Faultlines (7 page)

“You’re the one who called us,” Sandy said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m real sorry for what you folks are going through.”

“What do want, Sergeant?” Emmett wasn’t buying the lawman’s sympathy.

“I need to get your son’s statement is all.”

“Obviously that’s not possible right now,” Sandy’s mother pointed out sharply.

Sandy had heard friends of her mother’s call her feisty.
That Penny Galbraith,
they’d say,
you don’t want to get on her bad side!
Growing up, Sandy had seen only rare flashes of her mother’s temper. She was ordinarily calm and almost always up for fun. Jordy and Travis adored her. Everyone did.

The sergeant was wearing a sorrowful look. Maybe he’d been told to put it on like part of his uniform. “It’s my job,” he said.

“Huck told Jenna that Jordy was driving. Is that right?” Sandy felt Emmett’s glance, but she kept her gaze on Carter.

He looked off in the direction of the corridor he’d come out of.

“Sergeant? Is that your conclusion, too? Was my son driving?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.”

“I think you should wait somewhere else.” Sandy’s mother sat down, pulling Sandy down beside her.

Carter started to go.

Emmett stopped him. “How come it’s you here to question Jordy? Where’s Huck? Isn’t he the officer in charge of the accident investigation, or is it you?”

Sandy knew what Emmett was thinking—hoping, really—that they wouldn’t have to deal with Huck. But that hope was short-lived.

“He’s on a call, but he’ll stop by later,” Carter said.

“Give him a message for me, will you? Tell him we’re contacting a lawyer. My son—in fact, no one in this family is going to talk to you guys without an attorney present.”

“I’ll tell him.” Carter paused, and after a moment, when no one spoke, he said, “Okay, then . . . good luck.”

Good luck?
Sandy and her mother exchanged a half smile, but her mother’s eyes were troubled. Sandy could almost see her sorting through the turmoil in her brain, the painful awareness that her loyalty was about to be ripped in half. Would she believe Jordy if he told her to her face he wasn’t driving?
Would anyone believe Jordy?
Sandy wondered.

It was almost noon before Dr. Showalter came to talk to them. “Jordy’s doing well. He’s in recovery now.”

“Can we see him?” Sandy asked.

“They’ll be taking him to the ICU soon. It’s a precaution. We’ll want to monitor him for the next twenty-four hours or so. You can see him there.”

“But what happened?” Emmett wanted answers. “What caused the bleeding?”

“It was the tiniest laceration to his liver, so small it didn’t show up on the initial scans. It happens.”

“It happens,” Showalter said,
Sandy thought later,
instead of “shit happens.”
That saying she hated. Probably because it was true. Otherwise she wouldn’t be sitting here in the ICU waiting room on a Saturday. She wouldn’t be in this hellish place, waiting for her son to come fully back to her, a thing she both longed for and dreaded.

Because somewhere in the grim reaches of this hospital, Patrol Sergeant Ken Carter was waiting, too, for the same thing.

They were sitting in the row of padded chairs against the back wall of the ICU visitors’ room—Sandy, her parents, Jenna, Troy, and Emmett.
Like sitting ducks,
Sandy thought.
Easy prey, fish in a barrel.
Her dad was on the end, bent over the pages of
Time
magazine, an old issue with Donald Trump’s face on it. Beside him, Troy looked at his phone. Emmett was in the third chair; he stared into the corridor, gaze unfixed. Next to him, Sandy let her head fill with the noise around her, the squeal of rubber-treaded soles on tile flooring, the ding of the elevator, the faceless requests that came from the PA system. Anything to keep from thinking. She couldn’t bear to look at her mother’s and her sister’s hands, twined together, a death grip. They were going to lose Travis. Everyone kept warning them to prepare for it. They kept saying nothing more could be done.

Make your peace. Say good-bye. Tell him all you want him to know.

That was the advice from the nurses, from Reverend Murphy, who had come to pray with them every couple of hours or so. Sandy did not pray.
What God?
she wanted to ask the reverend.
Don’t speak to me of miracles or acceptance,
she wanted to tell him.
Don’t mention God’s will to me.
If it would not have horrified her parents, offended their sensibilities—they were faithful attendees of their Methodist church—Sandy would have said these things.

