Angels Burning

by Tawni O'Dell

“We were supposed to go out, but she bailed on me.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “She got in trouble or something like that.”

  He pulls his phone out of a pocket and starts scanning through his text messages.

  “We were going to go catch a movie, then she texts me and says she needs to see me right away. She wanted me to meet her at Laurel Dam. We hang out there a lot in summer at the bonfires. I drive all the way out there, and she’s not there and no one’s seen her. I text her and she says she got in trouble and she’s not allowed to leave the house. Then she stopped answering my texts.”

  “When was that?”

  He checks his phone again.

  “Eight twenty-four p.m.”

  “Was it unusual for her to stop communicating with you?”

  “Camio could be real secretive. It kind of bugged me at first. I even got jealous sometimes. Then I decided it was just her being weird about her family.”

  “Weird how?”

  “She’s embarrassed by them, but at the same time she sticks up for them like crazy. It’s hard to explain. I’ve only been out there twice, but I’ll never go back. I mean, I’ve been around families who say shitty things to each other when they’re mad, but I’ve never been around people who are mean to each other all the time. When Cam’s with them, she’s just like them. I hardly recognize her.”

  “Do you have a picture of her on your phone?”

  He goes through his photos until he finally comes to the one he wants to show me.

  It’s a summer picture. A lovely dark-haired girl with a slightly sunburned face. She has a sprinkle of freckles across her cheekbones like her brother Derk. She’s holding an orange Popsicle to her lips and smiling around it.

  I can’t help but think about the way we found her, and vomit rises in my throat. In my head I hear Rudy Mayfield’s voice: “Who does something like that?”

  “I took this last weekend,” Zane says.

  He beams down at the place where he holds her in his hand. He doesn’t notice that I have to turn away from him.

  “She’s pretty,” I say while composing myself.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “Would she run away?”

  “Cam? Never. She wants to go to college more than anything in the world, so she has to finish school. She already got a 2350 on her SATs this spring but she’s planning to retake them in the fall. She wants to get a perfect score. People like that don’t run away.”

  “Why is she so motivated?”

  “She doesn’t want to end up like her sister or brother. Jessy got pregnant in high school, and Shane’s in jail. She wants out of here.”

  “What about her two younger brothers?”

  “She thinks if she can show them a different life maybe they’ll want to get out, too.”

  “And what about you, Zane? Do you want to get out of here?”

  “I got nothing against this town, but I’ll probably move after college just ’cause there’re no good jobs here. I want to make some money.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. Something in business probably. I’m going to Penn State and party my ass off while I can, then I’ll take my degree somewhere and get serious.”

  “No offense, but Camio sounds very focused and driven. You . . . not so much.”

  My words don’t bother him. On the contrary, he flashes me more of the Massey pearly whites.

  “It’s not like I’m dumb or something. I think I’m pretty typical; Cam’s the one who’s extraordinary.”

  I smile back at him for using that word.

  “You’re definitely not dumb,” I tell him. “So what do you think she sees in you besides your obvious good looks?”

  He shrugs away my compliment the way he shrugged away his mother’s affection: accepting it but thinking he doesn’t need it.

  He gives my question serious thought. Not a lot of kids his age would do that.

  “We didn’t go to prom,” he begins. “She’d never tell me why she didn’t want to go, but I knew it had something to do with her family. I was really pissed at first. It’s just junior prom but still, all our friends were going. Plus my mom went ballistic. She wanted to take a million pictures of me in a tux and post them all over Facebook. She’s really into all that sappy mom bullshit.”

  We both glance back at the house to see his mother and father openly watching us from their separate windows.

  Brie starts to raise her hand in a wave, then realizes she doesn’t want us to see her and disappears behind a ruffled curtain.

  “I figured if we weren’t going to go Cam at least owed me an explanation, but she wouldn’t give me one,” he continues. “We got in this fight and I told her I was going to take someone else. She said she wouldn’t be mad at me if I did. That made me feel even worse, so I told her we’d just skip the stupid junior prom. And she smiled and said that’s why she loves me, because I’m on her side.”

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Nolan: +ID. Camio Jane Truly, 17.

  When I look up from it, all of Zane’s youthful nonchalance is gone, replaced by the adult tenseness that comes from a premonition of tragedy.

  The break in our conversation gave him a chance to finally wonder what’s going on.

  “Why are you asking me all this stuff? I haven’t heard from Cam since last night. I’m starting to worry about her. Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  The relief on his face breaks my heart.

  chapter six

  WHEN WE WERE GROWING UP, Neely, Champ, and I lived in a leaky, creaky, flaky, cobwebby, moldy, sweltering in summer, barn cold in winter, slightly left-leaning structure on Springfield Street that from a distance looked as if someone had plunked down a weather-beaten birdhouse in the middle of a row of beloved but rarely played-with dollhouses.

  We spent our childhood there until we moved to Gil’s mansion when we were fourteen, twelve, and nine. His wall-to-wall-carpeted four bedrooms, two bathrooms, formal dining room, living room, eat-in kitchen, and even a rec room enclosed behind a pink brick façade, two white columns, and sparkling clean windows we could actually see out of wasn’t really a mansion, but compared to Chez Cissy it certainly was, and we always referred to it in an English accent as Rankin Manor.

