Too Close to Home

by Maureen Tan

  In my book, that qualified as begging for a ticket.

  I hit the siren as I pulled out and floored the accelerator, following but not chasing.

  How foolish are you going to be? I wondered as they kept going, slowing but not stopping.

  As tempting as forcing the issue might be, I couldn’t risk it. They might speed up again, might lose control of their truck. It would be better to let them think they’d gotten away.

  I thumbed the switch to talk to county dispatch, to get some help. If I was lucky, Chad or another cop would be available to intercept them on the far side of town.

  They pulled over before I made the call. And when I walked over to the vehicle, I was treated to a truck full of shocked expressions on the faces of four teenagers.

  Oh, yeah, I thought. Surprise, surprise. Those lights and sirens were for you. Don’t you ever look in your rearview mirror? Is your music cranked up so loud that you can’t hear sirens? Were you so busy talking that you missed seeing a police car with its lights flashing?

  Minus the sarcastic edge, I asked the driver just that.

  “Um, yes, ma’am,” he said as a bright red flush spread up his neck to his cheeks and ears, then tinted the scalp beneath his blond crew cut.

  Obviously embarrassed. And probably not actively delinquent, just thoughtless and bored. Which described most of the teenagers and some of the adults in town.

  I wrote him a ticket and took his driver’s license away.

  All the while, his friends sat quietly. A few nervous giggles, male and female. But no snotty comments and no attempt to talk their way out of trouble. They were polite. Very polite.

  Maybe they recognized cranky when they saw it.

  I walked to the rear of the truck, pulled out a cornstalk that was trapped in the bumper, held it up as I asked whose field they’d torn up.

  One of the girls volunteered the farmer’s name, which made things easier.

  I left them sitting in their truck while I called dispatch, requested the farmer’s phone number, and then dialed it on the driver’s cell phone. After I explained why I was calling, we chatted for few minutes. Then with the line still open, I walked back to the truck and handed the phone back.

  “Talk to him,” I said, using the stern, I’m-not-your-friend-or-your-social-worker scowl that I regularly practiced in front of the mirror. “Work out fair compensation for damages. Then pay him. I promise you, the traffic court judge will ask you about it. So be sure you do the right thing.”

  By midmorning, I’d had more than enough of traffic patrol. So I cruised into town on 146, swung left on Dunn Street and rounded a curve. Without warning, the road fell away from beneath the vehicle. Out past my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the only view was a wide expanse of river a deadly distance below.

  Then, within an adrenaline-driven heartbeat or two, the familiar illusion was gone. I no longer fought my instinctive reaction to slam on the brakes. The earth, in the form of a steep gravel road, still crunched solidly under all four tires of the SUV and I could see that the road angled acutely downward, then abruptly curved to the right. Easy enough, now, to notice and heed the series of warning signs and the stretch of reflector-emblazoned guardrail that alerted drivers to the sharp turns that the road made on the way down to the riverbank.

  Dunn Street was a dangerous road. If the town’s economy had been better, it would have been a closed road. But the town needed the tax revenues generated along the strip of riverfront where Dunn Street dead-ended and trouble began. Narrow, floating docks on the river and a weedy gravel lot at the base of the bluff provided ample customer parking for a maze of bars and restaurants built on permanently moored barges.

  The local ministers held that Dunn Street was a road to damnation. From their pulpits, they condemned the street’s loose women, drugs and plentiful booze. Certainly, there was no doubt that if you were looking for a good time, the strip on Dunn was the place to be. Especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Thanks to Dunn Street, Maryville had a reputation as a party town and drew people from a hundred-mile radius.

  Dunn Street’s best customers tended to be the jail’s best customers, too. Court costs and fines added revenue to the town’s coffers and helped pay my salary. The bars were open six days a week, from 4:00 p.m. until 2:00 a.m., though Friday and Saturday were the big nights for cash receipts, drunken brawls and city revenue. On Sundays, thanks mostly to pressure from Maryville’s religious leaders, all the businesses on Dunn Street were closed.

