by Cate Quinn
I can picture him sitting there, very still, his line in the water, his back to the dirt track approach. In my mind, I see Emily approach, ax in hand.
Then what? They talk? Fight? Blake sends her away, ’cause she’s scaring the fish. Turns his back. And just as she’s leaving, something furious kicks in. She swings the ax into the base of his skull, and he hits the dirt bleeding.
A funny feeling is gnawing at me. Like how can I see this all so clearly? Why does it feel like a memory?
Ever since Blake died, I feel as though someone is peeling up corners of my mind, like the label on a jar. They’re picked at the edges, but now they’ve got a good hold, and the label is starting to roll back. Sometime real soon, the underside will be exposed.
I climb into the driver’s seat of our car. I see Tina emerge from the police station. Then she stops. Detective Carlson is waving her down; he wants to tell her something. I watch them, trying to figure out what they’re talking about.
I’m struck by a flat calm. Like the eye of the hurricane. That’s when something else occurs to me.
What if Emily is innocent? In which case, in which case… Nerves bubble up now in all directions. What if she got herself arrested for that exact reason? To put herself where neither Tina nor I could get to her?
Now I’m flat-out scared.
Because Emily knows. She knows. What’s more, she won’t be able to help herself. Sooner or later, they’re going to get it out of her. Emily’s gonna tell the police everything.
Chapter Fifty
Tina, Sister-Wife
“Hey! Miss Keidis! Wait up!”
I turn to see Carlson, kinda jogging outta the station. I glance to Rachel, sitting waitin’ in our beat-up Chevy.
“Can I help you, Detective?” I make it sound real sarcastic.
“I need to talk to you,” he says. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute.”
Carlson sighs. He looks younger out of the harsh lights of the interview room. Early thirties, maybe. Guess he musta gone bald young.
“Look, I’m not here to fight with ya,” he says. “You’re smart, I get it. You know the law. I don’t underestimate you, like some others might.”
This takes me slightly aback.
“But I want to ask you, before you bust out of here with Rachel Nelson, if you can really be so sure she isn’t a killer.”
“If I thought she was, do you really think I’d be gettin’ in a car with her?”
He sighs, rubs his shaved head. “Look. Your girl in there. Emily.” He jerks his thumb back. “There’s a lotta holes in that story. But if she’s not interested in pickin’ ‘em open, there’s nothing I can do.”
I glare at him. “Whaddya want, Detective?”
“When we raided the Sunshine Homestead…” He fights for the words. “It was the worst thing I have ever done,” he concludes, looking me right in the eye. I take this in, ’cause I’m guessing Detective Carlson has seen some bad things.
“Those little girls we rescued, they were terrified of us.” His eyes tighten, remembering. “They didn’t know… They didn’t realize it wasn’t right for your daddy to marry you off at fourteen. That we were helping them. I mean, they were screamin’, cryin’, tryin’ to get away from us.”
There’s a haunted look to him.
“We were the monsters, you know? Chasin’ around scared little girls. It was so bad, so bad. But we couldn’t leave ’em there either. With all the roaches and perverts. An’ the mothers like zombies, all dead inside.” He mimes around the eyes. “It was the closest thing to hell I ever wanna see.”
He looks so sad I want to put my arms around him.
“We found out later their prophet told ’em outsiders were devils who’d take their children,” he says. “And we just went and marched on in and proved him right.” He gives a humorless laugh. “I sometimes even wonder if that tip-off was from the man himself,” he says. “If people are muttering, thinking of leaving. Well, send in a pack of cops to take their kids.”
He heaves up a big sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Really. You did your best.”
He collects himself. “What I’m tryin’ to tell you,” he says, “is there were no happy endings. Not months later, not years later. There were second-generation kids there. Kids who knew nothing but the inside of that compound. Raised on a one-hundred-percent diet of ignorance and crazy talk. Most a’ those teenagers could barely write, barely read. Hell, you want my opinion? It’ll be a straight millennium, if you’re lucky, before you assimilate those people and their children into anything approaching the normal world.”
“You sayin’ it’s too late for Rachel?” My voice is softer now.
“I’m sayin’ I never met a single one of ’em who managed to pull their life together. Whether it’s drugs or another cult or what have you.” He takes a breath. Glances at the car where Rachel sits staring into space. “You’ll always be an outsider to her,” he says. “You’re not one of ’em. They call us gentiles,” he adds with a smile. “Sounds kinda nice until you realize they mean we’re all damned, right?”
“Rachel doesn’t think that.”
“You don’t sound so certain,” observes Carlson, looking at the car. “From my standpoint, we’ve got a murder victim and someone with a motive and means.” He sorta huffs from his nose. “A person raised with severe emotional dysfunction who has voluntarily re-created those antisocial conditions in her own family. I know what you likely think of me. I’m another overworked cop who doesn’t care. But I got into this job to see justice done. Miss Keidis, I want to be real frank with you. I’m a police detective. I seen a lotta bad stuff. Fourteen years has taught me the most obvious answer is usually the right one. It’s not like on TV, where you get a twist in the tale.”
