by Webb, Debra
I should ask Letty if she’d ever attended one. As the sheriff she might feel compelled to make community appearances in hopes of maintaining support.
Something else to which I have no desire to serve—the mercy of the public. Too many politicians are either fools or egomaniacs. In some cases, maybe both. I wonder if Letty’s job will change her over time. Will she be forced to pander to the wealthy and the powerful to stay in office?
I can’t see that happening.
Shifting my attention back to the here and now I watch Larson for a moment. Like Mallory, Stella Larson is physically fit and youthful looking. She wears khaki shorts and a white polo along with the same blue sneakers her cheerleaders wear. As I approach her on the lower run of the bleachers she glances up, shielding her face from the sun setting behind me.
“We have another half-hour of practice,” she says, evidently believing I’ve arrived to pick up a member of her squad.
Do I look old enough to have a teenager? I certainly feel like it most days.
“You probably won’t remember me,” I begin as I take a seat a few feet from her.
“Emma.” She smiles and her hand immediately reaches for mine. “Sure I remember you. Not to mention you’ve been in the news a couple of times lately. It’s wonderful to see you.” Sadness touches her face. “I’m so sorry to hear about Natalie and Stacy.” She inhales a deep breath. “Of course, there was little reason to believe they were still alive, but it’s nevertheless painful to lose that slight hope even after all these years.”
“It’s a difficult time,” I agree.
I feel guilty that I woke up more focused on finding the truth about what happened than aching at the loss. I’m not sure that’s how I should be feeling but I am certain this is what I need to be doing for now. Maybe that’s how Mother feels. Perhaps my need to dissect her reactions to mine and Letty’s questions caused me to misinterpret what I saw and heard. Mother has struggled to be strong, and to have faith all these years. Now that task is behind her, maybe she just needs something else to do but isn’t quite sure of her footing in this new territory.
“You know,” Larson says, “Natalie was so helpful to me that first year. She was a mere freshman but she didn’t let any of the girls run roughshod over me. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to work with her if only for that one year.”
I notice she isn’t wearing a wedding band and wonder if she’s still single. Not that I can fathom a reason it matters but I do wonder. “My sister was a leader and a very compassionate person.”
“She was.”
Before I can venture into the subject of my sister’s potential boyfriends, Larson shouts an order to repeat the routine to the girls whispering and laughing behind their hands. God, teenagers are all alike no matter the decade.
Larson turns back to me. “The news said the investigation is being reopened. I hope that means they found evidence that will help bring the girls’ killer to justice.” She presses a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m assuming things that may be untrue. I’ve heard some say they may have wandered off in the woods, got lost and died. It was very cold that night.” Her cheeks flush a deeper red. “Well, of course you of all people remember exactly how cold it was.”
I can’t be sure whether Larson is genuinely remorseful about her statement or if she’s fishing for information. “I don’t believe the police have reached any sort of definitive conclusion at this point.”
A line forms between her brows. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where my mind is. If you’re not here for one of the girls, was there a reason you stopped by? I really am glad to see you but I feel as if there might be more to your visit than to say hello to your old gym teacher.”
Definitely fishing, but also genuinely concerned.
“Actually.” I hesitate, memories of Natalie prancing around this very field suddenly pouring through me like water slipping over the falls. Her long blond ponytail and brilliant smile making her standout from the rest of the team. I blink the images away. “You probably knew Natalie as well as most of her friends.”
Larson laughs softly. “I don’t know about that, but she confided in me from time to time. I was very open about our relationship with the detectives who questioned me after she and Stacy disappeared.”
“Did you have reason to believe Natalie might be involved with an older man? One of her friends seems to believe she was, but my mother and I weren’t aware of a boyfriend in the weeks before…”
Since I now know she’s dead it would be more appropriate to say before her death but I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to think it. All these years Natalie has been with us, haunted our dreams, whispered in the dark places we find ourselves when we’re all alone. There was always the possibility—the tiniest seed—of hope that lived deep inside us that she would come back one day.
Now that hope is gone.
“There was someone.” Larson purses her lips and seems to pick through her memory banks before saying more. “She never told me his name but I sensed that he was pressuring her.”
“Pressuring her?” My heart stalls and then starts to gallop toward some unseen finish line. I hold back the urge to launch a barrage of follow up questions. I need to give her time to think, to pick through the memories tucked away for so very long. So I hold my breath and I wait for her to go on.
“He wanted her to agree to something she didn’t want to do and she was uncertain how to proceed.”
“Do you have any idea what he wanted her to do? Have sex? Run away with him?”
She shakes her head, her face crestfallen. “I wish I knew. She would only share so much.”
“Did you advise her in any way?”
“I did. I told her she should never feel pressured to do anything she didn’t want to do and that if he persisted she should speak to her parents. We had a lengthy discussion about relationships and how that while there is often compromise there should never be tyranny.”
“Good advice.” I’m grateful Natalie had a friend in this woman.
