Silence on Cold River

by Casey Dunn

  “Ama! Wait!” He started for the car. “Ama Chaplin!”

  She slammed the door shut. Her profile disappeared behind a tinted window. The car pulled off and turned onto the two-lane road. Martin stopped jogging, but his mind began to race. The only reason Ama Chaplin would appear at Tarson High School was Hazel Stevens.

  Within minutes, Martin was once again standing in the main office, nearly out of breath.

  The secretary stared at him, her face the definition of underwhelmed. “Mrs. Brownlow has left campus for the rest of the day,” she said.

  “That’s fine. That’s not who I want to talk to. You just had another visitor. Name’s Ama Chaplin. Who did she ask to speak with?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “You can tell me, or I can get a warrant to search your records. I have questions about a lack of proper credentialing for your volunteers and substitutes, so that would actually help me out a lot.” He leaned over the counter. “Do you want to help me out a lot?”

  “She spoke with Mrs. Brownlow and Mrs. Anderson, the chorus director.”

  Martin rocked back on his heels. “Is Mrs. Anderson with a class now?”

  “No. She’s probably on her way out, if she hasn’t left already.”

  Martin whipped out of the office, mentally mapping where the chorus room had been when he’d given out cards earlier. He jogged the length of the hall and nearly collided with the teacher as he pivoted inside the open door. Mrs. Anderson hopped backward, clutching her chest.

  “Oh, you scared me,” she said, managing a laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I came by earlier. I’m Martin Locklear with the Tarson PD.”

  “Yes, and here about Hazel Stevens. How can I help?”

  “I heard Ama Chaplin came by to meet with you. Would you mind telling me what you two talked about?”

  “Well, you probably already know. Ama Chaplin came by to discuss putting on a fundraiser to help the school. She was so grateful to the Tarson Police for saving her life and wanted to give back to the community. She said she spoke with the department about what she could do, and they said the school could use the help the most with the budget shortfall we’re facing this year. Thank you for that, by the way.” She smiled, catching her breath. “You know the arts are always the first to go when the money isn’t there.”

  “You’re welcome,” Martin replied, managing to sound genuine despite knowing full well Ama hadn’t once called the police department of her own volition since regaining consciousness. “Has she ironed out any details yet?”

  “She wants to have a holiday silent auction on the courthouse lawn, right here in Tarson. They’re going to string up lights and garland, bring in tents, a piano player, and a dance floor. She said she and her friends can donate some items and services that should bring in good money. Some businesses in Atlanta are on board, too, upscale restaurants, a day spa. It should be a lot of fun.”

  “So why did she bring this to you? Why not run it by Mrs. Brownlow?”

  “She secured Mrs. Brownlow’s approval first. But she came to speak to me because she wants to have the chorus perform. I suggested they sing the solo Hazel never got to sing last year, and she was moved to tears. She also wanted recommendations for local piano players.”

  Martin’s thoughts turned immediately to Jonathon Walks. “Did she have any opinions about what kind of music or a performer? Did she ask if anyone specifically from the school other than the chorus could sing?”

  “She didn’t mention anyone from the school. She was adamant about having a live pianist and time for anyone from the audience to play. Get this—she even offered to sing. She said she’s going to make sure the Atlanta Journal-Constitution puts something in the paper about the auction, drum up some buzz.”

  “How soon is she thinking?”

  “Well, she really wants to use the media attention around what happened to her and the generosity of the holiday season. She even mentioned she didn’t mind some people coming who were just curious about the incident. She’s hoping to get everything organized for some time before Christmas, if the courthouse will let her rent their lawn on such short notice. She’s all business, that one.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “She’s really pulling out all the stops. It sounds like the event is going to be beautiful and meaningful, definitely in the true spirit of the season. I’m just so glad to hear Mr. Stevens didn’t shoot her on purpose.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Martin crossed his arms at his chest. So much for Ama not remembering anything. What the hell kind of game was she playing here?

