And no kudos to you, she thought. She was learning to recognize the subtle nuances of his expressions and silence, how rigid his jaw, how narrow his eyes, whether the line of his smile was forced or relaxed. His most telling gesture was the refusal to look someone squarely in the eyes. It meant he was beyond annoyed, teetering on the verge of anger, and managing to hold himself in check only by not yet facing the target of his anger. He was a man who long ago had adopted stillness as a mask, probably so that those unschooled in the delicacy of his camouflage would be kept off balance, unable to discern an advantage. It was also, she sensed, the way he controlled himself and kept at bay the full range of emotions he had come to see as weaknesses.
Now, as Hoyle made his way through the too-narrow door and looked in their direction, DeMarco stood, shoulders tight, eyes alert, right eyebrow slightly higher than the left.
But instead of turning toward the table, Hoyle hooked an index finger and flicked it toward the back of the room, then continued on without looking back. DeMarco did not move. He watched as Hoyle approached the nearest server, a clean-cut young man in starched black slacks and a crisp white shirt, and pointed to a circular table for six that had not yet been cleared. The server immediately set about removing plates and cutlery, soiled napkins, and glasses.
Only after the table had been wiped and Hoyle seated with his back to the rear wall did DeMarco turn to Jayme. He inhaled slowly through his nose, exhaled, then picked up their glasses of iced coffee. Now his eyes were narrow, and now his mouth was hard.
Jayme stood and followed him to the table, her hand riding lightly against the small of his back. “The coffee is for drinking,” she reminded him. “Not for throwing.”
DeMarco placed their glasses side by side directly opposite Hoyle. Then he held a chair out for Jayme. She sat, smiling at Hoyle, who greeted her with a slow nod. The moment DeMarco sat beside her, her hand went to the top of his thigh. Four soft pats. He inhaled again, blew out his breath, then leaned back in his chair, and only then lifted his eyes to Hoyle.
DeMarco said, as if he already knew the answer to his question, “Will Mr. Vicente be joining us soon?”
The server reappeared then to lay fresh place mats, napkins and cutlery. After rearranging his place mat and napkin to his own satisfaction, Hoyle said, “Have you ever wondered why the holder of a juris doctor degree is seldom referred to as ‘Doctor’ in this country?”
Jayme felt the muscle tighten in DeMarco’s thigh. She broadened her smile. “I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Hoyle, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule today. And we have some questions in regard to the brief Dr. Vicente provided.”
Hoyle cocked his head as if in reaction to an anomalous noise. A moment later he said, “Of course. Forgive me. The subject at hand.”
They were interrupted again by the server, this time carrying a water pitcher and glasses. DeMarco closed his eyes momentarily. Jayme was sure she detected a low growl coming from his throat.
The server filled each of the glasses and set a small bowl of lemon wedges beside the pitcher. He then laid a laminated menu beside each plate, then stood motionless next to Hoyle. Hoyle waved a hand beside his ear. The young man turned and walked away.
Hoyle nodded to himself. “The subject at hand. Vicente. Tainted,” he said. “And understandably so. But still. Therefore, here I sit, his surrogate.”
DeMarco leaned forward, elbows on the table. Eyes narrowed. “Tainted,” he repeated.
Hoyle unfolded his napkin and used it to lift a wedge of lemon from the bowl. He then squeezed lemon juice into his glass and returned the mashed wedge to the bowl. “How much did you learn?” he asked.
“We’d like to hear it all,” DeMarco answered. “In chronological order.”
Hoyle nodded, lifted the glass, sipped his water. He then spoke for several minutes, his tone unemotional, words as precise and carefully chosen as if he were recording the details of an autopsy.
