Splintered Silence Read online

  Gran had moved closer to the side of the pit. “This is Kevin Doogan, our new neighbor. And you’d better let him help you, hon. That dog of yours is working himself into a frenzy.”

  I weighed my options: I could get in and out of that crevasse by myself, but there was no way I could lift Wilco all the way up. I looked over at Doogan. “I’ll go down there and lift my dog up to you, okay?”

  “Fine by me.”

  I flipped around and lowered myself into the opening. Instead of rushing toward me, Wilco sat down, faced away from me, and stared deeper into the shadows, his ears pricked forward, his focus concentrated, on duty and on alert—the way I’d trained him, the way I’d seen him too often in our past. A chill shot up my spine and down my arms. I knew why he was so keyed up.

  He’d found something.

  I clamped my eyes shut. This isn’t a war zone.

  “You okay down there?” Gran called out.

  No, I wasn’t okay. But I opened my eyes again to see what Wilco had found. He’d done his job—alerted me. I needed to do mine and show that I’d taken his cue.

  Probably a dead raccoon or squirrel. I was just kidding myself. Wilco was trained to detect and alert for only one scent:

  Human scent. And he was good at it.

  Tentatively, I peered closer. My fear was confirmed: Against the back wall of the pit, the rocks narrowed to a thin crevice where leaves, twigs, and brush had collected. Sticking out from under the debris, blending in with the bright russets and orange colors of fall foliage, was a mass of tangled red hair. A sick feeling chewed at my gut, the scent of decayed flesh pricked my nostrils, and bile threatened in the back of my throat. I’d seen enough death to last a lifetime, handled it time and again without any reaction. But I’d left all that behind . . . and now Wilco had found a body.

  I snapped back to my military training, crouched low, and maneuvered into the crevice the best I could without disturbing anything. The scene was unnerving, even to me, someone who’d witnessed torsos with tattered shreds for arms and bloodied scraps of blown-up flesh scattered and seeping into desert sands. But this was different. This woman wasn’t a casualty of war. She had a round, dark-red bullet wound in her left temple, indicating that her death had been either suicide or murder. She’d been there for a while. Putrefaction had set in, and bugs and rodents had gotten to her face. Probably other parts of her body too, but I couldn’t tell without further penetrating the scene. I stepped back, pulled out my cell, and snapped a few pictures, something I’d been trained to do at wartime crime scenes where evidence was often quickly disturbed by the harsh desert elements.

  I looked upward. This part of the pit wasn’t visible from above. Kevin and Gran couldn’t see what I was doing and were calling out for me. I walked back to Wilco, who was still sitting on alert, confident and proud, and praised him with long strokes down his back until he flipped over for his ultimate reward—a generous belly rub. “Good boy. Good boy!”

  “What are you doing?” Doogan asked. He and Gran were peering down at me.

  I stood and dialed 911, but there was no reception. “Could one of you try calling the cops?”

  “The police?” Gran asked.

  Doogan chuckled. “No need for the cops. We can get your dog out of there.”

  I pocketed my phone. “No. It’s not that.” I ran sweaty palms down the side of my pants. “There’s a . . . someone was . . . hurt here.” I looked up, silently meeting their stares. I’d said “hurt” but asked for the cops, not an ambulance—and the meaning was all too clear to them both.

  There was a period of stunned silence; then before I knew what was happening, Doogan maneuvered over the edge and dropped down next to me. I held out my hands, but he pushed past me, then stopped cold.

  “Oh God, please no . . .” He rushed forward. I tried to pull him back as he dropped to his knees and brushed at the debris that covered her body. “Sheila, Sheila.” Then he stopped blathering, his shoulders collapsing inward as he turned his tormented face my way, away from the gnawed features of the woman. “I think it’s her. I can’t tell for sure. But the hair. It’s the same color as hers.”

  “Who?” I gently tugged him away from the body. “Who do you think this is?”

