Crooked River: A Novel

by Valerie Geary

  “They won’t.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about this case. A lot of things we haven’t told you . . . haven’t told anyone. We didn’t just arrest your father because we’re out to get him. We arrested him because that’s where the evidence is leading us.”

  I rattled the sketch. “But now it will lead you in a different direction.”

  Deputy Santos closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I hope so,” she said, opening them again and holding my gaze. “I really do hope so.”

  And for the first time in a long time, I felt optimistic, and it was like a thousand tiny finches singing together in the brush, like a burst of sunlight reflecting diamonds across the surface of my swimming hole. A few more days, that was all, then Bear would come home and we’d start putting the pieces together again. Things would get better.

  “But I need you to promise me something, Sam,” Deputy Santos said. “I need you to promise that you won’t do anything like this again, okay? Don’t go looking for evidence or witnesses or anything else like that. Don’t be a Nancy Drew.”

  I wanted to tell her I hadn’t gone looking, that the evidence had found me, that if maybe they’d done their jobs right in the first place, she wouldn’t even need to be giving me this lecture. I kept quiet and let her finish.

  “And if you do find something, accidentally . . . if you think it might be important, or it might have something to do with this case, don’t touch it. Don’t pick it up and put it in your pocket. Don’t move it. Don’t draw it. Don’t breathe on it. Just leave it alone and call 911 immediately. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded.

  “I want you to promise that you’ll let me and Detective Talbert do our jobs. Let us do the investigating. I don’t want you getting hurt. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

  I said what she wanted to hear. “I promise.”

  18

  ollie

  Standing in a carved-out hollow down three concrete steps, I reach for a brass doorknob.

  The one who follows me led me away from the front door, around the corner, and into the alley where boxes get dropped off and garbage gets picked up. She shimmers behind me and whispers, Go on. I’m right here with you.

  I turn the handle. The door swings open from the inside, and it’s six wooden steps down into a dark basement. I hesitate in the doorway where light and shadow mix.

  Listen.

  Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

  Music drifts out a nearby window.

  Wind hisses through the trees, or is that just me sighing?

  I listen to her say, Don’t be afraid. I’ll go first.

  She moves ahead and glides to the bottom of the stairs. She is pale blue edges with a dark gray center, and her hair is static electricity. She waves her hand, arcing sparks near her head and urging me to follow.

  I glance behind me. The alley is empty.

  I face forward. She flickers like a television screen. There is something down there, something I need to see, something that will help me understand, and now is the best, the only, time. I grab the railing and step down and down and down. When I reach the fourth step, the door behind me slams shut. I stop and blink hard and fast against the darkness, but my eyes do not adjust. I am blind.

  If there is too much light, the Shimmering are invisible. The same if they are swallowed in darkness. They do not have enough thickness to make their own shadows, nor enough energy to create their own light. But even though I can’t see her now, I know she’s still here. Her heat burns my cheeks and the backs of my hands as she leads me through the dark.

  Toe touches first. Then heel comes down. Keeping one hand on the railing, the other pushing through the empty space in front of me. Toe, then heel. Until I reach the bottom and the floor beneath my shoes is flat.

  She focuses her energy on my left hand, and it’s like I’m touching hot metal. I start to pull my hand close to my body, but that only makes it worse, so I push my hand out to the side and touch the wall. The heat moves forward and I follow, feeling my way until my fingers find a light switch. I flip the switch up, and yellow light melts the darkness.

  There is another staircase opposite the one I came down, another door that must lead into the store above me. A metal desk sits beneath the bare lightbulb. The top of the desk is cluttered with accordion folders and spilled-out heaps of paper. A cobweb stretches from the bulb, attaches to a globe that sits motionless on the desk corner.

  Several feet of empty space surround the desk, and there is a clear path between the staircase I came down and the one on the other side. But the rest of the basement is cluttered with unwanted things, and there is barely room to slip sideways between the overflowing shelves and boxes.

  In this corner: a headless mannequin. Over here: a box full of plastic dolls staring at the ceiling, arms and legs all in a tangle. On that shelf: jars filled with body parts and tiny, wrinkled animals floating in a dense, yellow liquid.

  Here is a black parasol. Here is a stuffed and tattered squirrel. Here, an open, empty coffin.

  These are ugly and broken things, and I wonder why they are here at all, why no one has thrown them away.

  The one who follows me floats close to the desk and points at a stack of papers. Beneath the dim bulb she glints like broken glass.

  I walk past a rack of old coats; past a leaning pink-and-brown baby carriage; past a box of orphaned quilts and a barrel of prosthetic limbs; past a hanging brass birdcage, the gate open, the bird long gone; past a metal washtub filled with colorful doorknobs; past wooden doors that lead nowhere.

  On the desk are pages and pages of lined paper filled with numbers and equations and scrawled words that make no sense. Some of the papers have pictures sketched in the margins, nightmarish pencil marks and blotted ink stains, hands and eyes, noses and lips, bits and parts of broken-up animals and people. I push the papers to the edge of the desk and underneath are photographs, some black-and-white, some color.

