Angels Burning (6 page)

I get no further reply.

“Could we try to contact the boyfriend or his family?” I ask Jessy.

“No way. We don't have nothing to do with them.”

“Why not?”

Her inability to provide an answer for the amount of animosity suddenly blazing up in her eyes makes me instantly suspect this is one of those baseless hatreds akin to racism: an inarguable prejudice rooted in nothing concrete or rational, just the insistent whispers of your tribe that shunning particular others is a requirement of membership.

I heft the baby a little higher on my shoulder and try a different route.

“Is it normal for Camio to disappear like this and not check in for this length of time?”

“No,” Jessy says, dropping her petulant posturing for a moment. “This ain't normal for Camio at all.”

“What's going on here, Shawna?”

I turn at the sound of a forceful female voice, and I'm surprised to find its source is an elderly woman who at first glance looks like the proverbial wind could blow her over.

She's skin and bones, but there's nothing remotely frail or sickly about her. On the contrary, her gaunt stare and emaciated frame give her a formidable aura of impossible survival, as if she stepped out of a postapocalyptic landscape in a science fiction film.

“Nothing, Miranda,” Shawna answers her.

“Nothing?” her voice rings out, and I half expect the TV to turn itself off. “The chief of police is standing in your house holding your grandbaby because of nothing?”

I quickly scan through my mental contacts file trying to remember if I've ever come face-to-face with Miranda Truly before. It doesn't matter if we've ever actually met; women like her know everyone in town and all their family histories.

“You're one of the Carnahan girls,” she says to me.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You're smiling.”

“Am I? It's just I haven't been called a girl in a long time.”

“Does it feel good?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Your sister was in the same class as my Marty.”

I remember. Martin James Truly, sixteen, fell off an abandoned railway bridge into the sluggish Crooked Creek after a night of drinking and raising hell. No one ever knew for sure if he was alone when it happened or if he had help taking the header.

A couple of years later his brother Ross was killed running a red light on his motorcycle. The state police surmised that when he saw the semi beginning to cross his path, he tried to avoid it by going underneath it but only ended up going beneath its back tires. It came as no surprise to anyone to learn he'd been an avid fan of
The Dukes of Hazzard
.

Families like the Trulys make me think of the sea turtles I've seen on wildlife documentaries and the almost insurmountable odds against the babies surviving into adulthood. They're picked off by birds when they hatch unprotected on the beach and then the ones that make it to the sea become easy meals for countless fish and aquatic creatures. In the case of the Trulys, their main predator is their own bad judgment.

“What can we do for you?” Miranda asks me, and I sense the shift of power in the room.

I wasn't exactly in command before she arrived, since neither of the other women in the room paid much attention to me, but it was tacitly understood that I was an authority figure. Now I've been reduced to a well-groomed interloper in a summer-weight pantsuit and wedge heels peddling unwanted justice for all.

It would be a waste of time to ease into any conversation about brutal, senseless death with this woman.

“We've discovered the body of a teenaged girl,” I begin, “and we've received some information that has led us to think that she might be your granddaughter Camio. I'm sorry to put you through this, but we need to check out all possible leads.”

“What makes you think it could be Camio?” Miranda asks.

I hand the baby back to her mother and take a crime scene photo out of my purse.

“Do you recognize this?”

Jessy and her grandmother stare at the close-up of Camio's feet, at the neon pink toenails and the strand of fake diamond hearts circling her slender ankle.

“Oh my God,” Jessy gasps.

She instinctively holds her own child tighter to her chest.

“Oh my God,” she says again. “Mom!”

Shawna doesn't even glance our way.

Jessy grabs the photo out of my hand and rushes to her mother. Tears are streaming down her face.

“Mom! Look! It's Camio.”

She shoves the photo in front of Shawna, who darts a look at it.

