The Shadows We Hide

by Allen Eskens

  “Did he see Angel there?”

  “He had to. I don’t know how he could miss her. I fell back against the wall, and he threw the rope down and started hitting me with his fists. He kept hitting me. Then…then I remember, my hand knocked against something hard hanging on the wall. It was a gear or a flywheel or something. I just remember grabbing it and swinging it. I hit Toke in the head.”

  Moody tossed the uneaten half of his sandwich into the bag and dropped it to the ground. “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. He was trying to kill me. I just hit him the once, that’s all. He fell back and was lying on his stomach, but he was breathing.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I dug around in Toke’s pocket and found his cell phone. I dialed nine-one-one and put the phone beside him. I figured they’d come help Angel and him both.”

  “You left them there?”

  “No. I sat beside Angel until I heard a car coming.”

  “Did you carry her to the house?”

  “Carry her to the house?” Moody looked at me like I had stumped him with my question. “Why would I do that? They might not find her. I sat by her side until they came.”

  “Until who came?”

  “I didn’t see who it was. I heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the highway. There was no siren. When I saw the headlights on the treetops, I took off.”

  “Your fingerprints will be on that gear. They know it’s the murder weapon.”

  “I’m not stupid,” he said. “When I was waiting for help to arrive, I wiped off the phone and that gear with an oil rag.”

  “Why’d you run? It was self-defense.”

  Moody gave me a half-smile. “I’m a Lynch,” was all he said.

  A snap of a twig made us both freeze to listen. I looked at him, and he started to shake his head no when both the front and back door of the barn exploded open.

  “GET ON THE GROUND! ON THE GROUND! NOW!” I could see Nathan charging through the back door and Jeb and Sheriff Kimball at the front. There were four other law officers in their company, all wearing black Kevlar vests and helmets. “I SAID GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND! NOW!” Nathan shouted.

  Moody looked up at the hayloft where his gun lay—because of me. I went to my knees in the hope that he would follow. He hesitated, then went down on his knees, his hands in the air. I went belly down in the dirt and watched him do the same. Nathan ran up and put his knee on Moody’s back.

  “I’m not talking,” Moody said, grunting. “I want a lawyer.”

  Nathan cranked a pair of handcuffs around Moody’s wrists, his knee now pressing Moody’s face into the ground, the dirt sticking to the boy’s sweat, his eyes on fire with rage—staring at me.

  Chapter 33

  How’d you find me?” I asked Jeb from my seat in the back of his squad car, my hands cuffed behind my back. I thought about asking where he was taking me, but I already knew.

  “Your cell phone,” Jeb said. “At one o’clock you got a call, remember?”

  I remembered. I had just stepped out of the car. “There was no one there,” I said.

  “That was our dispatcher calling you. When you called nine-one-one yesterday, because your brother was lost, you created a link between your phone and the dispatcher. Once that connection is made, dispatch can call back and we can locate your phone. It’s a handy piece of technology. You wouldn’t believe how many times we get assault calls that get cut off. The system is designed so we can call back, use GPS to locate the scene if we need to.”

  “It was a dirty trick,” I said.

  “Moody’s wanted for murder. I couldn’t let you go through with your scheme. Had to protect you, Joe.”

  “So why am I in handcuffs? What did I do?”

  “Sheriff Kimball wants to talk to you, kind of a debriefing.”

  “You have Moody,” I said. “You can debrief him.”

  “You heard him yelling that he wants a lawyer, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe I want a lawyer too. Am I under arrest?”

  Jeb paused to think that one over, and something churned in my stomach. “That’s still up in the air.”

  We arrived at the Sheriff’s Office, and Jeb escorted me in—still in handcuffs—and put me in a room with thick steel doors on either end―a visiting room for lawyers and inmates, I assumed. The table was bolted to the floor, and the plastic chairs were non-lethal. They left me alone for almost an hour before anyone came in to “debrief” me. I assumed the delay was to let me stew and maybe scare me, but all it did was make me mad.

  When they finally came in, Nathan Calder led the way, sitting across from me and placing a digital recorder in the middle of the table.

  “You mind taking these handcuffs off me,” I said. “They’re starting to chafe.”

  “You have bigger problems than a little irritation on your wrists,” Nathan said.

  Sheriff Kimball also sat down at the table, and Jeb hung back by the door, his arms folded across his chest with a look on his face that let me know we were not friends at the moment. I could see that Nathan was going to be the bad cop, but as I looked around the room, I didn’t see a good cop.

  “What did Moody Lynch say to you in that barn?” Nathan asked.

  “You should go ask him,” I said.

  “I’m asking you,” Nathan said. When I didn’t answer, he added, “You ever hear of aiding an offender?”

  I’d heard of it but chose to play dumb. As a reporter I sometimes walked a fine line between getting information and obstructing an investigation. I had taken great pains to know the legal limits and was pretty sure I hadn’t crossed any lines. “Aiding an offender? What’s that?”

