by Alex Grecian
“Lieutenant?”
“I mean, you might be thinking I’m the same as that sheriff.”
Skottie shrugged.
“Goodman calls and I come running. I can see where you might think me and him are friends, and I don’t want that going through your head. I’m here ’cause I was concerned about you, okay? Long and short of it. How’d he treat you?”
“I’m okay.”
A handful of tiny snowflakes settled on the windshield, and Johnson turned on the wipers at their lowest setting.
“You ready to tell me what’s going on?”
“Turn left up here,” Skottie said. “I can tell you what I know, but there’s not much.”
“I’m all ears.”
She told him everything that had happened in the last two days, starting with spotting Travis Roan and his unleashed dog at the highway rest stop. She ended with her trip in Deputy Ekwensi Griffith’s squad car.
Lieutenant Johnson pulled up next to Skottie’s Subaru and put his vehicle in park. They sat there watching snowflakes melt on the warm windshield while she finished her story. At last Johnson shook his head. He looked puzzled. “What did Goodman want with you?”
“He’s got a murder and he likes Roan for it, but he can’t pin it on him. There’s no evidence, and it doesn’t make any sense to me that Roan could’ve done it or would’ve done it. This isn’t a guy who came here to carry out a hit on some woman. He’s chasing an old Nazi to serve him with papers.”
“And what? The sheriff thought you could cough up some clues for him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something’s not adding up for me,” Johnson said. He maneuvered in his bucket seat until he was comfortable and could see Skottie without craning his neck. “But look, like it or not, Kurt Goodman is the duly elected sheriff of this county. Unless you have a legitimate reason to think he’s doing something illegal, you need to step off. If he’s trying to deal with a homicide case, you’re not gonna make it easier for him or for this Roan guy or for yourself by butting in.”
“I wasn’t butting in. He’s the one who—”
“Skottie. Just . . . You’re back on duty tomorrow, right? So let’s worry about our job, let Goodman worry about his. Travis Roan can call a lawyer if he’s innocent, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnson sighed. “Hey, this stuff is supposed to pick up here pretty soon.” He pointed out the window at the lowering sky. “Better get yourself home before it opens up on us.”
“I will,” Skottie said. “And Lieutenant? Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, Trooper.”
She opened the door and hopped out next to her car. Johnson sat there for a second while Skottie found her keys, then he put the Explorer in gear and drove away, down the street and around the corner.
Skottie had been so caught up in the events of the day—and thinking about the note in her pocket—that she opened the car door without first hitting the button on her key fob. She didn’t realize until she was sitting in the car that she hadn’t unlocked it. It had already been open. She immediately checked out the back seat and the glove box, looking for anything that might be missing or that hadn’t been there before. The file folder with Rachel Bloom’s translation of her mother’s journal was gone, but nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. She started the car and got out, stood next to it looking up and down the street for anything suspicious.
The theft of the transcript didn’t bother her much. It would be easy enough to print it out again. But she didn’t like the idea that someone had been in her car without her knowledge. She circled the car, looking for scratches around the locks. Either she had left the car unlocked in the first place (which wasn’t like her at all) or someone had used a slim jim to loid the lock and then hadn’t thought to lock it back up behind them. Of course, she thought, the person most likely to have a slim jim in a town the size of Paradise Flats would be a firefighter or a cop. Like maybe a sheriff’s deputy.
She let her car run, warming it up, and finally reached into the front pocket of her jeans for the piece of paper Quincy had given her. She leaned back against the open driver’s-side door, unfolded it and smoothed it out, and read it.
Please find Bear at the lake.
Do you remember the word?
She read it two more times, then folded it back up and stuck it back in her pocket. She was angling herself into the car when she saw the curtains at the front of Ruth Elder’s house fall back into place.
She closed her car door and walked up the path to the front door. She held her thumb against the button, listening for movement inside the house, watching the curtains for a suspicious eye.
She knocked and rang the doorbell again, but got no response.
All she needed was a squad car turning the corner at the end of the street. She headed back to her car, trying to see both ends of the road. There was no movement, no chirping birds, no sign of life. She glanced at the sky above her. It was almost black. A storm was blowing in fast, and Skottie remembered she had to pick her daughter up at school. She glanced at her phone. She only had an hour.
And she still had to get out to the lake to find Travis Roan’s dog.
6
Travis was sitting up at the edge of his cot when the door opened and Quincy entered. The deputy shut the door behind him and crossed over to Travis. He was carrying a paper plate with two pieces of fried chicken and a dollop of mashed potatoes.
“Sorry, I think they got a little cold,” Quincy said.
Travis took the plate and set it down next to him on the cot. “What, no biscuit?”
“The sheriff ate yours, I think.”
“Understandable.”
Quincy shuffled from one foot to the other and crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and ran a hand over his scalp. Travis waited for him to figure out what he wanted to say.
“I, um . . . I gave Trooper Foster your note.”
“Thank you again.”
“I hope I did the right thing there. I mean, I hope I didn’t just aid and abet, or whatever.”
