Still Water

by Amy Stuart

  “You never know.” Somers shakes her head. “I’m not giving up hope. Because that’s the weird thing about this job. You really never know.”

  “I hear you got a search warrant.”

  “So much for the element of surprise.” She shades her eyes despite the lack of sun, looking across the river to where Rebecca climbs her porch. “We might have to start across the river.”

  “This place is really . . . These people are . . . I don’t know,” Clare says. “I can’t articulate it.”

  “Weird?” Somers asks.

  “It’s not what it’s meant to be. Not at all.”

  “That makes me sad,” Somers says. “Listen. If you want to get your stuff. Pack up. A little head start before the swarm arrives with the warrant, I won’t tell.”

  “I appreciate that,” Clare says. “How would Rourke feel about you helping me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I help you? Your friend’s son was just pulled from a river. I figure you’ve had enough for one day. And I figure you’d help me too if you had the chance.”

  A meaningful statement, Clare thinks. A loaded one too.

  “Where is Rourke?” Clare asks.

  “Around. Doing his thing.”

  “Have you two been partners long?”

  “No,” Somers says. “He just transferred in. Maybe a month ago. My previous partner retired after twelve years together, so I was single. Lucky Rourke. He’s a good guy, even if he mystifies me. He insisted on taking this case. Beats me as to why. Not even in our jurisdiction. They were shorthanded out here and he jumped on it. And it’s a missing persons case. I like to stick to homicide, but that’s just me.”

  “It isn’t a missing persons case anymore,” Clare says.

  “True,” Somers says. “Now it’s both.”

  A slight frown overtakes Somers’s face as she considers her own words. Her skin is smooth, her hair pulled back in braids. Clare guesses Somers to be in her late thirties. Her children must still be young. Beyond her Clare can see deep into the woods.

  “There’s a bunker,” Clare says.

  “Sorry?”

  “Like a hole in the ground. The kind of thing someone digs to escape a nuclear war.”

  “There’s no escaping nuclear war,” Somers says. “What are you talking about?”

  “Markus Haines says his father dug it years ago. It’s impossible to spot unless you know it’s there. He says he was supposed to fill it in on Helen’s order but didn’t. Apparently no one else knows about it except him. Maybe Helen too, if she’s wise to the fact that he kept it open.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Early yesterday morning. I couldn’t sleep. It was still nighttime, really. I went outside for some fresh air and saw a light in the trees. A flashlight. I followed it.”

  “Don’t you watch horror movies?”

  “You sound like my mother,” Clare says. “She used to accuse me of being reckless. Anyway, Markus was there. He invited me down. Didn’t seem terribly upset that I’d come across it. He told me Sally’d found him there too. He hides baby formula. His daughter’s not growing well and he’s feeding her the formula behind his wife’s back.”

  “Come on,” Somers says with a sharp laugh. “This was yesterday? Before you came in to see us?”

  “I know, I know,” Clare says. “I should have told you then. I’m sorry. I haven’t had the best experience with cops in my life.”

  “Neither have I,” Somers says. “What else was down there?”

  “Shelves, some canned goods. Bare bulbs, a couch. A gun rack. It was creepy.”

  “You can’t make this shit up,” Somers says. “Can you give me any sense of where this thing is?”

  “It’s inland, in the trees.” Clare cranes her head in its direction. “That way. About a quarter mile from the house if you draw a line parallel to the river. I think it’s nearly impossible to spot.”

  “We have our techniques,” Somers says.

  “I was hopeful until today,” Clare says. “I thought maybe Sally had escaped again. Gotten away.”

  “Nothing makes sense about this case. A team has been scouring the river looking for the bodies. Nothing’s been found. To say that it’s unusual for the kid to turn up now is a serious understatement.”

  “I know. He could have snagged, though. You never know.”

  “Nope,” Somers says. “You’re right. You never know.”

  There is much more Clare could confide. The pregnancy test Ginny spoke of, the symptoms. Helen’s offer to make her disappear. But the last thing Clare wants is to end up in the interrogation room again. Maybe she trusts Somers, but she can’t bear Rourke’s scrutiny again. And she feels ownership over this case. If Sally is alive, Clare wants to be the one to find her. She will save the other details for now.

