Sheriff Jacobs scribbled the number on his own notepad.
Rubbing his hands together, Justin blew on his fingers, his eyes surveying the scene until they rested on Cameryn’s, lingering.
Are you okay? Justin mouthed. Cameryn nodded in reply. Justin’s dark hair, too long for regulation, hung into his eyes; there was a slight shadow of stubble across his chin. Although he’d come from New York only five months earlier, Justin had already embraced Silverton’s casual style. His brown leather bomber jacket had been broken in along with his jeans; the only thing that marked him as police was the badge he wore on a cord around his neck.
“Get out the cones, Deputy,” said Jacobs.
Dutifully, Justin went to the back of the car and popped the trunk. A stack of orange cones appeared in his arms, which he then set up around the perimeter of the wreckage like dominoes.
Patrick said, “All right, then. Are you men ready for the hunt?”
Sheriff Jacobs gave a terse nod. “We don’t want critters dragging that head away into the underbrush. If that happens, we might never find it. One thing, though, Pat, before we go.” He and Patrick leaned close, murmuring something Cameryn could not hear. She stood, watching, unsure of her next move, unaware Justin had come to her side. “What’s up?” he asked softly. “You seem pretty . . . intense.”
“Nothing.”
“I know that look, Cameryn. I had it myself when I was your age.”
In spite of herself, she felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “You aren’t that much older than me. You’re twenty-one and I’m almost eighteen. Do the math.”
“Ah, but I remember the good old days of teen angst. Come on, you seem upset. And by the way, where have you been? It’s like you vanished from Silverton. Although it seems impossible that anyone could disappear in a town of seven hundred.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with my mom. Plus getting ready for college and schoolwork and my other job and—”
“You don’t need to explain,” he told her. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” His eyes had narrowed. “Are you?”
“Crowley!” the sheriff barked. “You coming or what?”
Justin looked over the top of Cameryn’s head as the sun lit a tiny scar, like a silver thread, on his chin. “On my way, sir.” Then, to Cameryn, “I’ve got to go.”
She gave his retreating figure a halfhearted wave as the three men disappeared into the woods. Alone with the wreckage, she tried not to listen to the garbled holiday tunes that thrummed from the radio. As quickly as she could, she turned it off, gingerly reaching past Benjamin’s blood-soaked chest.
But she wasn’t able to concentrate. Her motions, done by rote, couldn’t silence the words that played through her in an endless loop. Hannah promised to stay away and I promised to stay quiet. What had her father meant? The question spun through her mind as she photographed, bagged, sealed, and signed, collecting bits of life, bits of death. Another car, this one with a woman behind the wheel, slowed on the Million Dollar Highway. Cameryn, in a perfect reflection of her father, waved the woman on with her own gloved hand, glad she’d already draped Benjamin’s body, propping the cloth as much as she could to keep the blood from seeping through.
She was just finishing up when she heard her father’s cry, less than a hundred yards away.
“I got it. Good Lord, I almost stepped on the thing. John, Justin, over here!”
Sheriff Jacobs darted through the trees with Justin close behind, the branches snapping underfoot. Straining to see, Cameryn stood on her toes, but the limbs were too thick. She heard the sheriff say, “You got the bag, Deputy?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Her father replied, “Let’s do this right.”
Cautious, she crept between the pines, careful to keep her body low. No one looked her way. She watched as her father gently lifted Benjamin’s severed head by the ears to place it inside a garbage bag Sheriff Jacobs held taut between his hands. Benjamin’s skin was milk-white and the mouth gaped, and even from her distance she could make out the eyes, wide and scared. A ring of snow, soaked with blood and tissue, encircled the base of his neck like a red chain.
“Careful, Pat,” the sheriff warned. “We don’t want to lose anything.”
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he replied. “The trick is to ease it in.”
After tying the plastic yellow handles into a bow, Patrick placed the head in a green athletic bag and zipped it shut. For a moment no one said a word. Then, as if by silent agreement, the three men kicked at the bloody snow with their boots until the red lay buried beneath a mound of white.
