Last Ragged Breath

by Julia Keller

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Bell said. “Yes. A real dog. Her name’s Goldie.” Once again, the tail reacted to the familiar syllables.

  “And the dog’s still alive, right? I mean, you didn’t, like, tie her to your back bumper and then forget all about her and just drive off to work this morning?”

  “Hilarious. Yes, she’s doing fine.”

  “That’s a relief. Now I don’t have to call the authorities. Report animal cruelty.”

  “I am the authorities,” Bell shot back. “My turn to pry. How’re you doing?”

  She kept her tone light, same as Shirley had, but she needed to know. Right after Shirley’s release from prison, she’d had a hard time finding a job, and an even harder time finding the balance between sudden freedom and the self-discipline necessary for a meaningful life. Shirley had run wild. Then she had settled down. They didn’t get together often—Shirley and her partner lived in a garage apartment thirty-five miles away—but she and Bell knew things about each other that no one else on earth knew. Or would ever want to, Bell always reminded herself, when contemplating their early days, riven as they were with trauma and sorrow.

  “Doing great,” Shirley said.

  “You always say that.”

  “’Cause it’s always true.”

  “How’s the job?”

  “It’s a job. That’s about it.”

  Shirley was a cashier at an auto parts store in Blythesburg. Not ideal, she’d told Bell, but until she could find something better, this would do. She had tried to make a living as the manager of her boyfriend’s band, but it was hard to make ends meet on what he picked up from playing in bars.

  “If you need anything,” Bell said, “like a loan, maybe I could—”

  “We’re fine, Belfa. Fine.” Shirley cut her off instantly. They’d had this conversation before. Almost word for word.

  “I just want to be sure you know that—”

  “I know.” Shirley cut her off again, but not harshly this time. “I do. I really do. Appreciate it, Belfa. But I got this. Okay?”

  Bell had reached the end of Oakmont Boulevard. The intensifying darkness persuaded her it was time to head home; she was grateful for the porch lights popping on at random throughout the neighborhood. She executed a wide, sweeping turn, like a battleship with new orders. Goldie turned along with her.

  “Okay,” Bell said. She crossed the street, so that Goldie would have fresh ground to sniff.

  “So we’re good?”

  “We’re good.”

  “Okay.” Shirley hung up. Yes, it was a too-abrupt end to the conversation, but Bell was used to that; Shirley’s long years in prison had sliced the manners from her personality, the way you’d trim excess material when hemming a pair of pants. In a place like Lakin Correctional Center, where Shirley had spent more than half her life, manners were a liability. A sign of weakness. Weakness could get you hurt or killed. In a perverse way, then, Bell was grateful for Shirley’s lack of please-and-thank-you habits. It had ensured her survival. Brought her back here.

  “Love you too, sis,” Bell said into the phone, knowing that her sister was long gone, but saying it anyway.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The name was ridiculous. It was stupid and juvenile, like something you’d call a ninety-proof beverage concocted in a backwoods still.

  Yet there it was—MOUNTAIN MAGIC—emblazoned in red letters on a white vinyl banner that proudly spanned the stupendous length of the construction trailer, tied off at either end with a big red vinyl bow. Bell could see it from a long way off, and it set her to wondering: How many arrogant, overpaid, squash-playing, Jaguar-driving, latte-slurping advertising geniuses had gathered in a fancy New York City office to come up with that embarrassment of a name?

  She further wondered what Edward Hackel had thought of it. He must’ve had to say “Mountain Magic” a hundred and fifty times a day, give or take. He was the one, after all, charged with hyping the project, with chatting it up, with luring investors and keeping them happy and excited, and then lining up the real estate that would accommodate the hotel and the restaurant and the casino and the golf course and the pools and the riding stables and the helipad. He was the one who had kept the entire project racing along—until it hit a speed bump.

  A speed bump known as Royce Dillard.

  It was Thursday morning. The sky was the color of polished pearl. Five days had passed since Hackel’s body was found in Old Man’s Creek; two days after that, Dillard had been formally charged with his murder. And yet Bell still had no real sense of Hackel. No way to gauge how far he would have gone to make the resort a reality, and if his zeal had somehow brought about his death.

