by L T Ryan
"Mind telling me what you told him?"
"Like I said, kids cross over the stream. The girl he showed me a picture of, well, I'd seen her. She and another girl about the same age. Caught them playing in the stream. They wandered about fifteen, twenty feet into my property. I caught sight of them when I was checking my snares."
"Did she seem okay?"
"She seemed fine and happy. The girls were picking flowers and laughing. They ran off as soon as I came up on them."
"When was that?"
"Couple days ago." Clem cocked an eye. "You sound more like a cop. I'm not in any trouble, am I?"
"Sorry. Old habits die hard."
"You used to be a cop?"
Hatch nodded. "In the Army." Every good cover story comes from a real place.
"My dad was in the Army too."
Hatch thought for a moment about the life she'd inherited in her father's passing. The road she walked because of it. And the road she was still on, the one same one that brought her here. All by honoring his code to help good people and hurt those responsible. Hatch had hurt many, but still felt no closer to peace. Maybe peace didn't come for some.
"Can you guess his job?" Clem fanned his arms toward the kitchen.
"Cook?"
"Not just any cook. The best damned cook in the Battle of France. Or at least the way he told it."
"Anyway, you didn't come here to listen to me prattle on." Clem squinted at the press badge on the counter. "Ask away, Miss Hatch, former Army police-turned-investigative-reporter."
"Hatch is fine."
"Okay then, Hatch. This is a small town, about as small as they get. All we got sometimes is talk, like my friend Harlin."
"And what is the gossip?"
"Well, we heard there was a problem with the child's deadbeat dad. Folks around here guess he didn't like his daughter being stuck with the white coats. Probably just took her, is all. I'm sure the deputies will have it sorted out soon enough."
"Let's hope."
"Sometimes that's all you can do."
Hatch put her fork to the shepherd's pie. "Sometimes you can do more."
Hatch finished her meal and left twenty dollars as Clem's tip. She departed with a promise of returning for breakfast, then drove back to the motel.
As she pulled into the gravel lot, she saw Harlin's truck, along with another car, in the lot. A small dark blue four-door sedan in front of room number one. Hatch parked beside the truck and walked into the office.
Harlin peeked his head out. "Stopped by old Clem's?"
"As good as you said."
"Anything I can help you with?"
"Mind telling me who's in room number one?"
Harlin cocked an eyebrow. "Why don't you ask him yourself? He's right behind you."
Hatch turned to see a man in his mid-thirties with messy light brown hair. Tall with a thin build. A dark blue windbreaker flapped in the wind, exposing a plaid flannel as he walked across the parking lot. He looked more like a scarecrow than an actual man. His face glowed orange with each flick of the lighter cupped in his hands. He was working against the wind to light the cigarette in his mouth as Hatch made her way to the door.
"There's not going to be a problem, is there?" Harlin looked ready to defend Hatch's honor. "Don't need some type of lover's quarrel breakin' out in my lot."
"None of that. And there'll be no problems." She offered a quick smile. "At least, nothing that I can't handle," Hatch said under her breath as she pushed open the door and stepped back outside to meet the stranger.
The wind blew the smoke in Hatch's direction as he finally managed to light the cigarette. She walked up to the man who was now leaning against her Jeep.
"Can I help you?"
"My name is Ben Tracy."
Hatch saw the resemblance. Although Ben was younger, he looked more weathered than his brother. There was something in his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Are you the one my brother sent?"
Hatch nodded. "That was you on the dirt road."
Nodding, he blew out a trail of smoke that danced around his face with the wind swirling. "I've been scoping that place out."
"I thought your brother told you to sit tight."
"Yeah, well, my brother and I haven't talked in a long time, so his ability to tell me what or what not to do doesn't hold the same weight."
"You look like you need some sleep."
"Sleep? How can I sleep when my daughter is missing? Everyone's looking at me."
"I'm here now. Let me see what I can do."
"Well, the police haven't done jack shit."
"I'm not the police. Nothing's going to get done tonight, I can tell you that. We'll start fresh in the morning. The best thing you can do for yourself right now is get some sleep. If we're going to figure out what happened to your daughter, I'm going to need your head clear. Fatigue is the breeding ground for mistakes."
"You sound just like him."
"We're cut from the same cloth."
"I hope you're as good as my brother says you are." He flicked the cigarette off into the distance.
"I'll see you in the morning."
He disappeared into his room. Hatch walked to hers two doors down. She looked back to see Harlin in the window. He gave a nod. Hatch returned it and went inside.
She pulled out her cell and called Jordan Tracy.
"How's it going?" Tracy answered on the second ring.
"Getting my footing. Stopped by the Eternal Light compound. No joy getting in tonight. Gonna try again in the morning."
"Your gut pulling you in any direction?"
"Too early to tell." She paused. "By the way, I met your brother."
"I told him to stay out of the way." Tracy spoke through gritted teeth. "Sometimes I wonder if he's got a brain inside that head of his."
"Would you stay out of the way? If your kid was missing?"
Tracy remained silent. "How's he doing?" He asked finally, the frustration replaced by concern.
"He's stretched thin."
