Silence on Cold River

by Casey Dunn

  “It’s tempting, really. But there’s just one thing. The space for my story has already been committed—front page of the Sunday paper. I’ve been working on this story for months, and it’ll be my first front-page Sunday byline, and I’m not giving that up. And if seven files are on your desk, and Eddie Stevens isn’t charged with anything yet, it sounds like you’re either tallying up a body count before filing, or you’re looking at someone else—someone who isn’t in custody. The public has a right to know, don’t they?”

  “Just wait, please. I’m begging you. One life might be actively at stake, and if you run this story, you’ll increase the risk that we don’t find this person alive.”

  “You’re not using pronouns on purpose, Detective Locklear. Thank you for your official comments and confirming my theory about Hazel. Good night,” she said, and hung up.

  Martin slammed the phone down. He could only hope the reporter was bluffing and would phone back once she made sure she’d have a front-page Sunday byline with a story including the additional information. But for now, he needed to act as though the whole world would know Hazel was out there to be found come Sunday morning and that whoever had her would feel the squeeze.

  Martin returned to Eddie’s room and nearly shoved a piece of paper and a pen in his direction. “Write out every person in this town you think Hazel would willingly have had a conversation with.”

  “Everything okay?” Eddie asked, taking the pen too slowly between his fingers.

  “I just got off the phone with a writer at the AJC who’s put the Ama and Hazel connection together. She’s running the story Sunday. I couldn’t stop it. I believe Hazel is still in Tarson, Eddie. But after Sunday, there’s no telling where whoever has her might take her once the spotlight turns back on these woods.”

  Eddie nodded, blinking rapidly, working his lips around a thought. “I… I don’t know that we need a list of who Hazel would’ve talked to,” he stammered, obviously feeling the sudden shifts in control and pressure. “There was a freshman girl she ate lunch with. Vivian? Violet? Something with a V. And one girl in the school chorus she would study with sometimes.”

  “Anybody else?” Martin pressed.

  “Well, there was the substitute music teacher. She adored him. He’s going to sound suspect the way I sounded suspect,” Eddie cautioned. “They were close, but nothing inappropriate, I can promise you that.”

  “Why is he going to sound suspect?” Martin flipped his notebook to a clean sheet and grabbed another pen.

  “Don’t let this sidetrack you again.”

  “All I’m going to do is listen.”

  “The music teacher’s name is Jonathon Walks,” Eddie started slowly. “He took Hazel under his wing, worked with her after class—always out in the open. He asked my permission. He saw her talent, recognized that she wasn’t using it to her full potential, and really brought it out of her. I don’t even think she knew what her voice was capable of until he showed her it was in there.”

  “You’re protective of him. Why?”

  “He brought Hazel back to life, Martin. After her mother died and we moved here, I felt like Hazel had slipped down this deep hole, and I was throwing everything I could in there to help her back out, but it wasn’t working. That teacher… he made the light come back on inside of her.”

  “Just playing devil’s advocate here,” Martin started. “Manipulators generally target potential victims like Hazel—outsiders, kind hearts, loners…” He hesitated. “Broken homes.”

  “Our home wasn’t broken,” Eddie said, and his jaw set.

  “You know what I mean. Don’t take it personally. This is investigating. We’re digging. Building. Shifting pieces. It’s hard. It’s messy. It’s why we don’t usually involve the family on this side.”

  Eddie closed his eyes and seemed to center himself. “It’s just, Jonathon seemed a little bit like a kindhearted loner, too. He kept to himself. He joined the search for Hazel. He walked every inch of Tarson Woods with me, even did some of the harder terrain on his own for me.” Eddie tapped his right leg. “I have a bum knee. Going up isn’t so bad. It’s the coming back down that gets me.”

  “Okay, so hear me out.” Martin stood and wrote Jonathon Walks on the board. “We have a teacher—a temporary teacher—who takes a special interest in Hazel. Spends extra time with her. That’s often called ‘grooming.’ ”

  “I know what it’s called.”