  We were even able to get Grandma in on the game. She’s ninety-two now and in a nursing home, but to this day if our conversations turn to her daughter’s brief, ill-fated marriage, she raises her voice to an imperial croak that would make Dame Maggie Smith proud and reminisces about Rankin Manor and Lord Gil.

  On the surface Gil’s house certainly seemed better suited to our freshly scrubbed, expertly made-up, flashily dressed mother than our previous one, but she never seemed as comfortable there as she did in the pseudo-shack. None of us were. This was through no fault of Lord Gil’s. He did his best to accommodate us. He decorated one of the bedrooms in marshmallow Peep yellow and teal for Neely and me. We both found the room too alarming for sleep and took our bedding into the walk-in closet that was bigger than our old room anyway.

  He did better connecting with Champ. Neely and I weren’t offended. We chalked it up to them both being male and the fact that little kids are easier for adults to deal with than older kids. I was a teen and had the feeling Gil looked at me as a piece of adolescent pottery that had already been fired in the kiln. I was hard and set, whereas Champ was still squishy and malleable and his wide-eyed, frisky presence cried out for caresses and shaping.

  Neely was only twelve, but she was an intense, eerily observant, uncompromising kid who wasn’t to everyone’s liking. She wasn’t shy or standoffish. Timidity stems from fear, and aloofness comes from a feeling of superiority; neither applied to my sister.

  I’ve never known anyone else like her, and lacking anyone to compare her to, I was never able to come up with an adequate summation of her personality in my mind until she began her work with service dogs and subsequent love affair with
German shepherds in particular. Neely is just like her dogs. Her silence is louder than most people’s shouting.

  The house I live in now is on Springfield Street. A psychologist might have something to say about my deciding to live a few blocks down from my childhood home, one that wasn’t necessarily bursting with good memories, and he’d probably have even more to say when he found out that it was torn down and replaced by a beer distributor long before I moved here.

  I wanted to live in this house when I was a kid, and I can’t think of a better reason for purchasing a home as an adult than this. The attractions were many, but what drew me to it the most was that it looked like a bunch of houses thrown together. The bottom half was constructed of pale gray rock and set into a slight rise in the yard that gave it the appearance of having been excavated right out of the ground. The top half was wood and painted an outrageous shade of sea foam green with windows and eaves trimmed in flamingo pink that screamed cheap Miami motel. An all-glass sunroom overflowing with potted plants took up one side; If we ever live in this house, I’d tell Neely, we’re going to call this the jungle room. An exposed set of stairs clung to the other side of the house leading to a tiny third-floor room in the shape of a turret. I called it the grotto until I said the name out loud one day and Neely corrected me, explaining that a grotto was a little cave. She was pretty sure I meant garret.

  I’m always happy to see my house. I did eventually replace the original trim with a more respectable white, but I’ve changed nothing else.

  After my visit to the Massey residence, I spent the rest of the day back at the station being ignored by Nolan while having to deal with the media he sent my way. He knows I have a knack for placating the public, plus this allows the state police to stand behind their usual wall of reticence. If I say something they don’t want said, they can blame the incompetence of yokel law enforcement while secretly hoping what I let out might help the investigation. Nolan counts on this. He knows I’m a strategic leaker.

  Two of my officers are on vacation: one in the Outer Banks with his family, the other in Canada somewhere hunting bears. I’ve rallied the other four and explained the best thing they can do right now is circulate and talk to everyone they can without seeming to care what answers they get. Small-town gossip is 95 percent unreliable but the 5 percent based on fact is pure gold, and usually the people who know something relevant don’t realize they do and are willing to chatter away.

  I pull into my garage but walk outside before going inside for the sake of my next-door neighbor, Bob, who’s always standing in his driveway in a pair of sweatpants cut off below the knees, unlaced gym shoes, and a faded concert T-shirt, talking on his cell phone, and smoking a cigarette. The only variation in his appearance is a parka thrown over the outfit in winter.

  He’s been on disability for the entire fifteen years I’ve lived here. I don’t know how he was disabled or where he was working when it happened, but I do know he has a mousy wife named Candy who holds down two jobs and rarely talks except on a few occasions when she’s had one too many Bud Lights during a family cookout. Each time this has happened she shared her two favorite fantasies with me over the fence: that Bob dies in his sleep and that he dies while he’s awake.

  Bob always greets me in the same manner, and I fear if I don’t allow this ritual to occur in our driveways, he will try to get into my house.

  “Catch any bad guys today?” he calls out.

  “Not today,” I reply, smiling.

  I walk back into my garage.

  My house is mostly books, shoes, a few sentimental knickknacks and souvenirs, lots of color, and lots of polished hardwood floors, the only element of my living space that I fastidiously keep clean. I have a well-organized but still seemingly messy kitchen where I spend most of my time if I’m not in my den, which doubles as my office with overflowing bookshelves, a TV, a big desk, and a comfy old couch where I end up sleeping more nights than in my own bed.

