The Weight Of Silence Part 7

It had stopped raining, but darkness was gathering, pressing in on the house so that I nearly choked on its emptiness. Finally, I abandoned the notion that Fielda needed some time to herself and climbed into our other car, "the regular folk" car Mrs. Mourning would say, a Chevette that was a shade of bronze that fortunately covered the rust stains eating away at its edges. I spent the next hour driving up and down side streets, looking for Fielda; I drove past the library, the fabric store, the candy shop, searching to no avail. I even paused briefly in front of the Mourning Glory and glanced into its gleaming storefront, lit warmly, but did not see Fielda or our Camry. I decided to drive into the Willow Creek Camping Grounds, a dismal, junky spot, I thought, to which people who had nothing better to do with their time would pull c.u.mbersome campers in order to sit around a fire and drink beer all day and all night. I could not imagine that Fielda would be there, but I had run out of ideas. As I pulled into the paved entrance area lined with gigantic maples, their bright red plumage shadowed in the dusk, I saw the car almost immediately and pressed my foot to the pedal, sending my car lurching forward. I pulled in next to Fielda and could see at once that something was not right, that something very, very bad had happened here. Slowly-I do not know why I did not rush-I opened my car door, stepped out and firmly shut it again. I could hear my shoes slapping against the wet pavement as I approached the still car. No movement inside. I went first to the driver's side of the car and pressed my forehead against the gla.s.s, framing my face with my hands to get a better look. My Fielda was seated, if I can call it that, in the driver's seat, but sprawled in such a way that her head lay on the pa.s.senger's side, her arms tucked up around her face as if she was sleeping. But she was not. I attempted to open the car door, but Fielda had locked it. I fumbled for what seemed an eternity with my key chain, found the correct key and tried to insert it into the lock. I had to stop myself to take a breath and steady my hands. Finally, I yanked the door open and pulled Fielda toward me. I could smell it first, the vomit, an acrid odor, and then I saw the mess on the car floor and car seat. Fielda had been lying in it. I do not know if I spoke, I do not recall that I did, but I remember thinking, Please don't take her away from me! Please don't take her away from me! I held her close to me, I know, rocking her back and forth for a moment, until I pulled myself together. I pushed her away as gently as possible, but knowing the urgency that was upon me, not as gently as I would have liked. I held her close to me, I know, rocking her back and forth for a moment, until I pulled myself together. I pushed her away as gently as possible, but knowing the urgency that was upon me, not as gently as I would have liked.

I climbed into the Camry and breaking every traffic law, drove to Mercy Hospital, where the hospital personnel took Fielda away from me. I was not allowed to see her. They pumped her stomach. I handed the emergency room nurse the empty bottle of pills Fielda had ingested, and she informed me with a scathing look that it was a miracle that she had survived and would be recuperating on Four West, a place described by my students as "Four West, Nut Nest." I knew I deserved these looks, I knew I had failed my wife, and I was punished. She was taken from me. For two weeks, even when they allowed her to have visitors, she refused to see me. I did not teach and I did not go to my office; I went to the hospital and sat in the waiting area, begging the nurses to let me see her for just one moment, no more. I sent flowers, candy, orange poppy seed m.u.f.fins, but still she refused. At last, at the insistence of Mrs. Mourning, I am sure, Fielda sent for me.

Alone, I entered her room, not dark and sad, as I thought it would be, but sunny and cheerful, smelling of roses, my flowers surrounded her bedside along with cards and well wishes from family and friends. The nurse left us, telling Fielda to call for her if she needed anything. Fielda would not meet my eyes. She looked thinner, smaller to me, and tired, very, very tired. But still I went to her, still I removed my jacket and shoes, and still I crawled into her small hospital bed, molding myself to her. Together there we cried, the two of us, begging each other for forgiveness and quietly, tearfully we both forgave and allowed ourselves to be forgiven.

Now ten years later, in the swelter of summer, our daughter missing, Fielda has pulled the bedcovers up around her head, and I can hear her breath in sleep, heavy and even. I touch Fielda's shoulder before treading softly from the room and closing the door behind me. I hesitate in the hallway; I don't quite know what to do with myself. I know I cannot stay here at my mother-in-law's home, too far away from what is going on. I need to be near the officers, I need to be there at a moment's notice. I had already let my daughter down once by letting her be taken from our home, hadn't I? I would know, would I not? Someone entering my home, in the dead of night, slinking up the stairs, past my bedroom, down the hallway, to my daughter's door, standing on its threshold, listening to the whir of the box fan, watching the rise and fall of Petra's chest.