  “Then Hazel disappears and Jonathon interjects himself into the investigation.”

  “He just helped look for her. Hung flyers.”

  “He saw everywhere police were looking. He’d know if they were close,” Martin countered.

  “I hear you. But you think all these people might be connected to one person. What would he have to do with Ama or those two teenage boys from twenty years ago? He cared about my daughter. He looked for her because he cared. Is it so hard to believe someone else cared about Hazel besides me?”

  “That’s fair. And, Mr. Stevens, a lot of people care about Hazel.” Martin frowned. “Here’s what I think we know. We are looking for a white man, someone who would blend in easily around here. Probably pushing forty, but not younger than thirty, if he’s connected to those boys. Physically fit; he’d have to be. Local. Each of these people knew the attacker.”

  “Jonathon isn’t local. He moved here from Atlanta a couple years ago.”

  “I’d still like to talk to him,” Martin said.

  “He doesn’t work at the school anymore. The regular teacher, Mrs. Anderson, came back. He said he had a good temp job offer over in Dalton.”

  “Did he move away?”

  “I’m not sure where he was living. I never went to his house. Neither did Hazel.”

  “Was it shortly after the investigation ended?”

  “Maybe six months after Hazel disappeared. Jobs don’t come easy here, Martin. He had to go where the money was.”

  “Sure,” Martin said absently as he wrote Jonathon’s name at the top of the paper, along with a note to check into his credentials and his last known address.

  His gut was a seesaw on the possible lead. Jonathon Walks had all the markers for someone grooming a victim. But Eddie was right—he had nothing to do, that they knew of, with the early people on this list, and the only obvious connection to Ama was that they both lived in Atlanta at some point, a city with nearly half a million people.

  Martin’s eyes flitted back to Toni Hargrove. Was he wrong to put her on this list? Was her presence throwing off his judgment? No, he decided. If nothing else, she would be a constant reminder to stay focused… and to stay sober.

  “He gave me his number, though,” Eddie said. “If you want to talk to him, I can call.”

  “Write it down for me,” Martin said, and spun the pad of paper to face Eddie. He wasn’t about to call Jonathon until he was absolutely sure of two things: if Jonathon was who he was looking for, and where he could be found.

  If nothing else, Jonathon Walks was as solid a lead as he could expect—somewhere between a person of interest and a suspect—which also meant he had a place to start and something of value to report to Captain. Martin could only hope it was worth enough to buy him a little more time.

  MICHAEL Chapter 46 | August 30, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia

  “CLASS, THIS IS MR. WALKS. He’s a vocal coach at the Music Box. Some of you may remember him from Career Day. He’ll be stepping in for Mrs. Anderson through the end of the year while she’s on medical leave. I expect you to give him the same courtesy and effort you give any member of our staff,” Mrs. Brownlow, the school’s principal, instructs the group of teenagers.

  I look out over them, unconcerned. Chorus is an elective music class. Students want to be here. The only trouble I may have would be from the two muscle heads in the back row—probably athletes who took this class thinking it would be an easy A.

  Nothing about music is easy.

  One of them catches me staring and locks e
yes. I don’t look away. He blinks once. Twice. Three times. Then slouches down in his seat and drops his gaze to the cell phone he’s hidden in his lap. I watch him long enough to be there when his glance flicks up at me once more. He shifts in his seat, pretending it was an accident.

  “Hazel, are you listening?” Mrs. Brownlow asks, the tone in her voice breaking from the melody.

  Next to the window, a girl sits up and closes her notebook. She nods.

  “We listen with our eyes, too,” she instructs, bringing her finger to the bridge of her nose.

  That’s not your eye, I have to resist telling her.

  Hazel watches Mrs. Brownlow for a few seconds before attention begins to leave her face a degree at a time. As the principal turns control of the class over to me, Hazel flips her notebook to the back cover and draws with a purple-ink pen. Her gold eyes are rimmed in charcoal black. She reminds me of a cobra, and although she is, at a glance, the smallest person in the room, her every movement triggers my nerve endings. A shot of adrenaline races down every limb, and I feel as alive as the moment I burst above the surface of Cold River when I had every reason to sink into the dark.

