Crossroad

by W. H. Cameron

  What I know is I’m sick of all the insinuations, of being treated like a criminal on the one hand and a helpless child on the other. I know my questions won’t get answered if I don’t ask them myself. And I know of only one other person who seems to care what actually happened at the crossroad.

  I fix Jeremy with a hard stare. “I’m going to speak with an attorney.”

  PART THREE

  Ruin

  In Memory of the

  GIRL IN BLUE

  Killed by Train

  December 24, 1933

  “Unknown but not forgotten”

  —Gravestone

  Village Cemetery

  Willoughby, Ohio

  TWENTY-THREE

  Nancy Drew I’m Not

  I’d like nothing better than to leave Jeremy in a cloud of dust. But the Stiff was built for hauling bodies, not ass. I’m stuck with a sense of peevish satisfaction as he slowly falls away in my rearview mirror. In the heat of the moment, I’d let my anger do the talking, but I have no reason to think Pride will tell me what he’s learned. On my own, I don’t know where to start. Set up a whiteboard? Buy myself a leatherette portfolio and a box of Ziploc bags? Nancy Drew I’m not. I’m no more qualified to investigate body snatching or what happened at the crossroad than I am to pilot a sailboat on Dryer Lake.

  I’d love nothing more than to return to the Old Mortuary, lock my door, and soak in the tub for the rest of my life. But momentum born of anger and desperation is what I have working for me right now. I don’t know if Pride will help me, but for now he’s my best option.

  “Wait. Did you just make a decision?”

  “Shut up.”

  Barb’s house is on the north side of the lake, and the quickest route back to Wayette Highway is through the resort village. The area is an alternate reality when compared to the rest of Barlow County. According to Uncle Rémy, fifteen years ago there was little more here than a boat ramp and a few tumbledown rental cabins. Then a developer with big ideas and an even bigger budget bought the desert surrounding the lake. Within a few years, a planned community and resort with a destination golf course rose out of the desert, anchored by Dryer Lake Village. Home to a hotel, chichi eateries, and pricey boutiques with names like Sunstone and Diaphaneaux, Dryer Lake Village fills a spit of land that juts into the lake below the golf course. It’s basically an open-air mall, with brick walkways and cast bronze sculptures of leaping trout or pronghorns. Strings of lights thread among bristlecone pines, grape holly, and inexplicable palm trees. The buildings are all rough-pointed basalt and earth-tone stucco, as if assembled from a kit. Barb once described the place as the zombie spawn of a Sunset magazine focus group.

  One thing the village has going for it right now is the Paiute Crossing Coffee Bar—and no chance of running into anyone I know. It occurs to me I could use a moment of peace to come up with a plan, and some caffeine to fight off half a bottle of wine. I take it as a good sign that I’m able to score an empty parking space right outside the door.

  Inside, a green-haired pixie makes a hard pitch for the summer special, a black cherry mocha. “All ingredients fair trade or locally sourced!” Her chin crinkles when I instead order an extra-large iced coffee. As I wait, a tall, slender blonde woman at a table near the door scrutinizes me. From the looks of the purplish-brown scum on her half-empty glass, she fell for the black cherry mocha.

  She’s well put together in the way Dryer Lake women always are, a High Desert Barbie in beige capris, silver and turquoise jewelry, and an Indian cotton blouse unbuttoned to the top of her cleavage. She doesn’t seem amused by my “You’d Look Better Embalmed” T-shirt, despite the cheerful yellow fabric and cartoonish red printing.

  “Tell her to take a picture, Mellie. It’ll last longer.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. That seems to confuse her, and she looks away. When the pixie calls out my drink, I make for the door. Better hot air than cool judgment any day.

  I’m tempted by one of the benches along the village walkways, but end up back behind the wheel of the Stiff. I take a sip of coffee, then wake up my phone to call Pride.

  Of course I don’t know his number.

  “Fitz, don’t you dare laugh.”

  Pride gave me his card the morning we found Nathan’s body. I check around in the Stiff, under the seats and in the center console. No luck. Nor is it in my purse, a small leather satchel with backpack straps. It holds my phone, keys, wallet, and a couple tampons, but no card.

