Trudy Sawyer drew in a deep breath, and then she bit the tip of her tongue, trying to ward off a show of unwanted emotion—or a fresh set of tears. She missed her husband, and she really was lonely inside the windowless room. I was about to offer her a mint or a cigarette, but the door opened, taking our attention away from the sadness of missing our husbands.
A tall woman with blonde hair as yellow as October straw walked in the door. She wore an off-white wool blazer with a skirt to match. A butterfly brooch sat pinned over her heart, its wings dotted with a rainbow of tiny gems. Her blue eyes sparkled, and an easy smile sat on her face, making me comfortable as soon as I saw her. I assumed the woman was Anke Welton, Mrs. Sawyer’s boss and mentor.
A short, overweight teenaged boy followed the woman into the room. I wasn’t prepared for that. The boy was shorter than the woman by a head. He wore denim pants that were a few inches too short, and a blue-and-white striped sweater that looked like it had seen a lot of winters. He walked with a little bit of a shuffle, but the most disconcerting thing about the boy was his face. He had a moon face and slanted eyes, much like Tina Rinkerman’s. If I didn’t know that they shared a condition, I would have thought they were related.
The woman stopped a few feet short of Mrs. Sawyer’s desk and looked at me curiously. The boy stopped behind the woman and mimicked her. “Hello,” she said to me. Her voice was as calm as a gentle summer stream.
“This is Marjorie Trumaine,” Mrs. Sawyer said. “She’s the one the sheriff from Stark County called about.”
I stood up and shook the woman’s hand.
“I’m Anke Welton,” the blonde woman said, releasing my hand. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Oh, no, not long. Mrs. Sawyer has been good company. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Both women smiled. “And who is this?” I said to the boy.
He smiled and stepped between me and Anke Welton. “I’m Joey,” he said, then extended his stubby hand for me to shake. He sounded like he had marbles in his mouth, but I understood what he said.
I shook his hand, and offered him a smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Joey.”
Joey let go of my hand, then shuffled up next to Anke. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Joey helps me in the office some days. I brought him up special today.”
“I’m usually here on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is Monday!” Joey said.
“It is.” I still wore my smile. He seemed like a gentle boy. I wondered how old he was, how long he had lived at the school, what his chances for a normal life were, but I didn’t dare ask any questions. I was afraid of being rude.
“You made a long drive,” Anke said.
“Yes, and thankfully the weather cooperated,” I said.
“That won’t last long.”
Mrs. Sawyer and Joey watched us both closely.
“No, I doubt that it will. Hopefully, I’ll be home before the wind and snow pick back up.”
“You’re driving back today?”
“Yes. The sheriff needs to see all of this report as soon as possible. Me being a courier seemed the fastest solution.”
“Well, I was certainly surprised that he sent a woman on the road this far.”
I didn’t think I could explain to her that Guy trusted me, and why, so I decided not to try. “Everyone in the department has their hands full.”
“Yes, I gathered that. Still, you’re not a police officer, though the sheriff vouched for you, said the reports would be safe in your hands. These are state reports, you know. Normally only government officials have access.”
“I’m only doing the sheriff a favor,” I said.
“You must think a lot of him.”
“I do. I’m happy to be able to help since the sheriff is short-staffed.”
“I understand that. Well, hold on a second. The report’s on my desk.”
With that, Anke Welton swept away, disappearing into her office, leaving Joey behind. I stared at him for a quick second, then looked away to Trudy Sawyer. She seemed to understand my silent questions, but was not quick to say anything. A steam radiator in the corner clanked and crackled, diverting my attention. There had to be a boiler room somewhere, along with a cafeteria, dormitories, and the surgery the receptionist mentioned. The school was such a big place that I wondered how someone like Joey could make his way around without getting lost.
I looked at the boy again, and sighed. “What do you do when you’re here on Tuesdays and Fridays, Joey?”