  MARTIN Chapter 47 | 7:00 AM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

  MORNING CAME, BRIGHT AND UNFORGIVING. It had only been nine hours since he’d botched the phone call with Esther Kim, but with the sun up and his back throbbing from a three-hour nap at his desk, it felt like he’d already lost a whole day to her deadline. He had to hope Esther was bluffing and didn’t have anything sensational to report. Maybe the phone call had been purely a proverbial fishing trip, the anniversary of Hazel’s disappearance making for good emotional fodder, in which case he’d given her a ten-pound bass. He had half a mind to get a subpoena for her notes, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  He stared across the table at Eddie, who was leafing through Martin’s case file from Toni Hargrove’s murder.

  “How do you see this kind of thing all day, every day, and not go crazy?” Eddie asked.

  “Pain pills. Sleeping pills. Uppers, downers, whatever I could get my hands on.” Martin leaned back in his chair and pointed at Toni’s picture. “That woman died because of me. She called me from a pay phone not fifteen miles from here, and she had to leave a message because I had taken enough sedatives to down a horse. Never heard the call come in.”

  “She should’ve called nine-one-one,” Eddie countered.

  “The nine key on the pay phone didn’t work and the number three key was missing. I think my number must’ve been the only one she could think of with no nines or threes.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “I’d used her a few times as an informant. She turned tricks in Savannah. I kept her out of the pen. She kept me in the loop on a couple of her clients’ whereabouts, guys with ties to drug trafficking. Then one day, she was in the wind. I think she might’ve run her mouth to somebody, or someone found out she was relaying information. I hadn’t heard from her in years. I knew she’d been picked up a couple times in Atlanta for solicitation. I talked to her once when she was at the Fulton County station. She gave them my name and tried to tell them she was undercover. During that phone call she told me she was leaving corners behind and was going to be a singer. You know, she actually sounded genuine.”

  “She said what now?” Eddie asked, and his expression turned to stone. “You said she wanted to be a singer?”

  Martin swung his gaze across the line of faces again. Maybe Toni wasn’t the piece that was throwing off the picture. Maybe the first two—boys who Captain said didn’t even really fit up there—were coloring the line with the wrong tint.

  “From what I know, it’s a fifty-fifty split up there as far as music is concerned,” Martin said. “And that’s being generous. Still, I think it’s worth a trip to the school, see what I can find out about your teacher friend. Don’t tell him I’m looking for him yet, just in case it turns out I need to be. We need to get you back in the ‘holding cell’ before anyone clocks in.”

  “Okay,” Eddie said, and Martin could tell Eddie was less sure about Hazel’s teacher than he had been hours ago. Maybe it was the music link. Maybe it was the pictures of Toni’s body. Maybe tiny details in his subconscious were beginning to stick together, forming something not so small, not so easy to overlook.

  MICHAEL Chapter 48 | October 22, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia

  THE LID TO THE SHELTER is not how I left it. I leave my backpack aboveground, grip my cane in my right hand, pull the lid back, and hop down. The hatch door is wide-open. An old man sits at the table, his pale skin paper-thin and sagging, his scalp rung in short-cropped silver hair. His hands are clasped on the tabletop, and he’s spinning something between them.

  “I knew it was you the second I seen you at the cemetery,” he says, and his voice registers his name: Mr. Bill. “You got gone. Why didn’t you stay gone?”

  “Felt like the right time to come home,” I answer carefully.

  “Your momma know?”

  “You of all people should understand why I didn’t feel compelled to go knock on that door,” I say as I walk into the room.

  “She’s better now, you know. Still can’t see much, of course. But better. She has regrets, Michael.”