“David Vicente was born of one of Aberdeen’s poorer families,” he said. “Father a day laborer in the forge that used to exist there. Mother collected laundry to be washed and ironed in her own home while tending to her four children. David the oldest. Everybody worked. Everybody carried his or her own weight. David was bright, won partial scholarships for undergraduate work and law school. Took a position in Louisville, put his siblings through college. All have done well for themselves, their children, their grandchildren. Strong work ethic. Abiding belief in the American Dream. David served as appellate court judge, retired with honor and distinction, accepted a teaching position with Vanderbilt School of Law.”
He paused for a sip of water. “Circa 1990, Eli Royce, formerly of Chicago and then unknown by David and the rest of us, accepts pastorship of the First Baptist Church. At which time David’s youngest sister, Elysia, and her family are parishioners. Soon Elysia is voicing concern to her brother that Royce’s sermons are growing increasingly vitriolic. Race-baiting, in her words. All of this, you understand, in the wake of the racial conflagrations ignited in Chicago in the late eighties, and still, even now, alive and smoldering. Then came the Mount Pleasant riots, the Crown Heights riots, the Rodney King riots. Royce’s sermons cease to be reflections on life eternal and become incendiary invectives. At the same time, he forcibly recruits church youth, among them David’s thirteen-year-old niece Shawna, into a pseudo-Bible-study group called Youth for Black Jesus. Ninety percent of whom are young females who are required to meet privately with Royce twice a week for tutorials. Eventually the group will be encouraged by Royce to protest any and every alleged incident of racial bias in the vicinity. The football team is racially biased because it has never had a black quarterback—even though only eight percent of the county is black. The yearbook promotes racial prejudice because too many whites are showcased. Black Art Month at the elementary school is blatant discrimination because it segregates blacks instead of showcasing them as part of the larger population. Et cetera. David’s sister and her family eventually move from Aberdeen because of increasing hostility against them for refusing to participate in Royce’s machinations.”
Hoyle paused only long enough for a sip of lemon water. “David, however, remains concerned, not just for Aberdeen but for the country. He pens editorials for the Carlisle County newspapers. Not specifically mentioning Royce but clearly alluding to him. Royce responds with editorials denouncing Uncle Tomism and other traitorous activities. Names are excluded until a family of Baptist Church parishioners contacts David for advice: their fifteen-year-old daughter, a Youth for Black Jesus, has allegedly been impregnated by Royce. David advises contacting the police about criminal charges, and he recommends a lawyer to prepare a civil suit. The process begins but is short-lived. No charges are filed, and the family leaves town with no forwarding address. And here David allows his indignation to get the better of him. He openly denounces Royce in an editorial. Royce charges slander, libel, and defamation of character. There is no shortage of Chicago and Evansville lawyers and activist organizations eager to assist him. Several such organizations, well-funded and not without political influence, succeed in having David’s teaching contract revoked. To this day, he continues to defend himself against Royce’s legal claims, but with continually diminishing financial reserves. Which returns us to the here and now.”
He picked up the menu. “Ah, the veal chili is available today! One of my favorites.”
SIXTY
Vicente, Hoyle explained, had not wanted to prejudice the troopers in regard to Eli Royce’s possible participation in the homicides, and so had kept his personal history with Royce out of the brief. Also omitted was information pertaining to the summer reading program Rosemary Toomey had conducted for eleven years until Royce’s Youth for Black Jesus shut it down with clamorous protests and chants, demanding a wholly separate program featuring only black writers and poets, and the removal from the original program of titles such as The
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird because of their racial slurs and promotion of white supremacy, Fahrenheit 451 for its depiction of Bible burning, Gone with the Wind for its glorification of slavery, and all books authored by Charles Dickens for his support of colonialism and slavery during the American Civil War.
Toomey had appealed to Royce, by phone call twice and once in person, offering to incorporate several novels of his choice into the program, but he refused to be assuaged. She offered him a time slot of his choice to conduct his own program for an integrated audience. But his only interest, it seemed, was to shut down her program, which the Youth for Black Jesus did quite effectively with a belligerent protest line that frightened her program attendees away.
“Two Irregulars down and one to go,” Jayme responded. “What do you have against him?”
