Trial by Twelve

by Heather Day Gilbert

  “He’s getting careless,” he says, when I finally lapse into silence. “Like I said, I’m going to stake out the spa and woods tonight. But I want you back at home, Mrs. Spencer.”

  I’m not going to my home. I will stay at Charlotte’s house in town until she returns. Because she will come back. She has to.

  21

  WOULD YOU BELIEVE I ran into Sea at the grocery store? I couldn’t believe my luck. I told her we needed to talk. She agreed, albeit with a toss of her thick brown hair. After setting up a place and time, I left, feeling lighter in my spirit. This was good; this was closure. I was pursuing truth, which is a noble thing.

  Julie went into a fit of histrionics the other day, shouting about my perceived ineptitudes on the job. I took it like a man. After work, I waited up and stopped her before she got to her car. I wanted to reason with her, one-on-one. I asked her why she had such a bee in her bonnet about me and she couldn’t articulate it properly, harpy that she is. I would like to say I remained non-violent, but my temper did rise from the abyss and get the better of me.

  We are closing in on your last year in foster care. Are you excited? I hope you have been preparing yourself for our hunting adventures. We will truly make an unstoppable team.

  WHEN I EXPLAIN TO THOMAS and Nikki Jo, they understand my need to stay at Charlotte’s tonight. I stop by our house to love on Mira Brooke, who will stay up at the big house with her grandparents. Thomas is getting home late from work anyway.

  I have the key to Charlotte’s green house. After parking in her spot on the curb, I walk up the porch steps and realize Andrew was right when he said the old house would be easy enough to break into. The windows are old and easily jiggered, the basement door hangs limply on its hinges, and the street is poorly lit. It’s a perfect storm of vulnerability.

  Gripping my duffel bag, I unlock the door and feel along the wall for a light switch. As in many old houses, the switch is in a strange place, and you have to push it, like a button on an elevator. When the living room lights up, I step all the way inside. My Glock sits snug on my waist and I swiped Thomas’ hunting knife, for good measure. I hooked the knife sheath on my belt. If I had one more pistol and wore boots and shorts, I’d feel even more like Tomb Raider.

  Charlotte spent a lot of time cleaning and decorating the house, and the entire place seems to breathe her name. Miranda’s antiques are juxtaposed with splashy modern artwork on the walls. Unique ceramics crowd every flat surface. I love Charlotte’s large, jellybean-shaped bowls that look like art but serve up popcorn equally well.

  Her kitchen is in a disarray, as if she whisked out quickly this morning. The dry-erase board on her fridge holds no clues as to her whereabouts; it just says fish, linguine, and eggs.

  I know full well Charlotte wouldn’t have waltzed off with someone without telling me. She was planning to see her mom and then go home. She would have no reason for leaving her car at The Haven parking lot. It’s too far to walk to her house from there. Something happened to her…someone happened. I walk back into the living room and drop into a celery-colored Queen Anne chair. Tears flow fast and unregulated.

  Our hands are helplessly tied. Sure, the police are trying to track any clues, follow up with any witnesses who saw her leave. But the thing is, this stalker strikes fast and deadly. The one thing that comforts me is that he probably wouldn’t risk shooting her with a bow in the parking lot, and they’ve found no blood. He is probably taking her to his lair, wherever that is. But how does he shoot the women once he has them? Does he drug them first, then shoot them? And why am I calling this killer a “he?” It could just as easily be a woman.

  I move to the black leather couch, set my Glock on the floor, and pull a faded garden-patterned quilt over myself. I can’t eat, even though I’m fairly certain Charlotte has a well-stocked fridge and would want me to. She would tell me to take care of myself. But she’s the one who needs someone looking out for her now. I pray out loud, begging God to spare her life. Even as I pray, I start drifting off to sleep.

  My cell phone rings around 1:15 in the morning. Detective Tucker is on the other end.

  “She’s alive. Meet me at the Pleasant Valley Hospital. I’ll be in the waiting room by the front door.”

  Dazed but praising God, I slip into my sandals, put my Glock back in its holster, and lock the house. I ease the SUV into the street with my park lights on, trying not to wake the neighbors.