  Nathan smiled. “If someone obstructs an investigation by helping someone who committed a crime, that person is guilty of a felony.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing that I didn’t aid an offender,” I said.

  “Oh, you aided Moody―we know that well enough. The question is, do you want to get your ass out of the sling?”

  “And exactly how does my having a conversation with Moody Lynch rise to the level of aiding him?”

  “You brought him food.”

  On the inside I screamed, “Fuck!” On the outside, I was doing everything I could do to keep my face in check. I brought Moody a sandwich. I gave food to a fugitive. I thought back to my memory of the statute. Can giving a fugitive a sandwich constitute aiding? I think it can.

  At that moment I fully intended to tell them everything they wanted to know. I mean, why keep it a secret? I made it clear to Moody that I was there to get his story out, and he had given me facts that contradicted the official version. I could help his cause. So what if it looked like I was doing it to save my own skin.

  I opened my mouth to speak when a new thought flashed by, one that painted a thin smile on my face. They were bluffing. No one had come to take my fingerprints. I thought back to the sandwich bag, plastic with loops in the top for a handle. The clerk handed the bag to me using the handle. Did I ever hold it by the side? Did I leave a fingerprint on it? I don’t think so. They never asked me for a fingerprint sample; that meant that they didn’t find useable prints on the bag. I paid with cash and didn’t keep the receipt. With Moody not talking, they had no way to prove I gave Moody the food. It was a bluff.

  “What food?” I asked.

  “Don’t treat us like we’re stupid,” Calder said. “We know you brought him those sandwiches.”

  I feigned indignation. “You have me handcuffed here for an hour because you think I brought Moody Lynch a sandwich?” Now it was my turn to bluff. “I’m going to have one hell of a story to write about this. I didn’t come to Buckley in search of an article, but you just gave me one.”

  The worry showed on Kimball’s face, but Calder kept his composure. “Are you denying that you took sandwiches to Moody?”

  “I’m saying you’re making shit up. Am I under arrest for something? If so, lock me up. If not, take thes
e handcuffs off me.”

  Kimball exchanged a look with Jeb, and then nodded. Jeb came around the table, digging his key out, and undid the cuffs.

  “You didn’t need to threaten me,” I said, rubbing the rings on my wrists. “Moody knew I was going to tell you what he told me. But now I’m not so sure.” I made a point of displaying my injury.

  Jeb, who was standing by the door again, said, “Joe, this is a murder investigation. We need to know what Moody said.”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said, “but only if you let me see Toke’s autopsy report.”

  “Out of the question,” Calder said. “We don’t share those kinds of facts. You’re still a possible suspect in all this.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” I said. “You want what I got? Then I get to look at the autopsy report.”

  “Why?” Jeb asked.

  “That’s my business,” I answered. “Do we have a deal?”

  Kimball nodded toward the door, and the three of them left. I sighed my relief in short breaths so that the surveillance camera didn’t pick up on my doubt. After ten minutes, they came back in, Kimball carrying the report. He dropped it on the table in front of me. “This is off the record,” he said. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  I paged through the report, pausing for a minute on the autopsy photos. I’d seen pictures like that before, so I was prepared, but this was my father—possibly. For some reason that made it different. The crime-scene pictures showed him lying on his stomach against the barn wall where Vicky had shown me the blood. His eyes were open and staring into the dirt. The curve of his skull had been interrupted where the bone had been caved in. Next to his head lay a metal gear about the size of a bread plate, and next to that, the oil rag that Moody had used to wipe off his fingerprints.

  I turned to the next page and found a report that explained the cause of death. The medical examiner cataloged three separate locations on the skull where Toke had been bludgeoned with a heavy object. The wounds were consistent with the gear found at the scene, and the gear contained visible hair, skin, and bone fragments, making it the likely murder weapon.

  I closed the file.

  “First,” I said, “Moody gave a version of events that is inconsistent with your theory of the case.”

  Kimball leaned in as if I had piqued his interest.

  “Moody admits he went to Toke’s barn. He went there because Angel sent him a text that she was freaking out. But after that, everything is different. My understanding is that Angel was found in the house.” I looked at Jeb, who had given me that piece of information. “But Moody said that she was in the barn when he got there. He also said that she was acting groggy, consistent with an overdose. If he’s right, the overdose happened before the murder.”

  “If you believe Moody Lynch,” Calder said with a measure of contempt.

  I threw a cold look at Nathan. “You wanted to know what Moody said. Well, I’m telling you what he said. What you do with that is up to you.”

  “Let him talk,” Kimball interjected.

  “Moody said he was trying to give aid to Angel when Toke came up behind him and started beating him with a coil of rope―you saw the bruises on his face, right? Moody said he hit Toke with the gear in self-defense, but he only hit him one time.”

  “He admitted he hit Toke with a gear?” Jeb asked.

  “The gear was on the wall,” I said. “When Toke was hitting him, Moody fell against the wall, grabbed the gear, and hit Toke.”

  “Did Moody actually say that he only hit Toke once, or is that what you interpreted?” Nathan asked.

