by Maureen Tan
So maybe it’s time you got your hormones under control, I scolded myself. Obviously, he’s managed it.
I crossed the kitchen and tucked in next to him.
“G’morning,” I murmured.
On the stove, the percolator was chugging away, producing coffee that was stronger and hotter than any mere automatic drip coffeemaker could produce. But before lifting the pot from the burner, I touched Chad’s face, made him hold still long enough for me to get a good look at his injured cheek.
“Good. You changed the bandage.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he retorted, flipping me a quick salute. “Got it wet in the shower, and I didn’t want to get into trouble.”
I reached for the percolator and concentrated on pouring scalding-hot coffee into my mug. Trying not to burn my tongue, I slurped the first sip and kept sipping steadily as I made my way to the round oak table that was tucked into a corner opposite the stove.
“Good coffee,” I said, sighing dramatically. “Thank you.”
Chad laughed, but kept his eyes on the bowlful of eggs he was beating.
“You might be a cop if—” he paused for a beat, then went on “—you wish caffeine was available as an IV drip.”
The game was a familiar one, begun during the months when bed and breakfast were a shared activity. Chad had posted a list he’d found on the Internet to the refrigerator. You Might Be a Cop If… Within a week, the original list became so familiar that we’d begun offering variations. And that, like so many things we shared, evolved into good-natured competition. Unofficial rules dictated that a game period lasted for twenty-four hours and that quips—from the list or our own—had to be situation-appropriate.
“I heard you come in,” I said as I settled down into one of the bentwood chairs. “You must have been exhausted.”
Chad shredded some cheddar cheese into the eggs.
“Exhausted is an understatement,” he said. “When the call from the Fishers came in, I was just minutes away from going off duty for the day.” He grinned suddenly. “You might be a cop if your idea of a good time is a murder at shift change.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, then laughed. Now he was two up on me.
“Yesterday, even before the little girl went missing, the day’d already gone to hell. First thing in the morning, I dealt with a shitload of vandalism complaints.”
As he spoke, Chad threw a handful of finely chopped chives into the bowl. They grew wild in the sunny field that lay between the back of the house and the forest, and Chad was fond enough of their mild, oniony flavor to pick them fresh.
“Some kids in a pickup truck apparently took out most of the mailboxes along Route 3 near Iron Furnace. Probably with a baseball bat. I also got to spend some quality time at the county courthouse, testifying against a shade-tree mechanic who likes fixin’ folks’ cars with stolen parts. His way of keeping the prices down for his customers, he said.”
Chad paused as he dumped the eggs into a pan, then began pushing them around with a wooden spatula as he continued speaking.
“After that, I made some traffic stops, arrested a guy for shoplifting cigarettes at Huck’s and helped out a couple of women who’d locked their keys in their car. So, business as usual. Until the Fishers called. And after that…” His shrug covered territory that didn’t need recapping. “Anyhow, when I finally left the scene and headed toward Maryville, I still figured I could make it back to my apartment, no problem. But I started drifting, closing my eyes just for a second or two, jerking awake, braking for deer that weren’t there…. You know the drill.”
I knew it only too well.
“You might be a cop if,” I said, “your favorite hallucinogen is exhaustion.”
“Good one. I’d say the caffeine is kicking in.”
“Speaking of, do you need a warm-up?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
In the midst of cooking, he’d parked his mug in an odd but momentarily convenient spot and forgotten about it. It was a habit that I’d always found entertaining. Now I suppressed my smile as he glanced away from the frying pan, his eyes darting around the room in a futile attempt to locate a mug that I’d spotted the moment I’d come into the kitchen.
I didn’t want to risk his burning the eggs, so I waited only another moment before laughing.
“Top of the fridge,” I said. “I’ll get it for you.”
I crossed the room, rescued his mug and poured us both a refill, then sat back down at the table and reminded him where we’d left our conversation.
“So you realized that, as tired as you were, the next accident scene you were going to visit was likely to be your own.”
“That’s about it,” Chad said as flipped off the gas flame beneath the skillet. “Your place was just down the road. I was going to call, but I realized what time it was and figured you’d be sound asleep. So I let myself in.”
He was in the process of splitting the eggs between two plates and paused, pan held midair, to turn his head and search my expression.
“I hope you don’t mind—”
I lifted my hand to stop the flow of his words. Now—away from my bed, stoked by caffeine, with the pale beginnings of dawn peeking through the yellow café curtains over the sink—I didn’t mind at all. In the morning light, a platonic relationship between ex-lovers seemed entirely possible.
“If I ever have a problem with it, I’ll let you know. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We’d had breakfast together often enough that the only question Chad needed to ask before filling our plates was how many pieces of French toast I wanted. Everything smelled wonderful and, though I hadn’t awakened with much of an appetite, my mouth was watering by the time he brought the food to the table. After a quick detour back to the counter for syrup and more coffee, he settled into the chair opposite me. For a time, we ate in companionable silence.
“So, did the state’s crime-scene techs tell you anything interesting about our victim?” I said finally. Then I grinned, suddenly realizing that I could tie the game. “You might be a cop if discussing skeletal remains over breakfast seems perfectly normal to you.”
