But now, in the cold clarity of the night, Denny’s alcohol-hazed brain pushed, a thought advanced—and the smudge was gone as completely as if it had been scrubbed away by Maddie’s mad brush.
He knew who’d killed his boy. It had to be. Goddammit, it was so simple. Why hadn't anyone else figured it out?
“He did it.”
“Who did it?” Chet asked as he continued to lead Denny out of the parking lot. “I mean, who did what?”
“That guy. Owens. He did it. He killed my boy.”
Chet Boardman stopped walking. He let go of Denny’s arm. “You ain’t serious.”
“That damn nigger killed him.”
“Come on, Denny. That’s crazy. The man looks like trouble, sure, but—”
“He’s an ex-con,” Denny said, his voice hot enough to raise blisters on asphalt. “He came into town, killed Jimmy, and now he’s in there singing.” He gestured toward the Lula. “Like nothing happened. How fucking arrogant can you get?”
“Christ, you’ve lost your mind. Seriously, who’d kill someone and then hang around, in public, while the cops are investigatin’? It don’t make no sense.”
“Excuse me, fellas,” said a new voice.
Denny turned. A Chevy Silverado sat in the entrance to the Lula’s parking lot, blocking any potential traffic. Under the harsh glow of a nearby streetlamp, the truck looked colorless; it could’ve been white or silver, or perhaps even light blue. A man sat in the cab. His left arm hung outside the window, a cigarette dangling casually from between his fingers. Shadows concealed his face.
“Sorry to bother you,” the stranger continued, “but I thought you fellas might need a lift. Especially you.” The man flicked cigarette ashes in Denny’s direction. “You look like shit.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and drew in deeply, then blew smoke out from a wide smile that Denny could barely see from within the cab’s shadows.
“How’d you know we were walking?” asked Denny.
“Good ears,” replied the stranger. “So, you guys up for it?”
“No thanks,” Chet said hastily. “We’re fine.”
Denny was about to agree—who took rides from strangers anymore?—when the man stuck his other hand out the window. He was holding an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold. It was the good stuff, the expensive stuff. The stuff Denny couldn’t afford on his wages.
“Hold on,” he told Chet, placing a restraining hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The man’s just being polite. Maybe we should catch a ride home. After all, the night’s gettin’ cold.”
“Are you outta your mind?” Chet said, almost shouting. “You don’t need more trouble tonight. I’m telling you, let’s just walk.”
“Fellas,” the stranger said. “This is a limited time offer. Either partake now or forever hold your regrets.”
Denny found himself walking toward the truck. Chet tagged along behind him, continuing to jabber on about how this was a bad idea.
Denny spun around. “Look, I’ve had a real shitty day. Worst goddamn day of my life. I just want to drink a little more and forget. Is that such a bad thing?”
“No,” Chet said, his expression softening. “It’s not. So let’s go drink, but not with him. I mean, who drives up in the middle of the night and offers two strangers a ride and that kind of booze? Doesn’t that set off any warning bells?”
Under other circumstances, it may have. But Denny’s warning bells had been rung earlier in the day, rung hard, rung until his damn ears almost bled. He was deaf to anything else. All he could think of now was getting so bombed that the image of his dead son faded from memory.
“I’m going with him,” Denny said flatly. “Either come along or shut up.”
Chet looked like he was about to say something, to argue his point further. Then he threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Have it your way. At least it’ll be two against one if he tries anything…queer.”
The stranger looked pleased. “Good to see you boys have reached an accord. Hop on in.”
Together, they walked over to the SUV and climbed in.
The Silverado pulled out of the parking lot, turned smoothly onto the road leading back into town, and was eventually swallowed by the night.
Chapter 6
Sunday
The October morning was overcast. Slate-and-ash-colored clouds had rolled in and chased away the morning sunshine. Along the hiking trail, trees defined and limited the terrain—they huddled closely together, arm in arm, conspiring to keep the ground soft and muddy. The decaying leaves gave the air a musty, wet smell that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Crying softly, Katie Bethel stepped between two trees. She was only dimly aware of the other volunteers scouring the area where Jimmy’s body had been found. So far, they had searched either side of the trail, starting at the campground’s parking lot and ending here, where the tragedy had taken place—without success. They had moved quietly through the woods, treading solemnly, eyes downcast, as if they were praying for a miracle.
Perhaps they were.
“Excuse me,” said a voice next to her.
Katie’s head snapped up. A man stood there. One of the volunteers—along with Sgt. Talbert, Mr. Vincent and several high school friends assigned to search this part of the woods. She wiped her tears with muddy hands.
“I’m sorry—who are you?” she asked nervously.
The man gave her a peculiar little bow. “Bart Owens. I work at the Lula. Mr. Vincent brought me along to help.” He gestured to her tears. “I saw you were crying. Are you okay? Do you need me to get somebody?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, taking a cautious step away from the man.
“This kind of thing is never easy,” Mr. Owens continued, nodding to the searchers milling about. “You hope to find something, but you’re also afraid of what you might find.”
