Gone to Ground

by Brandilyn Collins

  I heaved back in the chair, fear tumblin in my head. I should tell the police what I seen.

  "No way, Ben, cain't do it." I looked toward the chair where my husband used to sit. "The chief won't believe me. He's too close to Mayor B. He'll tell the mayor lickety-split—and there goes my biggest housecleanin customer. And everbody else, too, when word gets round town I done snooped in the Mayor's desk. Meanwhile Mayor B will get rid a the evidence. Then guess who'll be his next victim."

  But could I really just do nothin?

  Maybe I should get Pastor Ray's advice. But once I tol him, that would put him in the same position as me.

  If only I'd never looked in that drawer. This responsibility was too big.

  "Shame on you, Cherrie Mae Devine," said a voice in my head. "You been prayin for this killer to be caught. Now the Lord done sent you help—and you don't want nothin to do with it."

  I crossed my arms. My conscience could just hush.

  Trouble was, it spoke the truth. Like Lord Byron said, "Man's conscience is the oracle a God." Sittin on this information would be like tellin the Lord no thank You for answerin my prayers.

  Out a nowhere a stunnin realization hit. I done left my fingerprints all over Erika's ring.

  Air whooshed out my mouth.

  What if I tol the police I seen that ring—and Mayor B claimed I planted it in his file? And me bein the last known person to see Erika Hollinger alive. They could say I killed her.

  "Oh, Ben. What am I gon do?"

  Long minutes passed. My stomach growled but I paid it no mind. I pictured ever one a those murdered women. Martha. Sara. Sonya. Alma. Carla. And now Erika. I could see each a their smiles, hear their voices. None a them deserved what happened. Their blood cried out from the Amaryllis cemetery. And the remainin women in this town deserved to sleep in peace.

  Did I really think I could turn my back on this? Imagine if another woman lost her life in such a terrible way cause I said nothin.

  But which police officer could I tell? Any one of em would just go straight to the chief, who was too close to the mayor.

  I shook my head. Nope. I couldn't talk to anyone a them.

  Which left only one person to look into this mess—at least for now, till I got some proof.

  Me.

  The sun was settin by the time I pulled to my feet. As I searched my refrigerator for somethin quick to eat, I knew what I had to do.

  If I got caught . . .

  Well. I didn't want to think bout that.

  Chapter 8

  Tully

  As I lay on the couch Mike came into the house to change for work. I tensed when he walked by, the air thick between us.

  I hadn't been outside all day. My neck was bruised.

  Without a word Mike headed for the bedroom.

  I closed my eyes. Not even married a year and look at me. How was I going to live like this? And after my baby was born, what then? Would Michael one day threaten his life too?

  I didn't even want to name my baby after his father anymore.

  Mike's footsteps approached. I pretended to sleep.

  "Tully." His voice cut down from the end of the sofa.

  I lay still.

  Mike slapped my foot. I jerked.

  "I know you ain't sleepin."

  I raised my head. "What?"

  Emotions rippled across his face. Anger . . . remorse . . . defiance. He stared at me, his mouth hard. "I want you to make sure all the doors are locked till I get home."

  "They're always locked."

  "You check em twice. Windows too."

  Was he trying to convince me he didn't kill Erika?

  "You hear?"

  "Yes."

  "And I don't want you goin to bed till I get home."

  "But I get so sleepy, you know that."

  "You don't have to get up in the mornin now and go to work. You can sleep late as you want. So sit up on the couch. And once it gets dark, take my gun from the nightstand and keep it beside you."

  Mike had taught me to shoot soon after we were married. He had some kind of pistol—I didn't even know what it was. But I knew how to load it and pull the trigger. These days there likely wasn't a home in Amaryllis that didn't have a gun.

  "Tully, I'm talkin to you."

  "I hear you. Okay."

  He put his hands on his hips. I could smell his last cigarette still lingering on his body. Who was I kidding—cigarette smell was everywhere in our house. I hated the smell of it. Why had I ever stood for that? Why hadn't I insisted he quit if he wanted to marry me?

  He fixed me with a steely gaze. "You think I killed her, Tully?" It was more of a challenge than a question.

  "Did you?"

  "No."

  We eyed each other.

  "Then why'd you come home late?"

  He shrugged. "Just extra work at the factory."

  Something at the factory—same excuse as when Carla Brewster was murdered. If he'd really worked overtime, it would show up on his paycheck. Not that he ever let me see it.

  "And your uniform?" Give me something, Michael. Something I can stake the rest of my life on.

  "I spilled stuff on it and had to change."

  If he'd just spilled something, where was the uniform? It would be his responsibility to wash it. And why did he nearly choke me to death?

  Mike ran his tongue below his upper lip. "As for that picture of me with Erika—ever hear of Photoshop? I wasn't with her. If she was pregnant—which I wouldn't doubt, knowin her—I didn't know anything about it. Sure wasn't my baby."

  Could that be true? I hadn't seen the picture for that long. Maybe it had been changed.

  Surely Michael saw the wild hope in my eyes. He nodded. "See. Told you."

  But the blood, Tully. The blood.

  "Okay."