Here is where I must stop. I cannot imagine what could have happened beyond this point. I would know, wouldn't I? Someone in my home, I would know.

BEN.

I run until my chest is ready to explode. My face is hot with tears. I stumble over a fallen log and tear my dress s.h.i.+rt on a th.o.r.n.y branch, but still I run, down to the creek. I could tell by the way that cop looked at me, the way he talked to me, that he thought I might have hurt you, Calli. At least, he thought I knew who hurt you.

Jason Meechum, b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Figures he would be brought up. I could have killed him. I could have. But not really. But I was so mad, furious. It started in math cla.s.s last spring. I was doing some G.o.d-awful division problem with fractions on the board and I couldn't think. The numbers just blurred together and I couldn't think. If I had a pencil and a piece of paper and was sitting at the kitchen table, with you swinging your feet in the chair next to me, drawing b.u.t.terflies, I would have been fine. Instead, I was standing at the blackboard in front of twenty-seven other kids with a fat piece of crumbly chalk in my hand, and I couldn't think. Jason Meechum started it all. I could hear his whiny, weasely voice.

"r.e.t.a.r.d!" he coughed, concealing his mouth behind his hand.

The other kids giggled, but said nothing. The teacher didn't hear him, of course, and told me to keep on trying. More laughter, I could feel dozens of eyes on me, burning into my back. I glanced back over my shoulder and could see Meechum making faces and whispering, "r.e.t.a.r.d," to me. I remember trying to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I can't believe I did it, I really can't. But Meechum had bothered me before, making cracks about my wino father and my stupid sister. This just topped it all off, and I snapped. I spun around, the thick chalk in my fist, and I flung it at him, as hard as I could; I'm a big kid and have a strong arm. The minute it flew from my fingers I was reaching to get it back, but it was too late. I had visions of the chalk hitting a cla.s.smate or worse yet, the teacher. But it didn't, it hit Meechum dead center between the eyes. I heard the weird thunk as the chalk hit and saw his hands cover his face. The cla.s.sroom went completely quiet and Miss Henwood sat at her desk with her mouth wide-open; I'm usually not the guy who causes problems in the cla.s.sroom. Then I walked right out of the cla.s.sroom and went home, like, three miles.

My mom was expecting me when I got home. She wasn't mad or nothing. She just looked sad, and of course, that made me start bawling. She just set me on her lap like I was three, I'm sure I about crushed her, and I cried and she told me everything was going to be all right.

It wasn't, though; we had to have a big meeting with the princ.i.p.al. I had to say sorry to Meechum, and I did, even though I still believe he deserved it. Meechum's parents went on for a while, saying that I should've been suspended or something, but I wasn't. Wish I was.

That next week Meechum and his buddies cornered me after school and pushed me around a bit, called Mom a wh.o.r.e, said she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the deputy sheriff. I walked away that day, but later, when Meechum was alone I snuck up on him and wrenched his arm behind his back and told him I was gonna kill him if he ever said anything about my family again. Meechum blubbered to his mother and she called the school and the police. Another meeting was called, but I denied everything, and he couldn't prove anything. Mrs. Meechum said something about me being just like my no-good father, and boy, did Mom hit the roof with that one. But the damage was done. Everyone looked at me a little different after that. I wasn't the quiet one anymore.

Calli, I'd never hurt anyone. I'm not like Dad, I'm not. I'd never hurt you. I'll find you, even if it takes all night. I'll bring you home and then they'll know.

CALLI.

Calli slept fitfully. The ground was hard and unforgiving. Mosquitoes hovered around her exposed parts, though she had tried to tuck her legs underneath her nightgown, and they bit at her ankles and forearms.

