“So, do you think you’ll talk to Sandy about this—what he told you?”
“I don’t know.” Libby picked at her thumbnail. “It’s easy to say I’m good with it, that when I see her I won’t claw her eyes out, but when I think about that e-mail, the fact that she waited until all hell was breaking loose—”
“Uh, yeah, maybe you’re not that good.” Ruth made a face.
“What if I talk to her and she doesn’t believe me? And what about the promise I made to Jordan not to tell anyone, especially his mom?”
“Well, you blew that when you told me. Why does it have to be a secret, anyway? I mean, the kid’s freedom is at stake—”
“Senora Ruth?”
Ruth’s glance darted over Libby’s shoulder.
She twisted around.
“Perdón.” Coleta spoke from the doorway. “Sorry.” She repeated her apology in English.
Libby looked at Ruth.
She stood up. “Coleta? Uh, buenos días. Good morning. I didn’t think you were coming in till ten?”
“Good morning.” Coleta repeated the words, smiling, uncertain.
Ruth pointed to her watch. “Ten o’clock? Um, diez—las diez? That’s when you were supposed to come? Uh—venir aquí?”
“Ah, las diez. Sí. Len bring, um, vengo ahora?” She shrugged.
“She doesn’t drive.” Ruth addressed Libby. “Huck has to take her everywhere. Let me get her settled, and I’ll be back.”
Libby rinsed their coffee mugs and wiped the table, and when Ruth reappeared, she said, “You found work for her to do?”
“Folding brochures and stickering on addresses. She seems to understand, but she’s so quiet, like a little mouse. I said to Huck the other day if she doesn’t talk more, engage with us, I don’t see how working here is going to help her gain enough fluency in English to pass the test to get her green card.”
“What if she heard us earlier and tells her cop husband what Jordan told me about him?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. She understands even less English than she can speak.” Ruth crossed her arms and leaned against the coffee bar. “Besides, you can see how shy she is.”
“Well, I know if I wanted citizenship as badly as you say she does, I wouldn’t be taking such stupid chances. Suppose she were to get deported? They wouldn’t let her take her little girl back to Honduras with her, would they?”
“I don’t think so. She’d be staying here with her daddy.”
“So she’d lose her opportunity to become a US citizen and her little girl.”
“And she is totally devoted to that little girl, let me tell you.”
Libby hung the hand towel she’d used on a hook next to the sink. “But she’s very young and very pretty.” Libby looked at Ruth. “Muy bonita and what? Muy younger? Mucho less years-o than Huck-o?”
Ruth laughed. “How have we lived in this state all our lives and not learned to speak decent Spanish? It’s a crime.”
“I don’t know about you, but I took French in high school and dreamed of romance in Paris.”
Ruth sobered. “Well, if it felt odd having her here before I knew all of this, it feels downright weird and uncomfortable now.”
“I probably should have kept my mouth shut. For all I know, you’re right and Jordan is lying.”
“What I hear, he has kind of a reputation for it. It’s for sure there’s no love lost for him in town now. Or Sandy, either, for that matter. I can’t think of anyone who believes he wasn’t driving that night, and he’s not doing himself any favors, accusing Travis.”
“I want to help him, though. I know it’s crazy.”
Ruth eyes flooded with compassion. “It keeps Beck alive.”
Libby’s throat tightened. Of course Ruth of all people would get it. But Libby might have added that she herself felt more alive. Jordan’s appearance on her doorstep, and the Gordian knot his actual and real physical self presented, even the tangle of old emotions and memories that his flesh-and-bone substance enlivened, was better than staring bleakly into the dark tunnel of her future without Beck. Being the one of them left behind was something she’d seldom contemplated.
“Will you talk to Sandy, then?” Ruth asked. “Want me to come with you?”
“Not right now. I’m going to try a different way first, go straight for the horse’s mouth, if you know what I mean.”
“If by horse’s mouth you mean Huck, I think that’s a bad idea.”
“Why? It’s not as if I’m going to accuse him of anything. I have a good reason to talk to him anyway. I don’t think he, or anyone at the Wyatt police department, cares one thing about finding the person responsible for killing those animals on my property. But I am serious, and he’d better know it. Plus, there’s what happened to Ricky Burrows’s truck. It was damaged on my property, too, but there again, local law enforcement has dropped the ball. It’s a disgrace.”
“Who is Ricky Burrows, anyway? I can’t place him.”
“I only know him through Augie. Ricky works for him. Augie told me he’s from Colorado, that he came here because he couldn’t get work there.”
“Or he’s on the run from something or someone.”
“Ha! I thought I was the one who watched too much IDTV. He’s just a young guy who’s had a run of bad luck, and now he’s out of work altogether since I stopped construction on the house. I feel bad for him.”
“There must be other jobs. Your house isn’t the only one Augie’s building.”
“No, probably not,” Libby allowed. “Maybe Augie fired Ricky.”
“You need to find out, Libby. The guy could be in trouble. Maybe his truck was keyed by accident, or maybe it was a random bunch of hooligan kids who did it. But if it was random like that, why stop with his old beater truck? Why not scar up your shiny new Lexus or Beck’s practically new Ford F-150? They were both there, parked nearby, right?” Ruth paused.