  I think of that verse I read yesterday about how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news. Now I can understand a bit better what Isaiah was saying. There are times when the evil seems so impenetrable, the wickedness so victorious, you don’t even know how to hope. But then the good news bursts in, as impossible to deny as it is to believe. She’s alive.

  I RUN INTO BARTHOLOMEW Cole in the parking lot as he rushes toward the hospital. The Good Doctor isn’t looking his usual dapper self, because he’s wearing a striped pajama shirt over khaki cargo shorts and his thick white hair is positively rumpled.

  “Tess.” He gives me a brief hug and takes my arm as we walk into the waiting room.

  Detective Tucker hastens to my side, his dark eyes intense. “You two know each other?”

  “Yes, this is Doctor Bartholomew Cole. He’s dating Charlotte.”

  “I see. And where were you tonight, Doctor Cole?”

  The Good Doctor looks surprised, realizing he’s being questioned, but quickly regains his composure. “I just got in tonight from a conference in Missouri. Melva at the switchboard called to let me know they’d brought Charlotte in. What’s going on?”

  “Don’t explain everything,” I beg the detective. “Just tell us how she is.”

  “She’s stable but out of it for now, since she lost a lot of blood from a heavy blow to the head,” he says. “She somehow managed to show up at a house on the outskirts of Buckneck, pounding on the door around midnight. The homeowners called the police and we found her there, slumped in a heap by that point.”

  “Who would have done that? I don’t understand.” The Good Doctor looks at me incredulously, like he can’t assimilate what the detective said.

  I pat his hand. “I’ll explain later, but I need to see her now.”

  Detective Tucker takes us both back, murmuring something to the police officer stationed by her door. I’m glad they had the decency to post someone here.

  “No one comes in but me or the nurses and doctors, that’s what I’ve told them,” he explains.

  Charlotte’s deep brown hair forms a fuzzy halo around the bandages that wrap her head. Her angular cheekbones are pale, and they jut out more because her lips aren’t quirked in her usual smile. I bend to kiss her, wiping away my silent tears that sprinkle her cheek. “Oh, Charlotte,” is all I can say, over and over.

  The Good Doctor takes her hand and checks her pulse. “They did a transfusion?” he asks. “Stitches or staples?”

  “Several staples,” Detective Tucker answers, almost apologetic. “It was Doctor Vasa. They tell me he’s the best.”

  “Yes, he is. I’ll have him paged so we can chat.” The Good Doctor turns to me. “You can go home. I’ll stay with her tonight and call you when she’s awake. We’re all lucky she got here in time.” His gray eyes probe mine, earnest. “Tess, she’s going to be okay.”

  The Good Doctor’s spicy scent and insightful manner never fail to affect me. It’s no wonder Charlotte fell for him. Sudden exhaustion claims me. “Okay, I’ll head back to my house for now. Thank you.”

  Detective Tucker walks me out to the hallway. “Very sorry about your friend, Mrs. Spencer. But that’s all the more reason for you to stay out of that woods. In fact, I’m going to advise Ms. Gibson to temporarily shut down the spa. I don’t want you going back over there. I say this as a husband and a father. You don’t need to risk your life for this case.”

  He’s advising me to give up, but I know he’s taking the same risks by staking out the woods. I want to share wh
at I’ve found with the detective, but I can’t think straight enough to sort it out at this hour. One fact leaps to mind, though.

  “There’s a poached deer carcass off the path, in the woods,” I say. “And some kind of cross marker made from logs.”

  He rubs his beard. “That is unusual.”

  Thoughts rush at me and I try to articulate them, wishing for hot coffee to give my brain a needed jolt. “Also, Teeny told me he bowhunts.”

  “Good work.”

  I rub my bleary eyes. I need to get home while I’m half-lucid.

  “Do you need a ride home, Mrs. Spencer? I can have one of my men take you.”

  “No, I’m okay. I just need to get going. Thank you and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I walk out, my thoughts stationary, like snow trapped under a crust of ice. I fumble with the SUV keys in the ignition. Once I’m on the road, I wake up a bit. One thing about the mountains: they’re never boring. It’s hard to drift to sleep when you’re anticipating the direction of the next curve. They’re a constant surprise, from ice fog that coats trees in winter to rockslides and deer any other time of year.

