Charlaine Harris (63 page)

We paused by a pew with some free space in the middle, and when the pew's settlers saw my cast, they were kind enough to all shift down to let us sit on the end. I said “Thank you” several times. It felt good to settle down on the padded pew shoulder to shoulder with Tolliver. We were far enough away from the door to avoid the effects of the constant gusts of cold air with each entrance.

Gradually the murmurs died down and the crowd became silent. The doors didn't open and close anymore. Pastor Garland came out, looking youthful and somehow sweet. But his voice was anything but sweet, or peaceful, as he read the scriptures he'd selected for the occasion. He'd picked a passage from Ecclesiastes, he told us, and he started to read. He began, “To everything there is a season…”

Everyone around me was nodding their heads, though of course Tolliver and I didn't recognize the scripture. We listened with great attention. Was he saying that it had been time for the boys to die? No, maybe his emphasis was on “a time to mourn.” That was now, for sure. The rest of his readings were from Romans, and the thread that ran through them was about maintaining your own integrity in a world bereft of it. And they were eerily appropriate.

There was no point in saying the murders were events the congregation had to accept philosophically. There was no point in saying the people of Doraville had to turn the other cheek; it wasn't the community's cheek that had been struck. Its children had been stolen. There would be no offering up of other children to be killed, no matter how much scripture was quoted.

No, Doak Garland was smarter than he appeared. He was telling the people of Doraville that they had to endure and trust in God to get them past the bad time, that God would help them in this endeavor. No one could disagree with that message. Not here, not tonight. Not with those faces at the front of the congregation, staring back. As I watched, a deputy ceremoniously added two more easels, but these were left blank. The two boys who were strangers. I felt touched.

“These are the children of our community,” Doak said. He gestured to the faces. Then he pointed to the two blank easels. “And these are someone else's children, but they were killed and buried right along with ours, and we must pray for them, too.”

One picture was the stern one boys always take for their high school football picture. The scowling boy, looking so very tough…I'd seen him in his grave, beaten and cut, tortured beyond his endurance, every vestige of manhood stripped from him. Suddenly the tragedy of it seemed unbearable, and as Doak Garland's voice rose in his sermon, tears flowed out of my eyes. Tolliver fished some Kleenex from his pocket and patted my face. He looked a little bewildered. I'd never reacted like this to a previous case, no matter how horrific.

We sang a hymn or two, we prayed long and loud, and one woman fainted and was helped out into the vestibule. I floated through the service on a cloud of pain medication, every now and then weeping with the emotion that could not be contained. When the usher—the hospital administrator, Barney Simpson—came by with the plate to pass for further donations toward the burials, a man two pews ahead of me turned his head as he handed his neighbor the collection plate, and I saw to my amazement that Tom Almand had come to the service. He had brought his son with him, and that hit me wrong. The counselor should have stayed home with the boy. Chuck was laboring under such a terrible burden, he shouldn't be in a place where the atmosphere was sheer grief and horror. Or did he need to be reminded that other problems were worse than his? I was no counselor. Maybe his dad knew best.

I reached across myself to squeeze Tolliver with my good hand. He looked at me inquiringly. He was restless, and I could tell he wanted to be anywhere but here. I nodded my head to indicate Tom Almand and Chuck, and after scanning the crowd with a blank face, Tolliver gave me a significant look to let me know he'd spotted them. As if he could feel our gazes, Almand turned a bit and looked straight at us. I thought he would look disgusted, or angry, or anguished. What does the father of such a child feel? I didn't have a clue, but I was fairly sure it would be a painful mixture of emotions.

Tom Almand looked blank. I couldn't even be sure he recognized me.

Okay, that was freaky. I would have added forty more dollars to the collection plate if I could have heard what Almand was thinking.

“Huh,” Tolliver said, which put it in a nutshell.

Then the collection was over, and everyone settled back into receptive silence. But a stir went through the crowd when a stubby man in a bad suit rose from the front pew and went to the lectern.

“Those of you don't know me, I'm Abe Madden,” he said, and there was another little ripple of movement. “I know that some of you blame me for not realizing sooner that those boys were being killed. Maybe, like some of you think, I let what I
wanted
get in the way of what I
should
. I wanted those boys to be okay, just out sowing a few wild oats. I should have been looking harder for them, asking harder questions. Some in my own department told me that.” He might have been looking at the current sheriff when he said that. “Some in my department thought I was right. Well, we know now I was wrong, and I ask your forgiveness for a great mistake I made. I was your servant while I was in office, and I let you down.” And he went back to his seat.

