Bone Dust White

by Karin Salvalaggio

  “He’s coming,” she whispers warm into Grace’s neck.

  Somewhere close by Grace can hear muffled footfalls as Brian makes his way through the freshly fallen snow. Grace slows her breathing and waits for the final blow.

  Brian nudges Grace’s leg with his boot and she cries out. He mutters under his breath. “And I thought I was the stupid one.”

  His jacket is open. His big head is bare. Grace gazes up into his face and whispers please once more, but he only lifts his chin a fraction and clenches his jaw. He’s crying when he removes his jacket and tightly cocoons his daughter. When he bends low and whispers in Cybil’s ear, Grace can hear his muffled sobs. He buries his head in the nape of his youngest daughter’s neck and strokes her blond head with hands that look powerful enough to crush her skull.

  “I’m so sorry” is all he says.

  Brian’s legs buckle when he tries to stand. He catches himself with an outstretched arm and staggers to his feet. He looks toward the main road one last time and turns away. Without ceremony, he lumbers past his truck, heading into a wilderness that stretches for miles.

  Grace is the only witness. She strains her eyes, but it’s not long before he’s swallowed up in a shroud of white.

  She doesn’t shiver. Her tired eyes gaze down the length of their bodies, past Cybil’s tightly bound back and damp blond curls. Finding solace in the warmth of Cybil’s breath against her neck, Grace puts her head down and stays perfectly still. She listens for Jared. He’s a belief that’s settled in like winter. She knows he’s out there somewhere, smoking his cigarettes and driving up Route 93, shoulders hunched, he’s hatless. With hooded eyes, he concentrates on the road ahead of him, cutting through the snowbound lanes like a determined knife. She gazes up into the falling skies and strains her ears for sirens. When she finally hears them she cries and cries and cries.

  28

  Dark clouds cover the sky and rain strikes like buckshot against the windshield. Below the road, the Flathead River tosses and turns in the early morning light. Chunks of ice the size of cars ride the swollen currents, and all along the eastern shore stands of pine trees wade knee-deep in floodwater. Spring has finally come to Collier.

  Macy gazes past the flicking windshield wipers and yawns. The oncoming headlights reflect in the rivulets of rainwater that wriggle on the glass like worms. The roads are coated in slush and a gusting wind rocks her vehicle. She passes over the Flathead River on Collier’s southernmost bridge and enters the industrial section of town. There’s a single sheriff’s patrol car guarding the entrance to an abandoned mill. She stops briefly to say hello and the officer waves her through. Her 4x4 rattles along the heavily rutted access road. The mill and a set of low-lying outbuildings are situated near the river. Black snow stubbornly clings to the shadows on the north end of the building. The rain has washed away the rest. She pulls up behind Warren’s vehicle and looks around. Everything is boarded up, chained, and tagged with odd scrawls of graffiti. Until now she’s only seen this place in photographs.

  She puts her car in park and steps out into the rain. She is unprepared for the loud roar of the river. Just beyond the line of trees, its milky glacier water is spilling over its banks. A gust of wind blows up from behind and her hair flies around her face, slapping her in the cheeks. She secures it behind her ears and walks over to meet Warren. She’s not seen him since she left Collier four and a half months earlier.

  Warren smiles and asks after her son Luke. He and his wife sent her flowers and a baby blanket. It is pale blue and has baby elephants embroidered along the border. It’s one of Macy’s favorites.

  Macy is still shy about motherhood. Her face reddens when anyone brings it up. She also tires of explaining her choices—that it is her mother, Ellen, who cares for Luke while Macy is at work; that there is no father named on the birth certificate. She often imagines what some people must think once they’re fully aware of her situation.

  Warren asks how she’s settling back into work and Macy tries to sound more confident than she actually is.

  “My mother is around to help while I’m at work, otherwise I’d be lost.”

  “That’s the best way to raise children.”

  Macy thinks about the amount of overtime she’s put in since Luke was born. “At a distance?”

  “With family. I don’t tend to trust anyone else.”

  Macy doesn’t disagree. She looks around. In the crime-scene photos, layers of snow whitewash over decades of decay. The images are silent. You can’t hear the wind whining in the rafters of the empty mill, the rush of the Flathead, or the creaking of the ice floes. She can only imagine how frightened Grace was when she came here on her own to negotiate with Brian Camberwell.

  Macy stands in front of the old mill doors and looks up at a faded sign reading HARRIS AND SONS. Macy had gone into labor at about the same time Isobel Camberwell managed to flag down a passing car and call for help. Warren finished the case for her. She has read the report. She knows what happened, but it had been her case for more than eleven years. She asks him to tell her again.

  Warren points to where Macy is standing. “While Grace was standing right about here, Isobel Camberwell approached her from around the side of the building. They spoke and Isobel told Grace she was here with her father. At some point they drove around to the back of the building and Grace decided she would try speaking to him. She took her uncle’s gun, the one Elizabeth couldn’t find, from her bag and told Isobel to go to the main road to get help.”