Frowning, her tears momentarily forgotten, she studied the man more carefully. He was taller than she, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. He wore jeans and a heavy nylon jacket that he had zipped up to ward against the brisk morning air. His face seemed pleasant enough, with high cheekbones and an angular jaw. His dark skin was smooth, perhaps a little too smooth for someone his age, and she wondered briefly if he was yet another citizen of the Botox nation. And then there were his eyes: so blue, like the sky on a hot August day. His only disturbing feature was a small teardrop he’d had tattooed under his left eye; it seemed out of place to her, almost as if he were purposefully drawing attention to it.
“You’ve done this before?” she asked.
Mr. Owens nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. He offered it to her. “You have a little mud on your face.”
Katie gazed down at her mud-stained hands. Horrified, she grabbed the handkerchief and scrubbed at her cheeks. By the time she had finished, the white cloth was streaked with brown dirt. She held it out with a trembling hand. “All I seem to do today is cry.”
“‘To weep is to make less the depth of grief.’” Mr. Owens took back his handkerchief. “Everyone should know a little Shakespeare. And luckily, I knew it’d be muddy out here. I came prepared.” He pulled out another handkerchief and handed it to her. “I take it you know the girl we’re looking for?”
“Natalie was—is—my best friend. We were at a dance together. The other night. She was supposed to come over to my house after it was done, but she ended up here with Jimmy.”
“So you weren’t with her when…?”
“No. J.J. and I went back to my house instead.”
“J.J.?”
“My boyfriend. Jack Sallinen, Jr.”
Mr. Owens eyes searched the crowd of volunteers. “Which one of these young men is your boyfriend?”
“He isn’t here,” she said. “His dad wouldn’t let him help.”
“Isn’t that a little odd?”
“Not if you knew his father. Mr. Sallinen can be controlling. And, occasionally, pretty mean.”
Katie shook her head. “Divorced. His mom lives down state, in Grand Rapids. Because of the distance, he only sees her every few months.” She grimaced. “I think it’s more because she doesn’t want to see her ex.”
“Another shame,” he said. “It must be hard for the young man, having only him and his father. This J.J.’s lucky to have you.”
“Oh, he’s not alone,” Katie replied. “J.J. has a brother. He’s only eight, but he’s real sweet. Has some rare form of autism. Von…something.”
“Kliner’s?” Mr. Owens supplied.
“Yeah,” Katie said, her eyebrows drawing together. “Von Kliner’s syndrome. But how…?”
The man shrugged. “I must have read about it somewhere, and the name stuck. You have to admit, it’s pretty unusual.”
“That’d be an awfully strange coincidence.” She was feeling cold now, in the pit of her stomach, and she didn’t think it was due to the weather. “No, I think there’s more to it. The way you came up with that name. It was fast—almost like you were expecting to hear it.”
Mr. Owens was quiet for a moment. Then: “Sounds like you’re the one stretching coincidence.”
Katie brushed a strand of hair from her face. Here was a stranger, someone who came out to help search for a girl he’d never met, and he also happened to know about an obscure autistic illness. That cold feeling was spreading to her knees, making her feel weak. “You know, I think I should get back to the search.”
“Wait,” Mr. Owens said, his hands held up, his palms out. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Also…I have to apologize. I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with you. A friend of mine, someone dear to me, had von Kliner’s syndrome.” His shoulders dropped, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s how I knew the name.”
“Right,” she said and started to back away. “And the dog ate my homework. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Please,” Mr. Owens said. “I’m telling the truth.”
Katie paused. “All right, then why lie about it? Why not tell me about him from the start?”
“Her name was Jesse. And talking about her is painful.”
“Was? You mean—she’s dead?”
Mr. Owens nodded. “Some years ago.”
“Did she die young?”
“When you get to be my age, everyone seems young. But yes, she died far too soon. It was tragic.”
She could hear the sorrow in his voice and was inclined to believe him. Then a thought occurred to her. “It’s Jesse, isn’t it? She’s the reason you’re here.”
Mr. Owens eyes widened slightly, as if her question had surprised him. “What do you mean?”
Katie tried to pull her thoughts together. “Maybe Natalie’s situation is similar to this Jesse’s—enough that it brought out some feelings in you.” Enough that he wanted to help with the search. “By helping now, you’re helping your friend—or her memory, I guess.” She made a vague, frustrated gesture with her hands. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
The man’s smile returned. “You’re a remarkable girl, Katie.”
Katie could feel her face grow warm at the compliment. “Not really. All it takes is a little thought.”
“A little thought is a rare thing nowadays,” he said. “But, I think you’re right. We should continue with the search.” He gestured to the handkerchief. “You can keep that, if you like.”
She looked down at the white cloth gripped tightly in her fists. She forced her fingers to relax and stuffed the handkerchief into her pocket.
“Thank you,” Katie replied. “And thank you for helping today.”
Mr. Owens raised his hand as if he were tipping an invisible hat, a gesture Katie found curiously out-of-date.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Now, let’s go find your friend.”
It wasn’t until Mr. Owens had walked away that she realized, despite their long conversation, she still knew next to nothing about him.
He had avoided answering most of her questions.
