by Julia Keller
“Whoa.” Treadwell laughed. “I don’t mean to make light of your question, but—well, like I said, ‘Whoa.’ That’s quite a leap.” She paused. “Let me answer you this way. There’s a phenomenon called survivor syndrome. It has five parts. According to the psychologists who worked with the victims of Buffalo Creek, every survivor—to a greater or lesser degree—had aspects of these five parts in their subsequent behavior. The first is called death imprint. That refers to a memory of what actually happened that day. The picture in your head. And then there’s death guilt—you’re haunted by the idea that you lived while others died. The third is called psychic numbing. You just shut down, you withdraw from life, so that you can’t be hurt anymore. Then there’s impairment of relationships. It’s why some survivors can’t have healthy emotional bonds in their lives—marriage, close friendships. The fifth part of survivor syndrome is called significance. As human beings, we try to find meaning in the bad things that happen to us. We want our lives to matter—not to just be a bunch of random events, random catastrophes. We can put up with a lot—if we can find a frame for it. Some people seek that in religion. In the notion of God’s will. But in the case of Buffalo Creek, that was a real challenge. The flood happened not because there was a tornado or hurricane—but because a coal company cared more about its profits than about the people in that valley. Damned hard to find significance there.”
Treadwell had talked longer than she’d intended, and Bell could hear a note of summing-up in her tone. “Here’s what I can tell you, Mrs. Elkins. When I’m dealing with young people who have endured great psychic pain, as the children of Buffalo Creek did, I focus on the fifth element I told you about—the thing called significance. If we can see our lives as part of an ongoing story, then even the bad parts are somehow easier to deal with. There’s a meaning behind the story. Not just panic and pain.” She took a breath. She seemed to be thinking about how to make her next point.
“The worst thing you can do for someone who’s gone through a horrific ordeal,” Treadwell said, “is to strip away the meaning. To rob the experience of its significance. Because when you do that, all that’s left is the anguish. And that can be unbearable.” She paused. “Did childhood trauma make your man a murderer? I can’t say. But human emotions can be wildly volatile. And sometimes extremely dangerous. You have to handle them with great care.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate your expertise.”
“Not at all. And now I’d better go unpack.” She paused. “Next time you talk to David…”
“Yes?”
“Oh, I was just going to have you tell him that I miss him. I really do. Divorces just suck, don’t they?” She laughed. “Jesus—I sound like my son. He’s seventeen and every other word is ‘suck.’ Or ‘like.’ Anyway, what I mean is, things got a little nasty between David and Lesley when they first broke up. I felt caught between them. And I’ve known her longer. So I owed my loyalty there, you know?”
“I do.” Bell had lost a few friends herself by virtue of the same rough justice.
“But he’s a great guy. And an amazing dad. I don’t know what you two are—I mean, I don’t know if you’re—” Another short gust of laughter. “Oh, hell. If you’re dating him, Mrs. Elkins, I hope things work out for you.”
* * *
The drive from Shelton Avenue to the Raythune County Medical Center took only about fifteen minutes, but Bell didn’t want to waste even one of them. She dialed Jake Oakes’s cell before backing out of her driveway.
“So how’d I do today?” he said in a light, bantering tone, dancing his way through double entendres. “Always glad to get a little feedback from a lady, if you know what I mean. Might help me improve my technique.”
“Fine, Deputy.” She was brusque. The night-shrouded neighborhood was whipping past the windows of her Explorer, and she felt precious time slipping away from her as well. “Need you to do a little more digging for me. Would you have time to make a few calls? I’ll clear it with the sheriff.”
“Count on it.” Oakes suddenly became all business, as if her seriousness was contagious. At first she’d been suspicious of his ability to turn on a dime from smart-ass quipster to diligent law enforcement professional, but now it didn’t bother her; she had even come to admire it. Maybe that was how he handled the stress of the job. The jokes, the sexy strut—maybe that was how he lived with the things he was forced to look at, day after day, from mauled bodies to the routine sadness of messed-up lives. Everybody in this line of work had to find their own way.
