by Anne Frasier
Chapter Twenty-seven
The gurney with the black body bag was slid into the coroner van. Alastair Stroud slammed the door and moments later Rachel pulled away.
This second death would bring state investigators, even the FBI if it made a big media splash.
Maybe it wasn’t Evan. Maybe Evan hadn’t done it.
For a brief second, Alastair considered framing the documentary crew. He was instantly mortified. Jesus Christ. He was one sick son of a bitch. He’d never as much as condoned white lies when Evan was growing up, and here he was toying with the idea of framing innocent kids.
But were they innocent?
Maybe not.
He wanted to hop in the car and drive directly to Evan’s, but that would have been a strange thing for him to do when he had witnesses to question. Instead, on the way to the police station, he tried Evan’s number. Nobody answered. He tried Graham’s cell phone. No response.
He met the kids at the police station, where he interviewed them separately. Their stories were all pretty much the same. They’d been partying, had gotten fairly drunk, probably passed out. The next thing they knew Claire was missing.
The girl—Kristin Blackmoore—was still shaking. And the kid Ian—he was in shock.
“I liked her,” Ian said, not looking at Alastair.
Maybe he’d forgotten he was even in the room.
“Wish I’d told her that.”
Poor kid.
Ian frowned in concentration, as if trying to tie events together. “We had fun last night. We laughed and played around.” He shook his head. “That seems so wrong now.”
“You didn’t know.” Alastair made his voice sound soothing and calm. “Did you?”
The kid looked up, hair hanging over his forehead, his eyes clearing. “What do you mean? Are you saying I did that to her?”
“I have to ask these questions. What about the others? Did she get along with Kristin?”
“Not really. But Kristin didn’t do it. None of us did it.”
Ian was coming around quickly. He jabbed his finger in Alastair’s direction. “It wasn’t any of us. You just want to be able to blame somebody else. You want to blame it on an outsider when it was somebody or something from your own town.”
Alastair kept his expression neutral and felt himself shut down a little. These were kids. They may have been from the outside, but they were still kids.
He continued with the interview and discovered that Claire and Stewart had dated a little.
Jealousy?
Grasping at straws. That’s what he was doing. And Ian was right about his looking for a scapegoat. He needed a scapegoat.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“I wanna get the hell out of here,” Stewart said.
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, Ian beside him. Same pose, although Ian’s head was down, his gaze directed at the floor.
I stood with my hands in my sweatshirt pockets, facing them. “They have to compare our stories. I’ve seen that on television.” Since I was the one who’d found her, my interview had taken longer. “Is it cold in here? It’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
My words didn’t register at first. After a second Ian looked up, stared, then said, “I don’t think so.”
“Who’d you get?” Stewart asked.
“The old guy.” I tugged at my zipper, pulling it to my chin. “I think we all got him. Do you know he’s Graham Stroud’s grandfather?”
Without uncrossing his arms, Stewart pushed away from the wall. “Everybody in this town is related. It creeps me out.”
Ian nodded but didn’t say anything.
I felt like we were in some old movie.
The wall was cement block painted a glossy shade of cream. The acoustic tile ceilings were low, the yellowed squares repeating the pattern on the floor. Beneath an overpowering scent of pine cleaner was an odor that hinted of structural decay and urinal cake.
I automatically reached for my shoulder and the camera bag strap, then paused.
How could I be thinking about my camera at a time like this? But weren’t these exactly the times when history was captured? When other bystanders simply watched, mouths agape?
“It’s like some damn collective or something.” Ian looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and not quite focused. Was he still drunk from last night?
I pulled out my camera and uncapped the lens.
“What are you doing?”
I pushed the power button. “What does it look like?”
Ian pulled his hands from his pockets and straightened away from the wall. “This isn’t some goddamn photo op. Claire is dead. Claire just died.”
“I know she did. I found her, remember?”
Ian shoved my shoulder. Not hard, but in a threatening way. “You parasite. You fucking opportunist.”
He started to shove me again, but Stewart jumped between us. “Hey, come on.”
“Did you film Claire’s dead body, too?” Ian asked.
My face gave me away. While Stewart and Ian had been overcome by shock and grief, I’d gone back to the scene before the cops came.
“You bitch.” He started swinging and flounder- ing, trying to get around Stewart, who held him tightly. “You did! You bitch!” He quit fighting and collapsed against the wall.
I put the camera away.
I wanted to explain myself and defend myself, but maybe Ian was right. Maybe I was looking to exploit the situation while slapping a definition of gonzo journalism on it.
Unfortunately we all have some Jerry Springer in us.
Did I see the death of Claire as an opportunity to advance my nonexistent career? God, I hated to think I was that shallow, but at the same time I knew it was human nature to fool yourself. People wore public masks, but it was the private masks, the masks we wore to fool ourselves, that were the scariest and most disturbing.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They confiscated the videotape.” I had nothing left. All the footage I had shot was gone, and I’d probably never get it back.
