He tossed the ledger back into the box. “Now what?” he asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Geena said. “And stop by Linda Walsh’s one more time.”
Parker knocked on Linda Walsh’s door yet again. The wind picked up, whipped around his shoulders. He pulled his collar up to ward off the chill. Men weren’t supposed to show that the cold bothered them. They were supposed to be rugged outdoorsmen, tough enough to withstand the elements, blah, blah, blah. The whole idea of it sounded stupid to Parker as he stood with his shoulders to his ears doing his best to block the icy breeze from hitting the back of his neck. Geena didn’t seem bothered by it.
“Nordic, huh?” he said.
She smiled, shrugged.
“Can I help you?” An older woman stood behind the storm door. Her white hair was cut to her jawline in a style that was fitting for her sharp features.
“Linda Walsh?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Reed,” he said. “And this is my partner, Detective Brassard.”
“What can I do for you?” She talked through the glass door. She wasn’t going to make this easy. They were going to have to work for every little bit of information they needed from her.
“We have a few questions about Lester Haines. May we come in?”
She opened the door, stepped aside. Geena walked in first, followed by Parker. Mrs. Walsh motioned for them to sit on the couch. She took up a position in the armchair across from them.
The first thing Parker noticed was the smell of new carpeting. He looked down at the blue rug underneath his feet. “Cal’s Carpets?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Did you know Lester Haines?” Geena asked, getting right to the point.
“Yes,” she said and folded her hands in her lap. “I knew him.”
“How well did you know him?” Geena asked.
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but he was the husband of my good friend.”
“I wasn’t insinuating anything,” Geena said and glanced Parker’s way. He hid a smile. Mrs. Walsh was living proof of that small-town paranoia Geena had brought up earlier.
Parker jumped in. “You and Sharon Haines are friends, then?”
“Yes, we’ve lived on this street together since our daughters were kids. I’ve known Sharon a long time.”
“What can you tell me about her relationship with her husband?” Parker asked. “Was it good? Did they get along?”
“I wouldn’t say it was good.” Her voice was flat, matter of fact.
“How would you describe it, then?” Geena asked.
“They had their problems.” Mrs. Walsh stared at Geena. “Lester used to drink.”
“We know the local police were called to Sharon’s place on more than one occasion,” Parker said. “But she refused to press charges,” he added in a gentler tone.
“Does that matter? The fact he put his hands on her should be enough.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” Geena said.
Mrs. Walsh directed her question to Geena. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“We’re just trying to figure out what happened to him,” Geena said.
Mrs. Walsh looked back to Parker. “Did he break her bones? Put her in the hospital? Is that what you want me to tell you? Would that be better for your case, evidence that she was roughed up?”
“No, ma’am, we’re not saying that at all,” Parker said.
“Well, you won’t find any evidence. She always refused to go to the hospital.”
“Okay,” Parker said. He seemed to be the bad guy here. No matter what he asked, she went on the defensive.
“Do you know anyone who might’ve wanted Lester dead?” Geena asked.
Mrs. Walsh smiled. It softened her features. “I’m sure there were numerous people who wanted him dead. He was that kind of guy. But if you’re looking for specific names, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Did you want him dead?” Parker asked. He’d never played bad cop before, never had to, but it was clear Mrs. Walsh might not like him, simply for being male. He might as well go with it, see if they could keep her talking.
She glared at Parker. “No, Detective, not me. But I was glad when he wasn’t around anymore. And I can tell you that I didn’t expend too much energy worrying about where he might’ve gone or what might’ve happened to him.”
“What about friends?” Geena asked. “Family? Anyone he might’ve been at odds with around that time? Other neighbors? Fights? Disagreements?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t think of anyone, but I wasn’t around much. I was a single mother. I worked a lot to pay the bills. I do recall speaking to the police when Sharon first reported him missing. I’m sure you have my statement somewhere.”
“We do,” Parker said.
“Well, then, if I suspected anyone back then, I would’ve said so.”
“Okay,” Geena said and stood. “If you think of anything, anything at all, give me a call.” She handed her a card. “Thank you for your time.”
Parker nodded at Mrs. Walsh, then followed Geena out.
“What do you make of her?” Geena asked once they were in the car.
“I don’t think she’s fond of men in general.”
“I don’t know about that,” Geena said. “But she definitely didn’t warm to you.”
“And she certainly didn’t hide her dislike for Lester.”
“He sounds like a real scumbag,” Geena said.
“Yes, but whether we like it or not, our job is to find out who killed him.”
Geena was silent for a while, checked her phone, then dropped it in her lap. “It’s not always easy, though, is it, detaching yourself from a case.” She looked out the passenger-side window.
“No, it’s not,” Parker said, wondered if she were talking about their current case or a past one. He was already invested in what Geena called the “cold woods.” Maybe distancing himself was something he’d eventually learn how to do better after he’d spent more time on the job, to pull back, to disconnect, if only to be able to sleep at night. So far, he hadn’t been able to do it.
