“That makes sense, given what you said occurs when he loses control.”
“I suppose. Sometimes, though, it would be nice to feel there’s an ally, someone on my side. No chance with Max. He takes care of himself and leaves me to deal with whatever.”
“So he sat quietly as you and Stacey talked? But they argued at some point?”
“I’m getting there. He did say something later, and it sent Stacey over the edge.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was her life and she should do what she wanted. He said if she didn’t like her life with Connor, she should call off the wedding. Sometimes he’s too blunt and it never helps. Because Stacey got mad. She said she would never call off the wedding—that unlike Max, she didn’t suffer from impulsivity and volatility. Max started laughing, as if there was anything to laugh about. So I tried to smooth things over by telling her he didn’t mean it. Max said I was acting codependent and got up and left. And I know they didn’t talk after that for a long time, no matter what Max says.”
CHAPTER 36
At nine o’clock, a fading sunset outlined the rocky ridges of White Mountain. On the lawn outside Antelope’s window, a row of cottonwoods cast thick violet shadows.
Often, in the long twilight hours, a familiar, lingering melancholy came over him. He wanted to be outside, fishing and cooking supper on a camp stove, falling asleep on the ground, a bowl of star-filled night sky overhead.
Instead, he was alone in the office after hours, long past the time when the sheriff and second-shift detectives left for the day.
At quiet moments, it came to him how much his life had changed when he joined the Sheriff’s Department. The things he encountered each day in his work were a constant reminder of the dark side of humanity.
Every part of him went into his mission to fight crime—heart, mind, and soul. If he kept up his usual pace, he would be depleted long before his time, like the old men in town who had spent their lives working the mines and whose bodies were now bent shells, collapsed and useless, after giving everything to hard physical labor for years. Would his mind suffer the same depletion if he continued to push it to the boundaries of his capabilities?
A question he couldn’t answer: why did it take a brilliant detective to catch a dumb criminal?
Even if he changed careers at this point, the knowledge of what his fellow man was capable of filled his head; he was forever branded with the true nature of the world.
Only in sleep did he get a respite from his warrior stance. On those nights when his dreams took him to places and memories of his childhood, the time before his work made its mark, he landed briefly in a place of innocence. On those nights, he savored the sweetness, the gift-wrapped beauty of the delusion.
If he didn’t watch out, he’d put himself to sleep with this fairy tale . . . and he still had work to do. Important, hands-on police work. The best and most necessary kind of detecting, the sheriff had taught him.
He stood and stretched.
Earlier that day, the district court judge had granted the motion to search the Spring Grove Motel’s guest records for the previous ninety days. Antelope had faxed the paperwork, and two hours later hundreds of pages had come through the fax to the Sheriff’s Department.
On his desk, the documents waited: the guest register from the Spring Grove Motel for the previous ninety days, as well as the printout from the tracking app on Stacey’s phone.
Outside, the night sky was black and starless; restless clouds rolled and tossed in the wind. He turned on the brass reading lamp on his desk and started on the guest register.
One hundred eighty pages and one hour later, Antelope had found no evidence of Connor Collins as a guest at the Spring Grove Motel.
One name stood out from the others, however. He wondered what business had brought Father Todd Bellamy to Salt Lake City three times in the last three months.
Easy enough to find out, he thought and dialed the priest’s cell number, but it went straight to his voicemail, which was full. Only 9:00 p.m., but not everyone kept late hours.
He dialed the rectory landline, intending to leave a message. On the first ring, Sister Julia answered.
“Good evening, Our Lady of Sorrows Church, Sister Julia speaking, how may we help?”
“Good evening, Sister Julia, I’m sorry to call so late. I wanted to leave a message for Father Bellamy. I tried his cell phone first but the voicemail is full.”
“He’s very bad about clearing it.” She chuckled. “You’re not the first one to have that problem. I can write him a note that you called.”
“Thank you, and while I have you on the phone, maybe you can answer something for me.”
“I will do my very best to help, Detective. Is it about the murder case?”
“Just a small thing I’m curious about. When Father Bellamy makes his monthly trip to the prison in Provo, where does he stay?”
“He stays in Salt Lake to take advantage of the city’s cultural offerings.”
“Thank you, that’s very helpful. Please have Father Bellamy call me as soon as he can.”
“I certainly will, Detective, he’s very anxious to do everything he can to help find Stacey’s killer.”
In every case, as bits of information, seemingly unrelated, moved toward each other like magnets, a tingling feeling came over Antelope—a pleasant, electrified buzzing. He didn’t know what it all meant yet, but there were plenty of questions to ask.
CHAPTER 37
Wednesday morning, I arrived at the office early for another session with Max. An eerie gray light, created by the low-hanging fog, illuminated the building.
After the night I found my husband murdered in our office, I said I’d never enter a dark office alone again, ever. And here I was with my key in the door. A sign of stupidity, or progress? I wasn’t sure.