“I help Mrs. Sawyer welcome the new people,” Joey said with a wide smile.
“He’s very good at making people feel comfortable,” Mrs. Sawyer said. “He’s our little ambassador. Aren’t you, Joey?”
“I make them not scared,” he said.
“I bet you have a lot of friends,” I said.
“Everybody’s my friend,” Joey said. Then, without warning, he walked over and wrapped his arms around me and gave me a soft hug. “I like you,” he added.
I gasped out loud. I wasn’t expecting the boy to hug me. “I like you, too, Joey.”
“Oh good,” he said, letting go and stepping away.
Mrs. Sawyer studied my face to see if I was pleased or appalled. She flashed me a smile, so I took it that she approved of my reaction.
“How long have you been here, Joey?” I said. Before he could answer, Anke Welton hurried out of her office carrying two large manila envelopes.
Joey sucked in a breath, then left his answer to my question unspoken.
“Well, here you are, Mrs. Trumaine.” Anke offered me the envelopes, and I took them.
“Thank you. I’ll be happy to have them,” I said. “I hope they help.”
“I’m not sure what the sheriff hopes to find, but there’s everything in there that I thought was relevant and that he asked for.”
Our tone had changed from conversational to serious. A confused look crossed Joey’s face. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, nothing for you to worry about. Grown-up stuff,” Anke said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But you know I don’t believe you.”
I smiled. “Nothing’s wrong, Joey. I promise.”
“Okay.”
I took a deep breath, felt the weight of the envelopes, and knew there was only one thing for me to do. “Well,” I said, “I should head back home. Daylight’s burning.”
“Home?” Joey said. “Where’s home?”
“Dickinson.”
“Oh, I know where that is on the map.”
“You do,” I said. “That’s wonderful. I really like it there.”
“I was born there!” Joey said, then he hurried another hug my way.
I wasn’t quite ready for this one, either. I think I gasped again.
Anke touched Joey’s arm, and said, “Let go, Joey, Mrs. Trumaine has to leave now.”
“That makes me sad. I like her.”
“Maybe she’ll come back again someday,” Anke said.
He was still hugging me. He looked up with sweet brown eyes, and pleaded, “Will you come back and see me?”
“Well,” I said. “Yes, the next time I’m over this way, I’ll stop in and see you.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Good. You ask to see me. Joey. Joey Jacobsen. And I’ll come running.”
CHAPTER 27
Anke Welton walked me to the front door of the Grafton State School. Our footsteps echoed in unison up to the high, vaulted ceiling, then wafted away into silence. My shoes felt like they were filled with lead, each step marred with frustrated resistance. My mind screamed for me to stop and demand answers. I was numbed with revelation and fear, my heart broken for such a sweet, gentle, boy.
The vestibule offered privacy, one last chance for me to find out more information before I fled the school. Both Anke and I stopped and faced each other with dread.
“I know that name, Jaco
bsen,” I finally said.
“I knew you would.”
“Is he Nils Jacobsen’s son?”
“Yes.”
I looked away from Anke, away from the truth and sadness in her eyes, west, toward Dickinson, hundreds of miles away, another world so far removed from the one I stood in, but present somehow, in a way I could have never imagined.
“Why did you show me Joey?” I said. “I have spent the last two days at the Jacobsen house, tending to their grief. I had no idea that Nils had another child. Does the sheriff know about him?”
“It’s in the report.”
“He doesn’t know?”
“We didn’t talk about Joey directly, no.”
“But you talked about Nils and the murder besides the information you shared with Sheriff Reinhardt about Tina?”
“Of course, I gave him all of the information I was allowed to over the phone,” Anke said in her best administrator voice.
“Does he think the two incidents are related, Nils’s murder and Tina’s disappearance?”
“You’ll have to ask him that.”
“I will.” I hesitated, still shocked by the revelation that Nils Jacobsen had a son that no one knew about. “You know nothing about me. I could go back to Dickinson and tell the whole town about Joey.”
