All the Secret Places

by Anna Carlisle

  He gave a little wave, directing his smile at Katie, and headed off toward the porch of one of the unfinished houses, which Stillman was using as a temporary command center. Gin and Katie watched him go, Katie smiling wistfully.

  Impulsively, Gin put voice to the thought nagging her, glad to have someone to bounce her thoughts off. Unlike when she’d worked in the busy Cook County office, where she consulted with her colleagues on a daily basis, her consulting work was mostly conducted alone, and she missed having people to discuss her cases with.

  “The thing with the teeth—that makes it hard for me to believe the body’s Civil War era.”

  “You mean, because of dental records?”

  “Yes. There’s evidence of odontology as far back as Roman times, but it didn’t become widespread until the nineteen-sixties and seventies. And it took a while for criminals to catch on that destroying teeth—and fingerprints, for that matter—could destroy evidence.”

  “You’re saying that there was no reason for the murderer to knock out the teeth if the victim was killed a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “That’s right. And there’s something else too. The body was only found a few feet down. Given the natural shifts in soil, slope, erosion, and so on—especially in a forested area like this one—it strikes me as odd that the body wasn’t discovered until now.”

  The two of them were silent for a moment, looking out at the woods behind the freshly dug trench. Wisps of mist hung in the barren branches of the trees, giving the whole scene a melancholy, eerie cast.

  “This probably sounds ridiculous,” Katie admitted, keeping her voice low, “but sometimes, when I’m out on a scene, I almost think—I mean, not really, of course—but I get the feeling that the answers are there, desperately wanting to be found. Like if I just try hard enough—”

  She broke off, blushing.

  “I know what you’re talking about,” Gin said. “I feel it too. Almost as if the dead can hear us. That they’re . . . encouraging us.”

  “That’s it, exactly.”

  “That’s what makes you good at your job, Katie.”

  “Even if it’s not scientific . . . ?”

  “I look at it a little differently,” Gin said. “There’s so much that science can’t explain. So many questions that go unanswered. I like to think that people like you and me work in that place in between mystery and truth. That by being open to things that don’t fit into what we know, we create the possibility of discovering something new.”

  “Wow, that’s—” Katie said.

  “Probably a little overthinking,” Gin laughed. “I should probably spend more time in the lab and less attempting to practice philosophy.”

  But as she said good-bye and turned to go, she cast a final glance into the woods, where the swirling mists looked like specters hiding in the trees.

  5

  By the time the body had been extricated from the earth, carefully loaded into the van, and driven away, it was already after noon, and a weak sun had burned off the earlier gloom, offering a temporary respite from the frigid cold. Gin conferred briefly with the detectives, going over what they’d learned so far.

  Jake was gone. Gin hadn’t noticed him leaving, and the fact that he hadn’t said good-bye caused a spike of annoyance. For all she knew, however, he might have tried; she’d been focused on the body and on observing the strict protocols of crime scene preservation. Having participated in the disinterring of literally hundreds of bodies, Gin had seen too much evidence rendered useless out of carelessness or ignorance to let her own vigilance ever lapse.

  Fred stopped to talk on his way to his car. “Long day,” he said. “Given that I’ve been here since before dawn. I’m starving. Want to get a cheesesteak?”

  “I’m afraid I’d better get back to Trumbull,” Gin said. “Another time, okay?”

  She started walking down the hill toward the road, no longer feeling like running the two miles back to Jake’s house, when a car pulled up beside her.

  It was Baxter, the new chief, driving what looked like the former chief’s old Explorer with new Trumbull police decals freshly applied to each side. He leaned out the window with his forearm resting on the edge.

  “Glad I caught you,” he said. “I talked to Chozick—it’s official, they want you to pitch in on this one.”

  “I’ll be happy to. I have to admit, though, I’m surprised to hear it from you,” Gin said. “Given that county’s got the case now.”

  Baxter shrugged. “Chozick and I get along. I figured I’d save a step and go straight to the source. This is my beat now, after all.”

  “So you’ll be . . .”

  “Respecting the chain of command.” Baxter winked, giving the impression that he intended the opposite. “And looking out for the people of Trumbull. And, of course, offering the department’s assistance where needed.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already made yourself at home here.”

  “Trying, anyway. Need a ride? I think I’m headed your way, considering the only way to go is down.”

  Gin deliberated; as much as she could use the lift, she wasn’t sure she was ready to have any significant interaction with the local police. Jake’s father had served as the chief of police for decades before being killed in the course of the investigation into Lily’s death only last summer. Without him at the helm, the small department had struggled to keep up with day-to-day operations, even after the county took over the investigation. Gin knew it was painful for Jake to drive past the humble municipal building complex that housed the police department over which Lawrence Crosby had presided for so long. And she had unconsciously been avoiding it herself. The memories of the hours she spent inside, both trying to remember everything about the worst days of her life, and defending herself and her family from any suspicion of being involved, might never scab over enough to make it easy to be near it.

  Of course, the department would rebuild. Gin knew it was unreasonable to wish for things to stay the same. She of all people—as one who helped usher others through the loss of those they loved—knew that life had to go on somehow. Eventually, considering the size of the town, she was going to have to come to grips with the past.

