Splintered Silence Page 9

  He bristled. “I’m not going to share that with you.”

  Probably because it named several Pavees as suspects. “Not even as a courtesy? You know, one cop to another.”

  He grunted.

  “What about the gun?”

  “The gun?”

  “The murder weapon. Make? Caliber?”

  “It was a .380. That’s all I know so far.”

  All he knew, or all he wanted to tell me?

  He finished sending the photos and handed back my phone. “We’re supposed to be on the same side, you know.”

  There it was again: sides. Why did everyone want to make this about sides? “I’m not really on any side. I’m not a cop anymore. I’m looking for a different line of work now.” I bent down and picked up Wilco’s leash and gave it a tug. I’d had enough of this courtesy call. What I really needed to do was find Johnny Drake and talk to him about getting a job. At the trailer yesterday, I saw one of the neighbors slipping Gran some money. Things were tight, I knew that. But I didn’t want Gran feeling like she had to accept charity. Besides, a job would give me a good excuse to stay clear of the trailer for a while.

  “Your dog’s standing pretty good now.”

  I tightened my grip on Wilco’s leash. “Yeah. Doc Styles has him on some meds.” That’s another thing I needed to do. Stop by and pick up some more pills for Wilco. Doc had given me just a few day’s supply, to see if it helped. It had.

  “You should put him to work out in the woods. Looking for Doogan’s sister.”

  “We’ve already had this talk, remember?”

  “You’ll eventually look for her. I know your type, Callahan.”

  “Oh yeah? What type’s that?”

  “The cop type.”

  I smirked.

  “Look, Callahan. I don’t know why you signed on to be an MP in the first place. But it took some balls to do what you did over there—locating dead soldiers. Most men I know couldn’t do that. But you did it. And you were successful. Why do you think that is?”

  I just loved being analyzed. First the VA shrinks, now Pusser. “You’re the armchair psychiatrist. Enlighten me.”

  “Because you couldn’t stand the thought of the family not knowing. Bet you didn’t give up until the job was done, every severed body part, every piece of flesh, every bone was found and put in a box marked for home. That’s because you understand the need for closure. It was something you never had growing up. Something you were denied. It’s cruel, actually. No matter the reason, it’s cruel to deny someone the closure they need to move on from the trauma of loss. I get that. Believe me.”

  Sweat broke out on my upper lip. I struggled not to swipe at it.

  “See, I think you always had your questions about your mother. Why she left in the first place and then later why she supposedly killed herself. So you buried it deep inside you. That’s what people do when there’s something so painful they can’t bear to face it. They bury it.”

  I nudged Wilco toward the door. Pusser followed. “All I’m saying is that you’re not going to let Doogan suffer like that. You can’t help it. It’s not part of your makeup to let people suffer.” We reached the door at the same time. He extended his arm, blocking my way.

  I didn’t tell him that I’d already committed to helping Doogan. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “The only real question,” he continued, “is are you strong enough to help yourself? To face the questions that have haunted you your whole life.”

  I turned my head and looked him directly in the face. My heart felt like a jackhammer in my chest. Strong enough? He had no idea what I’d faced in the past. But now . . . my mind flashed back to a halfway house in Memphis. I’d landed there after getting fired from my third job stateside, an assembly-line position at General Motors in Spring Hill, where I worked with the stamping machinery. The whirring noise of the machines sounded just like chopper blades—the one memory I’d carried from the day I’d been caught by the IED, the sound of the evac chopper.

  I’d thought I could handle it. I couldn’t. My nightmares increased, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t function. Until one morning I sat on the edge of my mattress, a handful of pills in my palm, a bottle of whiskey on my lap, ready to swallow away my life . . . I just wanted to forget it all. Not just war, I realized, but my whole life. But I lost my nerve that day. Wilco had rubbed up against my leg, his brown eyes questioning, his ears cocked in deaf uncertainty. He’d sensed my pain, he understood as no one else could, and I couldn’t do it. Who would take care of Wilco? And now . . . Who would take care of Gran?

