No Stone Tells Where I Lie

by Madeline Kalvis

  The coldest part of the room was on a raised concrete floor directly under the air conditioner. She surveyed the dimensions and planned out where the cooler could go and still give her enough room to get to the door. To get the thing in place, Emma needed to lift the cooler over a six-inch step. She grabbed a handle, tilted one end up, and pulled. The bottom of the cooler slammed into the lip of concrete and wouldn’t budge. Emma heard what was in the box shift.

  The light was under her clothes now, shining through it like plastic wrap. The eyes squirmed and burrowed under her skin.

  She lifted the front end of the cooler higher and pulled as hard as she could. The front end cleared the step and scraped along the top, forcing the cooler to angle even more sharply. She felt the center of gravity move away from her, but it was too late to pull it back. The contents rumbled and shifted, tipping the whole thing on its side. Evan tumbled out of the box and onto the floor. Emma’s eyes snapped shut.

  Her mind immediately went to the one place she didn’t want it to go. She imagined that when she opened her eyes the face looking up at her from the cold gray floor would repeat her own lies back to her. Failure here meant an end to the whole charade. The thought of it was more gruesome than the corpse on the floor.

  The light on her back shined without judgment, content to expose her and allow the truth to be seen. She braced for someone to tell her she was a fake and a fraud, to get it over with already. But the spotlight did not relent. It waited. It waited for her to whisper the accusation inside her own head. She refused.

  You’re alright.

  She opened her eyes. Evan was face-down with his arms behind him. It was a relief not to see his eyes. She squatted next to him, wrapped her arms around his chest, and lifted as hard as she could with her legs. Evan’s torso slid over the edge of the cooler, leaving him on his back in the bottom of the box. She tried not to make eye contact while she quickly stuffed his legs and then his arms back into position and closed the lid.

  Emma sat on the box and made the conscious decision to start breathing again. The eyes slithered away into their crevices, and the spotlight faded into the normal morning haze.

  You’re alright if you’ve got a plan.

  Stick to the plan.

  What is the plan?

  The crowd in the main room of the Post had thinned out, revealing more merchandise stuffed onto the shelves. There were jars of sandwich pickle next to boxes of nails. A curtain of blue plastic raincoats hung from the wall.

  The orange anorak. Evan had hung it up next to the door of the station the day before, but it was missing this morning. Emma’s pulse quickened. Someone was cold. Or they wanted a trophy. She ran through the people she had seen in her mind, noting that orange anoraks were hardly uncommon. Surplus BAS gear was probably a thriving cottage industry on a chilly island so dependent on the outside world. Still, there was a chance it could be identified. If she could find it.

  Emma allowed herself enough human frailty to not spend any more time at the station that day. She walked up and down the high street, dreading the prospect of facing David. She stared at the blank page in her mind. It filled up with doodles and wiped itself clean over and over again. Theories without information, speculation with no way to follow up. It was purpose that drove her, and yet she found herself doing what everyone on the island seemed to do sooner or later when they had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. She slid into The Rock, started drinking, and waited for something to happen.

  Ten minutes later her glass of white wine dripped condensation onto the counter. The smell in The Rock never changed, like tallow candles and spilled beer. Or had it been dust and cheese-and-onion potato chips? Normally she wouldn't drink during working hours, but it was only a glass, and it would help her think. She ignored the wine and speculated at Jessie, who was trying to change a keg of bitter.

  “It's fishy, isn't it? Why would Gregory's wife not know where he is?”

  “I couldn't say, Ma'am.”

  “I mean, I can't even say he's gone away to hide. We're all assuming he's not gone off and killed himself as well.”

  Jessie gulped.

  “Jessie, what do you know about Gregory?”

  “He's sort of... normal. Nothing unusual I mean.”

  “Always. We could prevent every crime if we profiled people of average height with no hobbies.”

  She looked down at her glass.

  “They knew each other. So he would have known if Evan was depressed, and said nothing. Maybe it was a suicide pact. That would raise the question of Mr. Browne's mental health, which of course the wife will know nothing about either. Jessie, do you know if Lily Browne has ever-”

  There was no one behind the bar. Jessie could be heard struggling with the empty keg in the backroom.

  “Right, steady girl. You'll scare the locals, talking to yourself like this.” She turned to the back of the room where Red was in his usual spot by the little wood-burning stove in the corner. She remembered that thing being bigger yesterday. On the other hand, Red hadn't changed. She wondered, if he ever stood up would there be a Red-shaped impression on the stool? Could the police place him at a crime scene by matching his ass print to the mold he made in this seat? He nodded at her. Right. Of course. That's what happens when you stare at people for a long time.

  She crossed the flypaper floor and sat across from him.

  “Where's Darren this morning?”

  “Home sick, is what my Sarah tells me. Cambourne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Constable Cambourne, here to help Ned.”

  “That's right. Do you need something from me?”

  “You came and sat next to me, Constable.”