Chad muttered, “Tie,” then shook his head. “They never showed up. One of them radioed and—after sounding surprised that we’d been competent enough to secure the scene—announced that they’d been rerouted to a murder-homicide in Effingham. They finished processing that scene, but decided to check in to a motel and get some sleep. They promised they’d be out our way sometime this morning.”
I sighed.
“I suppose old dry bones aren’t a priority compared to a couple of nice, juicy bodies.”
Chad agreed.
“The surprise, really, is that they are responding so quickly. A few more murders up north, and it could have been days.”
“Maybe it’s a blessing,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t looking forward to another long trek from the Fishers’ place. You want to take an early-morning hike with me? It shouldn’t take us long to find our way from Camp Cadiz to the scene. It’s relatively cool now, but the heat index is supposed to climb into the triple digits again. By noon, I’m sure we’ll all appreciate a more direct route.”
“I’ll take care of it, Brooke,” he said. “Alone. Okay?”
Odd, I thought. Not that Chad wasn’t capable of making his way safely to the scene now that it was daylight. But he’d always been an enthusiastic advocate of hiking with a partner, especially if you planned on straying from marked trails. Too easy to get hurt. Or simply disoriented. It was the kind of precaution that Chad and I often wished aloud that all backpackers would take. If they did, Possum and I would spend considerably less time hunting through the forest.
My expression must have reflected my thoughts.
Chad offered an explanation. A poor one.
“No point in both of us wasting our time,” he said a little too quickly. “You’ve got work to do. So do I. But I have backup, and you’re the
only cop that Maryville has. It just makes sense. I can mark the trail myself, then run my usual patrol. Dispatch can contact us both when the state guys arrive. We can meet them at the scene.”
Though I was still puzzled, I was willing to accommodate him.
“Okay. As long as—”
He cut in, reading my expression again and half laughing.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
For a time, we went back to our food and relative silence. I was down to a strip of bacon and a bit of French toast when I noticed that Chad had abandoned the last of his eggs and was staring into his coffee cup, apparently fascinated by whatever was in the bottom. And he was busily and unconsciously rasping his fingers along his jaw. Another habit, one that made the long scar that paralleled his jawbone stand out vividly white against irritated, reddened skin.
He rubbed his face like that whenever he was upset. Which wasn’t often. Chad was no stereotypical redhead given to outbursts of emotion or temper. In fact, he usually held his feelings close and guarded them carefully. But early on, I’d learned to pick up on the clues.
Back when we were still kids, he’d walk up the hill to the Cherokee Rose and sit on the porch steps beside me, rubbing his cheek and making small talk. Or not talking at all. Eventually he’d tell me what was on his mind, worrying aloud about missing an easy pass during a football game or getting a bad grade in math or breaking up with whichever girl he’d fallen in love with that month.
I used the side of my fork to cut off a corner of my remaining piece of toast and slipped it across the plate to pick up a little more syrup. Then I put it in my mouth, chewed carefully and waited for him to spit out whatever it was he had to say.
After a while, Chad’s fingers slowed. But they didn’t relax as I expected them to. Instead, his right hand shifted until his palm cupped the angle of his jaw and his fingertips dug into the ridge just beneath his right eye. That gesture, I hadn’t seen for years. But it was something he used to do all the time, back when people around town were still talking about how he’d come to get that scar, back when most of him had been trying to forget how it had happened.
What’s dragging you back to the worst moments of your childhood? I wondered. But, even as I asked myself the question, I began to suspect that yesterday’s discovery had resurrected a piece of Chad’s past, too. And I thought that I had, in fact, been right about the reason for Chad’s late-night knock at my bedroom door. Not lust, but an urgent need to talk.
I had finished the last bit of food on my plate before he stopped punishing his face. He gave his head a quick shake, then lifted his mug right-handed and tossed back the last of his coffee as if it were a shot of whiskey. Finally, he met my eyes, and his, I noticed, were intensely green. Then he began talking right in the middle of his thought, as if I knew him well enough that I would understand without being told what had brought him to that point. Within a sentence or two, I usually did. This time was no exception.
“The location works, Brooke. A big tree. Though I suppose the forest is full of them. But the ravine…remember? He told the cops that he threw the gun into a ravine. Though as drunk as he was and as dark as it was, how he managed not to fall over the edge is anyone’s guess. Anyway, I know it’s a long shot, but I can’t help but think that maybe—”
Then, suddenly, Chad must have heard something in his own voice that he disapproved of. Or that scared him. And I suspected…no, I knew it was hope.
Chad snapped his mouth shut, tightened his lips, then noisily pushed his chair back from the table. He stood, turning away as he took a step—
I put my hand over his wrist, stopping him.
“Forget what I just said, okay?” he said flatly, his back still to me. “I’m just being stupid. Acting like a damned fool rookie. There’s no way anyone’s going to know anything before we process the remains.”
“There’s nothing stupid about what you’re saying. Or feeling,” I said quietly. “Talk to me, Chad. So we can deal with it.”
Together. Just as we always did. Friend to friend. Cop to cop. That was what I thought and didn’t say.
