by John Manning
She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Sue told herself over and over again. She’s a crazy girl! That’s why they had her locked up!
But how did she know about my grandparents?
What lies did they tell me?
They told me that my mother is dead.
Sue stood, bracing herself against the wall.
But my mother is alive.
44
Perry Holland loosened his tie and forked a french fry into his mouth.
Marj was standing behind the counter watching him eat with eyes filled with sympathy. She still had on her Sunday best—her dark navy blue dress with the short rope of pearls at her throat. She hadn’t changed from the funeral. Neither had Wally, who’d simply doffed his sport coat to whip up Perry’s chili burger and fries. They’d insisted Perry come back with them to the Yellow Bird and eat. He’d gone days without a good meal. Every day, in fact, since his father was murdered.
“That’s it, Perry, you eat up now,” Marjorie told him.
“It was a nice service, wasn’t it?” Perry asked.
“Sure was. So many people turned out. This town loved your father.”
Perry nodded.
The sheriff’s death had sent shock waves through Lebanon. Miles Holland had been popular, and for days afterward, his death was the prime topic of conversation around town. Discussion of things like Thanksgiving plans, the high school football team’s loss in the state playoffs, Heidi Swettenham’s miraculous recovery—all of those conversational gambits were forgotten as the townsfolk talked breathlessly about the sheriff’s tragic death. Those who knew him best were in shock. “What was he doing climbing trees on Laurel Grove Road?” they asked. “I’d heard he was losing his mind.” This only seemed to confirm it.
Perry knew now that his father’s mind had never been clearer. That was what made his death so difficult. Perry had been prepared for his mother’s death, watching the cancer slowly diminish her for months, the chemotherapy brutalizinbg her as much as the disease itself. When she had finally stopped fighting and slipped away, it had been a merciful release. Perry had mourned and wept for her, but at that time he’d also had Jennifer to hold him at night until he went to sleep.
But his dad’s death—this was out of the blue, completely unexpected. Perry had fallen into a kind of black hole in the days leading up to the funeral. He’d stopped answering the door, forcing well-meaning friends and neighbors to leave covered plates for him on the front step. Casseroles and pies, cobblers and lasagnas—more food than Perry could ever possibly eat in a year. He had no room left for all of it in his refrigerator. He’d started dumping it into his trash can, letting the dirty plates pile up in his sink.
Like father, like son, he thought ironically.
This morning Marjorie had come by, wearing her imitation pearls under her dirty gray coat. Perry had been sleeping on the couch in his underwear, and Marjorie stood over him with a stern expression. “Get showered and dressed,” she said, removing her coat and tossing it on the couch. “I’m not going to let you be late for your own father’s funeral. I’ll make some coffee.”
“I can’t go,” Perry protested.
“I said get in the goddamned shower.” Marjorie walked over and cupped his chin in her right hand. “You look like hell, Perry. Your father deserves better.”
Perry didn’t have the energy to argue with her, so he got up off the couch and walked into the bedroom. He turned the shower on, and looked at himself in the mirror. You do look like hell. You need to shave and shower and get your act together. He turned on the faucet and washed his face thoroughly, splashing it with hot water. He walked back into the bedroom and got out the black suit he’d bought at the JCPenney’s in Senandaga for his mother’s funeral. He laid it on the bed, and found a pressed white shirt, still in the bag from the dry cleaner. I haven’t worn that shirt since Mom’s funeral. He felt hysteria rising in him, but he closed his eyes and fought it back down. He walked back into the foggy bathroom and climbed into the shower.
When he’d stumbled back out into the kitchen, there had been a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon waiting for him on the dining table. And now here she was, cooking for him again. The funeral had passed in a blur. Nothing felt real anymore to Perry.
Marjorie seemed to be reading his thoughts. She reached across the counter and took his hand. Hers was rough and red, her fingernails chewed down below the quick.
“We never expect death, Perry,” she told him softly. “Even when someone’s been ill, like your mother, we always hope that somehow we can cheat it, that it won’t happen if we pray hard enough or hope hard enough. But it’s a part of life. We don’t want to think about losing the people we love, because it’s painful. But pain—” Marj hesitated, squeezing his hand harder. “Pain is also a part of life. It’s why we go to church, why we read the Bible. We try to make sense out of a senseless world.”
Perry felt his eyes burn.
“Go on now,” Marjorie urged. “Eat your lunch.”
He took a bite of his burger, then set it down. His fries were soaking in a pool of ketchup. Truth was, he just wasn’t hungry.
“That was a nice bouquet that Jennifer sent,” Marj said. “I think she still has a thing for you, Perry. I don’t want you to be all alone and moping now. You should call her—”
“I’m sorry,” Perry said, blinking. “Call who?”
Marjorie shook her head. “You weren’t listening to a word I said.”
“I’m sorry.” Perry sighed. The funeral had been hard. Saying good-bye to Dad, watching them lower his casket into the ground, a military trumpet player sounding “Taps.”
