The admission took even Amanda aback. “Come on, Ms. Headly, you don’t’ mean that.”
“Don’t I?” The old woman narrowed her eyes. “You coming in or you gonna stand there letting my heat out. I ain’t made of money you know.” She waddled into the house without a glance backward.
Marlowe and Amanda followed her into a living room fit for an episode of Hoarders. Newspapers and magazines—old Time and People, Better Homes and Gardens—stacked to the ceiling, stood like columns throughout the space. Near the rear of the room, a wall plastered in photographs drew Marlowe’s attention. Hundreds of pictures, none dating beyond the 1970s and ranging in size from eight by tens to wallet sizes, depicted an array of people in various locales. A youthful Ms. Headly smiled at him from many, though he had difficulty reconciling the joyous woman in the photos with the one guiding them now.
“Sit if you want.” Ms. Headly shoved a pile of newspapers to one side of the sofa and shooed a fat yellow-tabby cat off the cushions.
Marlowe noticed the dates on the papers matched his estimate of the photos’ ages, the most recent from 1974 with a headline reading, Nixon tells America: I resign. Ms. Headly sat in a high-backed Victorian style chair, its faded red upholstery clashing with the blue of her dress. The yellow-tabby immediately took up residence on her lap.
“You told my deputy you saw someone with the girls?” Amanda took a few steps across the room to gaze out a window that offered a clear view of the playground and adjacent field all the way to the forest.
“Don’t believe I did,” said Ms. Headly.
Amanda’s head snapped around. “Deputy Preston was clear. Are you saying he’s lying?”
Ms. Headly stroked the cat’s fur, its purr audible to Marlowe where he sat on the sofa. “If he said I saw someone with those kids.”
Marlowe shot a glance to Amanda. “Let’s back up. You say you saw the girls in the playground, correct?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“Can you just tell us what you saw without all the drama? We don’t have time for this game.” Amanda’s face reddened. “Or we can continue this discussion at the station. Let you sit in a cell for obstruction.”
Ms. Headly matched Amanda’s stare with equal venom. She made them wait a few more seconds, averse to cooperating with any demand easily. Finally, she exhaled loudly. “I seen them kids going into the forest. Didn’t see ‘em before then. Those wetbacks who do my lawn showed up. I looked out to see they weren’t lazing about. Got to keep an eye on ‘em or they stand around all day. That’s when I seen them girls.”
Marlowe frowned at the racial slur, but let it go. “Okay, you saw someone else, right?”
“That bum…walking across the field.”
“What bum?” asked Amanda.
“The one always hangs around the stores looking for a handout. Lives in that eyesore on the edge of town, out by the junk yard. Oughta condemn the place and send his lazy ass packing, if you ask me.”
“Have you ever seen him around here before?”
“From time to time. Never comes too close to the neighborhood. I’d call you people if he did. Not that you’d do anything about it.” She sneered at Amanda with no attempt to hide her contempt.
Amanda ignored the dig. “Where does he go?”
“How the hell should I know? I got more important things to do than stare out the window all day.”
“So, this man followed the girls into the forest?” asked Marlowe.
“Just seen him walking. Didn’t see where he went. Can’t say if’n he followed the little pests or not. Need to get rid of him and the whole lot of ‘em.” She waved her hand in disgust.
Marlowe stood and nodded to Amanda. “Okay, thank you for your time.”
“What about my mailbox? It’s a federal offense to mess with someone’s mailbox.” Ms. Headly shook her finger at him.
Marlowe’s eyes widened in faux surprise. “You know? You’re exactly right, it is. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call it in to the Postal Inspector’s Office and have some agents sent out to investigate.” He fought to keep a grin off his face, and Amanda coughed into her hand.
Ms. Headly eyed him with a tilt of her head. After a moment, she smirked with satisfaction. “Good. Good. See that you do.”
Once outside, and the door shut behind them, Marlowe said, “That’s one mean old lady.”
Amanda chuckled. “She has as good a reason as any to be a bitch.”
“How so?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Her husband died a long time ago, when her three sons were still little. She raised them by herself. Had a tough time of it, from what I’ve heard. Anyway, two of the sons died in Korea. The youngest, against her wishes, volunteered for Vietnam. Got himself killed as well.”
