Still Waters

by Tami Hoag

  He rolled his bulging eyes in the direction of Yeager and Kaufman. The blinds on the window behind them were closed, shutting out the dozen or so people who were working on the other side. Kaufman looked at his shoes and cracked his knuckles. Yeager pinched the bridge of his nose and batted his lashes. “I've been meaning to get to an optometrist. I just can't see like I used to.”

  Ellstrom made a strangling sound and Dane stepped back, easing his arm away from the deputy's throat, reining his temper in an inch at a time. He watched Ellstrom clutch at his windpipe and cough, and was disgusted with himself for letting the man get to him. He rubbed the tension in his neck, wondering if he would have come unhinged if Ellstrom's filthy remark had been about Ann Markham.

  “Get out,” he growled.

  Ellstrom glared at him through watering eyes. “You haven't heard the last of me,” he said hoarsely, shaking a warning finger as he backed toward the door. He gulped in a mouthful of air that felt as hard and round as a tennis ball in his throat. “You got elected because you're the goddamn golden boy. Big hero football player. You can't ride on that forever, Jantzen. That Stuart kid killed Fox. I say he killed Jarvis too. And I'll prove it. Then we'll see who the big man around town is.”

  He turned and stalked out of the office, rubbing his windpipe and ignoring the stares of fellow officers and secretaries as he bulled his way toward the door, leaving a toxic trail of gas in his wake. He would come out of this smelling like a rose, he promised himself. All he needed was a little luck and to find that goddamn book and he'd be sitting on top of the whole fucking world, with Dane Jantzen licking his boots and Elizabeth Stuart begging to lick any other part of him. He'd see to it.

  Dane shook his head as he watched Ellstrom shove past Lorraine on his way out. Lorraine straightened her glasses and her bouffant and stamped after him into the hall, snapping at him like an outraged schnauzer. He had never been able to figure out why Ellstrom had stayed here after losing the election. Maybe Helen Jarvis had something to do with it. He didn't know and for the moment he didn't care. Already his thoughts were on Elizabeth. He could have safely bet a bundle she wouldn't take this well—Ellstrom interrupting her breakfast and accusing her son of murder. Hell, she'd probably be ready to kill someone herself.

  He had his answer the instant he stepped into the interrogation room. Elizabeth stood with her arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts, her stubborn chin raised to the angle of challenge, eyes flashing as she scorched him with a baleful glare. She was ready to kill all right, and the cross- hairs were drawn right between his eyes.

  He turned his gaze to Trace, who was slouched at the table looking beat up and miserable. “I'm sorry about the way you were brought in, Trace. Ellstrom was grandstanding. I was busy at the scene. I didn't have any idea what he was up to.”

  “Does that mean we're free to go?” Elizabeth asked, her cool tone frosting over the fear that was churning inside her like a whirlpool.

  “No, I'm afraid not.” Dane looked to Trace again, trying to read the boy's expression. “I have to ask you some questions, Trace.”

  “I didn't kill him,” Trace mumbled, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were scraped and bruised from colliding with Carney's bony face, the flesh torn and raw, which was just the way he was feeling inside—as though someone had taken a metal claw and raked it through him. Damn Carney, he thought, fear shaking him from the inside out.

  “Shouldn't we have a lawyer present, Sheriff?” Elizabeth asked sharply, boring a hole through Dane with her stare, daring him to defy her as she had dared the young deputy who had tried to deny her access to the interrogation room. The poor man had tried to cite rules and regulations to her and had nearly gotten his throat torn apart for his trouble. Nobody, nobody was going to keep her from her son at a time like this. The deputy had backed off, obviously preferring to risk his boss's wrath than Elizabeth's. That boss stood before her now, watching her, calmly, quietly, those keen eyes taking in every aspect of her rage and probably looking right through it to the fear beneath.

  “Trace hasn't been formally charged,” Dane said, thankful Lorraine had gotten hold of him before Ellstrom had seen fit to book the kid. At least Trace—and Elizabeth—had been spared that process. “If you'd be more comfortable with an attorney present, you're welcome to call one.”