“It’s okay, hon,” Marj said. “It’s going to be a while before you’re back to feeling like yourself.”
Perry doubted he’d ever feel like himself again. What was worse than his grief, though, was the roiling anger down in his gut. Dad wasn’t climbing any trees! He was dropped! He was picked up by something and dropped! He was murdered!
A couple of the state cops who were investigating the Wilbourne girls’ disappearances had come up to Perry and told him they appreciated all the work Miles had done on the cases. “Then why not follow up on his leads?” Perry barked. They promised they would, but Perry didn’t believe them.
And would anyone find Miles’s killer? Perry doubted it. It hadn’t even officially been ruled a homicide. No fingerprints. No sign of a fight. Just some crazy theory that Dad had climbed a tree and fallen—
Why the fuck would he be out climbing trees on Laurel Grove Road?
Perry knew why his father had been on that road. He was driving out to the college. Because that’s where the answer was—the answer to who kidnapped those girls. And that’s where Perry knew he would find the same answer to the question of who killed Sheriff Miles Holland.
Perry stood. “Thanks for the food, Marj, but I have to go.”
“You hardly ate anything! Where do you have to rush off to?”
“I’ve got a case to solve.”
The blood was suddenly pulsing through his veins again. A rush of adrenaline seemed to propel him off the stool.
I need to find out who killed my father!
Marjorie wrung her hands. “Sweetie, the state cops are working on it—”
“The hell they are!” Perry calmed down, managing a smile for her. “Thanks for all your concern, Marj. But I’ve got someone I just have to see.”
He was out of the diner before she could make another objection.
Perry sped out of town, driving past the spot on Laurel Grove where Dad’s body had been found in the middle of the road. If he fell out of a tree, he’d have had to leap to land that far out in the road.
No. It had been no fall. Someone—or something—lifted Dad off the ground, snapped his neck, and dropped him. That’s what the coroner said. Just because the state police could come up with no plausible way that could have happened didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
At the Wilbourne
gate, Perry flashed the guard his badge, and was waved through.
He’d planned on calling Dean Gregory and making an appointment to talk to him. But why give him time to prepare? Better to catch him without warning.
Of course, since it was Saturday, he might not be in his office. If that were the case, Perry would try him at his house. Or find out where he was—and wherever the fuck he was, he’d confront him there.
Turned out, however, that Gregory was easy to find. He was working on a Saturday. Lots of shit had been going down on the campus of late. Perry suspected he was in his office working on a little damage control.
“I’m sorry, Dean Gregory isn’t seeing anyone today,” the secretary told Perry. “I can give you an appointment Monday, Deputy…”
“This can’t wait,” Perry said, pushing past her into Gregory’s office.
The dean was at his desk, poring over a pile of folders. He looked up as Perry entered, clearly annoyed.
What a weasel face, Perry thought, discarding any notions about innocent until proven guilty. This guy is implicated in all of it. I’m certain.
“Deputy,” Gregory said, folding the papers he’d been looking at and placing them in his top drawer. “How sorry I was to hear about your father.”
The secretary rushed in behind Perry. “Sir, I tried to tell him you were busy…”
Gregory waved her away. “It’s okay. I always have time for the law.”
The secretary shut the door behind her.
“Sit down, Deputy,” Gregory said, making a grand gesture with his hand.
“I prefer to remain standing,” Perry told him. “What I have to ask you won’t take long.”
“All right.” Gregory smiled up at him, his rat’s teeth showing from between his thin lips. “Ask away.”
“How do you explain the pattern of deaths and disappearances on this campus every twenty years?”
The smile didn’t leave the dean’s face. “Well, actually, it hasn’t quite been every twenty years. Sometimes it’s been nineteen, sometimes twenty-one…”
“How do you explain it?” Perry asked, raising his voice impatiently.
“I can’t. Can you? After all, you’re the law.”
Perry frowned. “I just find it a very odd coincidence—”
“Well, so do I. That such a small, seemingly tranquil town should harbor a killer…”
“Don’t blame the town!”
Gregory sat back in his chair. “Well, surely you’re not blaming the college. After all, we’ve been the victims here, and the local and state police have never apprehended a culprit.” He narrowed his beady little eyes at Perry. “I should think I should be barging into your office and accusing you.”
Perry kept his cool. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Accusing you?”
“Well, I should hardly know for what.” Gregory sighed. “These killings date back over a hundred years, since almost the very beginning of the college.” He made a great show of sadness. “When I think of those poor girls, so many over the years…”
“And it’s not mentioned in any of your literature.”
Gregory gave him a wry smile. “Would you publicize such a thing, Deputy? I’m just waiting until some enterprising reporter finds all this out and writes a sweeping history of the tragedies here. Enrollment will plummet.”
“Yet no enterprising reporter ever has written such a story,” Perry said. “Don’t you find that odd?”
“Yes,” Gregory said, nodding. “Yes, I do.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I’m not sure. But I suppose it’s inevitable.”
