by Neal Griffin
Tia took a deep breath, embarrassed that she had been sounding like some kind of jealous girlfriend. She knew her sense of betrayal had actually been a feeling of great loss. She wanted him to know that’s what it was and nothing else.
“You should have told me, Travis. I mean I get it, but man. San Diego, dude?”
“It’s not just about the money. I want to be a cop, Tia.” She could see the emotion on his face, knew he was struggling to find the right words.
“I didn’t get to go off and join the Marines like you did,” he said. “See the world and all that. Molly was two months’ pregnant when we graduated high school. I swear, sometimes it feels like she’s been pregnant ever since.”
Tia couldn’t help but smile. She knew how much Travis loved his family but she also knew he felt the weight of the never-ending responsibilities.
“Truth is, I was lucky to get this job, and it turns out I’m pretty good at it. Now? I want to do something more.”
“‘Lucky’? ‘Pretty good’? Travis, you’re the best damn sergeant in the county. Not just Newberg, the county. You got a future here, man. You could run this place someday. Sawyer has told me that himself.”
Travis didn’t seem impressed. “Did you hear what I said? I want more than Newberg.”
“I know that feeling, Travis. I lived it. But believe me, there’s a reason I came back.”
“Well, I see it differently. Molly does, too. So if this works out, we’re gone.” Tia could see by the look on his face he was dug in. “And, full disclosure, I listed you as a reference. The background investigator will be reaching out to you. You all right with that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. And by the way, heads-up. He seems like kind of a player. Might want to keep your legs crossed, maybe wear a turtleneck.”
“Oh, great. Thanks.” Tia looked at the man who was like a brother to her. “Well, I’m going to tell him you go around here with your head so far up your ass you don’t know whether you should shit or just go blind. ’Course that’s only when you’re not busy sexually harassing all the women in the building or doing lines of coke in the bathroom.”
“Great. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Tia knew what she’d really say to the investigator. And she knew what Ben and everyone else on the PD would say. Travis was as good as gone.
“Sorry for the hissy fit. I’m just a little blown away. I’ll get used to it,” she said. “Believe it or not, I like working with you. And honestly? This place is going to suck without you.”
“Bullshit. It already sucks and you know it.”
“Well, now it’ll suck more. It’ll suck like—”
“I’m not gone yet,” he said. “I mean, we might have a murder to work, right?”
“Trust me.” She smiled. “It’s a suicide.”
“Hey, you never know.” He got up from his desk and came over to open the door. “Go home. Get some rest. I told Sawyer you and I would head out to the lake in the morning. Smooth things over with the church folks. Take another shot at doing the canvass interviews.”
“Oh, yeah. See?” She remembered she hadn’t said anything about being sent alone into the lion’s den. “You go off and leave me alone and what happens? In five minutes, I’m pissing off the pope or whatever. And why the hell does a church have a lawyer?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Travis was serious. “I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that. We’ll fix it tomorrow. Go get some sleep.”
Halfway through the door, her shoulders dropped. “San Diego? Damn, Travis.”
He smiled, his voice soft: “You can come see us every January.”
Tia headed into the hallway thinking back to marines she had served with overseas. Foreign soldiers she had fought alongside. All good friends, but she hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. She knew it would be the same with Travis and Molly. In a few months’ time their friendship would be nothing more than warm memories. Maybe a Christmas card. And yeah, she thought. Without him around, this place is going to suck a little bit more than it already does.
ELEVEN
Tia pulled off the county two-lane and turned down the long, familiar driveway. She passed under the shaded canopy of tall, slender birch trees, following the bends and curves of the road instinctively. She’d lived on the land since she was five years old. For many of those years she and her family were the hired help and stayed in a small trailer out behind the milking shed. The time came when Tia bought the property and now she lived in the century-old clapboard farmhouse. Until recently, she had lived there alone.
The sight of the beat-up, yellow pickup parked near the house caused just the slightest elevation of her pulse. Nothing too significant, but Tia noticed. Sometimes it was hard to figure out whether she was happy to know he was home or not. Her eyes naturally went to the two-acre field where the corn had grown to nearly six feet and the bush beans were thick with pods. A row of tomato plants were thick with plump fruit, and along the border of the garden a dozen vines were loaded with pumpkins and squash. In the middle of it all, tending to the crops with the loving care of a parent, stood the tall, lean figure of Connor Anderson. As soon as she caught a glimpse of his face, her question was answered. She would always be glad he was home, but at the same time she knew he might feel differently. Couldn’t blame him for that.
Tia pulled the Crown Vic alongside the pickup just as the farmhouse screen door banged against the wood siding of the porch. Ringo, her Labrador-mastiff mix, had long since learned to open the door and he bounded down the three porch steps. Arriving just as she opened the car door and started to stand up, he pressed his front paws against her with all his weight, pushing her back into the car.
“Get off me, you old mouth breather,” Tia said even as she hugged his neck with affection. “Let me get out, at least.”
