Abe considered the accusations, listened to the phones ringing, and smiled.
“Maybe we’re finally gonna nail this guy.”
* * *
“You the one writ’ them articles?”
Abe looked up from the table, where he had notes spread from the sugar canister to the table’s edge. A fidgety man gazed down at him.
“Yeah.” Abe stood, brushed the crumbs from his toast off his shirt and held out a hand. “Abe Levett. You got a tip?”
Abe had set up a makeshift office in Grady’s Diner. They served hot coffee and cheap breakfast and didn’t mind if he took over an entire booth. Certain types of people wouldn’t set foot in a police station, or a newspaper, to offer information. He’d let his editor know to send tipsters directly to the diner, and Grady seemed grateful, though he grumbled about the few who stopped in without buying a cup of coffee.
The man shifted his eyes around the diner. He looked one loud sound away from spooked.
“Here, have a seat, man.” Abe shoved the papers to one side of the table, clearing a space, and gestured at the opposite seat. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” He watched the man’s eyes rove across the counter, pausing hungrily on the glass case of pie.
“Or a piece of pie? Peach or blackberry?”
The man blinked at him, eyes watering, and nodded.
“Peach,” he mumbled
Abe walked to the counter.
“Mona, can you grab us a piece of peach pie and a coffee?”
“Sure thing,” Grady’s wife told him, offering a thumbs-up as she grabbed a plate of eggs from the hot window and slid them in front of two men eating at the counter.
“You got a name?” Abe asked, sitting down. He rarely bought food for strangers who may or may not have anything of significance to tell him, but the man looked like a runner, and on the skinny side. He’d count it as his good deed for the day.
“Stuart,” the man said, glancing at the papers on the table.
Abe was careful not to leave anything exposed that wasn’t already public knowledge.
“I seen her,” Stuart whispered, leaning forward. His hand snaked up from the beneath the table, tapped quickly on Orla’s picture, and then rushed back down.
“On the day she disappeared?” Abe grabbed a clean sheet of paper and wrote Stuart’s name at the top.
Stuart shook his head.
“Three days ago - no, four.” He shook his head, frowned as if days were hard to follow. Stuart dropped his voice to a whisper “At the big hospital.”
“The big hospital?” Abe asked, confused. “You mean the asylum?”
Stuart’s eyes darted around, and when Mona arrived with the pie, he jumped and nearly sent the pie flying. Mona pivoted away and kept the plate balanced on her hand, spilling only a sip of coffee on her white apron.
“Barely a drop,” she announced, grinning. She slid the pie and coffee on the table and turned without another word.
Stuart blinked after her, and then turned his eyes to the pie. He licked his lips and leaned close, sniffing it. He glanced around again, studying Mona before lifting his fork, carving out a bite, and touching his tongue to the pie. Abe wondered about his strange behavior.
“Is there something wrong with it?” he asked, though he suspected the pie wasn’t the issue.
“Can never be too careful,” Stuart told him, taking a bite and chewing slowly.
“You saw Orla Sullivan at the Northern Michigan Asylum?”
Stuart’s head bobbed up and down.
“Doing what, exactly?”
Abe didn’t want to write the man off, but he’d been hoping for a more plausible lead.
“Screaming. Her head was all wrapped up.” He gestured to his head as if wrapping it in a towel. “Her arms was strapped down. She looked me right here.” Stuart pointed two fingers square at his own face.
“Stuart. It’s public knowledge that Orla is missing. I find it hard to believe a doctor, a nurse, or an administrator at the asylum wouldn’t have called the police immediately to let them know.”
Stuart took another bite, watching Abe as he chewed.
He turned his head slightly, as if someone had whispered in his ear.
“I did it,” he said. “I told him. Not up to me no more.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Abe tried to make sense of his words, though he doubted the man had been speaking to him.
Stuart lifted the plate, licked off the pie residue, and stood. He hurried from the restaurant without another word.
Abe watched him through the window. He cut across the parking lot and disappeared into a thicket of trees at the road’s edge.
Despite his doubts, he jotted down the man’s tale.
“More coffee, hon?” Mona asked, pausing by his table with the pot.
“Yeah, thanks. Do you know him, Mona? The man who just came in?”
“I’ve seen him around. He’s a patient at the asylum, but he gets town privilege a few times a week. He’s never come in before - usually just walks up and down the roads. Harmless, but an odd ball.”
“Thanks.”
Abe tapped his pencil on Orla’s picture. It was a ridiculous claim. Unless somehow, she’d been admitted without a name. Could she have fallen, ended up with no memory of who she was? Could they somehow have not recognized her?
Abe shook his head and shifted back to his other notes.
* * *
Hazel
Hazel pulled into the diner. She waved at Abe seated inside.
As she turned toward the door, she spotted Orla’s dad at the telephone pole across the street, stapling a flier to the wood. She caught Abe’s eye, pointed at Orla’s dad, and held up a finger, signaling she’d be right back.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Hazel called, hurrying across the street.
He looked up, more fliers tucked beneath his arm, a determined look in his eyes. When he noticed her, his face lightened.
