by L T Ryan
Hatch turned the shower off and let the water drip from her body, grateful tonight’s incident at the bar didn’t go that route.
She finished up in the bathroom, grabbed a robe off the back of the door, wrapped herself, and headed down the hallway. As she came to her sister’s bedroom, she stopped. The door was closed. She thought about how many times she stood outside this same door as a child after the two had fought. They had a unique way of apologizing, the genesis of which neither could ever pinpoint. The one who’d wronged the other would stand in silence outside the other’s door. They’d wait until the door opened. Nothing would be said when the door would open, but once opened, all would be forgiven and the causative event would never be spoken of again. Sometimes the wait for absolution was long, like when Olivia had slept with Cole Jenson.
Hatch exhaled slowly and turned the knob. The door still creaked, as it always had. The hinge hadn’t been level when her dad hung it. An item on her father’s to-do list, forever to remain incomplete. After his death, the creak of her sister’s door reminded Hatch of him, and hearing it now, she was glad it had never been fixed.
She opened the door just enough to snake her wiry frame inside. She hoped the sound hadn’t woken the children.
Clicking the switch on the wall threw the room into the soft wash of the light above. The room hadn’t changed much over the years. The posters her sister used to decorate her walls were now long gone, replaced by a hodgepodge of family photos and children’s artwork. Hatch stepped in deeper and onto the fluff of the shag rug protruding out from the corners of the bed.
There wasn’t any one thing Hatch hoped to find. She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d even entered. Maybe it was good enough just to be here among her sister’s belongings, as if in some small way the connection she’d once had to them would somehow lighten the emotional burden.
Hatch surveyed the story of her sister’s life as the images on the surrounding four walls of the room told her tale. Candid smiles captured in the photographs gave Hatch a glimpse of the life lived in her absence. From what she saw, it appeared as though Olivia had a good life in the fifteen years since Hatch set out. The two had sporadically kept in touch over the years, a call here or there. Maybe a letter with a photograph or two. More so in the early years. Not so much over the last few.
Hatch regretted that now.
On the vanity by the window lay a book. Hatch walked over to it. Maybe reading from the last book her sister held would give a sense of peace. To her surprise, it wasn’t a novel at all, but a journal. Funny to see it out. Hatch assumed her sister’s obsessive need to journal her life’s experience would’ve faded in adulthood. Apparently, this tome proved otherwise.
Hatch picked it up, holding the leather-bound pages closed. Her sister was dead and gone. Yet the thought of reading from her journal felt like a violation of privacy. It would be the breaking of an unwritten code, but the compulsion outweighed any responsibility to adhere to it.
She opened the journal. The pages separated naturally to a spot in the book held by a marker. The bookmark was a folded piece of paper. Hatch freed the foreign object and unfolded the creased edges, revealing a photocopied portion of a map.
It took only a split second for Hatch to recognize the image. It was an overhead view of the Nighthawk Lake and the surrounding property lines. There was a blue trapezoidal line framing the land surrounding the lake, a boundary line of some sort if she were to guess. Inside the defined area were several red dots. No labels were attached. There was no legend or key on the copied map to denote the meanings of the lines or color-coded dots.
Hatch set the map aside and began scanning the writings in the journal, starting with the last pages first. To her disappointment, there wasn’t any reference to the map or anything current. The last entry was made over two years ago and described Daphne’s first attempt to ride a bike without training wheels.
Folding the copy of the map and sliding it into the pocket of her robe, she closed the journal and turned to leave.
Standing in the doorway was a sleepy Daphne, rubbing her eyes. “Mom?”
Hatch was standing in her sister’s room wearing her sister’s bathrobe. Her heart ached for the girl, and she crossed the room quickly. Kneeling to the child’s level, she pulled Daphne in tight. “I’m sorry, baby—it’s just me.”
“I heard a noise.”
“It was probably that creaky old hinge. Let me get you back to bed.”
“I’m scared.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Hatch knew this to be a lie. The world she’d come to know was a terrifying place. And for a little girl who by the age of six had lost both parents to tragedy, Daphne was on the cusp of some very hard and scary years of childhood.
“Mom used to let me sleep in here with her when I got scared.”
Hatch looked at the bed and then back at the soft face and pleading eyes of her niece. “Okay. Is that what you’d like to do?”
She picked up the girl, cradling her with her left arm while she turned down the covers with the other. Plopping the child into the soft mattress, Hatch took up a position on the other side.
Daphne snuggled in tightly, draping her tiny arm across Hatch’s chest and pulling herself close. The girl’s breathing quickly settled into a soft snore. In the sweet embrace of her sister’s youngest child, Hatch drifted off to sleep.
10
“Good morning.” The words were followed by a dainty peck on the cheek and a faint giggle, as sweet as summer rain on a windowsill.
Hatch’s eyes fluttered, adjusting to the light seeping in through the blinds. She sat up to see Daphne hovering close, a smile stretching across her face. The child gave new meaning to the saying bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And if the girl had a tail, it would’ve surely been wagging.
