The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  “Was that Jayne? Did that really happen?” Cameryn asked. And then, when her mother refused to answer, she demanded, “Say something! ”

  “I killed your sister.”

  The words hung in the air. Killed. Your sister. Cameryn couldn’t take it in. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

  “I killed Jayne. I’m sure Patrick will be happy you know the truth at last.”

  Cameryn registered her mother’s answer, but the wheels of her mind seized up.

  “What . . . happened?” she finally whispered.

  Her mother turned, her hair wrapped around her neck like a scarf. Everything was dead except the eyes. She fixed them on Cameryn, her expression embalmed. In a flat, emotionless voice she said, “I backed out of the driveway. You two were always playing in the gutter, but that day I didn’t see her. I felt the bump. I didn’t stop. The tire left a tread mark on her dress—the yellow one with daisies. When I got out of the car, I saw her head in the water. Your father called me a murderer.”

  Cameryn didn’t want to hear any more. Shutting her eyes, she commanded her mother to stop, screaming the word inside where Hannah couldn’t hear.

  “I’ve looked for girls ever since, trying to connect so I could remember. I’d see your faces everywhere—any girl with long hair, anyone who looked like they might need a mother. But even with all those strangers it was never the same. They can never be Jayne.”

  Cameryn had thought she’d prepared herself for every possibility—but not this. Never this.

  Slowly, Hannah stood, peeling off the smock, releasing it to the floor in a crumpled heap. She went to the bed. Squatting, she searched under it for a pair of cowboy boots, which she tugged on over bare feet.

  “What are you doing?” Cameryn asked, rising from the chair.

  “I need to go out for a while.”

  “You’re not a murderer, Hannah. I don’t understand why my dad said those things. It was an accident!”

  “You want the truth? All of it?”

  Cameryn nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she did.

  Hannah stood. “After the funeral, Patrick said I was an unfit mother. I killed your sister, so maybe I was. But I couldn’t take it. So I tried to hurt myself. They . . .” She paused for only a beat. “I was put away. For a long time.”

  “Put away?”

  “In a mental institution. I was there until they gave me some pills, and then I got better. Tegretol, which has been my savior. I’m all healed now. You probably don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

  Shocked, Cameryn said, “He—Dad never said a word.” “Not telling you was the only grace Patrick has ever given me. Well,” she said, “now you know. You’re free to hate me just the way Patrick wants you to.” Wiping her hands on her jeans, Hannah walked to her dresser and picked up a set of keys. She plucked her jacket from a hook on the wall and shrugged it on. “I feel like I’m straining inside my own skin. Do you know what that’s like? Just let me be for a while.” Then, lifting her purse from a corner, she slung it over her shoulder and headed out the door.

  Cameryn watched, frozen, unsure of her next move. Finally she stuttered out a protest, but Hannah was gone. Running, tripping, she made her way to the top of the stairs. “Wait! I understand! We need to talk about this. Mom! Please!”

  But her mother didn’t answer. Instead, the door to the Wingate slammed shut, rattling the stained glass in reply.

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS ONLY two o’clock in the afternoon, and dusk had already begun to descend on Silverton. Low-hanging clouds hovered at the bottom of the mountains and rolled into the streets, turning the air opaque. Cameryn could feel it, the clouds expectant, wishing they could burst open with snow.

  Not wanting to return home, she’d parked her car in the back lot of the Grand Hotel. She needed to walk, to get her mind in order by moving her body. Her cowboy boots scuffed the shoveled wooden walkway as she made her way along Greene Street, weaving through the crowd of people who had come for Silverton’s annual Christmas festival. Bright-eyed and red-cheeked from the cold, the milling crowd seemed happy, full up with Christmas spirit. Bowing her head so low the collar of her parka cupped her cheeks, she pressed on, trying not to envy their easy joy.

  Suddenly a siren went off beside her, a single loud blast. Whirling around, she saw a police car. A window glided down and she looked inside to see Justin’s smiling face. “Hey, Cammie, need a ride?”