She dreamed intermittently of flying among the branches of the trees. She felt cool air on her forehead, and the pleasant swoop in her stomach that came with flight, like the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. Below her she could see the creek, cool and beckoning; she tried to will her body to fly down to the water so she could dive into it. But she could not. She continued to soar, following the crooked path of the creek. She caught a glimpse of her father's fiery hair and her stomach lurched in fear. He was looking up at her, anger etched on his face. She quickly pa.s.sed over him and saw the rabbit-eared fawn drinking at the water's edge. Its soft eyes calmly summoned her and Calli winged down and hovered just a few feet above the deer. She reached out her hand to stroke its hide, but it darted out of her reach and into the woods. Calli tried to follow, the puff of its white tail raised in warning, her beacon. In and out of firs and buckeyes it twisted and turned. Calli concentrated to keep up. A hand s.n.a.t.c.hed at her from behind and tried to grab at Calli, but only caught the hem of her nightgown. Looking over her shoulder, she could see that it was Petra who waved happily after her. Another hand clamped briefly on her arm and her mother smiled up at her. Calli's flight slowed, but did not stop, and she momentarily spied her mother's hurt, confused look as she flew onward. Then the wood was filled with people who were familiar to her, grabbing at her in a friendly way, like children chasing bubbles. There was Mrs. White, the school nurse, and her kindergarten teacher, and Mrs. Vega, her first-grade teacher whom she loved dearly. Mr. Wilson, the school counselor, held her opened journal, pointing at something in it, but she couldn't see what it was. What was he pointing at? She so badly wanted to know. She tried to will her body to fly down toward Mr. Wilson and look at that journal, but she could not, she kept soaring onward. There was Mrs. Norland, Deputy Sheriff Louis, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, Jake Moon, Lena Hill, the librarian, all there reaching out for her. She peered through the throng of people searching for Ben, but she could not find him. Now there were people grasping at her that she did not know and this was frightening to Calli. She tried to kick her feet and swim upward with her arms through the air, onward she flew, following her doe. Soon she came to a beautiful clearing. Trees circled the small green meadow. A small pond was nestled in the center and the fawn stopped for a drink. She was so thirsty, but could not pull herself down to the bank. Suddenly Ben was there. Big, strong, kind Ben. He called to her. She tried to tell him that she was thirsty, so thirsty, but no words came. He seemed to know, though, Ben always seemed to know, and he dipped his hands into the water and pulled them out, cupped full of water. Still Calli could not bring her body down to him, but he tossed the water up at her and she caught a drop on her tongue. It was cold and sweet. Calli reached out for her brother, but it was as if she was filled with helium and she kept rising, higher and higher, above the treetops. Ben quickly began disappearing, his red hair a small flag below her. She continued to travel upward. The temperature rose as she rose, until she crashed into the sun.

Calli awakened with a start, momentarily disoriented. She sat up and tried to wet her cracked lips, but her tongue was thick and heavy and held no moisture. Her dream had fled from her mind as she blinked herself awake, but was left with the comforting feeling that Ben was nearby. She stood slowly, her muscles tight, her feet sore. Downward, she decided, toward the water, and she began her slow descent down the bluff toward where she thought the creek might lay. As she walked gingerly along the path, avoiding broken twigs and jagged rocks, Calli recalled s.n.a.t.c.hes of her dream and the image of the school counselor, Mr. Wilson, holding her journal, pointing at something inside of it.

At their first meeting, Mr. Wilson, a tall, thin man with bone-white hair and a long nose, invited her to sit next to him at the circular table in the guidance office. In front of them lay a black journal made with a rough raspy paper with little natural fibers poking out. The book was held together with white silky ribbon. Calli thought it was a beautiful book and longed to flip through the pages to see what was inside. Next to the journal lay a brand-new box of colored chalk, not the thick variety that came in only four colors and was used for drawing on the sidewalk, but a real artist's set with wonderful bright, rich colors. Her fingers itched to open the package.

"Did you know, Calli," began Mr. Wilson, "that some of the best conversations people have are not with the spoken word?" He waited, as if expecting Calli to answer.

Immediately Calli became guarded. Last year's counselor, Mrs. Hereau, a mousy woman who only wore baggy clothes in shades of gray and tan, would wait for Calli to answer, as well. She never did, though.

"Calli, I'm not going to get you to try and talk," Mr. Wilson said, as if reading her mind. He rubbed his long nose with one extended fingertip and looked at her straight in the eye. Mrs. Hereau never even seemed to look at Calli's face, always talked to her while jotting notes down in a notebook. Mr. Wilson's straightforward manner unsettled Calli a bit.

"I do want to get to know you, though," he continued. "That's my job, to try and get to know the students, and help them if I can.