“Hi…” He paused as if searching for her name.
“Hazel,” she reminded him.
“Yes, Hazel, sorry.”
“Are those fliers for Orla?”
He sighed and held them up.
“Yeah. Fiona had an episode yesterday over the other fliers. They didn’t depict her eyes properly. So…”
“May I?”
He handed her the stack, and she looked at a picture of Orla in a high-neck dress, long black hair sweeping over each shoulder, wide blue eyes fixed on the camera.
“It’s a beautiful picture.”
Patrick nodded, taking the fliers back and dividing them in half.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Hazel said. She took the stack. “I had more fliers made up two days ago and already passed them out.”
He nodded, looking down the street.
“Have you heard anything more from the police?”
He shook his head.
“They still think she left on her own. This character who writes for Up North News might be our best hope.”
“Did you read the article?”
He nodded and stopped, an odd gurgling sound rising from his throat. He rushed across the street. His fliers exploded into the air and floated in lazy circles to the hot pavement below.
Hazel watched, awestruck, as Patrick slammed into the side of a man on a bicycle - and not just any bicycle, but Orla’s yellow bike, with the little purple basket painted with yellow flowers.
24
Hazel
The man on the bike flew sideways, his body hitting the pavement hard, but Patrick wasted no time. He lifted him by his shirt and held him dangling above the ground.
Hazel almost picked up the discarded fliers but, realizing the situation in front of her was more dire, ran across the street.
“Where’s Orla?” Patrick shouted into the man’s startled face, and Hazel realized he was barely a man at all, maybe sixteen, with terrified brown eyes and an ugly red scrape where he’d landed on his left forearm.
“Mr. Su
llivan,” Hazel whispered, touching his arm.
Patrick didn’t seem to hear her or notice the gathering people who’d stopped to watch the assault unfolding.
The boy shook his head, gave Hazel a panic-stricken glance. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin throat.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I think you’ve got me confused.”
The boy didn’t break away when Patrick spoke. Instead, he pulled his face back into head, as if expecting the man to punch his teeth in. Hazel wouldn’t have been surprised if Patrick did just that.
“You’ve got my daughter’s bike.” Patrick jerked his head toward the fallen bike. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time-”
“I found it,” the boy squeaked. “I swear. I passed it a few times just laying beside a tree. I thought…” But he didn’t finish as Abe ran up beside them.
“Mr. Sullivan. Somebody called the police. You better set the kid down.” He put his hand on Patrick’s arm and pushed it down, encouraging him to release the boy back onto his feet. “Don’t even think about running,” Abe told him.
Hazel knew he had no such intentions. His skinny legs quaked beneath his shorts. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he wet himself.
“He has Orla’s bike,” Patrick told Abe, jabbing an accusatory finger at the yellow bicycle.
Abe nodded.
“The police will be here any second.” Abe glanced down the road, where cars had slowed and more people stood in small groups on the sidewalk, sharing their stories. “When did you find the bike?” Abe asked.
“Umm, on like Thursday,” the boy stammered. “Yeah, it was Thursday. In Elder Park. It was just lying there, honest to God. I walked by it a few times and figured somebody dumped it.”
“Where’s the park?” Abe asked.
The kid scratched his head, avoided eye contact with Patrick, and gestured toward the north. “A little north of the bay. On Cherry Bend Road.”
“How long was the bike there before you took it?”
Hazel observed Abe’s brain working behind his eyes. He wanted to question the boy before the cops arrived.
“Umm… like two days. I just thought somebody left it.”
Patrick stood frozen in place, glaring at the kid as if he wanted to pummel him despite the story. Hazel had the sense Patrick’s anger had been building ever since Orla went missing.
Hazel stepped toward the bike. She needed to set it upright. Orla loved her bicycle. She’d hate the image of it lying on the pavement, discarded.
“Don’t touch it,” Abe told her. “It’s evidence - already contaminated by this kid, but at least he found it, and now we have it. They need to dust it for fingerprints.”
“Am I in trouble?” the boy asked, as if the mention of fingerprint dusting had sealed his fate.
“Not if you’re telling the truth,” Abe told him. “So, give that a good think. If you’re lying, now’s the time to come clean.”
“Did you see anyone with the bike or around it?” Hazel cut in, squatting next to the bike. She pulled out a sprig of pink flowers tangled in its spokes.
The kid glanced at her, looked scared all over again, and Hazel knew he had. Abe, too, seemed to notice the slip.
“No,” he murmured.
Hazel held up the flowers.
“Water willow,” she told them. “They grow in Birch Park along the stream. I’ve picked them there myself.”
When the squad car arrived, two uniformed officers stepped out. The one in charge, clearly the senior of the two, was graying around the temples and wore dark sunglasses. He was handsome and reminded Hazel of a cop from a movie. His partner was young and fresh-faced, with an eagerness in his gait as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
“We received a call about a disturbance,” the senior officer started, and then he spotted Abe. A little smile flitted across his lips, but he quickly returned to an impassive expression.
“Deputy Waller.” Abe nodded his head toward the officer.
“Mr. Levett, everything all right here?”