“My father was one of the few who even remembered that such things had happened here before,” Perry told the dean. “When he jogged people’s memories, they’d recall the murders—but only if he reminded them. People just don’t seem to remember them on their own.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Gregory gave him a sympathetic look. “I suppose it’s human nature to try to block out such tragedy from our minds.”
“Well, I think the community would benefit from knowing the full details. If there is a connection in these cases—even dating back over a century—I think we need to bring it out into the open.”
Gregory eyed him coldly. “Are you saying you’re going to the press?”
“I think that might be wise. If anyone knows anything, they can come forward.”
Gregory held his gaze. “I wish you wouldn’t, Deputy. Think of what it would do to this school.”
“Yes,” Perry said. “I am thinking about that.”
“Your father had given some of his data to state police investigators,” Gregory told him. “They asked me about it. I told them the little I told you. And they agreed it was best not to dredge all this up. I would hate for you to reprimanded for going over their heads in this investigation.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dean,” Perry said. He gave him a terse smile. “Thanks for your time.”
He could feel Gregory’s eyes on him as he turned around and walked out the door.
Outside, the sun was doing its best to warm up a chilly day. Most of the leaves were now off the trees. The campus was blanketed in orange and gold.
Perry was heading back to his car when he heard someone call his name. He turned. An attractive woman, mid-forties. “Deputy Holland?”
“Yes,” he said. He didn’t recognize her.
The woman approached him and extended her hand. “Dr. Virginia Marshall. I just wanted to give you my condolences. I recognized you from the funeral.”
He shook her hand. “You were there?”
“Yes. I was very fond of your father. A good man. He was very good to me when I first came here to Lebanon.”
Perry smiled. “Yes, I remember you now. You wrote that book—”
Dr, Marshall sighed. “Yes. That book. The one that stirred up all that controversy.”
“I remember.” An idea came into Perry’s mind. “What was the name of the reporter who wrote that piece?”
“You mean sensationalized it?”
“Yeah,” Perry agreed. “What was her name?”
“Gayle Honeycutt.”
“Right.” Perry made a mental note.
Dr. Marshall looked intently at him. “Deputy, I know how hard your father was working to find the truth behind the disappearance of those missing girls. And now his death…” The professor shivered. “Something very strange is going on, and I hope you will keep alive his passion to find out what it is.”
“You have my word on that, Dr. Marshall.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smiled. “My condolences again.”
“Thank you.”
Perry watched her walk away. Then he slid in behind the steering wheel of his car and drove off campus. Once through the front gates, he picked up his cell and dialed 411.
“Lebanon, New York,” he said to the operator. “The number for Gayle Honeycutt.”
45
Not surprisingly, Sue couldn’t sleep that night.
Malika was still angry with her, and was spending the night in Sandy’s room. Sue didn’t blame her for being angry.
What’s happening to me? she kept thinking, tossing and turning in her bed. Why did I say those things to Malika?
And what did that girl mean, that my mother is alive?
Billy had found her slumped by the car. Tenderly, he’d helped her inside. He’d explained that Bernadette was indeed a little touched in the head. She’d imagined the Virgin Mary had spoken to her. He’d encouraged Sue not to put any stock in what she had to say.
That still didn’t explain why Sue had blacked out when the girl had touched her hand.
So much was unexplainable.
The face at the window.
The terrible headache.
The near certainty Sue felt that she was responsible for so much that had happened here.
And the most terrifying of all—the split personality that seemed to overtake her at t
imes…
What is happening? she thought again, staring at the ceiling.
She had tried calling her grandparents earlier that night. She’d gotten their answering machine, and hadn’t left a message.
What would I ask them anyway? Have you been lying to me all these years? Is my mother alive?
At least she could be grateful that she and Billy seemed back on track. He’d been so sweet, so caring, when he’d found her crying by the side of the car. He’d stroked her hair, told her that she meant the world to him…
Even though he’d been up to see Heidi, and had stroked her hair, too.
He hadn’t told her that. Sue just knew. She could see it all very clearly, just the way it had happened. Mike had seemed to respond to Billy’s presence, possibly even offering a small smile. At least Billy had thought so anyway. Encouraged, he’d gone down the hall to see Heidi. Her parents were only too glad to let him in. “Anything that might awaken her,” Heidi’s father had said. Billy had stood over the girl, stroked her hair, told her he wanted her to get well. He never told any of this to Sue. But she knew it all as a fact.
Lying there, thinking about it, seeing Billy touch Heidi’s hair, she did her best to control her jealousy. Her jealousy scared her.
So much scared her now.
Especially Joyce Davenport’s one-line e-mail back to her.
Dearest Sue, we will speak very soon. And then everything will make sense to you.
What did she mean?
What did Joyce Davenport know about her? About everything that was happening here?
She wasn’t aware that she was falling asleep, that sheer exhaustion was overtaking her nerves and her fear. She thought she was wide awake, in fact, and walking down the hallway on the third floor, heading to Room 323, where voices were calling to her through the door.
Sue, come join us…We’re having a party…