  Elizabeth glared at him for another minute, trying to decide whether or not he was calling her bluff. He met her gaze evenly.

  “It's all right,” he murmured, his tone a little too intimate, reminding her of how good it had felt to have him hold her. He wasn't holding her now. He was getting ready to question her son on a charge of murder.

  “No, it's not all right,” she snapped, backing away from him. “Nothing about this is all right.”

  She felt frightened and betrayed and all she wanted to do was take her son and get the hell out of here, out of this room, out of this town.

  Dane motioned for her to sit down at the table and waited until she gave in before pulling out a chair for himself.

  “Pete tells me you put in a good day's work yesterday,” he said, his eyes scanning the damage to Trace's face. The boy had taken some licks. But by all accounts he had given as good as he got. Carney's face had shown as much damage; his head had shown worse. The side of his skull had been caved in like a deflated basketball.

  “Yessir,” Trace mumbled.

  “I was glad to hear it. I thought that meant you were all through with Carney Fox.”

  “Yessir.” He hung his head a little lower as heat rose into his face and shame and humiliation crawled around inside him like a pair of whipped dogs. He had been ready to turn himself around; now he had to sit across from the man who had given him a chance and be interrogated like a dirtball. And lie. He was going to have to lie. That was the worst of it. There was a lump the size of a baseball jamming his throat. He tried to swallow around it and nearly choked.

  “You and Carney got into it last night.” Dane picked up a pencil someone had left on the table and absently tapped the eraser against the smooth white tabletop, his gaze never leaving Trace. “What was that about?”

  “Noth—” Trace began, but he caught his mother's glare and started again. “He was riding me about working for you.”

  “That was what you fought about?”

  He nodded, dodging those spooky blue eyes that could probably see through lead walls. He couldn't say anything about Amy, about the dirty things Carney had said about her.

  “Where did you go after Ellstrom broke up the fight?”

  “Home. I rode my bike home and then I went for a walk in the woods.”

  “After dark?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Why?”

  Trace lifted his aching shoulders in a shrug and studied his fingernails. “It's a good place to think.”

  “You were alone?”

  He tried to swallow again and wished he could be anyplace but here—the bitter, killing cold of the Antarctic, the hottest desert in Arabia, the steamiest, most snake-infested swamp—

  “Trace?”

  “Yessir,” he mumbled, sliding down a little farther in his chair.

  Dane drew in a slow, deep breath and sat back, letting it out in a carefully measured sigh. The boy was lying. He might as well have had the word stamped across his forehead. Elizabeth knew it too. She looked on the brink of tears as she dug through her Gucci bag for her cigarettes. Her hands were trembling as she flipped open a pack of Virginia Slims and selected one, then shoved it back in and abandoned the idea.

  “That's your story,” he said, shifting his gaze back to Trace, drumming the pencil slowly, methodically. “You were out in the woods, alone, until what time?”

  “I dunno. Late.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth pressed her fingertips against her lips for a minute, trying to stem the tide of panic rolling through her. The pressure of it built inside her until she thought she might explode. “I don't know,” she said mis
erably. “I didn't hear him come in.”

  “Trace,” he said gravely, “you're not a very good liar. You'd be a lot better off telling me the truth.”

  Trace held his breath for a minute, afraid that lump in his throat was going to crack any second. He stared down at his Air Jordans and wished he were as good at lying as Michael was at slam dunks.

  “You don't have anything else to say?”

  He winced inwardly at the disappointment in Jantzen's voice. Damn Carney. This was all his fault. “No, sir.”

  “All right.” Dane tossed the pencil aside and rose from his chair, feeling the long, hard days in every joint and muscle he had and a few he had forgotten about. “I don't have a lot of choice here, Trace. I'm going to have to hold you for a while—”

  “No!” Elizabeth exploded, standing up so fast her chair tipped over and bounced against the linoleum.