She was thinking of that, and of how much she would like to order the good reverend to leave them alone, when Emmett stood up, and while she did register what he was doing, a voice in her brain was still holding forth, telling the reverend to go:
Take your stupid God with you and don’t come back,
so that when Emmett spoke, when he said, “I’m going to donate blood,” while she did hear him, she didn’t really register his intent.

She did note it when her dad looked up from his magazine and said he would come, too, and she was aware of the others looking at Emmett, but she had no thought of foreboding, no sense of dread, which would seem astonishing in hindsight, except, in her defense, she had already been exposed to so much dread in such a short period of time that perhaps in that moment, she was immune.

Emmett walked into the corridor, but then he came back. “What if no one had figured it out? Jordy could have bled to death internally, you know?” He looked around at them. “Because of Showalter’s screwup, missing that his liver was damaged. What if he’s missed something else? What if Jordy needs more blood?” He paused and cleared his throat, obviously agitated. “I’m his dad,” he began again, and his voice caught in a way that pierced Sandy’s heart.

“You aren’t his dad,” Jenna said.

Sandy looked at her.

“What?” Emmett was looking at Jenna, too.

“I said you aren’t his dad.”

6

W
hat is that stench?” Libby asked. It hit her as soon as she and Beck got out of his truck at the homesite. The air was saturated with it, something as sweet as it was acrid and sickening. She was thinking
blood
when Beck said it.

“A lot of it,” he added. “Close by, I think.”

Her heart stuttered.

They had parked off to one side of the construction site, keeping the road clear for the concrete trucks. Although it was still early, not quite seven, they were due at any time.

“Maybe someone hit a deer out on the highway.” Libby joined Beck.

“Could be,” Beck said, though he didn’t sound certain, and his wariness raised the hair on Libby’s arms. She walked with him, and as they drew nearer to the slab framework, the smell became overwhelming.

“Holy Christ.” Beck saw it first. “I think that’s a hog.” He went closer. “It’s a goddamn wild hog. Somebody has gutted a hog, sliced the damn thing open from head to ass end, and strung it up in our tree.” He was pissed, offended. It was the giant cedar, the ancient druid that at Libby’s instruction, he had taken pains to protect.

“Was it hunters?” she asked.

Feral pigs were a plague all over Texas. They had been for years. She and her dad had shot their share of them along with their allotment of deer in season. If they couldn’t use the meat, they’d donated it to a food kitchen. A lot of people did.

A breeze smartened, making the rope that bore the eviscerated hog’s weight creak. It was a sound from a nightmare, a horror movie. Still, Libby was glad to have the air move, to have the stench of blood and entrails carried away.

“If it was hunters,” Beck said, “they weren’t after the meat.”

Augie’s truck came into view, and within minutes, he joined them. “Y’all been hunting hogs, have you?”

“Yeah,” Beck answered. “We wanted your breakfast bacon to be extra fresh this morning.”

“Hot damn. I like that. I take my eggs over easy, but not too easy.” He grinned, then sobered. “Really, that is one big son of a bitch. Who brought it down?” Augie went closer, apparently impervious to the smell.

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Beck said. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Let’s ask the police.” He called the office number rather than 911, and whoever answered said someone would come out.

It was after Beck ended the call, when they walked over to the building site, that they found the damage to the form for the slab. It looked as if someone had used a crowbar to wrench it apart. Random two-by-fours had been shattered, the plumbing pipe bent, and the electrical conduit and plastic moisture barrier slashed. Much of the wreckage was blood soaked and smeared with the hog’s entrails. Its heart—Libby recognized the organ—was impaled on a piece of rebar that had been jerked upright near the front entryway. Had she not had the experience of hunting, had she not shot and dressed her first deer under her daddy’s supervision just days before her tenth birthday, she might have fled. But the gore, as bad as it was, wasn’t what bothered her the worst. No. It was the utter wantonness of the devastation.

Augie said it first, what they all knew. “I don’t see how the concrete can be poured today.”

Beck grabbed a mangled section of rebar and flung it as far as he could into the nearby cedar brake, where it landed with a ringing thud.

Augie took out his phone and said he’d try and head off the concrete trucks.

Libby looked back at the gutted hog carcass, twitching in the early-morning breeze, huge head lolled to the side, tongue protruding swollen and red, making its mouth appear more like a wound. Was it a prank? Was this how country kids joked around?

