by Julia Keller
Would Raythune County also wait it out, allowing addicts to risk death? Hell, addicts risk death already, Bell reminded herself, every day of their lives. They don’t give a damn. Why should we? She could argue the other side of the debate, too: Because we’re not like them. And one of the ways we know that is because we care about them—even when they don’t care about themselves.
She took a moment to look around at the people she had summoned to her office this morning. She had known Hick and Rhonda and Pam Harrison since she had taken this job. Deputy Brinksneader had joined the department some six months ago, and thus was relatively new to her, but her initial impressions were favorable. He worked hard. He seemed to have a good sense of the region and its ways. He had a big body and a face like a bulldog, complete with jowls and a bulbous ridge of flesh that sat across his eyebrows like a shelf. Only Deputy Hunsacker was a stranger, but he was so similar to the law enforcement professionals with whom she had worked for the past eight years—he was taciturn and earnest and resolute, with no wasted motion, and his refusal to sit in a chair made Bell wonder if his knees even bent—that she felt as if she did know him.
She was the center point in this room. She was the unofficial but undeniable locus. Everyone was leaning in toward her, waiting, because it was principally her decision about what was coming next. Bell had expressed her opinion to the sheriff earlier, but this was a new venue, with a new audience for the debate: Would they begin a rigorous, all-out search for the local dealer who was handing out death as casually as Tootsie Rolls at Halloween? Would they abandon other cases in favor of an investigation whose only potential benefit was to addicts—and only peripherally to the hardworking, law-abiding people who constituted the majority of the citizens of Acker’s Gap?
They might get lucky. Last night’s emergencies might be the end of it. Perhaps other addicts, even now, were spreading the word on their own about the danger; there was a functioning network of users who did just that, protecting their fellow addicts, looking out for the mutually lost. A great deal of the naloxone administered to overdose victims these days, Bell knew, was done at the scene by friends and family members of the addicts—rather than by paramedics.
Yes, they might get lucky.
First time for everything, Bell thought grimly.
Sheriff Harrison’s cell rang. She answered. She listened. Her face betrayed nothing about the content of the call. She ended it with a terse, “Yeah.” Then she looked at Bell, but she was addressing everyone in the room. “Four more overdoses,” she said. “One fatality at the scene. Squad’s already there.”
“So now we’re up to two deaths and nine ODs,” Bell said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to start thinking about this as a murder investigation. The dealer—that’s our perpetrator.”
There were nods around the room, some of them grudging.
“Word of caution here,” Brinksneader said. “Don’t forget that these folks take the drugs willingly.” It was the first time he had spoken at the meeting and there was a creak of petty complaint in his voice, like an old man who had just found the baseball that cracked his front window. “They’re not what you’d call innocent bystanders.”
“Never said they were,” Bell replied. “But since when does the moral character of a victim affect how we handle the case?”
“I’m only saying,” Brinksneader muttered.
Sheriff Harrison shot him a dark glare. Deputies didn’t argue with the prosecutor. That was her job. Brinksneader took a sudden interest in the pattern on the area rug under his feet.
“Thanks for the report,” Bell said to Hunsacker. She stood up and reached across her desk to shake his hand. “Appreciate you making the drive. I’m sure you have plenty to do back on your own patch, so we’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anything else you need, give me a call.” The blue notebook was dropped back into his pocket. The gesture seemed to free him up to make a personal remark. “You know what? My grandfather was a deputy in Collier County, too, back in the day. And the worst thing he ever faced was a bootlegging ring during Prohibition. Way up in the hills. He used to tell me how scary it was, going after those boys in the dark, knowing they had shotguns.” He shook his head. “Can’t imagine what he’d make of all this.”
“Different world,” Hickey said gruffly. “That’s for damned sure.”
As soon as Hunsacker cleared the door, the sheriff closed it firmly behind him. What she had to say was none of Collier County’s business.
“Look,” she said. “I know we talked about it before and it sounds like you’ve made up your mind, Bell. But Steve here isn’t wrong. We’re way short of manpower. You know that as well as I do. Hard to justify chasing after some dealer whose only real victims are—well, low-life scum.”