“Good,” she said. “Can you be discreet?”
“Discretion’s my middle name.”
“Thought you didn’t have one.”
She waited for him to come up with a snappy retort. To her surprise, he didn’t; he was too focused. She told him what she needed.
Chapter Thirty-one
Rain began to fall shortly after midnight. It tapered off before dawn, and Bell managed to wedge in her early-morning walk with Goldie during that brief blessed interval. Then the rain came back, with clear intentions of settling in for the long haul. It was a wet, gray, mottled world. Waterlogged clouds strung themselves out across the sky.
People arrived in court that morning with a wilted, frazzled look; even those who’d enjoyed the moving roof of an umbrella seemed disgruntled, out of sorts, put upon. There was a feeling in the ancient room of creeping damp, infiltrating corners and moods accordingly.
Bell looked around. In the second row behind her, Diana Hackel was brushing off the sleeves of her raincoat. The belt didn’t fit around her middle anymore; secured by the loops across the back, it dangled at her sides like a second pair of arms. In the row behind Diana, Bell saw four courthouse regulars, the people for whom criminal trials were better than daytime TV. Mostly old, they settled into their seats each morning, canes held between their knees, expectancy in their eyes, swaying left or right to see around the heads of the people seated in front of them, each time there was an uptick in the action.
No Carolyn Runyon. And no one else from Mountain Magic, either. That was quick, Bell thought. Once Hackel’s value to the company had dropped to zero, owing to the inconvenient reality that he was dead, apparently they’d moved on. Business was business.
Serena Crumpler rose and called her first witness. He was Roland Atwood, vice president of the surveying firm hired to mark off sections of land for various parts of the resort.
“Help us understand something, Mr. Atwood,” Serena said, once he’d identified himself and was sworn in. “Mountain Magic purchased more than twelve hundred acres across Raythune and adjacent counties to build this resort. Why is the single parcel owned by Mr. Dillard so crucial? Why not just change things around a bit, so that you don’t need his land?”
Atwood was a large, rugged-looking man who clearly spent a good portion of his workday outdoors. The skin on his wide face had the texture of saddlebag leather, and his neck and hands were burnt red from sun exposure. Yet he didn’t seem ill at ease in a suit and tie, either; Bell surmised that he also spent time in the firm’s home office in Arlington, Virginia. He was obviously accustomed to testifying in a courtroom. He spoke clearly, calmly, if a bit louder and slower than was necessary.
“Yes, ma’am, some people might see that as a workable solution,” Atwood said. “Just buy another patch of land on another end of the entire parcel or just make do with what’s already procured. But this is about interstate access, not total acreage. Royce Dillard’s land provides the only reasonable and cost-effective way to get to the interstate. If we can’t secure his land, we’ll have to persuade the state to let us build a new interstate exit—at company expense. That’ll add tens of millions of dollars to the cost. And push back the completion date by a couple of years. Maybe longer.”
“I see.” Serena sneaked a sideways look at the jurors, to make sure they understood the implications of this testimony. “So Edward Hackel, the man in charge of getting Mr. Dillard to sell his lan
d, was highly motivated. Highly motivated to harangue Mr. Dillard about it, no matter how many times he was rebuffed.”
That elicited a grim smile from Atwood. “I don’t know about the word ‘harangue,’ ma’am—your description, not mine—but your point is basically right. Ed had to get that land. If he didn’t, the entire project would stop.”
“What was Edward Hackel like when he was opposed? Was he calm, reasonable, patient?”
“No, ma’am. Eddie was a hothead. Screamed a lot, jumped around, made a lot of threats. A real volatile guy when it came to business. With that temper of his, Ed was a magnet for death threats.”
Bell scooted her chair back fast and stood up. “Your Honor—”
“Got it, Mrs. Elkins,” the judge said. “Ms. Crumpler, you know better than that. Unless your witness has knowledge of a credible threat from a specific person, it’s hearsay.” He looked sternly at the jury. “Please disregard the last remark of this witness.” He settled back in his chair again, the black robe folding around him. “You may continue, Ms. Crumpler.”
