A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I moved toward where I’d seen the shiny object, the pine needles masking the sound of my footsteps. A shape took form. The sparkle was the sun hitting a gold ring. Attached to a finger. Attached to a hand.

  Attached to nothing.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  ROUGHENED BARK SCRATCHED MY SPINE.

  Gold flashed. My feet framed a ring.

  Lifeless fingers. Dark-rimmed nails.

  The hand. Pale. So pale.

  I grabbed the pistol from under my rear. Pointed. The pistol wavered, slipped, fell.

  A man’s hand.

  I dried my palms on my outstretched legs. Grabbed the gun again. Pointed, arms extended. The sights wavered, refused to line up.

  Someone had propped the hand against a tree trunk.

  Roaring, crashing surf filled my ears. Get control or you’ll pass out.

  A pinecone lay on the ground next to me. I set down the gun, wrapped my fingers around the cone’s prickly surface, and gripped until it hurt. Squeezed my eyes shut. Opened them.

  Sweat dampened my back.

  Taking a shuttering breath, I pushed off the ground, then shuffled forward. The hand was real. Exposed bone gave a hint of ivory at the wrist. No blood. The slightest scent of decay. A fly buzzed, then settled on the raw cut. The gold ring twinkled in the intermittent sunlight filtering through the pines.

  I looked around for movement. Only a ballet of gnats danced in the dappled sunlight. I was alone. Just me. And a hand.

  A hawk screeched overhead.

  Assume the killer is still hanging around. I spun, then tore down the game trail. Tree limbs reached for me, slapped my face. A branch snagged my hat. I ran.

  The lawn just ahead.

  The kitchen benignly welcomed me. I slammed the door and locked it. I put the pistol on the counter, then grabbed a chair to keep from falling. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.

  I snatched the phone. It took both hands to steady the receiver.

  The call went to Dave’s voice mail. “Call me!” I redialed.

  “Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department. This is Deputy Harnisch. How may I help you?”

  “Ah, Craig, ohmigosh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dave didn’t answer his phone.”

  “Must be out of range. He’s picking up your daughter at a rest stop near Lookout Pass.”

  “I found a hand. No body. Just a hand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just come now!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I paced the kitchen. Sat. Then stood. Checked the door lock, then the window. If I stood just right, I could barely see the county road. Was that something blue? Was it the guy following me?

  It would take Craig ten minutes to get here from town. Faster if he used his lights and sirens.

  I inspected my watch. One minute down.

  Maybe I could write—no, draw the hand. I moved toward the studio.

  What if someone got in the house?

  No, no, the house is safe.

  You left the door open.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. There wasn’t time. No one could get in.

  Are you sure?

  I grabbed my pistol. In the silence, the old refrigerator kicked on, masking any footsteps. Sneak around? Charge from room to room, yelling?

  Charge.

  The bathroom was on my left. I grabbed the doorknob, turned, then kicked it open. Wham! It bounced off the wall, then crashed shut. I tried again. Empty.

  Robert’s office. On the right. “I know you’re in here!” The hinges squealed in protest. I shoved the door open with my hip. No one.

  Aynslee’s room next. Her name written in pink glitter. Door half ajar. Thump-sssss. The deep-pile carpeting slowed the door. I plowed through, gun pointed. “I’m armed!” Only dirty sneakers on the floor.

  Living room. I darted through, waving my pistol.

  Ahead. My studio. I rushed forward, hitting the door with my shoulder. It smashed open. A face on my right! I fired.

  The plaster disintegrated into a powdery heap.

  I lowered the gun and leaned against the wall. The neck cracked, split, then joined the chalky pile on the floor. I’d just shot my drawing cast of the human face. My ears rang, my nose burned, and I felt like an idiot.

  Gravel crunched under spinning tires.

  Taking a deep breath, I trooped through the house to the kitchen, then opened the door. “That was fast.”

  Craig had one hand on his gun. “Uh . . . you want to put that away?”

