Devil Smoke

by C. J. Lyons

  The parking lot barely earned its name. It was a simple hard-packed dirt clearing with space for maybe ten cars max. The sign for the trail was its only adornment—that, plus a notice with hunting regulations and the remains of the shattered car windows sparkling against the dirt. Apart from the Volvo, the lot was empty.

  “You’re sure about this?” Tommy asked while he undid his seat belt.

  “Yes. It’s better than sitting around worrying.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “Okay. But after a head injury you don’t want to stress your body. If you get tired or dizzy or get a headache, tell me. And we go slow and easy.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “I feel fine.”

  “It’s strange. Most people after a concussion, they’re fuzzy, little things confuse them. But you, you’re so certain, so clear.”

  “Clear. I like that word. As if all those memories were a burden, blinding me, muddying things. I feel… light. Like I’ve shed a weight. Does that make sense?”

  It did. But he didn’t want to crush her mood with an explanation of la belle indifférence and the power of denial to protect a mind against overwhelming circumstances. So he merely nodded and got out of the car.

  Sarah joined him, hoisting her camera bag over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. It was almost noon, the sun not quite above the top of the mountain, leaving them in its shadow.

  “I must have parked over there.” Sarah pointed to the other side of the clearing as she peered into the camera’s view screen.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Look at the angle of the shot of the sign. It’s the first photo on the card.” She thrust the camera at him. “Here. You follow through the camera while I see where my instincts take me.”

  The camera was heavier than he’d expected—and this was only the body with one small lens attached to it. She carried a selection of larger lenses in the bag slung over her shoulder. He quickly oriented himself to the camera’s basic viewing functions, keeping his fingers away from anything that looked like it might alter her settings or take a picture, and followed her past the sign onto the trail.

  The sunlight filtered through the trees in a cascade of pale gold ribbons that shifted with the wind. The forest was thick with pines, hemlocks, oaks, and maples, and the terrain on either side of the trail varied from moss-covered limestone ledges to spongy carpets of decaying leaves and pine needles. The scent was heavenly, waking Tommy up as if he’d been trapped within a long winter’s slumber. In a way, he had been.

  He pushed thoughts of his own problems aside as he focused on Sarah’s photos, guiding them like landmarks on a tourist’s map. Often they’d have to backtrack as Sarah’s original path rambled back and forth away from the well-trodden main trail into the scrub and brush, searching out hidden gems of rock formations, plant life, and compositions of light and shadow.

  “What’s that?” He stopped to peer at the next photo. It was a close-up of a small, delicate flower—a pink lady’s slipper. Beside it, on a bed of moss, was a bright metal object: a small, silver ballerina performing a pirouette. Except the leg holding her upright, the straight leg, had been broken off.

  Tommy jerked upright, scanning his surroundings, feeling as if someone was watching him. That same sucker-punch feeling that came with being the butt of a sick joke.

  No one was watching. No one was even near except Sarah, who was bent over examining a cluster of teaberry plants.

  He sucked in his breath, bracing himself, and dared to glance back at the camera screen. It was still there. The charm, as broken as a promise, taunting him with impossible possibilities. He squinted, enlarging the image. How could this be happening?

  “Sarah, look at this. Where did you take this?” His words snapped through the air between them, but she didn’t seem to understand his urgent need for answers.

  Slowly she rose and took the camera from him. “Oh, I quite like that composition.”

  He tapped the screen, pointing to the broken dancer. “Where is it? The charm?”

  “How should I know? Around here somewhere. Why?”

  “My wife. She had a charm bracelet. When Nellie was born I gave her a ballerina charm exactly like that one.” He crouched low to the ground, searching for the flower or any glint of metal.

  She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Maybe he had. “Tommy, there are millions of charms like that one.”

  “Not with the leg broken off. Nellie was playing with the bracelet and broke it just a few days before Charlotte went missing.”

  “There’s no way—”

  “Just help me find it. Please.”

  Without another word, she joined him in the hunt. It was backbreaking work, scouring the detritus beneath the trees. They went to the location of the next set of photos—an easily recognizable rock formation a few yards away—and Sarah worked her way back along one side of the trail while Tommy took the other.

  Then he spotted it. A pillow of moss tucked in below a rotting log. The flower with its dark pink “slipper” dangling down between two shiny green leaves. And beside it, the charm.

  He sank onto his knees, the damp from the ground seeping into his bones.

  Sarah came up behind him, taking pictures, the sound of the camera drowning out the rest of the world. Or maybe that was his shock, pushing everything else aside.

  “Maybe you should leave it there,” she said. “In case it really is hers?”

  She was right. If this was evidence, he should leave it for the police. But he also knew there was no way in hell Burroughs would ever come out here. For what? A charm that was no doubt sold in thousands of stores across the country? Even the broken leg wouldn’t convince Burroughs—he’d say that this charm design probably just had a weak, defective spot. If one broke, they probably all did.

  He used a leathery maple leaf to coax the charm free from the moss. Up close, there was still nothing to indicate that it was Charlotte’s. There was no special inscription, no unique markings other than the broken leg.

