The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  Inside, there was a tremor, but like a magician perfecting the slight of hand she would not let him see it. “Can I take a look at the file?” she asked. “That one, right there.” A manila folder lay open on his desk and she could see it had her mother’s name on it. “I want to see it.”

  “Cammie, this is police business.”

  “Please. Justin, no one’ll know.”

  Slowly, he turned the folder her way and pushed it toward her across his desk. She could feel him watch her as she scanned the pages, one after the other until she saw what she was looking for. Closing her eyes briefly, she committed the number to memory: 928- 555-6823.

  “Hannah is my friend, too,” he told her as he pulled the folder back. Slowly, he closed it and set his hands on top, folded, as if in prayer. “I’ve called in Dr. Kearney and he’s going to do an evaluation. I got her to take her meds. She made me a list of books she’d like and I’m going to the library to pick them up. We’re doing the best we can.”

  “But you still arrested her,” Cameryn stated, rising to her feet. Then, shrugging on her coat, she walked to the door, past the sheriff’s gun rack and his filing cabinet and his belt full of bullets curled on top. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard Justin call out, “I could have lost my job.”

  Cameryn turned to look at him, at his tousled hair and blue-green eyes and the way he was pleading with her to forgive him. “I get that, Justin. I really do. It’s just—it’s worse to lose a mother.”

  She was barely inside her car before she fished out a pen and wrote the phone number onto her palm in ink. 928-555-6823. The sun struggled to break over the mountains as she sat, shivering, in the frosted light. The parking lot was already beginning to fill up with county workers. In an effort to be discreet, she had parked beneath a stand of bare aspens, hoping the sheriff wouldn’t recognize her car. Branches shifted in the winter breeze, creating an intricate, dancing pattern on the dashboard of her car. For a moment she watched the shadows, thinking.

  There was no one to help her mother. Not the sheriff or Justin or her father or her mammaw—she, Cameryn, was the only one Hannah could count on. The wallet, the ring—it didn’t mean anything. Her mother stayed locked away, yet innocent, as only Cameryn believed. But belief was not enough. It was action she needed.

  One tenuous thread remained for her to follow, a silver strand of chance that might connect the Gilbert family to Esther. Maybe. If God was with her.

  With her BlackBerry freshly recharged, she crossed herself. First, she entered *67 in order to block her number in case the Childs home had caller ID. Then she punched in the digits, holding her breath, waiting.

  “Hello?” a gruff man’s voice answered.

  “This is Amy Green from the sheriff’s office,” Cameryn began, stealing the name of her father’s friend in Ouray. Craning her neck to make sure she was still alone, she said, “I have a question concerning Esther Childs. First, let me begin by saying I’m really sorry for your loss. Are you the father?”

  “I am. We’re trying to cope the best we can. What’s your question?”

  Cameryn swallowed. “I’m currently researching a possible link between Esther and polygamy. Esther had a ring on her finger that had the words “‘Keep Sweet.’ We’re trying to track that down.”

  It took a moment for the man to answer, so long Cameryn wondered if they’d lost the connection. “I don’t know nothing about that,” he finally said. “We’re respectable people down here. If Esther had it, I don’t know where she got it from.”

  “I’m investigating a possible source. There’s a woman in Durango named Ruth Gilbert—”

  It was then she heard an audible intake of air as he gasped.

  Blinking, she asked, “Do you know her? Mr. Childs, do you know a Ruth Gilbert?”

  “No,” he said, and Cameryn could tell he was lying.

  Pressing the BlackBerry closer to her ear, she said, “Perhaps Ruth Gilbert was the one who gave the ring to your daughter. Could that be possible?”

  “How would I figure that? That’s somethin’ you’ll have to investigate. I already told you I’ve never heard of the woman. Our child is dead and you’re makin’ her out to be in some kind of cult. What’s your name again?”