  Bell parked in front of the trailer. It was surrounded by an alert-looking assembly of shiny SUVs and two-ton pickups in primary colors. Her Explorer was the only vehicle on the lot that could have benefited from the immediate services of a car wash. The others all looked as if they were washed and polished once an hour, with touchups at the thirty-minute mark.

  She hadn’t come alone, but she might as well have, for all the company Deputy Oakes had provided. He was still smarting from having lost the argument over who was going to drive. Bell had prevailed, because the department’s Chevy Blazers both happened to be in use this morning. Oakes, the visible embodiment of a bad attitude, had pitched himself into her passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind him with as loud a bang as he could manage to make. Arms crossed, chin turned to the window, he’d barely said a word during the entire trip. He’d edged perilously close to Royce Dillard territory when it came to being uncommunicative.

  “Ever been out here?” Bell asked. She reached round and fetched her briefcase from the backseat.

  “Couple of times,” was Oakes’s sullen reply. “They’ve got their own security, but when the alarm’s tripped in the middle of the night, they call us for backup. Every friggin’ time, it’s a deer or a raccoon that wandered past the motion detector.” He slid out, stood up, and put his hat on his head. He was muscular, and nimble in his movements, with a handsomeness that was more than just an accumulation of pleasing features. He had a hard jaw, black hair, and soft green eyes, but he also had a self-confidence that rode out ahead of his physical appearance and struck its own deal with the world, on terms inordinately favorable to himself. Oakes chewed gum constantly, and he chewed it in that slow, insinuating way that was ultimately more insulting to an adversary than a wad of carefully aimed spittle.

  Bell could well understand why his hiring by the sheriff’s department had caused such a ruckus among courthouse employees. She also understood Pam Harrison’s reason for going outside Raythune County for the pick: They’d had some bad luck with local hires in law enforcement. It was time to acknowledge that people who’d grown up seeing the mountains from a different angle—or had seen no mountains at all—might bring a fresh perspective.

  “So you’ve met the head of security,” Bell said. They were approaching the neat little porch affixed to the trailer’s entrance. The porch was accessed by four metal steps and a railing on both sides.

  “Paul McGloin. Yeah, sure.”

  “You two hit it off?”

  “Guess so. Why?”

  “Because I’d appreciate it if you and your buddy could maybe go amble around the property and talk about manly things while I speak to Runyon. Divide and conquer.”

  Oakes stopped chewing his gum for a moment. He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or not.

  “Okay,” he said, thinking about it as he led the way up the steps. “So we want to separate boss and employee.” He punch-knocked on the trailer door. “Gotcha.”

  While they waited for a response, Bell treated herself and took in the view. Mountains rose all around this spot like a choir loft in a cathedral. The mountains were three-dimensionally vivid in the crystalline air, still glistening with a whisper of morning frost. The hotel would be located right here, meaning that the windows of every room would look out u
pon a visual miracle. Beyond the closer mountains were others, and still more after that, crossing in front of each other in receding rows of sweeping rise and steep descent. Bell knew her home state well, but sometimes, when she got away from the parts where the people and all of their sorrows lived, she saw it in a whole new light. It was then that the central tragedy of West Virginia—soaring natural beauty marred by the ugliness of human greed, a greed that doomed too many of its people to live in poverty—was most apparent. The loveliness of this land depressed Bell far more than did its squalor. Squalor was only squalor; the loveliness revealed what could have been.

  McGloin answered the deputy’s knock. Bell had never met him before, but there were no introductions; the security chief nodded and grunted to Oakes as they entered. Bell had called and made the appointment the day before, yet McGloin still seemed pissed off by the visit, as if she’d interrupted something vital. He wore his dark hair raked back into the pert knob of a ponytail. The stubble on his face was artful; you could easily believe he’d spent hours with a razor, getting it just right. A gold earring dangled from one ear. His clothes were black and tight, just uncomfortable enough to be stylish.