  Dane kept his attention riveted on Trace, who had turned chalky-white. “I want you to think long and hard about this, son. You're a prime suspect and you've got no alibi. Telling me the truth can't be as bad as being charged with a murder.”

  He went to the door to call in a deputy. Kaufman came in looking sad and apologetic and started to reach for Trace. Elizabeth made the deputy back off with a glare and put her arms around her son. She hugged him for all she was worth, wishing she could just gather him up and hold him as she had when he'd been a little boy with a scraped knee.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” she whispered, stroking his cheek with a trembling hand.

  He looked at her through the cracked lenses of his glasses, his gray-green eyes filled with fear and misery and a half-dozen other emotions he didn't give voice to. And in the back of her mind all Elizabeth could see was that little boy with the great big glasses and sober face telling her not to worry about him walking to school because he could cross the street by himself.

  “It'll be all right, Mom,” he murmured, wishing with all his heart he didn't have to put her through this, wishing he could go back and undo all the stupid things he'd ever done, wishing Carney Fox had never been born.

  Kaufman took him by the arm and led him out, down the long white hall toward the jail and the separate holding area for juvenile offenders. Elizabeth stood in the doorway and watched him go, so heartsick she thought she might die of it. When they turned the corner and disappeared from view, she rounded on Dane, needing to vent some of the fear and frustration and fury.

  “How could you do that?” she demanded, blinking furiously at the tears that filled her eyes. “He's just a boy!”

  Dane reached past her and pulled the door shut, closing off her tirade from the network of curious ears in the offices beyond. “He's a suspect, Elizabeth. I can't let personal feelings interfere with that. I've got a job to do.”

  “Oh, right,” she sneered, swiping a hand under her nose, struggling against the urge to hurl herself at him and pummel his chest with her fists. “All your loyal constituents are screaming for his head, so you're just going to hand it to them on a platter. All nice and neat and easy for you—”

  “It's not easy for me.”

  “He's innocent!” she shouted.

  “He's lying!” Dane shouted back, the thunder of his voice ringing against the cool white walls. “I can't just let him go. He had a fight with Fox in front of fifty witnesses, then Fox turns up murdered a mile from your house, and all Trace can say is he was out in the woods. Do you know where he was last night, Elizabeth? Do you know what he was doing?”

  Elizabeth pressed a hand across her mouth and fought back tears. She was Trace's mother. She should have known where he'd been. She should have known what he'd been doing. She should have known beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't have killed another human being. But she didn't. God help her, she didn't know that he couldn't have done it. He'd been so angry lately, so unreachable. She had felt him slipping away from her, and she had wanted so badly to pull him back, but she hadn't known how.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered as the fear rose up to choke her.

  Dane watched her fight for control. A part of him told him that this was a prime opportunity to sever any ties between them. He had a job to do and nothing could interfere with that. But still, he couldn't keep himself from reaching out to her.

  “Come here,” he murmured, cupping a hand on her shoulder.

  She shrugged him off and stepped back. “No. You can't have it both ways, friend. You can't break your life up into neat little pieces—friend, lover, cop—and keep them all from touching each other. Real life isn't that tidy. You can't reach out to me when your conscience pokes at you, then set me back on a shelf. I'm not a doll for you to play with whenever you feel the need. I'm a person with a heart, and I'm just sick to fucking death of getting it broken, so back off!”

  She didn't wait for him to obey her. She pushed past him and bolted out the door. She ran down the hall and through the open office area with its maze of metal desks. Through the blur of tears she could see distorted faces staring at her, mouths moving, but she couldn't make them out, couldn't hear them. Voices and office sounds ran together into discordant noise that assaulted her ears. Standing near the front desk, Yeager's dog barked at her, and the agent reached out a hand toward her, but Elizabeth dodged him, slammed open the door, and ran down the hall that led to the parking lot. Clutching her purse against her, she barreled up the steps, out the door, and smack into Boyd Ellstrom.