  “Um, the sheriff needs me right now. Good-bye, Mr. Childs, and thank you for your time. We’ll get back to you when we have more information,” she concluded the call at a gallop and tried to calm her racing thoughts. As the shadows played across her dashboard, she thought of the interconnection of the two lives and wondered what it could mean. Mr. Childs knew Ruth Gilbert. He could deny it all he wanted, but she’d heard it in his voice. What she had in mind would be crazy, could get her into even more trouble, maybe even fired from her job. She didn’t care. Shifting her car into reverse, she headed out once again, for Durango.

  It was time to find answers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE HOUSES ON the south side of Durango were different from the homes in Silverton. These were small places, rectangular and utilitarian, painted in softer tones than the Easter-egg colors splashed on the dwellings throughout Cameryn’s town. Durango was more upscale and respectable. Trees lined the streets, their empty branches webbed with Christmas lights. It was eight A.M., and already the streets were humming with traffic. Countless people hurrying along the shoveled walkways of College Drive.

  Heading east, she saw the Loaf ‘N Jug, where the call had been made. Reflexively, she slowed her Jeep to a near stop, searching the building until she saw it: the pay phone, hanging on the front wall, protected by a three-sided metal box. At that moment it was being used by a man with long, straw-colored Rastafarian dreadlocks that splayed like octopus tentacles from beneath a multicolored knit cap. As he talked he gestured wildly, his free hand jabbing the air, and Cameryn realized if there had been any latent prints they were long gone, rubbed into obscurity by countless hands.

  Beep-beep!

  In her rearview mirror she saw a man honking at her impatiently. Waving, she gunned her engine and drove, making a sharp right onto Sixth Street. Two doors down was the Gilbert home. She parked, trying to steady her breathing. If she did this right, she had a shot. But it would be just one.

  Ahead of her was an elementary school, overrun with vans and cars disgorging children onto the front walkway. She looked at the crumpled address she’d tossed onto the passenger seat, next to her Map Quest directions that showed her the way in bright yellow ink.

  “Well, this is it,” she told herself softly. “Play it cool.” She grabbed her notebook and jumped out of her car. Trying to look confident, she made her way up the walkway lined with two rows of candy canes, the kind that lighted up from the inside in bright red and white stripes. A large Santa had been taped to a window, and a yellow plastic sled was propped on the side of the house. With a shaking finger, she pressed the doorbell, listening to its distant chime, hoping she looked old enough to be the college student she was about to claim to be. Cameryn waited, then rang the bell again. Maybe the house was empty—most people worked during the day. Maybe her crazy drive down here had all been for nothing.

  A woman with a baby slung on one hip answered the door. “If you’re selling somethin’ I’m afraid I don’t want any,” she said. The woman wore a pink sweat suit emblazoned with a teddy bear holding a flowered wreath. Her hair was blonde and thick, and her eyes were a pale blue—the same palette, Cameryn remembered, that had appeared on Mariah’s perfect features. The door was just swinging shut when Cameryn cried, “No! Please! I’m a student up at the Fort, and I just need to ask you a few simple questions. It’s for my class and so far no one will help me. I mean, nobody’s home anymore. I’ve been knocking on doors all morning.”

  Since Fort Lewis College was only two miles away, claiming to be a student there should make a good cover. She held her breath as the door swung back open. “What class?” the woman asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “Psychology. This is my first year. Plea
se, it’ll only take a few minutes. You’d really be helping me out a lot.” When the woman hesitated, Cameryn turned her attention to the baby in the woman’s arms. The child had the same champagne coloring as the mother, along with fat, cherubic cheeks. “Is that a boy or a girl?”

  "Girl.”

  “She is so cute! What’s her name?”

  “Adriel.”

  “That’s a pretty name! I’ve never heard it before. That’s, like, the prettiest name ever. If I have a baby girl someday, I’ll have to remember that name. Hi, little Adriel!” Cameryn could tell she was going over the top, pressing too hard, but she worried the door might slam shut any minute, so she filled space with a torrent of words. When she looked up, the woman was smiling.

  “All right, all right—I’ll bet part of your psychological experiment is seeing if you can get into a house by charmin’ the baby.” There was something familiar in her voice, something Cameryn couldn’t quite place. “You’re sayin’ it’s a short survey?”