"Oh, don't look so suspicious, Calli," Mr. Wilson chuckled. "Talking is overrated. Blah, blah, blah. I listen to people talking all day! Then I go home and listen to my wife talking, and my kids talking, and my dog talking..." He slid his eyes toward Calli, who wrinkled her nose and smiled at the image of Mr. Wilson listening to a black Lab or German shepherd sitting at the kitchen table, talking about its day.

"Okay, so my dog doesn't talk talk, talk, but everyone else does. So this quiet will be good for me. I thought," he said, stretching his lean legs under the table, "that we could have this journal here and write to each other. Kind of like pen pals, but without envelopes or stamps. Our conversations could be right in here." He tapped the journal with one finger.

"What do you think, Calli? Don't answer that. Think about it, decorate the cover, whatever. I'm just going to sit over here at my desk and work and enjoy the quiet."Mr. Wilson smiled encouragingly, stood and went to his old oak desk in the corner of the office. He settled his long frame into a chair and tucked his legs underneath the steel-framed chair, bent his slender neck over the contents of a file folder and began to read.

Calli regarded the book in front of her. She loved to draw pictures and write stories. She could write lots of words, even though she was only in the first grade. She wrote stories about horses and fairies and cities under the ocean. She never had a pen pal, never even wrote to her father while he was away-that had never occurred to her. She couldn't imagine that anyone would be interested in what she wrote. Everyone wanted to hear what she had to say say, as if the words she said would somehow drip jewels.

She flipped open the journal. Its creamy, unlined pages were oddly welcoming. The pages contained the same flecks of fibers that were in the cover, each page uniquely flawed. She softly closed the book and her attention s.h.i.+fted to the chalk in front of her. Selecting a purple that held the same s.h.i.+mmer as the dragonflies down at Willow Creek, she held it in her fingers, admiring it. In the lower right-hand corner she slowly printed her name with great care: Calli Calli. She glanced up at Mr. Wilson, who was still engrossed in his paperwork. Calli carefully replaced the purple chalk back into the box and wiped the excess dust from her fingers onto her jeans, leaving iridescent streaks. She pushed her chair back from the table, stood, picked up the journal and carried it over to Mr. Wilson. She held it out to him.

"Just set it over there, Calli," he said, indicating the round table. "We'll meet again on Thursday. Have a good day."

Calli paused. Was that all? No "You need to speak now, Calli. You're worrying your mother needlessly. Stop this nonsense. There is nothing wrong with you!" "You need to speak now, Calli. You're worrying your mother needlessly. Stop this nonsense. There is nothing wrong with you!" Just Just "Have a good day"? "Have a good day"?

Calli turned away from Mr. Wilson and gently laid the book on the table, gave a small breath of relief and walked out the door.

Calli spent two half-hour sessions a week with Mr. Wilson, writing and drawing pictures in her journal. Often, he would draw a picture or write back to her, only if she asked him to in writing. Her favorite pictures and writings were about his dog, named Bart. He told tales of Bart being able to open doors with his paws and the time when he was begging at the dining-room table and actually said the word hamburger hamburger in his little dog voice. Sometimes Calli would have to point at a word for Mr. Wilson to read to her, but most often she could read what he wrote on her own. She looked forward to the beginning of second grade and her meetings with Mr. Wilson. She felt safe in his quiet little room with her chalk, a sharpened pencil and her journal. Mr. Wilson had said he would keep the journal over the summer and that it would be waiting for her when school began again. She had written to him, during their second to last meeting of her first-grade year, asking him what they were going to do when the journal was filled up. He'd replied, "Get a new one, of course!" She had smiled at that. in his little dog voice. Sometimes Calli would have to point at a word for Mr. Wilson to read to her, but most often she could read what he wrote on her own. She looked forward to the beginning of second grade and her meetings with Mr. Wilson. She felt safe in his quiet little room with her chalk, a sharpened pencil and her journal. Mr. Wilson had said he would keep the journal over the summer and that it would be waiting for her when school began again. She had written to him, during their second to last meeting of her first-grade year, asking him what they were going to do when the journal was filled up. He'd replied, "Get a new one, of course!" She had smiled at that.

Calli wondered what Mr. Wilson had been pointing at in her dream. Which page in the journal was he trying to show to her? She didn't know. They had written so much in it, none of it particularly important, not to an adult anyway, except Mr. Wilson had a way of making you feel as if everything you wrote and did was important.