  He caught her by the arms and held her against him for a second before she could jerk back from the feel of his big soft body touching hers.

  “Should have made friends with me when you had the chance,” he said darkly.

  Elizabeth glared at him, wrenching herself free of his grasp. “Fuck you,” she snapped, backing away from him.

  “Sorry, babe,” he sneered, something cold and mean flashing in his eyes. “You missed your chance. Be sure you spell my name right when you print the story about me arresting your son, the killer.”

  Elizabeth whirled as a covey of reporters rushed in on her, shouting questions and brandishing tape recorders and cameras. She pushed past them and ran to the Caddy, tossing her purse on the seat and slamming the door without regard for any fingers that might have gotten in the way. The low-slung undercarriage of the car scraped the street with a shower of sparks as she hit the gas and roared out of the parking lot. Horns sounded as a pickup and a car coming from opposite directions screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with her.

  She didn't spare a glance for the other drivers. She punched the accelerator and the Eldorado jumped ahead, leaving a smoking line of black rubber behind on the pavement. The Horse and Buggy Days workers paused in their construction of the parade judge's stand to watch her pass, and a bevy of senior citizens paused on their way to morning coffee at the Coffee Cup. An Amish mother grabbed her two small children at the corner of Main and Itasca and pulled them in against her long skirts as the Cadillac sped past.

  Elizabeth saw all of them in her peripheral vision, but she dismissed them. She needed to think, not about Still Creek or what its citizens thought of her, but about Trace. She needed to clear the panic from her mind and wrestle the doubts into submission. No one else was going to come to her rescue or Trace's. She needed to think calmly and clearly.

  The wind tore through her hair as the convertible shot down the highway like a bright red torpedo. The sun was shining, the sky was an incredible shade of blue. On one side of the road a herd of white-faced cattle grazed as their calves bucked and chased each other. On the other side, a field of corn lifted wide, money-green leaves to the sun. The day was altogether too beautiful for something like this to be happening. The weather should have been dark and stormy with a cold rain and a brutal wind.

  Choosing a side road at random, she hit the blinker and swerved off the highway, the back end of the Caddy skidding sideways as the wheels hit the gravel. She straightened the nose of the car, eased off on the gas, and let the big car rumble down the road. W
hen she felt she was far enough away from civilization, she pulled off onto a field drive and cut the engine.

  Her first instinct had been to go home, but Aaron was there. Aaron the Righteous, who probably already thought she was the worst mother of the worst kid in the Western Hemisphere. She felt guilty enough without having the face of God staring down at her through Aaron Hauer's stoic countenance.

  As her heartbeat slowed and her breathing returned to normal, she took a look at her surroundings. She was in the area known as the Hudson Woods, probably named after another family that had died out with the Drewes. The land was hilly and heavily wooded with a narrow strip of pasture running along the twisting path of Still Creek. From where she sat there wasn't a building of any kind to be seen, no sign of man at all except for the decrepit barbed wire fence that kept the cattle from wandering onto the road. A good place to think.

  Like the woods behind her place, where Trace said he had been at the time Carney Fox had met his end.

  He was lying. Elizabeth's heart sank at the thought. She brought her hands up and covered her face, pressing her fingers against her eyes until balls of color burst and swam in the darkness. He wouldn't lie unless he had something to hide. What did he have to hide?

  Murder.

  No. No, she thought, her mother's resolve taking hold of the fear inside her and squeezing it with an iron fist. Trace couldn't have killed anybody. She wouldn't, couldn't, believe he had. Yes, he had been sullen since the move—since before the move. Yes, he had seemed angry. Yes, he had been in trouble before, but never like this. The trouble he had gotten into in Atlanta had stemmed from a resentment toward Brock. The trouble he had gotten into at Shafer's had been to somehow avenge her honor. He had unleashed some of his youthful fury on inanimate objects, but Trace had never physically hurt anyone.

  Until last night. His face and four dozen witnesses would testify to the fact that he'd had a donnybrook with Carney Fox in the Red Rooster parking lot.