“Did she speak to her parents? She never mentioned anything to me after that day.” Larson’s expression is heavy with the worry I suspect has haunted her for twenty-five long years.
“She didn’t.” The worry morphs into pain but I press on before she finds the words she wants to say next. “Can you remember the timeframe when this conversation took place? Days or weeks before she disappeared?”
“About a week before. She really seemed happy and relaxed after that. I was certain she’d ended the relationship.”
Knowing Natalie the way I did, she probably had. And that may have cost her life. My throat tightens at the idea but I press on. Finding the truth trumps my need to grieve.
“She never made any reference to what grade he was in or what he looked like?” I ask. “Maybe he was from one of the colleges in Huntsville or Decatur?”
Larson shakes her head again. “I really wish I knew. Whether the information proved relevant or not, I would love to be able to help, but she never mentioned who he was or where he lived. She was very careful about that part.”
Another thought occurs to me. “Is there a chance Natalie worried that you might know him? That could explain her reluctance to mention him by name.”
Larson considers the suggestion a moment. “It’s possible but I was so new to the area I doubt I would have known him anyway.”
True. “Thank you, Ms. Larson. You’ve been very helpful and I appreciate your time.”
She takes my hand again. “I’ve asked myself a million times if I could have helped more when the girls first went missing. But I told all of this to the police and they assured me the possibility would be thoroughly investigated.”
“Ms. Larson, I’m sure you did everything you could to help Natalie and to help the police.”
A sad smile lifts her lips. “Please feel free to ask me anything. If I can answer it, I will.”
I stand and prepare to go. “I appreciate you
r help.”
Before I can turn away, she asks, “Are you hoping to do what the police haven’t been able to do in all these years?”
I consider the best way to answer that question. Though Ms. Larson has been very helpful and kind, the prospect that anything I say might end up in a reporter’s ear is not lost on me. “I want to help. That’s all.”
I leave her my number and head back to my car. Climbing out of the van parked next to my Prius is the reporter from WHNT and her cameraman. What was her name? Mother mentioned it. Lila something.
Well, hell.
Beyond sprinting across the ball field and disappearing into the woods behind the school, I’m not avoiding this confrontation.
Maybe it’s time I give the woman something to get her off my back.
“Emma,” she says brightly, “I’m glad I caught up with you at your old school.”
The camera is rolling. I decide not to lie and tell her the feeling is mutual.
“Emma, how did it feel to find your sister’s remains? Was this the ending you expected?”
The lady knew how to cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“It’s not the ending we’d hoped for obviously, but it’s the one we were prepared for.” How’s that for quick and evasive?
“Going down into that cave didn’t cause you to start suffering flashbacks again, did it?”
Anger and frustration stir again. The lady has done her homework. Of course she has. This one is clearly intent on making a name for herself. “No. No flashbacks.”
“When this is over are you planning to return to Boston to your position at Boston University?”
“I’m undecided.”
“I understand you may not be invited back after the mental breakdown you had in the lecture hall.”
For a single instant I am frozen with fear, dread, maybe both. Then I just get angry. Her goal is to make me angry. I realize this. She wants a breaking newsworthy reaction. “Some uncertainty as to whether you’ll be invited back the next semester is always the case with an untenured position. I’m fine with either option. Frankly, my heart is in the field. The classroom isn’t really where I feel at home.”
A clear and logical response.
“You’re a survivor, Emma. You’ve walked away twice now when others didn’t.”
Her digging into Iraq shouldn’t come as a surprise. I have no idea what she expects me to say to the remark so I don’t say anything. Mostly the idea that now everyone in Jackson Falls will know about my meltdown keeps ringing in my ears.
“How do you feel about your friend Letty’s decision to step away from the investigation after her father’s dog tags were found with your sister’s remains?”
The question sucker punches me and I am not ready.
I walk away.
She follows with more questions.
I ignore her.
No matter that I knew this was coming, I am devastated for my friend.
19
Tuesday, May 15
All four local television channels led with the same story on last night’s ten o’clock news: the dog tags belonging to James Cotton. I refused to watch. Helen sat transfixed as reporters who were still in diapers at the time Natalie and Stacy disappeared retold the events from twenty-five years ago with a passion and an urgency meant only to boost ratings. The segments were immediately followed by a previously recorded plea from the mothers of the girls who had been missing for six days now.
I hate this part. I hated it twenty-five years ago even when I was insulated by my parents and I hate it now.
I called Letty. She was staying the night with her mom. My friend’s voice was steeped in the misery of having her father’s name dragged through the mud all over again. I wish there was something I could do to stop where this is going. If the task force released or leaked the information about the dog tags that means just one thing: they are poised to go with that theory. Letty fears the team will focus solely on that scenario and forego the trouble of looking for others exactly the way those involved with the investigation did twenty-five years ago. I share that same concern.
Which is why we will not stop until we prove them wrong.
