When Death Draws Near (11 page)

I closed the file. “So they essentially stripped Trish down, went through her things, got rid of the camera, then sent her packing.”

“Yes. She remembered a few first names, but I don't believe they were useful.”

“Why did they ask her if she'd been baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? That's the usual wording.”

“It has something to do with ‘Jesus only' versus ‘the Trinity.' You'll have to ask Professor Wellington or Trish when we reach the cabin.” She counted out a hefty tip. “Trish was lucky they let her go. You'll need to be very prepared if they invite you to their revival. Who knows what they'll do if they find out why you're really there.” She smiled at me, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

BLANCHE ACTED AS A TOUR GUIDE, GIVING
regional history. When Aynslee heard about Octavia, the woman who'd been buried alive, she wanted to visit her grave. By the time we'd toured some of the horse country and headed back toward Pikeville, the sun had set.

Blanche made a phone call and a rusty, Hooker's-green Ford pickup with a gray primer–painted fender waited for us alongside the road in Coal Run Village.

My stomach clenched when Junior stepped from the truck. Instead of his uniform, he wore dusty jeans, a faded red T-shirt, and a blue flannel jacket. His hands were at his sides, fingers convulsively wiggling.

“I thought we agreed my location would remain a secret,” I said.

“Don't worry about Junior.” Blanche nodded approvingly. “He's good at not talking to people, as I'm sure you've discovered. In your files you'll find a map, but for today, Junior will
drive you to the cabin and ride back with Trish and Professor Wellington. Aynslee, you'll—”

“Aynslee will be going with me.” Even though Clay had supposedly captured the Pikeville rapist, I had serious doubts. And I didn't want my daughter out of my sight.

Blanche raised her eyebrows. “Well then, we'll see if we can find suitable clothing for both of you for the funeral.”

“What's wrong with my clothes?” Aynslee asked.

“You'll want to dress respectfully and put everyone at ease as much as possible,” Blanche said. “Trish noted that holiness women wear ankle-length skirts, don't cut their hair . . .” She eyed my short locks.

I self-consciously touched my hair. After months of chemo, my bald head finally had enough hair for a trim, although my hairdresser tut-tutted about the texture. “I should have brought one of my wigs.”

“Don't worry.” She looked at Aynslee. “You'll need to remove what they call your ear baubles—”

“What?” Aynslee asked.

“Earrings. And your . . . um . . . nose ring.”

The tiny nose ring was the remaining sign from Aynslee's rebellious period, a time I hoped was far behind us. The cell phone, boys, and choice of clothing told me a new chapter had opened. Oh joy.

We got out of the car, retrieved Aynslee's suitcase and backpack, and waved good-bye to Blanche. Junior returned to the truck, leaving Aynslee and me to lug her bags into the back. Before I could say anything, Aynslee slid in next to Junior. I followed.

The cab smelled faintly of mildew, old cigarettes, and pine air freshener from the disposable stylized evergreen dangling from
the rearview mirror. Junior rested his hand on the stick shift, nearer than I liked to my daughter's leg. I clenched my teeth and pulled her close to me.

She stiffened with my hug, glanced at me, and rolled her eyes.

We turned off the highway and started climbing. The forest pressed inward on both sides, reminding me a bit of Montana, but with hardwoods rather than pines. Junior soon switched on the headlights. The pavement gave way to dirt and gravel, and he slowed so we wouldn't bounce off. Gouged out of a steep hillside, the road was barely two cars wide.

Junior's fingers tapped a calypso beat on the steering wheel. Something about his actions tickled a memory. “Junior, do you like snakes?”

“Yes.”

“What is the name of the snake with the hood?”

“Cobra. Over two hundred and fifty types. Family of
Elapidae
.”

“Do you . . . handle them?”

“Sure. I have two boa constrictors as pets.”

After rubbing down the goose pimples on my arm, I opened the fabric bag and found the map Blanche had drawn up, then pulled a tiny key-ring flashlight out of my purse. After clicking it on, I held up the map. “Where are we now?”

Junior glanced over, then slowed down and stopped. “This is the big turn we took about a mile back. And here's the first bridge.” He traced out the route with a dirty fingernail. “We'll be coming up on this spot really soon. It's hard to see, but that's the turnoff to the cabin.”

I nodded and clicked off the light. Junior shifted gears and started forward.

“Wait.” I pointed. “Up ahead.”

Junior nudged the truck forward. “Yeah.”

A car's reflectors glinted. As we grew closer, the truck's headlights illuminated the rear of a late-model sedan. “That looks like one of Blanche's cars,” I said.

Junior grunted an answer, parked, and got out. “Stay here.” He slammed the door shut.

I slipped from the seat and followed with my key-ring penlight. “Aynslee, stay in the truck,” I called over my shoulder.

Junior was staring at a flat on the right rear wheel. When I reached him, he frowned at me and moved toward the front.