Police Chief Stroud showed up. “You can go. We have phone numbers and addresses in case we need to contact you.”
“We can leave town?” Stewart asked.
“I’d recommend it. You can pick up your belongings from the campsite. Investigators are done with it, since it wasn’t part of the crime scene.”
“I’m not going back there,” Ian said.
Stewart shook his head. “Me either.”
Stroud eyed us one at a time, his expression growing more sympathetic with each face. He reached into his back pocket, dug out a wallet, flipped it open, and extracted a twenty. “There’s a truck stop five miles out of town. Cheap but good. Stop there and get yourselves some breakfast.”
Ian stared at the money as if it were contaminated. Just the thought of food made me queasy, but we hadn’t eaten in a long time.
Stewart must have been thinking the same thing. He grabbed the bill and stuck it in the front pocket of his jeans. But he didn’t say thank-you. That would be letting him off the hook, when they all—Stroud included—knew Claire would still be alive if not for Tuonela.
We left the building.
“He may as well have said, ‘Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,’ ” Stewart said once we were outside and hurrying down the wide steps that led away from the police station. One half block and we were at the van.
Ian paused with his hand on the handle of the passenger door. “What about Claire?”
“What do you mean, what about Claire?” Stewart asked.
“We can’t leave her here.”
“Claire is dead,” I said clearly.
He’d lost it. I remember when Grandpa died, they had to give Grandma something to knock her out because she couldn’t stop screaming. Maybe Ian needed to be medicated.
He dropped limply against the van. “I know that.”
I’d never noticed how fragile he was, with his thi
n wrists and bony elbows. Just a kid.
“We can’t leave her.” His mouth was all bent, and he wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
“The body has to stay here, at least for a while,” I explained. “They want to do an autopsy.”
He shook his head. “Here? With all these Stepford people? That isn’t right. She should come back to Minnesota with us. She should be looked at by real fucking people, not a bunch of freaks who are probably trying to cover up shit anyway.”
“They’ll send the body home once they’re done with it.”
His shoulders began to shake, and pretty soon he was sobbing uncontrollably.
I’m not a physical kind of person. I don’t like to be hugged, and I don’t really even like kissing, but a surge of sympathy swept through me and I found myself wrapping my arms around him. He was taller, and he bent his head over me. All the pain and tension seemed to transfer to his hands as they clutched my arms. I immediately regretted my impulse, but I could hardly pull away. I patted his back, then rubbed like a mother might do with a child.
While human contact made me uncomfortable, it seemed to bring Ian something he needed. He began to calm down, and his shaking subsided.
We finally broke away from each other and automatically piled into the van. I sat in front in Claire’s seat; Ian got in back.
That was when it hit me: I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
Maybe I was a parasite; maybe I was just thinking of myself.
“We can’t go.”
They both stared in an are-you-fucking-kidding-me way. I wasn’t going to convince them of anything.
“We’re getting the hell out of here,” Stewart said, obviously appointing himself group leader now that Claire was gone.
People were watching us.
They stood in groups on the sidewalk, huddled, talking, glancing our way, some staring, not even pretending to be doing anything else.
“Drive.” I made a shooing motion with my hand.
“Gladly.” Stewart put the van in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Heads swiveled. All the faces we passed held the same expression—or lack of expression—with a slightly slack jaw and unblinking gaze.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” Ian’s voice was congested. “Like we did something bad.”
“You were crying like a baby out there,” Stewart said. “People stare. One time I saw a lady have a heart attack at a mall. People came and watched her blouse get ripped open and the paddles get slapped to her chest.”
“We’re their freak show,” I said. “We came to watch them; now they’re watching us.”
We went a few blocks.
I pointed. “Pull over.”
“No.”
I had to raise my voice and get pissed off.
Stewart pulled over.
“We have to stay,” I repeated, as if speaking to the village idiot.
He shook his head. Ian shook his head.
“If you cared that much about Claire, you’d agree with me.” What was I talking about?
“This isn’t about Claire.” Stewart draped one arm over the steering wheel. “You just want to film some weird crap, put together a documentary, and raise your profile. You said it yourself—we came to make fun of the freaks. This was supposed to be funny. Well, it sure as hell isn’t funny anymore. I’m going home.”
He reached for the gearshift and I reached for the door release. “I’m staying.”
“Kristin—no.” He gave me a pleading look that said, Don’t do this. Don’t make me feel like a jerk and a coward. Because I could see he wasn’t staying. And Ian . . . Well, Ian needed to go home.
I got out and went around back. I opened the rear door and dug out my equipment.
“Come on, Kristin,” Ian begged. He was a wreck. I felt bad about leaving him, but I shook my head and took a couple of steps from the van.
“Wait.” Stewart unbent himself and pulled out the twenty Stroud had given him. “Take this.”
I waved a hand in refusal. “You need to eat. You’ll need gas.”
“I can get some money from a bank machine,” Ian said, still sitting in the backseat. “Take it.”