  When I make the turn down our driveway, which always makes me feel like I’m taking a Dukes of Hazzard-style jump into space, I notice the porch light at the big house is on. Nikki Jo and Roger probably figured I could come back tonight and left it on for me. That little gesture melts me and tears flood my cheeks. I’m an emotional train wreck.

  I finally crawl into bed beside Thomas around 4 a.m. His long arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into the curve of his body. He mumbles incoherently. “What, Tess…you love me?”

  Even when he’s rambling in his sleep, he’s thinking about me. My hand covers his, and I fall asleep with his comforting pulse twitching under my thumb.

  22

  I HAVE A BIT OF BAD news. I’m afraid I’m no longer working at Woolworth’s. I’ve also had to leave my apartment for now. There was an incident at work. I accidentally sliced Julie’s ear with scissors. It was an honest mistake, I assure you. But she threatened to sue and management cut me loose as fast as possible. I will send you a new address when I have one, but it might be a while. I also have to job-hunt, this time with no references.

  Have you heard from your mother? I hope so. Then again, best not to suspend your own life, waiting for her. I am afraid she might have “flaked out,” to use jargon you might be familiar with.

  Continue the path to enlightenment. Read and work hard and develop your skills. Deepen your understanding of the universe. I will contact you as soon as possible.

  MIRA BROOKE WAKES ME with her laughter as she kicks the side of her crib. Sunlight floods the room. How late have I slept? I grab my phone. It’s 10:13.

  I also have a text message from Nikki Jo. She’s recently taken up texting, and reading her auto-corrected messages is invariably a hoot:

  Honey I heard about charlatan and I am so sorry. I heard she is in the hospital. You need me to watch baby girl? Are you working at sap today? I have some chocolate Bambi muffins if you like.

  I snicker when I read about her chocolate “Bambi” muffins, which should have read “banana” and are notoriously mouth-watering. I text her back.

  Slept late. Staying home today with Mira Brooke. Will come up in a while and get some muffins though. Thanks. Love you.

  I pull Mira Brooke out and kiss her rosy cheeks. As I change her diaper and clothes, I’m awed with my baby’s happy demeanor, even after staying in her crib a couple hours past her normal wake-up time. Velvet wanders upstairs, meowing loudly for food and weaving between my legs. The cat is more demanding than the child.

  I throw on my dark slim jeans and my favorite black X-Files T-shirt that reads Trust No One. Pretty much sums up why I’m not going in to work today.

  As I walk Mira Brooke up to the big house, I take in our tranquil surroundings. The pale morning sun filters through the forest canopy around us. I imagine my dewy rosebush soaking it up, photosynthesizing like crazy. The coo of a mourning dove echoes, somehow soothing my heart. Sometimes I feel so entangled with the West Virginia seasons, it’s like I’m breathing through them.

  I smile, knowing Nikki Jo will have a fresh pot of coffee ready and my favorite creamer set out. She’ll want to talk about Charlotte, which is exactly what I need to do right now to process things.

  Nikki Jo meets me at her door, wearing sports garb since she hits her exercise equipment early. Today’s ensemble includes electric yellow, green, and blue marbled leggings topped by a ruched green workout shirt. That outfit would be laughable on me, but Nikki Jo always looks like a knockout in bright colors.

  As I give her the rundown on Charlotte over coffee and a muffin, she interjects numerous sighs and moans. “Bless that poor girl’s heart,” she says. “As if having her momma sick and nearly on her death-bed isn’t enough. What’s Zeke doing about this?”

  “I guess we’re all just waiting until Charlotte can tell us what happened. We need to ask if she saw who hit her, that kind of thing.” I take a slow sip of coffee before plunging in with a question that’s been burning in my mind. “Mom…tell me—were you and Zeke an item once?”

