“She wearing a sweater or jacket?”
“Blue sweatshirt, I think.”
“Good. Too bad she didn’t go in for red or something, like Lena here.” Moberly lit the pipe and looked at Criswold. “This isn’t much of a search, you know that.”
Criswold’s shoulders sagged. “I know.”
“Supposed to get down below fifty tonight.” Moberly sucked the pipe and blew a cloud of smoke. “Just hold on a little longer. Soon as those searchers come back, me and Sally are going out.”
“At night?”
“Sure. Sally and I do this a lot at night, ’specially in the summer when it’s hot. We neither one of us are getting any younger. Dog can smell as well after dark as in the day.” He pointed at Lena. “Found you, didn’t we?”
“You had a campsite number.”
“You always picking on me.”
“Do you need me to get something of Melody’s?” Delores asked. “So your dog can track her scent?”
Moberly shook his head.
Delores swallowed. “What if she’s dead? Will it make a difference?”
“Might in a couple months, but not this early. Scent cone will still be strong.”
“Scent cone?” Lena asked.
Moberly eyed Delores, then looked back at Lena. “The body sheds millions of dead skin cells every minute. That’s what gives people their scent. Air currents carry the scent through the air like smoke, and the scent actually forms a cone shape. Strong and narrow near the person, wider and fainter the farther away the wind carries it. Death won’t affect the cone, at least not at first. I’ve known dogs like Sally to find people buried in avalanches under twenty feet of snow.” He scratched the dog’s neck under the collar. “Sally’s a good working dog. She’s tracked plenty of people. She knows what she’s doing. Dr. Criswold, if you can get the sheriff to get me a topographical map, I’d like to do some studying before Sally and I go out.”
Butcher’s people came in at dusk—dirty, tired, hungry. Ted Moberly waited till they were all checked in. He took Sally off the leash. The searchers, all men, watched the dog in curious, dubious silence. Sally eyed them warily, but did not bark.
Lena stood next to the Cutlass, hands in her pockets. Delores Criswold was deep in conversation with the sheriff. Ted looked over his shoulder at Lena. Sally whimpered.
“Come on.”
Lena bounded after them. “Thanks, Ted.”
“Look funny if I went without my assistant. You going to be warm enough?”
“Yeah. I’m in layers.”
“Good.”
They walked to the edge of the woods. Sally quivered, ready to bound off. She waited while Ted scanned the woods.
“This way.” He turned away from the trees and headed southwest, toward the back of Rolling Ridge Hospital. “Far as I can tell”—Moberly stopped by the dogwood tree where Melody had dug up the seashell—“this is the PLS.”
“Excuse my ignorance. PLS?”
Moberly took a puff of his pipe. “Point last seen.”
“Even search dogs have jargon,” Lena said.
“Lena, this woman. Would you say she was despondent?”
Lena frowned. “Are you thinking suicide?”
“Could be.”
“Does it make a difference where you look?”
“Suicides usually don’t go that far, maybe two-tenths of a mile at most. And”—he stared toward a ridge to the east—“they tend to climb.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Statistics.”
“She was upset, Ted. But I don’t think she was going to kill herself.”
“What you think happened?”
“She was giving me some information. About this business with Hayes and Charlie. And Hayes was around, he trailed me to the clinic. Then that same night she disappears. Those kind of coincidences I don’t believe in.”
“Me neither.” He pulled an altimeter from his jeans pocket and checked it. “We’ll drift downhill. Easy enough to do.” He looked at the dog. “Go find, Sally.”
The dog hesitated, then bounded off toward the woods.
“You should have worn heavy boots,” Ted said suddenly.
“Why?”
“Snakes.”
“That makes me feel better.”
The last of the sunlight filtered through the trees, making patterns on the forest floor. Lena tried not to think about snakes curling around tree trunks, sliding over fallen leaves, slithering around stones. Sally veered right suddenly, tail wagging vigorously.
Lena looked at Ted. “You think she’s found something?”
