The case was still building twenty-four hours after the discovery of the body, and, as far as Hud knew, the primary suspect, CO Sherman, was still at large. The desirable forty-hour window where everything was fresh and possible ticked away without regard to justice—or the truth, for that matter. There was still a lot of work to do, and he wished like hell that he had a clear head. If he ever needed one, now was the time.
The buzz and whirl of the Stryker saw echoed past Hud as he walked into the morgue to witness the autopsy. Flowers had on a thick, black vinyl apron and wore goggles, as he went about cutting off the back of Pam Sizemore’s skull. Detective Lancet wore the same gear. They both wore clear plastic gloves. A similar outfit was piled on an empty examining table beyond the two men. Hud made his way to it, not taking his eyes off the victim as he passed.
He had lost any rookie discomfort in attending an autopsy a long time ago. The sight of dead people didn’t bother him. The stark nakedness of the girl had no effect on him, either. He was there to witness, to assist if asked, and to find answers that would help deliver justice in a court of law, and nothing else. Still, the sight of the girl’s body troubled him.
There was no question that Pam Sizemore was a drug user of some kind. Whether it was meth, heroin, or something else would soon be determined, along with how much and how recent the use was. Her body was emaciated to the point that she almost looked like a concentration camp victim. Her extremities were thin as broomsticks, her chest flat, and her skin was as pale as the whites of her eyes. Any healthy blood vessels had retreated long ago. Even the three tattoos that Hud could see, two butterflies above her pubic bone and one heart broken into two pieces on her right shoulder, seemed lifeless and faded. Her right arm was pinpricked, along with all of her toes. The addiction had been an extensive one. Hud figured the girl had a record to go along with the suffering her body expressed. If a bullet hadn’t killed her, an overdose was coming soon.
He put on the protective garb quickly and made his way to the table, across from Lancet, as far away from the man’s pungent cologne as possible. Flowers didn’t acknowledge his presence, just kept on sawing.
The autopsy went quickly, according to plan. In the end, the coroner’s speculation about Pam Sizemore’s cause of death was proven correct. At least the preliminary cause of death. Toxicology hadn’t come back yet. But Bill Flowers was certain that she had been felled by a single bullet and nothing more. He was also confident that the weapon had been a 30-aught-6, a typical and prolific rifle used locally for deer hunting. The cartridge hadn’t been found. A couple of deputies would be sent to scout for it. But Flowers had bet his reputation that he’d be right about that, too. Lancet took him up on it out of fun. Hud watched, listened, and felt a stir of discomfort about the two men’s relationship. It was parochial, born of the closeness of the area and the intersection of the jobs, but all the while far more friendlier than it should have been.
The biggest find, though, was that Pam Sizemore hadn’t been running for pleasure—which was no surprise to Hud. She had been running from something, from someone. She was afraid, fleeing, in a hurry, which explained her lack of proper clothing for the weather. There was skin underneath her fingernails suggesting she’d been in an altercation of some kind shortly before her death. It had been sent off for testing. There were no other marks on her body. No bruises, no scratches, which seemed a little odd, but not unheard of, if she was fighting off an attack of some type.
Bill Flowers was reasonably pleased with himself at the validation, which also didn’t come as a surprise to Hud.
The noonday sun burned Hud’s eyes when he exited the hospital. Lancet remained behind, while Flowers walked out with him.
“You’ll be back in the morning for the Sherman autopsy,” the coroner said. It wasn’t a request.
“You’re certain it’s Kaye Sherman?” Hud stopped, squinted past the sun, and fought off a throb of pain that radiated behind his forehead, threatening to shatter any bone that got in its way. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a brief second and hoped Flowers didn’t pick up on his discomfort, his weakness.
“I’ve known the Shermans a long time. I’ve buried more of Kaye’s relatives than I can count. Leo’s, too, as far as that goes. It’s Kaye Sherman, there’s no doubt about that. I’d know Kaye Sherman from a hundred yards away. You know I’m right.”