The one-story office building was deserted. Tall pine trees rose up behind it in a black and impenetrable wall.
Behind me a door slammed, and I jumped. When I turned around, Max was right behind me. I hadn’t heard him drive in; I hadn’t heard his boots on the pavement.
“Good morning, Doc, I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry I came up on you like that, I thought you saw me.”
“I didn’t. It’s okay. Come in and have a seat. Give me a minute to open things up.”
“Take your time, I’m early.”
I needed the time to settle my nerves, slow my breathing, and quiet the story that had started up in my head the minute my autonomic nervous system registered danger—which happened when I turned and saw Max right behind me.
It happened less and less as time went by, this post-traumatic stress response. With every passing day my nervous system calmed a down a little more. Still, when I encountered the right combination, the perfect storm of sensory stimulation, my primitive brain transported me right back to the murder scene.
When I opened the door again, Max was there with his back to me. He must still be wound up from yesterday. His heightened state required a daily session for the time being, the short-term goal being to provide a safe therapeutic environment, moderate the intensity of his emotions, and steer him away from impulsive acting out.
When we sat down, his first words matched my thoughts.
“Thanks for fitting me in, Doctor. I don’t think I could have made it without seeing you. I didn’t drink last night, and I didn’t sleep much either. When I finally knocked out, I had a nightmare and woke up freaked out. I need to get the poison out of my head.”
“Tell me about the nightmare.”
“It felt so real. How does that happen?”
“The dream state is another layer of your mental processing. When our dreams approximate reality, the experience is hard to shake off.”
“Do they approximate reality, or are they are reality?”
“Let’s hear the dream and maybe we can find out.”
“I was with Tim. It was our senior year of high school, a
nd we walked to the church after track practice. I can’t remember why, maybe something to do with services for graduation. We were laughing and everything felt alive, the way it can on a warm day after a long winter.
Ordinarily, Connor would be with us; the Three Musketeers. But Connor wasn’t with us today. We were going to meet him at the church.”
Max stopped and held up his hand. He appeared to be hyperventilating. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
“It’s okay, Max. Take deep breaths, try to slow your breathing down.”
“This is where it gets twisted.”
“Take your time.”
“I opened the door and stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t believe it. I must be a sick fuck if this is what’s in my subconscious mind.”
“What did you see?”
“The priest was sitting in his big chair near the fireplace. He had his black shirt with the white collar on over it, so he still looked all priest like. But his belt was unbuckled and his pants were open. And Connor was on his knees on the floor in front of him, his face right down there, the priest with his hand on Connor’s head. They were going at it.”
“You were shocked?”
Max covered his face with his hands. “It was sick and wrong, just like with Kroll.”
“What happened next?”
“I woke up.”
“No wonder it was hard to shake,” I said gently. “You woke up with a disturbing, graphic scene in your head.”
Max swung his head from side to side. “Am I crazy? Am I making this up?”
“You’ve been recovering memories since you first came into therapy, and also in dreams and flashbacks. I think we have to wait and see what happens with this new material about Connor.”
“I can’t ask Connor, not now . . . he has enough to deal with.”
“I understand. The most important thing is to be patient and see what else comes up for you. The goal is to recall as much of your experience as possible, and then process those memories so they no longer rule your life choices.”
“I’ve been spending time with Kelly.” Max brightened a little as he said her name. “We go way back. She was Stacey’s best friend, so she’s a mess herself, and she’s Tim’s sister. I’m working up the courage to talk to her about this shit.”
“Where does courage come in?”
“The thing is, you never know with Kelly. She’s brave and strong, but she spooks easy. She’s like those wild mustangs up on the butte. You want to get out of her way if she’s running free.”
“I see.” I looked him in the eye. “Your mother called me last night.”
“What the fuck? She can’t do that, can she?”
“Without your permission, I can’t disclose anything about your treatment to her. But as a family member—and this would be true for anyone, a friend or significant other—if she wants to share information she considers important to your treatment, it is perfectly ethical for me to listen and take it into account so I can talk with you about it.”
“That doesn’t seem right.” Max’s jaw clenched. “I put a lot of work into keeping her out of my life, and now she sneaks into my therapy sessions? Fuck me!”
“If you tell me not to communicate with her—not to take her calls, or listen to voicemails, or read any email messages she might send—I will respect that, and all contact will stop from that point on.”
“Let’s do that, then. I don’t want her talking to you, poisoning you against me. This is my treatment and I get to tell the story.”
“Fair enough. I understand. Do you want to know what she said?”
“Might as well. You heard it; give me a chance to defend myself. I know she didn’t call to tell you something good. My mother has a knack for putting a negative spin on everything.”
“She told me she’s been concerned about you for about a month. She thinks you’ve started to withdraw and isolate, which makes her think you’ve started to slip into a depression.”
