It was a police cruiser, and it was parked on Rachel Sorkin’s property.
She pulled to a stop in the driveway. Three vehicles were in the front yard, two police cruisers and a white van. A Maine state trooper was talking to Rachel on the porch. Beneath the trees, flashlight beams zigzagged across the ground.
Claire spotted Lincoln Kelly emerging from the woods. It was his silhouette she recognized as he passed before one of the searchlights. Though not a tall man, Lincoln was straight and solid and he moved with a quiet assuredness that made him seem larger than he was. He stopped to speak to the state trooper, then he noticed Claire and crossed the yard to her truck.
She rolled down the window. “Have you found any more bones?” she asked.
He leaned in, bringing with him the scent of the forest. Pine trees and earth and wood smoke. “Yep. The dogs led us over to the streambed,” he said. “That bank eroded pretty badly this spring, after all those floods. That’s what uncovered the bones. But I’m afraid wild animals have already scattered most of them in the woods.”
“Does the ME think it’s a homicide?”
“It’s no longer an ME’s case. The bones are too old. There’s a forensic anthropologist in charge now, if you’d like to talk to her. Name’s Dr. Overlock.”
He opened the truck door and Claire climbed out. Together they walked into the gloom of the woods. Dusk had rapidly thickened to night. The ground was uneven, layered with dead leaves, and she found herself stumbling in the underbrush. Lincoln reached out to steady her. He seemed to have no trouble navigating in the darkness, his heavy boots connecting solidly with the ground.
Lights were shining among the trees, and Claire heard voices and the sound of trickling water. She and Lincoln emerged from the woods, onto the stream bank. A section of the eroded bank had been cordoned off by police tape strung between stakes, and on a tarp lay the mud-encrusted bones that had already been unearthed. Claire recognized a tibia and what looked like fragments of a pelvis. Two men wearing waders and headlamps stood knee-deep in the stream, gingerly excavating the side of the bank.
Lucy Overlock was standing among the trees talking on a cell phone. She was like a tree herself, tall and strapping, dressed in a woodsman’s wardrobe of jeans and work boots. Her hair, almost entirely gray, was tied back in a tight, no-nonsense ponytail. She saw Lincoln, gave a harassed wave, and continued with her phone conversation.
“ … no artifacts yet, just the skeletal remains. But I assure you, this burial doesn’t fall under NAGPRA. The skull looks Caucasoid to me, not Indian. What do you mean, how can I tell? It’s obvious! The braincase is too narrow, and the facial breadth just isn’t wide enough. No, of course it’s not absolute. But the site is on Locust Lake, and there’s never been a Penobscot settlement here. The tribe wouldn’t even fish in this lake, it’s such a taboo place.” She looked up at the sky and shook her head. “Certainly, you can examine the bones for yourself. But we have to excavate this site now, before the animals do any more damage, or we’ll lose the whole thing.” She hung up and looked at Lincoln in frustration. “Custody battle.”
“Over bones?”
“It’s that NAGPRA law. Indian graves protection. Every time we find remains, the tribes demand one hundred percent confirmation it’s not one of theirs. Ninety-five percent isn’t good enough for them.” Her gaze turned to Claire, who’d stepped forward to introduce herself.
“Lucy Overlock,” said Lincoln. “And this is Claire Elliot. The doctor who found the thigh bone.”
The two women shook hands, the no-nonsense greeting of two medical professionals meeting over a grim business.
“We’re lucky you’re the one who spotted the bone,” said Lucy. “Anyone else might not have realized it was human.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure,” said Claire. “I’m glad I didn’t drag everyone out here for a cow bone.”
“It’s definitely not a cow.”
One of the diggers called out from the streambed: “We found something else.”
Lucy dropped knee-deep into the stream and aimed a flashlight at the exposed bank.
“There,” said the digger, gently prodding the soil with a trowel. “Looks like it might be another skull.”
