Bone Dust White

by Karin Salvalaggio

  All Grace can remember is blood. Pressing against the flow was like trying to stop the coming of winter. She speaks in a whisper, her teeth chattering together so hard she can’t keep her face still. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Jared sits in the snow beside her, catching his breath, as if fighting ninety-eight pounds of flesh and newly fused bone could ever trouble a man of his size. “We’re doing what we can.” His expression is anxious when he turns to her again.

  Grace’s nightgown has slipped away, but when her fingers pull at the lace straps, Jared’s hands are once again on hers, stopping her and her dignity from going any further. His curiosity almost reaches out and runs its fingers across the broken skin, but he pulls his hand back just in time.

  Embarrassed, Jared shrugs off his heavy winter coat and wraps it around her. He can no longer look her in the eye. “You need to stay calm now.”

  Grace knows what Jared saw, what he almost reached out and touched. The long angry scar cuts a jagged line down her sternum. Like fresh meat, it’s still raw. “I’m so cold,” she says, noticing her bloody hands for the first time. They’re sticky. She holds her splayed fingers out in front of her and stares at them.

  His voice is all business again. “We best get you warm then.”

  Grace is so tiny his coat goes down to her knees. Opening a case, Jared unrolls a silver blanket. He lifts her up and sits her down a little ways off before wrapping her legs up in foil. As an afterthought, he pulls off his knitted cap and pushes it down around her ears.

  He looks her in the eyes. “You’ll be okay. Just try to stay calm. I need to look after your friend.”

  Grace sobs, taking big gulps of air but never getting enough. “She’s not my friend. She’s my mother.”

  His expression is different when he glances back over his shoulder. He looks confused. He digs his fingers into his dark hair. “Your mother?”

  Grace burrows deeper into the coat, averting her eyes. She laughs because she’s nervous. “She’s been gone so long I didn’t know her. I didn’t know my own mother.”

  Her wet cheeks are pink with shame. He reaches out, placing his hand on her forehead, perhaps thinking she’s feverish. She leans into it, curving her neck like she’s a kitten.

  “We’re going to do all we can,” he promises. “You just stay quiet now.”

  From where Grace sits shivering among the frosted bracken, she watches them work. Their voices are frantic, their actions desperate. She sees her kimono, thrown clear and half buried in fresh snow. She concentrates on it. It’s ruined now, reduced to a wad of damp blood and silk. Pressing it to the knife wounds did nothing to stop the bleeding. Farther up the hill, the ridgeline has disappeared beyond a thick veil of snow. She concentrates on the dark trunks of trees and tries to pick out shapes.

  More voices. Shouting. There are stretchers and the whir of helicopter blades. It sounds as if the army she’d imagined is finally moving through the trees. She looks at her mother again and knows they’re too late. She curls up, falling asleep too easily and vanishing into dreams once more.

  2

  Detective Macy Greeley steps away from the counter at the ice rink and spreads her arms wide. “Seriously? Do I look like I want to rent a pair of ice skates?” The heavy winter coat she’s wearing is unbuttoned, revealing a stomach well into the third trimester of pregnancy. She places her hands on the little shelf that’s formed below her rib cage and frowns. There’s something about the young man in front of her that she finds especially irritating. She decides it’s his youth, which he’s clearly wasting.

  Perhaps thinking she’s skated in from the parking lot the young man parts his long drape of hair and leans forward to inspect her feet. “Well, if you want to skate it’s kind of mandatory?”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “So, do you want to skate?”

  “Nooooooo,” she says, removing her purple knitted cap. Bright red hair frames an angular face and other than a matching shade of lipstick she wears no makeup. She lifts a finely plucked eyebrow and flashes her state police badge. “Like I said before, I’m meeting a colleague. I don’t want to skate.”

  “Oh yeah, you did say that.” He casts around for the buzzer to open the barrier.

  But Macy doesn’t move. She keeps her badge raised up in his face, and her eyes dart about as they try to make contact with his. She leans forward when she has him in her sights. “Are you stoned or are you always this stupid?”