I took it.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Stewart asked.
“I’m sure. Go. You need to go.”
I wanted them out of there before they started asking obvious questions, like where would I stay and how would I eat once the twenty was gone. All the camping gear was still at the site. I wouldn’t stay there, but I could get some fresh footage and pack up some stuff. My indecision must have shown on my face.
“Kristin?”
A car stopped behind the van.
Why didn’t they just go around? Old people. Sit -ting there waiting like something was going to happen. Or not.
“Go.” I waved them on. “I’ll call you.”
Stewart nodded. “You’d better.”
He pulled away. I watched the van with the Minnesota plates until it crested a hill and disappeared.
What had I done? What was I doing?
The old people put their car in gear and puttered by. As if nothing in the world were wrong.
Chapter Twenty-nine
After Stewart and Ian left, I called Graham Stroud and asked for a ride back to the campground. It wasn’t a rash decision. I thought about it quite a while, considering my options. I didn’t have any, other than hitchhiking. And God, I didn’t want to do that. I’ve hitchhiked before. It’s humiliating, and there’s always the chance of getting picked up by a serial killer. I also didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention to myself.
So I called Graham.
I had no choice.
Of course I felt guilty. I was using him, but there were more important things going on here. I’m not a user. I hate users.
I asked him to pick me up downtown, in the grassy area between Betty’s Breakfast and the river.
“I’m at school,” Graham whispered. “I can’t pick you up until after three.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I disconnected and looked at my watch. Almost one. That gave me two hours to kill. I was tempted to go to the café and get something to eat, but somebody might recognize me. I went to a gas station instead, where I bought a bottle of orange juice and a box of cookies.
It cost more than I’d expected. How much was a bus ticket to Minneapolis? Without looking to the right or left, I paid, grabbed my stuff, and headed out the door.
People stared.
Bloody hell.
I’d never been paranoid about being stared at, but suddenly I felt exposed and threatened. I hurried across a grassy open area to a cluster of trees. Once there, I dropped my gear and sat down in the shade. I dug out my sunglasses and slipped them on. I instantly felt better, and could suddenly understand why movie stars wore big glasses and thought nobody would recognize them.
I fell asleep.
Don’t ask me how I did it. How can a person sleep after witnessing what I’d witnessed? Sometimes I wonder about myself.
One minute I was watching for Graham’s black car; the next someone was shaking me by the shoulder.
I snapped to attention, still on the ground but sitting up straight.
Graham Stroud stood over me.
My throat was dry. I swallowed a couple of times and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. I got to my feet.
He picked up my empty juice bottle and tossed it in a nearby trash container. “What’s up? You’re the last person I expected to get a call from.”
He wasn’t the friendly Graham I’d known before our last encounter. This Graham was aloof and suspicious. He didn’t want to be there.
“Claire . . .” That’s as far as I got. I didn’t think I’d have to tell anybody or talk about it. I figured the whole town knew. Wasn’t that the way small towns worked?
My bottom lip began to tremble. Pretty soon my whole body would be joining in.
“Wh
at?” He was still annoyed, but the annoyance was tinged with a hint of concern.
I shook my head. Why had I called him? I needed time by myself. Time to let this settle. But I’d thought I was okay.
“Kristin?” The irritation was gone. Now he sounded worried, and he wasn’t going to let it go.
I pulled in a deep breath and spit out the words: “Claire’s dead.”
I felt and saw his shock.
“When? How?”
Now that I’d gotten the news out, I felt a little more in control. “She was killed. Just like the other woman.”
He frowned. “Coyotes . . . ?”
That brought me around. “Do you honestly think coyotes are doing this? That’s bullshit.” Then I remembered who his grandfather was. And his dad. Jesus, his dad! Careful. Graham might know something. He might be in with the rest of them.
What did that mean? Was I losing my mind? The whole damn town couldn’t be involved in some huge cover-up and conspiracy. Could it?
Be careful. Don’t say too much.
Yes. I had to be careful.
I glanced toward the street. Cars were driving past slowly. Watching me? A few people were milling about. Watching me?
“Can you give me a ride? To the campsite where we stayed last night?”
He glanced around. “What about Ian and Stewart?”
“Gone. Went home.”
I could see him trying to figure out what I was still doing in town.
“I thought I’d stick around a little longer,” I explained.
He knew I was up to something, but probably decided this might be a bad time to push it.
We got in his car and headed out of town, to the campground where the recent horror had taken place. We were approaching the last turn when I suddenly felt sick.
Could I do this? Could I go back there?
I pointed and gave him verbal directions. We didn’t go near the restroom, but we could see a few cars in the distance. They weren’t finished with the crime scene.
At the campsite I shot ten minutes of footage to replace some of what I’d lost. I could tell our stuff had been gone through; things weren’t exactly where they should have been. The Barbie sleeping bag that I’d bitched about less than twenty-four hours ago was still there. I grabbed it. That was followed by Claire’s bag. “Need one of these?”