A Killing in Zion (21 page)

“G'night,” I said.

He turned to leave, but I called out his name and he stopped and faced me. “Yeah?”

“Remember: Get here on time tomorrow,” I said. “I know you can do it.”

He chuckled and gave his fedora brim a tug before he turned to go.

*   *   *

It turned out that Clara, Sarah Jane, and Hyrum all had a prior engagement: a cousin's birthday party on Clara's side of the family. This left me alone for the night with the mute girl, who needed a break from family get-togethers, we decided. Come dinnertime, I warmed up homemade chicken noodle soup and the two of us sat across the table from each other. She ate slowly and seemed more comfortable, less tense than she had been the other day. When we were done, I put the dishes in the sink and planned to wash them after she went to sleep. The two of us went into the living room and listened to the radio for a while. The news on KSL, “brought to you by Pep 88 Gasoline,” was full of grim talk of Nazis and forest fires and labor strikes. A music variety show aired afterward, and that's when the girl got up and left for the kitchen. I could hear silverware and dishes shifting. I stood and walked over to the kitchen door. I spied her tilting a box of Super Suds over the basin of water and begin scrubbing away with a Brillo Pad. Before long, the bowls and silverware and glasses were pristine and placed out to dry on the wooden dish drainer.

“Thank you.”

She swung around suddenly, as if startled.

“I was going to do those. Thanks for doing them.”

She swallowed hard, and her eyes darted nervously from me to the dishes and back again.

“Can you understand me?” I asked. “Nod for yes.”

She backed up a couple of steps, bumping into the sink.

I said, “I don't wish to hurt you. You know what I'm saying, don't you? If you know how to do dishes and use Brillo Pads and Super Suds, you must be able to communicate with others.”

I sensed her tensing up. Her breathing quickened. She placed her hands over her solar plexus, as if guarding herself.

“You were there, at the fundamentalist church, the night of the murders. What did you see? Can you write?” I pantomimed with an invisible pen, my flat hand doubling as paper. “You know, write. If I were to get you a pencil and a piece of paper, could you write down what you saw?”

She blinked at me, still coiled up.

“Are you able to write? Or read?” I asked. “Are you literate? Do you know English? Look, you need to help me, if I'm going to…”

The sight of the frightened girl made me stop. I knew I'd pressed her too hard when I saw her body—her hands, arms, head—trembling under my shadow. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, and her wide eyes became watery. I backed away from her a few steps, instantly feeling remorse over my actions, even though I hadn't said anything spiteful. I'd scared her, and I imagined a girl who wore a wedding band this young in life had probably been frightened by one too many men.

“Sorry,” I said. “Thank you for doing the dishes.”

She left. I lost track of how long I stood there, regretting what I'd done. It must have been a while, because when I went to check on the girl in Sarah Jane's room, I found her sound asleep. I went into the living room and listened to the rest of the variety show on the radio. Around half past nine, I checked on her again. She was still asleep. A photograph of an adolescent boy had found a new home on the nightstand. I picked up the snapshot and looked at it by the light of the hallway. The boy, likely twelve or thirteen, with a mop of dark hair, a tentative smile, and a plaid shirt, leaned against a split-rail fence. I set it down where I had found it and glimpsed the thick beige pillowcase that held her belongings, sitting on the floor, tucked partially underneath the bed.
Should I? Shouldn't I?
I leaned over the bed where she slept. Her eyes were closed and heavy breaths swished through her nostrils.

I ignored any doubts, squatted low, reached inside of the pillowcase, and began pulling out its contents. Strips of plain and floral and calico fabric; a battered tin that once held Sweet Clover brand pure lard, now home to a wad of seven or eight soggy dollar bills and close to three dollars in change; a porcelain doll in a dark Victorian dress and a matching ruffled derby; a bottle of Sloan's Liniment with the cap screwed on tight; a small stack of movie magazines, all with pretty actresses on the covers; a cloth pouch filled with spools of thread, a thimble, and sewing needles; a road map printed by Sinclair Oil; a bus ticket from St. George, Utah, to Salt Lake City; a bag of hard candy; and at the very bottom, a pillow with words in needlepoint:
G
OD
B
LESS
O
UR
H
OME
. Nothing else. I sighed a sigh of resignation and began putting everything back where I found it. I closed the door and returned to the radio, where some sort of police drama flooded out of the upholstered speaker.