  He stands slack-mouthed and still, only breaking into a smile when he sees her wink. “Stupid, I guess.” He laughs, finally noticing her condition. “You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t skate.”

  “Congratulations,” she says, dropping the badge and walking through the open barrier. “Go to the head of the class.”

  Her boss, Ray Davidson, spends his lunch hours playing ice hockey. The time is sacred, and no one, not even his wife, dares disturb him. Cap in hand, Macy walks along the high Plexiglas wall separating the rink from the spectators, making her way to the café where he’d said they could have a quiet word. Back at the office they’d already been having a quiet word next to the coffee machine when he’d told her to meet him here. Why he couldn’t just string together a few more quiet words then and there is a mystery. Macy puts her cap back on. Inside the skating rink it’s as cold as it is outside. The city of Helena rests under a fresh coat of white snow. There’s a crisp quality to the air that never fails to lift her mood.

  A group of hockey players crash into the wall next to her, and there’s Ray’s face pressed against the partition. His nose is squashed with his nostrils flared outward like a pig’s snout. He grins like an idiot, revealing his red gum shield.

  Macy continues walking, and Ray follows along, skating in a slow lumbering glide. Well over six and a half feet in skates and padded out in hockey gear he dwarfs Macy. At the gate, he removes his gloves and helmet. His dark hair is damp and plastered to his forehead. He brushes it away with his fingers and casts around for his sports bag. “Thanks again for coming to meet me here,” he says, bending low to put on his blade covers.

  Macy gestures to the empty tables at the quiet end of the café. “Order something for us to eat. I’ve got to find a bathroom.”

  Macy joins Ray at the table and there’s a green salad sitting at her place. She glances over at Ray’s burger and fries and narrows her eyes. Ray knows better than to mess with her when she’s hungry. “What’s this?” she says, plucking a fry from his plate and ladling it into the ketchup.

  “It’s a salad. It’s healthy.”

  “I can see that.” She shifts their plates. “Now it’s your healthy salad.”

  Ray laughs it off and orders another burger from the girl behind the counter, picking at Macy’s fries until it arrives. They both ignore the salad.

  “So what’s this all about, Ray?” Macy looks out at the rink where his team continues to practice.

  Ray wipes his full mouth with the corner of his napkin and reaches around behind him to rifle through his gym bag. Without saying a word he places a file between them and slides his index finger along the name.

  Macy shrugs. “Arnold Lamm is dead.”

  “And as of this morning so is his sister-in-law Leanne Adams.” He picks up the file and thumbs through it, handing Macy a preliminary report from Collier’s sheriff’s department.

  Her eyes skim through the information. “Leanne Adams finally resurfaced.”

  “And she was murdered on the same day.”

  Macy holds a fist to her mouth to stifle a yawn. “It says here that her daughter might have seen the killer.”

  “It also mentions a baby-doll nightie, a bouquet of roses found in a garbage can, and hints at a compromised crime scene. The paramedics arrived too late to save Leanne, but they still got there before the cops. I want you to interview the medics and Grace Adams before Collier’s sheriff’s department steps in and fucks it all up.”

  “Ray, I’m three weeks from goi
ng on maternity leave.”

  “Actually, it’s four weeks. I checked.”

  “I’m in no condition to go gallivanting across the state.”

  “It’s a two-hour drive. That’s hardly gallivanting. Besides, aside from me you’re the only one left that worked on the original case.”

  “It’s been eleven years. Anyone can read the file.” She summarizes the case between bites, stabbing her French fry in the air when she makes a point. “The bodies of four Eastern European girls are dumped in a roadside picnic area. Our informant fingers Arnold Lamm’s trucking company. We investigate. A mysterious fire wipes out the driver manifests. A mysterious brake failure wipes out our informant. Shortly after, Leanne Adams is pulled over for speeding, heading north to the Canadian border. According to the trooper, she had four female passengers. No one sees Leanne for eleven years and upon return, she’s duly murdered.” She finishes off her French fry and picks up another. “It’s not rocket science, Ray.”