Hud opened his eyes and wished he had his sunglasses with him. “Not until I see it on paper, I don’t. I didn’t know either one of them.”
“I forget that you’ve been away for so long.”
Hud flickered a smile, then pushed it away. The biggest surprise of his return so far had been an unexpected reunion, or more to the point, a fulfilment of an age-old fantasy. “I saw Goldie last night.”
Flowers stiffened and turned away from Hud. “That’s not my problem.”
The rift he’d detected from Goldie must have been real. Good to know. Hud decided not to pursue anything else about the coroner’s personal business, at least for the moment. He noted it, blinked the sun away again, then stared out to the parking lot. His eyes fell on a car in a reserved spot. It was a black Cadillac, shining like it had been spit polished. He knew it was Bill Flowers’s car without even asking. “That your Cadillac?”
Flowers turned back to Hud. “Of course it is. I’ve driven Cadillacs since I was old enough to get behind the wheel of a car.”
“Black ones?”
“It’s the business I’m in.”
A shiver ran up Hud’s spine as the flash of an old, but very well-worn memory crashed into his headache. Something shattered, but it wasn’t bone. Just briefly, in a faraway fog, he saw a black car pulling away from the souvenir shop with his mother inside. It was the last time he had seen her. The pain was so intense he thought his brain was going to explode.
“You know everybody around here, don’t you?” Hud said. He couldn’t control the change in his tone, the harshness in it. A funny taste engulfed his mouth.
“Not like I used to. Things have changed. But there’s still a core of the old crowd here.”
Hud nodded. “Do you remember my mother?”
Flowers’s gasp was noticeable. It was a big suck of air, like he had been punched in the gut. Hud was certain that the old man’s face paled.
“Don’t be late in the morning,” the coroner managed to say, then took a big step forward that looked more like the start of a run than a walk.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Hud said, calling out after him.
Flowers hurried to the Cadillac, didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge the demand, just got into his shiny black Cadillac and sped away, leaving Hud standing there feeling like he was about to relive something that he didn’t want to but had no choice about.
Chapter Eleven
The dreariness of the day before had disappeared. It was nothing more than another gray, misty memory. Half the day had passed before Hud even noticed that there was hardly a cloud in the brilliant blue sky. The sun was bright overhead, and the air looked like it was sparkling, like it had been washed thoroughly, completely rinsed of any dirt and ugliness. Clarity was the gift of the day, but it was lost on Hud.
He sat in his battered Crown Vic, still in the hospital parking lot, staring out the open window, letting the cool, comfortable autumn breeze rinse the smell of the morgue out of his nose. His face still hurt, but the pain had been numbed slightly by the Advil he’d taken earlier. He was resisting filling the prescription for Vicodin. The gunshot wounds had proven to him that he liked those pain pills too much. Being numb had its benefits.
There was nothing Hud could do to extricate the vision of what he’d just witnessed other than let it pile on top of the rest of the bloody, naked memories of autopsies he had attended since putting on the badge. There was a special cavern in his soul, accessible by a well-worn path, where all of his experiences as a cop came to rest. Beyond that, the worst things that had happened in his lif
e were stored in a darker, deeper place that had been locked and ignored a long time ago. Until now. The gate had been pried open by Gee’s death and all of the decisions that had followed. Mainly, the one to stay on, not return to Detroit. It had been easy once Burke had offered him the detective’s job. “Try it out,” he’d said. “It’d be good to have you home where you belong.”
There was no real view from where Hud sat. The lake was miles away, and this hospital sat on the northern edge of town, three miles from the building that housed the county sheriff’s offices. It was a narrow five-story building, with multiple sections and wings that had been added on over the years, all in conflicting architectural styles. None of the local buildings had the old art deco flair like those in Detroit. Even crumbling and in disrepair, they had more style than the hospital. Funny the things you noticed when you weren’t there any longer. It surprised Hud that he felt nostalgic about Detroit. He’d been lucky to get out of there alive. His snitch had been made. The only way out was to kill Hud. They both had guns, and one of them ended up dead. That was the story, and he was sticking to it.