  That . . . or run away again.

  “I think I’ll walk,” Gin said, more forcefully than she meant to. “But thanks.”

  “Hang on a second—listen,” Baxter said. “I know not everyone’s happy the appointment went to me. There were more than a few people throwing their hats in the ring, and that’s a credit to your mom and the rest of the council. They’ve done a hell of a job turning this town around, and that’s not an easy thing to do—not in this county, anyway. I consider it an honor that they offered me a shot. And I’m going to give my best back.” He exhaled as though it was a speech he had practiced.

  “Well, thank you for being so candid,” Gin said. “And, in turn, I’ll say that I’m sure you know all about what my family’s been through this year, and I, um . . .”

  Was she really going to say it? It wasn’t like Gin to share her emotions with people she’d just met—or with anyone at all generally. But today had been a roller coaster, starting with Jake’s terse reaction to the early morning call, to seeing the smoking hulk of what had been his dream project, to confronting the sight of a dead body—nothing new to Gin, it was true, except that this one had been discovered uncomfortably close to her own life.

  And there was something about Tuck Baxter—the way he looked directly into her eyes when he spoke, the plain economy of his words, the casual way he handled the familiar vehicle, as though he’d been driving it for years—that made him seem . . . safe.

  “I appreciate the fact that you didn’t say you were sorry for me the minute you met me,” she said in a rush. “I’ve had about enough of that to last a lifetime.”

  She felt her face heat with embarrassment, but Tuck merely raised an eyebrow. “I don’t often have women thank me for being tactless,” he drawled, “but I’
m glad. It’ll make things easier. I’m not surprised, anyway—your mom’s a straight shooter, and I value that. So listen, I’d like to talk to you about something else—unrelated to the case, or to city government.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Wings, actually. I hear you’re in preseason.”

  Gin blinked. “How do you know about that? Did my mother seriously make you listen to the boring details of my life?”

  Baxter shrugged, grinning. “Nah, I’m just a huge fan of girls’ basketball. Thinking you might have what it takes to take them all the way this year.”

  “All the way to county finals?” Gin rolled her eyes. She had agreed to coach only when it became clear that if someone didn’t step up, there wouldn’t be a freshman team this year—and it gave her a regular means of being in touch with Olive Hart.

  Olive, a precocious and good-natured fourteen-year-old, was the daughter of Gin’s childhood friend Christine—the same woman who was revealed to be Lily’s murderer and was killed by her own brother in a tense standoff. Gin had been trying to be a positive presence in the girl’s life ever since Christine’s death.

  “I don’t know where you got that idea, but we’ll be lucky to field a complete team if I can’t talk a few more girls into taking part.”

  “Well, I think I can help you out there.”

  “Listen, Chief, no offense, but I don’t think I’ve got a uniform in your size.”

  She was rewarded with a slow, lazy smile and a very unofficial wink.

  “Not me, Coach. But my daughter, Cherie, has her first roundball, and we’ve been practicing for weeks. Say you’ll give her a chance on the team, and you’ll make her the happiest kid in town.”

  * * *

  Gin called Jake’s cell phone twice on the walk home, but he didn’t pick up either time. She didn’t leave a message; if he hadn’t texted her by now, he was busy enough with other things that an interruption would not be welcome.

  She was torn between worry and irritation. None of the morning’s events were Jake’s fault, which somehow almost made it worse. He was unfailingly considerate of her feelings and had done his best to make her transition back to living in Trumbull an easy one. He’d listened when she needed to talk about Lily’s death, about her father’s withdrawal and depression, about her sense of aimlessness. He’d offered emotional support when she said she wasn’t ready to work full time again yet. He seemed to innately know when to be tender, when to try to cheer her up, and when to leave her alone.

  But now that he had problems of his own to deal with, he wouldn’t let her in, wouldn’t talk to her about what was going on. The easy conversations had turned into long silences. He stayed away longer and longer, making excuses to stay late on his jobsites.

  Maybe they’d moved too fast. The day after Lily’s funeral, Gin had come over to Jake’s house with a suitcase full of dirty clothes, and when he opened the door, she’d burst into tears. She couldn’t even get the words out—that she couldn’t stand to stay in the house she’d grown up in, in the stifling atmosphere of her parents’ grief and the memories that haunted every room—but he had simply held her for what seemed like hours and then, when her tears finally dried up, picked up her suitcase and carried it to his bedroom without a word.

  In the days that followed, he’d held her, listened to her, cooked for her . . . and made love to her, over and over, telling her without words that he would be there for her no matter what. They’d learned each other’s bodies all over again, but the rhythm of being together fell instantly into place. The few relationships they’d each had in the intervening years suddenly seemed as fleeting and inconsequential as dandelion silk floating away on a summer breeze.

  It felt, in short, like returning home.

  After a month of wearing the same suitcase full of clothes—and after she’d been offered the ongoing consulting role with the county medical examiner’s office—Gin spent a Saturday with her mother in a tony Pittsburgh department store, selecting a wardrobe of simple, well-cut clothing that was both timeless and flattering. She spent more on those purchases than she’d planned to, but her expenses were few, and besides, there suddenly seemed no reason not to dip into her substantial savings.