"Do you think he's using again?"
"Not that I can see. It looked like he hadn't slept in days. We're going to reconnect in the morning once he's had a chance to rest. Then I'm going to take another run at the Eternal Light."
"Remember, we're off the books on this. You get a lead, you send it to the investigation agency. Let them run it down."
"I'll know more tomorrow."
"Watch your six."
"Always." Hatch ended the call.
She sat on the side of the bed and kicked her boots off. She didn't listen to the message Savage had left. Nor did she bother to reply to the text Cruise had sent. Status?
Unable to decide what to say to either man, Hatch opted for the next best option. Sleep.
Thirteen
Savage sat at his desk. The clock on the wall said the time was only nine-thirty, but the exhaustion that came at the end of a case like this left Savage drained. The fatigue in his body settled in like a weighted blanket, sinking him deeper into the swivel chair as he reviewed Sinclair's supplemental reports from the Graver case.
Sinclair had become a fine officer in the year plus, since Savage had taken over the small Hawk's Landing Sheriff's Office. He'd like to take credit for the growth and development of the young deputy, but aside from the guidance he provided, Savage knew much came from her interaction with Hatch when she’d acted as a de facto member of their department. Her confidence blossomed in the interim since Hatch's last departure and Sinclair had become his right hand.
Setting the report aside, he picked up a newspaper clipping. The dated pages of newsprint felt brittle in his fingers. He knew the words contained in the article forwards and backwards. He stared at it in his hands, just as he had a thousand times before since that day. "Hero Cop Stops Robbers." He hated every word.
Hero cop. He’d never felt that way about himself. He'd served with people he considered heroes and was honored to have been among
them, but he never considered himself one. Hatch sat at the top of that list among a myriad of others. Others who the veteran sheriff had worked with during the years spent in Denver, both from his time on the street and his ten years of service in the department's Homicide unit.
The article described in detail the events leading up to the shooting death of a young man Savage shot, putting an end to a string of armed robberies. The article only made a passing mention that robbers were using Glock replica pellet guns to carry out their criminal enterprise.
Savage was first on scene and confronted the robbers. One of the young men turned his gun, which, in the split second he had to process the threat, he didn't realize was a fake. Savage, left without a choice, fired.
He'd seen photographs of the boy he'd shot countless times during the internal investigation and shooting review that followed. Savage was exonerated from any wrongdoing, but he still found it impossible to see the robber's face. Every time he recalled the events of that night, the face of the armed young man would never come into focus. It was as if his brain had created a filter, blurring the details.
In the years since the incident, Savage had learned, through research and speaking with others who'd been involved in a fatal officer involved shooting, that his brain had effectively buried the incident. A defense mechanism to the painful reality of taking another human being's life. Regardless of the circumstance, it left its mark.
In the stillness of his office, Savage wondered if Billy Graver could see the face of Glenn Miller. He wondered if killing the man who'd stolen his sister provided any peace or if it just added another horror to the boy's already fractured life.
The main line to the office rang. Barbara, the office's stalwart secretary, had gone home hours ago. Savage set the article aside and reached for the phone on his desk when he saw Sinclair had picked it up from her cubicle.
A moment later, the door to his office swung wide open. Becky Sinclair popped in. He slid the newspaper clipping under some files, hiding it.
"Yes, Becky?"
"Sheriff, a call for you on line one."
"Who is it?"
"FBI. It's a Dr. Sam Crenshaw with the FBI’s forensics something-or-other."
"Okay, thanks, I’ve got it. And Becky, can you shut my door on your way out?" Sinclair shut the door. Savage picked up the phone on his desk and pressed line one.
"This is Sheriff Dalton Savage How may I be of assistance this evening?"
"Hi. Sheriff Savage, this is Dr. Crenshaw with FBI forensics. Sorry for the late call."
Savage was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. "No trouble at all. We're still wrapping up things on our end."
"As you know, the bureau has been assisting the state police forensic team in the lab. Since you're the originating agency, I wanted to keep you in the loop on a new development in the case."
"Go on."
"I thought you’d like to know, in the recovery and analysis of the remains found on the Miller property, we did locate in fact eighty-seven percent of the bone recovery for Amanda Graver, which is astounding considering the shallowness of the grave. Remains buried that long are rarely as complete."
"That's a good thing, right? Enough to determine cause of death?"
"Well, the chest cavity was relatively intact. For the most part. Her sternum had been shattered. Initial assessment would indicate the weapon was a blade. The entry would have been close to the heart. Death caused by the loss of blood." Crenshaw's delivery was robotic, as if she were reading the instructions of a refrigerator manual.
"Thank you for keeping me in the loop. I'll make the notations in our reports."
"There was something else." Crenshaw cleared her throat.
"What's that?"
"At the site, and during the recovery of Amanda Miller’s bones, we found another set."
"You mean another victim?"
"Yes. Though, this one is not as complete."
Savage let out a long, slow exhale. "Another child?"
"Afraid so." Some of the stiffness left Crenshaw's voice. "The body returns to a missing persons case out of Wilson County, Tennessee. Going back fifteen years."