  Where have I seen Pride? At the Whistle Pig, the crossroad, finally at the Mercantile earlier today. “I saw you come in,” he’d said as he nodded toward the Downhill Motor Lodge.

  When I tap my phone’s browser to look up the Downhill’s number, Nathan Harper’s Facebook photo is still there, giving me the finger. A week ago, he was a boy. Now he’s a corpse, his face disfigured by vultures. Distantly, I wonder how Carrie would tackle Nathan’s preparation for an open casket.

  I tap back to Google, but rather than “Downhill Motor Lodge” I find myself typing “Uriah Skeevis” into the search field.

  “You sure you’re ready to try this on your own, granny?”

  Despite Barb’s needling, it’s not like I’ve never done online research. It just tended to be stuff like the Compromise of 1877 for school. I tap the search icon.

  And have no idea what I’m looking at.

  The first result is “Heavy Metal Rage: Page 7.” I tap the link, just in case. It’s a list, 121 through 140, of bands I’ve never heard of, including one called Uriah Heep. I tap “Back” and scan the other results.

  There’s a page of usernames from some online community. Rusty_teh_Faggot … trav٣l٣r … Elvenslag … Detesticulator. I scroll down until I see Uriah and Skeevis. Two different members. I don’t care to know of what.

  The other results are mostly links to Bible sites. Uriah, it seems, was an Old Testament character murdered by King David. Probably not the same guy, unless David chased Uriah all the way from ancient Israel to the crossroad.

  The results for “Tucker Gill” aren’t much better. There’s a fishing guide in Montana, a college wrestler for Iowa State, and a high school football player in Texas. An online phonebook lists eleven nationwide, but if one happens to be the Tucker Gill from the crossroad, it’s not like he can answer his phone.

  Then an item catches my eye, a link to the Washington County, Oregon, Jail Roster. The current roster, updated that morning, includes no Tucker Gill, but that gives me an idea. In the search bar, I type “Tucker Gill Washington County OR.”

  The first two results point back to the jail roster, but the third is for a year-old news story: “Domestic Dispute Turned Violent Leads to Multiple Prostitution Arrests.” Police, responding to a call at an apartment complex in Aloha, Oregon, broke up a fight between three sex workers and their pimp—a man named Tucker Gill. He’d punched one of the women, then had his ass handed to him when all three jumped him at once.

  Could he be the same Tucker Gill? If so, what brought him to the crossroad? Maybe he relocated to Barlow after his ass whipping. In my experience, teenage boys are looking for any chance to get laid, but would they drive from Portland to central Oregon for the chance? It’s a long way to come for something that shouldn’t be that hard to find in the city.

  A shadow falls across the phone, followed by a rap on my window. I glance up, half-expecting that creep from Crestview with the shiny 4Runner. Instead, it’s a cop. He makes the universal “roll down your window” gesture. I hesitate, but when his movements get more forceful, I hit the button on my armrest.

  “What brings you here today, Miss?”

  He has the face of a man who was born old and never got over it. His crew cut and brushy eyebrows match his starched gray shirt, similar to the Sheriff’s Department uniform. But his badge might have come out of a cereal box, and his nameplate is orange plastic. The Dryer Lake Resort logo is engraved next to his name, “X. Meyer.” He’s a rent-a-cop.

  �
��What is your business, ma’am?” He peers into the Stiff, his eyes casting to the back where the cot is locked in place. Too bad I don’t have a body.

  “I’m just drinking my coffee.” I raise my cup.

  He considers me, and for a second I see Duniway in his icy glower. “Well, Dryer Lake Village is private property, so I’m going to have to ask you to vacate.”

  My neck stiffens. “Why?”

  “You’re illegally parked.” He gestures toward the curb, where I see a signpost. Fifteen-minute parking.

  “I haven’t been here that long.” Not that I’ve checked the time.

  “According to the report I received, you have.”