  He taps the file. “Leanne knew something.”

  Macy pushes her plate aside and picks up the police report again. “Of course she knew something. That’s why she’s dead.”

  “But if the daughter can identify the killer our case against Cross Border Trucking isn’t dead.” He raises his voice. “They might still be in business, Macy.” He holds up a picture of the youngest girl they found in the roadside picnic area. “Katya was only fifteen and had been sexually assaulted and left to die. Can you imagine how scared she was?”

  Macy leans back in her chair. A couple of mothers have shown up with a group of young girls. They’re all dressed like ballerinas but wear ice skates instead of slippers. The youngest one smiles at Macy. Macy gives her a little wave before turning to Ray.

  “As I recall, there was something wrong with Leanne’s daughter,” she says, remembering a young girl with an unfortunate haircut.

  “Grace Adams had a lot of health problems. Her aunt and uncle adopted her after Leanne left town.”

  Macy pictures the squalid little trailer behind the truck stop where Leanne and Grace once lived. The police didn’t realize Grace had been abandoned until they broke in three days after Leanne vanished from Collier. There’d been an anonymous phone call, otherwise they might never have gone looking for her.

  Macy flips through the report. “How old is Grace now?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “The girl must be traumatized.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Remind me what our informant said about Arnold’s wife, Elizabeth. Did she know what her husband was getting up to?”

  “He wasn’t sure, but my gut instinct tells me she must have known something.”

  Macy sips her drink through a straw. “More likely she pretended it wasn’t happening.”

  “The informant told us it was a ring of four or five guys who were very close to Arnold Lamm.”

  “Didn’t we make up a short list at some point?”

  “Yeah, we came up with a couple dozen names, but for one reason or another, we eliminated most of them.”

  Macy taps the edge of the table with her fingertips. “There are two more that we can strike off. Scott Pearce is serving an eight-year sentence for armed robbery, and Walter Nielson was murdered four years ago in Boise.”

  “I’ll check on Scott Pearce’s status. He may have gotten early release.” Ray hesitates. “I need you to go to Collier and lead the investigation into Leanne’s murder. Initially I’d rather they didn’t know you’re working the old case as well. It may make things easier.”

  Macy sits quietly for a few seconds. During the original investigation she and Ray had come up against a great deal of resistance in Collier. It was nearly impossible to get anyone to cooperate, including the police. She stares hard at Ray. “Collier is a shithole. I don’t want to go.”

  “Sorry,” he says, staring right back. “I’m going to pull rank on this one. You know I’d go if I could.”

  Macy crosses her arms over her belly. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Isn’t my undying gratitude enough?” Ray gets up to order coffee but comes back with two slices of pecan pie piled with whipped cream. “This should cheer you up.”

  Macy picks up a fork. “You sure know how to make a girl happy.”

  “If only that were really the case.”

  Macy runs her fork across the whipped cream, making parallel tracks. “Why didn’t you just tell me all this an hour ago back at the office?”

  Ray waits for the waitress to finish serving their coffee before answering. Under the table Macy feels his well-padded knee bump against her leg. “I thought it would be nice for us to touch base,” he says.

  “Is that so?” She skewers her pecan pie with her fork. “I guess it’s too bad that I have to get going if I want to reach Collier before dark.”

  *

  Macy parks her patrol car in the long circular driveway of her childhood home. She’d driven across the capital at high speeds with the sirens on, but switched them off when she passed into the gated neighborhood. In the seven months since she totaled her car in an accident she’s been driving state-issue vehicles. She thought her mother, Ellen, would balk at having a patrol car parked outside the house, but she and all the neighbors love having it there. Apparently it makes them feel safer at night. There is virtually no crime in this end of town, so Macy isn’t sure what they have been worried about. She waddles up the snow-covered walkway, waving to Ellen, who’s come to the door to meet her. On the drive across town Macy kept her instructions brief. Mom, please pack a bag for me. Don’t be silly, you know what I like to wear. No, I don’t know how long I will be gone. Yes, I’ll be careful.