  “Ten questions, that’s it.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind that I’ll have to feed Adriel here while we do it, come on in.” The woman opened the door wider.

  “Thanks so much! My name is Cameryn, by the way.” Cameryn extended her hand.

  “I’m Ruth.” Ruth gave Cameryn’s hand a quick shake. “Don’t look at my house—it’s an awful mess. That’s what happens when you’ve got a lot of kids. Follow me.”

  Contrary to what she’d said, the house, although cluttered, was clean. Photographs of children marched up the wall like stair steps, and a piano, buried beneath a flurry of sheet music, had been topped with more family pictures in shiny silver frames.

  “How many kids do you have?” Cameryn asked, stepping over a Tonka truck as she followed Ruth’s retreating figure.

  “Seven.”

  “Wow! Seven kids!”

  “Yeah. I get that a lot. Have a seat at the table there. Sorry, just move that cereal bowl. The rest of ’em are in school—thank heavens for mornin’ kindergarten. Can I get you anything?”

  Cameryn slid into a vinyl-covered chair. “If it’s no trouble, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you there. We’re members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, so we don’t drink coffee.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that—I mean that you don’t . . .” Cameryn blushed, feeling as though she’d committed a faux pas. “Um, then, could I have some tea?”

  Ruth smiled and pulled the tray off a sage-green high chair. With an expert motion she slid Adriel inside and snapped the tray back on. “We don’t drink tea, either. Except herbal, and I don’t have any. How about some juice?”

  “Juice would be great. Or water. Anything’s fine.”

  “Let me get this one settled, and I’ll get it for you.”

  The kitchen opened directly to the family room, which had been turned into a kind of playroom. A toy plastic kitchen lined one wall and there was an old rocking chair that looked as though it was a family heirloom, carved in an intricate pattern across the top. Cameryn noticed a large photograph, this one featuring what must be the whole Gilbert family in a studio portrait with an artificial backdrop that resembled green suede.

  “Do you mind if I look?” Cameryn asked, gesturing toward the portrait.

  “Go right ahead. Four girls, three boys, ages ten down to nine months. That’s my husband Charlie, the one who’s responsible,” she said with a laugh.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He works for a company called Lore International. He’s out of the country right now—been gone all week.” Ruth looked at her, her face hopeful. “Do you babysit?”

  “Not very often,” Cameryn said. “You know, because of school.”

  “I never can get anyone to do it. Here’s your juice,” she said, setting down a glass of apple juice on a place mat. “So what are your questions?”

  Pulling herself away from the portrait, she slid into a chair and opened her notebook. Removing her pen, she clicked the end, trying to look official. “My report is on people’s perception of the role of government. Would you identify your home as Democrat or Republican?”

  “Republican. But just so you know, not all Mormons are Republican. There are a lot in my ward that are Democrats, too.”

  “Ward?”

  “That’s what we call the buildings where we go to church.”

  Cameryn checked a box on the printed-out form she’d constructed just that morning. All night she’d tossed and turned, trying to come up with a plan to get the information she needed, until she’d hit on the idea of a survey. That was just one more breech of forensic protocol that could get her fired, but everything she’d done lately could cost her her job. Even cost her the scholarship. Don’t think about that now. Just do it. See where this goes.

  “So, Ruth, do you vote?”

  “Every election.” She shoved a small spoonful of baby food into Adriel’s mouth; the baby promptly spit it back out. Scooping it up with the side of the plastic spoon, Ruth slid the food back into the open mouth, parting her own lips as she did so.

  “Do you regularly attend church?”

  “Yep. Every Sunday.”

  Cameryn marked another meaningless box. Her hands began to sweat as she asked, “Do you believe in the death penalty?”

  “Yes,” Ruth answered firmly. “A life for a life.”

  “Right.” Cameryn checked her sheet. “Now, speaking of the death penalty, do you personally know anyone who has been murdered?” She said this quickly, without looking at Ruth’s face. She could hear Ruth pause as she studied her paper.