A ground squirrel skittered by and startled Calli. She listened for the gurgle of the creek, but heard nothing but the cicadas' steady thrumming.

Downward, she told herself, downward is where the creek will be, with cold water and silver fish. Maybe she'd see a frog and s.h.i.+mmering purple dragonflies that sparkled as they skimmed the water. Downward.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.

Fitzgerald and I have gone our separate ways for the moment. Fitzgerald is focusing on getting a search dog over here, and on trying to trace the whereabouts of Griff from the GPS in his cell phone. I will be meeting with the other deputies to give and receive updates on our progress in finding Calli and Petra.

Our sheriff, Harold Motts, is getting on in years, and has taken a mostly hands-off approach to his job in the past year. He's pa.s.sed as many of his duties that he could over to me. There has even been talk that I should run for sheriff in the next election. Most of the staff have been accepting, though grudgingly, of my leaders.h.i.+p role, but one. Deputy Logan Roper has tried to make job as a deputy sheriff h.e.l.l. I figure it had more to do with Roper being a close pal of Griff Clark more than any genuine dislike that he has for me, but who knows? We've come to a mutual understanding. We show professional respect toward one another and communicate when we need to, but that's all. It's too bad, actually, but as long as our tension doesn't interfere with the job, I can live with it.

Griff and Logan were five years ahead of Toni and me in high school. I never really knew much about them, just that they were wild and could be mean. I'm not sure how Griff and Toni were first introduced, but I suspect it was through her job as a clerk at the Gas & Go, a convenience store on Highway Ten. Toni worked there on weekends and after school. I told her I didn't like her working in a gas station so late at night and so close to the highway; anyone could take off with her and would be well on his way without anyone knowing. Toni would just laugh and call me "cop boy." I hated that.

By April of our senior year of high school, Toni wasn't talking to me and was dating Griff, apparently hopelessly in love with him. I thought she was trying to make me jealous and it worked, but I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of letting her know that. I didn't think, however, that a year later she would be married to him.

November of our senior year was when Toni and I really started talking about our future together and what we wanted. We had spent a chilly early winter morning walking through the woods. She wore an old brown barn coat that belonged to one of her brothers and a multicolored hat knit by her mother, who had died earlier that fall. She had cropped her hair short and it made her face seem even younger than her seventeen years; she had lost weight since her mother pa.s.sed and she looked breakable. I was excited. She knew I wanted to go to college. Toni said she was supportive of that, but I could tell she wasn't really. I couldn't afford the tuition at St. Gilia.n.u.s so a state college was my only option. The problem was that the University of Iowa was over a hundred miles away from Willow Creek. I had already filled out my application and had been accepted; I would leave the following August.

As I told Toni, she wouldn't even look at me. She sat on the edge of the fallen tree we called Lone Tree Bridge because it fell across a portion of Willow Creek. Her normally unguarded face went stony as I described to her that the college wasn't really all that far away and that I'd come to see her on holidays and on weekends. I went on to say that there was nothing stopping her from coming with me. She could enroll in cla.s.ses or get a job. We could still be together.

"Everybody leaves me," she whispered, tucking her arms into the pockets of her coat.

She meant her mother dying and her brothers moving away. It was just her and her dad in their house, and according to Toni, her dad was thinking of moving to Phoenix to be with Tim, his oldest son.

"I'm not leaving, not for good," I told her. But she shook her head.

"You won't come back. You'll go to college with all these important people and important ideas. You'll outgrow this place," she said matter-of-factly.

"No," I insisted. "I will never outgrow you."

"All I've ever wanted was to live in a yellow house," she said softly before she walked away, leaving me standing alone among the naked trees. I could hear crispy leaves crunching under her feet long after I couldn't see her anymore. We tried to carry on as we always had for the next month or so, but something had changed. She would shrink from my touch, as if the feel of my hands on her hurt her somehow. She would become uncharacteristically quiet when I talked about college and a shadow came across her face whenever I tried to make love to her. I hadn't even left yet, but she was already gone.