Car lights swept into the driveway around eleven. I went out and waited on the porch in warm night air that smelled of burning wood. Clara shut off the engine, she and Sarah Jane got out of the front of the car, and I opened the rear door to find my sleeping son. Without saying a word, I carried Hi off to bed and tucked him in. I returned to the living room to find my daughter waiting for me.

“Good night, Dad,” said Sarah Jane, rising from the armchair, throwing her arms around me. I hugged her back.

“Nighty night, angel,” I said.

She pulled back and smiled warmly. “Don't let the bedbugs bite.”

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too.”

She went off in the direction of her room.

Clara switched off the radio, came over to me, put her arms around my neck, and leaned in for a peck on the lips. We gave each other a loving smile. She smelled of something flowery, maybe a new perfume she'd bought at one of the downtown department stores.

“How did it go tonight?” I asked.

“How do you think it went? Leroy got inundated with presents. The kids all raised merry Cain. S.J. sat in a corner, as usual, and Hyrum made everybody laugh with his Jack Benny impersonations.”

I let out a soft laugh as we released each other. “Sounds like I missed another rollicking night of fun and frivolity.”

“You got off easy, mister,” said Clara. She turned serious. “How is she?”

I decided not to say anything about my brief yet aggressive grilling of the girl. “She did the dishes and went to bed early.”

Clara's eyes widened. “Washed the dishes, huh? How sweet of her.”

“Mom. Dad. She's gone.”

Sarah Jane stood in the doorway with a spooked expression. I bolted past her, down the hallway, flinging her bedroom door open with such force that it knocked a picture frame off S.J.'s bureau.

It sent shock waves through me to see the empty bed where our guest had been sleeping earlier in the night, its sheet and blanket pulled all the way down like a peeled banana. The bedroom window was wide open, kept in place by a piece of lumber. Sarah Jane appeared by my side, forlorn and scared, staring at me expectantly for answers.

“You found it like this?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you hear anything before you came in?”

“No.”

Clara came into the room while we were talking. She went over to the window, leaned forward, and poked her head out to get a better look. The window looked out onto the backyard, lit only by the moon. She straightened and turned to me, and I looked at her to see if—by any remote chance—she noticed anything. She shook her head.

I stepped closer to the bed, got down on all fours, and tilted my head low to the floor. I found nothing under the bed. I went to the closet, opened the door, and was greeted by a rack of hanging dresses. I stooped to get a better look down below, where S.J. kept her shoes, but I didn't see any sign of the girl. I closed the door.

My insides ached with guilt about my decision to search the girl's pillowcase. No doubt about it, I had let my zeal take over, and my actions left me ashamed. It could very well be that she was feigning sleeping when I went into her room, and saw me take that old pillowcase stuffed with her things, and she knew I went through her belongings. With my wife and daughter watching me, waiting for some sort of cues, I put my hands on my waist and sighed.

“Time to make a couple of telephone calls,” I said.

 

Seventeen

“I've really fouled it up this time,” I said. “She was supposed to be in my protective custody.” I slapped my hand on my chest for emphasis. “In
my
care. I couldn't even do that right. What was I thinking? I should've let her be sent to the reformatory up in Ogden, like Buddy told me to do in the first place.”

We were conducting an emergency powwow in my living room, with lemonade and cookies provided by Clara. I wasn't thirsty and I certainly wasn't hungry, although the others were digging in freely.

“Go easy, Art,” Roscoe told me. “You did the right thing by helping that girl. Don't always be second-guessing yourself.”

“You said you looked in on her around nine thirty?” Jared asked.

“Yeah, nine thirty, somewhere thereabouts.”

“What time did your daughter discover she wasn't there?” Jared asked.