Libby didn’t answer.
“Okay, let’s say it was someone up from Houston, out to get revenge—a bizarro plan if I ever heard one—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I know how your mind works. Let’s say that’s the case. Would they have made that mistake? What’s the point of gouging the paint off a vehicle where most of the paint is off already? And don’t even get me started on the mutilated-animal routine, or the significance behind finding a note on your kitchen counter advising you to lock your doors. Bizarre is too mild a word for all this stuff. It’s past that now. It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t even be staying out there.”
“Why do you think I’m going to have a chat with Sergeant Huckabee?”
“To talk about Jordy, another terrible, if not downright dangerous, idea.”
“I already said I’ll be discreet.”
“Suppose Huck is the one leaving the dead animals around at the cottage?”
Libby hooted.
“Come on, Libby. Even you’ve said it’s concerning the way that note is an almost exact verbatim quote of the advice Huck gave you about keeping your doors locked.”
“Yes, but aren’t you the one who told me it was a coincidence? Otherwise I would have taken it to the captain, or to Greeley. I still could.”
Ruth crossed her arms.
“It isn’t as if I want to be involved in any of this.”
“Then let it go.”
Libby made a face.
Ruth flung her hands. “Why am I wasting my breath when you’re so hardheaded?”
Libby grinned. “Don’t you think maybe you’re being just a tish paranoid? Un poco?” She held her index finger and thumb a little apart, expecting Ruth to laugh. She didn’t. Instead she hammered away, saying Libby didn’t know whom she was dealing with, which didn’t sit well, and Ruth knew it, but she went on anyway.
“You don’t get it—how this town works,” she said. “It’s not Houston.”
“You’re starting to sound like Mia.” Annoyance sharpened Libby’s voice.
&nbs
p; “I’m offering you a perspective, not conspiracy theories and soap-opera dramatics.” Ruth wasn’t less annoyed.
“Beck would get this mess sorted out,” Libby insisted. “You know he would. Especially where it concerns Jordan. How can I do less?”
“Beck wouldn’t want you to put yourself at risk, Libby. That’s what I know.”
She picked up her purse. “I’ll call you later.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Ruth said. “And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll call the law—in another town—to come check on you!”
Libby lifted her hand, waving without turning, a whatever gesture, and then she caught sight of Coleta. She was sitting at a desk in a cubicle near the entry doors. There was a stack of brochures in front of her, but she wasn’t doing anything with them. She was watching Libby, and while she was smiling, there was something other than humor working in her eyes. Libby couldn’t decide what it was. Frustration, maybe, over the language barrier. But while Coleta might not be so fluent in English, Libby thought she knew her way around another language quite well.
She had no plan, driving over to police headquarters. No ideas about how to get to the bottom of it, as she’d told Ruth that Beck would do. If only Beck were here. Why was the truth never simple? But no, the truth was simple. It was people who complicated it. Why couldn’t they tell the straight facts, own up, say they did a thing, and then do their best to make it right? Why was it easier to lie? She could take that question back to Sandy Cline, Libby guessed, if she ended up having to talk to her. If she couldn’t find another way.
Sergeant Huckabee, dressed in his uniform, was on the sidewalk outside the building that housed local law enforcement. Libby saw him as soon as she pulled up. He was talking to another man, dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a T-shirt. Ricky Burrows.
She got out of the truck, smiling and waving when Ricky caught sight of her. She didn’t know what to make of it when he suddenly wheeled and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.
She and the sergeant exchanged greetings. He was warm, almost effusive, asking how she was, whether or not she’d enjoyed the tamales. He went so far as to extend his hand, but she pretended not to see it, not wanting to make physical contact. His demeanor changed after that, becoming professional. It was hot, standing on the sidewalk, but she swore the air between them cooled.
She said, “I keep meaning to return your dish.”
He nodded curtly and asked how he could help her.
“That was Ricky Burrows you were talking to, wasn’t it? Did he come about his truck?”
“No,” Huckabee said. He didn’t elaborate.
“What do you know about him?”
Although the sergeant appeared to be looking at her, he had on mirror-lensed sunglasses. She couldn’t see anything of his expression, only her own reflection. It annoyed her. She wanted to ask him to take them off. She said, “He’s working on my property, part of the construction crew that’s building my house. That’s why I’m interested. I’d want to know if he’s in any kind of trouble.”
“Not the sort you need to worry about.” Huckabee looked off in the direction Ricky had disappeared. “He’s got a fondness for Coors beer, but he doesn’t start until quitting time—beer thirty.”
“He’s not local, from around here, is he?”
“Nah. Came from up north somewhere. Colorado, I think.”
It was the same story Libby had heard from Augie, verification of a sort, she guessed. “Is he in any legal trouble that you know of?”
“Not as of today. The boy has finally got his story straight. Look, I’m real sorry to cut this short, but I have an appointment.”
“If you could spare another few minutes, I’d like you to go inside with me and talk to the captain.” What she really wanted was to see Huckabee’s eyes without the mirror lenses.
“About?”