  Her velvety brown eyes mist up. “Law, no. But he had a big crush on me. He wasn’t as handsome then…he was what you’d call a nerd. But by my senior year I only had eyes for Roger. Roger was quarterback of the football team and he had that honey blond hair. I swan, he could just look at the girls and they’d drop like flies. I couldn’t believe he fell for me.” She smiles, lost in a different time and place.

  I take another bite of muffin, waiting. Nikki Jo continues. “But I knew Zeke would make something of himself. He wasn’t the kind of boy to sit idle. He had smarts and he was tough in ways most of the boys weren’t. Put it this way—if some kind of catastrophe happened, he’d be the one I’d want around.”

  Mira Brooke babbles to herself, chocolate and muffin smeared all over her cheeks. “Petey!” Nikki Jo calls, wiping Mira Brooke’s face. “Could you take Mira Brooke in with the toys for a while?”

  Petey zooms into the kitchen, sliding across the floor in his sock feet. “Sure, Ma. Wanna play with your favorite uncle, Mir bear?” As soon as she’s loose from her chair, Mira Brooke toddles off at top speed toward her play area.

  Nikki Jo brings the coffee pot over, pouring us both a warm-up. “I know you have your gun, but I don’t think you’re safe at that spa. You don’t need the income, do you? Especially when Thomas becomes the new prosecutor?”

  My mother-in-law always encourages me to stay home with my daughter, and if I’m honest, part of me wants to just up and quit working. But we’re still paying off law school debt, and Dani pays me well for the limited hours I put in. It’s actually an ideal job, most of the time.

  “I really do need the money, Mom. I’ll talk with Dani. I told Detective Tucker I’d get the inside scoop, but so far I haven’t learned much and he told me to quit going over, anyway. Maybe after this all blows over…”

  “It’s hard to catch a killer no one knows anything about.” Nikki Jo levels a serious look at me over her red Fiesta-ware mug. She’s fishing for details. If I share them, I’m sure everyone in Buckneck will know the killer’s M.O. by noon. But maybe the Buckneck women should be aware of it. Why isn’t Detective Tucker making it open knowledge the killer is a bowhunter? Maybe he’s afraid people will start spying on their neighbors…but that might help us catch this murderer faster.

  “I’ll tell you as soon as I can.” My cell phone starts playing Buffy.

  Nikki Jo plugs her ears with her fingers. “What on this green earth is that racket?”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I snatch it up. “Yes, Dani?”

  “Where are you, Tess? I’m here at the spa by myself.”

  “I know. I couldn’t come in. Charlotte’s in the hospital. They’re pretty sure the serial killer grabbed her.”

  “What? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I’m always out of the loop and I should be the first to kno
w any news. Tess, tell me. How is this stalker killing women? What kind of women? I have to know more. I’m sitting here by myself. Teeny didn’t even show up, the slacker.”

  I won’t be responsible for another friend becoming a victim. “It’s a bowhunter. He’s killing them with arrows.”

  Silence reigns on Dani’s end. I look up, catching the stunned look on Nikki Jo’s face. I could swear her to secrecy, but at this point I don’t even care. The women of Buckneck need a fighting chance, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed—if there is any way to prepare for a mad bowhunter.

  “Dani? You okay? Everything okay up there? You want me to cancel appointments from here? You should get home.”

  “Yes, I’m going to go. I’m locking up now, while we’re talking. Hang on until I get to my car.”

  “Of course.”

  “Who would do this? Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Serial killers aren’t always predictable, I guess.”

  A car lock beep sounds, then her car door closes with a solid wham. Dani puts it on speaker phone and revs her engine. That girl loves to speed. She shouts into the car. “I’m okay and I’m out of here. Thanks for telling me.”

  “No problem. Let’s just stay home until they catch him.”

  “It’s a man? Are you sure?”

  “No. I’m not sure of anything.”

  “Okay, well call me with news and tell Detective Tucker I expect the same courtesy from him. And Tess, I’m sorry about Charlotte. Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to check today.”

  I hang up. Nikki Jo washes dishes in her deep farmhouse sink. She turns, accidentally swiping bubbles into her bangs.

  “One of the best bowhunters I’ve ever known is Zeke Tucker.” Doubt and fear have erased her usual dimples.