Theresa Monsour (3 page)

THE SCHOOL BUS rattled down the road, kicking up a cloud that trailed behind like a phantom. The bus lurched to a halt and the dust ghost disappeared into the gravel. Thirty-three people in jeans and sweatshirts filed out, calling out the number each had been assigned before boarding the bus.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

Men. Women. Seniors. Middle-aged folks. A couple of teenagers. A few had water bottles strapped to their waists and candy bars shoved in their pockets; they were the ones who'd done this before and knew they'd get thirsty and hungry out in the field. They squinted in the fall light and wrinkled their noses. The air smelled of skunk. All wore coats or down vests over their sweatshirts and some donned mittens and stocking caps. The sunshine was deceptive; it was raw outside. Gusts of wind bent the tall
grasses and blew the remaining leaves off the trees. It could have been December instead of October. Last off the bus was a sheriff's deputy, a short, husky woman. “Number One takes the ditch along the road and the rest of you follow him in order,” she said.

The civilians lined up in firing-squad formation at one end of the meadow. They stretched their arms out so they'd be spaced apart evenly. Number One was the tallest in the crowd by two heads. The ditch was knee-deep, but when he stepped into it he still towered over the deputy and half the others in the group. The deputy studied his feet. “Hope those are decent boots,” she said. The ditch was swampy.

“Sorels,” he said. “I know how to d . . . dress, ma'am.”

“Guess you do,” she said. She noticed his baseball cap. A suede brim and
E.P.
embroidered on the front. “Those your initials?”

“Elvis Presley,” he mumbled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and averted his eyes.

He's a weird one, she thought. She turned her attention to the rest of the group, eyed the row of volunteers. She wished she had someone as tall as Number One anchoring the other end, and the middle for that matter. The middle man kept the line straight. No matter, she thought. It was the second day. Missing people cases go bad after two days. Same as fresh fish in the fridge. After two days, the missing become the dead and clues turn cold. It would be a miracle if they found anything useful out here.

“Ready?” They all nodded. “Let's go,” she said. The line started moving. The deputy walked behind them, surveying the evenness of the line. The speed. “Slow down, people,” she hollered. “This ain't a race. Wait for the middle to catch up while they go through that brush. Take your time.” No one talked. They kept their eyes down as they walked, searching for something. Anything. A strand of thread from her dress. Footprints. Bobby pin from her hair.

A crow landed on a tree stump ahead of the line, eyed the humans heading toward it and cawed. A woman—Number Fourteen—looked up. “No bird-watching,” said
the deputy, and a few in the line laughed. Then another stretch of walking and no talking in the line. The sound of boots crunching down dried grass and leaves. A menacing noise. The sound of an invading army. Halfway across the field, Number Seventeen caught the toe of his boot on a rock and fell on his face. He stood up and spit out dirt and weeds. The line stopped while he brushed off.

“You okay?” asked the deputy.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, red-faced.

The line continued moving. They'd nearly reached the end of the meadow when a yell went up.

“Found something!”

“Everyone stop. Now,” said the deputy. She ran to Number One. He had his right hand raised like a kid at school and with his left pointed to the ground. Her eyes followed to where he was pointing. She squatted down. Couldn't believe what she saw.

“Shit,” she breathed. A finger. Peach polish on the nail.

“Stay where you're at!” she yelled to the line. Then, so only he and those next to him could hear, she said lowly, “Good eye, Number One.” The deputy stayed hunched over the finger while she radioed for help.

Number Two, a pretty blond woman, kept her place in the line but turned her back to the finger. Stared up at the sky.

“You okay, ma'am?” Number One asked in a low voice.

“Sorry I'm such a baby,” she whispered.

“N . . . no,” he said. “You're doing fine.”

She turned to face him and touched his arm. “Thank you.”

He lowered his eyes and nodded. His heart raced. He tried to keep from breathing fast. Tried to keep from grinning. He covered his mouth with his hand, pretended to cough. Don't grin, he told himself. This wouldn't be the time or the place for grinning. It would peg him as a creep, and it would tip them off.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON JACK relaxed on the deck off the living room while Murphy chopped and mixed in the galley. Every time they had a quiet moment, she wondered if she should tell him about the affair she'd had over the summer. The urge to confess was overwhelming; she blamed it on her Catholic upbringing. That morning she'd gone to the cathedral without him. All during mass she'd thought about their marriage, their problems. She scanned the pews in the cavernous church. Saw couples worshiping together. Families. The fact that he wasn't next to her in the pew spoke to one of their differences.