  “Oh, sure.” I gently placed my pistol on the counter. “Was anyone parked on the county road?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.” I leaned against the counter. “The first thing I noticed was my car door open. Then I saw a sheet of hemp-colored Cason Mi-Tientes folded on the edge of the lawn.”

  “You saw some hemp—”

  “Pastel paper.”

  “I don’t understand the significance—”

  “It was from my car. And I could see where someone had crossed the lawn.”

  Craig raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Let me show you.” We walked outside and I pointed, but my hasty retreat masked the original trail. “Well, it’s gone, but the paper . . .”

  The paper wasn’t there. “The wind must have blown it away. Or he moved it.”

  “He?”

  “Maybe the man following me. In the pickup.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “There are more sheets.” I crossed to the tree line and pointed out where I’d found the first folded paper. We paused at the spot, and Craig bent down and inspected the area.

  “I followed this game trail. The next sheet—” It, too, was gone. I started forward, but Craig pulled me back. “Stay here and keep an eye out. I’ll go first.” He unholstered his gun and cautiously moved into the forest. The pines quickly closed in behind him.

  I listened to his rustling footsteps, straining to hear over the chirping birds. The ravens were gone.

  Silence, then Craig called out, “Where?”

  My heart sank. The third piece of paper was apparently missing. I followed his voice. “Look for something gold, shiny.”

  “I don’t see any hand.”

  I joined him and studied the base of the tree. “Well, yeah, I think . . .” I turned in a circle, probing each trunk. Nothing. “It was a ponderosa. I thought it was this one.”

  “There are a lot of trees here.” He walked around the trunk, then checked some nearby evergreens.

  I bent down and touched the pine needles. There wouldn’t be blood; the hand had appeared drained. The ground looked undisturbed. “Maybe I was mistaken. It must be around here someplace.”

  We moved apart, each examining the base of different trees. Nothing.

  Craig paused in his search. “Maybe your dog—”

  “No. Winston’s still with Beth.”

  “Well then . . .” He cleared his throat and reholstered his pistol. “Any ideas?”

  “I know what I saw. The road is right over there. Someone parked there. I could barely see something blue. He could have grabbed the paper and hand, then driven off.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Maybe a coyote found it. Or a wolf.”

  “Or a lion, tiger, or bear? Do you think the critters were thinking about taking up pastels?”

  I gave him a withering look, which he ignored.

  “How about you and I go inside and talk?” He strolled toward the house without waiting for a response. I followed. We entered the kitchen. “Do you have any coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure. There’s—” I gasped. My computer was gone.

  “What?” Craig tugged out his pistol.

  “Somebody came into the house. They took my laptop. It was on the dining room table.”

  Craig signaled me to the corner of the room, out of sight from the doorway. He pressed against the wall, took a fast look down the hallway,
then dashed forward. Wham! Wham! The bathroom door fighting back. Squeak. The den. Thump-sssss. Aynslee’s room. Then silence.

  I reached for my pistol.

  Footsteps clumped up the hallway.

  I licked my dry lips and pulled out my SIG.

  Craig entered the room, cradling my computer in his arms.

  Aynslee chewed an already shredded thumbnail and stared out the cruiser window. The stupid pig put me in the backseat. Like I’m a criminal or something. The car stank of vomit mixed with disinfectant cleaner.

  She probably smelled like an armpit as well. Almost two days without a shower. Her hair felt gross.

  “The sheriff should arrive any minute.” The cop in front of her shifted in his seat.

  The friendliness in his voice sounded fake. Probably because Dave was picking her up and he was a sheriff. What was it called? Oh yeah. The thin blue line.

  She pulled her feet beside her on the seat, then rubbed some of the dirt off. They’d have to clean up after her. Good.

  A car door slammed.

  Aynslee bit down too hard. The sharp sting of her torn cuticle made her throat burn. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Dave saunter over.