  “We were in the middle of that conversation when you guys came rushing in, but he said he hit Toke once, and Toke fell to the ground.”

  “I suppose he didn’t want to admit that he crushed Toke’s skull in,” Calder said.

  “It was Moody who called nine-one-one,” I said. “Toke was unconscious, but he was breathing, at least according to Moody.”

  “According to Moody,” Calder repeated.

  “Moody used Toke’s phone to call nine-one-one. He didn’t say anything to the dispatcher; he just dialed the number and waited. You tell me—did the nine-one-one call come in like that?” I pretended as if Jeb hadn’t already told me those details. “If it happened that way, it corroborates Moody’s story. How would he know that there was a silent nine-one-one call unless he made it?”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Toke,” Nathan said. “He called nine-one-one because of Angel, that’s all.”

  “But what was Angel doing in the barn, and how did she get back into the house?”

  “Moody took her to the house before we arrived,” Jeb said.

  “Moody said he stayed in the barn until he saw headlights coming. Why would he lie about that? Why not just say he took her into the house to wait?”

  “Because she was never in the barn, you moron,” Calder said. “Moody went to the barn to kill Toke. He killed Toke and left. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Then he wouldn’t have known about the overdose, would he, you moron?”

  Nathan started to stand up, the heat of his contempt burning holes in his britches.

  Kimball put a hand on the deputy’s arm. “Nathan, let me handle this. Maybe you should step outside?”

  Calder gave Kimball a double take, and then looked at me with a scowl.

  After he left, Kimball said, “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything else that Moody said that might be relevant?”

  “No. Like I said, we were just getting going when you guys came in, but Sheriff, for what it’s worth…I believe him.”

  “That’s fine,” Kimball said, dismissing my opinion. He shut the recorder off and took it with him when he got up to leave.

  “I’m free to go?” I asked.

  “You are,” Kimball said. Then he walked out, leaving Jeb and me alone.

  “I’ll need a ride to go get my car,” I said to Jeb.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a taxi service.”

  “No, but you did arrest me for no good reason. And that’s why I’m here and my car’s out in the middle of nowhere. Come on, give me a ride.”

  “Fine,” he said with another roll of his eyes.

  This time he let me ride in the front seat with no shackles. The ride was quiet for the most part. He asked me a lot of the same questions that Calder had asked me already, and I gave the same answers. It wasn’t until he had parked behind my car, and I was about to get out, that he brought up a new topic. “Before you go,” he said, “there’s something you should know.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Back when you gave that DNA sample, we expedited it. Sheriff Kimball thought you might actually be a suspect.”

  “And?”

  “The results came back this morning.”

  “And?” I said again, with a little more irritation in my voice.

  “And what?”

  I gave him a stop-messing-with-me look.

  “Okay. Fine. It turns out that…you are definitely Toke Talbert’s son.”

  Chapter 34

  I was a millionaire! Well, I was about to become one.

  It amazed me how the thought of getting free money like that could change a man’s perspective. It was as if the wet cement I’d been trudging through suddenly hardened beneath my feet, and I could sprint in any direction I chose; I could feel the contours of a world that had always existed beyond my reach. Ideas pinged and ricocheted in my head so fast that I had to pull my car over and let my thoughts clear. I gripped my steering wheel and tightened just about every muscle in my body, pulling the energy and excitement all up into my chest and squeezing it there until a shrill screech escaped through my clenched teeth. Then I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down.

  One thing at a time, I thought. I need to get a handle on what this means. What are the mechanics of probate? How does one start such a process? I decided that it would be wise
to pay another visit to Bob Mullen. Maybe I could get some of the paperwork going while I was still in town.

  I drove to Bob’s house, the beautiful Victorian across from his office, and rang the bell. I could see a ceiling fan churning inside and hear a hint of music seeping through an open window, so I assumed that he was home. I rang it a second time and was about to ring a third when he called to me, standing on a sidewalk that ran around the side of the house.

  “Mr. Mullen, do you have a second?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “The DNA test came back,” I blurted out. “I’m Toke’s biological son.”

  His eyes lit up, but for only a second. Then his face took on the look of a chess player thinking past his next move. He stroked his beard and let his mouth curve down in thought. “I’m glad you stopped by,” he said. “I have something I’d like to talk about. Come this way.”

  We followed the walkway, which took us to his backyard, an impressive space dotted with maple trees and pine. In the middle of it all, a paver-stone patio surrounded a fire pit and held some Adirondack chairs. A woman sat in one of the chairs, working a crossword puzzle. She had long silver hair, and I recognized her from the picture in Bob’s office as his wife. Bob gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs.

  “You brought company,” the woman said.

  “Sarah, this is Joe Talbert Junior. Joe, this is my wife, Sarah.”

  Sarah gave me a warm smile and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Joe. Would you like some tea?”

  I was about to say no when Bob said, “Some tea would be lovely. I’ll get it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a little tea.” It took Sarah some effort to rise to her feet, and Bob lent her an arm. Once up, she seemed steady. She gave Bob a pat on his hand and departed for the house.