When she was growing up, Sunday mass and meals were a big deal for the Murphy clan. She and her mother would be up before church preparing the feast. They'd make Lebanese flatbread from scratch. The first loaf out of the oven would be theirs. They'd spread butter on the hot bread and wash it down with mint tea. The smell of baking would fill the house and rouse the males out of bed. They'd all attend morning mass together, filling up two pews. After church came a family meal that seemed to last all day.
Jack was raised differently. He was the only child of two University of Minnesota professors. They seldom went to church and rarely cooked. Jack's childhood memories of Sundays involved sleeping late and going out for brunch at a restaurant. Murphy didn't relish visiting his parents in their upscale St. Anthony Park neighborhood. Their house was too quiet and the copper pots they had hanging in their kitchen were covered with dust. Murphy thought there was something sacrilegious about buying nice cookware and using it solely for decoration. Jack was equally uncomfortable in her childhood home. Holidays were especially crazy with her brothers' wives and children added to the mix. More than one Thanksgiving she'd found Jack sitting alone on the back porch. “Too much noise,” he'd mutter.

She watched him sitting on her deck, his feet up on the rail and a Sunday paper next to his chair. She went over to the refrigerator and stood in front of it, hand on the door handle. She ordered herself to go out on the deck and spill her guts. She stood still for a moment, and then pulled open the door and reached for the tomatoes. She told herself she'd unload her conscience on another day. She slammed the door shut and returned her attention to something she could control: the food.

She was glad she had all the ingredients on hand for tabbouleh:

Half cup of bulgur (cracked wheat)

Four cups of chopped parsley (no stems)

Two medium tomatoes, diced

Half cup of finely chopped green onions (including tops)

Quarter cup of finely chopped fresh mint

Quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil

Quarter cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice

One teaspoon of salt

Half teaspoon of pepper

She covered the cracked wheat with lukewarm water and let it soak until it was soft—about twenty minutes. She drained it and squeezed it with her hands to get out as much water as possible. She tossed the bulgur with the other ingredients and chilled the salad in a covered bowl while she made the rest of the meal.

They ate in the galley; it was too cold to dine on the deck. After lunch, he sprawled out on the couch to watch the Vikings game while she cleaned up. The galley was separated from the living room by a counter. He scrutinized her camel statues, figurines and pillows. “Where'd you get that big wooden one?” he asked. It had a leather saddle and was nearly a foot tall.

She was loading the dishwasher and froze with a plate in her hand. “What'd you say?” She was glad he couldn't see her face.

“Never mind,” he mumbled.

She heard snoring a few seconds later and was relieved. She finished loading the dishwasher. The camel was a gift from Erik Mason, an investigator for the Ramsey County Medical Examiner's Office. She hadn't thought Jack would notice a new addition to her collection.

That night Murphy and Jack sat up in bed; he was in his boxers and she was in an oversized Old Navy tee shirt. She had the remote and switched from one channel to the other. The tall guy was all over the ten-o'clock news; every station led with him. He'd uncovered a clue during the search, and now the Moose Lake cops knew it was murder. Murphy stopped at one station. The reporter tipped her head toward the tall guy, as if the two of them were sharing a secret. “And what did you find?” The way she asked the question—slowly and dramatically—made it clear she already knew the answer.

The guy paused and swallowed. The camera closed in on his face. He was looking off to the side, as if he was shy, and rubbing the brim of a baseball cap he held in his hands. “A finger. Her p . . . pinkie, I think.”

“A final question,” said the reporter. “Is there anything you want to say to the person or persons who did this to Bunny Pederson?”

For the first time he looked up and into the camera. “Turn yourself in and tell the p . . . police where you buried her, or you'll never be able to sleep at n . . . night.”

The reporter: “Will you be able to sleep tonight, after that horrible find? Expecting nightmares?”

He smiled, head lowered again. “I'll be fine, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Trip. Back to you in the newsroom, Blake.”