They were sitting on camp stools upwind of the butchered hog, drinking coffee from the thermos Libby had brought, when the patrol car from Wyatt pulled in beside Beck’s truck. Libby recognized the sergeant as soon as he stepped outside.

“That’s the cop who stopped me for speeding,” she said quietly to Beck.

“Better watch your step, then.” He grinned briefly.

Joining them, Sergeant Huckabee found her gaze. “Thought you said when we met again it’d be under better circumstances.”

She smiled. She remembered saying that. “Well, at least nobody’s speeding.”

The sergeant shook hands with Beck and Augie. Nodding downwind, he said, “Looks like somebody’s been doing some hunting.”

“Yeah,” Beck said, “and I’d appreciate it if they did it somewhere else.”

“Especially if they’re going to leave such a mess,” Libby said.

“What do you make of it, Huck?” Augie asked. “Had to be somebody pretty big to string up that animal. It’s got to be close to two hundred pounds. You see the tusks on that sucker?”

Libby said, “We called the police out here before, when one of the construction workers—Ricky Burrows is his name—his truck was keyed. The officer who came said it was kids, but this is more than that, don’t you think?”

“I dunno.” Huckabee walked around the animal. The flies had begun to find it now that the sun was up, and the carcass was crawling with them. “There’s some good-size young guys around here who like nothing better than to chase these wild hogs all over this county. They’re good with a knife, too.”

“But to hang it like that—in our tree—and not even take the meat—” Libby couldn’t accept that it was kids.

“They might not know this is your property now. They could have been drinking or high on something.”

“I could believe that,” Beck said, “if there was any evidence of it. But there’s not. Not even a beer can.”

“Did either of you hear anything last night?” Huckabee divided his glance between Beck and Libby.

She thought how she’d been wakened by some kind of noise. She remembered the light that swamped the bedroom walls, and she described all of this. She mentioned the squeal that might have been the service gate and said, “It could have been part of a dream.”

“You never told me,” Beck said.

“Honestly, until now, I’d forgotten.”

“About what time was this?” Huckabee asked.

“Around four, I think.”

Huckabee continued his inspection, examining the damaged slab framework, squatting to look more closely at the mess of tire tracks, footprints—all the signs of disturbance in the area that Libby, Beck, and Augie had already looked at before his arrival—and he came to the same conclusion. None of it was much use.

“There’s no way to tell who did this, is there?” Augie said.

“Or catch them,” Libby added.

“I’d like to shoot the bastards,” Beck said.

“Now, don’t go talking like that.” Huckabee straightened.

“This is the second time in a month we’ve had you all out here,” Libby reminded him.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll step up patrol of this area, and I’ll talk to folks, too. Maybe somebody knows something.”

A silence came and stayed through a handful of heartbeats.

Huckabee broke it. “Anybody you know with an ax to grind?”

“All my enemies live in Houston,” Beck said. He told Huckabee about the lawsuit, and the various threats that had been made. “But the architects, me included, were severed from the suit as of yesterday. We’re in no way considered liable.”

“Maybe somebody didn’t get the message,” Huckabee said.

“Maybe,” Beck said. “But it’s a hell of a drive, coming all the way from Houston to butcher a hog. And what for? What’s it supposed to do? Scare me?”

No one answered.

Beck spread his hands. “It makes no damn sense.”

“No, but folks can get crazy.” Huckabee widened his stance, eyes considering the long view. “Especially when they’re angry and looking to blame someone.”

“Yeah,” Beck said, “but it’s hard for me to imagine that the hog and the lawsuit are related.” He shook his head. “It’s crazy even for crazy.”

“But didn’t some of the people—the plaintiffs in the suit—weren’t their cars keyed like Ricky’s truck?”

“Cars get keyed all the time, Libby.” Beck sounded impatient.

“Yeah, it happens,” Huckabee agreed. The sergeant passed his glance from Beck to Libby. “I’d advise you to keep your doors locked, ma’am.”

“I think you suggested that before,” she said.

“Never hurts to repeat it.” He smiled.

“An ounce of prevention,” she said, but the joke wasn’t well received. “I’ve got a shotgun. Belonged to my dad, and I know how to use it.”

