Deeper Than the Dead ok-1

by Tami Hoag

  As Dennis reached out to touch the woman again, a dog stepped out of some bushes on the other side of the body and growled deep in its throat.

  None of them moved then. The dog was mean-looking, white with a big black spot around one beady eye and over the small ear. The dog moved forward. The kids moved backward.

  “He’s protecting her,” Tommy said.

  “Maybe he killed her,” Dennis said. “Maybe he killed her and buried her like a bone, and now he’s back to eat the body.”

  He said it as if he hoped that was the case, and he couldn’t wait to watch the next gruesome scene.

  Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the dog stepped back into the bushes and was gone.

  In the next second, a man in a sheriff’s deputy’s uniform appeared at the top of the bank the kids had tumbled over. He looked like a giant looking down at them, his hair buzzed flat on top, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. He was Dennis Farman’s father.

  Tommy stood well back from the deputies who had come with yellow crime-scene tape to mark off the area around the shallow grave. He should have been home by now. His mother was going to be really mad. He had a piano lesson at five. But he couldn’t seem to make himself leave, and he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

  The light was fading in the thick woods. Somewhere out there was a mad dog, and maybe even a murderer. He didn’t want to walk home anymore.

  The adults on the other side of the tape weren’t paying any attention to him or Wendy. Dennis hung around just outside the tape, trying to get a better look as the deputies did their jobs.

  Cody Roache had run all the way back to the street and nearly got himself run over by Dennis’s father in his squad car. Tommy had heard the deputies telling each other. Mr. Farman had come straight to the scene, but Cody had not come back.

  “I wonder who she is,” Wendy said quietly. She sat on the stump of a tree that had been cut down over the summer. “I wonder how she died.”

  “Somebody killed her,” Tommy said.

  “I think I want to go home now,” Wendy said. “Don’t you?”

  Tommy didn’t answer her. He felt like he was inside of a bubble, and if he tried to move the bubble would burst and all sorts of feelings would wash over him and drown him.

  People had come into the park to see what was going on. They stood up on the bank—teenagers, a mailman, one of the janitors from school.

  As he watched them, Miss Navarre appeared at the edge of the group. She spotted him and Wendy right away and made her way down to them.

  “Are you guys all right?” she asked.

  “Tommy fell on a dead person!” Wendy said.

  Tommy said nothing. He had started to shake all over. Inside his head all he could see was the dead woman’s face—the blood, the gash in her cheek, the ants crawling on her.

  “A deputy came into the school and said something had happened,” Miss Navarre said, looking over at the place where the dead lady was. She turned back then and touched Tommy’s forehead and brushed some dead leaves out of his hair. “You’re really pale, Tommy. You should sit down.”

  Dutifully he sat down on the stump beside Wendy. Miss Navarre looked as pale as either of them, but there was no more room on the stump.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  The tale spilled out of Wendy like rushing water. When she came to the part where Tommy fell on the grave, Miss Navarre closed her eyes and said, “Oh my God.”

  She bent down to Tommy’s level and looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Tommy gave the smallest nod. “I’m okay.”

  His voice sounded like it came from far away.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I’m going to ask the deputies if I can take you home.”

  She walked over to the yellow tape stretched between the trees and tried to get the attention of Dennis Farman’s dad, who seemed to be the big shot on the scene.

  The two exchanged words. Miss Navarre gestured toward Dennis. Farman’s father shook his head. They were arguing. Tommy could tell by the way they were standing—Miss Navarre with her hands on her hips, Mr. Farman puffing himself up and leaning over her. Then Miss Navarre raised a hand and ended the discussion.

  She was angry when she came back, although she did her best to hide it. Tommy could feel it all around her like frozen air.

  “Come on,” she said, reaching out her hands to them. “I’m taking you home.”

  At ten Tommy generally considered himself too old to hold hands with an adult. He couldn’t remember the last time his mother had held his hand. Kindergarten, maybe. But he didn’t feel so grown-up now, and he took Miss Navarre’s soft, smooth hand and held on tight as she led them away from the terrible scene and out of the woods.

  But the scene came with Tommy, stuck in his head; he felt sick at the idea that it might never go away.

  4

  Anne Navarre felt herself shaking inside as she walked away from Frank Farman and the crime scene her students had stumbled upon—shaking from the shock of what she had just seen, shaking with anger at Frank Farman. He was too busy to deal with her. He would take care of his own kid in his own time—as if he thought letting his son watch the exhumation of a corpse would be good for him. Asshole.

  She had already encountered Farman at a parent-teacher conference. He was the kind of man who only heard the sound of his own voice and would likely have gone to his grave swearing the sun rose in the west rather than agree with a woman.

  Just like her father.

  For the moment she couldn’t examine the deeper cause of the trembling: seeing a murder victim—a woman killed and discarded like a broken doll—and knowing her students had seen it too.

  She led Wendy and Tommy out of the park and back to the school, where she sat them down in the office and used a phone to call their parents.

  Anne told Wendy’s mother as little as possible, just that there had been an incident in the park and that she was bringing Wendy home.