  Mrs. Anderson nodded. “I can’t imagine how upset he must be. First Hazel, now this, with his gun accidently going off as he’s trying to help Ms. Chaplin to her feet. They say lightning doesn’t strike twice, but it sure seems to for Eddie. I’m just glad she lived to clear his name. Is he all right, Detective?”

  “He’s doing as well as could be expected,” Martin answered, processing the information for any possible clues to Ama’s motive. Was her goal simply to help clear Eddie’s name? “Keep me in the loop with this,” Martin continued. “I’d like to help with anything I can.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  Martin started for the door, then turned, one more question on his mind. “Did she say what song she was going to sing?”

  “ ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ ” Mrs. Anderson replied.

  MICHAEL Chapter 53 | December 25, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia

  I TAKE A SEAT ACROSS the table from Hazel. She glares at me, eyes black and white with no color between. Long, deep scrapes travel her legs, almost as though she outran a pack of wild dogs, but not without a tussle. She smells like a chase—sweat and earth and adrenaline.

  “You don’t understand what I’m trying to do,” I say softly. “We will make music together. You are an instrument, Hazel. Fate chose you.”

  “We can make music anywhere,” she pleads. “We can go back to the Music Box. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “We can’t make this kind of music in the public eye, not yet. You don’t even understand it, and you are music, Hazel. What would your father think? Your teachers, other kids? As a culture, we’re so afraid of pain. We shun it. We forbid it. But it sets us free. It brings out the best, Hazel. The purest pieces of our hearts, desires of our souls, notes of our songs. You can’t sit around and plan this. You have to evoke it one beat at a time.”

  “Why do you want to hurt me?” Her expression melts, erasing all angles of maturation, and in front of me is a child, tears and mucus and confusion.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Hazel. I want to set you free to follow Fate’s path. She chose you. Once the world understands our music, we can let them see how we make it, but no one will let Fate write her song if they see the process before the product. It’s like anything else. Bacon, cheeseburgers, sheepskin boots. If people had to see the process, most of them would never endorse the product.”

  “I didn’t choose this,” she whispers.

  “You didn’t have to. Fate chose you.”

  “Why does Fate get the final say?”

  “She is the conductor, Hazel. We’re here for her.”

  “Prove it.” Sharpness returns to her features.

  “I told you. Our paths crossed three times at random and—”

  “No.” She cuts me off. “This is a small town. People run into each other. Prove to me that Fate wants me to do this.”

  “You don’t want Fate to prove herself,” I say, suddenly feeling small, hearing the roar of the river. “It’s a cruel experience.”

  “I won’t believe in Fate until you show me the process,” she says.

  I pause, then stand and hold out my hand. “Remember when you are in her grip and she is squeezing you and saving you at the same time that you asked for this.”

  Hazel rises but doesn’t accept my hand. She follows me to the pair of cabinet doors leading to the river
. To the right is the escape tunnel my father and Bill dug and proofed two decades ago. To the left is my addition: a branch that tunnels not so far from the main chamber, but twice the depth. This tube doesn’t end at the river—it ends in the water table.

  I pry open the lid. Bill’s eyes are two reflective circles in a swirling dark pool in the pit. The water is low, lapping around his waist. His arms tremble—whether it’s from the cold or the fatigue of being suspended above his head with a chain, I can’t guess. Maybe both. When the water table rises, pushing him up, at least his shoulders will be offered a reprieve.

  “Oh, my God,” Hazel says from beside me. “Sir? Sir!”

  Bill’s lips move and sounds come, but his words are chopped to syllables and single letters.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demands of me. “What does Fate have to do with this man?”

  “Fate didn’t choose him. He came here on his own. He interfered. He chose this. I won’t kill him. I keep him fed and watered. Fate keeps him alive, or she doesn’t. His life is in her hands now. If you want to see if you are chosen by Fate, you can see whether or not she keeps you alive.”