He lets out a long sigh.
“I’m tellin’ you this because I think you’ve got more up here than the others.” He taps his head, catches my eye. “Put it this way, I’m not wasting my breath with Miss Martinelli.” He pauses. “In my mind, we got our perp. An’ she’s not sittin’ in that police station.” He looks meaningfully toward Rachel. “Not a hell of a lot I can do about that. I gotta do what I’m told. If it were up to me, however, I think there’s a motive worth investigating and a good deal of evidence that hasn’t been collected. The state has pulled the plug on this whole inquiry. They got their confession.”
“You sayin’ I should look into it?”
“I’m not allowed to say that. But I’m here in whatever capacity I can be, which you have to appreciate isn’t much.” He gives me an apologetic look. “I’ll listen. If anything…occurs to you, be sure to let me know. If you find something we coulda overlooked, then bring it straight to me. I’ll take it seriously, you can be sure.” He looks dead at me. “And if you insist on continuing to cohabit, Miss Keidis, I’d sleep with a gun under your pillow and one eye open.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I think there’s more to this.”
He spreads his hand. “Your call.” He turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say. “There is one thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I got this phone number.” I fish in my purse and pick out the piece of paper Marsha gave me. “I’ve called it at least ten times, but they don’t answer. The name is Dakota Jessop. I think she might have met with Blake before he died.”
Carlson examines the picture, staring hard at the face. “Any idea who she is?” he asks.
“She maybe works for a real estate company,” I tell him.
“Looks like one of the Homestead folk,” he says after a moment. “That quiffed-up hair and the old-fashioned dress.” He taps the prairie-style cotton collar, meeting with a hand-stitched yoke and puffed sleeves. “Don’t recognize the name, but there were two thousand of ’em, and they lied about
more or less everything important.”
There’s that distant look on his face again, remembering horrors. He takes out his phone, snaps the image and the number.
“I’ll take a look into it for you,” he says. “Can’t promise nothing.”
I nod my thanks and start walking back toward the car.
I’m still turning over his words as I slip into the seat next to Rachel.
“What was Detective Carlson talking to you about?” asks Rachel, looking across.
“Nothing.” I look straight ahead. “We should probably hit the road.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Emily, Sister-Wife
The door opens and Detective Carlson enters. I like him because when we first met, he brought doughnuts, and his little tummy reminds me of a water bed, the way it wobbles around over his belt. Like there’s solid muscle fighting the chubbiness, and it’s an ongoing battle.
Without asking permission, he slides himself into the seat next to Brewer. I see her flash him a look of annoyance.
“I won’t be a minute,” he says. “Only I had somethin’ I wanted to run by Miss Martinelli. You were playing detective, is that right? With your sister-wife?” He glances at Brewer. “According to Miss Keidis, the pair of ’em went out to visit with Rachel’s cousin. Got some name and number of a mysterious lady who they think Blake might have been meeting with.”
I shrug. I’m not so interested now I can see he doesn’t have any desserts. “The number didn’t work,” I say. “Just voicemail.”
“Same for me,” says Carlson. “But I ran it through our system. I don’t know who your little claw-haired lady might be. But her telephone number is for a very unscrupulous real estate firm. In Vegas.”
He waits for this to sink in, eyeing me up. I don’t say anything, but I feel a surge of excitement. I knew there was a story here.
“No convictions yet,” continues Carlson, “but our cop friends in Nevada have been tryin’ to bust ’em for all kinds of wrongdoing. Vegas Real Estate is well known as a mobster firm. We just can’t catch ’em.”
A mobster firm. I wonder if Tina knew that, since she works in real estate.
I start turning it over in my head. It doesn’t make much sense, I decide. I mean, why would a religious lady join a real estate firm? Especially a bad one, like Detective Carlson is suggesting.
Now that I think about it, Blake had some papers he tried to hide from me. Land maps and stuff. In the end, he wound up keeping them at his work in the temple, since I was such a good snoop.
I consider sharing this with Carlson, then decide against it. I’m tired of everything being about Blake.
Carlson glances at Brewer, who looks less mad at him now.
“You know this could change things for you,” says Carlson. “If Blake was mixed up in something illegal, I’ll bet Rachel would have been mad, right?”
“You’re forgetting Tina,” I point out. “She works in real estate. She’s from Vegas. If you ask me, it woulda been her who made the introduction, right?”
I’m thinking how Tina went all quiet about that real estate firm. Like maybe she remembered it.
“Sure.” Carlson seems animated. “So talk to us. Why would Tina do that?”
I suddenly realize what they’re doing.
“You can’t trick me,” I say, annoyed. “I told you, I did it. I killed my husband.” I lean forward with my elbows on the table. “In any case,” I say, feeling tired, “I’m done talking. I want to go back to my room.”
“You mean your cell.”
I glance at the clock.
“Yeah. It’s nearly lunchtime. The man on the desk told me they’d get more pot roast.”
Brewer lets out a long sigh.
“You’re not gonna be staying in the police station for much longer, Emily. You know that right? That’s been explained? Technically, you’re on remand now. Unless you post for bail, you’ll be put in jail while you await trial.”