  The Cranes’ phone was answered by a machine. She left the same message with as little detail as possible.

  The children were quiet as Anne drove. She didn’t know what to say to them. That everything would be all right? Their lives had just been changed. That was the truth. They would be seeing a dead woman’s face in their dreams for years to come.

  Anne scrambled through her memory for some kind of guidance. Her studies in child psychology seemed gone from her head now. She had never finished her graduate work, had never worked in a clinical setting. She had no frame of reference for this situation. Five years of teaching fifth grade hadn’t prepared her for this.

  Maybe she should have been asking them questions, drawing them out, encouraging them to release their emotions. Maybe she was too busy holding on to her own.

  Sara Morgan was waiting on the front step when Anne pulled into the driveway. Wendy’s mother was a tall and athletic adult version of her daughter, with cornflower blue eyes and a thick mane of wavy blonde hair. She was in a blue T-shirt and faded denim overalls with the legs rolled up to reveal white socks with lace cuffs. There were tears in her eyes and uncertainty in her expression.

  “Oh my God,” she said as Anne and Wendy got out of the car. “My neighbor told me there was a murder in the park. He’s eighty-five and he’s in a wheelchair, and he listens to a police scanner,” she rambled. “Was Wendy there? Did she see what happened? Wendy!”

  Wendy trotted into her mother’s arms as Sara Morgan dropped down on one knee.

  “Are you all right, baby?” She scanned her daughter for any sign of damage.

  “We were running, and then we fell down a hill, and then—and then—” Wendy gulped for air. “Tommy fell right on her! He fell right on a dead lady! It was so gross!”

  “Oh my God!”

  “And Dennis kept trying to touch her. He’s so sick!”

  Sara Morgan looked up at Anne. “Who was it? How did she—Was she shot or—or what?”
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  “I don’t know,” Anne said. “I’m sure they won’t release any details for a while.”

  “And there was this dog,” Wendy went on. “Like a wild dog. And he growled at us, and Dennis said maybe the dog killed the lady—”

  “A dog?” her mother said. “What kind of a dog? Was it foaming at the mouth? Did you touch it?”

  “No! It ran away.”

  “It could have had rabies! Are you sure you didn’t touch it?”

  “I didn’t touch it!” Wendy insisted.

  Sara Morgan raked a handful of blonde mane back from her face and looked at Anne. “What’s going to happen? Will the police come?”

  “I don’t know,” Anne said. “Dennis Farman’s father is a deputy. He said I could take Wendy and Tommy home. Maybe the sheriff’s office will call later. He didn’t say.”

  “This is just awful. We moved here to get away from crime. And smog and traffic. I never think twice about letting Wendy walk home from school. Do you think the dog could have killed the woman?”

  “That doesn’t seem very likely,” Anne said.

  Sara Morgan turned to her daughter again. “If you touched that dog—”

  “I didn’t touch the dog!” Wendy insisted, irritated.

  “Should I take her to see someone?” she asked Anne. “My husband’s uncle’s ex-wife’s sister is a therapist in Beverly Hills.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “There’s no chapter for this in the parenting manual.”

  “No,” Anne said. “It’s not in the How to Be a Kid manual either.”

  “No. God, I’ve never seen a dead person myself. When I have to go to funerals, I won’t look in the casket. The whole idea creeps me out.”

  “I should get Tommy home,” Anne said. “I wasn’t able to reach his mother by phone.”

  “I can call Peter at his office,” Sara offered. “He’s our dentist. He and my husband golf together.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. And thank you for bringing Wendy home.”

  Anne got back in her car and looked into the backseat where Tommy sat looking at his hands in his lap.

  “Do you think your mom will be home by now, Tommy?”

  He consulted his wristwatch. “Yes.”

  “She’ll be worried about you.”

  “I’m supposed to have a piano lesson,” he said looking worried. “Maybe we should go there instead.”

  “I think your piano teacher will forgive your absence when he hears what you’ve been through.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” Anne asked as they drove.

  “No, thank you.”

  Why would he share his feelings with her? She had been his teacher all of two months. From what she had observed of Tommy, he was by nature reserved. He was very bright but did nothing to call attention to himself. If anything he seemed to do his best to be invisible.

  Anne wondered why. She had met his parents. His father, the dentist, was charming and outgoing. His mother was a little intense but had seemed nice enough at conference time. She was proud of her son’s talents and academic abilities. She sold real estate and served on charity committees. The Cranes were the All-American Yuppie Family.

  They lived four blocks from the Morgans in a beautiful two-story Spanish-style stucco house with lush landscaping and a big spreading oak tree in the side yard. As daylight faded, lights glowed invitingly in the front windows and along the sidewalk.

  Through one window Anne could see Janet Crane in a fuchsia suit, pacing, speaking into a portable phone.

  Tommy got out of the car and lingered by the door. Anne reached out her hand to him, and he took it. He hung on a little too tightly as they went up the sidewalk together.