“Well, you did aid me,” Travis said. “But there was no criminal intent, so you need not worry about abetting.”
“I took a risk for you. And I’m not sure why I did it. But if the sheriff finds out, I don’t think he’ll care whether you think there’s criminal activity or not.”
“Then why help me at all?” Travis stood and leaned back against the wall. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He wanted a cigarette, but he’d given them up. Bear’s sinuses were too sensitive. “Sheriff Goodman hardly seems like the type of man to associate with people who are, let us say, different than he is. Is that why you passed my note along to Officer Foster?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Was helping me a way for you to get back at your sheriff?”
“Get back at him for what?”
Travis shrugged.
“Oh, you mean you think he’s racist,” Quincy said.
“Is he?”
“He’s set in his ways and he’s not real tolerant, but he pretty much hates everybody equally. Black, white, men, women. He’s fair-minded about it, at least. Besides, he kinda had to give me a job. He’s my father-in-law.”
Travis raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised, and Quincy laughed.
“Yeah,” Quincy said. “My wife, Angela, the sheriff’s daughter, when she told him about us, he wasn’t too happy. But she doesn’t back down from anybody ever, not even her own dad. He could see he either had to get on board with us or she was gonna up and leave with me. I don’t know where we were gonna go, but if she said we were gonna leave, well . . . I guess we were going somewhere. And knowing her, she probably never would’ve talked to her dad again.”
“And so he gave you this job . . .”
“To keep
Angela around. He loves her. And he’s getting used to me.”
“So why did you give Skottie Foster my note?”
“It felt like the right thing to do. She’s a cop, and I guess you’re something like a cop.”
“As are you,” Travis said.
“And Sheriff Goodman . . . Well, I think maybe he’s in over his head with whatever’s going on around here. Maybe I can help nudge things so we don’t all get caught in a shitstorm. Anyway, I hope to God I’m right about you.”
“As do I, Deputy Griffith.”
“Enjoy your chicken.”
Quincy left the room, and Travis heard the lock engage. He sighed and picked up the greasy paper plate.
AUGUST 1970
The Baptists had moved to a new tin building on Broadway and the old church sat empty, a window on the west side boarded up, another window missing a pane of faux stained glass. Judging by the rest of the window the pane might have been purple and blue, but now it looked black, no light shining through the hole. There was a For Sale sign jammed into the lawn in front, weeds growing up around the metal stakes.
Jacob led the way around to the back and used a key to open a gray metal door. The bottom of the door scraped against concrete as it opened, and Rudy caught a whiff of must and rat droppings.
“Been abandoned for years now,” Jacob said. “No offers on it.”
“Nobody wants an old church?”
“I guess it runs against the grain to turn it into a doughnut shop. Better to let it sit. More pure or something.”
“Something.”
The two of them stepped inside and Jacob felt along the wall until he found a switch. Electric sconces blinked slowly to life, revealing a long hallway with oak doors staggered along both sides.
“Got ’em to turn the power back on for us. Water, too, but that’s gonna take a day or two.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Rudy said.
He moved down the dim passage, opening doors and turning on lights. This area of the church had apparently been used for Sunday school and evening Bible classes. There were three old cribs in one room and an open toy box with grimy plastic animals spilling out of it. Another room held an old upright piano, the keyboard cover propped up and three ivory keys missing. There was a bookshelf that was half-filled with dog-eared paperbacks. Titles like The Power of Faith, Lay Your Hands, Follow My Shepherd. Rudy wondered how quickly they would burn if he lit a match. He pictured piano wire shriveling and popping, discordant music playing to a house of ghosts.
“In there’s the changing room,” Jacob said. “Where the altar boys put on their robes. The choir, too, I guess. Whoever.”
Rudy could have figured it out for himself. There was a wardrobe against the back wall with its doors standing open. A handful of wire hangers dangled from a rod.
“And through here you got the main church. Pews, altar, big cross and all.”
Rudy looked through the high arched portal and saw what the lightning had done. Sunlight shone through a hole in the ceiling, and the floor was covered with feathers and bird shit and wet paper around a pit that was charred black around the edges. A permanent shadow reached out from the altar toward the abandoned pews that sat helpless, row after row, like soldiers on the front line.
“But come this way first.”
Jacob ducked into a doorway and Rudy followed him down a narrow staircase. At the bottom of the stairs to their right was a shuffleboard court, blue and red painted lines dead-ending at a cinder-block wall. To their left, an accordion-style partition had been pushed aside and three steps led down into a big meeting hall with a pass-through to a kitchen. Rudy could see an industrial oven and an avocado-colored refrigerator.
“Gas is turned on, too,” Jacob said. “Ovens work.”
Rudy smiled.
