“There were three thousand people there, Ginger. I didn’t notice anybody in a white suit.” Cochran sighed, as if confessing something shameful. “No, I’m not happy with Stratton.”
“You told Mary you were.”
“I told Mary my part of the investigation was over, which officially, it is. I’m not supposed to keep working cases once Turpin’s filed an indictment.”
“Even when two rational, non-hysterical women hear fiddle music up at that old cabin?”
“I told you both—no threat was made against you. Hell, it was probably your dopey pal from the Snitch. You’ve got to admit, she showed up at Bigmeat’s right after you two.”
Ginger snorted. “Jessica’s way too girly to tromp around those woods. But if you’re not buying that the killer was up there, then tell me what makes you unhappy with Stratton.”
He thought of that long ago, leering face in the window. The fact that even the Cherokees considered the place haunted by a ghost they called Eyes. Should he tell her that he sometimes wondered if the killer wasn’t the same person who’d terrified him a quarter of a century ago? No, he decided. She would think he was insane.
“I don’t know,” he finally told her. “Stratton just doesn’t add up.”
“Well, honey, if you’ve got a hunch, go with it. That’s what I do in the newsroom.”
He traced the line of her jaw down her neck and to her shoulder. “I think will. It sounds crazy, but I feel like I owe it to Carlisle Wilson.”
They made love once more, then he left. He drove back toward his office, thinking about the case. All the suspects they’d interviewed had alibis. None of the interns could have left the cabin by any way other than the front door. And Givens’s movie had clearly shown that the only person who left by that door was Lisa Wilson.
“Which leaves Stratton,” he told himself aloud. He was pondering that when he suddenly remembered Artie Slade’s wacky story about Fiddlesticks still being alive and stealing road kill from their freezer.
“Could that be it?” he whispered. “Some lunatic who’s been roaming around up here for years?”
Stranger things have happened, he decided. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Quickly, he turned Angel around and headed west into the mountains, up to the raptor center. After parking in front of the incongruous totem pole, he walked toward Stratton’s cabin. As he crested the final curve in the gravel drive, he saw Jenkins and Slade, sitting on Stratton’s porch. Jenkins was plucking the strings of a fiddle while Slade sat wearing his nasty Braves cap, blowing smoke rings from a cigarette.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Cochran called.
They both shot up like school boys caught in mid-mischief. Slade crunched his cigarette out on the porch while Jenkins stood awkwardly, holding his fiddle in front of his crotch.
“Hidy, sheriff,” said the more amiable Slade. “What brings you up here? Does Nick need something at the jail?”
“Not that I know of,” said Cochran. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Me?” Slade pointed to himself with his mangled hand.
“Both of you.” Cochran walked up the steps to the porch. Slade smiled, squinting beneath his cap; Jenkins looked as if Cochran were a rattlesnake about to strike. “I wanted to ask you two about the guy who steals road kill from your freezer.”
Jenkins gave a derisive chuckle. “That’s Artie’s ghost. I ain’t had no truck with him.”
Cochran turned to the older man. “You want to tell me about this guy?”
“I can probably show you better’n tell you.”
“Okay,” said Cochran. “Show me.”
“Come on, then.” Artie hobbled down the porch steps and started limping toward the bird barn. Cochran fell into step beside him.
“Mostly, I see that feller in the summertime, at the edge of the woods, when the leaves are thick,” Artie began. “I’ve never seen him in winter, nor in early spring. I used to think he lived back in some holler, but now I think maybe he goes back and forth from somewhere else. Like a bird, you know?”
Wonderful, thought Cochran, a migratory maniac. “What does he look like?”
“He’s probably your height, but thinner. Everything about him looks gray—his clothes, his hair—he’s got a scraggly old beard.”
“Does he carry a weapon?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“How old does he look?”
“He ain’t no spring chicken,” said Slade. “Fifty, at least.”
“You drink a lot?” asked Cochran.
“Not a drop in five years,” Artie replied proudly. “That drinkin’ cost me a leg.”
“How’s that?”
“I tried to climb up Nick’s hacking stand one night after I’d had too much. Halfway up the ladder I fell. Broke my heel in three places. Gimped along ever since.”
“Aren’t those things thirty feet high?” asked Cochran.
Artie nodded. “Every bit.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t make it to the top,” said Cochran. “Otherwise, you’d be dead.”
As they neared the bird barn, Slade veered off to one side, heading to the back of the building. Sticktights and poison ivy grew waist-high, making passage difficult. Slade pushed his way along a narrow path, then pointed up into a small gap in the tree line, fifty yards away. “I always see him there, eyeing this barn.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“I saw him early summer. The opossums were out with their babies. A lot of them don’t make it across the road, so our freezers were pretty full. I came down here to thaw out some mice and half the opossums were gone.”
“And you think this guy stole them?”
“Well, I know the birds didn’t eat ’em. And them interns would’ve fainted if you’d served them up an opossum.”
So would I, thought Cochran. “Did you tell Stratton?”