  “You about blasted out my eardrums,” she said. She felt her face flush, as she realized the crowd’s attention was now riveted on her. It was as if the entire street had stopped to stare, frowning at her with suspicion. “Everyone’s looking at me,” she hissed. “They think I’m under arrest or something.”

  “Hop inside and I’ll read you your rights.”

  “You are so not funny.”

  “You want me to give this siren another blast?”

  “All right, all right,” she conceded, “just for a minute.” She was only feigning reluctance. She’d missed him. Caught in the vortex of her new life, she hadn’t connected with Justin in weeks, but in that there’d been a loss. It would be good to spend time with him again.

  Cameryn opened the door and slid inside the Durango’s gray interior. The air smelled like chicken noodles, which she realized came from the empty Cup-a-Soup he’d left on the passenger-side floor. “Sorry about that,” he said, reaching down, and when he did so his hand brushed against her leg. He pulled it away quickly, apologetically, crumpling the cup before tossing it into the backseat.

  “I’m on a budget, so this is my fine dining. I’ve got another cup if you’d like one. Did you eat lunch?”

  “No,” she answered, genuinely surprised to realize she hadn’t. “I went to Hannah’s right after the accident scene and then I decided to walk.” Her hand went up, anticipating his next question. “And before you start asking, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s been a hard day and I’m . . . processing.”

  “Yeah, finding that head was surreal. When we put the gym bag on top of the guy’s neck, it was . . . I don’t know . . . grim. I’ve been thinking about that kid all day.”

  “Me, too,” she said, relieved he thought she was processing because of Benjamin. The business of death didn’t bother her the way it did others, a point that both fascinated and repelled her friends. The subject had come up just two days earlier as she lunched in the school’s cafeteria. Crowded around Formica tables, stuffing their mouths with chicken fingers while they talked, the senior class had brimmed with college plans. Cameryn had just dipped a fry into her catsup when Crystal turned on her with almond-shaped eyes. “What about you, Cameryn? Are you still going to do all that death stuff?” When she’d nodded yes, the table had erupted. “How can you stand looking at such gross stuff?” was followed by “What about the maggots? Have you seen real maggots wriggling on a corpse?” after which came “I heard you already held a human liver and cut it up—that is so disgusting!” rounded out by a chorus of “How can you do that?” For as long as she could remember, her fascination with forensics had marked her as different. But for Cameryn, to peer inside a human body was a privilege. She understood that forensics was the last chance for the deceased to tell their stories; if she listened closely, they could whisper their secrets and she would translate.

  “So, Justin, how come you’re parked out here just watching the folks go by?”

  Propping his wrists on the steering wheel, he said, “I guess sometimes there’s a bit too much wassail downed at this festival. My job is to keep an eye out for drunks. This crowd looks pretty tame, though,” he said, turning his palm up. “It’s an interesting fair. Who knew so many folks’d come out for a snowmobile parade.”

  “There’s also ice-sculpting and food and all kinds of stuff. Later on they’ll have the dogsleds go by. It’s really cool.”

  “Seriously? I thought they only had that kind of stuff in Alaska.”

  The second Saturday in December had bee
n set aside for the festival. For as long as Cameryn could remember, she’d been out on the streets with the rest of them, sampling hot cider and watching winter games. This was the first time she’d ever forgotten.

  “I’m liking all these people,” said Justin. “Look at the rich folks there. . . .” He pointed to a couple, the man wearing an expensive-looking sheepskin coat, the woman swathed in fur. “I bet they’re from Telluride. That dude’s sunglasses cost more than my car. And check out all the snowboarders. I love those snowboard guys—their hats are crazy. I don’t get what’s up with the Gingham Girls, though. Are they in costume for something? ”

  “Who?”

  “There, at the Bent Elbow. By that white truck.”

  Cameryn squinted. She saw a group of men, their skin lined from years in the sun, their hair cut into flat tops so short they appeared almost bald. Two women huddled to the side, whispering. Each had a long braid wrapped around her head in a gigantic loop, and one wore old-fashioned glasses with plastic frames from what Cameryn guessed was the seventies. Long dresses, sewn from red-and-blue gingham, hung to their ankles, peeking out from beneath long woolen coats. They wore mittens instead of gloves.