I arrived at the farm at eight this morning. Letty would have been here already but she was diverted by the mayor. Unlike the Jackson Falls chief of police who is appointed, the sheriff of Madden County is an elected position—elected by the people of the county. No matter, Letty cannot ignore a summons from the mayor, not and hope to get along in crucial political circles. Powerful people like the Jacksons, the Beaumonts (by virtue of Matthew’s marriage to Lorraine) and the Turners carry a great deal of influence. Letty had a feeling the meeting was about any impropriety our unofficial investigation might represent.
My only question is who ratted us out?
My money is on Mallory. Her daughter is married to the mayor’s brother. I can see her calling Heather the moment I walked out of her fancy little shop right downtown in the middle of nowhere.
I don’t want anything I do or any misstep I make to be part of the reason Letty’s career is jeopardized but I cannot and will not back off until we find the truth. Not unless Letty asks me to stop and I don’t think that’s going to happen.
We have the same goal.
My own career is in trouble, which ensures that I have a strong grasp on how it feels to watch one circling the drain. I will not be a part of that happening to Letty. Maybe I should do this alone.
Like Letty would ever go for that.
Still, the concept rolls around in my head as I chug my coffee. The bitter taste reminds me I should pour out the remainder in the carafe I made nearly two hours ago and put on a fresh pot. As I go through the motions I stare at the clock. Doing so won’t make Letty show up any sooner than she can so I set the coffeemaker to brew and wander over to the stack of reports on the dining room table.
It feels good to be at the farm. Feels like home.
Retracing the steps of the previous investigators is something I feel confident I can do on my own. I could consult Letty if I find myself stuck or at a loss somehow on moving forward. It isn’t necessary for her to be involved and risk her career and her standing in the community. Not to mention her mother’s. Ginny Cotton worked far too hard for way too long to make a decent life for herself to have the past come back like this to damage that accomplishment. I can’t bear the idea of people looking at her as if she is as guilty as her dead husband was presumed to be.
Whether Letty is responsive to the concept or not I feel obligated to put it on the table.
Pounding at the front door pulls me from the troubling thoughts. I hustle in that direction. Why the hell did I lock it? The knob turns freely. I frown. I didn’t. So why the hell doesn’t Letty come on in?
Standing on the porch as I draw the door open is Delbert Yarbrough. He glares at me as if I’m the one who pissed in his coffee this morning. I resist my initial instinct to step back and slam the door shut, then lock it.
“Mr. Yarbrough, hello.” I glance beyond him to the truck parked in the drive behind my Prius. He came alone. Of course he would. His wife is dead. I can’t ever remember seeing him with a friend. He was a grumpy old man twenty-five years ago, I doubt his disposition has changed much.
“I want to know how you and your mother can pretend the Cottons are your friends?” He shakes his head. “That bastard husband of hers lost his goddamned dog tags while he was burying my baby—while he was burying your sister! How can you still pretend he was innocent?”
The last part he yells. I jerk at the sound. “Mr. Yarbrough, I understand you’re upset by this news but finding those dog tags is not definitive evidence that Mr. Cotton had anything to do with their murders. I knew him. You knew him. He was a good person who suffered immensely. He wouldn’t have hurt Natalie or Stacy.”
The fury burning on his face has him fisting his hands at his sides. Oddly I am not afraid of this man. Though I haven’t lived in Jackson Falls for a
very long time, I know he is not a bad person, only a broken person like me.
“You’re a fool and so is that mother of yours.”
His words give me the impression that he has confronted Helen in this same manner. Now I’m angry, too. “Mr. Yarbrough, you’re aware my mother recently had a heart attack. I hope you haven’t confronted her like this. I’m certain you wouldn’t want to be responsible for damaging her health in any way.”
The fury clears briefly and I see the deep hurt in his eyes but all too quickly the rage is back. “I know what the two of you are doing.” He glances at the table beyond me. “You’re trying to prove James Cotton didn’t do this. That’s why the sheriff has taken off some so-called personal time with two little girls out there somewhere needing to be found. What kind of sheriff does that?”
His voice grows louder with each word.
“Mr. Yarbrough, an entire task force is working on finding the girls. Search parties are going out every day. You know this. Letty’s personal decision is not in any way hindering the search.”
“It was God, you know.”
I blink, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“It was God who caused those men to get lost in that cave. He wanted the truth to come out. After speaking to them I am convinced God led them to those graves. If I had trusted His purpose the other wouldn’t have been necessary.” He puts his face in his hands and begins to sob.
Braced for another outburst, I move close enough to put a hand on his arm. I see blood on his right hand and start to say as much then I realize it’s not blood, it’s paint or some sort of stain. “Mr. Yarbrough, I know how difficult this has been for you. My family has suffered right along with yours. What’s happening right now is like slicing open all those old wounds and pouring salt into them. It’s hard, it hurts. But we need the truth. Letty and I only want to find that truth, no matter what it turns out to be.”