  Don’t trust the police, she’d said.

  Pusser was still talking. “All these years I bet you’ve imagined all sorts of reasons your mother left you. Maybe thought it was your fault? An unplanned pregnancy, a young mother burdened with a baby . . . Then she came back and you almost got your answers. Only someone killed her before you had a chance. Who? And why? Help me, Callahan, and I’ll help you get the answers you need.”

  “Help you how?”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open. Keep me informed.”

  Gran was right. He was asking me to snitch on my own people. Nothing had changed. It was still them against us. “You think a Pavee did this. That’s why you need me. Because I’m one of them.” I brushed his arm aside and yanked on Wilco’s leash. “Go to hell, Pusser.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The instant our palms touched, I wanted to pull mine away. Maybe it was the strange up-and-down he was giving me, or the fact that he held my hand just a beat too long, I’m not sure. Whatever the reason, my potential new boss, Johnny Drake, gave me the creeps. Weird. Meg had said he was such a great guy.

  “So you’re Brynn Callahan,” Drake said. He was a fit fiftyish, with a gray buzz cut and heavy, black rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. We were in the parking lot of the Sleep Easy Motel, a 20-room motor inn off Route 2, an old highway road that ran between McCreary and Bone Gap. “Your cousin, Meg, told me you’re looking for a job. You’re a war vet?”

  “Marines. Three tours.”

  He thumped his chest, where a cross hung from a heavy gold chain around his neck. “Navy man myself. Machinist mate. Persian Gulf. We kicked some ass back in the day.” He fixed on my dog. “Your partner?”

  “This is Wilco.”

  “Good name. What type of work are you looking for, Brynn?”

  “Meg said you’re in need of housekeepers.”

  “That’s right. One of my girls quit last weekend. We’re running shorthanded.”

  “I’d like to apply.”

  He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered into the back of my car. “You living out of your car?”

  “Huh? No, why . . .” Then I realized why he asked. All my belongings were still crammed into the back of my station wagon. I kept telling myself that I hadn’t bothered unpacking yet because there wasn’t much room in the trailer, but the truth was, unpacking meant a staying in Bone Gap. I wasn’t quite ready to make that commitment yet. “I’m living with my grandparents in their trailer. It’s cramped.”

  “I see.” He gave me another long look. “Fergus and Anne are your grandparents?”

  “You know them?”

  “No. Not personally. But I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You sure you’re ready to take on a job so soon after . . .”

  “Yes. I’m fine. I’m ready.”

  “What about the dog?”

  We both looked down at Wilco. He gazed back at us, then yawned and licked his muzzle with one long sweep of his tongue.

  “He goes where I go.”

  “I understand. Thing is, I have a no-pet policy in the rooms. People have allergies.”

  I pointed to the side of the building where a group of trees provided a shady spot. “I could tether him to one of those trees while I’m working. I’ll water and walk him during my breaks.”

  Drake
hesitated. Whether he was trying to decide on me, or my dog, or both of us, I couldn’t be sure. I shifted and fidgeted with my scarf. “I could really use a job, Mr. Drake.”

  “Call me Johnny.”

  “Johnny,” I choked out. Again, he gave me a peculiar look. I couldn’t decide if he was a pervert or simply not running on all four cylinders. Heard that happened to a lot of squids—Marine vernacular for Navy guys—especially the sub crews. Too much time underwater. Turned them into bubbleheads. Poor guy.

  “I’d need you five days a week, Wednesday through Sunday. We’re usually booked through the weekend. You’d start at noon and work until the rooms are done. If you want, you can start training today.”

  “Suits me fine.”

  He held out his hand again. “Welcome aboard, Brynn.”

  * * *

  After stopping in at the main office, where I filled out the obligatory paperwork, Drake introduced me to my counterpart, a mid-forties, wiry gal by the name of Zinnia Crow. Her high cheekbones, straight nose, and long black hair reminded me of an exotic Native American princess. Her heavily tattooed body reminded me of some of my fellow Marines.

