“Danny’s okay. We were taken care of for a long time by a family here in St. George, and we took their last names. Without them and Dolores, who saved us, I don’t know what we would have done. I’m married and have a little girl. Danny still lives with our adoptive family.”
At that, Lynlee asked for an account of everything I knew and what I wanted to talk to Danny about. I was as thorough as I could be, but I left out one thing: that the only way charging her father would be a possibility was if he had sexually abused a child. Danny was so young when they fled, not even in kindergarten, bringing up that hitch had to be done carefully. I still had the district attorney’s cautions to consider: that I could unwittingly plant a false memory.
“So it’s up to Danny if he wants to press charges against our father?”
“Yes. But the case also has to fit certain parameters to be eligible after so many years. If it qualifies and he wants to proceed, I’ll take it to the DA, and we’ll see if he’ll take the charges.”
Lynlee sighed. “I’ve been wondering about the other children.”
“Other children?”
“My brothers and sisters, half-brothers and half-sisters. My father always had to have someone to pick on. Before Danny, Dad abused another of my brothers. So I worry that when Danny and I left, Dad found a new target.”
“I understand. I’ve been worrying about the same thing, that your father hasn’t stopped abusing his children. That there are other victims. It’s one of the reasons I pushed to go ahead even though so many years have passed.” I felt relieved, grateful that she understood the seriousness of the case. “It makes it more important that we stop him, doesn’t it? Some child could be suffering right now.”
Lynlee paused, as if thinking that through. “I agree, but this has to be up to Danny. If there’s one thing the therapists taught both of us, it’s that we need to take control of our lives. Not let others decide for us.”
“Good advice.”
Not long after, it appeared that Lynlee must have reached out to Danny with a text, because he shuffled in the door. At twenty, I could see the little boy in the photo, the cute kid with shaggy hair. As a young man, Danny seemed a bit timid, and I wondered if that was because of who I was and why I’d come, or if those early years had imprinted on his personality and he’d never been able to shake them.
We gathered around the kitchen table, a bowl of artificial peonies in the center. “Danny, your sister and Dolores explained why I’m here and what I want to talk to you about?”
He nodded. “I’m not sure how I feel about this.”
I hesitated, trying to decide how to proceed. I didn’t want to do any further damage to the kid, and as much as I could, I wanted to be honest. “There are statutes of limitations on crimes, and I’m not sure if we can pursue anything against your father. It depends on what happened all those years ago. But if the case qualifies, you can still decide not to go ahead. It will be up to you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “That helps.”
“Tell me what you remember about your father.”
For the next hour, Danny struggled through an account of horrific abuse. Clyde hadn’t just hit him that day he blackened his eye, but pushed him, shoved him, smacked him across the face and clutched him by the collar and squeezed. “One day, I don’t remember doing anything wrong, but then I never did understand what I’d done. Dad, well, he grabbed me by the hair and he pulled me across the room. For years after we fled, I had a circle of hair missing from the top of my head. I’d yelled and screamed and cried and begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t let go.”
I envisioned how Danny must have suffered, considered what that must have been like for a little kid.
When Danny finished his account, I asked, “Was the abuse purely physical, hitting and such, the types of assaults you’ve described?”
At that, Danny shot Lynlee an uneasy glance. Something seemed odd about it, as if he were asking her permission. She shook her head so slightly that I almost missed it.
When he didn’t answer, I asked again: “Do you remember any other types of abuse?”
Danny again stared at Lynlee, whose frown deepened. Time passed, until he eventually asked: “Isn’t that enough?”
“Of course.” I considered the way he kept looking at his sister. Was he asking for her permission to tell more? “Danny, what your father did to you is horrible. You shouldn’t ever have had to endure all you went through.”
Danny appeared to consider that. “Is there enough to make it possible to charge Dad? If I want to?”