Slade shook his head. “Everybody rides me enough about Fiddlesticks, as it is. You heard Jenkins a few minutes ago. ‘That’s Artie’s ghost’,” he mimicked in a quavery falsetto. “‘I ain’t had no truck with him!’”
Cochran frowned. “So nobody but you ever sees this guy?”
“I’m the only one who ever comes over here!” cried Artie. “Them kids are scared of snakes, scared of poison ivy. Jenkins was supposed to grub all this out, but ever since Nick’s been gone, all he does is sit on his lazy ass and play that damn fiddle.”
Inching past the treacherous green vines, Cochran made his way to where Slade claimed to have seen the road-kill thief. He saw some mashed pine needles that might indicate where someone had sat or stood for a while, but beyond that, he saw only the same thick forest that covered the mountains.
Cochran turned to Slade, who’d limped up there behind him. “So would you say this guy is a woodsman?”
“I reckon so. Not many folks can just ooze in and out of the shadows like that.”
“But he’s never said anything to you?”
“Not a word. He just stands and stares with those queer eyes.”
Cochran’s heart skipped a beat. “Queer eyes?”
Slade made two circles with his thumbs and index fingers. “They’re big as saucers. Something ain’t right about them.”
For a long moment Cochran stood there. This was the third time eyes had come up. First the face in the window, then Saunooke’s ghost, now this phantom that appeared every summer to steal road kill from Stratton’s freezer. Somebody’s out there, he told himself. Somebody’s been out there, maybe for years. And doing what? Killing girls and carving other messages into their skin? Doing other things we have no name for? God only knows, he thought.
Thirty-one
Oklahoma was flatter than Mary had ever imagined. Though she remembered the fourth grade, when Lena Owle returned from visiting her
Western relatives and told everyone how you could see all the way to the Rocky Mountains, Mary hadn’t appreciated the unremitting flatness of the land. As she and Alex drove along, she felt as if she were some tiny ant, uncovered and vulnerable, scrambling for the refuge of a tree or a rock or a fallen log. She was glad that her mother’s ancestors had hidden in the mountains while the soldiers rousted the rest of the tribe to Oklahoma.
“When was the last time you talked to Jonathan?” asked Alex, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“Yesterday. He said you made Fred Moon look like a fool.”
She laughed. “I never thought Bagwell would let it pass, but I asked him if he could produce the newspaper article he’d shown Lily. I was just fishing, but he pulled the thing out of his wallet.”
“What paper was it?” asked Mary, remembering that bit of nastiness.
Alex snorted. “An op-ed piece he wrote for his hometown news!”
They laughed, though it wasn’t really funny. Young Lily had assumed Moon’s biased opinion was a straight news story—proof in black and white that Mary had killed her mother.
Alex broke the little silence that had sprung between them. “Does Jonathan know about the Snitch?”
Mary shook her head. “I doubt that he knows what the Snitch even is.”
“Are you going to tell him about it?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” she replied uncomfortably. She looked at her old friend. “I don’t guess there’s any chance you could get him to stay away from court tomorrow?”
Alex gave her a knowing smile. “So you won’t have to tell him at all?”
“I’m going to tell him,” insisted Mary. “I’d just like to get through my testimony first.”
“Mary, the man hasn’t missed a minute of this case. If I were you, I’d break the news to him before you go to court. I’m sure Laura Bagwell reads those scandal rags in the grocery line like everybody else.”
An hour later, Mary checked into her room at the motel. She saw Jonathan immediately, from her window. He was swimming laps in the pool, his long body glistening in the sun. She smiled at his concession to a bright yellow bathing suit—back home he swam, during the day, in cut-off jeans. At night, after Lily was asleep, they used to swim naked. How good he’d felt then—his muscles hard, his touch knowing, his laugh low and easy as they glided first through the water, then later into each other, the dark creek buoying them, holding them as if they were something rare and precious. They had been, too, she realized. What a shame they were no longer.
“He’s a beautiful man,” said Alex, coming up behind her. “And one of the best fathers I’ve ever seen.”
“He loves his child above all else,” Mary replied, turning her gaze to Lily, who sat at a table shaded by a white umbrella, playing cards with a young woman. “Who’s Lily’s friend?”
“Cecilia Guarano, the best custody-case kid-minder in all of Texas.”
“Does Lily like her?” Mary wondered if Lily was capable of liking anybody these days.
“Lily adores her. Cecilia doesn’t have a dog in this fight.”
Mary nodded, understanding how Lily might feel like a plug of taffy at a taffy pull. “Looks like she’s teaching her poker.”
“Texas Hold ’em.” Alex laughed. “Lily’s getting pretty good, too. I think she cleaned Cecilia out Friday.”
“You think they’ll call Lily to the stand?”
“Bagwell might if she gets desperate.”
“Wonder what she would say,” said Mary, turning back to the window.
“Good question.” Alex gave a caustic laugh. “Lily may look exactly like her mother, but you know who she reminds me of?”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Me?” Mary looked at her, astonished.
“She’s smart and sweet, but she never lets you know what’s going on behind her eyes.” Alex laughed again. “She could be a hell of a lawyer some day.”