“A squirrel, maybe. Or a bird.” He smiled at Lena. “When she’s got a scent, you’ll know it.”
39
As darkness fell it grew colder. Moberly was surefooted, watchful, tirelessly working his way back and forth through the trees. The arc of his flashlight made the woods seem all the blacker. Lena did not like to think of Melody Hayes, alone with the night and her memories.
What kind of memories was Charlie making?
According to Delores Criswold, Melody Hayes had received a phone call before she disappeared. The call was logged in at 5:37 P.M.—two hours after Lena was well on her way to LaRue Lake. Someone had seen Melody go out right after supper.
Lena pushed her hair out of her eyes. Melody hadn’t come in at dusk, and she hadn’t come in by dark—unthinkable, this close to Easter. Unthinkable at any time.
Moberly stopped, and Lena scooted sideways into a bush so she wouldn’t run into him.
“Look,” he said. He aimed the light at Sally.
Her head was up, her body stiff. She moved forward, her posture businesslike, but avid.
“She’s got it,” Moberly said.
The dog picked up speed, a graceful fluidity to her motions. Ted and Lena followed her through the brush, leaves crunching underfoot, thorn bushes catching their clothes. Sally began to zigzag back and forth, moving faster.
“She’s hot,” Ted said, picking up the pace. “Getting close.”
A branch caught Lena’s hair and she stopped to untangle it. Moberly glanced back at her.
“Go on,” Lena said.
He went.
Lena pulled at the hair caught up in the spiny branch and tangled with a knot of budding leaves. The trees pressed, close and dark. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that Melody Hayes would never have come here alone, at night, by choice.
The light from Moberly’s flash was swiftly moving away. Lena tore her hair loose, wincing at the hurt, and at what Benita would say next time she went in for a cut. Her own light was not as powerful as Moberly’s, but she went quickly and noisily, trying to catch up.
The ground sloped down and grew mushy underfoot. Lena heard a splash. She ran forward.
The water gleamed black and shiny beneath the trees. Moberly was shining his light and Lena could just make out Sally’s head as she swam across the creek.
“Hell,” Lena said. “We going to have to swim across?”
Moberly frowned. “Let’s see what she does.”
Sally’s head bobbed up and down with the strength of her strokes. She scrambled up the muddy creek bank, then stopped. She turned and looked toward the light, at Ted.
Sally jumped back into the water and swam toward them. She looked eager, happy.
“I don’t understand,” Lena said. “Does she want us to come across?”
Moberly shook his head.
Sally came up the creek bank and jumped at Ted, paws hitting his chest, knocking him backward. She turned back to the water, then back to Ted.
“Good girl,” Ted said. His chest was wet and muddy, but he did not seem to notice. “Go find.”
Sally whimpered and splashed back into the water. She weaved back and forth in the shallows, splashing water up on Moberly’s calves. She veered left, and Lena and Ted followed along the shoreline.
Moberly flashed his light, catching a deadfall of trees and banked-up mud. Sally head
ed for the downed trees, and Ted splashed into the creek behind her.
Lena hesitated, then went in. The water was warmer than she’d expected. She went slowly. The creek bottom was sandy and uneven, and there were rocks and chunks of wood underfoot.
Sally jumped up on a fallen tree. Ted spoke in a soft, kindly voice, but Lena could not make out the words. He splashed through the water, shining his light. Lena saw him bending over.
“Good dog!” he said suddenly, his voice full of warmth and praise. “Good girl, Sally! I knew you’d do it. What a smart girl you are.” He was rummaging in his pocket. Sally jumped forward and snatched something out of his hand.
Lena quit moving. She watched Ted pet the dog, watched Sally wag her tail and wiggle with pleasure.
“Lena,” Ted said. It was a tone of voice she’d never heard from him. “Lena, I think we got her. I need you to come look and make sure.”
It was strange, Lena thought, how vivid the night sky was in the forest. To her right was a blaze of light that was downtown Nashville. It seemed a long way away.