Unseen, she slipped back to her post and her clipboard, dutifully inventorying the rest of Benjamin’s items until her father returned to announce that she should go home—he had to take the body to Durango and make a call to the victim’s family, and he wanted to do it alone. She didn’t argue.
Glad she’d driven her own Jeep to the scene, she’d climbed in and left. In her rearview mirror she’d watched her father, Justin, and the sheriff as they strapped the remains to the gurney.
Now, sitting in the driveway of her own home, Cameryn once again touched the smudge on her palm. Threads led from the center all the way to the edge of her hand, the blood like tiny filaments connecting her to the dead. She saw a truth in that stain. If the face indeed revealed the soul, then Benjamin’s spirit had not been ready to leave its body. In that last split second—had she imagined it?—his face had contorted in shock at his own demise. Whatever he had left undone on earth would stay undone, with no do-overs, no reprieves. Unanswered questions would stay that way forever.
She looked at her green-shingled house, lit from within. Her mammaw was inside, waiting, but it took only a moment for Cameryn to decide. She put her car into reverse and pulled out into her street, her tires slipping in snow as she shifted into drive.
It was time to see her mother.
Chapter Two
“JUST ASK HER,” Lyric instructed. “Tell her you want to know about Jayne. See what she says.”
Cameryn pressed her new BlackBerry to her ear. “You’re kidding, right? You want me to tell Hannah she’s got to come clean or the ‘deal’ is off?”
“No,” Lyric replied patiently. “Of course you’ll have to soften it. The weird part is that I was ready to hang your mom out to dry before I met her, but I have to admit, Hannah’s actually pretty amazing. She’s a true artist with a lot of soul.”
Cameryn smiled. Lyric, loud and large, was an artist herself. Given her penchant for all things mystic and a personality bigger than Silverton itself, a stranger would never have paired the science-loving Cameryn with the new-age Lyric. While Cameryn favored jeans and basic blue, Lyric’s clothes had been recycled from the sixties. Psychedelic patterns, fringed jackets, and plastic jewelry the size of dinnerware were Lyric’s staples. She changed her hair color as often as her shoes. Yet the roots of their friendship ran deep, stretching all the way back to fifth grade. Laughter was the cord that bound them.
“A word of advice,” Lyric said. “You have to remember that your dad’s opinion of Hannah is biased. I love him to death, but this is a competition. You’re the prize.”
“Some prize. I’m so messed up I can’t think straight.”
“Science-heads such as yourself are sort of messed up by definition.”
“Excuse me, science-heads deal in facts. This woo-woo-touchy-feely stuff is your domain, which is exactly why I needed you to tell me how to do this thing with Hannah. How do you make someone talk?”
“You say, ‘I know this is hard, but understanding what happened in my past is important to me.’ And did you just call me ’woo-woo’? ”
“Your hair is purple. I think you qualify.” From the front seat of her Jeep Cameryn scanned the upper floor of the Wingate, the bed-and-breakfast where her mother had set up house. Leaning forward, she peered over the steering wheel so that she could see the top of the home.
Beneath a gable she saw her mother’s window, lit from within. With a start, Cameryn realized Hannah’s outline was clearly visible, a dark space against the light.
“She’s watching me, right now! ” Cameryn cried. “Hannah knows I’m here.”
“Good! Honestly, if you can deal with a headless corpse, you can handle your own mother. Just talk to her! It’s not that hard.”
Peering anxiously, Cameryn chewed the edge of her cuticle.
“What can I do, Cammie?” Lyric asked. “You want me to light a candle? That’s supposed to help, isn’t it? It’s a Catholic thing, right?” Cameryn could hear something rattle in the background. “I’ve got a whole box of birthday candles in my hand. I’ll light the bunch if it’ll help. Whatever works.”
With a weak smile, Cameryn said, “No, just send me your good karma.”
“That you’ve got. Now get in there. I’m babysitting and the rug rats are restless.”
With that, Cameryn ended the call and dropped her BlackBerry into the pocket of her jacket. Stepping out of her Jeep, she looked up at the bright blue building.
