Splintered Silence Page 12

  I wrapped up folding just as the next load of sheets finished in the wash. I transferred them to the dryers and then gathered up a batch of soiled sheets from a nearby hamper. Like I had on the first load, I opened each sheet briefly so crumpled tissues, spent condoms, and half-empty lubricant bottles could fall out before they got laundered into shreds or oozed their contents into an ungrateful washer. Sleep Sleazy was the right nickname for this place. Thankfully, though, nothing gross was in this load.

  But something else fell to the floor.

  I bent down and retrieved a folded newspaper clipping, started to toss it in the garbage can, then stopped when the headline grabbed my attention: LOCAL MAN’S BODY FOUND IN NOLICHUCKY RIVER; BONE GAP RESIDENT SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING.

  That sour feeling from earlier now burned in my throat. Another dead person? And the cops are looking for one of us?

  But this paper was old, yellowed and fringed around the edges. Smoothing it over the table, I leaned forward to read, my eyes catching on a familiar name: Drake. But not Johnny, my boss. This was Billy Drake. According to the article, the body of Billy Drake, eighteen years of age, was discovered by a hiker along the banks of the Nolichucky. Billy had been a suspect in connection with a local armed robbery of a drugstore and the shooting death of the store owner. Police were seeking the whereabouts of his girlfriend, an unidentified Bone Gap woman. She was wanted for questioning.

  The article was clipped from the center of a page so there was no date, but there were a few ads on the back side. One was for a new Ford Taurus, listed at 10K. New car prices hadn’t been that low since . . . when? Twenty, twenty-five years ago? So, if Billy was eighteen at the time of his death, that would have put him somewhere around forty now. Johnny had to be in his fifties. That meant Billy and Johnny could be brothers. Or paternal cousins, maybe.

  But why did this clipping show up now? Maybe Johnny kept articles like these around, and this one just happened to slip out of his pocket. I glanced at the laundry hamper. But why then was it mixed in with the soiled bedlinens?

  “Got those sheets ready?”

  I turned to see Zee standing in the doorway. I quickly slipped the article into my jeans pocket, snatched up pile of clean sheets, and hurried back to work.

  * * *

  I whipped into the vet clinic lot a little after 6:00. Zee and I had run late on the rooms, not finishing until well after 5:00, at which time she left to go home and fix supper for her daughter.

  The only other car in the lot was a sleek black Trans Am, a late 1970s model, but fully restored and in mint shape, with chrome wheels and custom painting. I couldn’t remember what Styles drove, but if this was his, he had good taste in cars.

  The closer we got to the front door, the more stressed Wilco became and the harder he panted. His tongue dangled like a wet pink rag from his mouth. I bent down to comfort him just as a young man stepped out of the clinic. He was what Gran would call a girly man, slight build, soft jaw, hair combed just a little too nicely. The braided leather bracelets and gold earrings weren’t helping his cause either.

  “If you’re here for Doctor Styles, he’s already gone for the day,” he said. “Something I can help you with?” He carried a plastic crate in his hands. It jerked and hissed.

  Wilco forgot his earlier woes and snapped into play mode. Or maybe kill mode. Wilco and cats didn’t mix well. I tightened my grip on his leash. “We’re here for a med refill.”

  “The doctor will have to take care of that.” His brows furrowed. “Are you Brynn?”

  I blinked. “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Eamon. Meg’s boyfriend.” He put the crate on the ground and held out his hand. His eyes slid toward my dog, who was eyeing the downed crate with too much eagerness for my tastes. “Wilco?” I nodded, and pulled Wilco back to a “sit” position, and he continued, empathy clouding his features as he noticed the nub that used to be Wilco’s leg. Then his eyes settled on my neck with the same sympathetic look he’d just given my dog. “It’s good to finally meet you. Meg’s told me all about you and Wilco.”

  All? Like in everything? Prickles of sweat broke out under my scarf. This is silly. It was only natural that Meg shared stuff with him. Personal stuff. I tugged at my collar and rolled my neck. My personal stuff.

  “Molly’s going to a new home today.” He picked up the carrier and stepped over to the Trans Am, slid it into the back seat. Wilco noticeably slumped in disappointment. “She’s a rescue cat. Been here a while. Had a whole litter of kittens a month ago.”

