“There’s no place else to look. She’s gone.” His face is hard, the way it was when I told him about Precious Doe’s birthmark. He won’t look at me. Instead, he picks up a daisy and with a jerk of his thumb decapitates it, then flings the stem away.
He reaches for his cell phone and hits a button. “This is Sullivan. I need the dogs and the infrared light at Bartholomew’s Funeral Home in Whitman. Now. Call the Whitman PD and get them here too. We’ve lost contact with the girl.”
I kneel beside him, scraping for the remaining flowers, trying to gather them all in my arms, grabbing as if plucking them from the floor and pressing them against me will save them, impart what little life I have into them.
How could she have escaped? Did I watch her creep past me and subconsciously turn away because to help her would have stirred too much? Am I that way? Am I Miss Talbot? (No, no. Mrs. Molina’s words, her loss, she was a good mother to a good daughter. Perhaps I wanted too much to save someone, anyone, the girl I used to be. I didn’t sleep well last night, I haven’t in years, and now all this talk, chasing the ghost of Precious Doe and trying to help—or not?—yet another little girl in need. There are too many of us.) I bury my face in the bouquet, inhaling its tangy musk (one-two-three, breathe).
“Clara.” Mike is extending a daisy, one I missed. He takes me by the elbow and raises me to my feet. He’s still holding my arm and his voice is soft now, a smooth hush of silk. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I hear a murmur, a strangled puff, and then someone crying. It swells, bursting into heaving, gasping sobs. He wraps his arm around my shoulder as he leads me into the kitchen. The sound grows as he shepherds me. She must still be here. I search in the corners, behind the ficus, but I can’t see her. Mike doesn’t appear to notice. He lets go when we reach the counter separating the kitchen from my table and chairs. He walks on, opening the cabinets above my sink, pulling out an enormous ceramic pitcher I found at a yard sale last summer. I tighten my grip on the flowers and listen to the sobs catch and then resume. I turn, expecting to see Trecie, and when I don’t, I look to Mike for direction.
“Mike?”
He doesn’t hear, his back to me as he fills the jug at the sink, the sound of rushing water smothering her cries and my lone one. He appears so strong, his shoulders so sturdy. I imagine the weight they bear, his life the way it is, and wonder why they don’t bend and warp. I wonder if he ever carried his wife there and if he has room for one more.
He turns and places the pitcher on the counter and then extends his arms to me.
“She’s still here, Mike, I know it. Can’t you hear her?”
He meets my eyes with his free of pity. “Here, let me take those.”
Gently, with a tenderness I haven’t seen from him in a long while, he takes the flowers from my embrace and places them in the water, careful that each stem is in the pot and not marooned, thirsting while the others drink their fill.
Even now I hear the crying. “We have to find her.”
He stops. He places both of his palms on my shoulders, his fingers pressing into me. “Clara, it’s okay.”
Suddenly I feel myself gasping for a whole breath. I raise my hands to my face and feel how sodden it is, catch the mucus flowing from my nose and my swollen eyes. I hear the sound from my lips, a great heaving of air. Smell the metallic odor of my sorrow. It’s me, my tears all along.
Mike removes his hands from my shoulders, leaving those spots mournfully cold. He reaches into his pants pocket and removes a handkerchief. His eyes never leave mine and I force myself to meet his gaze. Finally, there is quiet. Gently, gently, dabbing at each eye, he traces the path of my tears down one cheek and down farther, pressing the cloth against my throat with such delicacy, stroking, a whisper of touch. Then he arcs up to the other side and begins again. My eyelids flutter against the cotton, a warm salve against my grief. It smells of peppermint and detergent, and I can’t help but lean my cheek into his covered fingers.
“I’m sorry I let her go. I let you both down.”
“Shhh.” His other hand moves from my shoulder and finds a place to rest along my side. His thumb presses there, against my hipbone, his fingers curving around my back. My body bends toward him, seeking his warmth the way a flower seeks its sun.
His fingertips, unsheathed from the handkerchief, glance along my hairline, brush down, and then curve into my lips. I can smell him now. He is ginger and rain, salt and blood, he is pungent with humidity and life. He strokes the fullness of my bottom lip and I feel it slip open, his finger inside, touching the wetness there.