That car accident, she thought. “What’s being done to find the person responsible for leaving dead animals on my property.” Libby studied her twin images captured in the lenses of his sunglasses, wondering what he’d do if she pulled them off his face. It aggravated her; he aggravated her. But she couldn’t really picture Huckabee committing wanton acts of vandalism, even though she was aware that cops could be as mentally twisted as the next guy. The drawback with the sergeant, though, was the lack of any motive. Why would he do it? Not for any reason she could see.
There was nothing new, he said, with obvious impatience.
“Is it possible I’m being targeted?” Libby raised Ruth’s suspicion. “I know no connection has been found to the animal killings in Houston, but that just makes what’s happening on my property more worrisome. Whoever is behind this—they were inside the cottage. It’s unnerving. I don’t know what their reason is, or what direction they might come from next.”
“You might want to make other living arrangements,” the sergeant said. “You might consider going back to Houston for the time being. I’ve advised your neighbors to do the same.”
“What neighbors? I wasn’t aware anyone else had bought property at the Little B.”
“Ruth didn’t tell you? A couple with three kids, teenagers. Grayson is their name. They bought the fifteen-acre parcel next door to you, on the east side where the old farmhouse is.”
“Did something happen there?”
“They found a gutted hog, too, hanging in one of their trees the day before you found the one at your place. I didn’t know about it until I saw the report a day or two ago.”
“Do you still think it’s kids?” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice.
“I’ve told you before, Ms. Hennessey—”
“Libby.”
“Libby. We’ve stepped up patrols out that way, and if we get any leads, we’ll run them down, but right now we’ve got nothing to go on. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“I’d really like to see your captain.” She was thinking of the note. If Huckabee didn’t consider the vandalism on her property a threat, maybe his captain would. Or the cops in Greeley. She could take the note there.
“He isn’t going to tell you anything different, Miz—Libby. Captain Perry isn’t the one you would speak to about this matter, though. He’s head of the patrol division. You would need to speak to Captain Mackie with the criminal division. But they’re neither one here, in any case. They’re in Dallas, attending a police conference.”
Libby searched her mind, but she could come up with no response, no reasonable way to detain him.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Jordan Cline?” She said his name, and it was completely off topic, but she was out of options. “I wanted to mention again that he’s working for me now.”
Huckabee’s eyes narrowed. “I’d be careful having him around your place, if I was you.”
“I’m curious, why are you so sure he was driving that night?”
“It’s what the evidence suggests.”
“Isn’t it possible his cousin was the driver? Weren’t they both out of the car by the time you arrived? How could you tell who was at the wheel?”
“Well, as much as I might like to, I really don’t have time to discuss the ins and outs of an accident investigation. I’m on duty, and as I said, I’m late for an appointment.”
“Is Officer Carter here? Ken Carter? He was the other officer on the scene the night of the accident, right? Maybe I could talk to him.”
“What is your interest here, Ms. Hennessey?” He stared hard at her.
She retreated a step. She needed more facts before she could answer his question.
“All right, then,” Huckabee said, “if we’re done?”
She nodded, and he left her, walking toward the back of the building. Libby could see several cars parked there, a mix of civilian cars and a handful of squad cars. She waited until Huckabee got into one of the patrol cars before going inside to the duty desk.
But according to the dispatcher, Ken
Carter wasn’t available. It was his day off, the woman said; he wouldn’t be in until the following day.
Libby was there when Ken arrived the next morning, waiting for him on the same section of sidewalk where she and Huckabee had talked the day before. And she got the same vague response from Ken, with the added caveat that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss an ongoing police investigation with her unless she had information that pertained to it.
The difference between Huckabee and Carter was that Ken Carter wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Libby could see his eyes, and they were full of some jittering anxiety. He seemed nervous in a way that Huckabee hadn’t, but Carter was young. He hadn’t been on the job long enough to perfect his cop face, that casual-appearing air of authority that could turn lethal in the space of a heartbeat. Ken Carter had something on his mind, Libby felt sure of it; he was bearing some burden he’d like to be free of, one he probably resented. One that belonged to Sergeant Huckabee. There was a code among cops, wasn’t there? Didn’t they talk about something called the blue line?
Cops were like doctors or attorneys; they protected one another.
She went back to her car and got in, watching Carter get into his squad car. Passing her on his way out to the highway, he touched his forehead in salute and smiled. What if she was wrong about him? It was only conjecture, intuition, coupled with a boy’s story—a boy whom she didn’t know, who had a lot to lose, who was a known liar. A self-admitted drinker. Beck’s son. And she—she was a woman with no experience of children other than as a high school guidance counselor. She had always fancied herself a person with a mother’s brain and heart who lamentably had nothing to mother. Was she still so desperate for the experience that she would take this on? Interfere with someone else’s kid as if he were hers and she knew best? How was this any of her business? What if she was letting emotion rule, letting her heart get the better of her? But then again, how would she feel if she did nothing and Jordan went to prison?
Her cell phone rang and she pulled it from her purse. Ruth’s name was in the ID window. “I don’t know what to do,” she said instead of hello.
“Ricky Burrows, the guy who got his car keyed on your property, the one you feel all kinds of sorry for?”
Faultlines Page 18