“So we just let them die. Is that right?” Rhonda said. She didn’t say it nicely. Challenge simmered in her tone. Bell was surprised; Rhonda was usually a peacemaker, a smoother-over. Something was bothering her this morning. Surely the overdoses were enough to rile anybody—but Bell had the sense that it was more than that, too.
The sheriff started to defend herself. Then she shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Fine. Have it your way, then. That’s what I’m saying. Let ’em die. And good riddance.”
The words hung in the air, cold and stark.
Bell finally broke the silence. “I expect you to track down the dealer, Pam,” she said quietly. “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always done your job.”
After a pause, the sheriff said, “Mind a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Since when are drug addicts a priority around here?”
“Last time I checked,” Bell said, “drug addicts were still human beings.”
The sentence was out before she could stop it. She hated herself for saying it that way, for so blatantly playing the moral high card. Bell hated sanctimony in other people, and she hated it even more in herself. She had indulged in far too much of it during her first few months as prosecutor, all those years ago; she had been filled with righteous indignation and a priggish insistence on moral absolutism. She had been—she realized in embarrassed retrospect—insufferably pompous in her haughty rectitude. Nick Fogelsong was the sheriff back then and he had called her on it, setting her straight: There’s only room for one God, he said, and as far as I know, the job’s already taken. It took her a while, but she finally understood what he meant. It wasn’t about compromise. It was about survival. And proportionality. And effectiveness. Another of Nick’s favorite lines—The perfect is the enemy of the good—also haunted her, in a positive way. She had learned, over the years, that in a place such as Acker’s Gap, you didn’t always get your first choice in outcomes. Sometimes you had to settle for your second or third or fourth. Or fifth. And you couldn’t get upset about it, or you would fume and stew your way toward an ulcer or a drinking problem or even an early grave.
She missed Nick. He still lived in Acker’s Gap and she saw him from time to time, but it wasn’t the same. She had treasured him as a colleague and a confidant. He had taken a job as a security consultant for a chain of truck stops. The pay was better, the hours more reasonable, giving Nick more time at home with his wife, who struggled with serious mental illness. The change made sense in all kinds of ways. But part of Bell still resented his decision to leave before the job was done. Because the job would never be done.
Wait. Isn’t that exactly what I’m planning to do?
Bell’s attention returned to the here and now. The sheriff was looking at her, jaw taut, body tensed with a resentment that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her spine. Bell could read her posture like a paperback: The sheriff felt free to ignore Rhonda. But she could not ignore the prosecutor. If Bell wanted her to pursue the case, she had to either comply or spend a lot more time arguing.
“Jake Oakes texted me a list of known dealers,” Pam said. “He’s on it.” Her voice was as warm and inviting as
a coil of barbed wire. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good. Thanks.”
There was nothing more to say. The meeting was over. Pam opened the door—she moved stiffly, as if her joints had seized up in the last few seconds and she might snap a limb if she put any softness into her gestures—and left. Brinksneader followed.
Hickey rose. “No rest for the wicked,” he said, hitching up his pants and buttoning his suit coat. “Got a preliminary hearing coming up.”
Rhonda kept her seat on the couch. “A word, Bell?”
Bell nodded. She waited until Hickey had departed and then she sat back down behind her desk.
“Hell of a morning,” Bell said.
“Hard to recall a worse one.” Rhonda looked down at her lap. She’d linked her fingers there. She raised her face. “Need to ask you about something.”
“Not surprised. Seems like you’re not quite yourself today.”
“I’m that obvious?”
“We’ve worked together a long time.”
Rhonda nodded. “That we have.”
She had been Bell’s second hire. Hickey was her first. Bell had defeated him in the race for prosecutor, and then turned right around and persuaded him to come on board as assistant prosecutor. She needed him. He had practiced law in Raythune County for half a century—longer than Bell had been alive. He knew the backstory of every man, woman, and child, not to mention every tree, road, and rock, in Raythune County. He himself had made the same case for Rhonda Lovejoy, minus the longevity: She was only thirty-four, but her knowledge of the region and its people was legendary, owing to the fact that her roots went deep and spread wide.