  “Report?” I glance at the coffee shop. From the window, a smug High Desert Barbie looks back. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  He straightens, and suddenly I’m glad he’s just a rent-a-cop. The only thing on his belt is an old-fashioned cell phone holster.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t move along, I’ll call the Sheriff’s Department and have you arrested for trespassing.”

  No wonder Barb doesn’t like the resort village. I’m tempted to pull out the “Official Business” placard I keep in the center console, the one issued to Bouton by the very department he’s threatening to sic on me. It’s supposed to be for removals under our county contract.

  But if he calls me on it, I’m shit out of luck. Suspended from contract removals. Not even Jeremy would back me up.

  I raise my hands in surrender. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

  Google was getting me nowhere anyway.

  I navigate to Crestview on autopilot and pull in at the Downhill Motor Lodge. There are only a few cars parked outside the two wings of rooms that stretch left and right from the motel office, none of them Pride’s. It’s a little after four, too early for dinner unless you’re a fogey. How old is Pride? He said he was just a kid when Lennon died, which my phone informs me happened in 1980. So, up there—but not lining up at the Old Country Buffet just yet.

  The Downhill’s lobby smells of bleach and scorched coffee. Behind the counter sits a white-haired man in a tattered “Ski Brother Drop” T-shirt, hypnotized by his phone. I remember him from the night I transported the elderly stroke victim last November, but he doesn’t seem to recognize me.

  “I need to leave a message for one of your guests. Kendrick Pride?”

  He shakes his head without looking up. “No one here by that name.”

  “Did he check out?”

  “Never checked in.”

  “Are you sure?” No answer. “Could you double-check?”

  His lips purse. “Trust me, lady. It’s been a slow week.” He shoos me away with one hand, then twists his whole body in response to whatever’s happening on his phone. I flee the reek and stand next to the Stiff, door open to let the heat out.

  Had I misheard Pride? Next door, the Mercantile is doing a steady business. Hikers and campers, plus a couple of wiry women from an SUV with kayaks on the roof, stop for a cold drink or a snack after a day on the trails and streams. “I’m staying nearby,” Pride said. Nearby doesn’t include a lot of options. Of the three Crestview motels, only the Downhill is open during the summer. Maybe he rented a place.

  I go back to my phone. The contact page for Pride’s law firm includes direct lines and cell phone numbers for several staff members, but Pride isn’t among them. I call the main number, only expecting to reach voicemail on a Saturday afternoon. To my shock, an actual human answers. “Anders, Harper, Milton, and Pride, Attorneys-at-Law. How may I help you?”

  “Uh—you’re a person?”

  “Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be in the office. I was going to leave a message.” My superpower.

  “You’ve reached the answering service.” The man’s voice is crisp and formal. “I can take a message for whomever you’d like to reach.”

  I guess legal trouble can happen any day of the week.

  “I’m trying to reach Kendrick Pride. My name is—”

  He cuts me off. “Mr. Pride is on sabbatical. Ms. Anders is taking his calls.”

  “Sabbatical? For how long?”

  “I don’t have any information on when he’ll return. But Ms. Anders should be able to help you.”

  I hesitate. “It’s something of a personal matter. Is there any way to get a message to Mr. Pride?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Perhaps Ms. Anders can.”

  Trae Fowler’s father confirmed to Duniway that Pride was representing him. Being on sabbatical could explain why he’s been free to lurk in Barlow County for days on end.

  “Ma’am? Would you like to leave a message for Ms. Anders?”

  I barely know Pride, but I definitely don’t know Anders.

  “Never mind.” I start to pull the phone away from my ear. “Wait.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you know how long Mr. Pride has been out?”

  There’s a brief pause. “Since March.”

  Four months. “Thanks.”

  Kendrick Pride’s sabbatical can’t be connected to the crossroad, can it? I don’t see how but add it to my growing heap of questions. Why is he avoiding the cops? Because he doesn’t trust them to do their job properly? Or maybe he doesn’t trust them, period?

  I return to the motel office. The desk clerk looks up from his phone, annoyed now.

  “Sorry for bugging you. I know the other motels in town are closed for the season, but is there a hotel or a lodge nearby?”

