Authors: Valerie Geary

Crooked River: A Novel (14 page)

I tugged Ollie’s arm. “We can come back later.”

Ollie stepped closer to the window. She lifted her hand and, with one finger, traced the stenciled letters on the window:
D-E-L-I-L-A-H
. When she reached the
H,
she went back to the
D
and traced it again. She ignored the
’S
and the word
ATTIC
that came after.

On the road behind us, a car drove slowly past. The engine rattled the way Zeb’s truck did, and I turned quickly, thinking maybe it was him—maybe the forensic guys had finished early—but it was a burgundy minivan and no one I recognized.

I grabbed Ollie’s elbow, saying, “Let’s go,” and dragged her a few steps along the sidewalk.

She pulled back against me, digging in her heels, throwing her whole weight into going the opposite direction, back to Delilah’s Attic. She’d gotten stronger in the past few months, taller, too. I used to be able to pick her up under her arms and swing her around in a circle. I used to be able to lift her onto my shoulders and carry her around for hours. I used to be able to make her do whatever I wanted.

I released her. She stumbled backward but didn’t fall.

“Fine,” I said. “You want to go inside?”

She nodded.

“Go, then.”

She took a step toward the door, then stopped and glanced back at me.

“I’m going to go talk to Deputy Santos.”

She pushed her glasses up high on the bridge of her nose, and worked her lips between her teeth, and it seemed like she was getting ready to say something and I thought,
Finally. It’s about goddamn time.
But then she just shrugged. And said nothing.

“You can wait for me here,” I said. “Inside.”

Her nostrils flared a little.

“Either that or you come with me.”

She looked at the door, then back at me, and I wanted to ask her what was so pressing about this place, what couldn’t wait another hour? What was more important than our family? But I knew she wouldn’t answer.

“I’m going,” I said and turned away.

I walked to the end of the block slower than I normally would, giving Ollie time to think about it, change her mind, and catch up with me. When I reached the edge of the sidewalk, I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.

Ollie was gone, the sidewalk deserted. Maybe it was better this way—letting her hide inside books and imaginary worlds. Mom was always saying kids should stay kids for as long as possible. They shouldn’t be in charge of the hard things. I guess sometimes I just forgot how young ten really was and how much growing up Ollie still had to do.

I hurried across the street in the direction of Deputy Santos’s house, promising myself I wouldn’t stay long.

W
here did you find this?” Deputy Santos turned the plastic bag over, then brought the necklace close to her face.

Her eyes narrowed on the pendant, and she moved her thumb over it, smoothing the plastic, trying to see the details better.

“In Crooked River about a mile from the meadow,” and I told her about chasing the bee and how I was going to take the service road back to Zeb and Franny’s, but the gold chain had been glinting in the sun, begging me to wade out and see.

“It’s hers,” I said. “She’s wearing the same one in that picture the newspapers printed.”

Deputy Santos frowned.

“Right?” I pressed her. “It’s the same one. Isn’t it?”

“I think so.” She set the bagged necklace on the table among a cluttered mess of scribbled-on notepads, photographs, file folders, today’s newspaper still rolled and wrapped in plastic, and empty mugs stained dark with old coffee.

When I first came into the kitchen and saw her table like this, I thought she was busy with one of the cold cases she was always working during her off-hours. She’d bring home stacks of dusty boxes and sort through everything again, because sometimes it wasn’t new evidence that solved a case, rather someone with a fresh perspective coming along and taking another look, staring at it from a different angle. She told me once that working cold cases was the best thing she could think to do with her spare time, that it was important to never forget about the victims. That they deserved answers. “We owe it to them to keep trying,” she’d said. And that’s what I thought she was doing today, when she opened the door and invited me in. But then I saw Taylor Bellweather’s name scribbled on some of the papers, and my father’s name jotted down on others, and knowing this case had become her most important one encouraged me.

Deputy Santos skimmed her fingers over the plastic bag, lingering a few seconds on the pendant. “You should have left it there. You should have gone straight back to the Johnsons’ and called me right away.”

“I did call,” I said. “You didn’t answer.”

“You should have left a message.”

“By the time you got there, it would have been gone.” I wasn’t lying, just stretching the truth a little, because I needed her to focus. “The current was pulling at it too hard.”

“Why didn’t you call the tip line, then? Or 911, for Christ’s sake?” She folded her arms, cradling her elbows. “Someone would have come out right away.”

“I put it in a bag as soon as I could. And I kept it with me the whole time.” I shrugged. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

“You can still use it, right? You can dust it for fingerprints or something, can’t you?”

She didn’t answer me.

“Look.” I took the sketches from my back pocket, unfolded them, and laid them on the table side by side in front of her. “There were these, too.”

She picked up the drawing of the boot print, studied it a second, then put it down and picked up the sketch I’d done of the tire tracks. “Where?”

“In the mud a foot or so back from the waterline.”

She set the tire tracks back down, too, and looked at them both together.

“I didn’t touch the boot print or the tracks,” I said. “They’re probably still there. Exactly how I found them.”