I squatted next to the car and peered closer. The valve stem of the tire was broken off. Standing, I held the light higher. The gravel was rough on the side of the road, and I didn't see any footprints. After peeking into the backseat, which was spotless, I slowly turned, scanning the surroundings. The trees sighed in the cool breeze, and a few golden leaves drifted past. An owl hooted on the hillside to my left, and the trees clung to the abrupt drop on my right.

Someone touched me on the arm.

I jumped and fumbled the penlight, catching it before it fell.

“Sorry, Mom. What's going on?”

I couldn't answer. My flying light had briefly illuminated something on the steep slope below. Holding the light steady, I peered over.

Crumpled against a sturdy tree trunk was a woman's body.

AYNSLEE LET OUT A SQUEAK, THEN ASKED,
“Who . . . who's that?”

“It looks like Trish. She was wearing that sweater and scarf this morning.” A gust of cold air sent the leaves flying around us. I tugged my jacket closer. “Aynslee, please go back to the truck.”

My daughter slowly backed away, then jogged to the pickup.

Before I could warn him, Junior shot past me and plunged down the hillside, creating a small avalanche of dirt and rocks. He grabbed a tree to keep from hurtling to the bottom of the ravine. He touched her body, then snatched his hand back. “She's dead.”

A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard in order to speak. “That was clear from up here. Necks don't usually bend like that.”

Junior scrambled back up to the road, sending another batch of gravel and dirt cascading down the hill and over Trish's body. “She must have slipped when she got out to fix the tire.”

“Slipped . . . or was pushed.” I folded my arms. “And if she
was pushed, this is a homicide scene, and you've just destroyed any evidence by thundering down there like a rhino.”

Junior stared at me, fingers wiggling away.

I tugged out my phone. No service. “Do you have your radio with you?”

“No.” His fingers twiddled faster, his gaze riveted on the body below.

“How far to the cabin?”

“Maybe a mile.”

“Junior?” He didn't seem to hear me.

“Junior!”

This time he looked at my feet.

“You need to drive me to the cabin and call for help, then get back here and wait for the sheriff to show up. Do you hear me?”

Still staring at my feet, Junior nodded and walked back to the truck.

I joined him in the cab.

Aynslee pressed against me and I put my arm around her. “He's creepy,” she whispered. After taking an almost hidden turn, we drove another mile to the cabin, buried deep into the hillside. A gray Honda Civic with New York plates was parked on the side.

The cabin was a simple log structure with a porch spanning the front. A path, outlined with round river stones, led to the front. Leaves formed a thick padding on the ground. The porch light, swirling with bugs, illuminated matching rustic rockers. Light glowed from the multipaned windows on either side of the door. Wellington appeared as we got out of the pickup. “Leave it to Trish to not show up. I've had to do all the cleanup as well as—”

“She's dead,” Junior blurted out before I could stop him.

“What do you mean she's dead?” Wellington let the screen door slam behind him.

I'd reached the bottom of the steps and grabbed the rail.

Wellington looked at my face, then the white-knuckled grip I had on the railing. He took a step backward, then another, then fumbled his way into the cabin. I followed, with Aynslee behind me.

The single room had a kitchen area on my right, river-stone fireplace with a crackling fire straight ahead, and large brass bed with a navy-and-red quilt on the left. A door in the corner appeared to be for the bathroom, and next to it was a freestanding, full-length mirror. A ladder on the opposite corner led to the attic door in the ceiling. A coffee table, a small, cranberry plaid sofa, and two chairs embraced the fireplace. A simple maple table with two chairs sat under the window next to me. A box of groceries rested on the table beside some files. The cupboards were two rustic crates with a few neatly stacked dishes on one side and some canned goods on the other. The room reeked of a liberal application of lemon-scented air fresheners.

Wellington had his back to me, holding on to the white farm sink. “I kept thinking, then hoping, she was simply late,” he said without turning around. “But she's never late.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

Junior joined us, his fingers doing their dance.

Wellington turned around, eyes bloodshot and skin pale. “What happened?”

“Got a flat tire,” Junior said in his blunt way. “Went to fix it. Foot slipped off the edge of the road and she hit a tree. I gotta call the sheriff.” He strolled to a rotary phone hanging on the wall.

I wasn't sure I agreed with his accident reconstruction. Hopefully Clay had good technicians who could decipher crime scenes, even ones that had been totally messed up by his fumbling son.

“Yeah, this is Junior. I need to speak to the sheriff.”

A short pause.

“Huh? Yeah. I'm at the cabin. With . . . Wellington. Yeah. Trish is dead.” Junior stuffed his twiddling fingers into his pocket.

Wellington moaned and groped for a chair. I placed my purse and library bag on the floor, then nodded to Aynslee to sit on the sofa. I moved to Wellington and patted his arm. “Can I get you something?”

He shook his head.