Lucy snapped on gloves. “Okay, let’s ease it out.”
He slid the tip of his trowel deeper into the bank and gingerly pried away caked mud. The object dropped into Lucy’s gloved hands. She scrambled out of the water and up onto the bank. Kneeling down, she surveyed her treasure over the tarp.
It was indeed a second skull. Under the flood-light, Lucy carefully turned it over and examined the teeth.
“Another juvenile. No wisdom teeth,” Lucy noted. “I see decayed molars here and here, but no fillings.”
“Meaning no dental work,” said Claire.
“Yes, these are old bones. A good thing for you, Lincoln. Otherwise, this would be an active homicide case.”
“Why do you say that?”
She rotated the skull, and the light fell on the crown, where fracture lines radiated out from a central depression, the way a soft-boiled egg cracks when it is struck with the back of a spoon.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt,” she said. “This child died a violent death.”
The chirp of a beeper cut through the silence, startling them all. In the stillness of those woods, that electronic sound was strangely foreign. Disconcerting. Both Claire and Lincoln automatically reached for their respective pagers.
“It’s mine,” said Lincoln, glancing at his readout. Without another word, he took off through the woods toward his cruiser. Seconds later, Claire saw the dome light flashing through the trees as his vehicle streaked away.
“Must be an emergency,” said Lucy.
Officer Pete Sparks was already at the scene, trying to talk old Vern Fuller into putting down his shotgun. Night had fallen, and Lincoln’s first glimpse of the situation was of two wildly gesturing silhouettes intermittently backlit by the flashing dome light of Pete’s cruiser. Lincoln pulled to a stop in Vern’s driveway and cautiously stepped out of his vehicle. He heard bleating sheep, the restless clucking of chickens. The sounds of a working farm.
“You don’t need the gun,” Pete was saying. “Just go back in the house, Vern, and we’ll look into this.”
“Like you looked into it the last time?”
“I didn’t find anything the last time.”
“That’s because you take so damn long gettin’ here!”
“What’s the problem?” said Lincoln.
Vern turned to him. “That you, Chief Kelly? Then you tell this—this boy here that I’m not about to hand over my only protection.”
“I’m not asking you to hand it over,” said a weary-sounding Pete. “I just want you to stop waving it around. Go inside and put the gun away, so nobody gets hurt.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Lincoln. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so you go in and lock the door, Vern. Stay close to the phone, just in case we need you to call for backup.”
“Backup?” Vern gave a grunt. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll do that.”
The two cops waited for the old man to stomp into the house and shut the door.
Then Pete said, “He’s blind as a bat. Wish we could get that shotgun away from him. Every time I come out here, I half expect to get my head blown off.”
“What’s the problem, anyway?”
“Aw, it’s the third time he’s called nine-one-one. I’m so busy runnin’ my tail off with all these other calls, it takes me a while to get here. He always has the same complaint about some wild animal stalking his sheep. Probably just seeing his own shadow, that’s what.”
“Why does he call us?”
“’Cause Fish and Game takes even longer to respond. I been here twice this week, didn’t find anything. Not even a coyote print. Today’s the first time I seen Vern this riled up. Thought I’d better get you out, just in case he decided to shoot me ’s
tead of some wild animal.”
Lincoln glanced at the house, and saw the old man’s face silhouetted in the window. “He’s watching. Might as well check the property, just to keep him happy.”
“Says he saw the animal over by the barn.”
Pete turned on his flashlight, and they started across the yard, toward the sound of bleating sheep. Lincoln felt the old man’s gaze every step of the way. Let’s just humor him, he thought. Even if it is a waste of our time.
He was startled when Pete suddenly halted, his flashlight beam trained on the barn door.
It hung open.
Something wasn’t right. It was after dark, and the door should have been latched to protect the animals.
He turned on his flashlight as well. They approached more slowly now, their jerky beams guiding the way. At the entrance to the barn they paused. Even through the earthy melange of farmyard odors, they could smell it: the scent of blood.