Anke Welton’s face tightened, and for the first time I saw a hint of anger, of defiance in her eyes. She looked like a serious mother taking a hard stance against an unseen threat to one of her children. “Good. I hope you do. I wanted you to see Joey Jacobsen so someone from your town would know that he exists. I wanted you to see him so you would know that he will never have the chance to grieve for his own father. He will never know the day that his father died, or why.”
“No one knows why,” I whispered.
“They will. Your sheriff asks good questions. Your being here is proof of that. I believe they will find the person who killed Nils Jacobsen.”
“So do I. But, the boy, what about the boy?”
“Joey Jacobsen will continue to exist with a happy heart and a warm smile for every stranger he meets. His well-being is not my worry; by grace and luck he is perpetually happy. My grudge is with the people who brought him into the world and refuse him the most basic right of all: To know that he matters, that he is a living being, that he has feelings, too, regardless of what nature did to him. It wasn’t his fault that he turned out the way he did, less than perfect, but more perfect in ways than most ‘normal’ people can imagine. Love is unconditional for him. Joey would walk through fire if you asked him to. He doesn’t deserve to be invisible. But he is. Or was. Until now. That’s why I wanted you to see him. I want you to take back the sight of him and tell your sheriff that Joey Jacobsen is a sweet, innocent boy who never had the pleasure of looking into his own father’s eyes. And he never will. Not now.” She took a deep breath and wiped away the tears from her eyes. “Everything’s in the report, Mrs. Trumaine. There’s more there than the sheriff asked for, but everything I could find. Everything I know. I have no idea what happened to Nils Jacobsen, but I know this: you all have to find Tina Rinkerman. And when you do, you need to bring her back here to me. I will make sure she is safe and well cared for, for the rest of her life. Do you understand me? This place is not a dungeon or a trash bin for unwanted children. There are good people who work here. We take care of our own. You bring Tina back to me, you hear? You make sure she’s okay. Can you do that?”
I had my own tears to wipe away, my own shock and confusion to deal with. “Yes, I’ll do whatever I can.”
I sat in the Studebaker, stunned by Anke Welton’s words.
The engine clunked and groaned, with an attitude that I didn’t care for. I had nearly seven hours to drive—again—twice in one day. I was testing the endurance of metal, oil, and rubber, along with my own mettle, my own desire to serve, to find Tina Rinkerman and the person responsible for Nils Jacobsen’s death.
I could do nothing but sit and wait for all of the mechanical parts in the engine to join in a productive chorus and run smoothly. I glanced over at the two manila envelopes. They both wore red stamps that said Official Business, were sealed at the lip, and were doubly taped for added security. I knew what waited inside was for Guy’s eyes only, but I couldn’t help but speculate what Anke Welton had written in the report. I wondered if the paper was stained with tears of sadness or rage.
I needed to calm down. I needed something to take my mind off what I had experienced inside the school.
Next to the envelopes, my indexing pages had shifted during the long ride to Grafton. The top page drew my attention. I brought my mind back to my work, as far away from Joey Jacobsen as I could get.
Half of the page was blank, with instructions written across the top to insert an illustration into the book. Most of the time, pictures were already placed in the proofs, but if permissions had to be worked out, or the right image couldn’t be found, then they were put into the book at the last minute. Unfortunately, that could affect the pagination, causing the page numbers in the index to be off, wrong, without any fault of my own. My editor usually held up the book from publishing so the changes could be made, but sometimes the error slipped through, and I would get a letter or a phone call, admonishing me not to make the mistake again. Mistakes like that were rare, but they happened. My defense was simple: The change was not my fault. Pagination changed after the pages left my hands.
The rest of the page from the Central Flyway book was about a bird that I was familiar with, the long-billed curlew.
But before I started to read in earnest, I closed my eyes, forcing my memory to the last time that I had made note of seeing a curlew. I wanted to be as far away from the Grafton State School as I could be.