“And here’s the big surprise.” Jacob found another key on the ring and unlocked a door next to the pass-through, revealing yet another staircase, narrower, cement with gritty black strips to keep people from slipping and falling. He flicked a switch and beckoned to Rudy and they descended together into a subbasement, murky and dank. The ceiling was low, but the room extended the entire length of the church above, as far as Rudy could tell, and perhaps half its width. The walls were painted gray, and four light fixtures were inset at regular intervals above them. There was a furnace at the far end, next to a water heater, and stacking chairs were piled beside folding particleboard tables against another wall. The floor sloped to a drain in the middle of the room.
“This isn’t on the plans,” Jacob said. “I didn’t even know it was here until I came to look the place over yesterday. What do you think?”
“This could be very useful,” Rudy said.
“That’s what I thought. Too much traffic out by your place these days. That shed is harder and harder to get into without somebody asking why you don’t mow your grass more often.”
“I worry about the boys. They’re at an age where they’re exploring everything. And Magda worries me, too.”
“She suspicious?”
“I don’t think so. But this pregnancy has been harder on her, and she puts Kurt and Heinrich out of the house more often. They’re very curious boys. Eventually they’ll think to look inside the shed.”
“It’s good for boys to be curious.”
“Of course.”
“But a church . . .”
“Nobody would think twice about a preacher visiting his church at any hour of the day or night,” Rudy said.
“We can fix this up pretty nice, I think,” Jacob said.
“We can indeed, Deacon Meyer.” Rudy smiled again and turned around and around in the big gray room, planning it out in his mind. The cabinets would go here, the steel table would go there. Perhaps there would even be room for a second table. And the ceiling was solid enough that he thought he could hang a considerable weight from it. If he had strong enough chains.
“Come on,” Jacob said. “Let’s see if they left any wine in the kitchen.”
CHAPTER FIVE
1
It was early afternoon, but dark clouds gave the landscape an aura of dusk. Snow was coming down harder and there was a cold breeze gusting off the water. Skottie parked next to the rented Jeep, got out of her car and walked toward the lookout, with its useless rusted telescope. The surrounding trees were bare, and the raised platform gave her a good view of the park. Crime scene tape was strung out from tree to tree along the lakeshore, snapping in the wind, keeping time to the ripples that floated ashore. A pair of abandoned goggles had rolled into a thicket, its rubber strap swaying like a river snake.
She was going to be late picking her daughter up, which meant Maddy would be shuffled off to the after-school program for snacks and SunnyD and four square in the gymnasium. Maddy would be happy. She loved the extra time with her friends. But now there would be an extra charge for child care services on the monthly bill from the school. Skottie was thinking about maybe getting a second job in the evenings to help make ends meet. There were always freelance guard jobs listed for police, but Skottie hated to take even more time away from her daughter. They were having enough trouble.
She listened to the sounds of her boot heels on the wooden floor of the lookout, the splashes of nearby water rippling against iced-over shallows, a chickadee singing its “hey, sweetie” song somewhere above her. But there were no sounds she associated with dogs. And there wouldn’t be, would there? Bear didn’t make noise.
The note Travis had written for her said that Bear was at the lake. Skottie assumed the sheriff had left Bear behind, and of course Travis would be worried about leaving the dog out in the wildlife refuge all night. The weather report had predicted freezing conditions all week.
She scanned the tall brown brush all around her, looking for some sign of movement, but there was nothing.
“Bear?”
<
br /> She listened again and heard a faint rustling in the grass that might have been the wind.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Bear! Bear, come!”
She closed her eyes and tried to think. In the note, Travis had asked if she remembered “the word.” He had taught her a word to use with the dog. A word in some other language. He was trusting her to recall it because he wouldn’t have dared to write it down for her. For all he knew, the note might have been intercepted before it got to her and Bear’s safety would have been compromised.
The sound of an engine and the crunch of gravel behind her broke her concentration. She turned and saw a familiar silver car pull into the lot and park beside Skottie’s Subaru. Deputy Ekwensi Griffith stepped out and made a show of stretching his arms, pivoting in one direction and then the other. He relaxed and put his hands in his pockets, walked out toward Skottie.
Skottie took a step back and felt the railing press into her spine. Her boot prints across the deck were dark against the fine dusting of snow. “What are you doing here?”
“I read your note,” he said. “Before I gave it to you. Sorry.”
“I would have read it, too, if I were you. But that doesn’t really answer my question.”
Quincy stopped at the edge of the lookout, one foot up on the first step, but he didn’t ascend to the platform. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them up in a gesture of surrender. “I come in peace, amigo.”
And Skottie suddenly remembered the special command word for Bear.
“You’re smiling,” Quincy said. “That mean you’re happy to see me?”
“Goodman know you’re out here?”
“No way. He’d kill me.” Quincy looked up at the charcoal sky. “I mean, literally kill me.”
“Then why follow me out here?”
“Something’s going on. I knew Mrs. Weber. Not real well, but she was a nice enough lady. I can’t believe anyone would kill her like that. Then there’s Roan, who just decided to trust me with that note, even after the sheriff worked him over pretty good. He seems like a decent guy. And there’s you, too. How do you fit in with all this? I guess I wouldn’t be much of a lawman if I don’t at least try to figure this thing out.”