  “Just call me Zee,” she said. “Be glad to show ya the ropes, sweetie.”

  But as soon as Drake disappeared back inside his office, she changed her tune. “You’re one of them gyspies that live up the mountain, ain’t ya?”

  I wondered how she’d figured that I lived in Bone Gap. Had she heard about me already? Or did we all have a certain look? “That’s where I grew up. But we’re called Travellers, not gypsies.” I gave her my best smile.

  She frowned. “Whatever. We have rules ’round here. No smoking, no drinking, and no touching the guests’ belongings. If you find something left behind in a room, it goes straight to the office to the lost and found. If it’s not claimed after a week, it’s there for the pickin’, but I get first dibs. I’ve got seniority.”

  “Oookay.”

  She squinted at me, obviously not pleased at my reaction. “Shit.”

  She stared, waiting for something from me. But for what? “Pardon?”

  “Shit. Be ready for it.”

  Yeah, like what she was already giving me?

  She continued, “And piss and sticky rubbers. Might as well know right now this ain’t no pretty job. We pick up the messes left behind.” She cocked her head at me. “Think you can handle it?”

  I pursed my lips, gave a little thoughtful nod. “I think so.” I bit back what I wanted to say: You’ve got no idea how much shit comes out of a dead carcass or how much piss from a dying man. Yeah, I think I can handle that from the live ones.

  She looked at me a few more seconds, seemed to appreciate that I’d thought it over, then handed me a work shirt, a blue polo with white trim. On the back, scripted in loopy white cursive letters, was the name SLEEP EASY. Classy.

  I got Wilco situated, changed into my uniform top—which I had to admit, looked a little weird with a scarf tucked into the collar—and met Zee at room number 20. Zee had a system. She liked to work from the highest-numbered room to the lowest. Easier that way, she’d told me. “It won’t seem like you’re always climbing uphill.” She was also a bit superstitious, having told me that she had never so much as touched the doorknob to room 13, a room that was no longer used for guests but served as Mr. Drake’s, “Johnny’s,” private office. In fact, when we passed by, pushing the supply cart along the walk between room 14 and room 12, she rubbed at a blue stone she wore around her neck and muttered something. Warding off evil spirits, maybe. Or casting some sort of curse on me. I couldn’t be sure. She was short on patience, and I was long on inexperience. But by the time we reached number 9, I’d gained enough proficiency to handle a few rooms on my own. We split the work the rest of the way and finished early for the day.

  Overall, my first day on the job went well. I ended up taking a liking to Zee. She joined me on break and even shared part of her packed lunch, some chips and an apple for me and some of the turkey off her sandwich for Wilco. I learned she’d grown up in the area, married and divorced young, and had one teenage daughter—Wenona, Winnie for short—who wanted to attend TSU after high school.

  I was telling all this to Meg that evening, at the diner, over a burger and fries. It was a little after six. I was starving after work but couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm for going home yet. Meg had just finished her shift and joined me in the back booth. I’d attached Wilco’s service dog vest, allowing him full access to the dining portion of the restaurant. He lay under the table, curled at my feet. “She’s different,” I continued, describing Zee. “She claims to be a direct descendent of some Cherokee Indian chief and believes in all sort of superstitions and mystical stuff.” I told her about the rock necklace and room number 13.

  Meg laughed. “And people think we’re weird.”

  I swallowed a bite of my burger and snuck a piece to Wilco under the table. He snatched it up and licked my fingers. I noticed a few people staring my way. “Are you sure it’s okay to bring my dog inside?”

  “Yeah. Johnny’s cool with it. As long as you have the vest and leash on him.”

  Talk about weird. I thought back to my encounter with Johnny Drake earlier: the way he looked at me, like he was studying me for some strange experiment. I didn’t mention any of that to Meg, though. She thought the world of her boss. And I was grateful to have a job. I gave Wilco another quick bite and wiped my fingers on a napkin. A man a couple tables over shot a look of disgust my way. “Are you sure? People are definitely staring. I hope we don’t scare away the other customers.”