“It's feet. So what? You know how many girls paint their toenails pink and have crappy little anklets? And don't you start telling me again that that Massey kid bought it special at Kay Jewelers. It's a piece of shit you can get at Walmart. I seen 'em.”

“It's Camio. Look at the scar on the side of her foot. Remember when she was little and stepped on that nail and it went right through? It got infected.”

“Why the hell do you know so much about your sister's feet?”

“Mom!” Jessy screams, shaking the photo at her. “What's wrong with you?”

Shawna slaps her daughter so hard, the sound makes the baby start to cry.

“Don't you talk to me like that,” she hisses.

I take a step forward, but I'm stopped by Miranda laying her hand on my arm.

“What happened to her?” she asks.

“I'm afraid I can't give you any more information at this time. We'd like to have access to her dental records so we can make a positive ID.”

“Where is she?”

“The county morgue.”

She motions at Jessy and Shawna.

“Come on. We're going.”

“Mrs. Truly,” I try to stop her. “I don't think that's a good idea. She's in very bad shape.”

“Worse shape than having her head ripped off by a tractor trailer or spending two days dead at the bottom of a crick? Marty had crayfish in his eye sockets.”

I don't know what to say to this.

“Shawna. Your child is dead,” Miranda announces. “Get up now.”

Shawna rises in slow motion and shakes crumbs out of her shirt.

On her way past me, she jabs a finger in my face and spits, “Don't you say nothing to me. You can ma'am Miranda but don't you ma'am me.”

I want to tell her that I'm not the enemy, that we're the same, that I know what it's like to be poor, to live in squalor, to wonder why others have it better but that these unpleasant realities didn't make me turn inward and blame and dislike the bigger world; they made me want to be a part of it.

Aside from the presence of my siblings, my mother's house depressed and frustrated me. I came up with the plan that I would sleep and eat there out of necessity but do all the rest of my living somewhere else.

I loved school. I loved activities and events. I loved having friends. I loved having boyfriends. I loved my town. I loved community involvement.

I loved my mom, too, and this is why I was constantly cutting her breaks. I knew she was bad at mothering, but I was never sure if this was the same thing as being a bad mother. Neely and I were convinced that deep down Mom loved us; otherwise, why would she have kept us?

“I'll have an officer meet you there,” I tell them.

Neither Miranda nor Shawna make sure that I leave before them. They pull out while I'm standing beside my car. I briefly entertain the idea of going back in the house and poking around, but I know I can't.

I'm about to go when I see a little boy crawl out an upstairs window and scurry across the front porch roof with the agility of a squirrel.

He stops precariously close to the gutters and produces a Slim Jim from his jeans pocket. He tears off a piece with his teeth.

“Who are you?” I call up to him.

“Derk Truly. Who are you?”

“Dove Carnahan.”

“That's a stupid name. We shoot doves.”

“I'm sure you do. How old are you, Derk?”

“Eight.”

“Is it okay for you to be home alone?”

“I'm alone all the time.”

I wait to see if he's going to venture any closer on his own. Like the woodland creature he reminds me of, I'm certain he's skittish and easy to frighten away.

He sticks the meat stick back in his pocket, lies down on his side, grabs the edge of the roof, rolls off, then swings onto the porch in one fluid motion. He lands on his feet with a resounding thud.

I stay where I am. He's an adorable boy: big brown eyes with long lashes, a sprinkle of freckles on his cheeks, ears a little too big for his head. His close-cropped hair has a baby seal appeal to it, and I'd like to grab him and stroke its silky softness.

“Do you know Camio's boyfriend?” I ask the little angel.

“Zane Massey,” he answers me. “He's a cocksucker. His whole family's a bunch of cocksuckers.”

I'm not the least bit surprised by his language, but I can tell from the defiance on his face and in his stance that he expects me to be.

“Really? Do you know what a cocksucker is?”

“Yeah,” he replies, unconvincingly.