  “Christ, lady.”

  He meets my stare. I focus on the red lines in his eyes.

  “Try the Long Grass Bed and Breakfast.” When I shake my head, he sighs. “Go up to Hensley Drive and turn right. It’s just a little ways up. If you come to the girls school, you’ve gone too far.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Hensley School

  The first time I saw the green sign on Wayette Highway, I took the place for a historic site, a one-room pioneer schoolhouse preserved to enthrall families of car campers.

  Eventually I’d hear about the private school for girls, but until now I’ve had no reason to take that right onto Hensley Drive.

  It’s easy walking distance from the Downhill for those foolhardy enough to brave the highway shoulder. I drive, and before I get out of second gear, I’m idling in front of a pristine, three-story Victorian house with turrets at the corners. “The Long Grass Bed and Breakfast,” the sign says. The windows are curtained with lace, the exterior paint fresh and multihued. But the gravel parking area is empty except for a rack of bicycles under a wooden awning.

  Nobody home.

  To my left, at the end of a short cul-de-sac, several houses cluster among the trees. Straight ahead, Hensley Drive narrows into a broad lane and curves left—presumably to the school.

  Jeremy said they checked the school for the baby’s mother, and Danica Wood said pretty much the same. But right now I’m thinking more generally. Girls attract boys. They also attract other girls, but it was Nathan and Trae at the crossroad.

  Tall pines crowd the roadside, with just enough shoulder for me to get over if a vehicle approaches from the other way. After a quarter mile or so, a wide clearing opens, and the lane ends at a pair of parking lots, the school grounds beyond.

  Pride’s car is in a small gravel lot on the right side of the lane. Beyond, separated by a strip of green lawn, is a larger paved lot. I let the Stiff idle forward, then brake behind the blue hybrid. Curious spot to park, considering the main lot is a quarter full.

  I roll forward into a space shaded by an ash tree. Ordinarily I wouldn’t expect school staff to be available on a Saturday afternoon, but Pride has a way of getting people to sit down with him. Whether I can intercept him here is another matter.

  The Hensley School is a far cry from the one-room shack I’d half-imagined. A path of stone pavers cuts through the grass, circling a dry fountain before continuing to the front st
eps. The fountain reminds me of the one in Memorial Park, though instead of Sam Barlow, a bronze girl stands atop the plinth, an open book in her hands, her head and shoulders gray with bird droppings.

  The three-story school is reminiscent of the colonial architecture I knew as a kid, with red brick walls, a slate roof, and gray stone lintels. I climb the steps to the broad porch, conscious I have no real business here. I hesitate outside the entrance, wooden double doors propped wide with whitewashed cinder blocks. The foyer is carpeted, with high ceilings and openings on each side into what appear to be sitting rooms. At the far end, a plain metal desk stands guard before a corridor that goes off to the left and right.

  “Can I help you?”

  I spin and spot two girls staring at me with frank appraisal from a swing at the right end of the porch. One is pale enough to pass for the Spirit, with wispy hair the color of dead oak leaves and suspicion in her ultramarine gaze. The other girl’s dark brown skin sets off the silver bangles on her wrists and silver hoops in her ears. Both wear blue blouses with billowy sleeves and open collars.

  The dark-skinned girl shoots me a grin. “Nice shirt. I know a boy in Springfield who would look hella better embalmed.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. She laughs.

  “My name’s Celeste.” Awkwardly, she pushes herself off the swing. “I’m on the desk, so if you’re visiting, you gotta go through me.” She walks with her shoulders back as if her center of gravity isn’t quite where she expects. Her belly bulges inside her blouse like she’s trying to shoplift a soccer ball.

  My eyes pinball from Celeste to the other girl, round-bellied as well. “What is this place?”

  The white girl’s stare becomes a scowl. “It’s Hensley School.” Based on her tone, the bitch is silent.

  “I know that. I mean—”

  “It’s a school,” she snaps. “Just a damn school.”

  “But—”

  “That’s right, lady. As you’re about to point out—gasp—we’re with child.”