Chapter 7
Izzy Morris zipped up her black police jacket, closing it against the chill breeze from the northwest. Still, she shivered as she watched the wind carry an oak leaf along the ground, a tiny, fragile hand tumbling, spinning, cartwheeling, waving goodbye.
I refuse to say goodbye, she thought. Even if I have to cut down every tree between here and Black Pine Lake, I will not lose you, Natalie. I promise.
But God, it was so hard.
Several yards down the trail, Gene Vincent emerged from the woods, brushing leaves and pine needles from his pant legs. He made his way over to her, his limp more pronounced than earlier. Instead of showing his usual lopsided grin, his face was drawn tight with worry.
“Any luck?” he asked, giving her a quick hug.
Izzy shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. There has to be some sign of where she went. I mean, she sure as hell didn’t fly away.”
“No, she didn’t,” he said. “Which means something will turn up. Give it enough time. Let these people finish their search.”
“You’re not hearing me, Gene.” She lowered her voice, forcing him to lean toward her. “We found Natalie’s blood on a tree branch, and there was some on the ground under it. But the blood, it’s just…there. We can’t find any trace of it leading off in any direction. How is that possible? How can a person be bleeding and not leave a goddamn blood trail?”
“Calm down,” Gene said, not unkindly. “I don’t have an answer. Besides, you’re the cop, not me.”
“A lot of good that’s done me,” she replied. Nat had been missing for almost thirty-six hours now, and she still had no idea what had happened or where her daughter was.
“Don’t start second guessing yourself. You’re an excellent cop, Izzy. Keep doing your job and you’ll find her.”
“I wish I had your confidence in me.”
“Stop it,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like the old Izzy.”
The old Izzy. By which, Gene meant the young Izzy—the teenager who had been consumed with doubts about herself, always feeling inadequate, inferior. Those feelings had pushed her to excel at everything she did, with little regard given to the feelings of others. That kind of attitude had quickly alienated the other kids, except for two: the thin, somewhat nerdy brainiac who would later become her husband, and the larger, more athletic boy with the funny rock-’n’-roll name.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She nodded toward the black man who’d been talking with Katie Bethel. “Who is that guy?”
Gene turned and saw Bart Owens stepping over a small deadfall. “He’s the musician I hired to play at the Lula.” He filled her in on what little he knew about Owens.
“So what’s he doing here?” Izzy asked.
“Said he wanted to help with the search.” He paused. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Izzy said, staring at Owens. “You did the right thing.” The man had gotten her attention because she knew some criminals liked to revisit their crime scenes. They got off on watching the police trying to catch them. But to the best of her knowledge, none had ever been this bold about it.
“By the way,” Gene said, interrupting her thoughts. “I had some trouble with Denny and Chet last night.” He told her about what had happened and about Denny’s racial slur.
Izzy’s eyes drifted over to Denny Cain, who was crouched behind the tree where they had found Nat’s blood, his hands carefully sweeping aside leaves and sticks. Stanley’s assistant manager and the father of the late Jimmy Cain had been given bereavement time from work. In fact, she had been surprised when he’d shown up this morning to help with the search.
Izzy looked back at Gene. “He really said that, huh?”
“Yup, though I shouldn’t have been too surprised. We don’t have much pepper mixed in with the salt up here.”
“You grew up here,” she said. �
�You know how people in these rural Upper towns are.”
Gene shrugged. “Doesn’t make it right. Anyway, after he said it, I gave him and Chet the boot.”
“You didn’t let them drive, did you?”
He gave her a flat look. “You know me better than that. Denny came by the Lula early this morning for his keys. Apologized for being a jerk. As far as I’m concerned, we’re good. Hell, he even helped clean the place up while I went to make the morning deposit.” Gene frowned. “I never thought to ask him how he got home. Or back to the Lula.”
“What about Chet? He ever come by for his keys?”
“Not that I know of.”
Izzy thought for a moment, then gave a mental shrug. Right now, she had bigger problems to deal with than Denny and Chet. “I want to get back to Mr. Owens for a moment. You say he’s from Nashville?”
“So the man told me.”
“Do you know for a fact that he came from Nashville?”
Gene frowned, as if the question had caught him off guard.
Izzy didn’t wait for an answer. “And do you know when he got into town?”
“Well,” Gene said. “He walked into the Lula around three yesterday. I kind of assumed….”
“So you really don’t know where he’s from or when he got here?”
“No,” he admitted, a bit sheepishly. “I guess not.”
She pulled out a small notepad and began jotting down notes.
“Wait a minute,” Gene said, putting a hand on her arm. “You think Owens might have something to do with this?”
Glancing up from her notepad, she said, “Can you prove to me he doesn’t?”
“Well…no, of course not. But I heard Jimmy was torn open, his ribcage ripped out. Owens doesn’t look big enough to do that kind of damage.”
“No, he doesn’t. But he is new in town. That alone means he gets a closer look.”
There was a commotion, some raised voices. And then Detective Sten Billick came storming out from behind a copse of alders. He was dragging Stanley Morris by the arm.
Forever Man Page 6