Relic

by Gretchen McNeil

  We race through the living room—me backward, him forward—down the hall to my bedroom. I pull at Jack’s shirt, ready to tear it from his body. He yanks it over his head, and I run my fingernails over his skin.

  He flinches, and I realize I’ve scratched him harder than I intended. Three red lines appear on his chest, a small bead of blood emerging from the deepest. Instead of grossing me out, it increases my desire. Jack must feel the same way, because he unzips my hoodie and slides it off each shoulder, allowing his fingers to graze against my skin in the process.

  My shorts are next. I can feel each tooth of the zipper as he slowly pulls it down, then eases my shorts over my hips.

  The ache inside me deepens.

  “Annie, are you sure you want to do this?”

  Instead of answering, I unhook my bra, allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor.

  “It might hurt,” he says.

  “I know.” I don’t care. I reach up and lace my fingers behind his neck and pull him to me.

  THIRTY

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO COME WITH ME,” I TELL JACK OVER FaceTime the next morning.

  He buttons up a striped dress shirt. “Annie, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  My insides melt into a gooey puddle.

  “I’ll be there in an hour, okay?”

  I nod, and I’m assuming by the warmth I feel that I must be glowing. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I close my laptop and flop back against my pillows. I feel guilty for being this happy. There’s misery and death all around me—hell, I’m on my way to a freaking funeral—and yet here I am, the happiest I’ve been in my entire life.

  I picture Jack, his head on my chest, arms wrapped tightly around me last night. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, though his rhythmic breaths indicated that he’d been sound asleep. I knew how he felt: peaceful and calm and at home. It royally sucked that I had to wake him up, but if my dad had found us . . .

  But he didn’t. Besides, I’ll be eighteen in less than a month, and then he’ll really have no say over what the hell I do with my life. Maybe I’ll even see about transferring to Davis? Frankie did it. I’d be giving up a scholarship, but I could get a job, work for my tuition, and then Jack and I could be together.

  It’s a lovely image. There’s been so much tension between us the last few days, but now suddenly I feel that we’re closer to each other than we’ve ever been, literally and figuratively. And I don’t want it to end.

  Are you sure he feels the same way?

  I am.

  Even after the fights?

  Jack and I certainly had it out over Deputy Weller’s scrapbook and his inability, or unwillingness, to see what I see. I sigh. Maybe he’s right? I haven’t been able to find any concrete evidence to prove the theories Weller hinted at. And though his death is far from being explained, if Graham really did attack his sister and kill himself, then the pattern Weller documented isn’t exactly repeating. How far am I willing to push things? Maybe it’s time to give up and leave this to the professionals?

  Maybe.

  A sharp knock at my door jars me from my daydreams. “You up?” my dad asks.

  “Yeah.”

  He cracks the door and pokes his head in. His hair is unkempt, his beard two days’ growth at least, and his eyes are watery and red. “Better get a move on, Annie Bananie. We need to leave by nine thirty for the funeral. It’s way out in Whiskeytown, and I need to be there early.”

  No mention of Graham or the fact that once again, I had been on hand to discover a dead body. He must not have been in the office to read the report from last night, which means he was probably with that bartender.

  “Jack’s driving me.”

  “Oh.” He stares at me for a moment, and I wonder if he knows. Can you tell when someone’s lost their virginity? Is that glow I imagined moments ago actually a thing? A telltale sign of what I’ve done?

  “Don’t be late,” he says at last, and closes the door.

  Jack slows his truck as we edge off the highway and onto the unfinished access road that doubles as the Whiskeytown Cemetery parking lot. The cab bounces with every divot and pothole as we round the bend and come into view of the graveyard.

  To call it an official cemetery might be a bit of a stretch. To me, a cemetery consists of rolling hills of vibrant green, dotted with monuments of marble and stone. Some are ostentatious mausoleums housing generations of wealth and stature in the afterlife. Others, like my mom’s, are simple engraved placards on a wall in a columbarium, marking the final resting place of a loved one’s ashes.