  “How sweet.” My voice sounded insincere, even to me. I wasn’t a big fan of cats. Just another way Wilco and I were alike. “Is this your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s incredible.” He beamed, making him look even younger. Somehow I wouldn’t have put this guy behind the wheel of a muscle car, but whatever. It was his. And it was cool. I could kinda see what might have attracted Meg. She was always a sucker for a guy with cool wheels. Nomadic genes and all that.

  “So, you’re working for Doctor Styles?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Winter mostly. Only after the travelling season. Been doing it for a couple years now.”

  “And Doc’s okay with . . . ?”

  “With us Pavees? Yeah. He’s a good guy. I like working for him.” He fiddled with his bracelets and cleared his throat. “I was at your place the other day. Paid my respects to your grandparents. How’re they holding up?”

  “It’s difficult.”

  He lowered his gaze. “When’s the funeral Mass?”

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure. I don’t think Gran’s finalized the plans.” Or maybe she had. I’d come in late after my conversation with Doogan the night before. All the lights had been out, and the house was still, except for the hushed sobs coming from behind Gran’s bedroom door. I should have gone to her, but I couldn’t. Our earlier confrontation still stung.

  The sound of another car drew Eamon’s attention. His face lit up. I turned to see Meg pulling up in her compact. She hopped out, still wearing her work uniform, but her face glowed, and her red curls bounced as she headed toward us.

  “Hey, y’all.” She leaned into Eamon. I glanced away as they kissed. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to take me to dinner.” Then to me, “I didn’t expect to find you here, Brynn. Glad you two have met. Want to go grab a bite with us?”

  “Thanks. Think I’ll pass, though.” Nothing like being the third wheel. A dandy, his pretty Irish lass, and her maimed cousin. Great fun. “I just popped by to get some more pills for Wilco.”

  The pockets of her work apron jingled as she bent down and planted a smooch between my dog’s ears. “Why, hello, sweetie.” She straightened and met my gaze. “How’s he doing?”

  “Better. The medicine seems to help. He’s been working hard, though. We’re helping Kevin Doogan look—”

  “Kevin Doogan?” Eamon’s focus shifted my way.

  “You know him?”

  “Not really. He’s new around here. But I heard he’s trouble.” He frowned and looked at Meg.

  “I’ve heard the same thing,” she said. “What are you doing with him?”

  “Sheila’s still missing. He’s asked me to search the woods for her body.”

  Meg bristled. “And you agreed?”

  “Wilco is a cadaver dog. It’s what he does. It’s what we do.” Their eyes stayed wide, unblinking. What was the big deal anyway?

  After a beat or two, Eamon spoke up, his voice taking on a soothing cadence, like he was trying to pacify a crying baby. “I can imagine what you went through over there.”

  No, you can’t.

  He added, “It’s gotta be tough being back here. I understand.”

  I hated it when people said that. They didn’t understand crap. Especially not this guy. He’d last all of two seconds in the sandbox.

  “And I know you’ve been struggling . . .”

  Struggling? Meg must’ve told him about the drinking too. What else had she told him? I sho
t a look her way.

  Her eyes widened. “But that’s understandable. With all you’ve gone through . . . Don’t be mad at me, cuz. I’m just concerned, that’s all. It’s been less than a week since you found your mom’s body out there in those very woods. Now you’re traipsing around out there with a . . . a graansha.”

  Graansha meant “stranger.” I kicked at the stones under my feet. My own condescending cousin felt more like a stranger to me than ex-jailbird Doogan. But she was family, she was concerned, and I knew I should be glad for it. I looked up. “It’s fine, Meg. He’s fine. I don’t feel threatened by him.”

  Eamon jumped back in, “He’s had problems with some of the members of the clan.”

  I glared at him. I could understand Meg’s concern, but what was it to him? And since when was the clan the deciding factor on who was dangerous? “Like who? You mean Dub? The man with a known mean streak? The man Doogan’s sister was told by the clan to marry? Now she’s missing. What would you do, Eamon?” I’d raised my voice a couple of octaves and sissified his name. “Just let your sister’s body rot in the woods?”