“Lena?”
“Coming.”
The water got deeper as she went, up to her knees, then her thighs. The bottom dropped off suddenly, and Lena stumbled forward. Moberly reached out and caught her.
“Thanks,” Lena said. She shivered, water up to her waist.
Moberly pointed his light.
The body floated just under the surface. A scuffed tennis shoe, dark and soggy, had snagged on the jagged V shape of a broken tree limb. Lena bit her lip. What kind of shoes had Melody been wearing? Tennis shoes, she thought.
Long brown hair billowed softly. The waterlogged body rocked gently, set in motion by the easy current and the rowdy dog who panted and smiled from her perch on the dead tree.
“This her?” Moberly said.
To be sure, Lena thought, she should reach down, turn the shoulders gently, and look into the face. She thought of Melody Hayes sitting in the wheelchair, clutching the violin—fiddle, Melody would call it. Sometime the day before she had sat down with a pen and a piece of orange construction paper, and made a list of people whose names she was afraid to write down. She had hidden seashells all over the grounds of the Rolling Ridge Institution. And her mother had died when she was two.
Her mother, Lena thought, would not hesitate to take those thin, waterlogged shoulders, and raise her daughter’s body up out of the cold black water.
“It’s her,” Lena said.
Moberly lifted the radio to his lips, then stopped. “You understand, don’t you, about the dog? She has to be praised. As far as she’s concerned, it’s all a game. And she did her job. Like she’s been trained.”
“Of course,” Lena said. She would have liked to pat Sally, and scratch behind her ears, but the dog was just put of reach, and Lena did not feel like moving closer.
It was warmer in the water than out. At least, Lena decided, it was if your clothes were wet. She stood out of the way on the bank of the creek, close to Ted Moberly and Sally. They weren’t needed anymore, and nobody seemed to have any thanks or praise for Sally and Ted, who had brought bad news.
The sheriff and his people were surprisingly gentle with what was left of Melody Hayes, and for that Lena was grateful. She had half expected coarse jokes and rough handling, but the quiet was thick, and the only conversation was muted, emotionless instructions.
Delores Criswold hovered near the rescue team, getting in their light, standing too close. The body was noisy coming up from the water. Delores reached out, but found nothing to hold on to.
Melody Hayes, drowned and swollen, dripped streams of water. Her hair wrapped around her face like bandages, and she was settled onto a dark plastic tarp. Delores Criswold fluttered close, and the sheriff stepped back, silent and watchful.
Delores bent down and peeled the hair away from Melody’s face, then plucked a leaf from the dead girl’s mouth.
Lena waited for Sheriff Butcher to object. He didn’t. He was thinking drowning, not murder.
Delores Criswold lifted Melody’s head and shoulders and embraced the cold wet corpse. Lena thought of the mother that Melody had never known but always missed.
40
Lena had relieved the stuffed bear from sentry duty in the rocking chair, but left the TV on, picture, no sound. She rocked back and forth. She had changed to dry clothes—lavender sweats and a white T-shirt. She picked the phone up off the floor and set it in her lap. For once, there was no message.
She wanted to call Delores Criswold, though she wasn’t sure why. Dr. Criswold had likely prescribed herself some medication and gone to bed. Maybe even enough medication to sleep. Unconscious would be nice.
Lena ran her fingers lightly over the telephone buttons. She could call Mendez. She could tell him, please, talk to the damn sheriff in Tennessee, make him see that Melody Hayes was murdered. But she didn’t want to talk to Mendez just yet. Didn’t want him to know that she had likely caused Melody Hayes to die in a cold black creek.
She missed Whitney. Some times more than others. This was a more-than-other time. She closed her eyes and thought of her sister, reading to Kevin in the rocking chair, storybook propped on her ever-expanding belly, maternity clothes culled from her pals in costume, so she wouldn’t have to face the usual tiny bows and puffed sleeves.
Headlights shone through the foyer window to the living room, and Lena heard a car in the driveway. She waited. The doorbell rang three times. Rick.