  “How long are you going to make him stay in there?”

  “Until my song is finished. If he lives that long, then he is meant to live. If he doesn’t, then his life’s purpose has already been fulfilled.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  I smile at her, doing my best to remember she’s basically still a child. “I am trying to spare you the fight of discovery. Fate has picked your path, and I am sweeping it clean for you, Hazel.”

  She looks at me, our eyes meeting for a long moment. Then she turns back toward the pit, and she jumps.

  MARTIN Chapter 54 | 3:30 PM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

  MARTIN STEPPED OUT OF HIS car and onto Main Street, where wind whipped between the two rows of buildings. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, having left his notebook in the passenger seat, and walked into the Music Box.

  An older man stood to greet him from behind a desk. He was wearing wire-rim glasses, a button-down shirt, and a V-neck sweater vest. This man, Martin thought, couldn’t look more like a music nerd if he tried.

  “Welcome,” the man said. An accent made his word rise at a faster clip. German or Swedish, if Martin had to guess.

  “Thank you. I’m Detective Locklear.” He paused long enough to flash his badge. “Do you own this store?”

  “Yes. I’m Bjorn Fleiss. I opened this store twelve years ago. I can show you my business license,” he answered, fumbling with a drawer.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m here to ask about Hazel Stevens,” Martin started. He wanted to shout Jonathon’s name, to search every photograph hanging in the building in hopes of finding his face, but Jonathon was clearly adept at hiding in plain sight, and if he felt any kind of pressure, he was likely to run far and long.

  “Oh, that poor girl. Did they find her? I saw something on the news about her father.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see,” Martin summarized. “I’m new to the Tarson PD. The captain has asked me to give a few cold cases a once-over with fresh eyes. I’m starting with this one.”

  “She’s worth every effort,” Bjorn said.

  “What can you tell me about the time she spent here?” Martin asked.

  “She worked mostly on vocal training with my assistant, Jonathon Walks. She was very committed, very responsible.”

  “I don’t remember reading anything about a Jonathon Walks in the original file. What can you tell me about him?” Martin asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  “He worked at a recording studio in Atlanta for nearly a decade. He came in looking for a miniature piano and found a job instead.” The old man smiled to himself, smitten with the memory.

  “Is Mr. Walks here now?”

  “No, he’s taken a job in Dalton. He fills in for me when he can.”

  “Do you think he would be willing to speak with me about his time with Hazel, give me any insight into her mental state?” Martin asked carefully.

  “I’m sure he would. He took time off after her abduction. He helped with the search.”

  “You called it an abduction,” Martin interjected. “She was ruled a runaway.”

  “That girl would never run away. I don’t know how anyone who spent any time with her could think that was a possibility. Jonathon felt the same way. He was sure someone had taken her.”

  “Is that so?” Martin tried not to look too interested.

  “He would rant about it, fall to pieces. I had to send him home a couple of times.”

  “Does he still live in town? I think he could really help me understand Hazel better,” Martin pressed.

  The man shrugged. “He never mentioned moving.”

  “Do you happen to have an address or a contact number?”

  “I have his number,” the man said as he flipped through the pages of a three-ring binder. “I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Do you also happen to have a picture of them together?” Martin asked, leaning over the counter to see if he could put eyes on a mailing address. But the ledger only had a phone number, a tally of hours worked, and corresponding payments—all even dollar amounts in increments of ten. Martin was almost sure from this information and its arrangement that Jonathon was paid in cash under the table.

  “I don’t. I tried once, but Jonathon was uncomfortable with the idea. He said Mr. Stevens was already apprehensive of how close the two had become and that a picture may be misunderstood. I am certain there was no inappropriate behavior between the two of them, though. They were never together behind closed doors. I never even saw him touch her. Not once. If he wanted her to adjust her position, he would demonstrate the change on himself and have her copy him.”