  At a spot where road, river and the base of the bluff intersected, Dunn Street ended at a pile of fallen rock, illegally dumped trash, discarded needles and rotting river debris. I made a U-turn, cruised back along the river, then took the steep bluff road back to 146. Along the way, I examined the guardrails and their footings for damage or vandalism. At the sharpest curve, near the top of the road, I left my engine running as I got out of the SUV to peer downward at the narrow ribbon of rocky shore and the rushing water below. I saw no twisted metal, no broken bodies, no evidence of a drunken or depressed driver crashing through the railing and plunging headlong into eternity.

  After that, I detoured briefly to make a lazy loop through the two-block business district on Market Street, then back to 146. Near the west edge of town, a four-way stop marked the place where Hill Street crossed the highway. I turned right, and headed uphill—up Hill—past a block of modest brick houses. Chad’s foster parents still lived in one of them.

  As I called county dispatch to report that I was officially off duty until tomorrow morning, I rolled slowly past Maryville’s grandest structure. A three-foot-tall wrought-iron fence separated it from a brick-paved sidewalk laid out in a herringbone pattern. At the midpoint of the property, an iron gate opened into a tall rose arbor, thickly overgrown with the hotel’s namesake flower. A long flagstone walkway lead through the arbor and up to the Cherokee Rose’s white-pillared front porch.

  The massive redbrick structure had been built at the highest point along the ragged river bluffs and was visible for miles up and down the river. Early in its history, the Tyler family had welcomed the wealthy and famous to their hotel, offering river travelers an elegant place to stop and rest. Later, while their men were off doing battle with the Confederacy, Tyler women had invited in other, more desperate travelers to partake of the hotel’s hospitality. They’d hung a patchwork quilt—now proudly displayed in the hotel’s lobby—from one of the second-floor balconies. The carefully sewn pattern signaled weary runaways that the Cherokee Rose was a place of safety along their dangerous northward journey. Then, generations later, Gran began offering the hotel’s hospitality—and our family’s protection—to another kind of desperate traveler.

  It was a good legacy, I reminded myself. A legacy worth protecting.

  A quick look at the cars parked beside the kitchen door told me that all of my family members were at home. There was Gran’s vintage brown Subaru, an economical little car whose backseat was always littered with birding books, binoculars and an assortment of boots and jackets. Next to it was Aunt Lucy’s shiny gray Suburban, often used to transport visitors to and from the Cherokee Rose. Parked behind that was my sister’s red Jeep.

  I glanced at my watch, discovered I had a little more time before lunch, and didn’t pull up to the front of the house.

  Just past the Cherokee Rose, Hill Street angled suddenly downhill for a dozen yards and dead-ended at a barricade that kept cars from parking too near the ragged edge of the bluff. Beyond the barricade, pale birch trees and a scattering of picnic benches invited visitors to linger for a moment and appreciate Maryville’s most breathtaking view of the river.

  That’s exactly what I did.

  But first, while I was still inside the SUV, I locked my service pistol in the glove compartment. Then I unbuttoned my shirt and stripped off layers until a sweaty white T-shirt and lacy white bra were the only clothes I wore above my tan uniform slacks. Once inside the Cherokee Rose, I planned
to shower and change into the civvies I’d brought along with me. But in the meantime, I’d savor the simple pleasure of escaping the confinement of my bulletproof vest.

  Despite the beauty of the little park, it had few visitors. Maybe because most tourists didn’t know it was there and most of Maryville took the view of the river from the bluffs for granted. Something I never did.

  I sat down in my usual spot on the grass near the edge and leaned back against the white paper-thin bark of one of the trees. As my eyes moved upriver and down, watching the barges and pleasure craft that dotted the water as far as I could see, I made an effort to relax and think of nothing in particular. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine that broke through the branches above me and danced across my eyelids. The roaring engine of a barge filled the air, drowning out the sounds around me, making it easy for my mind to drift….

