-byes. Mike would wait a half hour, then leave as well.

  My eyes blurred and a lump formed in my throat as the crimson taillights disappeared. I knew they’d be safe.

  I, on the other hand, felt like a goat tethered out for the lions.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  THE NIGHT AIR HELD THE CHILL OF APPROACHING fall, with the scent of dried pine needles and an occasional whiff of smoke from a distant forest fire. I usually loved to wander outside and stare up at the million diamond stars. The words of the psalmist came to mind, “When I look at the night sky and see the work of your fingers—the moon and the stars you set in place—what are mere mortals that you should think about them, human beings that you should care for them?” When conditions were right, I could even catch a glimpse of the northern lights.

  Not tonight. I felt like I stood naked on an empty stage, and someone in the darkened audience had a gun.

  After everyone departed, Mike secured the house, double-checked the windows, and locked unused rooms.

  I gathered my notes from the kitchen table, dropped them, picked them up, then moved them to the studio. After dumping the notes on the computer desk, I paced to my drafting table and started to rearrange the pencils. They slid off the tray and crashed to the floor. I picked one up and threw it across the room.

  “Nice throw. Can I help you with anything?” Mike said from behind me.

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then let’s go over the plan one more time.”

  “I think I’ve got it down,” I said dryly.

  “Then just humor me. I’ll leave so you’ll appear to be alone.”

  “Hopefully the operative word here is appear.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”

  I turned to look at him. “Mmm.”

  “Once I’ve gotten rid of the SUV, I’ll make my way back and watch the house from the woods.”

  “Along with a stray Avenging Angel.”

  Mike frowned at me. “When is Deputy Howell due to arrive?”

  “He just said he’d call.” I picked up a pencil and inspected its tip.

  Mike paced to the drafting table and back. “I don’t want Howell wandering into our sting. Can you call him?”

  “I can try. Cell reception is lousy in the mountains.” I dug out his business card, then fumbled with the phone.

  Howell answered after the second ring. “Oh, you’re there,” I blurted out.

  “Where else would I be?” he said.

  “Sorry, I was just wondering what your schedule was. I mean, when you thought you’d get to Copper Creek?” I sound like an idiot.

  Mike grabbed a sketchpad and pencil, then wrote, See if you can meet him away from the house.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll be there in the morning. Maybe nine, ten o’clock,” Howell said.

  “Good. There’s a small cafe on Main Street, on your right as you enter town. Nora’s Coffee Shop. I can meet you there.”

  “Sure.”

  I disconnected. “I guess you want this meeting away from the house so as not to spook our resident terrorist?”

  He nodded. “I have backup agents joining me in a few hours. Tomorrow, when you leave for your appointment with Deputy Howell, Agent Janice Faga will be hidden in your car. You’ll wear a jacket that you’ll take off and leave along with your keys. She’ll return in your car. You’ll stay in town until we call you and let you know you can return.”

  “How do you know this Agent Faga will pass for me?”

  “I selected her because of her resemblance to you. She’s a very pretty lady.”

  Heat built in my neck, and I quickly stood and moved to the shelves, pretending to look for a book.

  “You didn’t really think we’d put a civilian at risk, did you?” Mike asked.

  I did, but didn’t want to seem so stupid. With my back to Mike, I fumbled with the book I’d just selected. “Don’t you need to inform the local department you’re running a sting? What if they show up, guns blazing, thinking it’s gang warfare or something?”

  “Well—”

  “Let me guess. Something you’ve uncovered in your investigation is keeping Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department out of the loop . . . Craig?”

  I spun toward Mike. He was rubbing his mouth with his hand. A tug on his earlobe, then he asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Three.”

  “What?”

  “Hand on the mouth, pulling your earlobe, and answering a question with a question. No wait! Five, five! If I factor in the significant pause and incorrect verb use, you gave five signs of deception.”

  “Do you analyze people all the time?”

  “No. It’s too much work. But I do have, shall we say, an early-warning bell.”

  The telephone rang.

  I dropped the book. “Oh!”

  Mike nodded at me to answer.

  A muffl
ed man’s voice asked, “Is Randy there?”

  “No—”

  Dial tone. I stared at the receiver.

  Mike took the phone from my hand. “They’re checking to see if you’re here.”

  Goose pimples sprung on my arms. “I thought they’d wait until morning.”