It was the first time in years since Hatch could remember that she’d not beaten the sun’s rise. She was strangely contented by this fact. Whether it was the comfort of being in her sister’s bed or lying next to Daphne, or a combination of the two, Hatch felt an uncommon peace.
Returning the smile, Hatch patted the girl’s head and slowly sat up. Bringing herself to the edge of the bed, she looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. 7:45 A.M. Her plans of getting an early start were dashed.
Hatch stood, her toes gripping the shag of the carpet encircling the bed as she arched her spine. Reaching skyward, she stretched and then twisted her hips. Her motion sent a ripple of loud pops.
“Does it hurt?”
Hatch looked down at the girl. Daphne was sprawled across the top of the puffy comforter with her hands under her chin. Her eyes held a hint of curiosity. “No. I just popped my back. It gets tight sometimes.”
“Not that, silly. Your arm.”
The robe’s sleeve had slid down when Hatch stretched upward, exposing her damaged arm. “Oh this? It did hurt when it happened, but that was a long time ago. Sometimes it tingles a bit.”
Daphne edged closer, reaching her small hand out and touching the raised lines of the web of scar tissue encompassing her right forearm. It felt strange to feel a hand other than hers on the arm. “Are those letters?”
Hatch nodded, smiling that the girl was more interested in the fragments of ink rather than the scars that fractured the words. “A tattoo.”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.”
Daphne thought for a moment, but when the meaning didn’t come to her, she traced her finger along the scar. “What happened?”
“Not sure you’re ready for that story.”
“I’m six.” Daphne stood on the bed, striking a superhero stance. “Trust me. I can handle it.”
“Maybe another time,” she promised, taking the girl by the hand as she hopped off the bed with a thud. “I’m already behind schedule thanks to you and you
r snuggly magic.”
The little girl’s dejected look was interrupted by the loud rumble of her tummy.
Hatch smiled. “Let’s get you downstairs for some breakfast.”
Daphne scampered out of the room. Hatch quickly made the bed, pulling the sheets into tightly folded hospital corners and stuffing them under the mattress. Not tight enough to bounce a quarter on, but good enough. Old habits die hard.
She slid her hand inside the robe’s pocket, feeling the folded piece of paper with the copied image of the map. Leaving the room, she closed the door behind her. The hinge called out its familiar tune.
Hatch went down the hall to her old room, now converted to a study. She quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, transferring the photocopied map from the robe to her back pocket before departing.
Opening the door, she nearly collided into her mother.
Hatch’s mother was standing in the threshold of the doorway with her arms folded. “Sleep well last night?”
“I did.”
“Got in late last night, too?”
Hatch didn’t bother answering, shrugging off the question. It’d been over fifteen years since she’d had to answer to her mother’s inquiry and hearing it now felt contrived. “Gotta get going. Got some things to do this morning.”
Her mother’s brow furrowed, and she seemed sad at the comment. “You’re not going to spend the day with us here? I just thought—”
“You’re comfortable leaving Olivia’s investigation in the hands of the Hawk’s Landing Sheriff’s Office?”
“I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“From what I hear, the new sheriff is very experienced.”
“Maybe he is. Regardless, he’s an island unto himself. The group of misfits he’s got working for him are a mess. If they managed a lighthouse, there’d be ships crashing all around. And besides, an extra set of eyes couldn’t hurt.”
“And why does it have to be you? Why do you have to be the one to stick your nose into things?”
“Because I’m really good at what I do.”
“And what is that exactly?”
“I hunt down bad people and make them pay.”
Hatch saw her mother’s face recoil. Everything about what she’d just said went against the fabric of the woman’s essence. The make-love-not-war hippie in her couldn’t fathom the thought of people doing violence, even if it was done on the behalf of others. Every soldier and law enforcement officer prayed for the day when their skills would no longer be needed. That time when the world held hands and sang kumbaya. In Hatch’s experience, the world had a long way to go before things got better.
Hatch moved past, slightly brushing her mother’s arm with her damaged one. She had somewhere to be, already losing a few good early morning hours to unplanned sleep. She wasn’t about to lose any more time to a senseless back-and-forth with her mother.
Hatch went down the stairs, grabbed a stainless-steel mug from the cabinet, and filled it to the brim with her mother’s special brew. Not wanting to upset the children, Hatch left out the back door.
The engine to the old Ford protested its cold start to the day. Frost melted on the windshield as the defroster began to work its magic. Running the wipers to clear enough to navigate, Hatch headed out in the direction of Nighthawk Lake, the site where her sister’s body had been found.
Hatch stood on the soft ground and listened in the morning’s silence. A breeze forced the lake’s water to shore in a rhythmic ebb and flow. She knelt on one knee, and the dampness of the muddy bed penetrated her jeans. Hatch was looking for clues missed by the initial wave of investigators. But more than that, she wanted to absorb every bit of this place, the spot where her sister’s body had lain.
A torn bit of yellow police tape tangled in a knot around a nearby tree branch confirmed she was in the right spot. She listened, smelled and opened her eyes to all possibilities. The initial case report the sheriff’s office had provided her mother didn’t offer much detail other than the time of the call and where the body was located. No formal assessment made. Just a listing of facts. Reading between the lines, Hatch deduced the original train of thought was her sister had managed to drown herself. One thing was certain, she didn’t drown. Everything else was open for debate.