“Newsflash! We both know I’m depressed. What am I supposed to feel when every hour of my life, day and night, it’s in my face—memories and flashbacks of the twisted things that sick fuck did to me? Sorry, Mom, I’m not a happy camper, deal with it. I do!” He turned his face away from me and bit his lip, trying to hold it together. He slammed his right fist down on the leather sofa cushion repeatedly.
When he finally stopped he rubbed his hand, grimaced, and flexed red, swollen fingers.
“Sorry about that. I might have to get you a new couch if I stay in therapy long enough.”
“There’s more when you’re ready.”
“Go on. I have another hand.”
“She said you started drinking again, weeks before Stacey died.”
He didn’t punch the cushion, and he didn’t say anything for a long time.
Finally, I said, “Is it true?”
Another few minutes of silence, head down, the fingers of his bruised hand tapping on the cushion. Then he looked at me and said, “Busted.”
“You didn’t talk about it here,” I said—no judgment in my voice, wanting to keep the way clear for him to feel safe enough to talk now.
“I have a lot to talk about. Forty-five minutes goes by fast.”
“I don’t think time is the issue, and you’re wasting it right now.”
“Not gonna cut me any slack, are you?”
“Do you think I should?”
“That would be out of character.”
“Alcohol caused you big problems in the past. You got sober because you didn’t want to live like that anymore. After five years of sobriety, a relapse is a big deal, Max. You led me to believe you drank for the first time last weekend.”
“It’s the shame that gets to me. A drink takes the edge off. I thought I could control it.”
“You’re working really hard in here. Trust me, it gets better, your life will get better, but not if you use alcohol. You’ll get stuck in a cycle of pain and drinking to self-medicate. You have to deal with your feelings; there’s no other way out of the past.”
“I’m sorry. I screwed up. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Are you still drinking?”
“I’ve slowed down. I know I have to stop, but if you want me to be honest with you, I don’t think I can give it up completely right now.”
“Let’s keep talking about it and make a plan to get you back on track soon.”
“Yeah, the idea of a track I can get back on . . . that just seems impossible to me right now.”
“I understand that’s how it feels to you right now. We can pick up there at our next session.”
Max stood up and strode to the door. Before he walked out, he turned around. “Something I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to put her in a bad light: My mother’s a functioning alcoholic. She keeps it together during the day, but at night she hits it hard and all hells breaks loose. She’s been that way as long as I can remember.”
CHAPTER 38
In the car, before heading to the office, Antelope checked his messages. Toni Atwell had left a voicemail asking him to come to her office. Fern Hart wanted him to call her, something important about Max. He tried her number but got no answer.
After his morning stop at Starbucks, he drove around the corner to Foothill Boulevard and the office of the domestic violence program at the Sweetwater County YMCA.
As the assistant director of the program, Stacey had facilitated the processing of victims of domestic violence into the local safe house and prepared them for negotiating the legal system. He wondered about her recent cases. Was there someone angry enough to take her life?
He found Toni in her tiny, crowded office. Her battered steel desk took up most of the floor space; the rest was taken up by gigantic plants blooming in the southwest windows. He knocked on the wall and she looked up from a file she was reading.
“Good morning, you found me. There’s a chair under there somewhere. Throw everything on the floor.”
H
e lifted a three-foot stack of catalogues from a metal folding chair and pushed them into the corner.
“So the director gets the big office, right?”
She laughed. “Don’t be snarky. I bet I’ve got more square footage than you do.”
“You’re right. What have you got for me?”
“I was going through Stacey’s files to decide who to assign them to when I came across something I thought you should be aware of. I’m not sure if it has any bearing on the case, but I’ll leave it to you to determine. Last month Stacey did an intake and arranged temporary housing in the safe house for a young woman. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the case: the client was living with an older, controlling male. Initially it was jealousy and control; that was followed by emotional and verbal abuse. Eventually, the physical abuse started. When the violence escalated, she left him in the middle of the night and walked crosstown alone. She was on the back door steps when we opened up in the morning. She had nowhere else to go—no support system, no family here, and he controlled her money.”
“Rough stuff,” Antelope said.
Toni shrugged. “Par for the course. At first she was reluctant to identify the perpetrator of the violence. That’s pretty common. Many of our clients have a hard time taking the step to press charges. She stayed at the safe house for a while, where she received support and counseling. Last week, she finally divulged the name of her abuser. Stacey planned to accompany her to make a police report on Friday. But when Stacey went to the safe house on Friday morning, she learned that the client had reneged on her statement. Turns out she left the program the next day. We don’t know for certain, but we suspect she went back to her abuser, which is what happens with these women who aren’t emotionally prepared to make the break. On Saturday, Stacey Hart was dead.”
“It sounds like it would be worth my time to talk with this client, as well as the person she identified as her abuser.”
“Stacey never told me. But she listed her place of residence as belonging to Val Campion.”
Toni handed the file to Antelope. He read the report, which gave the details of the domestic violence case. At the bottom of the page, he found the signature and printed name of the woman reporting the abuse: Sharnelle Brightwood, age nineteen, aka Star Bright.
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