“Shit. Loss like that can change a person.” Marlowe glanced at Amanda out of the corner of his eye. “Came pretty close to it myself. Good thing it’s never too late to find your way back.”
Not exactly subtle, but if the admonishment registered, Amanda did not show it. She climbed into the SUV without a reply.
“You know the guy she’s talking about?” asked Marlowe.
“Yeah. I imagine everyone in Red Weed does. Kinda a fixture here for a few years. Seems off his rocker to me, but Jerrod knows him better. Hang on.” Amanda clicked on her radio. “Jerrod?” No answer. “Jerrod, pick up your goddamned radio.”
“S-sorry, uh, sheriff.” Jerrod stammered into the radio, obviously with his mouth full.
“What do you know about the bum in Red Weed? The one always walking the sidewalks? Wears an army jacket.”
“Oh, that’s Sam Ewell.”
“Samuel?” asked Amanda.
“No, Sam Ewell. E-W-E-L-L.”
“Unfortunate,” said Marlowe with a grin.
“We ever had trouble with him?”
“Not really,” said Banks. “Slept it off in the drunk tank a handful of times. Shops called about him loitering. We ask him to move along, and he does without a fuss. Not a very talkative sort. A bit off. Like he’s in his own little world. Got a big scar on the side of his head might’ve caused it.”
“Hmm, nothing else?” asked Amanda.
“Well, we did get a call from the school once. Sam was hanging around and made a teacher uncomfortable. I went out and talked to him. He said he just liked to watch the kids play. Seemed harmless to me.” A sharp intake of breath on Banks’ end. “Shit. You don’t think…”
Amanda looked to Marlowe. “What do you want to do?”
“Get an order for a DNA swab, and let’s invite Mr. Ewell in for a chat.”
CHAPTER
8
Lori Kline yawned into her hand. Not a morning person, she would rather have set their appointment closer to noon, but Mr. Harmon insisted, apparently due to attend a meeting. Harmon had parlayed his regional celebrity into owning three Cadillac dealerships and spent his time bouncing from one to another. Lori and Spence arrived at eight sharp. Positioned at the apex of the Mountain Oaks Estates ‘teapot’, the two-story brick house with well-manicured lawn, and a new model Caddy in the drive, hulked over its neighbors in a not so subtle show of superior affluence. Lori still harbored doubts about a connection between Sarah Harmon and the missing girls, but orders were orders. Spence, with a big sloppy grin on his face, seemed pleased just to be out and about.
William Harmon, or “Buddy” as he insisted on being called, greeted them with hearty handshakes and ushered them into his study—a spacious room, home to his numerous trophies awarded for sports and salesmanship. His National Championship ring rested on red velvet in a glass display case befitting an exhibition for the Holy Grail. A framed aerial view of Bryant-Denny Stadium on game day covered the entire wall behind his desk with Roll Tide banners strategically placed around the room. A wet bar sporting crystal decanters along the counter lined another wall, flanked by bay windows. Spence, who had less than positive feelings about the University due to an injury that had denied him an
opportunity to play for the Tide, eyed the surroundings with something bordering on contempt.
Buddy took a seat behind his desk, the plush leather squeaking under his considerable girth. “Please, have a seat. Care for something to drink?”
“No, thank you. Will your wife be joining us?” Lori scanned the room, finding the pervasive testosterone in the décor a bit much.
“Not unless you really need her to. She still doesn’t like to talk about it. Gets all emotional.”
“And you don’t?” asked Spence.
Buddy’s face instantly turned downcast. “I have my bad days. After Sarah left, I drove the highways for hundreds of miles in every direction for weeks. One day I came home and Summer, our youngest—she was very close to Sarah…for her part anyway—sat on the front steps. When I drove up, I asked her what she was doing. She said praying Sarah would come home so Mommy wouldn’t be sad, Miranda laid in our bedroom crying her eyes out, and she wouldn’t be alone all the time. I realized then, I had to put on a strong front for my family. They needed me. And besides, nothing I could do for Sarah.” He shook his head and absently rolled a gold pen along the cherry wood with two fingers. “Once local police determined she was a runaway, they couldn’t justify spending time looking for her. I hired the best private firm I could find, but they didn’t have any luck locating her.”