  But this? This is hardly a cemetery. There’s no grandeur here. The Whiskeytown Cemetery stands in a clearing just off Paige Bar Road, its football field–sized boundaries marked by a simple wooden fence that looks as if it was cobbled together from reused timber. Dirt marred by patches of dying grass stretch between each of the haphazard graves, which seem to have been made without planning or forethought, as if the gravediggers just randomly chose a spot for each new resident.

  Some graves are marked by flat stones, some have a wooden or concrete “fence” around the coffin, and a few are crowned by elaborate metal cages, which, if I remember correctly, are meant to discourage body snatchers.

  Note to self: don’t get buried in the Whiskeytown Cemetery.

  “Weller was more popular than I thought,” Jack says.

  I pull my eyes from the sad old cemetery and notice that the gravel parking lot is completely packed. Pickup trucks and patrol cars are squeezed in like sardines, even tandem parked in several places, and it looks as if the entire Shasta County Sheriff’s Office has shown up.

  “Probably more popular than he thought too.”

  Jack eases the truck up onto the grassy side, parallel parking in the dirt, then hurries around to help me out. His arms feel strong as he lowers me from the cab. I wobble, trying to find my balance on the unpaved surface, and clamp my hand on his shoulder for support.

  “Regretting my choice of footwear,” I say with dismay, gazing down at the black strappy sandals with three-inch heels.

  “I’m not.” His hands stray to my waist, caressing the small of my back. He looks incredibly sexy in a shirt and tie, offset by the Mohawk, which he’s slicked back down the middle of his head for this somber occasion. He may have attempted to dress respectfully, but the gleam in his eyes is anything but. The only black dress I own is a strapless jersey knit with a flowy skirt that hits just above the knee. Not exactly funeral attire. I tried to mask the expanse of bare skin with a short cardigan, which Jack pushes open with his free hand, letting his fingers brush against my collarbone in the process.

  “I can’t stop thinking about last night.” His fingers graze the side of my neck and around the back of my hairline, exposed by a French twist, and even though we’re standing in a public place, surrounded by my father’s coworkers, I can feel my heart rate accelerate, my breaths come faster. I close my eyes for his kiss.

  It’s wrong, and I know it. We’re here for a funeral, for chrissakes, but I can’t help it. It feels so good to have my boyfriend back, I just want to relish the sensation for a bit.

  “Oh my God!” Jack gasps. “Did I do that?”

  My eyes fly open. Jack has turned my chin and is staring at spot on the side of my neck. “What is it?”

  He grimaces. “Do you have a mirror?”

  I fish one out of my purse. Jack guides my hand around, and I play with the angle until I see the reflection of a deep purple bruise behind my left ear, just below the hairline.

  “Holy shit.” I touch it gingerly with my fingers and wince.

  “Does it hurt?” Jack asks anxiously.

  “A little,” I lie, dabbing at the tender spot.

  Jack swallows. “Do you think that happened when we—”

  Maybe. “Of course not.” Jack doesn’t always know his own strength. I shove the mirror back into my purse, then reach around and p
ull the half dozen bobby pins out of my French twist. I shake my hair out, carefully draping my auburn waves over each shoulder to obscure the bruise.

  “There,” I say, smiling. “No one will ever know.”

  And not a moment too soon. There’s a crunch of gravel behind. I turn, half expecting to see my dad’s disapproving face walk past the truck. Instead, I find Sonya and Terrence standing hand in hand.

  “What’s up, guys?” Terrence says. “Lovely day for a funeral.”

  I eye their hands, still clasped together. “I see this is a popular spot for first dates.”

  “Second,” Terrence corrects me.

  My eyebrows shoot up, surprised and kind of upset that my best friend didn’t tell me she’d been on her first ever date with a boy, but before I can ask for details, Sonya tugs Terrence toward the cemetery. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  We hurry across the uneven field of dirt and grass toward the northeast corner of the graveyard, where fifty or sixty people have gathered around the final resting place of Deputy Weller. There’s a man speaking to the gathered mourners as we approach, his muffled tones drifting toward us in the unnatural silence of late morning, and as we duck into the back of the crowd, I can see that it’s some kind of minister saying a prayer over the open grave. Beside him is my dad, wearing his dress uniform jacket, head bowed, wide-brimmed hat clasped before him. He’s cleaned himself up since this morning so that no one would ever know he’s nursing a hangover.