  “Tommy.” Sarah sank down beside him and rested her palm on his shoulder. She sighed. “It can’t be hers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because look at it. It’s pristine. Lying on top of the moss. If it had been out here a year, it would be all grimy and covered with leaves and dirt.”

  “Maybe you moved it? To compose your photo? Cleaned it up?”

  She frowned, looked into the camera for answers. “I can’t remember, but looking at all these, nothing appears to have been staged. In fact, there are a few that would have been better compositions if I had rearranged the elements. But I didn’t.”

  “Well, then maybe it wasn’t here a year.” He dared to meet her gaze. “Maybe she was here. Herself. Maybe she’s still alive.”

  Chapter 15

  AFTER HER CONFRONTATION with Jesus-nailed-to-the-cross, Nellie couldn’t stomach staying where his eyes followed her everywhere she went. She ran past the altar, barely remembering to genuflect and cross herself, and into the forbidden, secret room behind it.

  It wasn’t so much a room as a closet. There was a large T-shaped wooden thing that seemed to be a coat stand for the pretty priest coats they only wore during Mass. The one hanging there now, waiting for Father Stravinsky, was cream with gold trim and tiny flowers sewn all over it. There was also a table with two gold chalices, a wash bowl, pretty embroidered towels—the kind Mommy said were only for show, not to actually wipe her hands on—and a glass jug of wine. Another crucifix hung above the table, but it was small, not scary at all.

  On the other side of the closet was a door leading out. Nellie opened it and peeked through. It opened onto a hallway that ran along the back of the church. There was a door going outside, and past it a set of steps leading down. The stairs looked like a good place to hide until her class finished Mass; then she could sneak back into the school.

  Checking again that no one was around to see her, she left the closet and raced to the s
taircase. It led down to a musty hallway, illuminated by only a few naked bulbs. It smelled of cleaning chemicals and old paper.

  The first door led to a room with a big furnace that looked scary, so she shut it and kept going. The next doors were storage rooms. One had boxes and boxes of paper—this was where the musty smell came from. Nellie wrinkled her nose; she’d be sneezing the entire time if she hid in there.

  She found a room filled with athletic equipment stacked in racks, and across the hall was a room filled with folded canvas tents—even more smelly than the room with the papers.

  The next door, though, opened onto a magical world. She stood in the doorway, stunned. The Christmas nativity scene—except for the straw and twinkle lights—was arranged before her, larger than life. Joseph stood behind his wife, protecting her and watching over their baby, just like Daddy did—only without the beard. The baby lay in the cradle, arms and legs kicking like he was laughing.

  But it was Mary who held Nellie’s attention. The Blessed Virgin Mother knelt, arms spread as if ready to hold her baby in her lap, smiling the same smile Mommy used to give Nellie. That smile was almost the only thing Nellie could remember every day; other things came and went before she could figure out a way to hang on to them, to keep them safe forever—or at least until Mommy came back.

  She stepped inside the room, its only light the gleam from the hall and the wispy smudge from a tiny basement window high in the wall. She stopped and held her breath, half-expecting someone—the angel or one of the wise men—to tell her to leave, that bad girls like her didn’t belong here, didn’t deserve a mommy and daddy to look after them. But no one moved. No one said anything.

  She closed the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she carefully crept over to the Blessed Virgin—Mary looked so much happier before she became the Lady of Sorrows and someone pierced her heart with a sword—and crawled onto her lap. The statue was wood, hard, with tiny ridges where they’d carved the folds of her dress, but Nellie didn’t care. She twisted her body, fitting just right, head resting against one of Mary’s arms. Mary beamed down at her as if she’d been waiting forever for just this moment to hold Nellie.

  Nellie had promised herself a long time ago that she wouldn’t cry anymore. Crying meant people asking questions she had no answers to. Like why was she crying, and when was her mother coming back, and didn’t she want to be a big, brave girl?

  Or worse, crying meant seeing her father blink back his own tears before he’d pretend to be big and brave and strong. He’d wrap his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest to where she felt his heart beating, and she knew it was breaking and she’d only cry harder for them both.

  But here, that promise held no power. Joseph seemed to nod to her, the light coming from above and behind him, telling her it was all right: he’d watch over her and no one would know. And Mary cradled her and smiled Mommy’s secret smile that was just for Nellie. Everything was going to be okay, that smile said. After all, she was the Mother of God; she should know.

  Nellie missed that smile so much. She curled up and sobbed, until finally she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  <><><>

  LUCY AND WASH were on the phone with Burroughs, reviewing the credit card reports Burroughs had run on Sarah after he’d verified her social security number and identity.

  “Her car getting broken into was a real blessing,” he told them. “Since her wallet was stolen, we can investigate her as a possible identity theft victim, which gives us access to her recent transaction history.”

  “You’re placing a hold on her credit for her, right?” Last thing Sarah needed was to regain her memory only to find her finances ruined.

  “Yeah, what little there is. Only two credit cards, both with the wrong address, one with her name spelled B-r-o-w-n-e and the other with Sarah spelled without the H. Like she’s leaving a false trail for anyone looking for her.”