  Macy looks over her shoulder. For a child it would be about a ten-minute walk. “Was it snowing heavily at that point?”

  “No, but it really started coming down soon after. Isobel said she didn’t think anyone would stop to pick her up because visibility was so poor. She’s not sure how much time passed between leaving Grace and flagging down a driver.”

  Macy turns toward the far end of the main building. “Grace would have taken this route?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She said she had the money and was going to meet a man who’d called her in the middle of the night. He had the photos of her and was willing to give them to her in exchange for the fifty thousand dollars she found in her mother’s trailer. Until she met Isobel she had no idea that the man was Brian Camberwell.”

  They round a corner and step into the shade. A stand of overgrown trees and the north-facing walls of the mill throw the entire area into darkness. The temperature drops along with the light. The wind is stronger here. It rushes through the narrow corridor, spreading ripples across the deepening pools of rainwater. In front of them an abandoned railway bridge spans the Flathead River.

  “We found Brian Camberwell’s vehicle parked here. The lights were on and the engine was running.”

  Macy looks down at the spot where Grace and Cybil were discovered. Grace had broken her leg, and both of Cybil’s shoulders were dislocated. Cybil told her mother that Grace had pulled her from the truck when her daddy had threatened to shoot Grace in the head.

  Macy looks around. “By the way, where is everyone?”

  “Forensics decided to park in a turnout off of Route 93. It’s less of a hike from there to where the boys found the body.” He points to the railway bridge. “I thought you’d prefer to retrace Brian’s last steps. He would have crossed the Flathead here.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Safe as any of the bridges around here. It was built to last. They used it for transporting timber from the mill up to the main railway line. Brian would have known that he could follow it all the way there.”

  “But that’s not what he did.”

  “About a mile along, he headed north and walked until he came to a tributary.”

  “And then he just sat down in the snow and died?”

  “Seems to be the case, but they’re still digging him out so we’ll know better once they’ve had a look at him.”

  “His gun was found in his truck so we know he didn’t shoot himself. It seems more likely th
at he died of exposure.”

  “It’s suicide all the same.” Warren starts walking toward the bridge. “Shall we?”

  Everything Warren says during the crossing is lost on the wind, the river’s constant roar, and the sound of ice floes scraping against each other. The iron bridge is solid but the surfaces are slippery. There are gaps in the metal walkway. Macy can see straight through to the whitecapped water churning below them. She grips on tighter to the railing. She’s seen firsthand what the Flathead can do to a man. A week after he disappeared off Olsen’s Landing, they found Dustin’s body downstream near Walleye Junction in full view of Route 93. He’d become entangled in some tree branches that hung far out in the middle of the river. He was suspended there like a scarecrow. He’d already gone over the rapids south of Collier, and during his time dangling from the tree branches he was regularly buffeted by fallen trees and chunks of ice that had escaped from upstream. The medical examiner counted thirty-five separate fractures. Both his legs were broken and his pelvis was crushed.

  Warren holds out his hand for Macy so she doesn’t fall negotiating the steep steps, which drop down onto the opposite shoreline. The earth is sodden. It squelches under her boots. The railroad tracks stretch out in front of them as straight as a plumb line. Branches arch overhead, dripping water on Warren and Macy.

  There are signs of foot traffic everywhere.

  “Have you had a lot of people come through here?”

  “I’d say this stretch of land is the most visited place in the whole of the Flathead Valley. People have been out here looking for Brian since the day he vanished.”

  “That’s a pretty morbid day out.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money around here. There were also rumors going around that he had drugs on him.”

  “Not to mention pictures of Grace Adams.”

  “That too. Given the public interest in the case, I suspect they’d fetch a fair amount.”

  “So far nothing has shown up on the Internet. I check once a day. Makes me feel queasy every time I type her name into the search engine.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find them today.”

  “Did you hear about the latest indictment? A district court judge. Those files you found in Brian Camberwell’s garage are a gold mine.”

  “There were far more people caught up in Arnold’s side business than we initially thought.”

  “It was still a bit of a risk keeping those incriminating files in his office.”

  “Given he had a few judges and a sheriff under his control, I’d say he wasn’t too worried about his home being searched.”

  “It does surprise me that Arnold let Dustin go after getting hold of those photographs of Grace.”

  “It’s hard to say. Dustin might have had something on Arnold. They knew each other for years.”

  “Scott Pearce finally agreed to cooperate, so we’re getting more of a sense of how the trafficking operation was organized. The exchanges usually took place at the truck stop. Brian drove the girls over and left his rig overnight. After Leanne took payment, the girls were taken by a third party.”

  “Did Leanne know what was going on?”

  “He says she knew everything, but he’s the only one left and he’s giving evidence in return for a lighter sentence so I don’t trust him.”

  They walk in silence for a few minutes. The rain has stopped and sun breaks through the cloud cover. The damp foliage glistens in the slanting light, blinding Macy.

  Macy falls in next to Warren. “Did you go to Elizabeth’s funeral?”

  “I couldn’t stay away. It’s easy to forget how much good she did in the community.”

  “I suspect she was overcompensating.”