They stepped into the barn. At once the bleating intensified, the sound as disturbing as the cries of panicked children. Pete swung his flashlight in a wide arc, and they caught glimpses of pitchforks and fluttering chickens and sheep fearfully bunched together in a pen.
Lying on the sawdust floor was the source of that foul odor.
Pete stumbled out of the building first, and retched into the weeds, one hand propped up against the barn wall. “Jesus. Jesus.”
“It’s just a dead sheep,” said Lincoln.
“I never seen a coyote do that. Lay out the offal …”
Lincoln aimed his beam at the ground, quickly scanning the area around the barn door. All he saw was a jumble of boot prints, his and Pete’s and Vern Fuller’s. No tracks. How could an animal leave no tracks?
A twig snapped behind him, and he whirled around to see Vern, still clutching the shotgun.
“It’s a bear,” said the old man. “That’s what I seen, a bear.”
“A bear wouldn’t do this.”
“I know what I saw. Whyn’t you believe me?”
Because everyone knows you’re half blind.
“It went that way, into the woods,” said Vern, pointing to the forested edge of his property. “I followed it over there, just before dark. Then I lost it.”
Lincoln saw that the boot tracks did indeed head toward the forest, but Vern had retraced his steps several times, obscuring any animal footprints.
He followed the trail over to the woods. There he stood for a moment, peering into the blackness. The trees were so thick they seemed to form an impenetrable wall that even his flashlight beam could not pierce.
By now Pete had recovered, and was standing by his side. “We should wait till daylight,” Pete whispered. “Don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“I know it’s not a bear.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not scared of bears. But if it’s something else …” Pete drew his weapon. “Rumor has it a cougar was spotted up at Jordan Falls last week.”
Now Lincoln drew his weapon as well as he moved slowly into the woods. He took half a dozen steps, the crack of breaking twigs under his boot as loud as gunfire. All at once he froze, staring at that wall of trees. The forest seemed to close in. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.
There’s something out there. It’s watching us.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat. He backed away, his heart racing, his boots setting off explosions of noise. Only when he and Pete had emerged completely from the woods did that feeling of imminent danger fade away.
They stood once again in front of Vern Fuller’s barn, and the sheep were still bleating. He looked down at the boot prints. Suddenly his head came up.
“What lies beyond those woods?” he asked.
“Goes back a ways,” said Vern. “Other side’s Barnstown Road. Bunch of houses.”
Houses, thought Lincoln.
Families.
Noah was watching TV when Claire got home. As she hung up her coat in the hallway, she recognized the theme music from The Simpsons cartoon playing in the other room, and she heard Homer Simpson’s loud burp and Lisa Simpson’s mutter of disgust. Then she heard her son laugh, and she thought: I’m so glad my son still laughs at cartoons.
She went into the front parlor and saw Noah flopped back against the couch cushions, his face briefly lit up with laughter. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything.
She sat down beside him and propped her feet up on the coffee table, next to his. Big feet, little feet, she thought with quiet amusement. Noah’s feet had grown so huge, they almost looked like a clown’s beside hers.
On the TV, an enormously fat Homer was bouncing around in a flowery muumuu, and shoveling food into his mouth.
Noah laughed again, and so did Claire. This was exactly the way she wanted to spend the rest of the evening. They would watch TV together, and eat popcorn for dinner. She leaned toward him, and they affectionately bumped heads together.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.
“It’s okay, Honey. I’m sorry I was late picking you up.”
“Grandma Elliot called. A little while ago.”
“Oh? Does she want me to call her back?”
“I guess.” He watched the TV for a while, his silence stretching through the string of commercials. Then he said, “Grandma wanted to make sure we were okay tonight.”
Claire gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”
“It’s Dad’s birthday.”