I sat back in the high-backed wooden chair wondering if this were a Pandora’s Box I shouldn’t have opened. Despite all the horror of what he’d told me, none of it extended the statute of limitations. The offense had to be sexual. “I don’t know that it is enough, Danny. I’m sorry. What you endured is horrific, but the statute requires more than physical abuse.”
“Oh, I see.” He leaned forward in his chair and planted his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands and stared down at the floor.
“Why did you bother us then?” Lynlee asked. I glanced over and saw her anger, and I understood. Maybe this had all been a mistake. “Did my father have to kill Danny? Is that the only thing that would have made it serious enough?”
“No, no, of course that’s not it. It’s just that. Sometimes when there’s one type of abuse, there are others. I thought perhaps…” I struggled with how to go forward. “I’m just looking for the truth, so we can figure out what the options are.”
“That’s what I remember he did to me, just what I’ve told you,” Danny said, his eyes locked on his sister. She avoided looking at him and seemed agitated. I felt guilty that I’d barged into their lives and convinced them to resurrect such a painful past. Yet I had the feeling that there was more, something else at play here. Something involving not Danny, but his sister.
“Lynlee, why did you leave home?” I asked.
At that, she gave Danny a stern glance I interpreted as an order to stay silent. Looking directly at me, she insisted, “I left with my brother. To protect him.”
Danny craned his neck to the side and narrowed his eyes at her. He appeared upset, but he said nothing. They were communicating without words, the silent conversation of a sister and brother who’d been through hell together and were so close they read each other’s thoughts.
“No other reason?” I asked.
At that, I turned back to Danny just in time to catch him mouthing: Tell her.
That answered my question. At that moment, I knew what was unspoken and who it happened to.
“Tell me what, Lynlee?” I asked. Neither one spoke, and I waited. The pressure built in the silence until it formed a presence in the room, a ghostlike apparition that hovered over all of us. Foreseeing no way around it, I asked, “Lynlee, did your father do something to you?”
At that, Lynlee bolted out of the chair. “I appreciate your driving all the way here to see us, but you need to leave. My husband and our child will be home soon.”
I remained seated. I felt certain I wasn’t misinterpreting. Everything from Danny’s body language to the pleading look in his eyes telegraphed the message. But I couldn’t feed it to her. I needed her to say it: “Lynlee, won’t you tell me what your father did to you?”
Her hand to her forehead, Lynlee appeared ready to run, to flee from the room and the house, and leave us there.
Danny stood and approached his sister, wrapped his arms around her. I heard him whisper, “Why should we let him get away with what he did to us? Why is it our burden to carry? Remember what the counselors told us: take control.”
Pushing him away, Lynlee would have none of it. “Please, leave,” she ordered. “Now.”
Watching them, I saw something in their faces, a shared sadness that touched my heart. I felt an overwhelming regret. It appeared that all I’d accomplished was to dig up very bad memories, to no one’s benefit.
As much as I wanted
to argue with Lynlee, to convince her to open up about all she’d suffered, I did as she asked. But on my way out the door I handed each of them my card with my private phone number. “Whatever you decide, whatever you choose, is the right thing. I’m not questioning that. Just make sure it’s your decision, and that you’re not letting your father control your lives any longer. If you do want to pursue this, there’s not a lot of time. The clock is ticking.”
Lynlee appeared puzzled. “What do you mean?”
This time, I focused only on her. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ll be twenty-eight in a few months? Once you are, you’re ten years past adulthood, and the door closes. Even if you want to, we won’t be able to pursue charges.”
Thirty-Two
By the time I reached Alber, it was mid-afternoon. I felt at loose ends, and I didn’t know where to turn. I needed to bring something to a conclusion. I needed closure, if not on Clyde Benson, then I needed to track down whoever killed our pregnant mom and her baby. Instead of turning onto Main Street and heading back to the station, I drove through Alber and headed toward the mountains. I wondered if Jerry Cummings had his crew back out working on the ski lift, if they’d finished the pier that was going to be erected over where the grave had been found.