  “I also think she loved Arnold Lamm a bit too much to see him for who he really was.”

  Macy looks away. “Who we love is one of those things we really can’t control.”

  “You’re right about that.” Warren stops in front of a well-defined break between the trees. The ground to the north of the tracks is heavily trampled. He warns Macy that from here on out the path is very muddy.

  “Do you know the boys who found the body?”

  “I’ve not come across them before. They’re a bit too young to be in any real trouble yet. They’re only in the fifth grade.”

  “That makes them between ten and eleven years old.”

  “The parents didn’t know they were coming out here after school.”

  “Any chance someone beat them to it?”

  Warren holds back some tree branches for Macy. “Brian’s body was found on the north-facing bank of a small tributary that joins with the Flathead a mile further on. The area is sheltered from the sun and rain so the snow hasn’t melted. The medical examiner thinks the body was completely encased in ice and snow for most of the winter. When they spotted it all the boys could see was the top of his head.”

  “What about animals?”

  “Believe me when I say no one has touched it. Brian looks like he’s been kept in a freezer for a few months.”

  They come to a clearing in the trees. The forensic team has erected a tent along the banks of the narrow tributary. They wade through water and mud in their protective suits.

  Ryan Marshall, the medical examiner on site, is familiar to Macy. He once worked in Helena. He has a slight build and wears the thinnest wire-framed glasses Macy has ever seen. His white protective suit is covered in mud all the way up to the armpits. He doesn’t offer to shake her hand.

  “This is one of the messiest sites I’ve ever had to work in,” he says, after they say a quick hello. “It’s just like I thought, Brian Camberwell died of exposure. I’ll have to examine him more thoroughly but I doubt my findings will change. There are no signs of injury.”

  He leads them over to the tent and pulls back the flap. Brian Camberwell sits cross-armed with his back against the muddy bank. His big round head is blackened and his eyes are closed. As expected, he wears only a T-shirt and jeans. Robert picks up a clear plastic evidence bag. A soggy envelope is inside.

  “I didn’t find the money everyone is looking for, but I did find this.”

  Macy stares. “The photos?”

  “They were stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. They’re a bit fragile so you’ll have to handle them with care.”

  *

  Downtown Bozeman is bathed in the spring sunshine. Macy parks her car and gazes out the window at the recently renovated apartment building before once again checking the address in her file. Across the street, the park is full of people enjoying the afternoon. Macy spots Grace coming toward her with a large black dog at her side and notes that she walks with a slight limp. Her hair is cut in a very short pixie and her complexion is so pale she glows in the hard, angled light. Macy gets out and waits for her on the steps leading up to the front door of the building.

  As they approach, the dog strains against the leash and barks just as Grace looks up and smiles. The last time they saw each other was in the hospital. Grace’s leg was in a cast and Macy was recuperating after giving birth. When Luke curled his little hands around Grace’s pale fingers, they both cried.

  Macy hangs back while Grace reassures her dog. “This is Macy. Don’t worry, she’s one of the good guys.”

  Macy offers the dog a hand to sniff. “What’s his name?”

  “I call him Jack, but he seems to answer to most anything. I picked him up at the pound a month ago.”

  Macy looks up at the building. “I’m surprised your landlord allows dogs.”

  “I guess I’m my own landlord so it’s okay.”

  “You bought a place?”

  “I had a little help.”

  Her apartment is a small one-bedroom with windows overlooking the park. Macy thinks she recognizes several pieces of furniture from the house on Summit Road. Otherwise it’s filled with finds from junk shops.

  Jack pads across the room and immediately stretches out in a sunny position by the
window, while Grace goes into the kitchen to make coffee. “We’re alike, me and Jack. A couple of strays.”

  “You seem to have settled in quickly.”

  “I have. At least I think I have. Anyway, I’m getting there. I’ve signed up for courses at the community college in the fall.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  Grace’s hands shake and the cups rattle against each other as she places them on the counter. She steps away and crosses her arms tightly to her body. For a second she looks like she’s forgotten what she’s doing.

  “Grace, are you okay?”

  Grace won’t look at her. “Why are you here?”

  “I didn’t want you to find out from anyone else so I came in person. We found Brian Camberwell’s body.”

  Grace stands quietly and waits for Macy to say more.

  “We found the photos.”

  “Did you look at them?”

  Macy spreads her hands out in front of her. “I’m sorry, Grace, it’s my job. I had to.”

  “Who else saw them?”

  “The medical examiner and the state attorney. That’s all.”

  “Where are they? Do you have them here with you?”

  “They’re in a sealed evidence box. The state attorney has assured me they’ll be destroyed as soon as possible.” Macy walks to the other side of the counter and takes the kettle off the stove. “I’ll make coffee. You go sit.”

  Grace slumps down on the edge of the sofa and Jack comes over and puts his head on her lap.

  Macy slides open a drawer, searching for spoons, and finds a small handgun instead. She looks up and Grace is gazing back at her with a tissue wadded up in her fist. Macy pushes the drawer shut and finishes making the coffee.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”