On the TV, Homer Simpson in his flowered muumuu had hijacked an ice cream truck and was driving it at breakneck speed, gobbling ice cream the whole way. Claire watched in stunned silence. Today was your birthday, she thought. You’ve been dead only two years, and already we’re losing bits and pieces of your memory.
“Oh god, Noah,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. I completely forgot.”
She felt his head droop heavily against her shoulder. And he said, with quiet shame, “So did I.”
Sitting in her bedroom, Claire returned Margaret Elliot’s call. Claire had always liked her mother-in-law, and through the years, their affection had grown to the point that she felt far closer to Margaret than she ever had to her own coldly aloof parents. Sometimes it seemed to Claire that everything she knew about love, about passion, had been taught to her by the Elliot family.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me,” said Claire.
“Sixty-two degrees and sunny in Baltimore today,” Margaret replied, and Claire had to laugh. Ever since she’d moved to Tranquility, this had been the running joke between them, their comparison of weather reports. Margaret had not wanted her to leave Baltimore. “You have no idea what real cold is,” she’d told Claire, “and I’m going to keep reminding you of what you’ve left behind.”
“Thirty-five degrees here,” Claire dutifully reported. She looked out her window. “It’s getting colder. Darker.”
“Did Noah tell you I called earlier?”
“Yes. And we’re doing fine. We really are.”
“Are you?”
Claire said nothing. Margaret had the uncanny talent for reading emotions from just the simple inflection of one’s voice, and already she had sensed something amiss.
“Noah told me he wants to come back here,” said Margaret.
“We just moved.”
“You can always change your mind.”
“Not now. I’ve made too many commitments here. To this new practice, the house.”
“Those are commitments to things, Claire.”
“No, they’re really commitments to Noah. I need to stay here, for him.” She paused, suddenly aware that, as much as she loved Margaret, she was feeling a little irritated. She was also weary of the gentle but repeated hints that she should return to Baltimore. “It’s always hard for a kid to make a fresh start, but he’ll adjust. He’s too young to know what he wants.”
“That’s true, I suppose. What about you? Do you still want to be there?”
“Why are you asking, Mom?”
“Be
cause I know it would be hard for me, moving to a new place. Leaving behind my friends.”
Claire stared at the dresser mirror, at her own tired face. At the reflection of her bedroom, which still had few pictures on the wall. It was merely a collection of furniture, a place to sleep, not yet part of a real home.
“A widow needs her friends, Claire,” said Margaret.
“Maybe that was one of the reasons I had to leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what I was to everyone—the widow. I’d walk into my clinic, and people would give me those sad and sympathetic looks. They were all afraid to laugh or tell jokes when I was around. And no one, no one ever dared to talk about Peter. It’s as if they thought I’d break down in sobs if they just mentioned his name.”
There was silence on the line, and Claire suddenly regretted having spoken so frankly.
“It doesn’t mean I ever stop missing him, Mom,” she said softly. “I see him every time I look at Noah’s face. The resemblance is so amazing. It’s like watching Peter grow up.”
“In more ways than one,” Margaret said, and Claire was relieved to hear the warmth had not left her mother-in-law’s voice. “Peter wasn’t the easiest child to raise. I don’t think I ever told you about all the trouble he got into when he was Noah’s age. That’s where Noah gets his streak of mischief, you know. From Peter.”
Claire had to laugh. He certainly didn’t get it from me, his boringly scrupulous mother, whose most serious crime was neglecting to get that safety sticker.
“Noah’s got a good heart, but he’s still only fourteen,” said Margaret with a friendly note of warning. “Don’t be too terribly shocked if there’s more mischief on the way.”
Later, as Claire headed back downstairs, she smelled the odor of burning matches, and she thought: Well, here it comes, then. More mischief. He’s sneaking another cigarette. She followed the scent to the kitchen and came to a halt in the doorway.
Noah was holding a lit match. He glanced at her, and quickly shook it out. “It’s all the candles I could find,” he said.
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