  He glanced around the studio, noting the windows. “Yeah. Me too. Outside of the windows, kitchen, and front door, is there any other way to get into the house?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you have a basement?”

  “Crawl space. You can get to it from the pantry off the kitchen. Outside access is through a small door next to the driveway where my car is parked. There are—” I pictured the inky blackness filled with spiders. I hunched my shoulders. The Avenging Angels didn’t seem nearly as creepy as those long-legged arachnids. There was a very good reason I wasn’t a forensic entomologist.

  We moved to the kitchen. I brought a sketchpad and sat at the table as Mike brewed a fresh pot of coffee. He might need the caffeine to stay awake. I was already wired.

  He sat across from me. I tried to ignore him. He smelled of spice.

  Research would keep my mind busy. I opened the sketchpad and scribbled, Craig? Underneath I jotted, Family in St. George. Was at the center the day of the murder. Very likely Mormon. Arrived quickly when I found the hand. Didn’t believe me. Near Dave when shot. At this rate the entire Mormon population became suspects. All nine million or whatever their numbers.

  I sketched Craig’s face anyway, adding horns. The sketch didn’t look right.

  Mike picked up a flyer from the table and turned it over. “Are you thinking of homeschooling your daughter?”

  “She found it.” I took the paper from him. “Yes. She’s had . . . a tough year.”

  “Do you mind me asking you a personal question?” he asked.

  I kept my head down and opened a fresh page. “Depends.” At the top of the page I wrote, Prophet Kenyon? Fundamentalist Mormon. Devoted followers. Liar. Access to Pulaski. Not home when Deputy Howell tried to interview. My drawing of Kenyon looked more convincing when I added the fangs.

  “Why did you only have one child?” he asked.

  I turned the page and continued drawing. “Robert. He was more in love with the idea of children than actually raising them.”

  “I see.”

  I really didn’t want to talk, or think, about Robert. He was a jerk, but he would protect his daughter. If only to have a living legacy of himself.

  The pencil dug a trough in the paper. I tore it off the pad and sketched a faceless angel.

  Mike stood. “I need to get going. Remember, don’t answer the door or the phone. Stay away from the windows. I’ll be back, but you need to be careful. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t follow me outside. Lock the door.”

  I nodded again, then threw the dead bolt after he’d gone.

  Alone.

  The house rustled, shifted, and sighed around me. Although the curtains were tightly closed, I had the creepy feeling someone was still peering in.

  I backed out of the kitchen into the hall. We’d shut the doors leading to the bathroom, Robert’s office, Aynslee’s room, and my bedroom. A tiny nightlight gave scant illumination. My footsteps echoed on the cold wood floor as I crept into the living room. The drapes hung straight down. No one hiding behind them.

  Burrrumm!

  I jumped. The old refrigerator motor burped to life.

  This is ridiculous. I am not some scared mouse alone for the first time. I resolutely squared my shoulders and marched into my studio. A cool whiff of air drifted through the blinds from the bullet hole in the window. Bullet. Even though I knew the police should investigate the earlier shooting, I didn’t trust anyone but Dave in his department. I found a craft knife, then gently nudged the bullet from the wall. Ballistics would show if this was from the same gun as the one that shot Dave. I searched for a place to keep it, finally dropping it into a box of gray kneaded erasers where it blended in.

  Still twitchy from possible prying eyes, I grabbed a couple of sharpened pencils and scurried to the kitchen. I tugged out my notes to go over one final time before turning them over to Deputy Howell. I found my entry on the pickup, Utah license number B95 2DT, king cab. That’s right. The man in Provo. That seemed a hundred years ago. I was going to do a composite of the possible driver for Dave before he was shot. That’s what had teased my brain all day.

  Sketching the man would be a good use of my time. I closed my eyes and brought up his image. Even features, wavy, burnt-umber hair, narrow nose, deep-set blue eyes, in his midforties.

  I marked out the proportions, then began sketching.

  Branches whispered against the window in the evening breeze like tiny fingernails.

  I shifted my weight and continued to draw.

  The house creaked, the logs shifting as the temperature dropped. The pencil’s scratching on the paper seemed loud.

  I checked my watch. One twenty a.m. I propped the completed drawing against a stray coffee cup. Yeah. I’d captured his features. I closed my eyes for a moment.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Jerking upright, I knocked over a steaming cup of coffee at my elbow. The kitchen glowed with the peach-colored light of morning. How could I have fallen asleep? Mike helped me mop up the coffee.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You were all done in, so I let you sleep.” His eyes were red and his face sprouted a day’s beard growth.