  “That’s good to know,” Martin said, handing him his card.

  “If you’re looking at Jonathon for this, you’re wrong. I’ve never seen a man as devastated as he was after Hazel was taken—aside from her father, of course. I never would have guessed Mr. Stevens would shoot anyone, especially a woman. Everyone thought they had a happy little home, he and Hazel. But now… well, I don’t know what to think. Is that why you’re asking? Are the incidents related?”

  “If we decide to connect them, I’m sure I’ll be back to speak to you about that aspect of the case. But right now, I’m more interested in any relationships Hazel Stevens had outside the home.”

  “Yes, all right.” The shop owner blinked rapidly behind his glasses. “After Hazel was taken, Jonathon didn’t eat for weeks. It looked like he wasn’t sleeping, either—bags under his eyes. The new job has helped him, though. The last time I saw him, he seemed back to his old self. Maybe… maybe don’t bother him with this unless you have to,” the man said.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Martin said, backing toward the door. “Why don’t we keep the conversation between us?”

  “Yes, I think that’s for the best.”

  HAZEL Chapter 55 | December 25, 2005 | Tarson, Georgia

  MICHAEL DROPS THE LID IN place. The darkness feels thicker than the water, and my sense of balance tilts. I flail my hands out, searching for the wall. I splash more than I want to and have to remind myself that there aren’t sharks circling my feet and that the only teeth to worry about are above me.

  At last I touch a wall. It’s bumpy under my fingers, and I find a hold on what feels like a notch on a tree.

  The man’s voice floods the black: “Grab… the chain… when the water… goes up.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask, wondering how it could already feel like an hour since I jumped. I doubt it’s been longer than a minute.

  “I… don’t know. What-day-is-it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We stand in the silence.

  “Sometimes the water goes almost to the top, about six inches of air to spare. Sometimes it all drains out. You’ll want to take off your socks an
d shoes.” He pants with the effort it’s taken to deliver such a long message. “The skin on your feet will stay wet and rot if you keep them on.”

  I reach down and pull off my socks and shoes. I stuff the socks inside the toe of a shoe and hold them out of the water.

  “Just let them go, honey. Save your strength. He only drops food down every couple days, and to drink… well, you’re looking at it. Hold your bowels if you can. He’ll drop a bucket once in the morning and once at night.”

  “He kept me in a cage before this and I got out of it. I just couldn’t open the main door. I’m going to get out of here, and I’m going to need to run.”

  “Then you save them shoes. ’Cause you know what, you find a way through that main door, I can tell you the combination to the little cubby door behind the ladder. And when you get out…” His voice becomes weaker and is then overtaken by a cough. “You tell them that man’s name is Michael Walton and that he didn’t die at Cold River all those years ago. You got that?”

  “You tell them,” I say. “You tell them when you get out of here.”

  “Oncologist told me I had six months to live when I climbed that ladder into this shelter—only reason it was worth the risk. I’m not getting out of here alive. But what I will tell you is the story of Michael. He’s stronger than you. He might be smarter, too. But the more you know about him, the more buttons you’ll have to push.”

  I nod, waiting.

  “When I met Michael, he was seven years old,” the man begins.

  I stare in the direction of his voice, but it’s Mr. Walks’s—Michael’s—words in my head, his belief in Fate, that Fate would show me I’m meant to be here. In these first few minutes with this man in this hole, I have been shown one thing: I am not meant to be here at all.

  MARTIN Chapter 56 | 4:15 PM, December 4, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

  MARTIN STOOD AT THE RECORDS desk of the county courthouse, waiting for the clerk to review the log to see if Ama had booked space for her event yet. He watched handfuls of people walk down the long, wide hall that ran across the front of the building. He marveled at how much busier it seemed than the precinct. He’d been so focused on Ama, Hazel, and Eddie that he’d nearly forgotten that other crimes were being committed, that anyone had anything else to think about.