  The minister reads from a thin black book. “Receive Alan Weller into the arms of your mercy.” He finishes his prayer, pauses for a moment in silent meditation over the grave, then steps aside. “And now we shall have a few words from Sheriff Bill Kramer.”

  My dad steps forward. He’s gripping his hat so fiercely his knuckles are turning white. “Thank you, Father,” my dad replies, even though the minister isn’t a priest. My dad always refers to religious personnel as if they were all Catholic. “And thank you all for coming today. Alan would be touched by the turnout.”

  I doubt it.

  “This is the worst part of my job. Burying one of our own. There hasn’t been a funeral for an active officer in the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office in almost thirty years, and then, at least, Peggy Cadwallader’s death was an accident.”

  I start. Cadwallader. There’s a name you remember. Why is it familiar? I tune out the rest of my dad’s words as I focus on the name, and when I realize where it comes from, my knees buckle.

  “You okay?” Jack whispers.

  No, I’m not. “Peggy Cadwallader. Jack, there’s a Margaret Cadwallader in Weller’s notebook.”

  “So?” Jack says, no longer whispering.

  “Shh!” Sonya hisses.

  A half dozen Sheriff’s Office employees turn around and shoot us dirty looks. Sorry, I mouth silently.

  Peggy Cadwallader, whose remains were discovered washed up on the shores of Shasta Lake thirty years ago. She was a sheriff’s deputy? Could she be part of the pattern Weller was tracking?

  “So let us observe a moment of silence in honor of Deputy Alan Weller, friend and colleague. I can’t promise you much, but I swear your murderer won’t go unpunished.”

  My eyes wander aimlessly around the graveyard. Everyone’s heads are bowed, some staring at the open trench that holds the deputy’s coffin, others with eyes closed in silent prayer. Except one. There’s a young man standing upright in his olive uniform, head high, shoulders back. Even without the aviator glasses he wore that night on Slaughterhouse Island, I recognize the boyish features of Deputy Flynn.

  His mischievous grin is gone, replaced by gaunt cheeks and a jaw clenched so tightly I think it might snap in half. But it’s his eyes that startle me. They’re pale gray, a lifetime older than the young face they inhabit, and trained on my father. He’s angry, barely containing the rage boiling within, as if at any moment he might whip out his service weapon and start mowing down funeral-goers. I want to rush over to my dad and shield him from that gaze, but just then, my father looks up, meeting Flynn’s eyes. Instead of recoiling, my dad nods his head, a gesture that Flynn returns, and I realize that they understand each other. Flynn’s rage isn’t directed at my dad, but at the unknown assailant who took his partner. And my dad knows that feeling—the inconsolable anger of losing someone you care about.

  Weller was Flynn’s partner, a bond that runs deep in the law enforcement community, and judging by Flynn’s youthful appearance, Weller had probably been something of a mentor as well. If there’s anyone who wants Weller’s murder solved more than we do, it’s Flynn.

  Maybe we can help each other.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR DEPUTY WELLER BEGINS TO BREAK up. I keep my eyes trained on Flynn, and as soon as he wanders off toward the parking lot, I tug on Jack’s arm. “Come on.”

  “Where are you going?” Sonya asks as we hurry away.

  I wave for her to follow. “I need to talk to Flynn.”

  Jack doesn’t resist, and allows me to guide him around overgrown grave markers and long-decomposed flower arrangements as I try to intercept Weller’s partner.

  “Excuse me, Deputy Flynn?”

  He pauses and stares straight ahead as if he’s so lost in thought that he’s not quite sure whether or not someone called his name. Then he slowly turns toward us.

  “You’re Sheriff Kramer’s daughter.”

