Down River Part 9

CHAPTER 8.

I looked for Jamie as we hit the night air, and I saw him at the edge of the lot. He sat behind the wheel of a darkened truck. He took a swallow from a bottle and did not get out. An ambulance pulled in, lights off.

"I need a cigarette," Grantham said, and walked off to find one.

We watched his back, and stood in the kind of awkward silence that troubled people know so well. I heard a horn, a light burst from Jamie's truck. He pointed to his right, at the entrance to the emergency lot. I turned to see a long, black car slide through the narrow, concrete barrier and pull to a stop. The engine died. Two doors opened and they stepped out: Miriam, my sister, and a thickset man in black boots and a police uniform. They both saw me at the same time and stopped. Miriam looked startled and stayed by the car. The man with her grinned and came over.

"Adam," he said, and took me by the hand, pumping it fiercely.

"George."

George Tallman had been a hanger-on for as long as I could remember. He was a few years my junior, and had been much better friends with Danny than with me. I retrieved my hand and studied him. He was six feet two, maybe two ten, with thick, sandy hair and round, brown eyes. He was solid, not fat, and had a handshake he was proud of.

"The last time I saw you with a gun, George, you were drunk and trying to shoot beer cans off a stump with an air rifle."

He glanced at Robin and his eyes narrowed. The smile fell off. "That was a long time ago, Adam."

"He's not really a cop," Robin said.

For an instant George looked angry, but it pa.s.sed. "I do school outreach," he said. "Give presentations to the kids, talk about drugs." He looked at Robin. "And I am a cop." His voice remained even. "Bullets and everything."

I heard tentative footsteps and turned to see Miriam. She looked pale in loose slacks and a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt. She gave me a nervous smile, but her eyes were not without hope. She had matured, but did not look like her portrait. "h.e.l.lo, Miriam," I said.

"Hi, Adam."

I gave her a hug, felt the bones of her. She squeezed back, but I could tell that doubt still troubled her. She and Gray Wilson had been good friends. My trial for his murder had cut her deeply. I gave her an extra squeeze, then let her go. The moment I stepped away, George filled the void. His arm settled across her shoulders and he pulled her against his side. This surprised me. He used to follow Miriam around like a barely tolerated puppy.

"We're engaged," he said.

I looked down, saw the ring on her hand: a small diamond in yellow gold. Five years, I reminded myself. Things change. "Congratulations," I said.

Miriam looked uncomfortable. "This is not really the time and place to talk about that," she said.

He squeezed her tighter, blew out through his nose, and looked up from the ground. "You're right," he said.

I glanced back to the car, a s.h.i.+ning, black Lincoln. "Where's Janice?" I asked.

Miriam began. "She wanted to come-"

"We took her home," George interrupted.

"Why?" I asked, knowing the answer.

George hesitated. "The hour," he said. "The circ.u.mstances."

"Meaning me?" I said.

Miriam shrank under the words, as George finished the thought. "She says this d.a.m.ns you like the trial failed to do."

Miriam spoke. "I told her that was unfair."

I let it go. I let it all go. I studied my sister: the bent neck, the thin shoulders. She risked a glance, then dropped her eyes again. "I told her, Adam. She just wouldn't listen."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "How about you? Are you okay?"

Hair moved on her head as she nodded. "Bad memories," she said, and I understood. My unexpected return was baring old wounds.

"I'll get over it," she said, then turned to her fiance. "I need to speak to my father. I'm glad to see you, Adam."

They left, and I watched them. At the door, Miriam looked back at me; her chin settled on her shoulder and her eyes were large and black and troubled.

I looked at Robin. "You don't care for George, I take it."

"Lack of commitment," she said. "Come on. We still have things to discuss."

I followed her to Grantham's car, which was parked on the side street. The cigarette was half-smoked and stained his face orange each time he took a drag. He dropped the b.u.t.t in the gutter and his face fell into shadow.

"Tell me about the trail by the river," he said.

"It goes south, along the river, to Grace's house."

"And beyond that?"

"It's old, a Sapona Indian trail, and it goes for miles. It runs beyond Grace's house to the edge of the farm, then through a neighboring farm and several small properties with fis.h.i.+ng cabins on them. After that, I don't know."