  “It’s not your dog, Brynn. It’s you.”

  “Me?”

  She cocked her head to me, “You didn’t know?” She swiped up some ketchup with the tip of her fry. “Yup. Well, both of us, to some degree. But more you, sorry to say.” She sprinkled extra salt over her fries. “Did you happen to notice any cameras around today?”

  “Cameras?” I winced. “Yeah. This morning.”

  “You were on the local news. Channel 4. You looked good, wheeling away in your car.”

  No wonder Zee knew who I was. “What’d they say?”

  “Not much. The news doesn’t seem to have the whole story. Not yet anyway.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Speakin’ of which, you left the trailer before all the excitement today.”

  “What do you mean?” I tensed. “Is Gran okay?”

  “She’s fine. She can handle herself. But I know where you get your temper.” She took a couple of bites before continuing. “Like I said, the press is hot on the story. They showed up at the trailer, asking all sorts of questions. Just the McCreary Sun. You know, that blond dummy reporter who pretends he’s a young Wolf Blitzer reporting in our third world. But I’m sure the other newspapers will pick it up soon. You know how they are. They’re hungry for whatever they can find on us.”

  “What’s all this have to do with Gran’s temper?”

  “The reporter was relentless. He wouldn’t ease up. Came right up to the front door and yelled out his insulting questions. Took pictures of her trailer too. A lot of them. I’m sure none of them are flattering.”

  I thought about the half-finished ramp Gran was building for Wilco. Piles of wood and tools were strewn about. The scrub grass and weeds that could hardly be viewed as lawn. “What type of questions?”

  “All the usual crap. Everything from do we have child brides to wanting to know where we’re storing our weapons.”

  “Weapons?”

  She lowered her voice again. “Didn’t you know? We gypsies are planning to overthrow the government.”

  “Wow. No one told me.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What did Gran do?” Not that I really wanted to know.

  “Showed him the one weapon she does have.”

  “Oh no. I forgot about her pistol.” Gramps had insisted years ago that Gran always carry a gun with her, after a Traveller woman had been beaten by a pack of
bigots in Augusta.

  We sat upright as a couple of guys passed by on their way to the door. “Frickin’ knackers,” one of them mumbled.

  Yet another derogatory term used against us. My shoulders tightened. “Assholes,” I shot back.

  Meg cringed. The guys stopped and walked back to the table, one of them leaning in real close. “What’d you say, pikey?”

  “I called you an asshole.”

  “Stop it, Brynn.” Meg was mortified.

  The other guy looked at his friend and laughed. “She packs quite a wallop for such a little package.”

  I turned my focus his way, letting my eyes land below his belt. I smirked. “Looks like you probably know a little something about small packages.”

  His nostrils flared. He leaned over and slammed his fist on our table. “You little bitch!”

  Wilco popped out from under the table and let out a long, wicked-sounding growl. The guys slowly backed up and headed for the door.

  I turned back to Meg. She glared across the table at me. “Was that really necessary?”

  “You wanted to let them get by with calling us that? Besides, I’ve handled guys like them before. What was it you were saying?”

  “Uh . . . Gran’s pistol.”

  “I don’t think Gran even has ammo for that old pistol.”

  “Probably not. Doesn’t matter. The reporter didn’t budge. Not until Paddy and Jarvis got involved.”

  I groaned. Gramps’ younger brothers had been at the place. They’d slept over in the front room with some other kin. They were both over six feet, packed an easy extra hundred pounds each, and looked like street thugs. Harmless if you didn’t rustle them. Or if they weren’t drunk. Or hung over. I could just imagine the photo op they gave that cameraman if they thought the reporter was threatening Gran.

  “Yup. And Dub was there too. You know how they all get. Especially when they’ve been drinking. And they had been. A lot.” She looked around and frowned. “Anyway, it got ugly fast. And there’s been a lot of talk around town today. With your mom’s death . . . ,”—she lowered her eyes—“and Sheila missing, people are worried that there’s a killer on the loose.”