“Tell us about Sarah. What was she like?” Lori could not get a clear read on Buddy. She possessed an inherent distrust of both jocks and salesmen, so needed to battle her own internal prejudices against assumptions. If he put on an act for their benefit, it was a good one. The man exuded affability with a disarming air, the good ol’boy affectations perhaps a little over done.
Buddy shook his head with a sigh. “We knew something was…well, wrong with Sarah pretty early on. She didn’t make hardly a sound until about two years old. None of the usual cooing stuff babies do. Didn’t even cry much. Finally said her first word around two. Momma, or something close to it. We thought she might be deaf, but the doctors eventually called it a form of autism.”
“That’s rough,” said Spence.
“Yeah, well, God knows what He’s doing. He doesn’t make mistakes, and we loved her all the same. Sweet child, but always distant, like she was looking into another world. Seeing things only she could see.”
“You tried treatments? Therapies?” asked Lori.
“Every one we could find. Flew all over the country to one doctor then another. Nothing helped much.”
“So Sarah didn’t speak?” Spence lost his fight with ignoring the memorabilia and ogled a photo of Buddy arm in arm with Joe Willie Namath.
“Sarah had two speeds—mum, not a word, or ninety to nothing. If she found something that interested her, she’d go on and on about it. Near drive a person crazy.” Buddy chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I remember when she first watched Bugs Bunny. Good Lord, what’s up doc over and over. She’d do her quiet thing, then all a sudden start it up again. Would’ve been cute if it wasn’t so annoying.”
“And as she grew older, it didn’t get any better?” Interesting, perhaps, but Lori did not want to hear a recitation of the last fifteen years.
“No. Got worse in a lot of ways.” Buddy tipped forward, placing his elbows on the desktop and interlacing his fingers. “Sarah got moodier, and even with autism, she was still a teenager, so we didn’t think much about it. She’d always been average in school—we had her in a special class for kids with learning disabilities—but her grades dropped off and she seemed more distracted than usual.”
“Any reason for the change in behavior?” asked Lori.
“Not that we ever found out about.” Buddy gazed out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“When you reported her missing, you felt she had run away. Why did you think so?”
“She’d wandered off before. A friend from the church brought her home once. Another time we called the police and they found her hitchhiking. I chased her down myself a few times. Plus, her carry bag was gone, along with the clothes she liked to wear most.”
“Why did she want to leave so badly?” asked Spence.
Buddy offered a perplexed sneer. “You know I said she would get things in her head and go on and on about it? Couldn’t sway her or tell her no. Well, her…aunt gave her a book of poetry. I can’t recall the name of the poet off hand. Anyway, Sarah fell in love with the book. She read up on the poet, knew everything about her. Seems this poet lived in New York. I’m not even sure if it was a modern poet or not. Sarah was convinced she would go to New York and become a poet, too. Crazy, and we told her so, but that girl was like a dog with a bone.”
“You think she went to New York?” asked Lori.
“I think she planned to. No telling where she ended up. I just hope she’s safe wherever she is. My head tells me she’s gone, but my heart wants to believe she’s still out there and okay.”
“You think a girl with her condition could make it to New York from Alabama? Hitchhiking?” Lori found the concept incredulous. How could any parent allow a mentally disabled child to wander off? Especially knowing Sarah’s history?
Buddy scoffed. “You have to understand about Sarah. She wasn’t like retarded or anything. In most ways, she seemed as normal as anyone. If you were around her, and didn’t know, you’d never guess. Unless you tried to talk to her and she wasn’t in one of her talkative moods.” He shook his pen at no one in particular. “The girl could do anything when she set her mind to it. She made up her mind to go. We’d have had to lock her up to stop her. Maybe some sort of institution is what we should’ve done. But we just couldn’t see our little Sarah in a crazy hospital.”
“Daddy, you said you’d swing me before you go to work.” A tiny girl with white-gold hair and beaming, bright curious eyes stood in the doorway.
“This is Summer. My pride and joy. Say hello to the nice policemen, Summer.”
The girl offered a shy smile. “Hello.”