  Chad’s truck needed a muffler.

  The big blue Dodge was his pride and joy, the kind of truck only a sixteen-year-old boy could love. It had a big four-eighty engine and oversize tires that were made for mud and off-roading. The truck was noisy enough that some folks believed Chad had installed a custom glass-pack muffler. But the fact was, the old muffler had simply rusted out. Which made the truck rumble and roar, drowning out the birds and making conversation practically impossible.

  “Shut your eyes,” Chad shouted. A necessity, even though he was in the driver’s seat right beside me. “Shut them now, Brooke, before we get there.”

  I did as he said and also had the good sense to grab the handle mounted above the door frame and brace myself against the seat. The old Dodge jounced as he powered it through the shallow, weedy ditch that separated the road from the tree line. Then a quick correction brought it back parallel to the road. And he killed the engine.

  Silence. And the ringing in my ears, already fading, was overlaid with the sound of the wind rustling through the tree branches.

  “What is it that you want to show me?” I asked again.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  That’s exactly what he’d said when he’d picked me up from the Cherokee Rose. He hadn’t made any further explanation to Aunt Lucy when he’d apologized for taking me away from my chores, but had kept insisting that there was something he had to show me. Now. Please.

  I was familiar enough with the roads around town that it hadn’t taken me long to figure out where we were going. It had been more than a year since I’d been out here last. And for good reason. There was nothing pleasant about visiting the ugly turquoise single-wide that had stood uninhabited for years, a rotting reminder of things best forgotten. Nothing pleasant about watching Chad stand and stare and rub the scar on his cheek. As if the old wound were still raw and hurting. But I was his friend, so whenever he asked me to go with him, that was what I did.

  Today, however, he seemed more than happy. And that surprised me. It was as if some wonderful secret was bubbling up inside him, demanding to be set free.

  “Keep ’em closed,” he commanded, “until I say open them.”

  He spanned my waist with his hands, lifted me down from the truck, and then slipped his arm around my shoulders to guide me. I could tell by the way the dappled light danced across my eyelids that we were walking through a thick stand of trees. Toward the old trailer.

  We stopped when there was hot sunlight on my face again.

  “Okay. Now you can take a look.”

  I opened my eyes.

  Where the trailer had once stood, the ground was now cleared in all directions. Vines and scrub trees and brush and shadows were gone. In their place were rows of sunflowers planted to the distant tree line. All in bloom, their heads turned toward the sun. A field of glorious golden flowers.

  Chad was smiling. Grinning. Almost laughing with pleasure.

  “It’s great, isn’t it? I rented the land to a farmer down the road. Cheap, on the condition that he clear it. And this is what he planted. Isn’t it beautiful, Brooke? I think my mamma would like it, don’t you?”

  A shadow blocked the sun.

  “Hey, Brooke. Thought I’d find you here.”

  I reacted instinctively. Illogically. Even as my eyes flew open, I was grabbing for the gun I was certain still hung at my waist. Somehow, I’d forgotten to take it off. I’d gone off duty, but left the SIG-Sauer available and unguarded while I slept.

  Then, a heartbeat later, I realized that I had fallen asleep. Now, fully awake, I knew without doubt that I’d secured my weapon inside the SUV. Because I was well trained and always careful. Because I knew what could happen when a gun fell into someone else’s hands.

  I relaxed my arm, looked up into my sister’s face as I yawned and stretched.

  “Sorry,” Katie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I noticed your squad, saw you sitting here and assumed you were watching the river. I remembered that this was always one of your favorite places.”

  “Still is,” I said, smiling.

  I glanced at my watch, realized that I hadn’t been asleep for very long. But I felt refreshed and my headache was gone. With a sigh more internal than expressed, I decided I was as ready as I ever would be for lunch with my family. I braced one hand against the tree trunk to push myself into a standing position. But the weight of Katie’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

  “Let’s stay here for a minute,” she said. “So we can talk privately.”