Among Rhonda’s only flaws, as Bell had come to see, were a propensity to dress in apparel that was insufficiently conservative for the prosecutor’s office, and a habit of collecting strays—people as well as pets—on account of an excessively tender heart. Last time Bell asked her about it, Rhonda had admitted to sharing her small apartment with two cousins visiting from out of town, three dogs, a one-eyed cat, and a guinea pig, along with a family of raccoons who showed up at her patio door every night and received a pie plate rattling with Purina Dog Chow.
There had been a time when Bell considered Rhonda more trouble than she was worth. She was still trouble. But she was definitely worth it.
“Not sure if you remember,” Rhonda said, “but a while ago I told you about a child I was kind of concerned about.”
“Need a little bit more to go on.”
“I heard about her from Penny Latrobe—my great-great uncle’s stepdaughter. Penny works as a cashier over at Lymon’s. Called me last March. Said a woman had set up a little stand in the parking lot and was begging money to pay for her five-year-old’s cancer treatment.”
“So the child has cancer.”
“Nope. At least Penny doesn’t think so. She talked to the girl when Mama was busy taking somebody’s money, and the girl said they were just playing. Then Mama got wind of the conversation and told Penny to go away and mind her own business. Got hopping mad. Penny got her name from somebody who recognized her. Raylene Hughes. She’s a real piece of work.”
“If the child isn’t sick, that’s fraud.”
“Had the same thought myself. Turns out I know Raylene.”
“You know everybody.”
“Well, maybe. I went to high school with her. Lost track of her over the years. She moved in and out of the area, apparently. I’d hear things now and again—bad things, mostly. Seems like Raylene’s generally always in some kind of trouble. And worms her way out of it on account of a pretty face.”
“And now she’s using her child to collect money under false pretenses.”
Rhonda nodded. “Before I could get over there that day, Raylene and her little girl left. Must’ve gotten spooked. Penny didn’t see them again for months.”
“Let me guess. They’re back.”
“Yep. Penny called me this morning. They’ve been there since nine.”
Bell picked up one of the dozen or so yellow pencils on her desk. She tapped the business end against the chipped and seamed woodgrain. “And?”
“And I thought I might head over there and point out to Raylene that she’s breaking the law. Catch her in the act. If it’s okay with you, I mean.”
“You’ve got seventeen active cases, including an aggravated homicide. And we’re chasing a drug dealer who’s selling heroin filled with elephant tranquilizer.” Bell paused to let the numbers sink in. “If this Raylene person is still on the premises, fine. But don’t waste any time chasing her. We just don’t have the personnel today.”
“Okay.” Rhonda stood up. “Appreciate it, Bell. You know how I feel about kids.”
“Yes. I do.” She decided that they knew each other well enough for her to add another sentence. “Are you sure that’s all this is?”
“What?”
“You don’t sound like yourself when you talk about this woman. The bit about the pretty face. Do you have some kind of history with her? A fight over a boyfriend, maybe? Back in high school?”
Rhonda blushed. “No.”
Bell waited.
“No,” Rhonda repeated.
“Okay, then. You do what you’re called to do.”
There was relief in Rhonda’s voice. “Thanks. And look on the bright side.”
Once again, Bell waited. She wasn’t aware of any bright sides.
“At least,” Rhonda said, “it’ll be a change, right? Totally unrelated to the drug crisis.”
Bell gave her a level stare. Rhonda knew as well as she did that in Acker’s Gap, things always seemed to be linked; all things were part of the same dark turning.
Raylene
11:14 A.M.
A woman and a little girl occupied a small corner of the parking lot of Lymon’s Market.
The woman, whose name was Raylene Hughes, stood with one hip cocked slightly forward of the other leg. Her long reddish-brown hair draped her narrow shoulders and framed her face in soft, delicate-looking scallops. She wore beige capri pants and a white cotton sweater. She was thirty-four.