I kept my eyes straight ahead as I passed the Second Coming Ranch, thinking about Lynlee and Danny, and the therapist who’d advised them to take control of their lives. I reminded myself that no one controlled me any longer, either. As I passed, I saw that tractor in the distance, the one bringing feed to the livestock. I didn’t let myself wonder this time if my husband—the man who was once my husband—was driving. It didn’t matter, I told myself. He didn’t count.
Yet the ranch pulled at me, needled at me. Deep down where I hold the truths that govern my life, I knew that at some point I had to confront what happened there, not slip silently past but stand tall and take it all on.
Once I turned off onto the access road, I slowed down. I saw the ski runs on the mountainside. The closer I drove, the more I wondered why I was there. What did I hope to find? Except that sometimes, when things don’t gel, the best thing an investigator can do to move a case forward is to revisit where it began. The dark shape of the ski resort lay ahead, and I saw workers’ cars in the lot. As I had three days earlier, I drove around the building to the back and parked closer to the construction site. I recognized Jerry Cummings’ lean outline as soon as I got out of the Suburban. He was off to the side, watching his men work and talking to a tall guy with silver hair. A cowboy hat. Ash Crawford.
Neither man saw me at first, which surprised me. I would have thought they’d heard me drive up. But when I clambered out of the SUV, I realized they had a machine compacting the soil, pounding the dirt over and over, to ready it for pouring the foundation for the pier. I considered how they’d have to do this a dozen times to erect the piers to build the ski lift. Building blocks, like the ones we needed to keep adding to our case if it was going to take shape.
“What are you doing here?” I shouted as I approached Cummings and Crawford.
“Watching to make sure the men do it right,” Cummings said. “I work here.”
“Not you. Him,” I said, gesturing toward Crawford. He held an unfolded map in his hands, as if he’d been showing Cummings something on it. “What’s he doing here?”
Crawford sucked in his lips and pulled them to the side. “I’m talking to Mr. Cummings and looking around. Is there a law against that?”
“This is a crime scene,” I said.
“Not any longer,” Crawford pointed out. “Your CSI guys released it. Yellow tape’s gone. The crew’s back at work. I have as much right as anyone to be here. Mr. Cummings doesn’t mind, do you Jerry?”
A short shake of the head and the foreman said, “Not a bit.”
“So what’s your gripe?” Crawford asked.
No need to hold back any punches. “I heard about what you pulled in Nevada. I hear you’re not welcome back.”
At that, Ash glowered at me as if I’d just called him the vilest of names. “Lots of incompetent cops in the world. Some folks don’t know how to investigate a case. Whether they realized it or not, they needed help.”
“That’s not what the Nevada detective said. And that’s not the case here. Max and I have got this. You need to pack up and go home. Enjoy your retirement. Go fishing. Spend some time with the wife. Maybe I ought to stop in and talk to her, ask her why you’re hovering over our case?”
“My wife? Hell, you…” Taken aback, he’d started to speak but abruptly stopped, swallowing whatever he’d planned to say. A moment passed before he shook his head then growled, “You have no right to tell me what I can or can’t do. And you stay the hell away from my wife. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
Visibly angry, Crawford stalked off. As he pulled out on the driveway, he gunned the engine. He left in a cloud of dust, gravel dinging his truck’s undercarriage.
On the drive into town, I called Max and asked him to meet me at the police station. Thinking it through, I’d decided that by waiting on the DNA, we were letting the forensics run the case. After seeing Crawford with his map, I realized Max and I had to hurry. We needed to take control, before Crawford interfered even more with our case and doomed it to failure, the way he’d done in Nevada.
“So Cummings says Crawford was out there just looking at the spot where the body was found, watching the men ready it for the pier. He had a map with him—he’d circled all the ranches, farms and homes in the area,” I explained when Max arrived.