  “My sister.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I plunked down on a rock next to Wilco and sank my fingertips into his fur. After witnessing the cold cruelty of death, the warmth of my dog felt comforting. It’d hit us both—what we’d found—and we needed our time together. A unit, we were capable of doing a job few could stomach. A job that had to be done. And one I’d thought we’d left thousands of miles away.

  A little ways off, Gran stood with her hand on Doogan’s slumped shoulders and spoke in consoling tones. I should’ve joined them and tried to offer some support of my own, but I couldn’t muster any words of comfort. Instead, I kept my distance, turning inward, trying to think of anything except the sight of the decaying body in the crevasse below us.

  My eyes wandered over the rugged terrain. I’d come here often as a kid to be alone, to daydream, to be myself—or, more accurately, forget myself. Out here, I wasn’t a weirdo or gyspy whore. Yes, I’d been called those things by my non-Pavee, or what we called “settled,” peers. Settled kids teased me, bullied me, shunned me, as they did all us Pavees. Only I got the additional taunt of “even gypsy parents didn’t want you.” Of course, later, when I was older, I found out my mother had died, and that she’d never be coming back. I didn’t know which hurt more, knowing she didn’t want to come back, or knowing that she could never come back. My grandparents were my saving grace through it all—well, Gran anyway—but that blight of never knowing my parents, and having it thrown at me, cut the deepest. The very subject of my parents had been forbidden under Gramps’ roof. Gran had privately confided only a little: that my mother had gotten pregnant by a settled boy and then left town. Without me. I was the product of a double shame: I was an illegitimate baby and only half Pavee. I supposed later that these duel curses were what caused Gramps to be so strict as I grew up. He didn’t want the same thing for his granddaughter and could only trust half my genes anyway. If it weren’t for this place, my happy place, as my shrinks later identified it, I may have never survived my teen years.

  My eyes slid back to the edge of the pit. Guess I need to find a new happy place.

  I dwelled in my miseries, regrets, and uncertain future for another twenty minutes before the first officer arrived on the scene.

  Seeing the officer, Gran crossed herself. “Solk us away from the taddy.” It was our Shelta language for “Deliver us from evil.” Did she mean the monster who killed the poor girl or the lawman coming our way? Travellers, my grandparents included, often distrusted police officers or any form of settled or non-Pavee authority.

  I stood and straightened my shoulders. The cop was young, with a military haircut and a boyish face that showed very little emotion. He identified himself as Deputy Harris and proceeded to radio in our location. “We’re approximately one mile north of the AT. After you’ve passed over Settlers’ Creek, you’ll see a cairn marked with two white blazes; take that side trail out toward the rocks.”

  He disconnected and focused on Wilco. “Whose shepherd?”

  “Mine.” Most people mistook Wilco for a German shepherd, but he was a five-year-old Belgian shepherd, or Malinois. I saw no reason to correct the man now.

  He squinted at Doogan. “Do I know you?”

  “I was just in the sheriff’s office the other day,” Doogan said. “I filled out a missing person’s form for my sister, Sheila. Sheila Costello.”

  Costello? Had Sheila been married to Dublin Costello? I looked at Gran. Her expression confirmed my suspicion. Was that even possible? As a young girl, I’d been matched to Dub—as was Traveller tradition—but as the time to wed grew closer, I’d rebelled and refused. My grandparents didn’t understand, nor could I tell them that I secretly had been seeing someone else, a settled boy, an outsid
er name Colm Whelan. Traveller girls weren’t allowed to date outside the clan. It was taboo, against Pavee tradition. Refusing to marry the family’s chosen groom wasn’t just taboo, it was blasphemy. Something punishable, as I’d soon found out in spades.

  Harris rocked back on his heels. “That’s right. I remember now. I went out to that place where you people live and followed up with the husband.” Instantly Doogan stiffened, Gran swallowed, and I gritted my teeth as his “you people” soured the air. “Mr. Costello claimed your sister took off with another man.” He walked over to the edge of the pit. “So you think that might be her down there?”