His thighs, hard and stringy, press against mine. His breath is ragged, warm as he exhales against my cheek. The thread I’ve felt before, waxing and waning between us, is being reeled at either end, twanging as it’s drawn. Closer. With stunning clarity, I see the burn spots on his neck where his razor cut and his blood hardened; the ropy thickness of veins pushing against his throat; his pulse throbbing along his carotid artery. The urge to lay my lips there overwhelms me. I need to feel his life flow through him, against me.
Headlights pour in through my kitchen window, blazing a path along my living room wall, snapping the thread. The catch and roll of the Buick’s engine are as familiar to me as Linus’s own voice. In the distance, not too far, is the less familiar wail of sirens.
Mike releases me, pressing the handkerchief into my own palm as he clears his throat and steps back, his attention now focused out the window. “I’ve got to take a look outside and then talk to Linus. Maybe he saw Trecie hanging around here earlier.”
I nod and lead the way to the patio doors, my step tentative, my head mottled. We walk into the bank of cold air, and the wind stings the damp spots Mike missed along my face.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Is that so?” Linus says, his eyes turned down toward his cup. He blows into his tea and a steam cloud billows forth.
Linus remains quiet, save the occasional “uh-huh,” while Mike recaps the investigation. I trace the familiar grain of Alma’s kitchen table as my other hand fingers the handkerchief tucked in my jacket pocket. At the center of us all is Mike’s police radio issuing a constant whir, interrupted only by sporadic updates as police canvass a two-mile radius of the funeral home.
The air is warmed by the scent of orange pekoe and pine swags. Alma fusses above us, refilling the teapot, laying a banquet with mini-cakes, glazed brownies, sliced pepperoni, malt crackers, and chèvre garlic cheese. She’s still wearing the festive red dress from her trip into Boston. A jingle-bell brooch with metal holly leaves, pinned above her left breast, tinkles with each step. She hums as she hovers about our heads. I stop listening to Mike and try to place the melody. After a moment I recognize it: “Joy to the World.”
“Our investigation didn’t turn up any type of video equipment at Charlie Kelly’s house where we found the tape,” says Mike. “He was just a customer is my guess, but he probably knew the guy who filmed it. We can’t positively identify the adult male on the tapes, because he knew enough to keep his head out of the shot. It was the same setting, same guy, same girls in all the tapes.”
“And the children,” asks Linus, methodically balancing a slice of sausage on a square of cheese and cracker, “how many children?”
Mike’s plate is pushed off to the side with only a polite mouthful missing from the cake Alma plopped before him. His hand cups his tea, the same hand that minutes ago encircled my waist. His gaze remains on Linus; he hasn’t looked my way since before we came here.
“Two from that room,” Mike says. “We know one, Trecie, but the other hasn’t been identified. She’s about the same age, same coloring. That girl was in only a few films.”
“Clara,” interrupts Alma, “would you like to join me in the parlor? I bought a CD from the Black Nativity show today and we could listen to it if you’d like.”
Alma smiles at me as her hand grips the back of Linus’s chair. Her dark knuckles turn a warm pink
from the strain and her gorgeous teeth are clamped one neat row atop the other.
I start to speak; there’s so little I can contribute to this conversation, but I understand my duty is to remain here. Through the window, flashlights direct their beams around my cottage, and I can’t help but try to decipher the static coming through Mike’s radio. I turn back to Alma, but before I can answer, Mike does for me.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need Clara to stay.”
Alma folds her arms and lays them across her chest, her eyes boring into Mike’s. “I don’t see why she can’t take a break from this unpleasantness and listen to some holiday music.”
It isn’t often Alma reveals her emotions and never has she betrayed her dignity. In the twelve years I’ve known her, twice she’s been stricken with the flu. Both times, though feverish and obviously pained, she denied the illness any hold. Still her dinners were cooked, laundry was washed, floors were swept clean.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bartholomew, but I need Clara here while I speak to Linus. It might jog something free.”