"How about to the north?"

"It's about the same."

"Do people come through there? Hikers? Fishermen?"

"Occasionally."

He nodded. "Grace was attacked about a half mile from the dock, where the trail bends hard to the north. What can you tell me about that area?"

"The trees are thick there, but not deep. It's really just a band of forest along the river. Above the trees, it's pasture."

"So, whoever did this most likely came along the trail."

"Or off the river," I said "But you'd have seen that."

I was already shaking my head. "I was only on the dock for a few minutes. But there was a woman."

"What woman?"

I described what I'd seen: the white hair, the canoe. "But she went upstream, not down."

"Do you know her?"

I pictured the face, a middle-aged woman that looked young. Something familiar. "No," I said.

Grantham made a note. "We'll check on it. She may have seen something. Someone in another boat, a man. He could have seen Grace, and put a boat ash.o.r.e downriver. She's beautiful, half-dressed on a lonely stretch of river..."

I pictured her swollen face, the tattered lips held together by knotted, black thread. No one who saw her in that hospital room could know how beautiful she truly was. Suspicion flared in me. "Do you know her?" I asked.

Grantham studied me with the stillest eyes I'd ever seen. "It's a small county, Mr. Chase."

"May I ask how you know her?"

"That's hardly relevant."

"Nevertheless..."

"My son is about her age. Does that satisfy you?" I said nothing, and he continued evenly. "We were talking about a boat. Someone that may have seen her from the river and laid in wait."

"He'd have to know that she'd walk home that way," I said.

"Or he could have been coming to her, then met her on the trail. He could have seen you two on the dock and waited. Is that possible?"

"It's possible," I said.

"Does D.B. seventy-two mean anything to you?" He slipped the question in, and for a long moment I could not speak.

"Adam?" Robin said.

I stared as something loud and tribal began to thunder in my head. The world turned upside down.

"Adam?"

"You found a ring." I could barely drive out the words. The effect on Grantham was immediate. He rocked onto the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"A gold ring with a garnet stone."

"How do you know that?"

My words came in some other man's voice. "Because D.B. seventy-two is engraved on the back of it."

Grantham shoved his hand into a coat pocket, and when it reappeared it held a rolled-up plastic bag. He allowed it to unfurl from his fingers. It glistened in the hard light, and streaked mud shone on its sides. The ring was there: heavy gold, a garnet stone. "I'd very much like to know what it means," Grantham said.

"I need a minute."

"Whatever it is, Mr. Chase, I suggest you tell me."

"Adam?" Robin sounded hurt, but I couldn't worry about that. I thought of Grace, and of the man who was supposed to be my friend.

"This can't be right." I ran the film in my head, the way it could have been. I knew his face, the shape of him, the sound of him. So I could fill in the blanks, and it was like a watching a movie, a horror show, as my oldest friend raped a woman I'd known from the age of two.

I pointed at the ring in the plastic bag.

"You found that where it happened?" I asked.

"It was at the scene, where Dolf found her."

I walked away, came back. It could not be true.

But it was.

Five years. Things change.

And there was nothing good left in my voice. "Seventy-two was the number of his football jersey. The ring was a gift from his grandmother."

"Go on."

"D.B. stands for his nickname. Danny Boy. Number seventy-two." Grantham nodded as I finished. "D.B. seventy-two. Danny Faith."

Robin stood silent; she knew what this was doing to me.

"Are you certain?" Grantham asked.

"Do you remember those fis.h.i.+ng cabins I told you about? The ones downriver from Dolf's house?"

"Yes."

"The second one down is owned by Zebulon Faith." They both looked at me. "Danny's father," I said.

"How far down from where she was attacked?" Grantham asked.

"Less than two miles."

"Well, all right."

"I want to be there when you talk to him," I said.

"Out of the question."

"I did not have to tell you. I could have had the conversation myself."

"This is a police matter. Stay out of it."

"It's not your family."

"It's not yours either, Mr. Chase." He stepped closer, and although his voice was measured, the anger spilled over the lines. "When I want something else from you, I'll tell you about it."