There was something about these women, Sharon and Trisha and even Linda, that tugged at him, a silent strength they emanated, one that came from having endured something awful and survived.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DECEMBER 1986
Trisha played dead, or maybe she wasn’t playing at all. Maybe she really was dead. She’d been lying still on her mattress underneath the comforter for so long that her arms and legs had gone numb. Her breathing was shallow—when she allowed herself to breathe—holding her breath for long periods of time as she strained to listen for any sounds.
A loud banging came from downstairs, Lester cursing afterward.
The blue numbers on the clock radio glared one a.m. Her mother wouldn’t be home from her shift at the bar until well after two. She was late getting home on the nights she’d close up, leaving Lester a vast amount of time to get up to no good.
Trisha stared into the dark bedroom. She listened hard for footsteps on the creaky wooden stairs. The kitchen cabinets opened and closed. He was searching for food. He cursed some more. It was quiet after that. Another ten minutes passed. The kitchen chair scraped the linoleum floor. She smelled ramen noodles. He must’ve heated them on the stove. He didn’t know how to use a microwave.
This was her chance to move. It was now or never. And still she continued to lie there. She needed more time to gather her courage. When had hiding under the covers ever worked? She’d tried everything when she’d been younger: cocooning in the sheets, curling into a fetal position, praying to Dannie’s God to make the monster go away.
Nothing had ever worked.
She was seventeen and too old to be that frightened little girl anymore. If she didn’t stop it now, if she let it continue, there would be nothing left of her to save.
Time ticked away. It was now 1:2
0 a.m. He would finish eating the noodles any minute. She counted to three and slid from beneath the covers, tiptoed across the room, tried not to make a sound. She reached her bedroom door and quietly closed it, careful to turn the knob so that it wouldn’t click. The lock had stopped working years ago. Lester had seen to that. But with the door closed it would give her a few more seconds to prepare herself, to hide in the dark.
She sneaked back to the bed and dropped to her hands and knees, searched the floor for the aluminum bat that she’d kept next to the mattress. Scott had been pissed when he’d found out she’d stolen it. He’d begged her to return it to the gym and even offered to do it for her. She’d told him she couldn’t; she needed it. He hadn’t asked her again.
She picked it up. The handle was cold in her sweaty palms. She was wearing Scott’s T-shirt, felt the cotton sticking to her back. She moved away from the bed and the window, crept to the corner of the room, disappeared in the shadows.
It had grown quiet downstairs. The bat at her side knocked against her leg.
Lester was on the steps, heavy footed and lumbering. He stumbled, mumbled something under his breath. He was in the hallway. Then her bedroom door opened. She pulled in a breath, raised the bat.
Lester stepped into the room. “Princess,” he said and kicked the edge of the mattress.
Adrenaline forced her out of the shadows, or maybe it was pure hatred. She swung the bat in the general direction of his head. She missed and struck the wall instead, knocking one of her posters down, along with pieces of plaster.
Lester yelled, surprised. She swung at him again, missed him a second time, striking nothing but air, sending her careening forward. He grabbed her arm. She twisted away. The entire room smelled of him, sweat and alcohol and testosterone.
From the sliver of moonlight coming through the window, she could make out his bare chest, ropy arms, potbelly. She lowered her gaze, glancing below his waist, not wanting to, but she was unable to stop herself.
He grinned. “Like what you see, princess?”
Fear spread throughout her limbs, reaching as far as her fingertips and toes. “Leave me alone.”
He lunged at her. He was quick, faster than she’d anticipated. He yanked the bat out of her hands, raised it high above his shoulders as though he were going to hit her with it. She threw her arms up to shield herself from the blow.
He didn’t hit her.
Instead, he swung the bat wildly, back and forth, over and over again like a madman. Trisha didn’t move, mesmerized by the craziness of what she was seeing. He finally stopped, his breathing heavy, his body drenched with fresh sweat. He took an awkward step back and then another one. He was swaying, looked as though he didn’t know what to do next. He mumbled into his chest.
Trisha thought about running out of the room, but then he shook the aluminum bat under her nose. She inhaled sharply, her heart beating loudly in her ears.
“Stupid bitch.” He made like he was going to hit her.
She flinched.
He laughed, and the bat dropped from his hand. She could just make out the shape of it as it rolled across the floor toward the dresser. He said something. She didn’t understand. His words were jumbled. He slurred. He was having trouble staying on his feet. He rocked forward.
Trisha lunged for the bat, her bare foot banging hard into the corner of the dresser. Pain shot through her little toe. Why was it always the little toe? She picked up the bat as Lester stumbled toward her. He tried to grab it from her hands again, but she pushed it toward him rather than pulling it away from him, and it knocked him off balance. He tripped on the mattress and fell to his knees. She ran out the door, down the stairs.
She didn’t look back.
Trisha raced down the sidewalk toward Carlyn’s house. The winter air assaulted her skin, the cold cement like sandpaper beneath her bare feet. Carlyn’s mother wouldn’t be home until sometime around seven.