  “Thanks,” Dave said.

  “Don’t mention it.” The cop stepped out and opened her door.

  She took her time exiting, making a point not to look at Dave. The cop from Superior had agreed to meet Dave at a rest stop, and she studied the park-like setting. The towering bull pines cast deep shadows over the recently mowed lawn. Traffic muttered in the distance, and a wall of evergreens formed a backdrop.

  Mom could paint this view.

  She shook her head violently. Her mom sent her away. Dad hated her.

  “Come on, young lady.” Dave took her arm. “You’ve given all of us a scare.”

  Aynslee allowed him to escort her to his car. This time she sat in the front seat. Maybe this will make Mom and Dad remember I’m still here.

  “Your computer was in your studio,” Craig said, placing the laptop on the kitchen table.

  My jaw tightened and I shook my head. “No. No. I left it in here. Somebody moved it. They came into my house while we were in the woods. Maybe they’re still here.” I tried to dodge past Craig, but he put out his arm to stop me.

  “I checked the house, Gwen. No one is here.” He rubbed his nose. “You know, maybe, well, is there someone I can call?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “First the folded paper, then the hand, the computer . . . I don’t know.”

  I crossed my arms. “Did you, by any chance, read Robert’s book?”

  He shifted. “My wife downloaded it onto my computer. I started to read it—”

  “Craig, that book isn’t me. It’s fiction. You know me, for crying out loud!”

  “I’m not saying I thought about you when I read it. I just know with your cancer . . . your daughter’s running away . . . losing your job in Utah . . . you know?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were. Stressed, maybe.”

  “You can go now. I’m fine. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Gwen—”

  I walked to the door and opened it.

  He hesitated, nodded briefly, then left.

  I wanted to slam the door after him, scream, kick the wall. Instead, I shut it quietly, then locked it. Everyone seemed to know about my personal life, and someone was trying to play head games with me. I was sure it had something to do with Mountain Meadows and Mormons.

  They’d soon find out they shouldn’t mess with a divorced, menopausal, bald woman in a bad mood.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  THE ROOM DARKENED AS INDIGO CLOUDS GATHERED outside. Craig had read Robert’s book. Who hadn’t read that cursed book?

  Someone rang the doorbell. Probably Craig.

  I yanked the door open. “What now!”

  The FedEx driver’s eyes were huge. “Hey, Gwen, I come in peace.” He nodded at a number of boxes he’d stacked on the step and handed me an electronic tablet. “Sign here.”

  I took the tablet and signed. “I’m sorry I bit your head off.”

  “I understand.” He took the machine and gave me The Look—the same one you might give a homeless woman pushing a loaded shopping cart and muttering about space aliens.

  He’d read Robert’s book. I cleared my throat. “Nasty storm brewing.”

  The man glanced at the sky. “Looks like.” He gave me a quick smile and trotted toward his van.

  I gathered the packages and moved them to the kitchen. The top box had the return address of Skull-Duggery, Tucson, Arizona. It had been forwarded to me by Bentley at the Mountain Meadows Center. Overnight delivery. Charged to my account.

  “You couldn’t have just sent them back, you skunk,” I muttered.

  After looking up the number for Selkirk Academy, I spoke with the after-hours staff. Good news, Aynslee’s been located and is coming home. No, I’m not sending her back. Yes, please send the bills to Robert. That last item made me smile.

  I’d received a flier on homeschooling. I’d call about it tomorrow.

  I heard the rumble of a car approaching. I stepped outside as Dave pulled up next to the house. Before he’d had time to shift into park, Aynslee burst from the car and shot past me into the house.

  “Young lady, we need to talk—”

  Her response was a slammed bedroom door.

  “Storm’s brewing everywhere.” Dave approached, rubbing his neck, then followed me into the kitchen. “Craig called—”

  “Was she hurt?” I asked.