The police radio was on. Moran was back on the job. Varner, too. Both of them were at the Pam Sizemore crime scene searching for the 30-aught-6 cartridge. He’d stop by. Give them a hand, look for himself, even though he doubted anything would be found. But first, there was somewhere else he wanted to make a stop at.
Hud reached down and pulled a cigarette from a freshly opened pack. He lit it casually, like he’d done it a million times before. The smoke burned all the way down his throat and into his lungs. He coughed like it was his first time, and it nearly was. Smoking was an old habit that had come back to him almost as soon as he’d returned home.
The little yellow clapboard house sat three streets back from the lake. Most of the surrounding cottages had already been winterized, shut up and left to the elements of the coming cold season. October was the first month of noticeable silence in vacationland. Other than a few full-timers, it was rare to see a boat out on the water. If there was, it was mostly diehard fishermen, since the lake was turning over, the water temperature changing from warm to cold, driving most of the active game fish deeper to the bottom and into a state of stasis. The fish fed and moved only when they had to. Crappie and perch were the exception, especially in winter. If the lake froze solid enough, there would be a brief second tourist season that catered to ice fishing. But that was a ways off; January, at least. For now, the lake was smooth, vacant of any activity.
Hud parked the Crown Vic, checked the address again to make sure he was in the right place, and popped a breath mint into his mouth.
The silhouette of a woman appeared behind the screen door as Hud made his way up the walk. Marigolds and petunias withered in a neglected border, leaves littered the yard, and paint was starting to peel just above the door. An old speedboat sat in the driveway on blocks. The casing was gone off the thirty-year-old motor. It looked like a project that had ended in frustration, lack of funds, or interest; Hud really didn’t care which. He knew the struggle to survive when he saw it.
He stopped just before the stoop and the woman became clearer to him. She was older, early sixties, a little overweight, wrapped in a purple terrycloth bathrobe even though it was nearly noon. Her thin gray hair hadn’t seen a comb in at least a day, and her eyes were tired and suspicious.
“I ain’t got no time for company,” she said through the screen. It was ripped in several places, offering easy entry to any insect curious enough to go inside.
Hud flashed his badge, then slid it back into his pocket. “I’m not here to sell you anything.”
“Burke’s already been here. I’ve answered all of the questions I have to.”
It suddenly felt like there was a pebble in his shoe; a brief moment of discomfort at the news of Burke’s visit. “I’d like to talk to the boy, if I could.”
“Lookin’ like that?”
Hud’s discomfort was immediately replaced by a rare feeling of self-consciousness. He skimmed the side of his face unconsciously with his fingers, and felt like a failure all over again.
“You’ll scare the boy to death,” the woman continued.
“What’s your name?” he said. He really wanted to say, “I’m not a monster,” but he held his tongue.
“I told you, I done answered all the questions I had to. What’s your name?” the woman demanded.
“Matthews. Hud Matthews.”
“Oh,” she peered closer at him, trying to look under the bruises for a face she recognized. “I heard you was back.”
Hud looked a little closer. “Do I know you?”
“I was in and out of Gee’s store over the years. Kids liked that nickel candy you used to sell. Pixie Stixs, Milk Duds, and such. Always told them that stuff’d rot their teeth, but they never paid me no mind. Made me walk up there once a day if they could scrounge up some pennies. I sure was sorry to hear that your grandmother passed. God rest her soul. Are you gonna keep the shop open?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s a shame, but I guess I ain’t surprised. Everything around here has dried up and closed. Not like it used to be, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine there not bein’ no Emporium, though. You sure you won’t reconsider?”