“Not a shred of personal animosity,” Hoyle said. “Though I do loathe the type. Opportunistic, self-aggrandizing, one who provokes for the sake of provoking, deliberately divisive, preferring confrontation over compromise, and quick to excuse any murderer, rapist, looter, or other criminal by virtue of skin color alone.”
“But nothing personal,” Jayme said.
“Correct. I loathe him on a purely ideological basis.”
DeMarco had been quiet for a while. Now he looked into his glass of coffee, ice melted, color diluted. “Motive is shaky at best. A known womanizer, but not exclusively of minors. All apparently consensual relationships. No history of physical violence. No forensic evidence to link him to the crime.”
Hoyle looked around for the server, caught his eye, and motioned him forward. “Six of the raspberry macaroons, please. To go.”
The server nodded and looked to the troopers. Jayme said, “No thank you.”
DeMarco continued to stare at his coffee, eyes narrow, mouth hard.
“Proximity, however, suggests opportunity,” said Hoyle.
“Which means nothing without motive.”
“Sir,” said Hoyle, “might I suggest that—”
Now DeMarco’s head snapped up, eyes leveled at Hoyle. “Might I suggest, sir, that we’ve spent two days crisscrossing two counties on this snark hunt of yours and Vicente’s. Yes, Royce is contemptuous on many levels. Yes, Aaron Henry is a certified pedophile. Yes, Chad McGintey is a first-class lowlife. But not one of them can be connected to the murders. Just what have you and your group been doing for the past how many years?”
Hoyle smiled uneasily, his cheeks flushed. “Is it not the nature of a cold case for the evidence to be elusive?”
Despite Jayme’s hand massaging his thigh, DeMarco pushed away from the table and stood. He crossed to the approaching server and intercepted him halfway to the table. They spoke quietly for a moment, then DeMarco handed the young man two twenties, took the box of macaroons, and returned to the table.
He set the box beside Hoyle’s plate. “Enjoy your dessert, Doctor.”
He then looked to Jayme, already rising from her chair. He touched her only lightly on the arm, turning her from the table. Careful now with every movement, he escorted her toward the door.
The moment the sunlight hit their faces, she pulled away from his touch. “What the hell, Ryan?”
“I’m tired of being jerked around,” he said.
She turned to stand in front of him, blocking his movement. “Who’s jerking you around?”
“Vicente, Hoyle…all three of them.”
“They asked for our help. They want justice for those girls but they don’t know what to do next. How is that jerking us around?”
He said nothing. Kept his gaze above her head.
She put a hand to his chin, pulled his gaze down to meet hers. She said, “Who do you really think is jerking you around?”
He looked away, off to the side.
“Who are you really mad at here?” she said.
He would not look at her.
“Ever since I came out of Cappy’s, you’ve been pissed. Not before, but ever since. So why don’t you just say what you want to say?”
He stood rooted in place, eyes adamantly distant, face as blank as stone.
“Juvenile,” she finally said, then released him and turned away, taking long strides toward the car.
SIXTY-ONE
At the car she remained on the sidewalk even after he had climbed inside and popped open her lock, started the engine and the air conditioner. She stood there staring down the street but not seeing any of it. What she saw was anger and jealousy, dissolution and loss. She despised the first and feared the last. For a while she had hoped DeMarco would be a different kind of man, the kind to put love above all else. For a while he had shown potential, had been gentle and considerate, seemingly attentive to what they were becoming together.
Then he had witnessed her two insignificant minutes with Richie, and how had he reacted? Everything changed. He was irritable, angry, guarded, closed off. Ready to take it out on Hoyle or anyone else. Where was the self-control that had always been so precious to him?
In the meantime she had seen too how much he needed his work. It energized him, gave him purpose and drive. For their initial two weeks in the RV, with no arrests, investigations, or domestic disturbances to settle, he had been calmer, yes—but had it truly been calmness or just indifference?
But why would he react so jealously to Richie if he were indifferent to her?