She stared at my sketches. The ceiling fan in the living room clattered loudly, like a bolt was loose or the pull string was slapping against a blade.

“So?” I touched the corner of the boot print sketch. “This proves it, right? Bear’s innocent. You can let him go now?”

“This doesn’t prove much of anything,” she said. “Other than a possible dump site.” And then she bit her lower lip like she regretted using those words in front of me.

“But it does.” I pushed the boot print across the table, closer to her. “Bear doesn’t wear boots like these.”

“You don’t know everything about him, Sam. There are things he doesn’t tell you.” She tried to say it gently, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“No. You don’t understand,” I said. “He doesn’t wear boots. Period. He says the laces make him feel trapped, like he’s walking around in chains. He doesn’t own a pair of boots. He hates boots. He refuses to wear them.”

Deputy Santos picked up the boot print sketch again, turned it upside down and then sideways. She said, “They’re the right size.”

“He wears moccasins.” My voice pitched shrill. “Or he goes barefoot. Never boots. Never.”

“That you know of.” Deputy Santos laid the sketch down.

“You searched the meadow, right? You went through all his things. Did you find boots like this?” I jabbed my finger at the drawing. “Did you find any boots at all?”

She pinched her lips together between her teeth, and the creases in her forehead deepened. She said, “The arraignment’s tomorrow. You know that, right?”

I nodded. Zeb had already promised he’d take me.

“So it’s too late for me to do anything about it today.”

I nodded again, even though it didn’t really make sense to me how they could keep a man locked up like that when he was now so obviously innocent.

“Okay,” I said. “But you’ll take another look? Come at it from a different angle?”

I could tell by the sudden tightening corners of her mouth that she recognized her own words.

“I can’t make any promises,” she said. “But I’ll do what I can.”

I almost hugged her. Instead, I took the sketch out of her hand and brought it close to my face, trying to remember if I’d gotten all the details right. “I have some ideas, too,” I rambled. “About other people you might want to look into. Run a background check on at least.”

“Sam, listen to me.” She pushed the paper away from my face. “Things still might not work out the way you want them to. I’m going to look into the boot prints and the tracks not because you’re asking me to, but because it’s my job. Because they’re an important part of this investigation. But they might just lead us straight back to Bear. You know that, right?”

“They won’t.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about this case. A lot of things we haven’t told you . . . haven’t told anyone. We didn’t just arrest your father because we’re out to get him. We arrested him because that’s where the evidence is leading us.”

I rattled the sketch. “But now it will lead you in a different direction.”

Deputy Santos closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I hope so,” she said, opening them again and holding my gaze. “I really do hope so.”

And for the first time in a long time, I felt optimistic, and it was like a thousand tiny finches singing together in the brush, like a burst of sunlight reflecting diamonds across the surface of my swimming hole. A few more days, that was all, then Bear would come home and we’d start putting the pieces together again. Things would get better.

“But I need you to promise me something, Sam,” Deputy Santos said. “I need you to promise that you won’t do anything like this again, okay? Don’t go looking for evidence or witnesses or anything else like that. Don’t be a Nancy Drew.”

I wanted to tell her I hadn’t gone looking, that the evidence had found me, that if maybe they’d done their jobs right in the first place, she wouldn’t even need to be giving me this lecture. I kept quiet and let her finish.

“And if you do find something, accidentally . . . if you think it might be important, or it might have something to do with this case, don’t touch it. Don’t pick it up and put it in your pocket. Don’t move it. Don’t draw it. Don’t breathe on it. Just leave it alone and call 911 immediately. Do you understand me?”

I nodded.

“I want you to promise that you’ll let me and Detective Talbert do our jobs. Let us do the investigating. I don’t want you getting hurt. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

I said what she wanted to hear. “I promise.”

18
ollie

S
tanding in a carved-out hollow down three concrete steps, I reach for a brass doorknob.

The one who follows me led me away from the front door, around the corner, and into the alley where boxes get dropped off and garbage gets picked up. She shimmers behind me and whispers,
Go on. I’m right here with you
.

I turn the handle. The door swings open from the inside, and it’s six wooden steps down into a dark basement. I hesitate in the doorway where light and shadow mix.

Listen.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

Music drifts out a nearby window.

Wind hisses through the trees, or is that just me sighing?

I listen to her say,
Don’t be afraid. I’ll go first
.

She moves ahead and glides to the bottom of the stairs. She is pale blue edges with a dark gray center, and her hair is static electricity. She waves her hand, arcing sparks near her head and urging me to follow.

I glance behind me. The alley is empty.

I face forward. She flickers like a television screen. There is something down there, something I need to see, something that will help me understand, and now is the best, the only, time. I grab the railing and step down and down and down. When I reach the fourth step, the door behind me slams shut. I stop and blink hard and fast against the darkness, but my eyes do not adjust. I am blind.

If there is too much light, the Shimmering are invisible. The same if they are swallowed in darkness. They do not have enough thickness to make their own shadows, nor enough energy to create their own light. But even though I can’t see her now, I know she’s still here. Her heat burns my cheeks and the backs of my hands as she leads me through the dark.