“The only Masseys I know are Terry and Brie and their kids. He's a CPA and she's a secretary in an orthodontist's office. Now you could say they're a bunch of Presbyterians, or a bunch of brunettes, or a bunch of animal lovers, or a bunch of Ford-Explorer-driving, Old-Navy-shopping,
Olive-Garden-dining Taylor Swift fans, but I highly doubt this family sits around sucking cocks together.”

He stares back at me saying nothing. At least I've got his attention.

“Know what you're talking about before you open your mouth,” I tell him. “It's a good rule to follow.”

“I don't follow rules.”

“I see. What do you think about your sister Camio?”

“She's a bitch.”

“Why's that?”

“She wants to leave.”

“With Zane?”

“Don't know. She wants to go to college.”

“You think that's a bad idea?”

“College is for cocksuckers.”

“Well, that's partially true. And what about your brother Tug?”

“He's okay.”

“He works for my sister, the dog trainer.”

“Tug says she's okay.”

I get into my car.

“It was very interesting talking to you, Derk,” I tell him through the open window. “You have a nice day.”

I pretend to be busy writing down something in a notebook.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him leave the porch and start to approach me while trying to look like he isn't.

I take a candy bar out of my purse, break off a piece, and wait for him to arrive outside my window. He does.

“Don't you have another brother?” I ask him.

“Shane's in jail. He stabbed someone.”

I extend the rest of the candy bar to him. He grabs it without hesitating and shoves it into his mouth.

“Any cocksuckers in jail?” I wonder.

“Nope,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate.

I CALL NOLAN
and tell him the girl is almost certainly Camio Truly and her family is on their way to the morgue. Nolan rarely swears but he lets loose with a few choice words that Derk would have admired. He didn't want the family at the morgue yet. He says he'll drop everything and meet them there.

I decide not to tell him the name of Camio's boyfriend. Let the big man figure it out on his own.

Nolan wouldn't approve of me talking to Zane and his parents yet. He'd want us to wait until we were sure of her identity and go at them with the shocking news that his girlfriend was dead but if she was dead then we'd be conducting a murder investigation and Zane would be a potential suspect because boyfriends always are and his parents would immediately circle the wagons. I know them, not well, but well enough to assume they can't be happy about their son dating a Truly and that, like most parents, they'd do anything to protect their child.

SINCE IT'S A SATURDAY,
I might find one or both of Zane's parents at home. During the era when I grew up, there's no way a kid would be inside on a day like today, but nowadays there's a good possibility he's embedded in the basement rec room playing video games.

Terry Massey's mowing his yard. He holds up a hand to shield his
eyes from the sun and to get a better look at who's pulling into his driveway.

I'm in my own car and wearing street clothes. I shouldn't be a scary presence, but I smile brightly and wave cheerily at him when I get out of my car just to assure him that everything is okay.

I know Terry because he helped Neely with some tax problems related to her business a few years ago. He's the antithesis of his profession's milquetoast stereotype. He's a big, bluff guy, gregarious and loud, who gets up from his desk and eagerly comes at you across his office for a handshake like a linebacker heading for a fumbled ball.

The roar of his mower subsides, and he makes his way across his perfect carpet of vivid green grass. I'm reminded that I need to tend to my own yard, then wistfully recall my fantasy to let it revert back to its natural state of weeds and wildflowers where birds and animals can cavort freely, but we have strict guidelines for lawn maintenance within the borough; outside of it residents can grow their grass three feet tall, cover their property with no longer functioning household appliances and disabled vehicles on cinder blocks, and dispose of anything unwanted—from a chipmunk carcass to an old recliner—by lighting it on fire in their front yard. From what I saw earlier, the Truly family seems to have wholeheartedly embraced this look.

“Hey, there, Chief Carnahan.”

Terry draws a forearm across his face to wipe the sweat away.

“I've told you before to call me Dove.”

“Okay, Dove. What can I do you for?”

“I was hoping to talk to Zane.”