  I suck in a breath. “How did you know?”

  He smiles from the right side of his mouth. “Your dad keeps a photo of you and your mom on his desk.”

  “Oh.” No wonder Deputy Weller recognized me. I had no idea my dad keeps a photo of Mom and me at the station, considering he can barely stand looking at me and only pulls out the photo albums when he’s drunk. But at least that explains how Weller recognized me.

  Flynn turns to Sonya. “And your mom is Deputy Hendricks.” Again, not a question.

  Sonya nods mutely, hanging on Terrence’s arm. Her face is ashen.

  “Why did you let us go?” Jack asks, getting right to the point. “If you knew we were lying that night on the beach?”

  “I thought you deserved to have a little fun.” Deputy Flynn’s eyes crinkle, and suddenly he’s dropped ten years. “I’m also a child of law enforcement. I know how it feels to be held to a higher standard.”

  “Your dad’s a cop?” Terrence asks.

  “Not exactly. But he led several investigations in conjunction with the police, God rest his soul.” He crosses himself.

  “I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly.

  “It’s okay. Old man lived a good life.” He looks around and takes a deep breath. “He always loved it here too. Spent several years in Redding. In fact, he worked with a rookie Deputy Weller.”

  “What?” Sonya and I blurt out at the same time.

  Flynn laughs. “That’s why I was assigned to be his partner. I wish my dad had been around when I started. Weller busted my ass so hard. Would’ve made the old man laugh.” He sighs and glances over his shoulder toward the back corner of the cemetery. “I’m going to miss that son of a bitch.”

  “So Weller knew your dad pretty well?” I ask. My fingertips are practically buzzing now.

  “I think so. My dad didn’t talk a whole lot about what happened when he was here. He was investigating a series of deaths trying to find out if there was some kind of connection between them all, but they never found a link.”

  “A link?” Jack says, shooting me a glance. “Like a serial killer?”

  Sonya’s eyes grow wide. “Did you say ‘serial killer’?”

  Deputy Flynn scrunches up his mouth. “There are a lot of legends about the mountains near the old mines, you know. Crazy stuff about monsters and shadows. Some people take them seriously and do stupid things like build walls inside the mines to keep things from getting out.” He laughs. “Superstitious crap, if you ask me.”

  I seriously doubt that. “And Deputy Weller thought the same?”

&nbs
p; Flynn stops short. “About the lake?”

  “About the investigation.”

  “Oh.” He pauses, then runs his fingers through his fine blond hair. “There’s only one thing I know for sure—he’d never go into the mines again. Ever.”

  The moment Deputy Flynn is out of earshot we explode into conversation.

  “Again,” I say practically panting with excitement. “Did you hear that? Weller would never go back into the mines again. That means he was in them before.”

  Sonya bites her lip. “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “That would explain why he was so insistent we stay away,” Terrence says.

  Jack shrugs. “It could just be a coincidence.”

  Maybe. “It can’t be. Jack, everyone who’s gone into that mine—”

  “Is dead,” Terrence says, completing my thought.

  Jack isn’t buying it. “If Weller was part of the investigation, why did it take over thirty years for him to end up dead?”

  He has a point. “Maybe he knew he was a target?” I catch my breath. “The salt inside his house. Remember? In the scrapbook and around the door? Like the halite bricks in the mine. Maybe Weller knew how to protect himself.”

  Jack drops his voice, glancing furtively at the deputies leaving the funeral. “We’ve been in that mine too. And we’re still here.”

  “For now,” Terrence adds.

  I whirl on him. “Greer is barely alive and Graham is dead.”

  “What?” Terrence cries.

  Sonya’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  Shit. This was not how I wanted to tell them. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It just happened last night.”

  “It was suicide,” Jack says, his voice hard. “He claimed to have attacked Greer then killed himself from the guilt.” Didn’t he just admit to me last night that he didn’t think Graham had done either? Why is he so adamant about suicide now?

  “No way,” Terrence says, his face pale. “I don’t believe it.”

  I glance at Jack. “Me neither.”