Toe touches first. Then heel comes down. Keeping one hand on the railing, the other pushing through the empty space in front of me. Toe, then heel. Until I reach the bottom and the floor beneath my shoes is flat.

She focuses her energy on my left hand, and it’s like I’m touching hot metal. I start to pull my hand close to my body, but that only makes it worse, so I push my hand out to the side and touch the wall. The heat moves forward and I follow, feeling my way until my fingers find a light switch. I flip the switch up, and yellow light melts the darkness.

There is another staircase opposite the one I came down, another door that must lead into the store above me. A metal desk sits beneath the bare lightbulb. The top of the desk is cluttered with accordion folders and spilled-out heaps of paper. A cobweb stretches from the bulb, attaches to a globe that sits motionless on the desk corner.

Several feet of empty space surround the desk, and there is a clear path between the staircase I came down and the one on the other side. But the rest of the basement is cluttered with unwanted things, and there is barely room to slip sideways between the overflowing shelves and boxes.

In this corner: a headless mannequin. Over here: a box full of plastic dolls staring at the ceiling, arms and legs all in a tangle. On that shelf: jars filled with body parts and tiny, wrinkled animals floating in a dense, yellow liquid.

Here is a black parasol. Here is a stuffed and tattered squirrel. Here, an open, empty coffin.

These are ugly and broken things, and I wonder why they are here at all, why no one has thrown them away.

The one who follows me floats close to the desk and points at a stack of papers. Beneath the dim bulb she glints like broken glass.

I walk past a rack of old coats; past a leaning pink-and-brown baby carriage; past a box of orphaned quilts and a barrel of prosthetic limbs; past a hanging brass birdcage, the gate open, the bird long gone; past a metal washtub filled with colorful doorknobs; past wooden doors that lead nowhere.

On the desk are pages and pages of lined paper filled with numbers and equations and scrawled words that make no sense. Some of the papers have pictures sketched in the margins, nightmarish pencil marks and blotted ink stains, hands and eyes, noses and lips, bits and parts of broken-up animals and people. I push the papers to the edge of the desk and underneath are photographs, some black-and-white, some color.

Footsteps cross the floor above my head. I stare up at the beams and hold my breath until they pass.

The one who follows me looks over my shoulder. The photographs seem unimportant, more for cataloging purposes than any kind of sentimental reason. There are close-ups and wide shots of at least thirty different sculptures, horrifying twists of metal and carved wood, animals that have been stuffed and morphed, given extra limbs and horns made of recycled scraps and tree branches, given strange new life.

Overhead, a bell jangles. Heavy footsteps cross quickly from one side of the store to the other, and then I hear muffled, rushing voices. I do not understand their words, only that they are upset, angry, scared.

Faster. Hurry.

They are right above me now, and my too-loud heart will give me away.

There is something here I’m supposed to find, but I don’t know what. The one who follows me moves back to the alley door. She crackles and sparks and wants me to leave, but she brought me here in the first place and I won’t go until I find whatever it is I’m supposed to be looking for. I open the desk drawers one by one. More papers and files and a shuffle of broken pencils and uncapped pens.

The bottom right drawer squeals.

The voices above me stop. Slow footsteps moving closer.

I glance into the drawer and shrink away from what’s inside. A gun. With an ivory handle and a shiny metal barrel and spinning bullets. It looks like something a cowboy would have. I push the drawer closed and hurry toward the staircase that will lead me back outside.

The door behind me, the one that leads into the store, opens and more light spills into the dim basement. I duck between a refrigerator-sized box filled with rusted cookie tins and a tall, aluminum milk jug and curl myself into the small space, curl as small as I can.

“Hello? Is someone down there?” I recognize Travis’s voice.

And then Mrs. Roth, “It’s nothing. Probably a rat.”

“The light’s on.”

“I was down there earlier. I must have forgotten to turn it off.”

I hear them breathing at the top of the stairs. The light from inside the store is brighter than the bulb above the desk, and their shadows stretch overhead.

The one who follows me makes herself candle-flame small. She darts between my hiding place and the back door, anxious for me to leave.

Travis says, “I don’t know why you let him keep so much junk down here.”

“He uses this stuff in his sculptures. You know that.”

“Ten years ago maybe.”

Mrs. Roth sighs.

A dark shape unfolds from a pile of rags near my feet. I bite my lip, but then relax because it’s just the gray tabby from before. He rubs against my legs, tail flicking. I push him away, but he keeps coming back.

Travis says, “I want to see it.”

“He’s not finished. You know how he feels about sharing a piece too early.”

“You’ve seen it.”

“You’ll see it too, when he’s ready.”

The cat sits plop-down in front of me and starts washing his whiskers.

Travis says, “What if it’s not done in time?”

“It will be.”

“But what if it’s not? What if he’s taken on too much too soon?”

Mrs. Roth says, “The best thing we can do right now is give him space. Let him work.”

“But maybe I can help somehow. Screw pieces together or paint or something.”

“No, he needs to do this alone.”

The gray tabby stares at me and meows. I flick my hand, and he springs away, darting toward the stairs.