Alma’s lips purse thin. “I believe Clara has heard enough for one night. I don’t think she has anything more to contribute to your investigation, Detective Sullivan.”
She leans across the table and snaps up his cake plate. Her chin aloft, her back scolding, she turns and drops it into the sink, where it clatters against the soapstone. Mike looks to Linus, raising his brow as if to implore his assistance. Linus nods and then pushes himself up from the table, placing an arm around her waist.
“He’s only trying to help the child.”
“He’s not trying to help my child,” Alma says, her back erect. It’s a moment before I realize she’s talking about me.
Linus leans in closer to Alma; his lips graze her ear as he whispers, though it’s loud enough for us all to hear. It’s as intimate an encounter I’ve seen between them. We should excuse ourselves, but I feel inexplicably drawn into their world. “Now, Alma, the man’s got a job to do and Clara has got to help. Nothing’s going to hurt her. She will be protected.”
Alma wrenches Linus’s hand away from her. “Is that so? Well, I for one remember what Mother Greene had to say, and mark my words, Linus, if anything happens to her, I’m holding you”—then she turns to point at Mike—“and you responsible.”
She stares straight ahead as she strides from the room, her jingle-bell brooch gaily tinkling as she goes. I can still hear it as her feet pound the stairs to the residence’s second floor, growing fainter as she reaches the landing. There’s a pause and then the sound of a door slamming.
Linus braces himself against the counter, shaking his head as his gaze settles along the floor. Mike slides back in his chair, intent on the spoon he rolls between his fingers. I wait for someone to speak. Linus finally turns to us, a tired smile pushing his great cheeks upward. “You’re not scared, are you now, Clara?”
After all of these years, it’s reflexive. “I’m fine.”
“ ’Cause you know I’m going to take care of you, don’t you? You know I won’t let no one hurt you.” His eyes are steady, his smile a mask. I’ve never realized before tonight how well I’ve come to know these people, Linus and Alma. And how I can now look past his expression and see his fear, see how he’s trying to shield me from it.
I want to believe him. “I know.”
His face relaxes. “Well then, excuse me while I go and talk to my bride.”
He leaves the room and takes with him any sense of comfort. At first I think his footfalls on the staircase lead down to the funeral parlor, but I must be mistaken. Humming seems to be coming from there, Grace, my fears relieved . . . But no. As he said, he’s on his way upstairs to soothe Alma’s nerves. I settle on the rows of cakes before me, trying to distinguish trapezoids and rhombuses among the sprinkles that clutter the frosting. Mike continues twirling the spoon.
Moments pass one into the next, neither of us speaking. I’ve moved on to the more plentiful triangles on the platter when Mike clears his throat.
“You know I won’t let anyone hurt you either,” he says.
My eyes flick to his face, but he continues to fix on the spoon. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he says.
My vision blurs then, and, without my realizing, the hand that’s been tucked in my pocket, fingering the handkerchief, slowly rises from beneath the table and begins moving toward Mike’s. I can’t feel my hand, there exists only numbness beyond my wrist, but still it moves closer. I want to pull back, imagining the sting when it touches his, but it continues on. He remains focused on the spoon. My hand closes in. I want only the warmth of his skin, the texture of his calluses, the brush of his hairs. Almost there, almost there.
I startle when the trill of his cell phone blasts the quiet. He fumbles the spoon and it clatters to the table. I reach instead for the sugar bowl. He sits up, grasping in his back pocket for the phone.
“Sullivan.”
I stare at the spot where his hand was, only half listening to the one-sided conversation.
“Are you sure?”
Mike pulls a pad of paper and a pen from his breast pocket, begins scribbling. He stops and shifts his body toward me. My eyes move upward along his torso, linger over his neck, and finally meet his. He’s staring at me full-on.
“Reverend Greene, will you agree to a trace on your phone?” There’s a pause and then, “Reverend Greene, a girl’s life is at stake. I’ll get a court order if I have to.”
The muscles of his face bulge as his teeth clench; his breath is audible now. Mike flips off his phone, folding it into his palm. He stares at me before speaking.
“Reverend Greene had another tip from the anonymous caller about the Precious Doe case.”