  “We’ve offered to put everyone up in a hotel in town,” Somers says. “You’ll all have to vacate.”

  “Ginny Haines wants me to stay at her dorm with her. I could use the company. I think she could too.”

  “That number you gave me yesterday? The area code’s not local to Sally’s hometown.”

  Clare’s mind races. “It wouldn’t be. I don’t live there anymore. I left a while ago.”

  “Rourke made a call,” Somers says. “To some contacts back home. Your hometown, I mean. Sally’s hometown. The detachment out that way is doing some groundwork for us.”

  The river’s current makes Clare’s head spin. She knows what Somers will say next.

  “No one remembers Sally having a friend named Clare.”

  “No,” Clare says. “They wouldn’t.”

  “Is that not your name?”

  The lies are knocking up against each other now, Clare thinks. It is becoming too much.

  “It’s not my real name,” Clare says. “Sally and I didn’t know each other well back then. Just in passing. But we met again . . . at a shelter. We had similar reasons for being there, if you catch my drift. I changed my name. Sally didn’t change hers. Maybe that was her mistake.”

  “Got it,” Somers says, calm. “Okay. You could have told me that yesterday too.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t had the best experiences. Maybe if Rourke hadn’t been there I would have told you.”

  Clare looks at Somers straight in the eye, holding steady. Perhaps an understanding has formed between her and Somers, but Clare can still envision the precise way Rourke sized her up yesterday, as though he knew she was an imposter and was waiting for Clare to slip up. Behind them a car door slams and Jordan Haines makes his way across the lawn. Somers raises an upturned hand to catch the first drops of rain.

  “Where’s Helen?” Jordan asks.

  “Everyone’s inside,” Somers says. “Rourke and I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Right. Okay.” Jordan looks to Clare. “Ginny says you’re going to stay at her dorm? Is that so?”

  “I guess,” Clare says.

  The rain begins in earnest and the three of them dash to the porch. Jordan goes inside, leaving Clare and Somers alone.

  “I’ve got to get in there,” Somers says. “You know how to reach me.”

  “I do.”

  “I appreciate your help. The info. I won’t let anyone know where I got it from.” Somers grins. “Especially Rourke.”

  Once Somers is inside, Clare sits on the porch and watches the rain come down in hard pelts. The sheet they’d used to cover the boy is still on the grass, flattened under the weight of the rain. There it is again, Clare thinks, the tightness in her chest. The anxiety. It amazes her how clearheaded she feels since arriving here, how on task. It amazes her too how muddled everything remains from before she arrived. For so long she’d used pills or whatever else was on offer as a means to dull her senses and forget. But now Clare knows she must keep track of every detail here in High River, every conversation and tidbit exchanged. Every lie told, even her own. Somers might be onto her, others too. She must stay sharp. If she is to find Sa
lly, she has nothing but her wits to stay ahead of them.

  Clare counts the seconds between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder. Four. Ginny should be back by now.

  The dorm room is dark but for the round light of the desk lamp. Ginny’s half of the room is crowded with the objects of youth—concert posters, an open armoire stuffed with crumpled clothes, a new laptop on the desk surrounded by piles of novels and textbooks. The other side of the room is bare. Clare leans in to examine the photos pinned to Ginny’s corkboard. Selfies with a mishmash of friends, a shot of her with Markus and Rebecca’s daughter, Willow, one of Ginny holding a placard at a protest. Clare startles when the thunder cracks again.

  The door kicks open and Ginny falls into the room in playful distress, her clothing soaked through. She cradles two plastics bags to her chest.

  “Success,” she says.

  Ginny unloads the supplies onto the desk. Packaged sushi, cola, a small bottle of rum. Then she peels her clothes off into a wet pile on the floor. Though she’d seen her in the tub yesterday, Clare is still awed by the youthfulness of Ginny’s body, her skin creamy and even, the lanky proportions. Ginny digs a blue minidress from the armoire and pulls it on, shaking her short hair dry.