She broke up with me at the beginning of December and from then on, it was as if I didn't exist. She didn't take my phone calls, didn't answer the door when I came over, walked right past me in the hallways at school. I finally cornered her in Willow Creek Woods. She was walking slowly, her head down, her eyes on the trail before her. It was snowing, the flakes impossibly big. I briefly considered scooping up a s...o...b..ll and pelting her in the back with it. I was pretty p.i.s.sed at her. But I didn't. There was something about her walking there alone that made her seem as naked and vulnerable as the giant, leafless trees. "Toni," I called softly to her, trying not to startle her. She whipped around, clutching her chest. On seeing me, she dropped her hands, fists tight, as if preparing for a fight. "Hey," I said. She didn't respond. "Can we talk?" I asked.

"There's really nothing to talk about," she said, her voice as cold as the air around us.

"Do you really want to do this?" I asked.

"Do what?" she asked as if she didn't know what I was talking about.

"This!" My voice echoed through the trees. She took one step toward me and then stopped, as if coming any closer to me might make her change her mind.

"Lou," she said firmly. "For months I watched my mother die..."

"I know," I said. "I was there, remember?"

"No, you weren't there. Not really. For months I watched my mother dying. There was nothing, nothing, that I could do to make her better, to make her live. Now I'm losing my dad. In a completely different way, but the minute I graduate he's out of here. Out of Willow Creek forever. He can't stand the thought of living here without my mother. I do not want to end up like that. Ever!" She looked at me fiercely.

"It's not the same," I pleaded with her.

"It's exactly the same," she shot back. "You're going to leave, and that's fine, whatever. But I'm not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you. I spent way too much time on you as it is."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked angrily. "That I was just a waste of time?"

"It just means that I'm not going to invest one more minute in someone who isn't going to stick around, who doesn't love me enough to stay. Just leave me alone!" She turned away from me and moved noiselessly through the woods. I shouldn't have done it, but I did. At that moment, I hated her. I bent down and sc.r.a.ped up a handful of the wet snow, forming a perfect white ball. I didn't throw it hard, but at the last second she turned to say something else to me, and the s...o...b..ll pelted her right in the face. She stood stone still for a fraction of a second and then turned and ran. I tried to follow her, to apologize, but she knew the woods better than anyone, plus she was faster than I was. I never caught up to her, never said I was sorry. Never found out what she was going to say to me before the s...o...b..ll hit.

In the end, she outgrew me, or maybe I outgrew her, I guess. I knew I was starting to look like a fool. Everyone knew I loved Antonia and that she wanted nothing to do with me anymore. She married Griff that next year, while I was away at school, and had Ben soon after. I learned about Toni the way strangers learned about her, through newspaper clippings and idle gossip. We had become strangers, she and I.

I met Christine four years later and we married. She reminded me nothing of Toni, and I didn't mean to hold that against her, but I guess I did. I'm surprised, actually, that Christine was this patient with me, especially after I brought her here to Willow Creek to live and raise a family. She never quite settled in, always felt out of place, unwelcome. It's not her fault that the people of Willow Creek are intertwined by a common history and by blood. Maybe she doesn't fit in because she doesn't want to, or maybe because I don't want her to. I don't know. But I don't have time to waste on this; I have to focus on the matters at hand.

As soon as I walk into the station, Officer Tucci is there, waiting for me.

"We got some info on some of the names you wanted run," he tells me. "There's not much. Mariah Burton, the babysitter, is completely clean. Chad Wagner, one of the students, was arrested when he was in high school for underage drinking. Got a hold of him and he's home visiting his mom and dad in Winner. Nothing's come up on this Lucky Thompson, but we can't contact him. He isn't at home or he isn't answering his phone. The men from the furniture store are accounted for and are being interviewed. We're also checking on all the teachers at the girls' school. Calli spent a lot of time with the school counselor, a Charles Wilson. We haven't been able to contact him, either. Only other red flag was on Sam Garfield. He teaches at St. Gilia.n.u.s. Been here for about three years. Before that he was at another college in Ohio. Left under a cloud. Had an affair with a student.

"Oh, and Antonia Clark called about twenty minutes ago," Tucci says. "She says she's found footprints that look like Calli's, and a man's footprints, too. She was very upset, crying and carrying on. Couldn't make much sense of her after that."

"What did you tell her?" I ask.

"Told her I would let you know as soon as I could. She said she wanted to talk to you. Had to talk to you. I tried to explain to her that you weren't available at a second's notice." Tucci sounds irritated. "That you're a busy man."

"Who's over there now?" I ask, already heading back out the door.

"Logan Roper," he says.