It had been springtime, a few years before Hank’s accident. We were walking the fields early in the day to see how things had faired over the winter, enjoying each other’s company, taking pleasure in the vast world that was ours at every turn. We were optimistic, had the hope of a new season in our step.
Most shorebirds stopped in North Dakota to rest, then headed on north to feed on the prolific insects that swarmed and lived on the Arctic tundra. But some birds stayed on the plains, finding the food, shelter, and environment a perfect fit for their need to ensure another generation of migrants. I knew from prior experience and reading that these kind of birds mated and bred on my land, though the Central Flyway book did educate me further: There were twelve species of shorebirds that made my state their northern terminus.
I resisted the memory of being with Hank, because I struggled to see him clearly, strong and upright like he was at the time. Now, in the truck, outside the school, he was fading from me, and the more I tried to hold on to him, the weaker his image got, the softer his sweet voice became. I feared I was using up all the magic I had trying to hold onto him, to keep him with me wherever I went. But the truth was, I needed him to show me something. I needed to feel his presence no matter the cost, because my mind was swirling with questions, and I needed Hank to help figure out how to ask the right ones.
The fields had still been stubble, the memory of snow and cold recent, as we took our annual walk to the farthest reaches of our seven hundred and twenty acres. The mosquitoes had begun to hatch, bringing with them a sky full of migratory birds, ragged and hungry, in search of a mate and a place to settle down, no matter how briefly.
Not all of our land was tillable. There was an abundance of permanent and temporary wetlands, sloughs, a curve of river, and some shallow water that stood after the thaw or a decent rain. Long-billed curlews were wading birds, the largest sandpiper in North America. The elegant bird was twenty to twenty-six inches tall and, in maturity, thirty-five inches across the wing. The long, curved bill that gave the bird its name could extend almost nine inches and was used to probe deep in the mud for anything that lived there. This was not a small bird, with the female being larger than the male—which had a term, of course, that I’d indexed mor
e than once: sexual dimorphism. And yet, on that day, out in the warm, spring sun with Hank, I nearly stepped on a nesting curlew.
Hank grabbed my arm, “Whoa, there, Marjorie.” He stopped me dead in my tracks. “You almost stepped on that nest.”
Sitting in the Studebaker in Grafton, I touched my arm in the same place that Hank had so long ago, trying to feel his presence. But I was cold and alone, and Hank was buried hundreds of miles away—yet, he was still with me, still guiding me, holding me back, showing me something important.
Curlews nested on the ground instead of in a tree or the eave of a house. They settled into a small hollow in a field, close to water, and lined the nest with available weeds and grasses. Once they took residence and laid eggs, the birds were almost invisible, camouflaged perfectly in hues of warm, earthy browns and whites. The chicks are precocial, which meant they left the nest as soon as they hatched. The parents looked after them, but the female abandoned the babies to the male after a few weeks and departed south.
“I’d have felt terrible if I’d stepped on her eggs,” I said.
About that time, the male had flown in and started aggressively defending the nest, squawking, doing his best to drive us away. The female was upset, standing up in a dominant stance, wings out, head forward. I didn’t want to get pecked. Not by that bill.
“Come on,” Hank said, his hand still on my arm. “Let’s leave them to their work and get on with ours.”
We moved on, leaving four tiny eggs to be hatched by the curlews. Me and Hank had given up on building our own nest years before, though we had never tired of trying to have a family.
“I try to watch out for those birds with the tractor,” Hank had said. “But I have to tell you, Marjorie, that I’ve run over a nest or two in my time. Such a thing can’t be avoided, I guess, but I sure do feel bad when I kill a nest of innocent chicks.”
I knew he did. I knew that Hank Trumaine hated taking any life when there was no reason to. His simple compassion was one of the many reasons why I had loved him so much. That was all he said. We walked on that day, with both of our eyes a little more focused on the ground, aware now that there were nests and working parents to look out for.
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