“No,” Patrick interrupted. “This punk has my daughter’s bike.”
The younger officer looked between Patrick and the teenager, and then to Deputy Waller for instructions.
“Deputy, this is Patrick Sullivan, the father of Orla Sullivan,” Abe explained.
Waller’s expression softened.
“I understand. What’s your name, young man?” the deputy asked.
The younger officer pulled out a notepad and pencil.
“It’s, uh, Luke Dixon.” He fiddled with his hands, shoving them in his pockets.
“And how did you come into possession of Orla Sullivan’s bike?”
“I found it on Cherry Bend Road, like I told these guys. It was left there, on its side, like somebody didn’t want it no more.”
“Where exactly on Cherry Bend Road?”
“Elder Park.”
“I will need you to show me the exact location. Officer Petty, call the station and request a tech to come secure the bike. There’s no room in the squad car. Luke, we’ll drive you to your parents’ house for permission, but I need you to take us to the place you found the bike.”
“Sure, yeah.” He shot a furtive look at Patrick, and then at his feet. “My ma’s workin’ at the grocery store, but we don’t need permission. She’ll get mad if we bother her.”
“How about your dad?” Waller asked.
Luke shook his head.
“He split when I was little.”
“Okay, go over to the squad car. Officer Petty will help you into the back.”
Luke cast terrified eyes at the car but did as he was told.
“Anything I need to be aware of?” Waller asked, shifting his gaze from Abe, to Hazel before falling on Patrick.
Patrick no longer looked angry. It had been the boy’s comment about his father splitting. Hazel had watched Pat’s mouth fall a bit at those words.
“I picked him up by his shirt. Scared him pretty good. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Waller said, “but under the circumstances, it’s not a surprising reaction. Did he tell you anything else about the bike?”
“Yeah, he found the bike on Thursday, but it sat there for two days before he took it,” Abe told the officer. “And he’s holding something back. He saw someone around that park. I’d press him.”
Several minutes later, a van pulled onto the scene and a man in dark slacks and a white coat got out. He collected the bike, pushing two long metals rods between the spokes to lift it.
Hazel watched Orla’s bike suspended over the rods, the man in gloves putting it in the back of the white van, and shuddered. It all seemed so wrong. She witnessed a similarly haunted expression in Patrick’s eyes.
Hazel heard Abe talking quietly with Detective Waller.
“The office is in an uproar. I’ll give you the exact location, but only after we’ve swept it. Understand?”
“Of course.” Abe held up his hands. “Thank you for taking this seriously.”
Waller winked.
“More than a handful of us agree with you, Abe. We’ve been looking at these crimes as a series, but without proof…” He held his hands out, and then dropped them. “But that article lit a fire under some butts. A task force is being assembled. The wheels are turning.”
“Good. I hoped for nothing less.”
* * *
“I’ve got to get back inside.” Abe gestured toward the diner. “I’ve turned this into my home base for the rest of the week, and I promised my editor I’d be here at the diner for people to stop in with tips. Plus, Mona will have my hide if I take up a booth all day without an hourly order of coffee.”
“Your article was…” Patrick paused, blinking a few times and giving his head a little shake. “Good. It was real helpful to get an idea of all that’s gone on. Scared me, too.”
Abe nodded.
“Sometimes, I struggle knowing the parents will read it. I
tried to be honest and objective, but I also wanted people to get to know the girls, daughters, sisters, women with dreams. It changes people’s perspectives when they get close.”
Patrick nodded, rubbed his jaw.
“I shouldn’t have picked that kid up. He hurt his arm. I…”
Hazel put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“Mr. Sullivan, you acted on instinct. Had you not run across the street, he might have pedaled away. We might never have found him.”
Patrick tried to smile, but it came out as a frown.
He sighed and looked at the street where fliers lay plastered along the cement. A few blew up when caught in a rush of wind by passing cars.
“I’ve got those,” Hazel said. “Abe, I’ll meet you in the diner in a few minutes. Mr. Sullivan, I’m happy to put those up. Why don’t you go home?”
Patrick started to argue, but Abe cut him off.
“It’s best if you’re close to home, Mr. Sullivan. That article is already producing leads. One might come direct to your house. I’m sure it’d be best if you took the call.”
Patrick’s eyes widened, as if imagining Fiona answering the phone.
“Sure, okay. Thanks again.”
He walked back across the street. A flier blew up, and he reached out, snatching it in his hand and holding it to his chest as he returned to his truck.
* * *
“Any leads?” Hazel asked. She ordered a cup of tea and gazed at the frenzy of notes on the table.
Abe nodded.
“A dozen, at least. A few worth following up on.”
“Any good ones?”
Abe shook his head.
“I don’t think so, but I’ll track them anyway. After people see the girls’ pictures, either on fliers or in the article, some create false memories. It’s strange, but I’ve seen it in other cases. They see Orla in so many pictures, they superimpose her on strangers.”
“A lot of extra work for nothing, then.”
“Yeah, exactly. Fortunately, most people don’t call in tips unless they’re sure, but there’s always a handful of eager helpers who are not helpful at all.”
Ashes Beneath Her: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 11