“My wife and children got home from the party around eleven. Maybe eleven-oh-five. Sarah Jane went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, changed into her PJs, and then noticed the girl was missing.” I drew a deep breath. “It's like the Lindbergh kidnapping. The window open, the girl missing, the—”

“For crying out loud, now you're getting dramatic,” said Roscoe. “It's nothing like the Lindbergh kidnapping.”

“It's exactly like it,” I said. “I go in there, the bed is empty, the window's open…”

Roscoe turned his palms up. “You were where—in the living room—when it happened?”

“Yeah. Yeah, listening to the radio.”

“If there were some kind of commotion, you'da heard it,” said Roscoe. “No, this ain't anything like the Lindbergh kidnapping.”

“What are you saying?” I asked. “You think the girl left on her own?”

Roscoe nodded. “It's possible. What do we really know about her? What's going through that head of hers?”

Jared reached for a cookie. He snacked while Roscoe pulled out a silvery flask, uncapped it, and tilted it against his lips. He took two hard swallows and gasped, capping it again and slipping it into his pocket.

“I don't even know where to start,” I said. “Maybe I should just fess up to Buddy and let the chips—”

“Steer clear of Buddy,” interjected Roscoe. “He'll bust your balls and pile on the
I told you so
's thick as cordwood, then the prick will go straight to Cowley. That's how he operates. Nothing against him, I know he's your friend and all. But he's a grade-A politico, a chain-of-command pencil pusher who doesn't understand that there's a time and a place to bend the rules, if not break 'em.”

Jared chewed his cookie in a hangdog silence that was uncharacteristic for him. I said to him, “Well?”

“Well what, boss?”

“You're as familiar with these people as anybody I know,” I said. “What does your gut tell you?”

“She went back.”

“Went back where?”

“Didn't you tell me she had a bus ticket on her?”

“Yeah. From St. George.”

“St. George is only forty miles away from Dixie City. I'm guessing the girl probably scraped together enough money to buy a bus ticket to get here. There's a good chance she lit out tonight to go back home to be with her kin.”

“What makes you think her family is from Dixie City?” I asked.

“She's one of
them
,” said Jared. “I can see it, plain as day, by the way she styles her hair, the design of her dress, even by how she carries herself. She's from one of the clans. I'm ninety-nine percent sure of it.”

“I think a trip to Dixie City is in order,” said Roscoe. “If we stay here, we're just gonna get in the way of the Homicide dicks.”

“Buddy gave me explicit orders not to go,” I said.

“Art,” said Roscoe, arching his eyebrows.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck him.”

“Oh, that helps!
Eff
Buddy! That helps a lot.”

“No, not
eff
Buddy,” said Roscoe. “
Fuck
Buddy. There's a difference.”

“Easy for you to say. If Buddy finds out I went to Dixie City, it'll land me in serious hot water,” I said.

“Either way, your goose is cooked,” said Roscoe. “The girl disappeared while in your protective custody. Now, I know it's not your fault, and I hope you know it's not your fault. But when the mayor gets wind of this, it's curtains for our little squad.”

He was right and I knew it. I just didn't want to admit it. But I also wasn't eager to make this trek down to Dixie City that Roscoe was suggesting. “Maybe we should wait until after Johnston's funeral on Saturday,” I suggested. “Give the people a chance to mourn without us getting in their way.”

“That may be why she's going down there,” said Jared, his mouth still full of cookie. “Just keep your distance from the funeral. They don't want you there, and your presence is gonna get them all riled up. Observe it from afar. You best take your field glasses with you.”

After a prolonged silence, I looked at Roscoe. “Will you go with me?”

“Of course,” he said. “You don't even need to ask.”

I turned to Jared. “What about you?”

He stopped chewing and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Can't do it, boss.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He swallowed what was in his mouth. “I've got a meeting at one o'clock in the afternoon with that clerk over at the state department of revenue's vehicle division. He's the same fellow I spoke to yesterday when I went out there to request registration records on Model T trucks and brown Hudsons. They need twenty-four hours' notice to rustle up those documents, and I don't want to stand him up after he went to all that work. Besides, with Myron out of town, it makes sense to have someone in the office for at least part of the day, in case someone calls.”