  "That's it?" He scowled. "Just 'okay'? How bout 'I'm sorry I doubted you, Mike.'"

  I swallowed. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

  "Say it like you mean it."

  "I'm sorry I doubted you."

  Mike nodded, his lips twisting. "That's better." He turned to go. "See you tonight."

  I lay like a stone until the front door closed behind him.

  Not till the truck backed out of the driveway did I struggle to my feet. I headed into our kitchen and picked up a pair of plastic gloves from underneath the sink. Put them on. Then into our bedroom and to my dresser. I leaned over to slide out the bottom drawer, full of regular-sized clothing. One day I'd be able to fit into them again. I lifted the pile on the right, feeling to the bottom. My plastic-coated fingers brushed the small paper bag I'd hidden yesterday. I pulled it out, sat on the bed, and dumped out its contents.

  Out rolled a swath of toilet paper.

  Biting the inside of my lip, I unwrapped the paper, layer after layer, my fingers clumsy in the gloves. Finally the objects I'd so carefully protected lay before me.

  Two cotton swabs, both stained red. The blood on the doorknob had been long dried by the time I found it. The only way I could swab it was to dampen the cotton.

  Would a tiny bit of water make a difference in DNA testing?

  Crazy, saving this evidence, then cleaning the rest of it off the doorknob.

  I stared at the blood. Was it Erika's?

  My nerves tingled. What was I going to do with this? If I took it to the police and DNA matched, they'd arrest my husband.

  I closed my eyes, picturing the cops at our door, Mike's hands cuffed behind his back. Neighbors watching, word spreading across town. The look Mike would give me, his betrayer, as they pushed him into the squad car.

  If they let him go, he'd kill me.

  I stared at the swabs. I could take them down to the police ri
ght now. Show them the bruises on my neck. Mike wouldn't know—until they came to arrest him. Would they do that right away? If not I'd have to tiptoe around the house. Do nothing to set him off.

  But what if he found out?

  When I made these swabs, I wore plastic gloves, careful not to leave my own prints on the package. Just in case I sent it anonymously to police.

  Now I couldn't even bring myself to do that.

  The red cotton cried out to me, demanding justice. I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.

  Carefully I rewound the two swabs in the toilet paper, then placed them in the bag. Returned the package to the bottom of my drawer.

  I closed the drawer with a firm push, then turned around to face my empty bedroom.

  And the rest of my life.

  http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

  2010 Pulitzer Prize

  Feature Writing

  The Jackson Bugle

  Gone to Ground

  What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

  By: Trent Williams

  October 29, 2010

  (Excerpt)

  Legend of the Amaryllis cemetery ghost dates back to the early years of the town. In 1871 Winifred Prathers, wife of the town's first banker, was mourning their young son's death from diphtheria. As she knelt at the grave in the gloaming, she felt a rush of cold air at her back. Turning, she beheld a figure in dark clothing, whose face she could not discern. Man or woman? The figure clenched both hands to its chest and bowed its head, as if grieving for her loss. "Who are you?" Mrs. Prathers managed—and the form fizzled into pieces that melted into the gathering darkness.

  Sightings continued after that, the reports handed down from one generation to the next. Always the figure remained androgynous yet graceful, chilling yet empathetic, as if it mourned its own unrelinquishing form tethered between worlds, belonging to neither.

  As Amaryllis grew, its cemetery spread to include land on the other side of Turtle Creek, which once formed its rear boundary. While the front of the burial place sits at street level, the back drops down a hill and into a small field that borders some of the finest homes in town. In the 1930s grand stone steps were built into that hill, affording easy access for the elite to pay respects to their deceased. Apparently the ghost applauded the stone steps as well. The specter was seen ascending and descending, as well as dipping its feet into Turtle Creek, known for its unusually frigid water. Perhaps the ghost found comfort in the creek, the one entity colder than itself. That is, until the Closet Killer appeared.

  Chapter 9

  Cherrie Mae

  The phone rang a dozen times before I could eat my supper. Married friends checkin up to see how I was. Pastor Ray makin sure I was all right. I knew he'd be callin ever widow and single woman in his church. My son and daughter both called. "Mama, I just can't stand this worryin about you every night." Donelle's voice was tight-throated. "It's time you moved here to live with us. Memphis isn't that far away from Amaryllis. You could still visit your friends."

  Sometimes the thought a movin in with Donelle sounded good. Specially when I drug home from cleanin houses, feelin so beat. But what would I do in my daughter's house all day while she at work, her husband too? And they kids in school? I didn't know nobody in Memphis. All my friends is in Amaryllis. I was raised here, my parents was raised here. I don't want to go nowhere. Besides it's not fair I should change my whole life cause a some blood-thirsty murderer. He deserves to pay for his crimes, not me.

  That thought made me all the more determined to follow through on my plan. If Cherrie Mae Devine could help catch this killer and save Amaryllis, so be it. I had to walk in the shoes God done stitched for me.

  I just managed to hang up from talkin to Donelle when the phone rang again. I answered on automatic.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Devine. This is Trent Williams."

  Oh, mercy, the reporter. Why hadn't I checked the ID before I picked up the phone? "Hello, Trent. I heard you was in town."