The only way to effectively approach any crime scene was to see it with fresh eyes. The problem was, this site had been trampled and disturbed during the processing, making it unlikely that something valuable would still be present. But Hatch planned to trace all potential leads, and this would be one of many stops along the trail.
She remained still in her kneeling position near the water’s edge, hoping something would stand out. She had navigated a narrow rocky decline down to the area. Looking back at the trail she’d taken to get here, Hatch thought it an odd place to dump a body. It would’ve been difficult terrain to carry a body over, even in daylight. But at night, the task would’ve been damn near impossible. At least not without leaving a treasure trove of potential trace evidence. But according to the police report she’d been given, nothing was located. Plus, the shrubs would’ve scratched up her sister’s arms and legs on the way down. At the autopsy, there were no signs of this. Which led her to one possible conclusion: Her sister’s body wasn’t dumped here, yet she somehow ended up on the embankment.
Hatch stood and scanned the irregular oval shape of the expansive Nighthawk Lake. The gentle lapping of the water jarred a thought. Drift. She’d spent some time in Coronado, and the SEAL she’d lived with during her time there had explained the simple way they’d checked the set and drift each morning. A tennis ball was used to mark out the speed and direction of the ocean’s current. It was a daily task for the basic course students, and they were required to deliver the surf report to the instructors before the day’s training evolutions began. He told her a funny story about losing the tennis ball on one cold morning and, fearing the reprisal of getting the report wrong, slipped into icy cold water naked while his swim buddy marked the distance and direction as he bobbed along. She laughed, remembering the retelling of the story. Hatch hadn’t thought of him in a long time. She pushed the memory back and refocused her thoughts.
Hatch did something essential to all investigations: She put herself in the mind of the criminal. If somebody was in desperate need to rid themselves of a body, where would she choose? Which spot would provide ease of access and speed of escape?
Thinking about the ripple of the water and recalling her base knowledge of set and drift, Hatch also took in the terrain and steep angles down to the water. A four-wheel drive vehicle would be a necessity to make the climb. Nobody in their right mind would risk getting stuck with a body in their trunk.
Hatch also took into account the minimal movement of the lake’s surface. Some boat traffic would create wakes, disrupting the relatively pristine water with a temporary flux of man-made waves. She also knew most boating took place in the daylight hours and her sister’s body had been found during the early morning. The only logical conclusion was the body was dropped close by.
Then she saw it. A small clearing about the length of two football fields away from her. The ground was wide and flat. There was a winding dirt road leading away from it, barely visible through the overgrowth of vegetation. The area was most likely a long-forgotten boat launch. A perfect spot for making a quick drop.
She approached on foot, skirting along the shoreline. The dank smell of mud rose with the rising temperature. Missing her morning run, Hatch was happy to have the opportunity to get in some exercise crossing the rugged landscape. The uneven terrain reminded her of the mountains of Afghanistan. This was much easier, and comparatively so without a sixty-pound rucksack on her back.
It wasn’t long before she reached the spot she’d identified. Stopping before setting foot on the sandy packed mud, Hatch retrieved her phone from her pocket and snapped a photo. The image taken by her flip phone would be of the lowest quality, but fo
r her purposes it would suffice.
In the dried mud, leading away from the water, was a set of tire tracks. Cool temperatures helped to lock in the shape, making the deep grooves of the treads clearly visible. Her eyes traced their path, following the wide textured lines as they wove their way upward until they disappeared over a rise of the hill above. The snapped branches and flattened tall grass added to the outline of the departing vehicle. She inspected a snapped branch. The woody innards of the limb were an off-white and still maintained some elasticity, further proving her theory and indicating the trail had been made relatively recently.
Hatch bent low, closely examining the tread marks. The vehicle responsible for them had a distinct pattern in the center, best described as a series of interlocking puzzle pieces. She committed them to memory after taking another photograph, not confident in her flip phone’s ability to adequately capture the details should she need it for later comparison.
She followed the trail up, walking the packed earth the vehicle had traveled until she came to a more distinct path that connected with the main road, a narrow two-lane strip of asphalt which wrapped around the lake.
Satisfied she’d gathered her first tangible lead, Hatch walked the shoulder back toward where she’d parked the old Ford.
As she rounded the final bend, the backend of her pickup came into view. Hatch was surprised to see that she wasn’t alone. A Hawk’s Landing Sheriff’s SUV parked alongside her busted old pickup. A female deputy was standing at the overlook, shielding her eyes from the morning’s light breaking through the overcast sky.
Hatch approached quietly, using the time to size up the deputy. The woman had her hair pulled into a tight bun and her uniform was neatly pressed. Her boots still held a shine, and it was apparent to Hatch this woman hadn’t attempted to follow her down to the muddy bottom.
“Can I help you?”
The deputy jumped at the sound of Hatch’s voice. Turning, she quickly worked to settle her unease. “God, you gave me a scare.”