  Meg flinched, and a wave of regret washed over me. But it was too late. A bitter silence fell between us.

  Eamon shifted and reached protectively for Meg’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. My eyes were drawn to the way their hands intertwined, palms together, fingers interlaced.

  I felt all alone in the world.

  Meg broke the silence. She spoke her next words softly; still the message hit home hard. “I think you need to give all this a break. Folks are talking, Brynn. They’ve seen you”—her voice was a whisper now—“out drinking. Gran needs you, Brynn. Gramps’ illness and now the death of her only child. It’s too much for her to bear alone. I think—”

  I held up my hand. “Enough. I get it.” I tugged Wilco’s leash toward my car. “I’m going to go home now. Do my duty.” I spit out the last word.

  “Brynn! Stop. Come back. I didn’t mean . . .”

  But I kept going.

  I drove toward Bone Gap on autopilot, my mind stuck on what they’d said. Not so much their concerns about Doogan. They were right. What did I really know about Kevin Doogan besides the fact that he had served time on drug charges? Nothing. But dangerous? A killer even? No way.

  What hurt was that Meg had questioned my loyalty to Gran. And if what she hinted at was true, other people questioned it too. But what hurt worse was that look of pity on her face. I didn’t need her pity. Anybody’s pity. The poor damaged drunk, they were probably saying. Unable to pull herself from the bottle long enough to help her own kin. Meg and everyone else saw only part of the picture: two respected members of the clan grieving the loss of their only child; and Gran, poor Gran, bearing the burden of this unfathomable loss along with the certain, impending death of her terminally ill husband; and then there was me.

  Me, the black sheep of the clan, the prodigal granddaughter returned as a washed-up drunk, looking for a handout to cover her own life’s failings, but unwilling or unable to help bear the family burdens.

  But what Meg didn’t see, what nobody saw, was the history of betrayal and lies that had brought me to this point. My loyalty to Gran? What about her loyalty to me? Gran, the only person I’d ever loved, the only one who I felt had ever loved me . . . how could she have let her own daughter die in my young eyes? Only to have me find her body . . .

  I shuddered, and a hard underbelly of anger tightened my gut. I could no more provide Gran with the comfort she needed now than I could grieve the loss of the mother I’d never known. And now the cousin who was like a sister was talking to someone like Eamon about me as if I were nothing but a . . .

  I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. “Screw them!” I didn’t need their pity. I swiped at my cheek and blinked away the hurt and betrayal. A sudden curve jerked me from my thoughts. My grip tightened, and my foot slammed against the brakes as I cranked a hard left. My back tires skidded dangerously close to the guard rail, and a sickening thump sounded as Wilco slid into the passenger door. He yelped and dove onto the floorboard, where he cowered beneath the dash. I slowed the car, my hands wet against the wheel, my heart pounding against my chest. The blood coursing through my veins turned my muscles into a thousand hot firecrackers exploding against my skin. I swallowed hard, forcing saliva down through my anxiety-constricted throat.

  Managing another mile, I pulled into a scenic overlook and slammed my car into park. I tried to crank down my window, remembered it didn’t work, threw open the door and gulped in the clean mountain air. I shoved my trembling hand deep into my pockets, where my fingertips brushed against a couple of loose pills. I kept them around like a kid would a security blanket. Sinking back into the car’s seat, I popped one into my mouth and wished for a swig of Jack to wash it down.

  Wilco crawled out from his hiding place and nudged me with his snout. I opened my arms and pulled him close, feeling his body tremble against my side. His wet nose worked its way behind my ear, cold and ticklish against the sensitive skin under my scarf. “Hey, boy, you’re okay. Take it easy.” But his nails clawed my front side as he struggled to wedge himself between me and the steering wheel. I reached down and pulled the recline lever, sending my seat collapsing backward with a whoosh and a thunk. Wilco clamored over the console and pressed the full weight of his body against mine. I put my mouth to his ear, willing his deaf ears to understand the mantra I repeated over and over. “We’re going to be okay, boy. I promise. We’ll be okay.”