  All the rooms are painted a different color. My kitchen is the deep blue of the sky on a perfect autumn day. My den is the reddish-brown of fallen pine needles carpeting a forest floor. My bedroom is lilac, my favorite flower that grows on a bush. My guest room is Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpet, my favorite food that comes off a factory assembly line. I’ve forgotten the colors of the living room and dining room; I never go in there. The jungle room is still a jungle and the grotto is barren except for a beanbag chair, a minifridge stocked with beer, and a reading lamp.

  Once I was on my own as an adult and I had a dependable income, I discovered cooking could be rewarding and a lot of fun if a person could actually afford to buy the necessary ingredients. As a kid, I had no choice but to construct meals for my siblings and me from what was around and what we could afford, and for the most part this included boxes of dried macaroni, cans of cat-food-grade tuna, Wonder Bread that turned to a sticky paste the moment it hit our tongues, slimy bought-on-the-day-of-expiration bologna, ketchup and mustard packets Mom brought home from dates, Chef Boyardee’s entire repertoire, and when life was good, hot dogs; sometimes I was even able to wrap them in Pillsbury crescent rolls.

  Now I love to cook. It relaxes me.

  I kick off my shoes, change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, and head for the kitchen, where I flick on the small TV sitting on my countertop and grab a beer out of the fridge while perusing its contents for tonight’s supper.

  Behind me I hear my own voice and turn around to see me on the local news telling a reporter that this is a terrible tragedy and our department will be working diligently with the state police to bring the perpetrator to justice.

  I squint at the screen, then pull open a drawer looking for a pair of glasses.

  I’ve never been to an eye doctor in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. I refuse to accept that I might need serious, all-day-long eye assistance. Instead, I’ve become an enthusiastic proponent of reading glasses. I have them scattered throughout my house, my car, at work. I was relieved to discover they’re cheap and can be bought anywhere from drugstores and grocery stores to T.J.Maxx, where I found a boxed set of three pairs with gaudy, designer frames for $12. My favorite is a pair that looks like green apple and watermelon Jolly Ranchers have been melted together.

  I find a pair with leopard-print frames and plunk them on my face.

  The camera really does add ten pounds, because there’s no way that extra ten pounds around my middle is my fault, I assure myself while I take another swig from my beer and rip off a chunk of the crusty bread I picked up on my way home from Zuchelli’s Bakery.

  My image dissolves into one of the Truly family standing outside their home. Jessy’s holding her baby in one arm and has the other around a miserable-looking, raw-eyed Tug, who’s taken his cap off and holds it respectfully in his too-big hands as if he’s already mourning in a church. Shawna’s holding Derk by the shoulders and has him placed directly in front of her like a shield. He twists and fidgets, fighting his captor, and I watch her fingers dig into him.

  There’s a man with them I assume to be Clark Truly. Bad teeth and a bad mullet are his only distinguishing features. He looks a good twenty years older than the forty-two he has under his belt. I attribute this to the booze, but some of it could also be due to the instant aging that occurs when a man’s called home from the road to face the brutal murder of his daughter.

  He’s got a good sway going on and his words are slightly slurred.

  “We got nothing to say except whoever done this better hope the cops get to them first.”

  The reporter wisely decides not to pursue the family interview any further, but before the spot returns to the safety of the news desk, I notice the words of his father jerk Tug out of his grieving stupor for a moment and a flash of hot rage dances across his guileless features before settling in at the tips of his ears, turning them bright red.

  I look away from the TV and concentrate on cooking instead. I chop up a bunch of garlic cloves and tear up a few
slices of prosciutto and toss them into a pot with simmering olive oil, then go outside to pick some basil out of my garden and put a sliced eggplant on the grill. Back inside, I add what’s left of my last bottle of red wine to the pot and reduce by half, then a can of crushed tomatoes, a little water, and a jar of my homemade sauce I put up every summer after my tomato harvest.

  The sauce is simmering and the water’s boiling for pasta when I hear a knock at my front door. It’s a cop knock. Boom, boom, boom.

  Nolan’s standing on my front porch, preliminary autopsy report in hand.

  “It could’ve waited until Monday, or you could’ve faxed or emailed it to me like I asked a hundred times today,” I say to him.

  “I was busy,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “You cooking something? Smells good.”

  “Come in.”

  He heads straight for the kitchen. I retrieve my eggplant from the grill. He’s already helped himself to a beer and taken off his tie and his shoulder holster by the time I return.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “Nothing too interesting,” he begins.

  Nolan doesn’t believe in small talk.

  “The blows to the head killed her.”

  “So she wasn’t . . .”

  “No. She was already dead when she was lit on fire.”

  I chop up the eggplant and throw it into the sauce and dump a box of penne into the boiling water.

  “So it was unnecessary. It was something personal for the killer.”

  “Or he was trying to get rid of the body like you said out at the site and changed his mind or someone else changed it for him.

  “Two distinct wounds made from the same weapon as yet unidentified,” he continues. “There were rust particulates in the wounds. Could be from the weapon or where she was killed or how she was transported. No sign of sexual assault. Initial blood work looks clean. No alcohol or drugs.”

  “Who are you bringing in besides the family?”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “He has a name. Zane.”

  “Don’t start getting mushy.”