“I told you, I don’t want bail.”
Brewer’s mouth is turned down at the edges, like she’s real sad about something.
“Emily,” she says, “prison isn’t a nice place. Why don’t you just…talk to us for a bit. I know you’ve got a great imagination. Tell us what you think might have happened to Blake if you hadn’t got to him first.”
“I’m allowed visitors, right?” I say. “In the prison?”
“Yes. Like I outlined before, there are visiting hours…”
“Okay. Then I’m done talking.”
“No point in keeping you here if you’re not talking to us, Emily. Carlson here thinks you only came in to confess when you thought Rachel might be charged. He puts these things together. Kind of man he is. Thinks you’re trying to confuse us. Give us the runaround.”
She pauses, looking at me.
“But here’s what I think. I think you’re estranged from your mother, whose good opinion matters to you deeply. I believe you’re hoping this whole confession business will bring her in.”
I try to look at her steadily, like I’m a detective on a crime drama, but I feel my face twitch.
Officer Brewer leans back and sighs.
“Here’s the problem.” Her face softens. “We tried to get your mother down here. Called her up, explained all that was happening. Got nothing, so I went in person to her cabin in West Valley.”
Brewer is being polite, I notice, saying cabin, not mobile home.
Again I feel that face twitch. I raise my hand to my cheek. Maybe I can push it down.
Her amber eyes settle on mine.
“It’s not my place to say your mother isn’t a nice person,” she says. “But what I will say is you play this confession card to get her to come see you, and chances are you’ll be playing it right up to the electric chair.”
There’s a knife twisting up my insides, and I hate Brewer for putting it there. What she’s saying isn’t true in any case. She doesn’t understand.
“Well, I guess that doesn’t even matter, ’cause I’d choose a firing squad,” I say petulantly.
Brewer blinks.
“According to Utah state law, I’m entitled to ask for one if convicted of a capital felony,” I continue. “Because of blood atonement.”
There’s a pause as they both stare at me.
“Miss Martinelli, would you mind translating for the nonreligious folk in the room?”
“The Book of Mormon,” I tell her, “says that murder is one of the unpardonable sins. But it can be forgiven if you die by shedding blood on the ground.”
Brewer rests her temples on her fingers. “You’re telling me you’re approaching this like a state-sanctioned suicide? But you’re particular about your manner of death?”
“Blood atonement is the only way someone like me can get to heaven.”
“You truly believe you’d be forgiven for killing your husband if you’re executed by firing squad?”
“I’d be forgiven for all sins,” I say. “It’s not just me that thinks it,” I add defensively, since she is shaking her head like I’m saying something dumb. “Why do you think we have firing squads in Utah?”
Brewer looks suddenly strained. Exhausted. “You know, I never thought to ask.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Tina, Sister-Wife
Rachel drives us out of the cop parking lot without a word. Carlson’s warning is piping away at me. Like get out of the car!
I feel like I’ve worked it partway out. Of course Emily has confessed. This is Miss Drama Queen we’re talkin’ about. She most likely saw all the attention Rachel was gettin’ and decided she’d have herself a slice of the pie. What Emily doesn’t realize is if the police take her seriously, there’s no money for bail. Not a dime. We were in debt when Blake died. So they’ll toss Emily in jail while she waits for the court heari
ng. The idea of that makes me feel cold all over.
I sigh, press the heels of my palms against my eyes. It doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, what’ll happen to weird little Emily in jail. She’ll be wishing Blake back.
Rachel still hasn’t said anything as she drives us away.
“You okay?” I ask. I’m starting to feel real uneasy now.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she spins the wheel and pulls up on a deserted street. I glance at the passenger door.
She sits in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead.
“You lied to me,” she says quietly.
I get this real creepy feeling, like I want to get out.
“What are you talkin’ about?” I manage. That’s when I remember. I’m fairly sure there’s a rifle wedged under the driver’s seat. Blake always kept one in case of carjacking. From how he made it out, that was pretty common for Utah—the gun, not the robbery. Did he keep it loaded? I can’t remember.
“You strangled him,” she says. “You put the belt around his neck. How could you have done that?”
I hesitate. She’s not making any moves for the weapon. Her hands are gripping the wheel tight.
“I didn’t…” I begin.
“Don’t lie to me!” Her voice comes out at a volume I’ve never heard. “Good people don’t lie!”
She’s still not making eye contact. Her face looks crazy. My mind starts tracking where that gun might be.
“Rachel, calm down. Let’s drive to a diner or somethin’. Talk about this.”
I have this real familiar feeling of threat. Just like when I was in a car with some crackhead john looking to beat up on me. I’m wondering if I could unhook my seat belt, real quiet in a way she wouldn’t notice. Make a dive for the door. But if she’s got a gun under her seat, it’s likely a bad idea to make myself look guilty.
A public place. Get to a public place. That’s what we used to say to one another in Vegas.
She turns to look at me. Her eyes are full of tears. “Just tell me the truth,” she says. “Please.”