Trisha knocked on the door. She shoved her hands underneath her moist armpits, along with the bat. She wondered if her mother would find Lester passed out in Trisha’s bedroom when she got home. She wanted to tell her mother what he was doing, but she was ashamed, as though it were somehow her fault. How could she tell her when he’d convinced Trisha that she was partly to blame for walking around the house in tight pants and shirts, flaunting herself at him? “No, I don’t do that,” she’d yelled. “I don’t do any of those things.” He’d forced her down. “Yes, you do.”
“Carlyn!” she called and knocked harder.
“Trisha?” Carlyn’s voice rang out from the open window on the side of the house.
“Open the door,” she said.
Within a few seconds, Carlyn pulled the front door open.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“That’s okay; come in, come in. What happened?” Carlyn took Trisha by the elbow, led her to the kitchen. She flipped on the light. “Sit,” she said and put Trisha in a chair at the folding card table. Then she grabbed two sodas from the refrigerator and sat across from her.
Trisha leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette, her arms and legs trembling.
Carlyn got up and opened a window. Mrs. Walsh didn’t like when people smoked in her house. She believed the warning label on the pack that said cigarettes were dangerous to your health.
“Talk to me, Trisha. Tell me what happened,” Carlyn said.
Trisha shook her head, unable to speak. There were some things she couldn’t talk about, put into words, the fear of reliving them too strong. She rubbed her eyes, took a drag from the cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the open window. A night breeze sucked the polluted air outside, pulling the yellow curtains against the screen.
“Did you hit him?” Carlyn asked, motioning to the bat.
“Missed,” she said.
“Too bad.”
Trisha smiled. “Yeah.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I wish he’d just go away.” She looked at Carlyn’s messy brown hair, wide-set eyes. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight?”
“Of course it is.”
Trisha popped the tab on her soda, took a sip. She picked at the scrape near the top of the bat where it had struck the wall, putting a hole in the plaster. The blue dye had chipped away to reveal the silver metal underneath. “You got a knife?” she asked.
“In the drawer.”
She got up and put the cigarette out in the sink, then searched through the silverware drawer, found a steak knife.
“What are you planning to do?” Carlyn asked.
“You’ll see,” she said, and with enough pressure, she was able to etch the initials S. S., for Slate Sisters, their childhood club, onto the sweet spot in the center of the bat. She inspected the engraving. “It’s missing something.”
“Put a heart around it,” Carlyn said.
Trisha scratched a heart into the aluminum. “There.” She showed it to her.
“Is that Scott’s shirt?” Carlyn asked.
She looked down at her chest. “Yes.”
Carlyn fiddled with the can of soda. She wouldn’t look at her.
“Don’t be mad. It’s not what you think.”
“I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?”
Trisha sighed. “Do you mind if we just went to bed?”
She followed Carlyn upstairs.
“There’s an extra pillow in the closet,” Carlyn said and crawled into bed. “Do you want my sleeping bag?”
Trisha shook her head. All the other times she’d slept in Carlyn’s bedroom, it had been on the floor with her own blankets and pillows. But tonight, she didn’t want to be relegated to the floor. Instead, she slipped into the bed next to her friend, tucked the bat safely by her side. The sheets smelled like Carlyn, a little bit like a locker room. Or maybe that was her dirty running gear piled high in front of the closet door. She reached for Carlyn’s hand, turned to face her on the pillow.
“What are you doing?” Carlyn aske
d.
She couldn’t see her eyes. There wasn’t enough moonlight to reach her face, but she sensed Carlyn’s nervousness. “I see the way you look at me,” she said.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Carlyn said.
“I know how you feel about me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” Trisha brushed a strand of hair away from Carlyn’s cheek.
“Don’t do that,” Carlyn said and pulled her hand away.
“Don’t do what?” Trisha searched for Carlyn’s hand under the covers once again, found it, held it firmly.
“Don’t tease me,” Carlyn said.
“I’m not teasing you,” she whispered and rolled toward her, leaned in close. “Do you want me to stop?” Trisha didn’t know what she was doing, why she was toying with her friend’s emotions this way. She thought it had something to do with trying to take back the power that Lester had stripped away from her, even if it meant hurting someone she loved. It was as though she craved control, needed it, to be the one in charge, when she felt so helpless in every other aspect of her life.
“If you don’t mean it,” Carlyn said, “then yes, I’d like for you to stop.”
Trisha turned away, stared at the ceiling.
“You don’t mean it, do you?”
She could hear the desperation in Carlyn’s voice. Trisha didn’t know what made her say what she said next. “Do you touch yourself when you think of me?” she asked.
“What? No,” Carlyn said.
“Ever yell out my name?”
“Shut up, Trisha.” Carlyn rolled to her side, put her back to Trisha.
“Oh, come on. I’m just teasing you. Don’t be that way.” Trisha laid the bat on the floor. She didn’t know what had come over her, but now that she’d started down this path, she couldn’t seem to stop. She curled her body around Carlyn’s, spooned her. “I know you like me.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
Cold Woods Page 11