  The door flew open before they made it to the front steps. Janet Crane’s eyes were a little too wide, the white showing all around the pupils.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, her fierce look on Tommy. “I have been out of my mind trying to find you! You knew you had a piano lesson—”

  “Mrs. Crane—,” Anne started.

  “Don’t you have any consideration for Mr. England’s time? For my time?”

  “Mrs. Crane,” Anne said more firmly. “Didn’t you get my message?”

  Janet Crane looked at her as if she had only just appeared. “Message? What message? I haven’t listened to the messages. I’ve been trying to find my son.”

  “Could we step inside, please?” Anne asked.

  Tommy’s mother took a deliberate breath and calmed herself. “Of course. I’m so sorry. Please come in, Miss Navarre.”

  Tommy still clung to Anne’s hand as they went into the foyer. His eyes were on the Mexican tile floor. No warm hugs from Mom. No concern for his welfare. Concern for the piano teacher.

  Anne leaned down beside him. “Tommy, why don’t you go wash up while I talk to your mom?”

  He went across the hall and disappeared into a powder room with wildly colored parrots splashed across the yellow wallpaper.

  “I’m sorry,” Janet Crane said. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry. It isn’t like Tommy to miss a piano lesson. He’s always very punctual.”

  As Anne was sure his mother was, as well. Punctual, buttoned up in her fuchsia suit with the big shoulder pads and crisp peplum. Her dark hair was bobbed, puffed up, and spritzed hard. The word “brittle” came to mind. The parent-teacher conference persona had cracked a little under the stress . . . of her son missing a piano lesson.

  Anne went through the story of the kids finding the body in the park, Tommy having actually fallen directly on the grave.

  Janet Crane’s eyes showed a lot of white again. “Oh my God!”

  She turned abruptly and walked into a Better Homes and Gardens living room, the heels of her pink pumps click-clacking on the tile. She perched herself on the edge of a sofa cushion. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for help.

  “I think Tommy is a little in shock,” Anne said. “He’s hardly said anything since it happened.”

  “I-I-I don’t know what to do,” his mother announced. “Should I call a doctor?”

  “He doesn’t seem to be physically injured, but you may want to get him some counseling.”

  “Why didn’t someone call me?” she asked, trying to work up some indignation. She seemed more comfortable with anger than with concern. “Why didn’t Principal Garnett call? Why isn’t he here?”

  “Mr. Garnett was out today.”

  Tommy came to the doorway. His face and arms were clean, showing off the scrapes and scratches that had resulted from his tumble. He had wet and combed his brown hair as neatly as he could considering a couple of cowlicks. But his clothes were still dirty, and there was a tear in the knee of his jeans. Anne wondered if he would be allowed to sit on the furniture.

  “Tommy!” his mother said, going to him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what happened.”

  Anne watched her touch her son hesitantly, as if she were afraid of catching something from him as she examined his wounds.

  Through the front window Anne watched a sleek, dark Jaguar pull into the drive beside her little red Volkswagen. Peter Crane got out and walked toward the house.

  He was a handsome man, medium height, lean, well-dressed in dark slacks, a shirt and tie. He called out cheerfully as he came in the front door.

  Sara Morgan hadn’t managed to catch him at the office, Anne thought.

  Tommy turned abruptly away from his mother and went to his dad, hugging him around the waist. Peter Crane looked a little confused. His wife went into the foyer and told him what had happened.

  Anne watched the shock cross his face.

  “It was a terrible thing to see,” she said, moving into the doorway.

  “Miss Navarre brought Tommy home,” Janet Crane said.

  “You were there?” he asked.

  �
�I went to the park as soon as I heard what had happened.”

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  “I’m going to go call Mr. England,” his wife said. “To let him know why Tommy didn’t make it to his lesson.”

  She walked away and disappeared into the interior of the home, heels clacking.

  “Things like this don’t happen here,” he said.

  Anne had been born and raised in Oak Knoll, a town of twenty thousand (twenty-three when the college kids were in residence). It was a civilized, upscale town nearly two hours removed from Los Angeles. Home to a prestigious private college, the population tended to consist of well-educated professional people, academics, artists. Crime here ran along the lines of small-time drug deals, petty theft, and vandalism, not murder, not women buried in the park.

  “Do they know who the woman is? Do they know what happened to her?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anne said. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Well, thank you, Miss Navarre, for bringing Tommy home. We appreciate your dedication to the kids.”

  “If I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to call,” Anne said. “You have my number.”

  She leaned down to Tommy’s level. “That goes for you, too, Tommy. You can call me anytime if you need to talk about what happened. Try to get some rest tonight.”

  Her mother’s cure for everything: rest. Bad day at school? Get some rest. Dumped by a boyfriend? Get some rest. Dying of cancer? Get some rest.

  In all her life Anne had to say rest had never solved anything. It was just something to say when there was nothing adequate to take its place, something to do when unconsciousness was the best option available.

  As she backed out of the driveway and turned for home, she hoped Tommy would have better luck with the concept than she ever had.

  5

  “This is the third victim in two years.”

  “It’s the second.”

  “In our jurisdiction. The second vic was in the next county, but it’s the same perp. Same MO, same signature.”