Half in her lap, mouth hanging open, and a canine grin plastered on his face, Ringo didn’t move except to furiously wag his tail. She looked past his massive head toward the field. Connor waved one hand, acknowledging her, but keeping on with his work. She returned the gesture, then used both hands to push off the 140-pound dog. When Connor didn’t look away she decided to take that as a good sign and headed for the cornfield with Ringo following.
Reaching Connor, Tia smiled. “That corn is amazing. You sure you didn’t shoot it full of some kind of freaky hormones?”
“It’s organic and you know it. Nothing but compost and TLC.”
Tia looked around the garden. “It all looks great. Pick us a couple of ears. We can roast them on the grill, throw on some steaks.”
“So you’re home tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m done for the day. The dead body call got a little complicated. Young victim, probably sixteen, seventeen, most likely suicide, but Livy Sorensen didn’t like the looks of it. Blood pattern stuff. We’re doing a bunch of interviews tomorrow. We should be able to wrap things up pretty quick.”
“Local kid?” Connor gave her his full attention.
“Not sure. No ID on him. Used a shotgun.” Tia shook her head and made a face that said don’t ask. “Livy is getting his prints in the system and we’re sending notices to all agencies in a hundred-mile radius. Hopefully he’ll get matched up with a runaway somewhere.”
“And you’re okay? I mean, no issues with any of it?”
She couldn’t help but be a little put off by the implication and tension draped itself over the conversation. “It’s a dead body, Connor. Pretty routine. I’m fine.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds longer than it felt like he should before he turned back to his crops. Tia watched as he took hold of an ear of corn and pulled back on the husk to get a closer look. She tried to lighten things up.
“Damn. Wish I could get you to do that to me.”
“What?” He turned to face her with something between mild annoyance and indifference.
“Come inside and lay down with me for a bit. Twenty-minute po
wer nap, then I’ll cook dinner.”
“No, you’ve been up all night. Get some rest. I’ll eat something later. I need to check the rest of the corn for silkworm.”
He’d already turned back to his work, and Tia stood by, watching him. His thick blond hair poked out from under his ball cap and she saw tiny beads of sweat above his upper lip and on the smooth skin of his neck. A summer of tending crops in the sun had turned his skin a deeper brown than her own.
“So, how’s it looking?” she asked, stepping closer. “The corn, I mean. Good crop?”
He answered with a shrug and it became clear he was done talking. Feeling ignored, she eventually turned to walk away.
On the porch, she took a seat in the Adirondack chair and kept watching as Connor moved between the rows of corn. She never doubted that Connor loved her, but was he going to question her ability every time she went to work? Then again, she knew it wasn’t her ability he was questioning. It was her stability. For good reason. Even now she had to keep herself grounded in reality.
This is our field, she reminded herself. Our home. The afternoon sun was well above the horizon and the sky a brilliant blue. Still, with her mind literally buzzing from exhaustion, she had no problem imagining herself in another field. Surrounded by darkness, the rain pounding, the wind playing havoc on row after row of tall corn. The outline of a shed up ahead.
Tia closed her eyes. The voice was gone now, but the guilt would never leave. Some nights, it got to be more than she could take. But, she told herself, tonight would not be one of those nights. It just won’t.
Nearly a year had passed since that night, but it had only been thirty-eight days since she had last been beaten by it. Connor had come home from his shift at the grocery store and found Tia crumpled on the floor, unconscious, an empty tequila bottle close to hand. He’d been about to call 911 when Tia came around, screaming back at a voice no one else could hear.
He’d stayed with her that night, then packed his clothes the following day, telling her that he’d had enough. A week later, she’d gone to his work, finding him stocking the canned goods aisle. She bared her soul. She made promises, begged forgiveness. He’d come home that night and together they’d purged the house of everything with any alcoholic content, including the nighttime cold medicine. She found a new therapist and began weekly sessions.
Drowsy, she leaned her head against the wooden back of the chair. Her mind began to fade; her eyes drifted shut and she dozed, chin falling against her chest.
The sudden buzz in her pocket startled her. Sitting up, she fumbled for her phone. The call number was blocked and her first instinct was to let it go to voicemail, but she answered anyway.
“Suarez.”
“Detective Suarez? Newberg PD?”
The voice was unfamiliar. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Deputy Jensen, Rock County Sheriff’s Office. Catching you at an okay time?”
“Depends on why you’re calling.”
“Yeah, all right, then.” The deputy was definitely native Wisconsin and the nasal twang was Fargo-strong. “You’re listed as the point of contact for an unidentified decedent. Body found in Waukesha County? You got him listed as sixteen to eighteen, male, possibly Hispanic or Native American?”
“That’s right. What do you got?”
“I took a report on a runaway this afternoon. Seventeen-year-old Indian boy. Well, half, anyway. Lives here in Rock County outside Milton. You familiar with us down here?”
“Sure. Fifty miles southeast, right?”
“That’s us. Anyway, yah, I took a report here about an hour ago. A mom reporting her son as a runaway. Last seen yesterday morning. Never came home. She waited a day, said it wasn’t the first time he’d run off. But when he didn’t show up today, she gave us a call.”
“And you think he’s my DB?”