“Sounds like he hasn’t stopped investigating this on his own.” Max appeared disappointed in the turn of events, but not as angry as I felt about Crawford’s interference.
“Max, we can’t have Ash Crawford taking over the investigation.”
“Clara, I know, but—”
“What do you think he plans to do? Why did he have the map?”
Max scowled at me, the creases across his brow deepening. “Well, it sounds like Ash plans to canvass. I guess he thinks that someone who lives in the area may have seen something that could help solve the case. That’s unlikely though, as rural and deserted as that area is. The neighbors out there are miles apart.”
“Or he may have decided that the girl may be connected to someone who lives in the area, and folks might be able to ID her,” I said. “It’s possible, but that’s also a long shot, since we don’t have any missing person reports in the area except those we’re already investigating.”
“That’s true, too.”
“But Max, what Ash is right about is that we’ve been sitting back waiting for the forensics to bring us answers. With him out there stirring folks up, we can’t do that.”
Max gave me a weary nod. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“We need to question those folks before he has time to mess things up.”
In a few minutes, I had aerial photos of the area around the ski lodge on my desk. It was getting late, and we only had a couple of hours of daylight to work with, but I had circles drawn around all the ranches in the area. Everything within a five-mile radius of the burial site.
“Okay, so we’ve got about a dozen old houses and ranches out there. How about some old-fashioned gumshoeing?”
“Sure, I’ll call Alice, ask her to keep Brooke at her house again tonight. Do you want me to drive, or should we take your Suburban?”
“If we’re going to get this done before dark, we need to split up. I’ll take the ranches on the east side. You take the ones on the southwest.”
“I don’t know,” Max appeared concerned. “Cold-calling like this, you never know what you’re walking into. Maybe we should go together?”
I needed some kind of resolution, and I was tired of waiting. “No. Let’s get this done.” I handed him his list of addresses. He didn’t look pleased.
“Listen, I’ll take the ones on the east,” he said. “You don’t have to go to—”
“No,”
I cut him off. “I chose this side for a reason. I want to do this. I’ve got to do it.”
“You sure? I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”
“It’s time,” I said.
Thirty-Three
The intervals between the contractions grew shorter and the pains lasted longer. “Something’s wrong,” Violet said to the younger woman the next time she shuffled into the room. “It hurts too much.”
The woman seemed odd to Violet; she had since the first day she’d met her, as if everything wasn’t right with her. The woman had never talked much, but since they’d tied Violet to the bed, the woman wouldn’t even look at her.
“You should let me go,” Violet pleaded, her voice weary. “What if I die here?”
Head down, the woman shuffled out of the room without replying.
How long ago had it been? Violet couldn’t recall, but she vividly remembered the long drive she’d taken with Lori to the house that night.
Even in the dark, the house had looked ramshackle, with a gray roof stained by mildew and shutters in dire need of painting. At the home, Lori had talked often about her husband and children. She’d mentioned how much fun it was to live in a city. But the house they pulled up to was down lonely country roads and surrounded by nothing but cattle pastures and cornfields.
“Didn’t you say you lived in a city?” Violet asked.
“No. I said that I used to live in a city. This is where we live now. But this is better. It’s a good place for you to hide,” Lori turned and grinned at her. “We’ll have to be very careful, Violet. Nurse Gantt will send people to try to find you.”
Once inside, Lori said, “We have a place all ready for you. Away from the family, so you can have your privacy.”
The house quiet, Violet tried not to make any noise, and Lori led her to a door that opened to the cellar stairs. “Your room is down here.”
The basement smelled of decay and with each step the dampness hung heavier on Violet. She followed Lori past shelves holding home-canned vegetables and fruit, to a door at the very back. Lori opened it and flicked on a light. The cement-block walls were painted a pale beige that matched the tile floor. There was a small chest with four drawers and an armoire with a few long dresses hanging in it. In the corner of the cell-like room sat a white wicker bassinet on a stand.
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