"Fifteen years." Savage repeated the words. A lot of time and miles between those two sets of bones.
"The state police have already notified the sheriff's office down there. I can give you the contact information for the investigator working the case should you need to conduct any follow up."
She gave Savage the information, and the call ended. Savage stared at the detective's information he'd just jotted down. Looking at his phone, there was no call back from Hatch. He dialed the number Crenshaw had given him.
Savage planned on leaving a message and was surprised when his call was answered.
"Hello?" The voice on the other end sounded meek.
"This is Dalton Savage, the Sheriff up in Hawk's Landing, Colorado. I'm trying to reach a Detective Thorpe with the Wilson County Sheriff's."
"Speaking." Thorpe spoke up, but only by a little. "I guess you got the call about the bones."
"I did. Anything you can tell me about the case?"
"I can tell you it's been a long time in the coming since I've had a lead. I’m working to piece the connection together but having a bit of trouble."
"If I can help in any way, I will."
"I'm working solo on this and could sure use it."
Savage looked at one of the photographs from the dig site where the bones had been discovered and began thinking of the other family, whose wounds had remained opened for nearly two decades. "Look for me tomorrow."
"Not sure that's necessary."
"I like to see things through. Especially, when it's a case involving children."
"I'm not going to lie, the extra hand might be a nice change of pace."
Savage ended the call with Thorpe. He then went online and purchased the first flight out of Denver for the following morning.
Returning the clipping to the bottom recesses of his desk, Savage closed the drawer and stood. He left his office and walked over to Sinclair who was typing the notes from their meeting with Graver earlier.
Sinclair looked up at him as Savage stopped next to the cubicle wall. "So what'd the feds want?"
"They found another set of bones at Amanda's gravesite."
Sinclair's mouth dropped wide as she fumbled for words. "Who?"
"A girl who disappeared out of Tennessee about fifteen years ago," Savage said.
"Glenn Miller was a serial?" The shock subsided a bit.
"That's what I'm going to try to figure out. I'm going to be heading there tomorrow morning to put my eyes on this thing." Savage looked around the empty office space. "You're going to be in charge while I'm gone."
"Me?"
"I can’t think of anybody better." Savage smiled.
"That's because there isn't anybody else. Besides Littleton."
"True." Littleton was still as green as they come. Sinclair had moved light years ahead of her patrol counterpart. "But regardless, if there was, I would still choose you."
Sinclair's cheeks reddened. It reminded Savage of the way Hatch turned bright red at the first sign of any emotional discomfort. "Listen, Becky, I know it seems like a lot, but you're ready. You can keep this place running like a well-oiled machine. I'm confident you can handle anything that comes your way."
"At least that makes one of us," Sinclair muttered.
"I've been around the block a time or two. And I can speak from experience, how you handled yourself on the Miller scene proved beyond a shadow of doubt that you're ready, whether you realize it or not."
"Thanks."
"I'll be back in a day or so."
Denver was about six hours away. He'd have to pack fast if he planned on making the early morning flight. Jumping in his SUV, he raced off into the night, hoping tomorrow would bring some closure to both the case and the victim's family.
Fourteen
Hatch rose just before dawn. She'd go
ne on a quick three-miler to the main road, doubling back before seeing more than a couple of trailer homes sparsely lining the way into town. She wanted to get an early start to the day and return to the Eternal Light compound.
Showered and dressed, Hatch stopped by the main office, grabbed two cups of coffee, and headed for the door.
"Get your story yet?" Harlin called from the back, rolling himself into view on his office chair.
"Not yet."
"Everything okay with our friend in room one?"
"Yeah, he's good. Nothing to worry about there."
"Okay." Harlin didn't look convinced. "Like I told you last night—those Tunics open their doors at sunrise. Keep 'em open 'til it sets."
"I thought you said they keep to themselves."
"They open the gates so that anybody can find their way in. Somethin' to do with the door to salvation needing the light of day."
"What happens if someone needs salvation after dark?"
"Guess they're shit out of luck."
Hatch left the office and went over to Ben's room. Both hands occupied by the coffee, Hatch gave three taps of her boot to the door's metal kick plate. The door opened and Ben looked better than last night. The dark circles under his eyes were less pronounced.
"Looks like you got some rest." Hatch offered him a cup with a couple packs of sugar and a non-dairy creamer on top of the lid. "Didn't know how you take it."
"Black is just fine." Ben took the coffee. Setting the cream and sugar on the television, he grabbed his jacket.
"I'd like to pick your brain over breakfast before I begin."
"Fair enough." He picked up a set of keys off a small table near the door.
"I'll drive." Hatch walked over to the Jeep and climbed inside. Ben joined her and they headed into town.
Less than ten minutes later, they were seated at Clem's. She'd opted for a booth tucked in the back. Sitting with her back against the wall, she looked past Ben to the patrons enjoying their breakfast, accompanied by a side of gossip.
"We're the talk of the town," Hatch said.
Clem came out from the kitchen. His thin white mustache curled up in a smile at the sight of Hatch. A smile that disappeared the moment he saw her companion. The restaurant owner-chef-waiter approached.