by Joseph Souza
“Do you take all your dates to violent crime scenes?” I instantly scold myself for using the word date.
“So this is a date?” He caught it.
“No. This was part of our deal.”
“That was a great omelette.”
“It was an amazing omelette,” I say. “So what’s up with the prom tux?”
“For your information, sweetheart, these are my detective clothes, so don’t flatter yourself. I have to appear in court later today.”
“Did you just call me sweetheart?”
“Yup, but I’ll deny it if you cry sexual harassment or some other politically correct bullshit.”
He starts the car and drives for about ten minutes before turning onto a dirt road that cuts into the woods. It’s a road that I recognize from my youth. He slows the vehicle down, and we rock along the bumpy surface, branches sweeping against the side of the cruiser. We go about a mile before the road abruptly ends. He turns the ignition off and gets out without saying anything. Then he starts down a narrow trail leading to the Alamoosa River.
I try to follow him, but I realize I’m not in the best of shape. This depresses me because at one time I could run and hike for miles on end, and through the most difficult terrain. Thankfully, I’ve worn my boots today, but they’re loose fitting and cause me to occasionally trip over the rocky trail. It’s been a long time since I’ve made my way along this path. Branches whip back into me and block my view, making it difficult to tell how far Dalton has gone ahead of me. I stop for a second and pick a stick up off the trail to use for balance. Then I walk until I come to a clearing. Upon looking up, I see Dalton shuffling sideways down the steep bank that winds its way toward the river. I notice he’s tucked the bottom of his trousers into the boots he’s wearing. Using the walking stick, I carefully make my way down as the sound of the river gurgles in my ears.
A heavy rain season has led to a surging river. Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, I limp painfully over to where Dalton stands. Despite wearing his suit, he jumps onto one of the bigger rocks and stares down at me. By the time I reach him, I can see the slight depression located between the two boulders, and I can only assume that that’s where the girl was buried. This hike has taken a toll on my legs. They feel irritated and sore, and are clearly not cut out for this type of travel. Using the stick, I prop myself up onto the opposite rock so as not to be at a height disadvantage.
“Is this where she was murdered?”
“The Muslim bastards buried her up to her chest. Then threw rocks at her.”
So there’s where his bias lies; he assumes one of the immigrants did it. Still, the thought of the girl dying in this manner causes me to bristle, and try as I might, I can’t get the disturbing image out of my head. What had she done to deserve such punishment? I know from personal experience that in some parts of Afghanistan the sentence of stoning is handed out to women accused of adultery.
“The state police collected as many of the rocks as they could and sent them to the lab for prints. But nothing has hit so far.”
“What about shoe prints?”
“Unfortunately, the rains that evening washed them away.”
“So there’s no evidence whatsoever?”
“Nothing that we could find. The way she died makes it difficult to do a forensic investigation, and there’s more than a few of those Afghani bastards who could have committed this crime.”
Despite his harsh words echoing in my brain, I stare out at the flowing river and see black whirlpools and violent eddies. A swimmer wouldn’t last long in that fast-moving water. It’s cold and unforgiving. Beyond the river are thick groves of trees, and on the south side there’s a field of some sort. It’s too beautiful a spot to contemplate such a violent murder, but it wasn’t always beautiful in this way. Growing up, these waters were infested with toxic, life-sucking mill waste. It was a river dying a slow death.
I remember my father taking us down here when we were kids, before our family started to disintegrate. He taught us how to fish and tie flies despite the pollution choking the life out of it. And when we caught a rare brookie, he showed us how to crack it over the head and fillet it on the nearby rocks. Of course this was all for show, as he’d never let us eat the diseased flesh, believing he was doing the poor fish a favor by killing it. Only when we fished way up in the northern regions of Maine would we then fry them in a cast-iron pan sizzling with oil. In the fall, he would lead us into the woods with his Browning and teach us how to shoot. Then we wouldn’t leave those woods until he bagged a deer or moose.
The image I have of this dead girl brings back painful memories of the girl I failed to save. I was stationed in Afghanistan when two weeks into my tour a rumor started to spread that a woman in town had been caught having sex outside of marriage. The local soldiers our troops were training typically shared all the local gossip with us. When we heard that she was to stand trial, we knew what that meant: The woman had most likely been raped or had rejected a prominent suitor. The crime of rape was a serious offense in Afghani culture, and the woman was typically assigned the blame. Such an accusation dishonored the family and brought shame to everyone involved, including the rapist. Days went by before I got word that she’d been convicted and sentenced to be stoned in front of family and friends.
When they told me who the woman was, I became enraged. She was a beautiful young girl who used to sell fruit at one of the nearby markets. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen at the time. I used to make it a point to go to her stand to pick out some fruit. There was nothing unusual about our interactions. In fact we barely talked except to conduct our transaction. But I remember how wonderful her smile was and the way she brightened my day whenever I saw her working behind that stand. I also knew she was beautiful beyond words and likely the object of many village men’s desires.