Junior was on a roll, giving his dad the blow-by-blow. Wellington put his hands over his ears. I wanted to yank the phone from Junior and tell him to sit in the truck.

After a series of “Yeah . . . okay . . . yeah . . . yeah . . .,” Junior hung up. “The sheriff wants Professor Wellington and me to go to the site of the accident and wait for him and the ambulance.”

Wellington stood and stiffly walked to the front door. Junior placed the truck keys on the table, then followed the other man outside. A moment later Wellington's car started and they drove off.

Even though I wasn't working with Clay anymore, I felt useless stashed in this cabin while the department investigated poor Trish's death. Back home, I'd be sketching the scene, taking photos, and assisting in the case.

Aynslee stood, strolled to the door, and twisted the lock. She rattled the door, checked the lock again, then moved to the
windows and tested to see if they would open. Pulling the curtains closed, she moved to the window over the kitchen sink and did the same.

When she glanced at me, I raised my eyebrows.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked.

“I believe in angels, both good and fallen.” I thought for a moment. “I'm sorry you had to see Trish's body.”

“I've never seen a dead person before. At least not one, like, that wasn't a skull you were working on. And skulls don't seem all that real. More like a Halloween decoration, you know?”

“Mm,” I grunted.

“And that lady, you know? The one buried alive?”

“Octavia Hatcher.”

“Yeah. What if she's still mad? What if she meets that other lady, Trish, and they decide to, like, get even? That dead lady was just a little ways away.” She backed away from the door, her eyes searching the room.

“I promise you no ghosts will get in here. You're safe.”

She bit her lip.

“Tell you what. Why don't I make us some hot chocolate? There's some of the powder stuff on the counter.”

“Hot chocolate makes you fat.”

I stared at her size zero jeans and skimpy top. “Okay, why don't we add marshmallows and whipped cream to it?”

Aynslee rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She moved to the fireplace and added a log, sending up a flurry of sparks.

Pouring bottled water into a pan on the stove, I turned on the burner. I could hear Aynslee restlessly moving around the room behind me.

“I can't stay here. I can't
stay
here.”

“Why not?” I asked, turning.

She held up her phone. “No cell service.” She paced across the small room.

“Think of it as roughing it. Pioneers. Back to nature.”

“There's no one to talk to.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“You don't count. You're not a person. You're Mom.”

I
knew
I was missing something in this whole mother-daughter connection.

“And I'm hungry.”

Turning off the burner under the now-boiling water, I dumped some powered chocolate mix into two mugs and poured the hot water into the cups. “I lied about the whipped cream and marshmallows, but here's your hot chocolate. That should hold you until I make dinner.”

She picked up a mug and moved to the sofa.

“Give me a minute to see if my clothes made it here.” Strolling to the door in the corner, I winced as each step sent a protest from the pine floor. Sure enough, a small bathroom lay beyond, with a closet holding my suitcases to the right. The box, getting quite worn with all the packing and unpacking, held all my drawing supplies and materials. I pulled it out. A hot flash dampened my forehead. I ran some cold water and splashed it on my face, then brought the box into the main room, emptied it onto the coffee table, and replaced it in the bathroom closet.

Returning to the main room, I found Aynslee had unpacked the box of groceries onto the table. I picked up the small stack of files and opened one. Inside were some police reports on the bodies they'd found. Blanche must have gotten these from Clay before he got so angry with me. I added the files to the other
research materials in my library bag. Returning to the kitchen area, I surveyed the array of items sent over: several gallons of bottled water, baking soda, flour, cornmeal, various spices, rice, grits, and numerous canned goods. Having neither the faintest idea how to cook nor any talent in the kitchen, I realized this could prove to be a bleak stay in the mountains. “From the bottled water, it looks like we need to stay away from drinking tap water.”

“Whatever.”

“I hate that word.”

“Whatever.”

I opened a gallon of water and poured a glass before shifting the grocery box to the floor. Underneath was a duplicate of the map Blanche gave me, a key to the front door, and several more files. Adding the map and files to the library bag, I set the bag alongside my art supplies on the coffee table. I stuck the key on my key-ring flashlight and dropped it into my purse.

“What is this stuff?” She held up a jar of locally made succotash and a can of black-eyed peas and beans.

“Welcome to the South.” I helped her transfer the canned goods to the crate cupboard. Just as I placed the last can on the shelf, the whole thing gave way and crashed to the floor.

I leaped back, then stared at the mess. Picking up a dented can, I fought the overwhelming desire to throw it out the window.

“Mom?”

“I know, it's not your fault. It's mine.” I started picking up cans.

“Mom!”

I looked up. Silently she pointed. The back of the crate was still attached to the wall with two hinges on the left side.

After placing the cans on the counter, I carefully felt along the edge of the wood opposite the hinges. My fingers encountered a tiny latch. I shoved downward.
Click.

A small door swung open.