  “No. Craig mentioned a hand—”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t hurt? He didn’t touch her? Shouldn’t we take her to the doctor and have her checked? I’m so going to ground her for the rest of her life.”

  Dave took away the pencil I was twisting. “Gwen, she assured me she wasn’t touched. Tell me about the hand.”

  I took a deep breath. “I think some Mormons are killing people.”

  Dave stared at me a moment, then grinned. “Mormons? How about Catholics?”

  “What?”

  “You know, if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off? Those Baptists are pretty literal. Or maybe the Muslim community in Copper Creek. Muslims like to chop off hands too.”

  “We don’t have any Muslims . . . You’re making fun of me!” I felt heat rush to my face.

  “Nah. I could have sworn I saw two suspicious young men wearing white shirts and black ties riding on bikes—”

  “Dave!”

  Dave stopped grinning, stood, and reached for me. “I’m sorry. I believe you, even if Craig has his doubts. Someone made sure you’d find this hand by leaving you a trail of folded pastel papers. I’m just not following your ‘killer Mormon’ conclusions.”

  “Someone planted a severed hand. They made sure I’d find it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Gone. They moved it.”

  “You didn’t have your camera with you?”

  “I wasn’t expecting a crime scene,” I said dryly.

  Dave raised his eyebrows.

  I snatched up the cordless phone and dialed. “I’ll prove it to you. I know who the hand belongs to. There was clay under the fingernails—”

  “Deputy Howell.”

  “Hi, Deputy Howell. It’s Gwen Marcey. Did someone mutilate George’s body?”

  Silence. “Well . . .”

  “Did someone cut off George’s hand?”

  “How did you know?” Deputy Howell asked.

  “I need you to speak with my sheriff, Dave Moore.” I handed him the phone.

  Dave shrugged and took the phone from me. “Sheriff Moore.”

  While Dave and Deputy Howell talked, I headed down the hall. I found Aynslee lying on her bed curled around a pillow. I addressed her back. “Young lady, I need an explanation.”

  “What’s to explain? Nothing happened. You found me. No big deal.”


  “It was a big deal. You could have been hurt!”

  “What do you care? You sent me to that school because you didn’t want to be around me—”

  “That’s not true and you know it. Look at me.”

  She continued to stare at the wall.

  “I said look at me!”

  Slowly the girl rolled over and sat at the edge of the bed. “What?”

  “I love you more than you’ll ever know—”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And don’t interrupt. You put yourself in the position of going to that academy when you experimented with drugs—”

  “I didn’t!”

  “And”—I waved her protest away—“you stole money from my purse—”

  “I didn’t!” She stood and made quotation marks in the air. “ ‘In his first novel in over fifteen years, Robert Marcey writes the riveting story of how a neurotic woman—’ ”

  “Stop!” I’d made every effort to keep that vitriolic tome away from her. “Wh-when did you read your father’s book?”

  “He said I could read it.”

  “That isn’t what I asked. When did you read it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe three months ago.”

  A light went on in my brain. She’d started acting out about then, lying, sneaking out, taking things. Robert’s book claimed yet another victim: his own daughter. Heat rushed to my face, and I gulped air until the stress-induced hot flash passed.

  “I just want things to be the way they were.” She stared at me, hands knotted into fists. “But you’re leaving again for Utah, and you’re going to send me back to that school.”

  “I’m not leaving. My job is . . . done.”

  “Done? But you weren’t . . . you mean you got fired?”

  “Well. Yes.” I hung my head.

  “I hate you,” Aynslee said softly and lay back on the bed.

  “You may hate me right now, Aynslee, but I love you, and I’m doing my best to keep you safe. You will stay in your room until you’re ready to apologize to me for your behavior.”

  “Don’t you think you should apologize to me?” she asked. “You promised you’d never leave for a big case again.”

  I gently closed the door behind me, then waited a moment until my hand relaxed enough to let go of the doorknob. I had promised. But that was before cancer, divorce, and the prospect of finding full-time employment had changed everything.