I reach for my cup of tea, hoping there’s enough left to warm my hands. “Mike, I told you everything I know. There’s nothing more.”
“Clara, Alma might be right. We’re dealing with some real sick people who’re probably making a lot of money off these videos. That’s enough of a motive to do just about anything to end this investigation.”
I think of Trecie tracing the spines of my books, wandering the paths of my secret garden. I can see her face on that video and know I cannot be another person who lets her down.
“I’m not afraid.”
Mike places his phone on the table and takes both of my hands in his. They’re as cold as my own yet somehow warm me. “Remember I said there was another girl in one of the videos? The caller told Reverend Greene the other girl was Precious Doe.”
I feel the blood seep away from my face just as Mike’s radio crackles to life and he reaches for it. “Sullivan.”
“Yeah, Mikey,” says a man’s voice. It sounds like Ryan. “Trail’s gone cold, we got nothing.”
“What about the dogs?”
Ryan’s words are clipped. “Never picked up a trail, nothing to go on. You want us to do an Amber Alert?”
Mike rests his head against the radio and waits a moment, and another, until he finally raises his chin. “No, I want everyone back to the point of origin in five.”
“Affirmative,” says Ryan.
Mike replaces the radio on the table. Now I understand how he felt back in my greenhouse when I let her go. I don’t know if it’s shame or fear that fuels my words, but they’re spewed from my mouth. “Why not call an Amber Alert? One girl is already dead. We have to save Trecie.”
He’s burning with the same fire that’s engulfed me. He stands, knocking his chair onto the floor, causing Alma’s decorative copper plates to rattle against the wall. They hum as they find their way back to silence. “You think I don’t know that? What do you think I’m doing here? If I alert television and radio, what’s going to happen to Trecie?” He snaps his fingers, his face enflamed with rage. “That pervert will make her disappear just like he did to Precious Doe.”
He clips his radio to his belt and then drags both hands down the length of his face. “I can�
��t lose another child. I can’t.”
I go to him then. I take the few steps, stumbling as I cross the chasm. Finally, standing before him, I raise my arms, feeling the sinew and muscle grow within my limbs: connecting, thickening, aching. I ring his waist, finding the courage to look at his face, but he’s looking past me.
I rest my cheek against his chest, satisfied with the whoosh of his heartbeat. And when his body begins to shake, I say, “It’s okay, Mike. Everything will be okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Brockton Police Department foyer is a narrow passageway with dingy floors and overlapping notices taped to cinder-block walls. There’s a large collage of men’s faces staring out, their two-dimensional eyes leaping beyond the black-and-white photos: !WARNING! They’re just a few of the city’s level-three sex offenders, some of the most violent among criminals. The papers rustle as I pass. Though I try to keep from meeting their eyes, I glance up, half expecting one to wink.
I walk past an older woman and a teenager I assume to be her daughter, both seated, wearing tired expressions and snug parkas with fur-trimmed hoods. I approach the police officer sitting at the desk, a tempered-glass window and locked door between us.
“Can I help you?” His words are mumbled and his face is expressionless, though his neck wattle quivers as he talks. He’s older, heavyset, with thinning black hair gelled into place. He has the ashen pallor of some of my clients.
“I’m here to see Detective Sullivan.” I glance behind me to see both women staring back.
The cop picks up a phone and suddenly his face comes to life. “Yeah, Mikey, she’s here.” When he speaks, his chin disappears into the pool of flesh beneath it.
The utilitarian clock above his head, grimy from years of wear, reads eight thirty. In the next instant Mike opens the door, ushering me through to the other side.
“Thanks for coming.” His voice is even and his eyes cling to the sign-in sheet he’s filling out. His face is clean shaven and set. It bears no sign of last night after he left the funeral home just past midnight, appearing battered and worn. Before that he had come back to my cottage once more to check for any sign of Trecie, any clue, but found none. I walked him to his car from there. Our fingers may even have brushed before he turned to lift the door handle. But now, though he’s only inches away, I can feel the gulf between us. I wonder if I imagined holding him, imagined his hand at my waist. It’s probably best if I believe that.
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