  Most of the coffee landed in my lap, so my sketch remained relatively unscathed. I stood and wiped my soggy shirt.

  There was a man in the hall.

  The man in my composite.

  Adrenaline surged through my veins. I dove for my pistol.

  Mike caught my arm before I could reach it. “Calm down. This is Agent Larry Frowick. We met up about a mile from here and entered through the crawl space. Agent Faga is already in place. You’ll want to dress and get going so the poor woman doesn’t have to spend any more time on the floor of your car.”

  Agent Frowick nodded at me.

  I pointed my finger. “You’ve been following me!”

  He glanced at my drawing. “You’re right, Mike. She’s better than our own artists.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “Why were you tailing me?”

  “Mike here”—Frowick jerked his thumb at the man—“figured you might be in danger. Took me quite a bit of time to find you in Provo.”

  “Why didn’t you just identify yourself?”

  Agent Frowick blinked, folded his arms, and said, “Ah . . . well . . .”

  Mike snorted. “Uh, Larry, you’ve been made. She knows you’re about to lie.” He turned to me. “You know why.”

  “Yeah, you’re trying to trap them. Figured I’d be a little bait to dangle.”

  “See?” Mike said to Frowick. “Told you.”

  I was a mess. My morning breath would kill anyone within five feet, it looked like I’d peed coffee, and for all I knew, my wig was skewed backward. I dashed past Frowick toward the bathroom. A half hour later I emerged as a respectable forensic artist.

  Both men rose as I entered the kitchen. “Do you have the cell phone I gave you?” Mike asked.

  I held it up. “What if they don’t show up? How long do I need to hang around Copper Creek, especially without a car?”

  “I’m sure they’re here,” Mike said. “The chance to thoroughly search your home for their stolen treasure will be irresistible.”

  I packed an oversize bag with my research, the memory card, notes, wallet, and other useful items. Mike talked me out of my SIG Sauer.

  I grabbed a colorful jacket on the way out and watched my house disappear in the rearview mirror.

  The trap was set.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  I WASN’T QUITE SURE OF THE PROPER ETIQUETTE for driving around with an FBI agent crouched in the back of my car. Do I make conversation? Ignoring her
seemed rude. “Hi. I’m Gwen—”

  “Please don’t talk. Someone might see your lips moving.” The agent had a firm but pleasant voice. “Park out of sight from the street and cafe and leave your purse in the car. You can take your wallet.”

  “Do you think you’ll pass for me?”

  “Agent Brown sent me your photo, so I have a wig in the same style as your hair.”

  I could’ve provided the wig. I grunted, then concentrated on driving. Downtown Copper Creek featured a rustic series of weathered storefronts, wooden sidewalks, and hitching posts for the occasional cowboy trotting into town. Stetsons and cowboy boots were the standard attire of both natives and tourists trying to fit in.

  Nora’s Coffee Shop sat on the corner of the block, bustling with its usual morning crowd. I found an empty spot beside the Dumpsters, parked, then removed my jacket. After stuffing some cash into my pocket next to the cell phone Mike had given me, I grabbed up my notes, then strolled into the cafe. I spotted Deputy Howell immediately. Neighbors nodded at me as I passed, and the clatter of dishes and conversation lowered, then resumed. I edged between an eclectic collection of tables and chairs to the back corner. Even though I arrived early for our meeting, Howell must have arrived quite a bit before me. An empty plate sat in front of him with the remnants of syrup and melted butter. His gaze caught mine, gave the tiniest shake, then roamed about the room.

  I took the hint and slipped into the next table.

  A waitress appeared at my elbow with a coffeepot, filling my cup without waiting, then asked, “The usual?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Donna.” My stomach hinted loudly that it could stand chow.

  Leaning back into my chair, I casually checked out my fellow diners, seeking out any strangers. Only one couple was unknown to me. When Donna placed my toast on the table, I nodded at the man and woman. “I don’t recognize those two. Tourists?”

  “Nah”—Donna refilled my coffee—“that’s my brother’s wife’s cousin and her husband. From Milwaukee. He’s a shoe salesman.” She sniffed. “If you ask me, the shoes he sells are ugly. But he makes good money at it . . .”

  Leave it to Donna to know everybody and everything. My problem was how to put a cork in it.