  "Yes, ma'am." He spoke friendly enough but fast, like he was pressed for time. "Unfortunately I'm looking into this latest murder. I heard you visited Erika Hollinger the evening before her death. What did you two talk about?"

  "Who tol you that?" Couldn't be the police. They didn't talk to Trent Williams. His prize-winning article on the Closet Killings last year hadn't made them look so good.

  Maybe Erika's mama told him.

  "It is true, isn't it?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "Can you at least verify that you were with Erika?"

  "Nope."

  He sighed. "Come on, Mrs. Devine, can you give me something? You're bound to have some important insights, as the last known person to see her alive."

  My heart went a little softer. Trent was callin in favors as the local boy, and why shouldn't he? He'd made Amaryllis proud. "Trent, it's not that I don't want to help you. It's just that I done tol everthing I need to the police. And I don't want my name in the paper."

  I sure didn't need any eyes on me if I was gon carry out my plan.

  "Well, did Erika say anything to you that would indicate why someone would want to kill her?"

  Did serial killers need a motive—other than they just plain crazy? "No. Was there a reason to kill the rest a those women?"

  "I don't know, it's just . . . I've asked that question about every victim, hoping it'll trigger a thought in someone's mind. Some reason for all this." Frustration filled Trent's tone. "The worst thing about these murders is the randomness. If we could just make some sense of it all."

  The why question. Trent's article had talked bout that. The whole town wondered why.

  I shook my head. "Crime is common; logic is rare."

  "What?"

  "Sherlock Holmes."

  Silence. Trent must be thinkin that one over.

  "So, Mrs. Devine, do you have anything for me?" It was almost a plea.

  What I had was my own question: did Trent know where Mayor B was during all six murders?

  "Sorry, Trent. I need to go now."

  "If you change your mind, please call me on this number. It's my cell phone."

  "All right, young man. And I thank you for what you doin. Maybe one day you will find somethin to help crack this case." Goodness know the police weren't havin much luck.

  "Oh, Mrs. Devine, one last thing. When you were with Erika, did she eat any brownies?"

  My head drew back. "Why you want to know that?"

  "I imagine if she did, that's something you told the police?"

  "They tell you that?"

  He sighed. "No. They're not talking to me."

  I licked my lips. Smart as I knew Trent was, I done underestimated him. If he hadn't talked to the police, where'd he learn bout the brownies? Just went to show I couldn't possibly think through everthing regardin these murders.

  "Please, Mrs. Devine."

  I was in over my head. Who was I to try to fix this case?

  "Just say yes or no."

  "Tell you what. I answer this one question, you got to answer mine."

  "Deal."

  "Okay then. Yes."

  A pause. "What time?"

  "What time?"

  "When did she eat her last brownie?"

  "That's two questions."

  "Come on, Mrs. Devine, it's important."

  My mind spun back. Hadn't Chief Cotter wondered the same thing? As I remembered, Erika stuffed a brownie in her mouth bout the time I got up to go. "I guess around 10:00."

  "Great. Thank you very much."

  "Uh-huh." I blinked myself back to the present. "Trent, don't you go puttin my name in your article, you hear?"

  "I'l
l let you remain anonymous, I promise."

  "All right. Now my question." How to say it without givin anything away? "In all your talkin to people, you notice anybody not able to account for where they was durin the murders?"

  "I wish. Maybe that'd get us somewhere. You thinking about someone in particular?"

  I knew I shouldn't a said anything. Now I had to lie. Lord, forgive me. "No."

  "You sure?"

  "Can't a body just wonder somethin?"

  "Sure. Okay." Trent didn't sound convinced.

  "I really got to go now."

  "Please call me if you think of anything else? If you have some thought, maybe I can help run it down for you."

  If he only knew. "Okay, Trent. Bye now." I hung up the phone before he could say another word.

  For a long time I sat at the kitchen table lookin out the back window. Why did Trent want to know bout them brownies?

  Wish I hadn't answered his question. Somehow—didn't quite know how yet—that was gon get me in trouble.

  One thing I did know. Next time I took to wantin to bake for somebody I was gon think twice. Never know what kind a mess it could get you in.

  Chapter 10

  Deena

  At 5:30 I finished with the day's last customer. Betsy Luvall's gray hair was perfectly coifed for another week. My head ached, my feet hurt, and my mind turned like a whirlwind. I waited with Betsy while her husband came to get her—he wouldn't let his wife go anywhere by herself, even in the daytime. Then I locked the door while I counted the day's money.

  I wished I could go home and be alone. After a day's work I was always talked out. People thought I could chatter forever. That it came naturally. They were wrong. Unless I was nervous, talkin was simply a part of my business. Folks expect it from their hair stylist.

  But Trent Williams had called an hour ago, wantin to see me. For him it was part work, part date. Let him dream on. I saw it as an opportunity to gather information. Had anyone seen my brother, or an unknown figure, runnin through the cemetery or down our street? Or worse yet, comin to my door. Chances were good no one had seen a thing. The streets of Amaryllis always did roll up tight after dark, even before the murders started.