  “Right. I wanted to ask you a little about Gregory Browne. You said he was close to Ned.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Gregory Browne and Ned Sommers were friends, weren't they?”

  “Yes, they went fishing together.”

  “So you said.”

  Red stared at her through a tight squint. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Not twenty-four hours ago. In this room.”

  “If you say so.” Red took a drink of his beer and glanced around, as if looking for Jessie to come to his rescue.

  Emma stared without self-consciousness. “Do you mean to say you don't remember talking to me about the downs? You had a cousin or something, broke his leg?”

  “I'm not sure what you mean. That could be Alex. Did you talk to him?”

  “No, I talked to you. Here. Yesterday. I...” She didn't know what to say next. If he was the village drunk whose brain had been pickled years ago, then the joke was on her. And if she had in fact gone completely mad it would not be wise to continue. She leaned as far back on the stool as she dared and tried to sort out what she knew about the island for sure.

  Like every small community everywhere, any given person on South Alderney knew the deep dark business of every other person. The information was there. But there was a shocking nonchalance about an entire person, a significant fraction of the population, going missing. This was combined with either a powerful collective stupidity or a deliberate effort to convince her she had lost her mind.

  It was working. The split in the path in front of her presented two options. To the left she could accept that there was nothing to learn about Evan's death, at least nothing logical that could be uncovered by good old-fashioned police work. Down the other path she could follow her own intuition, or lunacy, whichever the little voice in her head turned out to be. Peering down the first path, it was clear that nothing waited there but quiet, nothing but time and time and time and everything that came with it.

  “Do you think Sarah is at home now?”

  “If you can catch her here, that would be the easiest. She does a little odd work for Jessie sometimes. It’s me and Sarah alone in the house these days, so there’s not much reason to sit around at home. We tried that and it nearly drove us mad. We only s
ee each other now for supper. She told me about this story she read. She gets the paper every month off of Beatrice. She told me a story she read that reminded her of Ned. It was about a man in the Amazon, a savage. Turns out, your man’s in a tribe that was wiped out, and he’s the last one left. So he’s wandering the jungle by himself, right?”

  Emma nodded. It was pointless, she decided, to expect any conversation in this room to stay tethered to reality for long.

  “Then she tells me the wild part. The government follows him about, because his tribe is still protected. They try to stop people from contacting him, make sure he stays alone. That wouldn’t do for me, being alone like that, having somebody watch over and make sure nobody ever rings the doorbell. So I ask her what that’s got to do with Ned.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Don’t know. I never got an answer out of her for that. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Right. Well, this has been productive.” She stood up. “Please let me know if you can think of anything about Evan, or if you hear from Gregory Browne. I'm staying here, upstairs, so it's not hard to find me. I would say it's not hard to find anyone on this island, but I don't want to jinx it.” She hurried out of the pub and into the street.

  A small crowd of men in their early twenties stood outside The Rock smoking. They watched her as she made her way up the street. She walked with purpose but without direction, hoping that if she projected confidence hard enough it would come true, or at least be a less obvious lie.

  The common thread of recent events was violent self-harm. There must be some connection between that and the disappearances. A traumatized witness? Where would such a person go to lick their wounds? Standing in the cobbled high street she looked down to the harbor and up to the hill. Across from the Post was the Anglican church, its broad sides reflecting the occasional beams that sneaked through the cloud cover.

  Walking through the patch of green that served as a cemetery, Emma made her way to the old parsonage. Since South Alderney had lost its vicar the church itself had been abandoned, and the parsonage converted into a meeting space. The door was unlocked.

  The main room was full of chairs, arranged in a circle. The smell told of the eternal battle between mildew and scented candles. The next room had a large fireplace and folding tables along the walls. A Lenten jar on one table declared “Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain.” It was half full. Along the top of the wall a homemade banner was constructed of pieces of paper taped together and read “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” The H was not capitalized, and someone had drawn the rest of the letter in with pencil. This island needed a working school.

  Another banner had fallen on one side. She picked it up off the floor. A pin was still stuck through the paper. She stretched to reattach the end of the banner as high up as she could reach and embedded the pin in the wall. The thin plaster over stone sent a chill through her fingers even in the middle of the day. As she stepped back to read it both ends of the banner fell from the wall and crumpled on the floor.

  Emma stopped to listen for any sign of human activity. Outside, ferns and grass rustled against the walls and each other. The day wind created a faint white noise and brought a smell of ozone through the open window. But there was nothing to indicate she was not alone. She looked out the window, across the cemetery, at the old church building and sighed. Nothing for it.

  The side door to the main nave had a tiny, handwritten sign warning readers not to enter. The ancient lock rattled when she tested the doorknob. The wooden frame was so degraded that the lock could easily be forced. Some of the wear looked fresh, as if somebody had had the same idea recently. She could follow their example, if she was desperate enough to break into churches in the middle of the day.