  “Regrets.” I nod. “I don’t believe regrets exist. Not really. I believe in Fate, Mr. Bill. Fate guides. Fate clears the path at our feet. Fate always brings us back to where we ought to be. So how can we have regrets? Mother taught me that, you know. She showed me how powerful Fate can be.”

  “She told me,” Bill says quietly.

  “She doesn’t understand Fate, Bill. Not even a little bit. And you… you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I helped your father build this. I helped dig both tunnels. I helped install every cabinet. I know what should be here and what shouldn’t be.” He opens his hands, and the skeletal remains of Timmy’s fingertips appear in his palm.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I repeat, regarding him, the prickly sensation of being too warm spreading through me. Lady Fate is a raven in my chest, cawing and flapping, driving my blood ever faster. “But now you can’t leave,” I say, and I close the door.

  AMA Chapter 49 | 9:00 AM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

  AMA SHIFTED IN THE PASSENGER seat of Lindsey’s Honda Accord, unable to find a tolerable position. She grunted, twisting again, and her mind turned to Hazel—underground. Hazel—chained to a wall. Hazel—another day spent in utter silence, despite Michael’s best efforts.

  “I don’t think you should’ve signed yourself out of the hospital before they thought you were ready,” Lindsey said.

  “I’m fine. My vitals are stable. They were planning to discharge me tomorrow if nothing changed, anyway,” Ama answered.

  “I still don’t understand the rush to leave just to come stay here.” She pulled the car into the parking lot of a motel near the state route exit for Tarson. Ama could feel Lindsey’s gaze shift from the squat L-shaped building to Ama’s chest, no doubt eyeing where the bullet had gone in.

  “Let me take you home,” Lindsey said softly, the car idling, her hand clutching the gear shift.

  “No. I need to stay in Tarson.”

  “Why?” Lindsey pressed.

  If she was being honest with herself, Ama knew part of why she wanted to stay in Tarson was because Michael wouldn’t expect it. He’d peg her for someone who would throw herself back into her life and her work, determined to prove he hadn’t affected her. The last thing he’d think she’d do would be to stay in a run-down motel within walking distance of Tarson Woods. She also knew she couldn’t draw Michael to her from her penthouse apartment overlooking Piedmont Avenue. That wasn’t how he operated. She knew she needed something so big, so tempting, his curiosity would override his rule about the organic crossing of paths.

  “Ama?” Lindsey prompted, and Ama’s focus returned to the present. “What’s going on?” she asked. Lindsey knew how Ama liked her sandwiches, her c
offee, her drinks, her men. She knew instinctively when to cancel unnecessary appointments and kick Ama out of the office for an hour or two. And she would know if Ama was lying, so Ama had to tell at least a fragment of the truth.

  Lindsey turned off the engine and stared full faced at Ama, waiting.

  “I want to give back,” Ama said, which was partially true. “You said it yourself: my image needs damage control. Getting shot doesn’t make me nearly as sympathetic as you might think.”

  Ama’s thoughts returned to the V.A.A.C. page, to the things people had said about her. A lot of those things held partial truths, too.

  “You don’t owe anyone anything,” Lindsey said firmly.

  “No, I do. And I need your help to do it. If you wanted to draw a big crowd for a good cause, how would you do it?”

  “Like a fundraiser?” Lindsey suggested.

  “A fundraiser would be perfect,” Ama said, her thoughts taking off at a sprint. “A silent auction, with live music, catered food, a dance floor…”

  “What are you raising funds for, exactly?” Lindsey asked.

  “Maybe for the Tarson Police Department, as a way to say thank-you. Maybe they can buy some new equipment or safety gear or something,” she heard herself answer, but her mind wasn’t on the police station. She could already see the auction bursting to life, people talking, swarming the open bar, placing bids, talking plenty of shit about Ama, no doubt. The most important piece was silent and empty: a baby grand piano spotlighted alone on a stage. Michael wouldn’t be able to resist, would he? Then again, if uniforms were everywhere, he may not chance it. She bit down on her lip, suddenly flooded with doubt.