  “Fits with her fleeing a stalker,” Lucy told Burroughs, looking over Wash’s shoulder while he scrolled through the credit card statements Burroughs had emailed.

  “They both were used for small purchases,” Wash said. “Less than twenty-five dollars. Mainly magazine subscriptions—sent to two more false addresses.”

  “What the hell is she hiding from?” Burroughs said.

  “You mean who the hell. Anything on the dress and card TK brought you?”

  She could almost hear his eye roll over the phone. “You’re joking, right? A few smudged prints, but I’m certain they’re all from Sarah and your people.” She noticed he avoided mentioning Tommy by name. “I tagged and bagged them just to preserve chain of custody, but there’s nothing helpful. I sent TK back to stay with Sarah.”

  Interpretation: to relieve Tommy so he wasn’t left alone with Sarah. While she appreciated Burroughs’ help and his protective instincts, it was her team, and she’d run it the way she thought best. She was about to tell him exactly that when TK walked in the door. “Thanks, Burroughs. Let us know if you turn up anything else.”

  “You, too.” He hung up.

  “That was Burroughs?” TK asked. “He about laughed me out of the station house when I showed up with that damned dress.”

  “Don’t take it personally. He’s just frustrated. Hard enough to help a woman who has lost her memory, but looks like Sarah was deliberately hiding her tracks even before she hit her head.”

  TK flounced into the chair beside Wash, angling herself so she had a good view of his screens. “I know. You should see her place—everything she owns fits into one suitcase.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Wash said.

  “That’s because I was homeless,” she retorted. TK wasn’t ashamed of her past; she saw it as a failing of society when a decorated veteran working two jobs couldn’t pay for a roof over her head, not a failing of her own. “Sarah has a home. Only it sure as hell doesn’t feel like one.”

  “So you and Tommy didn’t find anything.”

  “Not a takeout menu, no pizza coupons, not even a fridge magnet. Only thing in her trash was the receipt Tommy sent to Wash.”

  “Yeah, about that…”

  Lucy turned to the analyst. “What?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if it means anything. The receipt is from the same Sheetz Tommy’s wife was last seen at. I mean, I know it’s a year apart, but isn’t that kind of weird?”

  TK stretched her legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “I doubt it. That stretch of highway, your choices are limited. Sheetz or keep going to the interstate with that skeevy truck stop. If you’re a woman, you always go for Sheetz.”

  “Cleanest restrooms around,” Lucy explained. “TK’s right. I’ve been there myself.”

  “Okay, so just a freaky, small-world thing.” Wash shrugged and cleared his screen. “Then we’ve officially got nothing.”

  He and TK looked to Lucy as if expecting her to conjure a woman’s life from thin air. “Not nothing,” Lucy said. “We have a vulnerable victim who is a potential target.”

  “And who would have no idea if she came face to face with her stalker.” TK shuddered. “I can not even imagine being that powerless.”

  “Thoughts on the best way to protect her while we keep running the databases and track down any family?”

  “What about having her bunk here?” TK said. “If it’s okay with Valencia. I’ll crash now, pull guard duty tonight.”

  “Guard duty?” Wash sounded alarmed. “You really think someone could track her back here? And get through Valencia’s security?”

  “The police put her out there on every screen in the area with the public service announcements before Burroughs canceled them,” Lucy answered. “Anyone looking for Sarah knows she’s working with us, that she has no clue who’s stalking her. What better time to strike?”

  Chapter 16

  TOMMY ROLLED THE tiny ballerina over in his palm, still protected from his flesh by the maple leaf. Sarah was right: there was no way to be certain
it was Charlotte’s charm. Hell, he couldn’t even be one hundred percent certain it was the same size and pose as Charlotte’s dancing girl. Had she had both her arms up like this one? Or had one been stretched out and the other curved into the air?

  He blinked back his confusion. A year was simply too long for a man’s mind not to lose grasp of essential bits and pieces. It was hard enough to keep hold of Charlotte’s laugh, the special sly smile she had for him when they were alone in bed, the way her hands and feet were always moving, dancing to invisible music…

  “What should we do?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t know.” He shoved the charm, leaf and all, into his jacket pocket and stood. “Keep following your trail, I guess.”

  She kept hold of the camera—a good thing, the way his hands were trembling—and led the way. They both moved more slowly now, searching for… what? If he didn’t know, how could she?

  They entered a tunnel formed by centuries-old mountain laurel. Dark foliage and intertwined branches created the walls and roof, and thousands of pale flowers hung from stems, like stars showered across the night sky. The air was still here, noise muffled as if they stood apart from the rest of the world. Sheltered.

  Sarah stopped in the middle of the tunnel to look around, both through her camera and her eyes. “It’s so beautiful. How could I have forgotten this?”

  Tommy could only nod; he didn’t trust his voice. All he could think was how much Charlotte would love this place.

  “I’m sorry.” Sarah turned to him, touching his arm. She did that a lot. Whoever she was, she was the touchy-feely type. Not that he minded, it was just that he wasn’t used to anyone touching him. No one had, not like that, gentle, familiar reminders that he wasn’t alone—not since Charlotte.