It infuriated me that they would put this beautiful girl to death for such bullshit. I had no doubt that she was innocent of whatever they’d accused her of doing and that some spurned suitor was trying to exact his revenge against her. Another female soldier and I reported what we heard to our superiors, but they ordered us in no uncertain terms to stay clear of local customs. I was young and at the time, couldn’t believe such an injustice could be committed in the name of religion. Why were American troops there if not to promote decency and justice and to protect the local citizens from abuse? I wanted to go down there, armed to the teeth with my unit, and rescue that poor kid from those monsters. But I knew that would be impossible. My cynicism embittered me and made me as distrustful of my own government as it did these savages carrying out this brutal death sentence. When I eventually learned that the villagers had carried out the punishment, I vowed to never again sit back and do nothing. Next time I would take action.
“Is there anything else you need to know?” Dalton asks, startling me back to reality.
“Did they use a shovel?”
“We found no evidence of that. But I can’t see how else they dug that hole.” He jumps off the rock and walks toward me with his hand out.
“Did you talk to anyone over at the hardware store?”
He laughs. “Yeah, we asked Ernie if any Afghanis had come in and bought a shovel. Seems that our Afghani brethren don’t shop at Ernie’s for their tools. Or use them for gainful employment to support their lazy asses.”
Why is he so hostile to these unfortunate immigrants? I grab his hand and carefully make my way down to the bank. It’s a good thing, too, because my legs are burning and inflamed. I wonder if I’ll be able to make it back to the car in this condition. A particular memory returns of Dalton as a young boy, finding me down by the river one day with some friends. We were goofing around and throwing stones into the foamy swirls. For whatever reason, he chose me to pick on that day. He snuck up behind me as I was standing ankle deep in the sickly green water. I remember his hands wringing my neck under my long mane of hair. Then I remember as my head plunged into the frigid river.
I couldn’t breathe and began to swallow the acidic water, thinking I was going to drown. I was about to pass out when he jerked my head up and shoved me down onto the mud. He stood over me, laughing in that cruel way of his, reveling in my utter humiliation. I couldn’t get that taste of polluted river water out of my mouth for weeks.
The breeze picks up and I can feel my cheeks turning rosy. I glare at Dalton, the memory of that day filling me with hate for the boy who did that to me. My hand remains in his and he’s not letting go. He moves toward me, stopping inches from my body. It’s all I can do not to spit in his face. The sunglasses mask the anger growing within me like a raging typhoon. And yet part of me wants to forgive him and be a better person than when I left. To believe that we’ve all matured over time and transitioned into caring, responsible adults.
“Why the hell are you so interested in this case?” he asks.
“Tell me something, Dalton. Have you ever done things in life you regret?”
“Huh?” He looks at me as if I’m nuts. “Of course I’ve done things I regret, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking out loud.”
He laughs. “Why? Have you done something you regret? Maybe murdered someone with that killer smile of yours?”
“For me to know and you to find out.”
“I love a mysterious woman.”
I stare at him through my sunglasses, trying hard to contain my anger and resentment. And yet there’s a flicker of something else tingling inside me. Something foreign and completely unexpected. Excitement? Attraction?
“You’re an enigma, Lucy.” He leans over and tries to kiss me, but I put a hand up. All at once I feel repulsed and attracted to him at the same time. But why?
“Whoa!”
“You don’t like me?”
“It has nothing to do with liking you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Come on, Dalton. This isn’t the time or place. A girl was murdered here and now you want to kiss me?”
“I got the impression you wanted to be alone with me.”
I laugh. “What in the world gave you that idea?”
“Are you like one of those groupies who gets off on murder?”
“Of course not. I just wanted to see where the girl was killed.”
He shakes his head. “I’m heading back to the car.”
He walks up the steep riverbank and quickly disappears into the woods. There’s no sense trying to keep up with him, and I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I stroll around the crime scene a bit longer, looking for anything remotely related to the girl’s murder. The cops have no doubt combed the area for evidence. I poke the stick in the mud, making a series of holes so that they form a dotted triangle.
Something about this crime scene seems off to me, but I can’t quite figure out what it is. I close my eyes and envision rocks flying through the air and hitting the helpless girl in the face and chest. Her arms and legs are useless to her, and there’s no escape. I pray to God that she experienced a quick and painless death, but I know that the punishment of stoning is meant to be slow and deliberate.
The voices in my head cry out to be heard. I fall to my knees, covering my ears in an attempt to block them. But they’re coming from inside my head. I can’t take this anymore. At least Dalton’s not here to see me knuckling under the weight of my troubled past. My connection to this small Maine town sickens me, harkening back to a sadder time in life. Strangely enough, I also feel protective of this place, nostalgic in a way that defies explanation. I’d been desperately trying to forget Fawn Grove existed all those years, but maybe embracing it will prove more conducive to my healing process.
With the help of the walking stick, I struggle to my feet and start back toward the car. The pain in my legs shoots into my lower back and ascends my vertebrae. The ground is soft and pliant, and it makes the going slow. At the base of the bank, maybe ten pitched feet, I stop and stare up at the top. Reaching it will be a near impossibility the way I’m struggling. Turning my body sideways, I edge slowly upward like a cross-country skier climbing a terraced ice ridge, digging the heel of my boots into the dirt as I ascend.