She half expected him to ring again, or use his key and come in.
He didn’t. A car door opened, then slammed. A car engine started.
And just like that she changed her mind—didn’t want to be alone anymore. She ran to the door, fumbled the locks, heard the car back down the drive.
“Rick!” she shouted. “I’m home! Rick?”
His headlights pinned her, shivering, on the sidewalk. The brakes squeaked, the car jerked to a stop. The engine seemed loud in the middle of the night. The car backed and returned. Lena took a breath.
Rick came slowly up the sidewalk.
“I’m home,” Lena said.
“So I see.” He smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes.
“Come in. You can have the chair.” Lena sat on the floor, back to the wall.
Rick picked up the bear and absently plucked at its ear.
“Is Maynard okay?” Lena said. “Is he eating?”
Rick grimaced. “Is he eating? Yes, dear heart, he is eating. Off the kitchen tables, off the counters, everywhere we leave food.”
“Damn, Rick, you’re getting him into bad habits.”
Rick fluffed up the loop of hair on the top of the stuffed bear’s head.
Lena cocked her head sideways. “How’d the audition go?”
Rick settled back into the rocking chair and folded his arms. “I don’t want to talk about that, Lena.”
“Thank God.”
Rick looked at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I thought it might be something impor … What I mean is, Rick, that you’re always like this after call-backs. You always get depressed. You didn’t get turned down for the part?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
“You always say that. Especially when you do good. This is one of the stages you go through.”
Rick frowned. “Is it?”
“Yep.”
“How come I don’t remember?”
“You never remember. It makes no sense, but you do it every time.”
“I do?”
“Yes. So quit worrying.”
“You’re really sure about this, Lena?”
“Jesus, I hate these postmortems.” Lena winced and looked away.
“There are certain advantages to ex-wives.” Rick was thoughtful. He tossed the bear up in the air and caught it. “What are the clothespins for?”
“To pin back its ears.”
Rick sat the bear in his lap, settling him carefully on one knee. “L
ena, did you know that you can arrange a child-sex vacation in Mexico? I didn’t know that. I didn’t want to know that. This takes a lot of shine out of hacking.” He looked at Lena. “I have a message from Mr. Enoch.”
Lena sat up. “Something off the computer boards?”
Rick rolled his eyes, “It didn’t come UPS.”
“What does he say?”
Rick fished a scrap of notepaper from his shirt pocket. “To Lawrence of Arabia—”
“To who?”
“That’s my code name.”
Lena wrinkled her nose. “Rick, that is so—”
“So what?”
“Nothing. What’s the message?”
“Tell her—you get that, Lena? He said tell her.” He looked back at the paper. “Tell her this: ‘The pleasure of hell for the people of hell. I invite you to drink from the bowl, that you may know him. Know also, that it comes for lambs who inquire.’”
Lena sat back and closed her eyes. “Ask him when is the party. Tell him the lamb is inquiring.”
41
The dank hallway and staircase were all too familiar. Lena knocked on Eloise Valetta’s door. She had showered, used the new conditioner on her hair, changed to loose cotton khakis and a tailored shirt. She’d even cleaned up her bedroom.
She knocked again, teetering back and forth on the balls of her feet. She leaned close, ear to the door.
Eloise might be out, of course. Lena wondered if Valerie had stopped by, like she’d promised. Lena’s mind conjured an image of Melody Hayes, body moving gently in the creek.
It had been stupid to leave Eloise Valetta alone.
The front door was no thicker than the inside doors in Lena’s house. Lena put her shoulder to the door and shoved. The door popped open, scraping wood and snapping the lock.
The living room was quiet and empty. Matchbox cars were lined up on the coffee table, organized too neatly for a chubby-fingered child. Lena went into the kitchen. Dirty cake pans had been rinsed and stacked in the sink. She veered down the dark hallway toward the bedroom. The dry brown bloodstain had coarsened the nap of the carpet.
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