“Trip.” Murphy said. “Why is that name so damn familiar?” She switched from station to station until she finally caught his full name: Justice Trip. “Bastard's everywhere,” she said. “Dammit. I wish I could remember.”

Jack grabbed the remote and pulled it out of her hands. “Why'd you put a set up here when you've already got one downstairs? I don't like a television in the bedroom.”

“Fine. Then don't put one in
your
bedroom.” She grabbed the remote back and switched to another channel. Justice Trip on that news station as well. She studied his face; that weird earlobe. She said suddenly, “Wait. I know how I know him. Sweet Justice.” She threw the remote at Jack and hopped out of bed.

“Babe. It can wait,” he yelled after her. “Who gives a shit?”

She thumped down the stairs. He heard her opening and closing cupboard doors and throwing stuff around while talking to herself. “Where is it? I just had it out.” She ran back upstairs and climbed under the covers; it was cold downstairs and her feet were icy. She tucked them under Jack's legs.

Jack looked over her shoulder while she flipped through the slender volume. “What's this?”

“St. Brice High yearbook.”

“You went to school with him?” Jack nodded toward the television. Trip was still on the screen, but Jack had hit the mute button.

“Yup.” She pointed to his photo. In the sea of grinning teenage faces, Trip's stood out for its dark seriousness.

“What made you think of him? You don't see any of your old high school friends.”

“All-class reunion coming up. Anniversary of the founding of the school.”

“You're going without me, I hope.”

“Without you,” she said. “But I would have remembered Trip regardless. Hard to forget. He asked me to the homecoming dance one year.”

“Didn't know your standards were so low.”

“Funny.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Didn't go with him. Didn't go at all that year.” She stopped paging for a minute and stared straight ahead. Remembering. “The guy I should have gone with . . . Denny . . . we had a fight. Made up after homecoming. Were planning on prom. He died that winter. With three other boys. Car accident. They'd been drinking. Roads were slick. Went off a curve and into a lake.” She turned to the first page of the yearbook and showed Jack the dedication. A photo of four boys in letter jackets. Grinning. Arms thrown around each other's shoulders. Below that, lines from Longfellow:

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

Jack: “Four kids. Big loss, especially for a small school.”

“Horrible. I'll always regret missing that homecoming dance with Denny.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Denny and his buddies beat up Sweet because he asked me out.”

“Sweet?”

“Trip's nickname. One of the nicer ones. Another was Motorhead. Trippy. Freak.”

“Nice school you went to.”

“Small schools don't have a lot of choices when it comes to cliques. If you don't fit into one of a handful of groups, then you don't fit in at all. Sweet was one of those kids who fell between the cracks. His creepy personality didn't help him out. Check out what he wrote in my yearbook.” She turned to the last page and pointed to a neatly printed message in the upper right corner:

What goes around comes around, beautiful. Sweet Justice.

Jack's eyes widened. “Damn.”

“Yeah. I'm sure he blamed me for the beating. I never had the courage to talk to him again, tell him it wasn't my doing.”

“Maybe the reunion.”

“I don't think Sweet's one of those sentimental alums who misses the old gang.”

“What was your nickname?”

She turned to the section of the book with individual student photos and pointed to a line under hers: “A.k.a. Camel Rider, Potato Head and Betty.”

“I get the first two. What's with Betty?”

“Private joke between me and Denny. He was a closet
Flintstones
fan. He'd shut the door to his bedroom after school and watch. He told me I was his Betty. I gave him a
Flintstones
coffee mug. He kept it in his car. Filled it with change. I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted it back when they recovered his car. It was gone. Probably sitting at the bottom of the lake.” She closed the yearbook and set it on her nightstand.

Jack shut off the television and handed her the remote. “Put this away, too. Bedrooms should be reserved for screwing and sleeping.”

“In that order?” She threw the remote on her nightstand.

“Bet your ass in that order.”

“Talk's cheap, baby.” She slid down so she was flat on her back. He reached over and shut off the bedside lamp.
He peeled off his boxers and leaned over her and pulled her tee shirt over her head. Jack crawled on top of her. She loved the weight and warmth of him; it was like being buried in sand at the beach. Hot and heavy and wet.

A passing barge pushed waves against the boat, but they didn't notice. The rocking seemed part of the rhythm of their lovemaking.