The Wingate House had been painted the color of a clear blue Silverton sky. Built in 1886 by a Russian spiritualist named Emma Harris, the home was rumored to be haunted, although Cameryn had never accepted those wild stories. But now, as she looked at the moon-white face pressed into the glass, she half-believed. This ghost, though, was her own mother. Hannah was a different kind of spirit, but she haunted, just the same. Cameryn could read her mother’s lips through the glass: “Come in,” Hannah was saying. Then, like an apparition, she disappeared.
Cameryn entered the Wingate parlor, careful to shut the heavy door behind her. The owner had put Hannah into a room named the Adam and Eve Room, located on the second floor. Up the steep staircase Cameryn climbed, past a wall of old portraits. The door to her mother’s room had been left open, and she stepped inside. An easel was set up at a right angle to the window, to capture the best light. And there, perched on a metal stool, sat Hannah, holding a paintbrush to her mouth. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt speckled with colorful paint like bits of confetti. Although she seemed intent on her painting, she said, “Hello, Cammie.”
“Hi, Hannah,” Cameryn answered.
“‘Mom,’” Hannah corrected. She smiled, flashing teeth. “I missed you today. I was up all night painting, and I kept thinking how much better it would have been if you’d been here to keep me company. There’s something about this place that gives me energy. I feel like I can do anything!”
It still startled Cameryn to see her mother. In the mirror of Hannah’s features she didn’t see her own face, exactly, but an older version of herself, a Dorian Gray portrait in reverse. They shared the same high cheekbones and the identical large, dark eyes, the color of earth itself. Both of them were petite. Her mother, now forty-two, had kept her slender figure, her wiry frame. Gently curling hair that had only the beginnings of gray hung past her shoulders.
“Whether you realize it or not,” Hannah said, “you’ve become my muse. Before I came to Silverton, I thought I couldn’t paint anymore. Now I’m alive again. So, what have you been doing today?”
“Me? I had to work.”
“At the Grand?”
“No,” she answered carefully. “There was an accident. A boy died this morning.”
“Oh.” Her mother frowned. “That means you were working with your father.”
“Yes.”
Sighing, Hannah said, “Unfortunately, Patrick was always drawn to death. I never liked it. Truth be told, forensics is not my first choice for you as a career. I know it’s your passion, but there’s a whole world out there, beyond the grim. A doctor, maybe?”
“You sound like Mammaw.”
“I do? Well, I’m sure that will be the first and the last time that happens. Your grandmother and I never saw eye-to-eye. She always hated me.”
Cameryn’s skin tingled with little pinpricks of goose-flesh. Tentatively she asked, “Why?”
But her mother, as always, ignored the question. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like the fact that we’re together. I’m so happy now.” She returned to her painting. It was of an iris, with individual petals as big as her hand. Cameryn watched, unsure of her next move. She remembered that as a child she’d invented a fantasy mother, an angel-mom who’d scooped Cameryn into her arms to rain kisses on her head. The imaginary mother was so different from the flesh-and-blood woman now before her. Because she wanted it so much, Cameryn had been willing to play pretend, had become a partner in this false, manufactured intimacy. “I’ve always loved you,” Hannah had said that first night.
I’ve always loved you, too. Cameryn had been hungry for it. But the closeness, she realized now, wasn’t genuine. How could you really love what you didn’t know?
Hannah dabbed paint on the edges of petals. The corners of her mouth lifted, ripples forming at the edges like a series of commas. “Cammie, sit down,” she said. “You’re just standing there. You’re making me nervous.”
A blue wing chair stood close to the easel, and Cameryn dropped into velvety cushions. The entire room had an overstuffed, plumped feel to it. The comforter was enveloped in eyelets, pillows had been tossed about, silk flowers bloomed from pots placed in every corner while curtains ballooned from the windows.
“Something has happened. I can sense it. Was it seeing the dead boy?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way,” Cameryn said, wary of how to begin. “I was bagging the vic’s—I mean, victim’s—property when I started thinking about how you never know when your time’s up. The kid was just driving along, listening to the radio, and then bam!—he was dead.”