  “Oh, those are polygamists from the Four Corners area. And they are women, not girls.”

  “You’re kidding. Those are real polygamists?” Justin’s dark brows shot up in his forehead.

  “Yeah. As in one guy with, like, seven wives.”

  “But those old men are geezers. How’d they get those girls—excuse me, women?”

  “I don’t think polygamy is about looks, Justin. I think they’re supposed to have all those wives so they can have a bunch of kids—it has something to do with their religion.”

  But Justin didn’t seem to be listening to the part about children. Instead, he studied the women, who had moved apart, their eyes scanning the crowd. “Huh. Seven wives per guy.” He grinned. “I like those odds. Where do I sign up?”

  Cameryn hit his shoulder. “Sorry, here in Silverton we only have true Mormons—one man married to one woman—so unless you move away, you’re out of luck. But we’ve got three Jehovah’s Witnesses and an honest-to-God witch.”

  “A witch?” Justin looked impressed. “Who?”

  “Look right there, at the woman standing next to that flower barrel. The one with the orange hair—that’s Theresa Kennedy. She does the whole thing with casting spells and tarot cards and all of that. Next to her is Norland Match. He’s the guy who was in Vietnam—he grows marijuana in his bathtub. Don’t try to arrest him, though. Norland’s got one of those medical permits.”

  It felt good to talk like this. People passed by in a leisurely but steady stream, and as she told the histories of Silverton’s citizens, Cameryn felt her insides unkink. Although Silverton had become a tourist haven, eccentrics were still part of the town’s fabric—from Leather Ed, who never bathed, to the madams and hookers buried in Hillside Cemetery. Watching the crowd, she thought about the fact that she was part of something bigger than herself, like . . . humanity. Her problems were just one part of an overall tapestry. She guessed each of these people had their own hidden stories from their pasts; even the strangers wearing candy-apple grins had secrets. For some reason it made her feel lighter inside, because she’d heard the worst about her mother, and she . . . Camer yn . . . was still standing.

  “You look different, Cammie,” Justin said. “Something in your eyes.”

  With a swift movement, Justin unbuckled his seat belt so he could turn toward her. Reaching out, his hand rested lightly on hers. It was strong, calloused, and warm. “Cammie, I never know when it’s going to be the right time, but I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Once again she sensed the current she’d felt before, like something moving underwater. “I know how hard it’s been since . . . Kyle.”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to go there. Did I tell you the dean of CU’s forensic college saw me in the newspaper? She e-mailed when she read about how I worked that case. She says I’m a genius.”

  He smiled, and she noticed again how white his teeth were, how perfectly straight. “You told me.”

  “It sounds like I may get a scholarship, so it’s all good.”

  Justin pushed his hair back from his eyes, exposing his arched brows. His lashes, so thick they made her jealous, closed together as he took a deep breath. When he opened them, he looked not at Cameryn but at a point beyond. “That’s not the reason I brought up Kyle,” he said. “I want to say this the right way.” He looked down, touching each of her knuckles with his fingertips. “Before, I tried to say something about us—about you and me. When we worked the case together, at Brad Oakes’s house. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.” Oh, she thought, here it comes. Justin had asked her out at the exact moment Kyle had entered her life and she, though tempted, had said no. Her reasons had been rational, logical. At twenty-one, Justin was too old, her father objected, her grandmother threatened to send him to jail, her mother had reentered her life. Now that Kyle was gone, Cameryn was, for all intents and purposes, free. All this played through her mind as she braced herself, half-wanting, half-fearing what Justin was about to say.

  “Man, I’ve run this through my head a thousand times, but . . .” He looked at her, his eyes growing soft with appeal. He moved closer and in that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blue Pinto chugging past the booth that sold hot chocolate and chili dogs. Inside the car was Hannah, her posture ramrod straight. What surprised Cameryn, though, was the fact that Hannah was not alone. A second person, someone with golden hair, was seated in the passenger side. A girl. Cameryn’s gaze followed the car as it turned onto Fourteenth Street before it disappeared.