"Great," I mutter under my breath.

"Well, he was there and available," Tucci bl.u.s.ters, sounding confused. "Shouldn't he be the one?"

"That's fine," I say regretfully. "I just want to be made aware of any developments in this case. Call me no matter what from here on out."

"Do you think it's like that McIntire girl?" he asks.

"I don't know. But that outcome is the one we want to avoid." I pause at the double doors. "Is there anything else I need to know before I head on back to the Clark place?"

"Actually, yes. Channel Four's been calling all morning asking about the missing girls. They want a statement. And Mrs. McIntire called twice. She wants you to call her back. Wants to know if she can be any help to the families of the missing girls. Says she's driving over this afternoon."

"Dear Lord," I mumble. "Get me Fitzgerald. We need to get an official statement written up for the press. When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. McIntire?"

"About forty minutes ago, I guess. She should be here anytime now."

I retreat to my desk. I'd have to see about Toni later. For now, I had to trust my department, especially Roper, to do what they were trained to do. I quickly jot down a rough copy of a statement that could hopefully satisfy the press, and my phone rings. "Deputy Sheriff Louis speaking," I say.

"Yeah, Louis," Fitzgerald begins, "I just got word about the footprints at the Clark house. The state crime lab should be pulling up there momentarily. Who do you got over there?"

"Officer by the name of Logan Roper. Should be fine, except..." I hesitate.

"Go ahead. Say it. Something's bothering you," Fitzgerald prods.

"He's a decent cop, but he's also great pals with Griff Clark. Conflict of interest, maybe," I say. Like I was one to talk, but I didn't trust Griff and I didn't quite trust his buddies, either.

"I see what you mean," says Fitzgerald. "Pair him up with someone you completely trust. How 'bout you?"

"Well," I begin, "there could be a bit of a problem with that, as well."

Better to get it all out now, Toni and my history together. Shouldn't matter, but it does. I settle in to tell Fitzgerald all about it when I hear a soft clearing of the throat, and at my desk I see the tired, sad face of Mrs. McIntire.

"Hey," I say to Fitzgerald. "Let me call you back."

We disconnect and I face the woman I had hoped not to see again until we had the man who destroyed her life and lives of her family members, the woman whose battered, abused daughter was found dead in a woody area ten miles from her home on the other side of the county. The woman who I had to help pick up off the floor of the morgue after she identified the body as her Jenna's, and the woman who cursed me last time she talked to me for having to bury her daughter without knowing who had done this to her.

"I want to help," she says simply.

I offer her a chair and try to figure out the best way to tell her that the last thing the Gregory and Clark families want is any sort of reminder that their daughters could be dead.

MARTIN.

I can't sit around and wait. I tell Fielda's mother that I am going to check on the investigation and I drive back toward my home. I park on the shoulder of Timber Ridge Road. Something is going on at the Clark house. A flurry of activity. Several police cars drive past and turn down the Clarks' lane. My heart quickens and for a moment I think that I am having a heart attack, but I do not collapse, though I feel a heart attack would be preferable to what is going through my mind right now.

The sun is bearing down more ferociously now, if that is possible. The car thermometer reads ninety-nine degrees, and that does not even include the heat index. I step from my car and make my way toward the Clark house.

The woods and this quiet, uneventful neighborhood were what brought Fielda and me to our home. We like the fact that, while we have neighbors, there are only four close by. The Olson and Connolly families live to our right and the Clarks and old Mrs. Norland are on the left. One hundred yards separate each of our homes, so we are close enough to call each other neighbor but far away enough for privacy's sake. We never let Petra visit the Clark house when Griff was home from wherever he works, the Alaska pipeline, I believe. We don't tell Petra that Griff is the reason she cannot go over there at times; we simply say that Calli has so little time with her father that we must not disturb their family time. Petra accepts this good-naturedly, and I do not believe she knows of Griff's illness. Calli certainly never speaks of it.

On the other side of Timber Ridge is another line of trees, not the forest that lies behind our homes, but a high bluff that separates us from the rest of Willow Creek. Many miles down Timber Ridge a few other homes are situated in much the same manner, neighbors here and there with backyards fading into the forest. My feet crunch on the gra.s.s, burned yellow from the sun and lack of rain. From a distance, I see some officers speaking with Antonia in her front yard. She is pointing and gesturing, but I cannot see her face.