Her five-year-old daughter, Marla Kay, sat cross-legged on the blacktop beside her. The blacktop glittered menacingly in the sunshine, like the flank of some exotic animal recently slaughtered on the African veld. Marla Kay, her mother could see, was having too much fun to mind the heat rising up from the lot’s dark surface. The little girl was wearing a T-shirt, denim cutoffs, and sparkly plastic flip-flops. Her pink knees grew pinker by the minute, and her scalp was baking like a casserole bound for a church potluck, but Marla Kay was oblivious to all of that. She was playing with an empty plastic two-liter container in which had formerly resided the sloshing brown contents of Dr Pepper. Sometimes she put the container on its side and spun it around; other times, she tried to balance it on its tiny snout. It always fell over and rolled some distance away, and Marla Kay, from her sitting position, had to stretch to retrieve it. When she stretched, she let out an exaggerated uhhhh sound that clearly amused her; she followed it up each time with a giggle.
“Stop that,” Raylene snapped. She didn’t look down at the girl. She was too busy scanning the lot. “Climbing my last nerve.”
“Stop what, Mommy?”
“That noise.”
“What noise?”
“That noise you been making.”
“Okay.”
“Good. And don’t start back up again, neither.”
The lot featured only two cars. This was a disappointment. They had been here for more than two hours and had had barely a nibble. Typically there were at least four or five cars at Lymon’s at any given time, which meant at least four or five people—and usually more, because people often gave friends and relatives a lift to the grocery store—would notice Raylene and Marla Kay, and after that, the hand-lettered cardboard sign that Raylene had duct-taped to a yardstick. The yardstick was jammed into a black plastic trash can.
The sign read: PLEASE HELP MY L
ITTLE GIRL. SHE HAS CANCER. Raylene had helpfully provided a second black plastic trash can, into which the caring souls of the people of Acker’s Gap were expected to fling nickels, pennies, and quarters.
“I won’t,” Marla Kay said. “I won’t start up again.”
“Good.”
Marla Kay was a sweet-natured child. The lack of hair on her head made her look as fragile and friable as an insect pupa that had emerged too soon for its own good. Her skin was pale, a paleness emphasized by the sunburn that was inching across it like the gradual shadow of an eclipse. She was very thin; her legs and arms could have been mistaken for kindling. The thinness, Raylene hoped, would help sell the idea of her girl’s tragic condition.
This had been a surefire moneymaker the first time she tried it, and she hoped it would prove to be so once again. Yet with so few customers on the premises, the chance of collecting even a decent amount of cash today was small. Raylene was not happy. She was considering moving on—staking out another parking lot that adjoined another of the establishments in Acker’s Gap or elsewhere in Raythune County. She’d had only a paltry few opportunities so far to let her hopeful smile leap into action, as she laid a concerned maternal hand atop Marla Kay’s nubby scalp.
“Morning, ma’am,” Raylene would say, when somebody did happen to wander by. Cheerfulness was key. People didn’t like to be around the depressed or the downtrodden. Right on cue, Marla Kay would cough. Raylene had taught her that: When I say hello to them, you cough. Or you let your head go slack to one side. Or you close your eyes like you got a bad headache. You gotta look real poorly, okay? Got it?
Marla Kay was a good child, and by “good,” Raylene meant “obedient.” There was no other definition, to Raylene’s way of thinking.
If the passerby showed the slightest inclination to hesitate, which could mean that she—women always outnumbered men in a grocery store parking lot—was contemplating a cash contribution to Marla Kay’s medical expenses, Raylene would continue her well-practiced little drama: She would clasp her hands and look down, then look up at the sky, addressing an invisible authority with meek, humble reverence. “Dear Lord,” she would say, in a quavering voice, “please open this stranger’s heart and let her know how much Marla Kay is suffering. Please let her feel the pain that my baby is feeling—not for long, because I would not wish that agony on another poor soul, but just long enough so she will know. And help her to understand, Lord, that any contribution—no matter how small—can make a big difference. Thank you, Jesus.” She liked to add a small sniffle. During her first few performances she had cried outright, but that was overkill. Raylene had learned through experience that people were unsettled by sobbing, and sought to distance themselves immediately from outsized displays of emotion. Far better to imply that you were holding back great torrents of feeling than to actively demonstrate them. She had taught Marla Kay the same thing: Swallow hard. Smile bravely.