  "Cameryn?” Justin squeezed her hand, bringing her back. “I think I lost you there.”

  “Sorry. It’s just . . .” She shook herself. “Sorry, I’m listening. ”

  Justin cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. His face flushed, which made her pulse kick faster, and she was, once again, in the moment. “So, after that day I talked to you again at the Grand. That’s when you said you just wanted to be friends. . . .” He paused and Cameryn focused, waiting. Nothing would distract her now.

  "What?” she asked softly.

  She leaned near him, aware they were sharing the same air, their mingled breath creating the barest of clouds against the window. Outside she heard the Silverton Choir warming up, but inside there was only the sound of his shallow breath and the scent of leather— from his Timberline boots or his leather bomber jacket, she couldn’t tell.

  Well, why not? she asked herself. Why shouldn’t she relax and let this thing, whatever it was, just . . . happen?

  Before, Kyle had been a distraction when she’d needed it most, when she’d wanted to escape. But knowing the worst thing, the very worst thing about Hannah, was freeing, somehow. Maybe she owed it to herself to take one more chance, to replace the walls inside her with windows.

  She whispered, “It’s okay.”

  “Cammie, the thing is—”

  “Deputy Crowley, this is dispatch,” a voice crackled over the two-way radio. “You’re needed at the Avalanche on a 10-103f. Do you copy?”

  “Oh, man,” Justin sighed. He shook his head apologetically, withdrawing his hand. Picking up the transmitter, he said, “This is Deputy Crowley; 10-65. Over.”

  “What’s all that?” Cameryn asked.

  “A 10-103f means there’s a fight. I bet somebody had a little too much mead and, well, I am on duty. I’ve got to go, Cammie. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have sat in here so long anyway. Well, okay,” she said. She rubbed her palms along her jeans, her nerves still jangling. “I’d better go, then, and let you get to work.”

  Opening the door, she was about to exit when he grabbed her arm. “Can we pick this up later?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I think I’d like that.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad yo
u’re back.”

  Although she wasn’t sure what he meant, a warmth spread from his hand all the way up her arm and into her face. “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

  She watched the police car pull away, this time the sirens blaring for real. Smiling, she waved as it disappeared down the street. Then, jamming her hands into her pockets, she decided to keep walking, threading her way between tourists and townspeople, past the booths and the man juggling snowballs in the air. There was a new lightness inside her. She craned her neck, looking up into the whitened sky. Above her the clouds broke open. Snow fell onto her face, cleansing her, dotting her skin with flakes that melted into water beads. People had gathered around oil barrels lit from within, their hands dancing above the flames. A dog whined, its gold eyes intent on its master’s chili dog. The man stood deep in conversation with a woman. Cameryn couldn’t help but laugh when the dog, a white husky, reached up to nip off half the chili dog while the man yelled, “Max, no!” How long had it been since she’d felt good? Too long, she answered herself. One by one she let her problems go, releasing them like helium balloons into the winter air. She continued east on Greene Street, all the way to Fourteenth Street, and there, less than a hundred yards away, sat Hannah, her engine in idle. The blue Pinto was parked away from the crowd.

  Cautious, Cameryn approached the car.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, knocking her knuckle against the driver’s window.

  The noise startled the girl inside, who’d been deep in conversation with Hannah, gesturing as she spoke. Cameryn thought the girl looked no more than fourteen years old. Her strawberry-blonde hair hung in a long braid, and she had on a too-thin blue jacket without a hood. With eyes so pale blue they seemed almost colorless, she gaped at Cameryn.

  Suddenly the window glided down. Hannah cried out, “Cammie, this is Mariah. Mariah, this is my daughter Cameryn.” The storm that had wracked her mother only an hour before had calmed. She was smiling, laughing, her voice almost giddy.

  “Hi,” Cameryn said to Mariah. There was something odd about Hannah—her eyes shone too bright, her voice brimmed with false cheer. “Mom, are you okay?”