“I’m not sure I have the time, ma’am, but I appreciate the support. The shop got me and Gee through a lot. She made a decent living from it. But its time has passed, I guess.” Hud couldn’t place the woman. It was hard to keep track of all of the people who came and went at the shop regularly, unless they were somebody like Goldie Flowers.
The woman didn’t say anything else for a long minute. A cloud of gnats, hardy enough to survive a weak October frost, whisked by Hud’s face. He pushed the mass out of the way, surprised by their presence. Lake creatures had a lifecycle all their own. Sometimes, he wondered if there wasn’t magic in the water instead of the darkness and mystery that always seemed to lurk just underneath the surface.
“That boy’s been through a lot,” the woman finally said.
“I know he has,” Hud replied.
She nodded and opened the door. “If it was anybody but you, Hud Matthews, I’d be sendin’ them on their way. I ’spect you know a thing or two about bein’ a little boy and losin’ your momma that most men don’t.”
Hud didn’t say a word, just walked in the door unsure of what he’d find, or what he was going to say to the boy. All he knew was that he had to talk to him, make sure for himself that the boy was in good hands and safe.
“Why did you go to Detroit?”
“I had family there. My Aunt Bernadette, Gee’s oldest, and her husband had moved up there, so I had a place to stay while I went to school.”
“In Ann Arbor?”
“Yes.”
“How was that?”
“It was school.”
“Did you ever come back home?”
“Only when I had to.”
“You didn’t miss Gee?”
“Of course, I did. I missed her every day. How could I not?”
“But you stayed away.”
“I needed to get on with my life. I needed to stop looking for my mother.”
“Did you?”
“Here I am.”
The house smelled of cigarettes and bacon grease. It was familiar, reminded Hud of Gee, of walking into the back of the shop where they lived. He stopped just inside the door. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t catch your name?”
“I didn’t figure you recognized me,” the woman said. Her face hardened. All her wrinkles seemed to fill in and disappear in a quick puff of air.
The TV was on, but the sound was down. Something buzzed in the distance, like a fluorescent bulb that was about to burn out. A full ashtray and a Diet Coke can sat on a TV tray next to a worn maroon recliner.
“I’ve been gone a long time,” Hud said. “I’m sorry.”
“Linda Dupree is my name now. It was Wayland, and then Sizemore
for a brief time when you was a boy.”
Sizemore made sense, and Wayland sounded familiar. Hud had gone to high school with a couple of kids with that last name, but he still couldn’t place the woman’s face. He nodded, then said, “How are you related to the boy?”
“I’m not really. Tim’s always been the name on the birth certificate, but all one has to do is look at that kid and know he’s no Sizemore, that he’s not really his father. Got blue eyes and an odd-shaped nose. Gentle kid, too, all things considered. All our kids are mean as mongooses.”
“So, you’re kind of his grandmother?”
“Lord, no. Tim’s my nephew. Look, between you and me, I know Pam named that boy Timmy after Tim just to hook him in to giving him a decent last name. Wasn’t none of my business who the real father was, so I just kept my mouth shut. It didn’t seem to matter ’til now, did it?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Easy mistake to make; no worry.” She blew a stray strand of brittle gray hair from her forehead.
“Why’s the boy here?”
“Nowhere else for him to go. Simple as that. Pam ain’t had people around here for a long time. Between you and me, I’m surprised it hadn’t come to this long before now, the way she carried on. Tim never paid no money to her for support or such, or even acted like the boy was his too much. But he loved Pam at one time, so he didn’t object to the legalities of it all, I guess. That was their business, not mine. I got troubles of my own. Anyway, I wasn’t about to let any boy I knowed get lost in the government system. He knows me, been here once or twice, which don’t make me much more than a stranger, but at least he’s seen my face before.”
Hud flinched, reacting to the sting of judgment about the dead girl’s reputation, but tried not to show it. “I suppose you told Burke all of this and where he could find Tim?”
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