“So yah. The physical description is a match, down to the clothing. And this tattoo you listed got my attention.” Tia could tell the deputy was reading from the teletype. “Web of right hand, letters HTH.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, my missing is named Henry Tyler Hayes and Mom confirms he had a tattoo of his initials. Got prior contacts for some local shenanigans, so I went ahead and pushed his ten print. It’s a match on your body.”
“No shit?”
“Yah. He’s your guy, all right. Any chance a shotgun plays into your scenario?”
“Yeah. An eight-seventy. How did you know?”
“Mom says a long gun is missing from the home. She don’t know guns so good but sure sounds to me like she’s describing a single-barrel pump-action shotgun.”
“Great work, Deputy.” Tia looked at her watch. It was pushing four. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Yah, okay, then. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Tia was ready to click off but then heard: “And, oh, by the way?”
“Yeah?” Tia looked toward the field to see Connor walking her way.
“I gotta say that was a hell of a case you ran last year. The fella you took out in the cornfield? Some good shooting, from what I hear.”
Tia didn’t acknowledge the attempted compliment. “I’m leaving now. See you in an hour.”
His attention drawn to the one end of the phone conversation, Connor stopped at the bottom of the steps. When he spoke she heard an edge in his voice: “Leaving for where?”
“Rock County. We got an ID on the body.”
“You just got home.”
“Yeah, you know how it goes.” She stood up. “I’ll make the next-of-kin notification and get back as quick as I can.”
Connor stared at her and then climbed the three steps leading to the front door. He whistled for Ringo, who was stretched out on the cool wood of the porch. The old dog pulled himself to his feet and sauntered inside. Connor followed him in and the screen door slammed shut behind them, with neither man nor dog offering any show of affection.
TWELVE
With the convertible top down and the windows wide open, warm air blew hard in her face. She cranked the radio loud and music poured from all six speakers while she sang along with Los Lobos’ “Ya Se Va.” The country roads allowed her to avoid the interstate, and afternoon commuters headed out of Milwaukee and Madison, the closest Wisconsin ever came to a traffic jam. She maneuvered through the constant curves and finessed the car up and down the dips and hills of the two-lane highway.
Twenty miles out of Newberg, she came to a one-mile stretch of blacktop, straight and flat as a runway, bracketed by tall corn on both sides. The road ahead was clear, so she shifted from third to fourth, mashed down on the accelerator, and felt the smooth jump of the RPMs. She settled back against the tuck-and-roll upholstery, and the car responded by seeming to take flight into air that was nothing but a blur of green and blue.
The thought of a one-hour drive in the run-down department vehicle with a top speed of sixty had been too much, so Tia took her own car, a restored ’64 GTO convertible. The loud music and stiff breeze would help her to stay alert, and she figured she could probably shave twenty minutes off the drive. She told herself the decision was nothing more than a matter of personal preference.
She had to believe that. Otherwise this could be the first of a series of subtle rationalizations she knew were already lining up not so deep in her subconscious. The next would have something to do with pulling off the road to fight the fatigue from the eighteen-hour workday—a chance to stretch her legs or grab a bite to eat. By the end of the long string of seemingly inconsequential decisions, she’d find herself sitting alone in some dark restaurant, staring at a bottle. Thinking, It’ll just be this one.
That was a definite risk, untethered as she was from an official police car. With sixty miles of open highway between her and her destination, Tia would pass by more than a few out-of-the-way, shit-kicker bars and honky-tonks. Places where anonymity was listed on the menu just above the selections of bourbon and scotch. The kind of joints that r
eached out to snatch cars driven by the Tias of the world, no matter how fast they might try to fly by. She was already feeling the pull. Her unpleasant departure from home only made it worse.
She’d followed Connor into the house to find him standing at the sink, his back to her. She’d turned him around and held both his hands. “I just want to get this ID confirmed and make notification to the next of kin. I’ll interview the mom and come home. The deputy tells me the weapon was family owned, so that pretty much clinches manner of death as suicide.”
“So why the rush?” He had made no effort to hide his suspicion and doubt. “Handle it tomorrow.”
“Connor,” Tia said. “The woman’s looking for her son. We know he’s dead. You’re okay with leaving her staring at the door all night, waiting for him to walk in?”
“Well then, let the locals make notification.”
“And say what?” Tia gave him an example of how that might go. “‘Hello, ma’am. Just want to let you know your son was found dead in the woods fifty miles from here. Call this number for details.’ Come on, Connie.”
Tia knew Connor had no comeback. A combat veteran, he had lost too many friends and had been very near death himself at one time. He was more than a little familiar with the grief and suffering endured by families who’d lost a son or daughter on the cusp of adulthood. Just because this boy took his own life didn’t mean his people didn’t deserve compassion and support.
“Look. I’m dead tired,” she said. “Believe me, I’m not going to need any help getting to sleep. I’ll drive straight there and back, no pit stops. Then I’ll turn off the cell until tomorrow. I promise.”
“Don’t you see?” Connor shook his head. “This is the pattern. This is what you do.”
“What do you mean?” The question sounded ridiculous, even to her. She knew exactly what he meant.