“Is that what’s worrying you?” Hannah asked, amused. “You think I’m going to die? Is that why you’re so nervous? ”
“No, that’s not it.” Cameryn’s legs began to jiggle. She put her hands on her knees to stop them. “The thing is, you’ve been in Silverton two weeks and—”
“Three.”
“Three weeks.” She took a deep, wavering breath. “And I keep thinking that I still don’t know about my life. Or yours. From before, I mean. With Jayne and all of that.”
Her mother winced at the sound of the name. Cameryn could actually see Hannah’s muscles tighten beneath her smock. “That past is over for me. I want you to get to know the person I am right now.”
“But you can’t separate the two.”
“I’ve already told you how I feel. You need to respect my wishes.”
“Right. But that’s just the thing. I need to talk about it. I know it’s hard. I’ve got this puzzle of my life with huge pieces missing.” She felt a cold wave of disapproval emanating from her mother, so that right then Cameryn almost gave up. Had she not heard her father’s voice in the back of her mind—Secrets were put in place to protect you—she might have turned back. No, she commanded herself. However impenetrable this ice wall seemed, she had to break through. “Just tell me the truth. What happened that day? When Jayne died. Is that why you left us?”
“Your father put you up to this.” Hannah loaded her brush with paint, her fingers trembling as she swirled the tip into a deep purple, so dark it seemed almost black. “It’s his way to get me out of town, to break us apart. He wants you to leave me.”
It took a moment for Cameryn to process this, since it was backward from what she’d expected. Hannah to leave Cameryn, that was his obvious plan. But how could it be the other way around?
“Before you came to Silverton, you told me everything about my life was a lie.”
“Not now, Cammie.”
“But if you won’t tell me what happened, then you’re lying to me, too.” Her words rushed into her throat so that she almost choked on them. “I thought I could trust you.”
Her mother was silent.
Large slashes of purple, from deep plum to lavender, had been topped with a shining bright center, a gold-yellow, like a ray from the sun. These she covere
d with a brushstroke. Her movements were harder now as the bristles made a thwacking sound on the canvas.
"Hannah?”
“I’m not ready.”
“This morning Dad and I had a . . . disagreement. It was about you. He told me secrets were put in place to protect me. He wouldn’t tell me what he meant.” Cameryn hesitated. Although she wasn’t as good at reading people as Lyric, she sensed she was on sensitive ground. “Dad said that you’ve changed the rules, and that if you don’t come clean, the deal is off.” She waited a beat. “What is he talking about? What deal?”
The paintbrush stopped an inch from the canvas as Hannah held her arm unmoving, like a maestro waiting to begin. Then . . . nothing. Not a movement, not a sound. Cameryn’s heart beat so loud she could hear it pulse in her ears, could feel her carotid artery flutter in her neck. Outside, someone laughed. She focused on that sound until it died away. “I didn’t know I even had a sister until you sent me that painting and the letter. Dad and Mammaw lied to me.”
“I never deceived you.”
“But you’re keeping secrets and that’s the same. Father John says you can tell a lie without saying a word.”
Her mother’s hand hovered in the air as if it were a masthead pointing the way to another land. Why wouldn’t Hannah speak again? Behind her, through the window, the mountain filled the frame all the way into the sky. Pure white snow had hidden everything, leaving the mountain featureless. It seemed as though, in the same way, her mother had been somehow erased. She’d gone away somewhere deep inside.
“Hannah?”
Her mother did not respond. In one last, desperate effort, Cameryn murmured, “I remember this dream I had, when I was little. It was about another girl. We were sitting in the gutter and I had a pretty pony named Cotton Candy and hers was blue and—somebody must have been hosing their driveway because there was a lot of water. And we were laughing, except then her pony floated away. Then the girl tried to take Cotton Candy, but I wouldn’t let her.”
The arm holding the brush drifted down into Hannah’s lap, leaving a paint stain on the leg of her jeans. It spread like a bruise.
The Circle of Blood Page 2