  “I’ll build you a walk-in closet,” Jake had offered, only half joking, as he helped her carry in her purchases, “and if you want to redecorate or something, we can talk about it.”

  She didn’t want to redecorate. She loved everything about the home Jake had built, from the hand-carved stair rail and heart pine floors, to the rustic fittings on the cabinets he’d made himself, to the woolen blankets and handwoven rugs that provided elements of color and design, to the simple rooms. The things she had owned in the past no longer held any appeal for her—furniture that was only a step above the castoffs she’d collected during her med school days; business clothes she no longer had any use for; the scrubs she’d worn as an intern; the evening clothes she’d bought while dating her last boyfriend, an attorney with a packed social schedule.

  She made a quick trip to Chicago to her apartment in Hyde Park and returned with the few clothes she’d decided to keep and two cardboard boxes, mostly filled with books. She was touched that Jake had cleared a shelf for her books while she was away; she’d teared up when he presented her with the ornate jewelry box inlaid with mother-of-pearl that had belonged to his mother. But when he asked her why she didn’t simply give up the apartment in Chicago, she found herself holding back, unable to put her reasons into words. It wasn’t that she longed for the life she’d had before—with its grueling schedule and the hustle and bustle of city life—but she wasn’t ready to close the door on it forever either.

  She put her few pairs of earrings in the box and lined up her books on the shelf, and then they’d gone back to living their new life together. The subject of the apartment didn’t come up again, and each month, Gin wrote the rent check and put off making the decision for a little longer.

  Now Gin pulled into the drive and parked in the spot Jake had cleared for her, its edges lined with railroad ties salvaged from the rail yard downriver. His truck was in the other spot, but even before she opened the front door, she could sense that he was not home. Jett, his aging border collie mix, whined in greeting and began the painful process of getting up from her bed.

  “Where’d he go, girl?” Gin asked, kneeling to pet the old dog. She smoothed back her silky ears and allowed her to nuzzle her wrists, but the dog whined again and padded over to the back door.

  Gin fetched the leash from its iron hook and took the dog out back, where the rear of the house was set into the crest of the hill. The ridge was lined with evergreens, forming a forested backdrop that served to heighten the spare beauty of Jake’s design. The woods continued down the backside of the ridge and through the paths and hills that several generations of steelworkers’ children had wandered, and it was on these paths—largely abandoned now—that Jake and Gin often walked Jett.

  The old dog pricked up her ears and sniffed, and then Gin heard it too—a faint, rhythmic sound.

  “He’s chopping wood, isn’t he?” Gin sighed. Jett waved her tail in agreement, and they set out, following the sound.

  They found Jake half a mile away in a clearing where a large, ancient oak tree had fallen, crushing several smaller trees and saplings under its weight. The tree would provide several seasons’ worth of firewood for anyone willing to haul it away. And Jake was willing. At least, in certain moods he was; the hard physical labor of splitting the logs seemed to be a form of therapy for him.

  For a moment, Gin stood at the edge of the clearing and simply watched him methodically stand up the sections of the tree that he’d previously cut with a chainsaw, using the stump as a chopping block. He’d then raise the ax behind his head before swinging it smoothly down, the force splitting the wood cleanly in two, the pieces falling to the ground.

  There was already a sizeable pile of split wood. Jake had worked up a sweat and taken off his shirt,
despite the fact that the temperatures were only in the upper thirties. The muscles of his chest and arms glistened, and his face was set in concentration, his jaw firm and his brow knit. With each stroke of the ax, the force of the blow rippled through his taut body.

  Jake seemed to sense her presence, the ax faltering on the upswing, and he let it fall to his side, dropping it blade-down on the sodden blanket of leaves.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  “Hey, yourself. I hope . . . I hope you don’t mind that I came to find you. If you’d rather I give you some time alone . . .”

  “No, Gin. I’m done here.”

  “Work off all your frustrations?” Gin tried to inject a note of humor into her voice.

  “Well, I gave it a shot, anyway.” He pulled his shirt on, picked up his old canvas barn coat, and slung it over his arm. Then he hefted the ax, and they started down the path toward the house. “I’ll come back up here on Saturday to fetch the wood.”

  “I’ll help.” Jake kept an old wheelbarrow repaired and oiled for tasks such as these. “It’ll be fantastic exercise.”

  “Actually, I can probably come back and take care of it in the morning. I won’t be working. We’re officially shut down until they sort this mess out.”

  Gin had guessed this was the source of his grim mood. “Did you hear from Asher?”

  “From his attorney. Not a bad guy, really—he could have been a jerk about it, but he just said he was sorry but his client couldn’t wait, not with a baby coming. He said they wouldn’t pursue a refund of the deposit money, thank God. He even said Asher would write me a reference, if I wanted him to.”

  “Well—that’s good, then.”

  “Yeah, and the deposit wasn’t anything to sneeze at. It’ll pay the grocery bill for quite a while. But the first payment on the construction loan’s due next week. Unless I line up buyers for the other two houses fast, I’m not going to be able to pay my guys by the end of the month.”