“Did you know she hates me?” asked Mary, watching as Lily played a final card from her hand and gathered all the poker chips to her side of the table.
“Yeah. I also know she’s just a kid, and a very confused one, to boot.”
“I know, I know.” Closing her eyes against her tears, Mary turned back to Alex. “Look, you’ve got to do me one more favor. Could you take Lily out tonight? I need to talk to Jonathan, alone.”
“The big Fiddlesticks talk?”
Mary nodded, though the thought of it made her go cold inside.
“Okay.” Alex nodded approvingly. “How about I go tell Jonathan you’re here, sotto voce. While I’m down there, I’ll suggest pizza and a movie to Lily and Cecilia.”
“Thanks.” Smiling gratefully, Mary added one final request. “Don’t let Lily know I’m here, okay?
“I won’t.” Alex put an arm around Mary’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll get through this.”
Mary stared out the window, watching as Alex made her way out to the pool. She had a quick word with Jonathan, who frowned at the motel, then she strode over and spoke to Cecilia and Lily. Lily jumped up from her poker game excited, skipping over to Jonathan. The two conferred for a minute, then they all headed inside the motel, leaving Jonathan lying beside the pool. Mary stood there until she heard footsteps down the hall, a soft thump on her door that she knew was Alex. She waited a while longer, then more footsteps passed by her door again, this time going in the opposite direction.
“Lily, did you tell your dad we’d be back late?” Alex asked in a loud voice as they passed by.
“I told him we were going to the movies,” the little girl replied, her voice high and piping. “I told him I’d be with you.”
Hearing Lily’s voice caught Mary off guard. How many times had she heard similar words directed at her? Mary, I’m going to soccer practice with Jennifer Holmes. I’ll be back after supper. Mary, can I go to Debra’s sleepover on Friday night? It was hard to believe that the child now hated her, blamed her fully for her mother’s death.
“How have we come to this, Lily?” she whispered, fighting an urge to rush out into the hall and grab the little girl up in her arms. Tell her that she loved her, that she would never do anything to hurt her.
But that would not be the thing to do. Certainly not now, maybe even never. Now she had to work things out with the father before she could come anywhere near the child.
She was standing there, wondering what she was going to say to Jonathan when she heard another, softer, knock on her door. She went over and peered through the peephole. He stood there, hair slicked back from swimming, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt. With her heart thudding, she opened the door. He looked even better than he had in the pool. The sun had further bronzed his skin, and the small pooch of a belly that had begun to bloom at home had vanished. He looked now as lean as he had in high school.
“Hey,” she said, her voice sticky in her throat. “Long time, no see.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “How about that?”
He made no move to enter her room, so she stepped back and held the door open. “Want to come in?”
He stepped inside, awkward, then opened his arms, holding her as if she were made of glass.
“It’s okay, Jonathan,” she said, rubbing his back, trying to ease the tension in his body. “It’s only me.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, his voice muffled. “It’s never only you.”
She started to ask him what he meant, but suddenly, he kissed her. Just as he had before—before Fred Moon, before Ruth Moon, before any of it—back when the only moon they knew was the one that rose over Snowcrop Mountain, a huge yellow disk that seemed to smile down on their secrets. She kissed him back, hungry for the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him in her arms. She lifted her hands to cradle the back of his head then felt his arms drop low; his hands
inside the waist of her jeans, his fingers loosening the zipper. In one swift motion he peeled away her jeans and underpants; in another he lifted her sweater and unhooked her bra. For a moment she stood before him naked, naked as she had that first time in the woods, so long ago. Then he joined her, shucking his own clothes off into a pile on the floor. He took her in his arms, carried her to the bed. They stretched full-length across the mattress, his flesh warming hers, his hands caressing her breasts; his mouth on her nipples. Fingers, legs, arms intertwined as easily as always, then he was inside her, his motion familiar but also unaccustomed, as if sex were a sport she’d once loved but hadn’t played in years.
They made love twice in bed, then moved to the shower. He lathered her with motel soap, his hands slick as the minnows that brushed lightly against them when they swam in the shallows of the river. We need to talk, she tried to remind herself as they stood front to back, his hands caressing her breasts. I need to tell him about Fiddlesticks.
But Fiddlesticks seemed far away; another woman’s trouble, a lonely woman’s life. I’ll tell him later, she promised herself. After we’ve finished.
But they didn’t finish for a long time. They dried off and moved back into the bedroom, wrapping up in each other’s arms all over again. It was as if he wanted to make up for all those nights at home, when he would turn his back to her, while she lay awake haunted and wondering. His kisses did not stop until they heard the ding of the elevator, then Lily’s voice in the hall. “Do you think Daddy’s asleep?”
As Alex murmured something Mary could not understand, Jonathan rolled off the bed and reached for his clothes.
“Do you have to go?” she asked, her skin feeling electric.
“Yeah,” he replied brusquely.
Mary rose up on one elbow. “Jonathan, Lily knows we do this.”
“She doesn’t know you’re here.”
“I don’t understand—why would that matter?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Suddenly pale beneath his tan, he zipped his jeans, pulled on his shirt.
Music of Ghosts Page 23