  Not only did this jerk have zero sensitivity, but a zero in the intelligence category as well. It was likely the man’s dead sister lay only a few yards from us and this officer was kissing off Doogan’s report of her missing. Or perhaps Deputy Harris was a homegrown McCreary boy and, like most settled locals, held a deep-seated prejudice against the Bone Gap Travellers. What’s a dead gypsy to him? Just another one of “those people” getting themselves killed. He probably thought she deserved it.

  Doogan swiped at his brow. “I don’t know. The woman down there is . . .” He was unable to find the words to describe the grotesqueness of what might be his sister’s remains.

  The deputy exhaled, pocketed his notepad, and slid off his tactical pack. “Well, then, guess I’ll have a look for myself.”

  After some maneuvering, he dropped into the hole. He was down there less than a minute before we heard a retching heave. At about that time, another officer worked his way down the rock formations. He was older and about twenty pounds overweight. Pockmarks etched a mottled landscape on his face. A toothpick dangled between his lips. He didn’t say much, except to identify himself as Sheriff Frank Pusser. He gave us each a long look, and when his eyes connected to mine with piercing authority—like the commanders I’d served and sometimes suffered under—I felt the urge to look away.

  But I didn’t.

  He pointed out a spot where he wanted us to wait until he was ready to question us, then moved toward the edge of the pit. Gran and Kevin moved on, but I hovered a bit, pretending to fuss with Wilco’s leash.

  “What are you doing down there, Harris?” He leaned over the side. “I told you to wait until I got here.” He got a whiff of vomit and stepped back, gagging. “What a dumbass.”

  At least he’s a good judge of character.

  The sheriff lowered himself into the pit, a move that probably would have looked more graceful twenty years and that many pounds ago. I shuffled closer to the edge and watched as he approached his deputy, who leaned against the rocky wall, pale and ashen.

  The deputy’s voice broke. “It’s bad. Her face . . . something’s been eating on it.”

  Pusser cursed as he sidestepped the puddle of vomit and moved toward the body. He was out of my view, but I heard him bellow, “Get over here, Harris! Did you do this? Someone’s disturbed the body.”

  “No, sir. I think they moved her. The man was upset. Thinks it might be his sister.”

  “Looks like the body’s been here a while. See the blisters? That’s from gasses gathering under the skin. And animals have been gnawing on her. Coons probably. See the way her left eye’s gouged out. I swear, a hungry coon will eat ’bout anything.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, glad to see Gran and Doogan were out of earshot.

  “You okay, boy?” I heard Pusser ask. “You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

  “Yes, sir. Just fine.”

  “Good. See if you can bag a few of those maggots from the face. Doc will need ’em to help formulate a timeline.”

  Harris ran back to my side of the pit and hurled some more. I stepped back, shielding my nose. Behind me, Wilco whimpered.

  Pusser blew out a disgusted sigh. “Hell, never mind. I’ll get it.”

  A second later, Pusser reappeared, bag in hand. “Death’s never pretty, kid. You might as well get used to that now.”

  Harris straightened up and swiped his sleeve over his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s no evidence of brain matter. She was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Start securing a perimeter. Can you handle that?”

  Harris stared at the ground.

  “And call the county crime scene unit and see if you can get ahold of Doc Patterson. He’ll need to look at the body before it’s moved. Tell them to bring lanterns and a ladder. We’re going to be at it for a while.”

  Pusser looked up and glared at me. “Stay right there. I want to talk to you.” He clamored out of the pit and approached. Despite the chill in the autumn air, his shirt stuck to his back like plastic wrap on a hot dish. He glanced over at Kevin and Gran before scowling back my way. “Who discovered the body?”

  I clenched Wilco’s leash. “My dog. His name’s Wilco.”

  He looked at Wilco then back at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Brynn Callahan.”

  “Callahan.” He squinted. “You from over in Bone Gap?”

  “I was raised there. Been away for a while. I’m back visiting my grandparents.”

  “Which Callahan are you?” There was only a handful of surnames in Bone Gap, the Callahans being one of the five original families to settle the area.

  “Fergus’s granddaughter.”

  Pusser’s expression tightened. “I see. Tell me what happened here.”