  Footsteps cross the floor above my head. I stare up at the beams and hold my breath until they pass.

  The one who follows me looks over my shoulder. The photographs seem unimportant, more for cataloging purposes than any kind of sentimental reason. There are close-ups and wide shots of at least thirty different sculptures, horrifying twists of metal and carved wood, animals that have been stuffed and morphed, given extra limbs and horns made of recycled scraps and tree branches, given strange new life.

  Overhead, a bell jangles. Heavy footsteps cross quickly from one side of the store to the other, and then I hear muffled, rushing voices. I do not understand their words, only that they are upset, angry, scared.

  Faster. Hurry.

  They are right above me now, and my too-loud heart will give me away.

  There is something here I’m supposed to find, but I don’t know what. The one who follows me moves back to the alley door. She crackles and sparks and wants me to leave, but she brought me here in the first place and I won’t go until I find whatever it is I’m supposed to be looking for. I open the desk drawers one by one. More papers and files and a shuffle of broken pencils and uncapped pens.

  The bottom right drawer squeals.

  The voices above me stop. Slow footsteps moving closer.

  I glance into the drawer and shrink away from what’s inside. A gun. With an ivory handle and a shiny metal barrel and spinning bullets. It looks like something a cowboy would have. I push the drawer closed and hurry toward the staircase that will lead me back outside.

  The door behind me, the one that leads into the store, opens and more light spills into the dim basement. I duck between a refrigerator-sized box filled with rusted cookie tins and a tall, aluminum milk jug and curl myself into the small space, curl as small as I can.

  “Hello? Is someone down there?” I recognize Travis’s voice.

 
And then Mrs. Roth, “It’s nothing. Probably a rat.”

  “The light’s on.”

  “I was down there earlier. I must have forgotten to turn it off.”

  I hear them breathing at the top of the stairs. The light from inside the store is brighter than the bulb above the desk, and their shadows stretch overhead.

  The one who follows me makes herself candle-flame small. She darts between my hiding place and the back door, anxious for me to leave.

  Travis says, “I don’t know why you let him keep so much junk down here.”

  “He uses this stuff in his sculptures. You know that.”

  “Ten years ago maybe.”

  Mrs. Roth sighs.

  A dark shape unfolds from a pile of rags near my feet. I bite my lip, but then relax because it’s just the gray tabby from before. He rubs against my legs, tail flicking. I push him away, but he keeps coming back.

  Travis says, “I want to see it.”

  “He’s not finished. You know how he feels about sharing a piece too early.”

  “You’ve seen it.”

  “You’ll see it too, when he’s ready.”

  The cat sits plop-down in front of me and starts washing his whiskers.

  Travis says, “What if it’s not done in time?”

  “It will be.”

  “But what if it’s not? What if he’s taken on too much too soon?”

  Mrs. Roth says, “The best thing we can do right now is give him space. Let him work.”

  “But maybe I can help somehow. Screw pieces together or paint or something.”

  “No, he needs to do this alone.”

  The gray tabby stares at me and meows. I flick my hand, and he springs away, darting toward the stairs.

  Travis says, “Damn cat.”

  Mrs. Roth says, “Language,” and then, “I know it’s hard, but try not to worry. He’ll finish in time. I’m watching him. I’ll make sure . . .”

  The boards creak and pop. They’re moving away from the staircase. Travis says something too quiet for me to hear. The basement door slams shut.

  I count to thirty, then go.

  19

  sam

  A long chain running from Bear’s handcuffed wrists to his shackled ankles made it so that even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to stand up straight. He kept his eyes on the floor, hadn’t looked up once since the bailiff brought him into the courtroom. They’d shaved off his beard and trimmed his hair and put him in a bright orange jumpsuit that didn’t fit. The sleeve cuffs fell only a few inches past his elbows, and the pant legs rode so high I thought at first he’d rolled them up on purpose. There was a fresh bruise, swollen and red, on his right cheek just below his eye. I tried not to think about how he got it.

  When they brought him through the side door into the courtroom, I drew back at the sight of him. Zeb leaned in close and whispered, “Mr. Clemens said the beard made him look guilty.” But I thought this was worse. His eyes were set too deep in his head, his mouth stretched too thin, his angles too sharp, cutting the air like so many knives. This man in front of me was capable of doing horrible, terrible, awful things. Things my father, a softer, kinder man, would never, ever do. Not that it even mattered. Beard or no beard, I had a feeling public opinion would stay the same.

  “How does the defendant plead?” Judge Latham asked the question like a yawn.

  At the table in front of us on the other side of the railing, Mr. Clemens, my father’s attorney, shuffled through a stack of papers.

  “Not guilty,” he finally said, and I worried that he’d needed his notes to remind him.

  If my grandparents were here, they would have hired someone better, someone without so many cases, someone who was paid to give a damn. But neither our social worker, nor Deputy Santos, nor anyone else who’d tried had been able to reach them yet. They’d keep trying, but it would be another two days before the ship reached port and then probably another whole day after that before my grandparents arrived in Terrebonne. Until then we’d just have to do the best we could with what we had, and that was Mr. Clemens, Deschutes

  County’s public defender.