  “If it’s too crowded in here I could still take Somers up on the hotel offer,” Clare says.

  “Nope. You’re my prisoner. I have a sleeping bag you can use. It’s clean. Mostly.” Ginny digs through the armoire and pulls out a pair of shorts and a gauzy T-shirt. She throws them to Clare. “Change. You look wet too.”

  “I have my own clothes.”

  “Uh, yeah. Army issue. Try on some style.” Ginny reaches into her purse and pulls out a baggie of colorful pills. “Oh, and I made a pit stop to see my friend. Remember the friend I mentioned? The one who loves me? I told him I had a special visitor.”

  “I don’t want any,” Clare says.

  “Oh, relax. You don’t owe me anything. He gave them to me.” Ginny winks. “For free, kind of.”

  “Really,” Clare says. “I don’t want it.”

  Ginny plops onto her bed and tears open the sushi. “Can we at least smoke a joint? There’s a party later and I need something to calm me down.” She angles one ear to her shoulder to stretch the tendons in her neck. “Every time I close my eyes I see that baby boy lying on the grass.”

  The rain slaps against the window. Clare sits on the bed opposite Ginny and watches as she crushes the marijuana leaves between her thumb and forefinger, then sprinkles them onto the rolling paper. Ginny edges to the window before lighting the joint. She takes a long drag and passes it to Clare.

  “The river will be bad tomorrow,” Ginny says, holding the smoke in her lungs. “Too much rain.”

  The joint is hot between Clare’s fingers. Jason hated smoking joints, and so they rarely did. What Clare would give to feel the heaviness of the high, the dulling of her thoughts. Ginny doesn’t seem to notice that Clare passes it back without inhaling.

  “What was it like growing up in High River?” Clare asks.

  “So not my vibe. Maybe Helen will finally come to her senses now. Ditch it. Get a fucking life.” Ginny reaches out to tap Clare’s knee. “Listen. I’m sorry about yesterday. About being such a bitch to you in the car.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You know how they say that men who grow up with strong moms end up, like, hating feminists?”

  “Do they say that?” Clare lies back on the bed, her head in the crook of her bent arm. “I don’t think anyone has ever said that.”

  “Whatever. I used to really resent the women staying with us. Like Helen always had something to prove. This revolving door of women and children. These sad cases. My mom being everyone’s savior while I’m busy trying to figure out how to make myself a bowl of oatmeal, you know? It basically ruined my childhood.”

  “You never call her mom.”

  “No, I don’t. Helen’s thing was about me being independent. She refused to baby me. It kind of bordered on neglect.”

  “She was your age when she had you.”

  “Yeah,” Ginny says. “She most definitely didn’t care when I stopped calling her mom. It was like she needed me to be fierce, to take care of myself so she could take care of everyone else.”

  “You might end up thanking her one day,” Clare says.

  Ginny pinches the remnants of the joint to her mouth, then drops it into a dusty glass of water on her desk.

  “Maybe. Jordan says I’m heartless.”

  “How old were you when your uncle Markus met Rebecca?”

  “I don’t know. Fifteen? He moved away when I was eight or nine. He became this family ghost. This East Coast high roller who never visited us once. Those were the golden years, I’m telling you. You know that creepy weirdo at the back of class who you think could open fire from a clock tower or something? Markus is that guy. Jordan, on the other hand, is this star. Growing up, he was captain of everything from the basketball team to the debating club. Being his cute little niece was serious currency out there. It still is.”

  “How long was Markus gone?”

  “Five years? He came crawling back to Helen with nothing when I was maybe thirteen. A hobo with a ‘the recession stole everything from me’ sob story. She built him that fucking cottage across the river. Then he met Rebecca on some website for loser health nut singles and here we are.”

  “Why don’t Markus and Jordan get along?” Clare asks.

  “I don’t know,” Ginny says. “They literally act like the other doesn’t exist.”

  In the expressiveness of her answers it’s clear that Ginny is enjoying the line of questioning, the interest in her side of things. It must be, Clare thinks, that she is unaccustomed to being asked her opinion when it comes to family matters. Or that she’s high. Either way, Clare will press until Ginny’s interest wanes.