  I settled back against the tree, thinking that maybe I could avoid a nasty confrontation at lunch by talking with Katie now. By convincing her to accept the conditions she’d so readily agreed to when she’d returned to Maryville. At least until Gran, who was already talking about retiring, gave up her leadership of the Underground. Aunt Lucy, I was sure, would willingly reroute rescued women away from the Cherokee Rose. For Katie’s sake.

  Katie lowered herself to a patch of nearby grass, spent a moment smoothing her tailored skirt and the white chef’s apron that covered it, and another moment concentrating on brushing back a few ash-blond tendrils that had escaped from her barrettes. Then, without warning, she flicked her hand against my hip, her fingers striking the place where my holster usually hung.

  When our eyes met, hers—so much like our mother’s—were troubled.

  “Did you really think I’d grab your gun and shoot you?” she said.

  Her accusation surprised me, and my face undoubtedly reflected that surprise. It had never occurred to me that my sister—my long-time protector—would ever deliberately hurt me. The only concern I’d ever had was that she might hurt someone else.

  “Of course not,” I blurted. “I’m a cop, and that was purely reflex.”

  Though she didn’t look convinced, she shrugged dismissively, then looked out at the river. Not at all like the Katie I remembered from the past, who had often been reduced to tears or inspired to fury by an unintended slight.

  No doubt the years away had been good for her, I thought. For the first time, I considered the possibility that Aunt Lucy was right. That Katie was not the only one wounded by childhood trauma. And I asked myself if my newest suspicions—based on finding the kind of inhaler that was prescribed to millions every year—had anything to do with evidence or instinct. Maybe it was another symptom of my chronic inability to trust those I loved.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I asked into the lengthening silence.

  Katie turned her head to look at me again.

  “I want a chance to prove to you that I’ve changed,” she said. “Aunt Lucy and Gran already believe it. That’s why they’ve agreed to let me help out with the guests. So the only one I have left to convince is you.”

  I opened my mouth to offer my compromise, to ask her to give the situation just a little more time, to tell her that I thought she was doing a fine job at the Cherokee Rose. But she cut me off.

  “No, let me finish,” she said. “I want to do more than just help out with the regular guests. I want to be part of the Underground ag
ain. Just like you and Gran and Aunt Lucy. I’m a Tyler. I have that right.”

  I lifted the ball cap that was part of my uniform, briefly ran my fingers through my hair. Short, brown and curly. Not like Katie’s hair, or our mother’s. I wasn’t like either of them. Or even much like Aunt Lucy. I took after Gran. Or, at least, I tried to. I did what needed to be done. And said what needed to be said.

  “No, you don’t,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry, Katie. But you lost that right forever when you killed Missy Porter.”

  She recoiled as if I had slapped her and abruptly moved her attention from my face to the patch of heat-scorched lawn between us. She frowned as she curled her fingers into the grass and combed her short nails through it, raking out dead blades. Distressed, but still definitely under control.

  “I want you on my side, but if you’re not…” Her voice was calm as, once again, she shrugged dismissively. “My doctor said that it was up to me to make amends for what I did. So I’ve decided to devote the rest of my life to working for the Underground. But clearly, you have no intention of allowing me to do that. So maybe I should go to the police. The real police. And tell them everything about that night.”

  My reaction to her threat surprised me. Concern, yes. Though we’d been juveniles when the crime had been committed, I’d always worried about what a trial and its verdict would mean for Katie and for me. But in that moment, I discovered I was mostly relieved. Finally, I thought, the exhausting burden of her secret—our secret—would be lifted from my shoulders. I would be able to tell someone where Missy was and see to it that she was properly buried.

  I tipped my head and looked into my sister’s model-pretty face.

  “Okay,” I said slowly as I tried to figure out how to express my only reservation. “I’ll go with you, confess to my part in it. But maybe we could say that we met Missy by chance and helped her run away from her husband. All on our own. Then you killed her because she reminded you of our mother. And I dumped the body to protect you. That way, we keep Gran, Aunt Lucy and the Underground out of it.”