  I was sitting close enough to see yellow sweat stains on Mr. Clemens’s starched collar and a purple birthmark peeking out from his hairline. He smelled like fried chicken and raw onions. He checked his watch every few seconds, clearing his throat each time.

  Across the aisle from Mr. Clemens, the prosecuting attorney, a thin man with grease-black hair and a cut-marble jaw, rose to address the judge. “The State requests that the defendant be held without bail.”

  “That seems a little extreme, Your Honor,” Mr. Clemens responded, shuffling through his papers again, barely looking at the judge or Bear or anyone else, like he didn’t think we were worth his time and energy. “Hardly necessary considering my client has no history of violent criminal behavior. And though his living conditions are a little unconventional, he’s been residing in the same place for the past eight years. His wife recently passed away, Your Honor, and he has custody of his two young daughters, one of whom is here today.”

  He flicked his hand toward me. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head a little higher, ignoring the rustling, cruel whispers of all the people around me, people who had come here today to gawk and gossip. Some I recognized, some I didn’t. The redheaded kid who worked with Travis at Patti’s; a few people who bought honey from Bear every year; the man who ran the farm supply store where we sometimes bought seeds and fertilizer; a checkout clerk from Potter’s Grocery Store. Every bench full, standing room only. There were reporters in the back jotting notes, and two benches behind me to the left was Pastor Mike. I’d seen him come in, and he’d seen me, and I could still feel his eyes on me even now, though I didn’t dare turn around. Any one of these people was just as likely a suspect as Bear. Any one of them could have been standing where he was standing now. I stared at his lowered face and didn’t look away, didn’t duck my head, didn’t show any shame. I wanted them all to know that I believed he was innocent. I wanted them to see my faith.

  “My client is not a flight risk,” Mr. Clemens continued. “His passport’s expired. Given his limited and sporadic income, the defense requests bail be set at ten thousand.”

  Judge Latham’s caterpillar eyebrows shot up. He leaned forward on his elbows and returned his attention to the prosecution’s table, nodding at that attorney to go ahead.

  “Your Honor.” The prosecutor adjusted his tie and took a single step out from behind the table, as if what he was about to say was going to take up too much space and he needed to get out of its way. “Considering the violent nature of the crime with which the defendant has been accused, as well as his prior arrest and the fact that he has no ties to this community, the State believes holding Mr. McAlister without bail is in everyone’s best interest.”

  And when he said “everyone,” he turned and looked at me.

  A drop of sweat ran down my forehead. The ankle-length wool skirt Franny had forced me to wear—“You don’t want that old judge thinking your daddy doesn’t know how to raise his babies up right, now do you?”—itched something awful, but I kept my hands folded in my lap and sat very still. Beside me, Zeb shifted on the hard bench. He squeezed his straw hat between both hands, squashing it down so small I didn’t think he’d ever get it to fit quite right again.

  The prosecuting attorney said, “A young woman was killed, Your Honor. Brutally murdered. Bludgeoned again and again by an animal who has no regard for the sanctity of human life. And when he was finished with her, he threw her out like so much garbage, dropped her in a river to be picked apart by trout and crayfish.”

  A woman sobbed loudly, but just once. An ugly, harsh sound that echoed through the open rafters and bounced off the painted-shut windows. Someone began to murmur softly, hushing her to silence. I craned my neck, trying to
see who was voicing my grief, all the things I kept swallowing down, swallowing and swallowing until my mouth was dry and my throat on fire. She was sitting in the first row behind the prosecutor’s table. Collapsed forward, her head was buried so deep in her hands I couldn’t see her face. A balding, heavyset man sat beside her with one arm placed firmly around her shoulders, as if he thought his arm would be enough to hold her together. He fixed his gaze pointedly on Bear. His etched-deep frown showed more disgust than anger, the lines in his face like uneven ruts. Perspiration beaded his temples.

  The prosecuting attorney finished by saying, “This is not the kind of man you can trust to stick around for his trial, Your Honor.”

  How would you know? I wanted to shout. How would any of you know what kind of man my father is? And I wanted to tell them about how every Christmas Eve, even though he got carsick and hated the city, he rode the bus from Bend all the way home to us in Eugene to sing carols and make sugar cookies and fall asleep under the tree waiting for Santa. How he brought us things from the meadow as presents: dried wildflowers pressed flat between the pages of books, a thunderstone cracked open and polished, a beaver figurine he’d carved from a small oak branch, a brilliant sapphire feather from a Steller’s jay, a jar of his sweetest honey. And I wanted to tell them about the summer we found the fawn with the broken leg, and how it was bleating and bleating, but its mother never came, and how Bear carried it three miles back to the meadow and splinted its leg and kept it fed by dipping a rag in milk and letting it suck, and how a few months after that when it was old enough and strong enough and healed, the fawn had walked into the woods and disappeared. I wanted to tell them that my father had called that day to tell my mother and me and Ollie how much he loved us. I wanted to tell them he cried.