But the point, Bell knew, had been made. So Royce Dillard had threatened to kill Hackel? Well, a lot of other people had done the same thing. Or wanted to. And at the end of the day, a defense attorney’s job wasn’t to prove her client’s innocence; it was to persuade the jury that the prosecution hadn’t proved his guilt.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Atwood,” Serena said. “You’ve testified that if the victim didn’t get that land for Mountain Magic, the project would stop. But why? I mean, couldn’t you just wait him out? In a few years, maybe he’d change his mind.”
Atwood shook his head. “Project this big and complex requires a lot of up-front outlay,” he said. “So there’s millions of dollars just sitting around until we get the green light to break ground. These kinds of investors—they have a ton of other places they can put their money. No reason they should just hang around through all of the arguing and the mountain-moving.”
“Mountain-moving?”
“Yes, ma’am. Without Royce Dillard’s land, the only place we can feasibly put that new exit would require us to relocate a mountain. As roadblocks go, that one’s a doozy.”
* * *
When Bell returned to her office for the lunch recess, Lee Ann Frickie handed her a note upon which she had written, Dep O wd like u 2 call. Long before anyone had ever heard of texting, Lee Ann had practiced the art of the tersely compacted message.
Oakes answered his cell before the end of the first ring. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry I’m not there in person, but the sheriff sent me out here to Willow Road. Report of shots fired. Probably just some good ole boys aiming at beer cans lined up on a barrel, but you never know. Anyway, I did what you asked.”
“And?”
“Got some mighty interesting things to tell you. Give me a minute to pull over.”
Waiting for Oakes to return to the line, Bell was struck by how much she’d come to trust him and depend on him in a short period of time. Their rocky beginnings were forgotten. It was Jake Oakes who had tracked down Artie Munson, whose testimony allowed her to prove that Hackel knew about Dillard and the drugs. And it was Oakes who kept a constant eye on things out at Mountain Magic, where, he told Bell, the cranes and the graders and the bulldozers were still poised expectantly in neat, expensive rows.
His voice was steady but excited. “Okay. To begin with, Diana Hackel’s ‘business’ isn’t much of a business at all. In fact, it’s a big bunch of nothing so far. I checked with the chamber of commerce in Falls Church—there’s no record of her trying to establish any kind of business or renting any office space. But just to make sure, I checked with the Virginia secretary of state’s office. No request to register a name for a new business, either. Now, when I called the Fairfax County Courthouse, a lady there told me that she does remember a Diana Hackel picking up some forms, with information on zoning and sales tax regulations. But Hackel didn’t ask any other questions. Didn’t seem real interested in starting a business. Just wanted the forms.”
“A courthouse employee told you all that over the phone?” Bell said.
“Guess my charm doesn’t require a personal appearance to be effective. It’s a gift.”
She was rather glad he’d returned to his arrogant self; there was a comfortable familiarity to it.
“Okay, go on,” Bell said.
“Checked out McGloin, like you asked. It’s in the fine print, but he’s not just an employee of Mountain Magic. He’s a major stockholder. Got a big financial stake in the resort.”
“Right. And?”
Oakes uttered a lazy-sounding laugh. “I felt like a reporter for TMZ, but I got the information you were after. Yeah, Carolyn Runyon has a history of getting involved with her male colleagues. I dug through the public record and sure enough—she was named in a divorce proceeding four years ago in Anne Arundel County in Maryland. Runyon was a VP for the hedge fund where this guy was CFO. Lots of nasty details—racy e-mails, X-rated gifts, that kind of crap. The wife was madder’n hell and wanted it all on the record.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem. I better go. Those liquored-up hillbillies out there might be turning their attention from beer cans to the family cat.”
Bell expected him to end the call, but he didn’t. “Hey,” he said, as if he’d needed a couple of seconds to work up the nerve. “Can I ask you something?” Oakes took her silence as an affirmative reply. “Listen,” he continued, “I’m happy to help, but I gotta ask—why’d you want me to do all this? Royce Dillard’s the one on trial.”