“Well, I’ve got a buddy on the force in Houston,” Huckabee said. “I’ll touch base with him, get him looking into the possibility of a connection on that end. Meanwhile, here’s my card. You can call anytime, okay?”

Libby nodded, taking the card. She wondered if he meant it, about contacting his buddy. When it came to crime, on a scale of one to ten, she doubted a slaughtered hog and a few keyed cars flew very high on the radar.

Sergeant Huckabee said he had business in Austin.

Augie straightened. “You going to see Trav and Jordy? How are they? Do you know?”

“Not good.” Huckabee looked at the ground, and Libby had the sense he was taking time to prepare them, or himself, perhaps, for the hard thing he had to say. And she was wondering which one of the boys had died when he said it, that Travis Simmons hadn’t made it.

The passenger,
she thought.

And over Augie’s “Oh God” and Beck’s “Jesus,” Huckabee said, “Jordy’s in pretty deep shit,” and then he apologized, his eyes grazing Libby’s. She waved him off.

“You’re arresting him?” Augie asked.

“Don’t have much choice,” Huckabee said. “He was driving, and his blood alcohol was more than twice the legal limit. In the state of Texas, you drive drunk and kill somebody, it’s manslaughter.”

Libby wasn’t sure, but she thought she detected an element of satisfaction in Huckabee’s voice, some degree of smugness, as if he were happy about the circumstances. But she dismissed the notion. It wasn’t plausible.

They dug a proper grave for the hog using Augie’s backhoe, which had been left at the site. Libby considered it a fortuitous gift. “Imagine if all you had was a shovel,” she said when they’d finished the job.

“I’d let the carcass rot,” Beck said.

“Let the coyotes take it,” Augie said.

It was hotter now; the breeze had mostly died. Both men were sweaty and red-faced. She ought to have brought water, Libby thought.

Beck’s phone buzzed.

Augie gave a salute. “I’ll call y’all,” he said. “Let me know if you want to stand guard. I’ll bring my twenty-two. We’ll catch the bastards.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Beck grinned. He answered his phone.

Libby walked Augie to his truck and came back.

“That was Robert,” Beck said. “You won’t believe it.” He held Libby’s gaze.

“What?” She felt the faint stirring of fresh alarm.

“He found a dead coon gutted on the hood of his car this morning. Somebody had opened it up, taken out the organs, and scattered them around it—sound familiar?”

“You’re joking,” Libby said.

“I told him he got off easy.”

“Beck, I don’t believe this. Did he call the police? Should we let Sergeant Huckabee know?”

“Yeah, I guess. Can you call him?” He headed for the truck, Libby trailing him. “I need to get back to the cottage, get a shower, and get on the road. Robert wants to get the media involved, hold a press conference with the plaintiff’s attorneys. He wants them to make it clear we’re not the ones responsible for what happened to the folks who died when that balcony collapsed.”

“Well, it makes sense, getting the word out. That should put a stop to this—this—whatever it is.”

“If the whack job who’s responsible is even tuned in, listening.”

They got into Beck’s truck. He keyed the ignition.

“It must be more than one whack job.” Libby looked at Beck.

He was looking over his shoulder, backing up.

“There’s no way the same person could have slaughtered two different animals in Houston and out here in one night, is there? The drive one way is almost five hours.”

“I don’t think you should stay out here alone.” He pulled onto the service road. Dust rose on either side of the truck, making wings.

“But if I leave, too, Augie might move on to some other project.”

“Maybe we should let him until we figure out what’s going on. You’re too isolated here.”

“I have Dad’s shotgun. I’ll be fine.” She’d brought it to the cottage their first trip out after they closed on the property. It was never a bad idea to have a gun handy when you lived in the boonies. “Anything moves, I’ll shoot first, ask questions later.” She smiled.

Beck sighed. “Who knew I was married to Annie Oakley.”

Libby punched his arm. “I can take care of myself, and you know it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“But once the word gets out through the media, I bet whoever is behind this will either stop or get caught.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“Yes,” Libby said. “You have to, because we were supposed to go to that salvage place today, remember? The one that could very possibly have the big ceiling beams we’re looking for.”

She kissed him before he left, winding her arms around his neck, lingering, wishing he didn’t have to go.

He held her gaze. “I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but out here with you, I feel like a new man—twenty years younger, at least.”