“Run on outside. I’ll be there in a second, okay Honey?”
Summer dashed from the room, the patter of little feet echoing off hard wood floors.
“I guess that covers it for now. We might have a few more questions later.” Lori rose from her chair, flipped her notepad closed, and placed it into her chest pocket.
“You really think the person who took those girls might have taken Sarah?”
“It’s a possibility we need to look at,” said Spence.
“Well, anything I can do to help, you just ask.” Buddy ushered them from the office.
“Thank you, Mr. Harmon. We appreciate your cooperation.” Lori shook the man’s hand, his meaty clasp crushing her fingers.
“Not at all. And call me Buddy.” Again, his jovial manner struck Lori as exaggerated.
In the foyer, Lori perused the photos lining the entry. Buddy, his wife, and two daughters appeared so happy. Still, something seemed off about the pictures. An oddity in the angle perhaps, but she could not put a finger on what. A noise from the kitchen brought her head around. Miranda Harmon bent forward, picking a plastic cup off the floor. The woman caught her gaze, averted her eyes, and hurried out of view. Lori thought it peculiar, but not enough to warrant questioning her. Outside at the Chevy Equinox, a vehicle on loan from the county motor pool, Lori watched Buddy join his daughter in the backyard. She ran to him, leaping into his arms. He spun her around, her legs straight out, arms extended like wings. Summer made ‘airplane’ noises and giggled. Lori could not help but grin at the child’s glee. Her own father, career politician, never had much time for her at that age. She and her mother were close, but the most important male influence on her as a child was Uncle Joe.
* * *
Seven-year-old Lori lay on her stomach, legs bent at the knees and kicking at the air. Her coloring book, opened to a picture of a family sailing on the ocean, sat between her elbows. Holding a black crayon like a knife, she stabbed down on the father figure, blotting out the image fro
m the neck up. She sniffled and wiped tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“A definite improvement. I always thought your pop could use a little color.”
Lori rolled off the bed. “Uncle Joe!”
Her Uncle Joe, handsome in a movie star sort of way with long blonde hair and piercing green eyes, grabbed her beneath the arms, hoisted her into the air, and spun her around.
“You snuck up on me.” Lori grinned.
“The way you’re punishing that coloring book, no wonder.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You been crying?”
Lori thrust her shoulders back. “Have not.”
Uncle Joe plopped down on the edge of the bed and patted a spot beside him. “Come on over here and tell me all about it.”
Reluctantly, Lori jumped onto the mattress and sat down. “Dad promised all week he’d take me swimming at the lake. It has a swing. You go out over the water and drop in. It’s rad.”
“Rad, huh? Let me guess, business stuff right?” Uncle Joe scrunched his nose as though he had caught a whiff of a foul odor.
“Golf. A whole weekend playing golf. He calls it networking.”
“Just another way of saying he’s screwing off with his buddies. Why can’t your mom take you?”
“She can’t swim. She’s afraid I’d drown, and she couldn’t save me. I swim good. I wouldn’t need her to save me.” Lori pouted her little lips.
“Well. You swim well.”
She did not appreciate the grammar lesson, and shot him a peevish glance.
Joe placed his palms up in surrender. “Sorry. So, dear ol’ dad stood you up?”
“Huh?”
“Broke a promise.”
“Yeah. It sucks.” Lori crossed her arms, indignant.
“I imagine so. That brother of mine’s got one of those golf clubs stuck up his ass. Surprised he doesn’t walk around like this…” Uncle Joe leapt off the bed and waddled around the room like a penguin. “Come on.”
Lori joined him. On stiff little legs, arms tucked like wings, she followed her uncle in circles, giggling. She loved her Uncle Joe. He treated her like a grown up and made her feel special. She always looked forward to his visits, though he did not come around much due to every stopover eventually devolving into a shouting match between him and her father. Christopher Kline graduated top of his class at Cumberland Law School and became a state senator by age thirty. Over twenty years later, he still served. He had no patience for his brother’s get rich quick schemes and hare-brained ideas. More so, he did not like Joe’s influence on Lori. She picked up more than colorful language from her uncle; Joe also received the blame for her willful attitude. Though in truth, that particular trait could as easily have been inherited from her father.
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