  “Mrs. Elkins,” said a silky female voice from the far end of the trailer. “Good morning.”

  This was a different Carolyn Runyon from the angry, belligerent woman who had stood in Sheriff Harrison’s office on Saturday night. After greeting Bell, she quickly rose behind the large teak drafting table upon which she’d been making notes in a small notebook. Approaching them, the hand she extended was slender and steady; the elegant diamond bracelet encircling her wrist barely stirred as she shook their hands.

  “Please,” Runyon said. “Sit down. And welcome to the headquarters of Mountain Magic—at least until the hotel is finished, after which we can move in there and spread out a bit while we start Phase II of the construction.” She chose a seat on the black leather sofa next to Bell. Oakes remained standing by the door.

  “Most of my staff,” Runyon added, “is out by the lake right now, going over a drainage issue. We need to have it resolved before we break ground.”

  “So that’s coming up soon?” Bell said. “Even with the death of Edward Hackel?”

  “It’s what Ed would have wanted,” Runyon said solemnly. She closed her eyes and dipped her head for a few seconds. Bell took the opportunity to look around.

  Arranged throughout the trailer’s spacious interior were sleek blond tables with complicated chrome underpinnings, black chairs and the matching sofa. In one corner, there was a cappuccino maker, mini-fridge, and microwave, all wrapped in shiny reflective black. Multiple surfaces were covered with blueprints, their curled edges held open with delicate stickpins. On one wall, large posters displayed painted scenes that were idealized versions of mountain gorges and summer-bright meadows and frothy rivers, with captions that varied from MOUNTAIN MAGIC—THE DREAM BECOMES REALITY to ALMOST HEAVEN: MOUNTAIN MAGIC! Classical music flowed discreetly in the background.

  The construction trailers Bell had seen on other job sites—dirty, cigarette-scented, crammed with tools and crumpled invoices and thermoses and thrown-down jackets and mud-crusted work boots—were nothing like this.

  “Look,” Runyon said. Her voice had a just-between-us-girls lilt to it. “Before we go any further, let me say that I’m really glad to have this chance to clear the air. I was pretty upset last weekend. I know I probably came off as the biggest bitch in the world. But in my own defense, I really do think I was in shock. Ed Hackel wasn’t just an employee. He was a friend. A very dear friend.”

  “Of course.” Without moving her head, Bell let her eyes rise to meet Oakes’s eyes.

  He got the hint. “Hey, McGloin,” he said, hitching up his trousers. “Mind showing me around outside? Only time I get out here, seems like, it’s pitch-black. Never really seen it at its best, you know?”

  Once they were alone, Runyon waved a hand toward the cappuccino maker. Bell shook her head.

  “No?” Runyon said. “Well, I think I’ll indulge, if you don’t mind. I’ve been here since four this morning. I start getting a little fatigued at about this time of day. Nothing like caffeine to put me right again.”

  The machine fussed and sputtered. Carolyn Runyon kept her back turned to Bell while it did its work, making conversation difficult. Bell wondered if that was the point.

  “There,” Runyon said, a few minutes later. She settled back down on the sofa, crossing her long, tautly muscled legs at the knee, holding the white saucer and cup. “All better now.”

  “Four in the morning,” Bell said. “That’s what I call dedication.”

  “Don’t have a choice. The surveying crew shows up at five, and then the engineers generally get here by six. It’s a very tight schedule, Mrs. Elkins. One delay can put us months behind. There’s a ripple effect. What looks like a small problem in one area can create a much larger problem in another. You’d be surprised how much preparation there has to be. Meticulous planning. By the time those bulldozers start rolling, we have to have every detail nailed down.”

  “It’s not just the preparation, though, right?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The holdup. It’s not just because you have to prepare so thoroughly, is it? You have to have Royce Dillard’s land. And he won’t sell it to you.”

  Runyon sipped the cappuccino. She took her time replacing the cup on the saucer. “Ed was working on that. I believe he was close to a breakthrough.”