  Emma thought about the old woman’s words from the day before. “Makes it all a little easier to bear.” Someone had come here in search of sanctuary. She tensed her body and put its full weight onto the door, forcing it open.

  Compared to the light of early afternoon the dark of the church interior made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. She took two steps inside and squinted at the shadows and corners, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It didn't take long to find him.

  Greg sat on a pew in the middle of the church, lit by one of the high windows. He turned his head when she approached him but said nothing and looked back toward the altar.

  Emma circled around to face him.

  “Gregory Browne?”

  He nodded. His eyes were red and puffy when they flicked up at her.

  She walked closer and tried a softer tone. “You’ve heard who I am?”

  He nodded again.

  She sat down on the pew a short distance from him. And waited. It was a technique she had learned from David. Finally, he spoke.

  “I didn't want to be alone.”

  “So you came to an abandoned building?”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  Emma didn't look at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “It's hard to explain if you don't believe in God.”

  “Do you believe?” She twisted her body to be slightly closer.

  “I used to. My Dad said it’s hard not to believe in God when you see him every day. He was a farmer, and he used to talk about things like that when he was making me pick weevils off the potato plants. As if it wasn't torture enough for a child, he expected us to like it, too.”

  Greg talked quickly with his eyes closed. “He always said he saw God in the leaves when they grew and fluttered in the wind like little flags. That's how he talked, too. Never said anything plain-like. I wish I felt that presence with me. I thought maybe if I came and sat here long enough it might come back.”

  A minute went by. Then two. Emma looked up at the windows, tinted green around the edges by creeping mold. She looked at the altar at the end of the nave. Her eyes had adjusted enough to notice the light patch on the wall behind it in the shape of a cross.

  “Mr. Browne, I need to ask you some questions. Do you think you can tell me a little about what happened to Evan?”

  “I heard what happened to Evan, and I know what you think. But I didn't kill him.”

  Emma sighed and told the truth. “I know.”

  Gregory looked up in surprise at her calm, steady eyes. He shifted on the seat and coughed.

  “I was going to visit him. Just a chinwag. It was so awful, drinking with only the flies for company, after Ned... just sitting and thinking. It’s good to have other people around. Takes you out of your own thoughts and lets you focus on what you ought to be doing. Well, we used to all get together sometimes, and Evan would come along if he could be bothered to shift his arse. I figured, why should I suffer by myself? Evan knew Ned, but he didn’t show much reaction. He ought to feel something.”

  “Please, Mr. Browne, this next part is very important. What did you say to Mr. Finch the last time you saw him?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean nothing? Was he alive when you got to the station?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Did you take a coat home with you when you left, an orange one?”

  Greg’s eyes narrowed in confusion. Emma leaned back a little and slowed her breathing.

  “OK. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened when you got there.”

  “That's just it. I don't remember.” Greg wiped his nose with his hand. His face twisted when he sniffed. “I know I told Lily I was going up the hill, but I don't remember ever going. I don't remember anything until this morning.” He looked up at her again, and saw the calm look on her face crumble. “You think I did it to him. You do!”

  “I don't, Gregory.” She almost said “I wish I did. It would be so much easier.”

  “Maybe you should. I was there.”

  “You're sure of that?”

  “I... Yes, I'm sure I was at the station. I must have been.”

 
“Did Evan ever talk about killing himself? Any indication that he was depressed?”

  “No, I don't think so. Why would he tell me anything like that?”

  Jesus. Seriously?

  “Please think carefully, Mr. Browne. Anything at all you can remember is important. Can you picture the two of you at the station last night? What you were doing, what you talked about...”

  “Not the two of us.”

  “What?”

  “Wasn't there someone else there?”

  Emma leaned in. “Was there someone else at the station?”

  “I don't... No. Come to think of it, I don't recall anyone else being there. Oh, but I can't remember. Lock me up, Constable. I've not been in my right mind since Ned.”

  “I'm not locking anyone up, Gregory. Something is going on around here, but there is no indication of foul play in Evan's death. Do you really feel like you're a danger to yourself or anyone else right now?” She tried to present some semblance of control in her voice. It always helped when people were losing their minds to give them an idea of what sanity looked like. She wasn't sure how convincing a display it was.

  Greg looked down at the pew, ran his hand back and forth across the stained wood a few times, and shook his head. It looked like a gesture of defeat.

  “Can I ask you another question, Constable?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you believe in the Devil?”

  “No.”

  In the ensuing pause, Emma was not sure if he believed her. She was not sure she believed herself. Greg looked at the altar and whispered.

  “I wish I felt that way. It's hard not to believe in him when you see him every day. I think the Devil might be in me. It feels like there's a warm hand on my shoulder, pushing me so gently I forget it's there.”

  Emma attempted a pained expression and found that it came without effort. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shout at him to pull himself together, to do what must be done without going to pieces. When it became clear that he would offer no more explanation, she tried a new approach.