About Face

by V. K. Powell

  “Jeez, are you trying to kill yourself or me?” Macy was standing behind her with the airborne log at her feet, her face a mask of tenuous composure. “Have you ever split wood?”

  Leigh’s face and neck burned with embarrassment. She’d lost serious butch points with that display. “Not exactly, but it seemed pretty simple.” She’d never been so happy to see anyone, in spite of her failed attempt at macho chores. Macy’s eyes were puffy and her face still splotchy, but at least she wasn’t crying. Leigh would take anger, censure, disappointment, or anything over crying. “Sorry, guess I should’ve asked, huh?”

  “You should know what you’re doing before you play with sharp instruments.” Though Macy’s voice was stern, a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “This stack,” she nodded to her left, “is green wood. It’s harder to split than the seasoned wood over there.” She pointed right.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “And, you’re using an ax. It’s okay if you’re experienced, but a maul is probably better, and you have less chance of slicing your leg open. You can still do serious damage with a maul, but it’s more likely to produce a deep bruise, break, or dull cut.”

  “Charming. Who knew log splitting could be so complicated? I thought you just swung the ax and presto.”

  Macy picked up the log next to her foot and pointed to the top where Leigh’s strike had careened off the side. “You were going against the grain. Always chop with the grain and use the natural cracks as a starting point. Let me show you.”

  Leigh stepped back, watching Macy more than her log-splitting demonstration. The soiled lab coat was gone, and her short pajama bottoms, worn T-shirt, and bedroom shoes revealed more of her body than her usual camouflage of layered clothing. Her legs were thin though well-muscled, small breasts high and tight, but her shoulder blades poked at the T-shirt at sharp angles. Leigh wondered if she’d be able to hoist the maul, much less split a log.

  “Pay attention. You’re staring again.” Macy positioned the piece of wood on the stump and sighted the maul along the cracks as Leigh might sight her weapon. Stepping back so her arms were straight and her dominant hand forward on the handle, she swung with surprising strength and precision. The log separated with a whack and lay in two pieces on top of the stump.

  “Impressive. Where did you learn that?”

  “Right here. Splitting logs was my punishment as a teenager. My parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment, but manual labor was fine. You try.” She handed the maul to Leigh and moved well out of range. “Remember what I told you and you’ll be fine.”

  She followed Macy’s instructions and split the log on her second try. “I think I’ve got this now. Not quite as easy as I’d hoped, but nothing worthwhile ever is, right?”

  “More motivational wisdom?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “It can be annoying. How are you so upbeat all the time? Does anything bother you?”

  “Hearing you crying this morning bothered me, a lot.”

  “Leigh…I…”

  It was the first time Macy had spoken her name, and it was almost a whisper. Hearing Macy call her by name meant she recognized her as an individual and not just part of the mass of humanity or a faceless tenant. It was a form of validation. To her it was the equivalent of Macy saying, I really see you, and that was huge. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Heard you as I passed. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but thank you. If anything could be done, I’d have done it years ago.” The tone of Macy’s voice left no doubt that the subject was closed.

  “You’re a complicated woman, Macy Sheridan. I thought most artists were creative, spiritual, nonconformists, but you seem more—”

  “Careful, I might take offense.”

  “Yeah, guess I better stop while I’m ahead.” If she was ahead, which was always hard to tell with Macy. “Would you like to go for a walk? It might help to exercise and breathe some fresh air.”

  “Looks like you’ve already been.” She nodded to Leigh’s wet jogging clothes. “I’ll be fine.” Macy looked on the verge of tears again as she turned and walked back into the cottage.

  “Damn, damn, damn. Why can’t I say anything right to this woman?” She just wanted to help but kept getting shot down. Her second refusal of an invitation in twelve hours had to be some kind of loser’s record.

  Chapter Six

  For the next three days Leigh gave Macy a wide berth, going only as close as the woodpile out back after her morning jog. In her experience, crowding an emotionally distraught person seldom helped, especially one who’d asked for space. The only sign she’d seen of Macy was light coming from different parts of the house. Macy probably thought she was a pathetic woman with no life beyond jogging and chopping wood. Sometimes it seemed that way to her as well. After all, she’d given up everything she cared about for a dead-end relationship. Pathetic pretty much covered it.

  “Okay, I’ve had it,” she said to Toby, who gave her his usual impassive stare. “That’s right, you ignore me too. I have to get out of here or I’m going crazy. Not that you’re bad company, but I’d like to hear a voice besides my own occasionally. Maybe I’ll call Hedy or Pam and have lunch while I’m out. I’ll give them your regards.”

  She pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt and jumped down the stairs onto the dock. Maybe she’d check in at work. It had been barely a week since her suspension and a phone call would suffice, but she needed human contact. Even unpleasant contact beat nothing. Forty-five minutes later she walked into the Youth Division office to a round of boos.

  “I can see nothing has changed around here. You guys are still a rowdy bunch.”