  Ellen insists on carrying the suitcase out to Macy’s car. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? I could whip you up some lunch. There are some leftovers from the dinner we made last night.”

  “Thanks, Mom, but I’ve already had something.”

  Ellen slips the suitcase into the back end of the car and takes a deep breath. “Your brother called this morning. I’m afraid it’s just him coming this Christmas. Charlotte is going to her parents’ house with the kids.”

  Macy takes hold of her mother’s hands and squeezes them. “It’s not been a good year for the Greeleys.”

  “I don’t know how I would have coped without you staying here with me.”

  Macy manages a smile. “You know I feel the same way.”

  Ellen looks back at the house. “After your father died I felt lost in my own home. It was too quiet.”

  Macy places a hand on her belly. “It won’t be quiet for long.”

  “Have you decided whether you’ll stay on after Christmas?”

  “I’d be crazy to leave.” Macy reaches for the car door. “I don’t know the first thing about babies.”

  “Well, between the two of us I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  *

  Heading north on Route 93, the Flathead Valley spreads out on all sides. It’s stopped snowing, but the winter sky sits low, its thick mist clinging to the trees and hillsides like foam. The cell phone rings, and she takes a quick glance at the screen, ignoring it when she sees it’s Ray. It’s the second time he’s called since she left him sitting at the table back at the ice rink. By the time she’d finished her dessert she’d had enough of his company. Without saying much more than good-bye she grabbed the files he’d brought along and hurried out the door.

  Macy passes through the town of Walleye Junction, stopping briefly at the diner for coffee. From her table, she can hear the other patrons gossip about the murder. She’s relieved that no one mentions Leanne Adams by name. Collier’s sheriff’s department doesn’t have a reputation for keeping information to themselves, but so far they’ve managed to avoid leaking the victim’s name to the press.

  Despite Macy’s protests, the waitress pours more coffee. “Sorry, honey,” she says, gesturing toward Macy’s patrol car. “You look like you should be at home with y
our feet up.”

  Macy smiles over her cup. “For all I know they might be up right now. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

  High-pitched and unrestrained, the waitress’s laughter comes out in short uneven blasts, making her sound as if she might have more than one personality tucked up inside her head. Macy shifts away a fraction and asks for the check.

  There are only three towns in the upper reaches of the Flathead Valley. Collier is the farthest north, Wilmington Creek is more central but a bit to the west, and Walleye Junction lies in the south where the valley begins to widen. To the east the remote peaks of the Whitefish Range run all the way to the Canadian border.

  Back at the ice rink Ray briefed her on the situation in Collier now that their sheriff’s office is under investigation. There’d been a scandal involving the outgoing sheriff. Ray didn’t have to go into details. Macy had read the stories in the papers about the fancy cars, the unnecessary travel expenses, and the three-story addition slapped onto the back of the sheriff’s otherwise modest home.

  “The acting sheriff, Warren Mayfield, is a good guy,” he said between bites of pecan pie. “He’s just in over his head.”

  Macy is nine miles out of Collier when she puts in her first call to Mayfield. He’s eager for her to get settled into her hotel room before they start working.

  “That’s very kind of you, Sheriff Mayfield,” she says, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. “But I think the Collier Motor Lodge will hold my reservation. I’d like to get started immediately if you don’t mind.”

  She listens to Warren’s disjointed voice rise up from the speakerphone, her mouth settling into a weary scowl. He suggests they meet at the morgue, and she balks. As far as she’s concerned the morgue is the medical examiner’s domain. She prefers seeing coroner’s reports in black-and-white with photos attached only where necessary. Even then she’d rather not look.

  “No,” she says, tapping on the steering wheel impatiently. “It’s only just after three. I want to visit the crime scene before dark.” She reaches over and grabs the initial report. “I’d also like to interview the witness and the two medics.”