  “Meaning he bullied Royce Dillard.” Bell didn’t bother trying to keep her tone casual anymore. “He badgered Dillard relentlessly. Never let up.”

  “I don’t think we should speak ill of the dead. Do you?”

  “I wasn’t. If anything, it was a compliment. As I understand it, that was Hackel’s job. Getting the land was his number-one priority.”

  “Fair point. And yes, I’d agree. Ed was—” Runyon paused. She made it clear that she was choosing her adjective with great care. “Effective,” she said, enunciating all three of its syllables as if she wanted to get them exactly right. There was admiration in her tone. “He was a salesman. Good salesmen can’t be timid. They can’t hold back and wait for things to happen. They have to charge ahead. They have to make them happen. Believe me, if Ed Hackel wanted something you had, he’d do whatever it took to get it. He was very diligent about research. About figuring out the best way to approach you. Just which buttons to push. Everyone’s different. It’s all about the research. That’s what made Ed such an excellent representative of this company.” She reached over to set down the saucer on a nearby table. “But I really hope you’re not here to suggest that Mr. Dillard was somehow justified in his attack on Ed.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Bell pulled a yellow legal pad out of her briefcase.

  “I’m putting together the trial brief,” she said. “It’s basically a script for what will be happening in the courtroom—as much as we can predict. Witnesses we intend to call, points we’ll be making. That way, the judge can be ready to rule on any points of law we reference.”

  “And you’ll be calling me.”

  “Yes. I’ll be calling you. I’ll ask you to describe what Edward Hackel did for your company. And I can tell you that when Mr. Dillard’s attorney cross-examines you, she’ll want to know why Hackel was repeatedly contacting Royce Dillard about his land, even after Dillard had turned him down.”

  Carolyn Runyon tucked her skirt more tightly under a firm thigh. She was, Bell noted, gym-hardened, one of those women whose slenderness meant that you could easily miss their sinewy strength.

  “Well,” Runyon said, “I’ve testified before—many times, in fact—but in civil trials, not criminal. There’s always a lot of litigation in real estate. My lawyer gets a new BMW every year, and I swear he ought to put my initials on the vanity plates. I’m quite sure my legal fees pay for most of the goddamned thing. Bloodsucking basta
rd.”

  Ah, Bell thought. A flash of the real Carolyn Runyon, the one she’d seen in Pam Harrison’s office on Saturday night: cold, bitchy, belittling. Bell wanted to keep that woman front and center. There was more chance of honesty and candor from her than from the mild, smiling, cappuccino-sipping version.

  “So what’s going to happen now?” Bell said. “You still need Dillard’s land. With Hackel gone and Dillard standing trial, how will you get it?”

  “We’re not giving up, if that’s what you mean. There’s simply too much at stake.” A determined smile, brave and hopeful. “Ed told me repeatedly that Royce Dillard isn’t interested in money. He’s living out in the middle of nowhere with that pack of wild dogs. Fine. But circumstances can change. You never know.”

  “True,” Bell said. She was a believer in the strategic value of suddenly changing the subject. “Just for the record, where were you last Thursday?”

  “You people,” Runyon said testily. “Jesus.” An irked shake of her head, sending her earrings into a brief tinkling dance. “You’ve got a man in custody. You know he’s guilty. Yet you insist on—”

  “It’s standard. We have to account for everyone’s whereabouts. Otherwise, the defense might try to float an alternative theory, and suggest we rushed to judgment in charging Dillard. We’ll be asking the same question of every one of your employees and all of your subcontractors—the ones who were on site last week. Plus anyone who had any contact with Mr. Hackel during the hours immediately preceding his death. Including his wife.”

  “Surely she was home in Falls Church. That’s where they live.”

  “The question is, Ms. Runyon—where were you?”

  “Here, mostly. My staff can vouch for that. And then back at the motel—and believe me, I spend a lot of time in the bar once the workday is over, and people saw me there, too.” She paused. “I already told all this to the deputy. The fat one. The one who interviewed me Saturday night—and who was very rude, by the way.”