  I told him about Wilco running off and then me finding him in the pit, the discovery of the body and Kevin’s reaction. “He thinks it might be his sister.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harris walking about, sticking wire flags into the ground, sectioning off a perimeter. Would Pusser scout the area outside the rocks for tire tracks too? If the woman wasn’t shot here, then she was transported and dumped. Nobody could carry a body this far up the trail.

  “You know the guy well?”

  “Never met him before today. That’s my grandmother over there with him. He’s her neighbor.”

  “And what’s your story? You said you’ve been away.”

  I told him my story, bits and pieces of it anyway: left Bone Gap at eighteen, joined the Marines, did three tours of duty in the Middle East with my cadaver dog. Both of us discharged on a medical after an IED a year ago. Back to Bone Gap. All he needed to know. All anyone needed to know.

  He took down my information, Gran’s address and phone number, and told me to wait around until someone came who could take me and Gran back home. I waited and watched while he briefly talked to Gran and then moved on to Doogan. I could tell by their rigid expressions and short answers that both viewed the sheriff as all Travellers view settled law—with a distrust and contempt that clamped jaws and tightened fists.

  Eventually, other officials arrived over the ridge like ants descending on a piece of discarded food: a few guys with coveralls stretched over their street clothing and carrying equipment bags; a lady deputy—a matching khaki brown bookend to Harris; and a stern-looking black male with short cropped hair and scowl lines that ran marionette-like from the corners of his mouth. Doc Patterson, I guessed, judging from COUNTY CORONER printed in bold white on the back of his windbreaker. The lady deputy, who introduced herself as Deputy Nan Parks, came to take Gran and me back to the trailer. She was short for a deputy, maybe five foot four, but built like a bulldog. With her round face and the pudgy hands on her wide belt, she would have given most suspects a second thought about messing with her. But her brown eyes and soft voice held nothing but comfort as she spoke to Gran.

  Doogan refused to leave, unwilling to vacate the site until he had gotten some answers. Gran was hesitant to leave him alone, but she needed to get back to Gramps. Parks picked up on that and encouraged her, saying that going home was the best idea. We turned down the trail to where the deputy had parked her cruiser, and Wilco began limping. I stooped down, running my hand along his right front leg. He flinched as I reached his swollen shoulder joint. “Wilco’s been hurt.”

  Gran lea
ned over and gingerly touched Wilco’s back.

  Deputy Parks stopped and turned back. “Something wrong?”

  “It’s my dog. He’s limping.”

  “My cruiser’s not far down the main trail on a lumber access road. Maybe a quarter mile up this path. Think he can make it okay?”

  “Yeah, he’ll make it.” He’s made it through much worse. I rubbed along either side of Wilco’s head, touching my forehead to his muzzle—a gesture used to show approval to my deaf dog. I stood and gave his leash a tug, and he obediently continued along the path. He’d been off his game since the explosion, but Wilco would still do what I asked, even if he was in pain.

  “There’s a good animal doctor in town, been here a long time,” Gran said. “We’ll call him when we get back to the house. See if he can look at your dog.” I didn’t say anything, but Gran must have read my mind. “Don’t worry, hon. Doc Styles treats Travellers fair. Your cousin Meg’s new boyfriend works for him part-time, and she’s met the doc. Says he’s real nice.”

  A lot had happened since I’d been gone. Meg, who’d lost her husband in a tragic car accident a year ago, had moved on to having a boyfriend, which was a good sign. And now there was a settled professional that Travellers, or at least Gran, trusted to treat us fairly. Just maybe my generation had broken down some of the barriers between settled people and Travellers, and rightly so. Still it seemed many of the older folks, like Gramps, weren’t too happy about it. They worried about the watering down of our rooted culture and traditions. “Pavees stick to their own,” he’d always said. Yet another rule I’d broken. Again, I thought about Colm and wondered if he was still in the area.

  Deputy Parks stopped and held up her hand. We froze in place. She looked to the woods. “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  “Deputy Parks, McCreary County Sheriff’s Department. Show yourself.” She dropped her hand to her holster.