She couldn’t help comparing DeMarco unfavorably to the two men who had loved her completely. Her father and oldest brother. Neither had ever asked a thing of her. Never attempted to thwart or define her in any way. Made their own needs second to hers. She had striven to do the same for them, and for DeMarco as well. Was reciprocation too much to expect? Could love exist without it?
The passenger window went down; she felt the cool air across her arm. DeMarco was leaning over the console, looking up at her. “You coming?” he said. His voice was no longer angry, his eyes soft.
She climbed in and closed the door, pulled the seat restraint across her waist. He raised the window, checked the traffic, pulled out onto the street.
Ten minutes passed. They rode in silence until he said, “I think the handyman is the key to all this. He has to be. Otherwise there is no key.”
She did not answer. He glanced her way, saw her sitting with her head back, eyes closed.
She opened her eyes only when the car pulled into her grandmother’s driveway. Jayme was quick to unbuckle and open her door. She stood and slammed the door and crossed to the front porch. DeMarco sat alone in the car for several minutes.
Then he seized the gearshift, and jerked the lever into Reverse.
SIXTY-TWO
From the car DeMarco called Trooper Warner at the local barracks and asked for twenty minutes of his time. The trooper readily conceded, and five minutes later, DeMarco was seated with the trooper in a small conference room. Spread across the table were four sheets of photocopied paper taped together to form a single rectangle. Printed on the paper was a black-and-white map of portions of the five states contiguous with western Kentucky. The numbers one to seven were printed in blue ink at various places on the map, and below each number was the name of a victim. A yellow marker had been used to highlight the numbers and names.
Warner and DeMarco stood side by side, peering down at the map. “Most of the investigation was handled through the sheriff’s office,” Warner said. “But turns out we did have a copy of the original map. I made this one in case you want to take it with you.”
“Appreciate it,” DeMarco said. “David Vicente gave me a list and brief profile of each of the girls, but this helps. I’m not sure how yet. Just visually, I guess. Whatever that means.”
“As you can see, every city is within thirty miles of a major artery.”
“And all within a couple hundred miles of Aberdeen.”
�
��Yes, sir.”
“And the girls were all homeless? Runaways?”
“All but Ceres Butler, the next-to-last victim,” Warner answered. “The rest weren’t all living on the street, but where they were living, nobody would really call a home. Even Ceres, according to her friends, didn’t have much of a home life.”
“Which means their dates of abduction are anything but precise.”
“If they were abducted,” Warner said.
“Do we know how many were sex workers?”
“Again,” Warner said, “we’re relying on the individuals who reported them missing. Most of the time it wasn’t family. Most of the girls had already been separated from family by the time the missing person reports were filed.”
“Society’s castoffs.”
“Sadly, that appears to be true.”
A few moments later, both men straightened. DeMarco lifted the map off the table and carefully folded it twice. “Any other commonalities you can think of? Interests they shared? Hairstyles? Pets? Drug of choice? Anything at all?”
“Light-skinned black girls, all petite, fifteen to nineteen. That’s about it.”
DeMarco shook his head. “You know that feeling you get when you run into a brick wall?”
“Intimately,” Warner said.
SIXTY-THREE
DeMarco parked at a wide spot along the shoulder of the highway, climbed out and crossed the road and made his way through the light brush to a sliver of rocky shore. Across the shallow stream, thick woods rose steeply all the way to the stone mansion on the bluff Jayme had pointed out when they first came to Aberdeen.
He hunkered down and peered up at the mansion and wondered what it must be like to live that way, as rich and solitary and impervious as a god. He doubted he would like it but thought it might be nice to try some time.
When his neck grew stiff he lowered his gaze to a hawk gliding back and forth over the water, seldom flapping its wings, finding the warm lift with a slight turn, then rising, gliding, descending and turning and rising again. Smaller birds swooped only a foot or two above the water, the bug snatchers, flitting and darting, as quick as dusky flames.
Walking the Bones Page 17