  “We miss our workhorse. Our clearance rate is down, and the sergeant is on our ass every day.” Nate grabbed her in a bear hug. “Nice of you to drop by.”

  “I had to see people. Living in the sticks is harder than I imagined.”

  “I told you, freaking Deliverance.” He nudged her toward the canteen, dropped coins into the machine, and plunked two coffees down on the table. “So, any headway with the recluse?”

  “What am I, your only source of entertainment? Or do you expect me to soften her up so she’ll work the case?”

  “I’m just having a conversation with my partner. We’ve got an understanding.” He waggled his forefinger between them. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about the case. She called Rickard this morning and said she’d do it. He’s on his way to drop off the full case report and hand over the skull for reconstruction. He thinks I walk on water now. I figured it must’ve been you.”

  “Nope. She made that decision on her own.”

  “Even better. I do walk on water.” He poked his index finger into the dimple on his chin and twisted. “Have you told her you’re a cop yet?” She shook her head. “Don’t wait too long. If she’s as schitzy as you say, that won’t end well.” Nate lowered his voice, sounding almost reverent when he spoke again. “I thought you two might hit it off. At least somebody you can talk to, be friends with. Know what I mean?” She’d seldom seen this sensitive side of him.

  “Yeah.” She understood the concept. She longed for a lover who would also be a best friend, easy to talk to and a companion. Why did she expect more from a lover than she did from a friend? Is that why her relationships failed? Or did sharing her deepest vulnerabilities justify expecting a higher level of trust, respect, and commitment? Whatever her needs or desires, Macy Sheridan was not the answer. “That might not be so easy, Nate, but I promise to tell her the truth soon.”

  “All right then.” He finished his coffee in a gulp and started back toward the office, obviously finished with their tête-à-tête. She followed, not anxious to see Captain Howard. “Got something to help you pass the time out there in the boonies.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. Go check in. I’ll have it ready when you come back.”

  The captain’s administrative assistant wasn
’t at her desk when Leigh reached the complex, so she tapped on the boss’s closed door. “Yeah?”

  “Captain, it’s Leigh.”

  “Come in.” By the time she opened the door, Captain Howard was at the threshold, greeting her with an outstretched hand and the smile Leigh associated with genuine warmth. “You doing all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Not too bored?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry you have to check in with me, but since I issued the discipline, I feel better doing the follow-up. The guys will give you a ration of crap, but you can handle it.” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure you’ve reflected on your situation over the past week. Anything you want to tell me about Lily Miller’s case?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You sure there isn’t something else I need to know? I could probably make this all go away if I knew what really happened.”

  “It’s best if you don’t know, Boss.”

  “Okay. You’ve always been stubborn—or maybe determined is a better word—but I’m sure you have your reasons. You don’t deserve this blemish on your record. It’s my job to take care of my people, not vice versa.”

  “I know. Thank you.” As she left the captain’s office, she reviewed her actions in the Lily Miller case again and came up with the same answer. She’d done what was best. Consequences be damned. Her record be damned. Period. She stopped by Nate’s desk on her way out and collected a sealed accordion file he’d left for her with a note attached.

  To keep your mind sharp. Don’t open this in the office.

  She was in the parking lot about to get in her vehicle when one of the youth detectives called from across the lot. “Hey, Monroe, someone here to see you.”

  “In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m suspended. Handle it.”

  “Said it was personal, but I can tell him to get lost. Fine by me.”

  Sometimes her cohorts’ lack of sensitivity astounded her. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him. Where is he?”

  “Hallway outside interrogation.”

  When she entered the small corridor beside the interview rooms, she saw a boy about fourteen or fifteen sitting on a straight-backed chair scuffing his worn sneakers on the floor. His jeans appeared relatively new, T-shirt fashionably wrinkled, and his leather bomber jacket could’ve been fifty years old or a replica fresh off the rack. He wasn’t poor or homeless, and he definitely wasn’t a regular she’d worked before. She would’ve remembered his almost-white-blond hair and the intense gray eyes he focused on her as she approached.

  “Detective Monroe, nice to meet you.” He held out his hand and gave her a firm handshake. “I need your help.”

  “And you are…”

  “Call me Jack. I understand you’re the best detective in the police department.”

  “Excuse me, but you told the other detective this was a personal matter. I don’t recall meeting you before.”

  “I might’ve fudged a little.” His smile started at the corners of his mouth, sprouted across his cherubic face, and radiated from eyes the color of liquid silver.

  “How did you get my name and what do you know about my work?”

  “Research.”

  She’d never seen this kid before, had no idea how he knew her, and wasn’t about to commit to a pig in a poke. “If you need police assistance, I’ll refer you to one of my colleagues. I’m not taking cases right now.”

  “Because of the suspension?”

  She silently counted to ten. She didn’t like anyone having the upper hand, especially in her job. “How do you know about that?”