  “And you don’t like Rebecca,” Clare says.

  Ginny pops a piece of sushi in her mouth. “She’s so fake. They’re both so fake. Her and Markus. Rebecca will tell you never to judge your fellow human, that we’re all walking our own path, blah blah. And she’ll say it all in Latin. She’ll tell you that she’s one with nature. But I swear she’d murder your child if you crossed her.”

  Clare raises her eyebrows. Ginny slaps her hands to her mouth.

  “Sorry. That came out wrong. But Sally crossed her. Obviously.”

  The rain has tapered, the thunder a low rumble in the distance. Clare thinks of the small body lifted onto a stretcher twice too long for it, the grave look on the faces of the two men loading it into the ambulance.

  “To be clear,” Ginny says, reaching for the makeup bag at the foot of her bed and unscrewing the cap from a bright pink lipstick. “Rebecca’s a bad person and I’m pretty sure her husband knocked Sally up. But she wouldn’t actually kill anyone’s kid.”

  “Can I ask you something? What do you think happened to Sally?”

  Ginny furrows her brow, thoughtful. “Honestly? I don’t think she’s dead. William is. Obviously. But I still think she’s alive. I don’t even know why. I just do.” Ginny pauses. “You’re basically the first person to ask me that.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “What I think happened. Somers and Rourke, they asked me where I was that night. Cursory questions, like they were trying to make me feel included. Rourke gave me his card, told me to call him anytime. But he was just being nice. It’s like people don’t realize how firmly I’ve got my ear to the ground. When you’re the only normal person in a place like that you really notice the kind of shit people are trying to pull. No one else notices because they’re too wrapped up in their own mess.”

  “Somers and Rourke would hear you out if you have anything to tell them,” Clare says. “Like, say, what you told me about Sally and the pregnancy test.”

  “They should know to ask me.”

  That makes no sense, Clare wants to say, but Ginny is already standing in front of the full-length
mirror on the armoire door, applying the lipstick then patting it and rubbing it into her cheeks. Ginny’s phone rings on the desk. She checks it.

  “He’s picking me up in a cab in five minutes.”

  “Who is?”

  “A guy from my program. He’s got a line on some party.” Ginny doesn’t look up from her phone. “Do you want to come?”

  “I’m fine here. If that’s okay.”

  “If you want. There’s a sleeping bag in the armoire. A pillowcase too.”

  “Do you mind if I use your laptop? I need to check my e-mail.”

  “Go ahead. There’s no password. Just don’t look at any porn on my account. I swear the campus priest will show up.” Ginny twirls. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “I hate that word,” Ginny says, rolling her eyes, the hint of a smile. She scribbles two numbers onto a scrap of paper on the desk. “That’s my cell phone. And that’s Jordan’s. Don’t wait up.” She points to the pills. “And don’t OD while I’m out, okay? The last thing I need is another dead body on my hands.”

  And then she’s gone, the door slamming behind her. Is it resilience that has allowed Ginny to recover so quickly from today’s events? Or is it something else? The drugs. Indifference. Clare digs a bottle of water from her backpack and gulps it, then piles the remaining sushi rolls into her mouth. She opens the laptop and watches dumbly as it powers on. It’s been months since Clare sat at a computer. She hovers her fingers over the keyboard, uncertain as to where to start.

  Colin Rourke Detective

  The screen fills with news stories. She clicks on a link about a murder case, a younger Rourke standing behind yellow tape, his suit loose on his frame. Down the page she finds more of the same. Deep in the results, she finds an article from ten years earlier. “Promising Local Athlete Granted Ivy League Scholarship.” The photo is of a teenaged Rourke in a baseball uniform, squinting in the sun. Clare leans to the screen to study it before typing again.

  Hollis Somers Detective

  Page after page of news stories, citations and commendations, cases solved, court testimonies. A photograph of Somers at an awards ceremony a few years ago, Officer of the Year, flanked by a beaming husband, a son and two daughters with wide smiles too. The photograph pulls at something in Clare. Imagine, she thinks, arriving on scene to the horrors of a dead little boy, then returning home later to your own family.