“Grant you that. We’ve got the right man. But we’ve got to have a plausible reason, so that my summation to the jury sounds convincing. Would Dillard kill Ed Hackel because Hackel kept pushing him to sell his land? Would Dillard kill him because Hackel threatened to expose his complicity with drug dealers? Or was it something else entirely?”
“Good Lord,” Oakes said. “How many motives do you need, lady?”
“Just one. The right one.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The other car sliced meanly out of the darkness, as swift and ominous as a shark’s fin. Bell hadn’t seen it behind her, but suddenly there it was—beside her now—as it passed her on Route 6, a two-lane road picketed with frequent and conspicuous NO PASSING signs. It looked less like another vehicle and more like a black slash of restless momentum. If a superhero lived in Acker’s Gap, that’s what she would drive, Bell told herself, not without admiration. Then she shook her head, realizing that admiration was not the proper response from a prosecutor observing a crime. The car had to be going at least thirty miles over the speed limit, overtaking the Explorer with an effortless karate-kick of speed.
She’d had a long day in court, and then a longer-than-usual time at home with Goldie. The dog wasn’t feeling well. Bell had drizzled a little bacon grease on her food; Goldie perked up long enough to lick it off. Then Bell sat on the floor with Goldie’s head in her lap, stroking that fluffy, supple yellow fur, murmuring to her. Good girl. You’re a good, good girl. Goldie’s tail finally thumped: A positive sign. She was her old self again. One quick walk, and then it was time for Bell to leave for the hospital.
She had just turned onto Route 6 when the Batmobile boiled up from out of nowhere. For the fraction of a second it was alongside her, prior to its quick shift back into her lane ahead of her, Bell looked over. It was Carolyn Runyon. She was certain of it. All she could see was a dark profile, but there was something in the way the other driver held her chin, the cocky angle of it, that was familiar. Just for the hell of it, as the car’s taillights began to open up a wide lead, Bell accelerated, too. She would never have caught up, but they were both stopped by the red light at the intersection with County Road 17.
Waiting for the light to change, Bell kept her eyes on the back of the driver’s head. She wasn’t surprised that Carolyn Runyon was in such a hurry; she had impressed Bell from the outset as the kind of person w
ho was always in a hurry. Acker’s Gap must be a kind of hell for her. She must feel as if the whole town moved in slow motion, like a person walking underwater, every step burdened and deliberate, the pace unbearably turgid.
The dome light in the other car snapped on. Runyon leaned over to her right, exposing her profile. Reaching for something in the glove box, maybe.
Bell realized, to her surprise, that it wasn’t Carolyn Runyon. It was Diana Hackel. And then the light changed and the Batmobile leapt away.
* * *
When she arrived at the hospital, she found Nick alone in his room. No Mary Sue.
“Hey,” Bell said.
He’d been watching television. The too-loud laughter from a sitcom had been audible from the hallway as she approached, and it surprised her; she’d never known Nick Fogelsong to be much of a TV watcher. Not of commercial television, anyway. Among his most prized possessions was a DVD series of documentaries about the major battles of World Wars I and II, and she knew he’d watched those enough times to have memorized the voiceover narration—but a sitcom? No.
He aimed the remote-control channel changer at the set bracketed on the wall opposite the bed. One click and both noise and picture vanished.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “How’s that dog?”
“Wearing me out. Three walks a day, and she’s always begging for more.”
“It’ll keep you young.”
“Or make me old before my time. Could go either way.”
“And the trial?” he asked. “I haven’t been keeping up. Can’t focus.”
“Expect we’ll be wrapping up soon. Rhonda Lovejoy’s doing a great job assisting me.”
“Even though she thinks you might have the wrong man? She’s been by here a few times. Mentioned her reservations.”
“Fortunately,” Bell said, “she keeps that opinion to herself while the jury’s present.” She took off her coat and slung it across the second chair in the room, the one usually occupied by his wife. “I’ll move that when Mary Sue gets back. Is she making a coffee run?”