  After a while, I felt Wilco’s breathing quiet, and so did mine. The pill had wormed its way into my gut, softening the knot, threaded its way along my muscles, smoothing their taut anxiety. Outside, a hint of mist settled over the valley as the sun slipped toward the horizon, taking with it the last slivers of daylight. A dark purple curtain was descending on the world. And on my mind. A peaceful darkness. I welcomed it.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Sheriff’s here. He wants to talk to you.”

  I jolted upright, pushed Wilco off my legs, stood, and blinked a few times. Gran stood in my bedroom. I was home and in my room, although I had no recollection of driving back the night before. I glanced at the clock: barely 5:00 A.M.

  Gran hovered nearby in her robe with a scowl on her face as I kicked around a few dirty clothes looking for a sweatshirt to throw over yesterday’s work uniform, which I was still wearing. The obvious question hung in the air: Where were you last night? But she didn’t ask it, and I didn’t offer any explanation. Mostly because I didn’t want to admit—to her or myself—that I must’ve driven down Settlers’ Mountain in a drug-induced fog. One of these days, for sure, I was going to get myself killed.

  “Sheriff’s here. He wants to talk to you,” she repeated.

  “Yeah, I heard you.” I pulled on a gray USMC sweatshirt and ran my fingertips through the tangles in my hair. She stood still, frowning. I stared at her. “Could you tell him I’ll be right out?” She huffed, spun on her heels, and shut the door behind her with a thud. I cringed. And cringed again when Wilco nudged his nose against my leg and let out a whine that rang in my tender brain loud enough to breach the sound barrier.

  I gently pushed him aside and retrieved a cotton scarf from the same pile. I gave it a quick sniff, tucked it around the edges of my sweatshirt, and made my way to the front room. Gran was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. Pusser was still outside. “You didn’t ask him in?”

  She mumbled something about no muskers—a not-so-polite word some Pavees used for “police”—allowed in her house. She glared as if blaming me for the early-morning intrusion from the settled authorities.

  I ignored her and opened the door. Wilco shot out around my legs, barely making it down the steps before squatting in the front yard. Pusser looked on with interest. “Can’t say I ever saw a three-legged dog take a dump.” He turned back to me, a smirk playing on the edge of his mouth. “Guess shit’s shit, no matter how many legs the dog�
��s got.”

  “Do you have something besides my dog’s shit on your mind? Like more news about my mother, Sheriff?”

  His expression sobered. “No. Afraid something else has come up.”

  “What?”

  He lowered his voice and leaned in. For a second, my eye got stuck on a gap in his shirt. He’d missed a button. “Just get your dog and come with me,” he said.

  My gaze snapped upward. “A body?”

  He chomped down hard on his toothpick. “A hiker just found what we think is a human foot. Along the trail up by Dry Bone Creek. Harris is at the scene. He says it’s small. Looks female. Could be Sheila Costello.” He relayed this message in typical cop fashion, with little or no emotion.

  Behind me, Gran made a little sound, like a cat mewing, and then shuffled away, probably to digest this horrible turn of events. Part of me wanted to excuse myself and check on her, just to make sure she was okay, but my work instinct had already kicked in, and my full attention became focused on the pending task, cataloging what I’d need to take and to do.

  I took a half step forward, craned my neck, and looked toward Doogan’s trailer. It was a little after 5:00 A.M. Doogan and I were scheduled to meet up at 6:00. I knew he’d be mad when I didn’t show, but if he found out about this, he’d want to come along. That was the last thing I wanted.

  Pusser shifted his stance. “You gonna help, or not?”

  “I’ll be right out. I need to get a few things together.” I shut the door in his face and hurried to retrieve Wilco’s vest and my field pack. When I passed back through the house, Gran was at the kitchen table, hunched over her coffee. I went to her, but she kept her head down, not looking my way. From the back, with her elbows pulled in and shoulders bent forward, she looked tiny and frail. A hollow feeling formed in my stomach as remorse washed over me. I leaned in, wrapped my arms around her, and brushed my lips against the back of her neck, that spot where course gray curls met her bare skin. She still smelled like sleep and yesterday’s chicken stew and the same cheap floral-scented hair shampoo she’d used for years. I breathed it all in, as a plethora of a thousand tender memories threatened to reduce me to tears. I pulled back and gathered myself. “I gotta go, Gran. The sheriff needs me.”