Upon reaching the top, I rest my hands on my sore knees and catch my breath. But something in the brush hits the sun and catches my eye. What is it? I reach through the branches and feel around until I pull out an earring. Is it just a random find, or does it belong to the person involved in this murder? I know that many people wander down here to fish, hike, or drop their kayak into the water. I stick it in my coat pocket and hobble down the narrow path toward the police cruiser. I’m sweating profusely by the time I reach it. Dalton’s sitting inside the idling car and staring down at something on the dashboard. The sight of him pisses me off, and I realize I hate the bastard for leaving me like that. I’m almost too angry to be in the same car with him, but it’s cold and I’m tired, and I know I can’t trudge home on foot.
“Fine way to treat a girl,” I say once I’m seated next to him.
“Consider yourself lucky I waited for you. I have a court hearing to attend in twenty minutes.” He’s staring coldly at his cell phone.
“Take me back to the diner, please.”
“With pleasure.”
“What’s your problem, Dalton?” I turn and stare at him.
“Who says I have a problem?”
“You can’t expect me to kiss you at the scene of a violent crime. That’s gross.”
He laughs. “Who says I was going to kiss you?”
“You saying you weren’t?”
“Get over yourself.” He peels down the road faster than I care to go.
“What’s the big rush? Got another hot date?”
“You think you’re so witty and clever,” he says, eyes on the road. “You’re really no better than anyone else in this town.”
“I never said I was.”
“Stef’s right. You act like you’re some fancy big shot.”
“That girl needs a serious attitude readjustment,” I say. “And so do you if you believe that crap.”
“You really think I’m interested in a woman like you? A gingerbread from the big city? Hell, I can get any girl in this town.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Who’s to say I haven’t?”
“So now you’re a gigolo?” I laugh.
“You’re so clueless.”
“Whoa! What’s with the attitude, mister? You’re supposed to serve and protect. Remember?”
“A girl has been murdered in the most despicable way and all you can think to do is crack jokes and make light of the situation. You think this is a game, Lucy? You think I’m here to entertain you?”
“Trust me, seeing that crime scene was not entertaining in the least.”
“Then why are you so hot and bothered about this dead Muslim girl? And why are you here in Fawn Grove in the first place?” He turns into The Galaxy’s parking lot and pulls up next to my pickup.
“It’s really none of your business why I’m in town. I have my reasons.”
He leans over me and opens my door. “Have a great day.”
“Fawn Grove seems like a really nice place. Maybe I will stick around a bit longer.”
“Good luck with that,” he says. “Because Fawn Grove will break you like it’s broken everyone else in town.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s just say that this place has a way of humbling people. Sure, you could stay for a while, but eventually someone else will come along and you’ll stop being the prettiest face in town. Then you’ll grow old and bitter before your time, and that’s when you’ll know you’re finally one of us.”
“Speaking from experience, are we?”
“Go back to New York City, Lucy. For your own good.”
“Is that a threat?”
He smiles wearily. “Just the truth, sweetheart. Consider it my advice to you.”
“Thanks, sweetheart, but advice
is like assholes. Everyone’s got one, and your mother had two.”
I slam the door shut and watch him speed recklessly out of the parking lot. There’s only a few cars parked here. Years ago this place would have been jammed with customers, and parking spaces would have been at a minimum. But not anymore. I stand at the door to my pickup, debating whether to go inside. What I really should be doing is heading home and rubbing medicated ointment over my bloody stumps. I’m exhausted and hungry, but if I walk into that house now I’ll be the object of Big Russ’s withering glare. At least Stef will be in school at this hour and not serving up wisecracks.
I decide to go inside and see if there’s anything edible on that greasy menu.
9
I WALK INSIDE AND NOTICE THAT THERE ARE TWO WAITRESSES ON SHIFT. One is Nadia and the other is a mousy-looking woman I’ve never seen before. As soon as Nadia sees me, she rushes over to the counter before I can sit down, holding a greasy pot of that unbearably bland coffee. It pains me to watch her pour my cup, knowing I’ll barely touch it. She promises to be right back, and as she leaves, she unties her apron and disappears into the kitchen.
The pain in my legs radiates outward, and it’s all I can do not to cry. My foot snags on something and I almost fall face-first to the floor. One of the tiles is cracked and uneven. I collapse onto the stool as my hands land on the unwashed counter. Something sticky dampens my palm, and I realize that no one has cleaned the surface. So unprofessional. After pulling three napkins out of the dispenser, I wipe the funk off my hand, but it still feels gross.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from my former boss. She wants to know if I’ll reconsider coming back to work for her when I return to New York. Sitting here in this shitty diner, the offer seems more appealing than ever. I’m tempted to blow this town and return to my old job, the job that at one time consumed my entire existence. The relative anonymity of the city is something I badly miss. But I can’t deny the visceral pull Fawn Grove now has over me. Or the mystery of this girl’s murder. It’s a more powerful draw than I thought. It’s rooted in my deep connection to this place. There’s a voice within that’s whispering for me to stick around and see how this all plays out. To see how much things have really changed in this town, and how willing people will be to accept someone like me. A woman with considerable baggage and many hard miles logged on her engine.