  “What class did you say this was for?”

  “Psychology.”

  “What’s the name of your teacher?”

  “Ms. Dunham,” Cameryn said, lying with the first name that popped into her head. “So do you know anyone who has been the victim of a murder?” she repeated.

  Silence. When she spoke, Ruth’s voice had grown dim. “No. Never.”

  “Have you—have you been following the case of Baby Doe in the Durango Herald?”

  “No.”

  “They have a name for her now. It’s Esther Childs. Someone made an anonymous call from the Loaf ‘N Jug. That’s right by your house, isn’t it? The Loaf ‘N Jug. It was called in to Silverton.”

  No answer.

  “The woman tipped the police as to the victim’s true identity.” Cameryn slid a newspaper from the inside of her folder. The color had drained from Ruth’s face, and Cameryn noticed she was trembling. It was as if they’d each had a stick that sparked against the other and the fire was taking hold, burning. “Look,” Cameryn said, tapping her finger on the picture. “Do you see the girl? Have you ever seen her before?”

  Esther’s death had made front-page news. The sketch of the girl showed eyes wide and clear, the hair plaited in the long braid. Cameryn positioned the paper so that the face was dead center on the table.

  The baby made a gurgling sound and smacked her hand impatiently on her tray.

  “I have a lot to do. I think I’m done with your survey,” Ruth said, standing up.

  Desperate, Cameryn said, “Esther had on a ring that said ‘Keep Sweet.’ You know about ‘Keep Sweet.’ Don’t you, Ruth?”

  “You’re not here for a psychology class.”

  “I’m not,” Cameryn admitted. “I’m sorry, but there are things I’m trying to find out.”

  As Ruth pulled her baby out of the high chair, she took a step back so that she was against a wall. Pure fear radiated from her eyes. “Who are you, then? Are you a Messenger?”

  It took a moment for her to register what Ruth was saying. “Am I a what?”

  Ruth began pacing, chastising herself. Adriel was perched on her hip. With every step, the baby’s head bounced like a doll on a spring. “How could I have been so stupid? They knew I wouldn’t open the door for a man, so they sent you. I see your long hair. You’re living the Principal.
You’re checking up, seeing if I talked. You go back and tell the Prophet it wasn’t me! ” Ruth clutched her baby so hard Adriel cried out. “You need to leave. Now! Tell him!”

  “Tell who what?” Cameryn’s mind was working and working and she couldn’t think this through. “Ruth, I’m not a Messenger.”

  “I want you out of here! ” she demanded. She pointed to her front door. “Now!”

  “I’m sorry,” Cameryn answered softly. “I can’t.”

  She stayed planted in the wooden chair, the rungs pressing into her back. Looking at the blue plastic bowl and the dried cereal, she tried to make her mind put together the pieces. Something had frightened Ruth deeply, but fear wasn’t anything Cameryn could take to the sheriff. What she needed was proof. If she waited, Ruth could pull herself together and deny the conversation even happened. Cameryn opened her folder and set out a photograph she’d printed from her camera. It was a close-up of Esther’s face. The eyes stared, wide and blank.

  “I work for the coroner’s office,” Cameryn said. She pulled another photograph of Esther and set it next to the first. This one showed the bullet hole in the side of her skull. “Somebody shot her. Shot Esther. In cold blood.”

  Ruth raised her hand to her mouth, and Cameryn heard an angry, muffled groan. Her face had gone scarlet. “Put those away,” she cried. “I can’t look at them!”

  “You have to look,” Cameryn told her, “because the authorities are trying to say my mother did this.” Cameryn pulled another picture from her folder. The boot print in the center of Esther’s back showed up in sharp relief. “Whoever did this cut off Esther’s hair. Fourteen years old and her life was taken. I think you made that call from the pay phone because you know this girl. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Ruth nodded. “She was my niece,” she said. Tears streamed down her face. “My sister’s child.”

  Cameryn’s heart raced wildly as she formed her next question. “Do you know who killed her?”