  “Read it online. Sounds like you did something good, maybe not by the book, but good for a kid. That’s what I need. Or did I read too much into the situation?”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Need you to find my dad’s family. He died recently. They should know.” The boy looked down at his sneakers, and a connection vibrated between them like a current.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. It’s tough to lose a parent.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, remembering the night her father was rushed to the hospital and never returned. The loss was a hole in her heart that could never be filled. “What about your mother? Doesn’t she know how to get in touch with his family?”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  Jack’s situation was similar to many cases she’d worked—absentee, addicted, or deceased parents whose kids suffered from lack of love or adequate direction. She recalled her childhood after her father died and her mother withdrew, and her chest tightened. There should be a universal law to protect children, the elderly, and animals. But she’d seen too much to the contrary in her career. Her first instinct was to help Jack. But the suspension prohibited her from taking police action or assisting in any active investigation.

  “Talk to one of the detectives in here.” She walked to the office door and held it open for him. “They’ll get the ball rolling.”

  Jack didn’t move from his chair. “I’ll wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to change your mind.”

  “It’s not going to happen.” She called into the room, “Guys, would one of you take care of this young man? I’ve got to go.” She walked past the boy and out the door. As it closed behind her she heard him say, “I’ll be waiting.”

  *

  Macy stood in her studio holding the box and case file Sergeant Kevin Rickard had handed over to her without even a thank you. He’d barely managed a greeting, as if he’d been the wounded one in their last encounter. It was petty to hold a grudge, but he’d dismissed her request to review Jesse’s case without much consideration. After seven years of working together, she’d expected more deference or at least a bit of professional courtesy.

  But she wasn’t doing this for him. She placed the box in the center of her refectory table and picked up the file. The official case notes might contain new information, but Jesse’s eyes stared at her from the corner of the table, making concentration impossible. Who was she kidding? Could she really do this again? At least she’d made it back into the studio after months of avoidance, though not doing what she really wanted—painting. She tucked the file under her arm, poured the last cup of coffee from the pot, and took a seat on the back deck in the morning sun.

  The yard seemed empty without Leigh’s sweaty body hunched over the chopping block swinging the ax like a lumberjack goddess. She’d spent the early morning hours of the last three days here, careful not to intrude on Macy’s space but close enough for contact. Macy hadn’t made the effort because her only option had been to tell Leigh about Jesse, and she couldn’t do that. Sharing hers and Jesse’s story with anyone would be like tearing off a chunk of her heart and handing it over. Detachment seemed more merciful than asking another woman to share an emotional burden she could never relinquish.

  Why did she run from the simplest act of kindness? Guilt flourished while her other emotions were in a vegetative state, unresponsive and unreachable. What was wrong with her? She didn’t want this floating, disconnected existence, but she could barely remember any other. Leigh’s compassion made her wonder if she was still capable of anything else, made her almost want to try.

  She hugged her waist and closed her eyes, remembering the feel of Leigh’s arms around her, the slow-motion fall and soft landing. Her heartbeat trebled and a jolt of excitement drizzled through her. The sensation oozed to places that longed to be touched, and she absorbed it like a medicinal balm. Deprivation had sucked away her energy and creativity like a black hole. She wanted—no, she needed—to touch again. No! Her mind intervened like a splash of water on fire. The pleasurable feelings disappeared behind her bulletproof shield that protected but also distorted everything.

  The crunch of paper brought her back to the deck and her hands gripping the sides of the file folder. Best to leave Leigh Monroe to her life and get on with hers. But she couldn’t help wo
ndering where Leigh was, what she did with her time. Did she work from home? Was she retired? She’d avoided the question when they met and now Macy couldn’t help speculating. Maybe she just missed having her around, her unending optimism and annoying motivational sayings. How was that possible when she’d been here only a few days? How ludicrous. She scanned the reports and officers’ notes and didn’t find anything new, so she returned to the studio.

  The red-and-black evidence tape wrapped around the box cautioned her not to open it, and for a second she considered heeding the warning. She’d already accepted the case, and if she didn’t follow through, she’d always wonder about it. She wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her coat along streaks as clearly delineated as ruts in a muddy road. This is the last one. She lifted the box cutter with a trembling hand and slit the tape.

  A border of Styrofoam peanuts encircled the bubble-wrapped skull. She tipped the box, and the weightless pieces scattered like snow flurries. Wriggling her fingers underneath, she cupped the skull and lifted it gingerly from the container. Trudy’s report indicated the skull had been shattered on the posterior right parietal, but she’d reassembled the fragments. Macy knew the more she handled the fragile bones, the greater chance of damage. She placed the bundle on the desk, tweezed up the edge of each piece of tape, and pulled slowly until the wrapping separated.

  This was where the process started for her, actually touching the skull. She lightly traced the uneven surfaces of bone, skimmed the orbital openings, and avoided the ragged edges of glued fragments on the back right side. She focused on the mandibular profile, symmetry of the nasal bones, dentition, and any unusual markings, all of which affected an individual’s appearance.