He looked back toward me, hesitated for another moment, then found his voice. A deep, unwavering voice that didn’t even hint at the scars that a murderous father had left on a son’s soul.
“I think maybe you and Possum finally found my mother. Just like you said you would.”
We left the house together, each snatching a uniform cap from the hooks beside the door. I pulled on my tan ball cap and Chad put on the less comfortable billed hat that matched his blue uniform. We walked across the little porch with its sturdy built-in bench and down several steps to the gravel path that crossed a patch of lawn. Midyard, the path split. Several yards to the right, it ended near the dogs’ kennel area. Go left for about twice that distance, and the path merged with the end of a wide, U-shaped gravel drive where two official police vehicles were parked. One bulky and white. One sleek and blue.
Possum barked and bounced against the chain-link of his kennel the moment it became apparent that we weren’t headed in his direction. Highball barked, too, but with less urgency, less hope. He understood the early-morning owner-goes-to-work routine.
“Quiet, you silly dogs,” I said.
But I said it halfheartedly, more from habit than conviction. Not unexpectedly, I was ignored. The nearest neighbor was almost a mile down the road, so no one was going to be disturbed by dogs barking. And I knew that Highball and Possum would stop as soon as we got into our vehicles. Denied the possibility of playtime or more food or a car ride, they would occupy themselves by gnawing at a tough rawhide bone or chewing the softer rubber of a tennis ball until it popped.
Chad and I had reached the driveway and the dogs were still barking when Chad turned toward me, put his hands on my shoulders and leaned in to kiss me goodbye.
He caught himself almost immediately.
“Sorry,” he blurted, “bad habit—”
Then he realized that didn’t sound really good, either.
Embarrassment was rapidly staining his cheeks when he salvaged the awkward moment by giving my shoulders a quick little shake, then releasing them.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” he said. “Don’t you go spending your time speculating about our victim or forming any opinions that aren’t supported by fact. And until forensics is done at the site, we don’t have any facts. Got it, rookie?”
“Got it,” I said, grateful that he was too rattled to realize how very close I’d come to returning his kiss as heedlessly as he’d offered it. A bad habit, indeed.
I climbed into my SUV. As I pulled away, Chad was already sliding into his car. He followed me to the end of the wide gravel drive and pulled up beside me. Just before I turned right, in the direction of the highway that would take me into Maryville, I lifted my hand in a casual wave. He returned it, swung left, heading farther into the forest toward Camp Cadiz.
For a moment, I watched his dust in the rearview mirror. I thought about his desire to mark the trail to the crime scene on his own, and realized that I knew why he wanted to go without me. Last night, after I’d left the forest with Tina, a handful of rangers and other cops had remained with Chad. They’d undoubtedly stayed within eyeshot of him the entire time. Later today, he knew the crime-scene techs would arrive, remove the remains and take them to the state forensics lab for processing. So this morning would be his only opportunity to be out there by himself.
I braked at the stop sign that marked the intersection with the highway, and waited for the traffic to clear as I thought about Chad and the hope that I’d seen in his green eyes. Hope, and a hint of reflected light along his lower lashes that suggested something more tangible, but expertly controlled.
Chad had a right to be alone, I thought as I stepped on the accelerator and made my turn onto the highway. A right to some small measure of privacy. Because even the possibility that the remains belonged to his murdered mother was enough to make a grown man cry
.
Chapter 6
Ed Statler was an insomniac.
The sign posted in the front door of Statler’s Fill-Up announced that business hours were from 6:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. and that absolutely no personal checks would be accepted. In fact, the store was generally open for business from predawn until past midnight, and if Ed knew you—and you’d never stiffed him—he’d take your check. Or, in a pinch, extend you credit. Between customers, Ed would sit at the counter looking out his big plate-glass window, watching the traffic on the highway.
It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m., but the lights were on inside the convenience store and the sign in the heavy glass door was turned so that it read Open. I was confident that inside the store, the coffee would already be brewed and the doughnuts that Ed made every morning to sell to his customers would be hot out of the fryer.
Outside, there weren’t any vehicles in the lot except Ed’s. Which wasn’t unusual at almost any hour of the day, except for Wednesdays. A chain of convenience stores had opened up and down 146, their uniformity and predictability luring all but the locals away from eccentric little places like Statler’s. But I suspected that, for the past several years, running the place was more hobby—or perhaps habit—for Ed. Talk in town was that his wife’s stock-market investments had guaranteed the couple a comfortable retirement. In any event, Ed seemed content with the business he had, even if that meant going for hours without seeing a customer.
The gas pumps at Statler’s offered diesel, premium and a ten-percent ethanol blend that—according to a corn cob–shaped sticker near the credit-card slot—supported the local farm economy. I pulled under the aluminum canopy that sheltered the pumps, turned off my engine, slid a city of Maryville credit card into the usual slot and watched the numbers on the pump flip as I poured gasoline into the less-than-fuel-efficient SUV. As usual, I felt a twinge of gratitude that I wasn’t out of pocket for the fuel. After that, I headed for the store to make a purchase with my own money.