I'd never heard anything like that before. What it must have cost the man in pride to do that…I couldn't even imagine. Tolliver was less impressed. “Now he's confessed and asked for forgiveness,” he whispered. “Can't anyone point fingers at him anymore; he's paid his debt.”

A member of each family spoke, some briefly, some at length, but I heard very little fire and brimstone. I expected some homophobic stuff, given the nature of the murders, but I didn't hear any. The anger was directed at the rape, not at the sexual preference of the rapist. Only two family members spoke of vengeance, and then only in terms of the law catching the responsible party. There was no lynch talk, no fist shaking. Grief and relief.

The last speaker said, “At least now we know this is at an end. No more of our sons will die.” At that, I saw a sudden movement in the Bernardos' pew. Manfred was gripping Xylda by the arm, and her face was turned toward his. She looked angry and urgent. But after a few seconds, she subsided.

We might as well have left then, for all I got out of the rest of the service. I was drowsy and uncomfortable, and I wanted nothing more than to lean my head on Tolliver's shoulder and fall asleep. That would clearly be the wrong thing to do, so I focused on sitting up straight and keeping my eyes open. At last the service was over, and we sang a closing hymn. Then we could go. I stepped out of the pew first since I was on the end, and a grizzled man in overalls took my hand. “Thank you, young lady,” he said, and then began making his way out of the church without another word. He was the first of many people who made a point of touching me: a light hug, a grip of the hand, a pat on the shoulder. Each contact came with a “Thank you,” or a “God bless you and keep you,” and each time I was surprised. This had never happened to me before. I was sure it would never happen again. Doak Garland embraced me when we reached his spot at the door, his white hands light on my shoulders so he wouldn't hurt me. Barney Simpson, towering over me, reached out to give me a light pat. Parker McGraw said, “Bless you,” and Bethalynn wept, her arms around her remaining son.

No one asked me a single question about how I'd found the boys. The faith of Doraville seemed to hinge on the acceptance of God's mysterious ways and the strange instruments he selects to perform his will.

I was the strange instrument, of course.

THERE
were a couple of cars behind us on the long road out to Pine Landing Lake. Of course, the little hamlet of Harmony was past the lake, and there were other people in residence at the lake itself, so I told myself not to be crazy. After we turned off, the other cars continued on their way. Tolliver didn't comment one way or the other, and I didn't want to sound paranoid, so I didn't say anything.

We hadn't left on an outside light—in fact, I wasn't even sure if there was one—and I tried to mark the location of the stairs before Tolliver cut the ignition. We had a few seconds before the headlights turned off, so I hurried as much as I could to start up while I could see my way. There was a noise from the underbrush, and I said, “What the hell is that?” I had to stop and look, and then I saw a lumbering small shape scoot across the driveway and into the thicket between ours and the next vacant cabin, barely visible through the thick growth of trees and brush.

“Coon,” Tolliver said, relief clear in his voice. Just then the headlights cut out and we made our way up to the cabin in an anxious silence. Tolliver had gotten the key out, and after some fumbling he managed to turn it the right way. My fingers scrabbled on the wall, trying to find the light switch. Contact! In a split second, we had the miracle of electric light.

The fire had died down in our absence, and Tolliver set about building it back up. He was really into being Frontier Man, and I suspected he was feeling very macho. Not only was his kinswoman wounded (me), requiring his care and attention, but he had to provide fire for me. Soon he would start to draw on the walls about hunting the buffalo. So I was smiling at him when he turned around, and he was startled.

“You ready for bed?” he asked.

“I'm sure ready to put on my pajamas and read,” I said. It was pathetically early, but I was exhausted. He opened my suitcase and got out my flannel sleep pants and the long-sleeved thin top that had come with them. He'd given the set to me for Christmas, and it was dark blue with silver crescent moons on the pants and silver sparkles on the top. I hadn't quite known what to say when I'd opened the box, but I'd grown to like them.

“Are you going to need me to help?” he asked, trying hard to keep any trace of embarrassment out of his voice. We were pretty matter-of-fact about brief glimpses of each other that sometimes occurred when we shared a room, but somehow his assisting me with my clothes was a little more personal.

I ran through the process in my head. “I'll need help getting my shirt off,” I said, “and unhooking my bra.” A nurse had helped me get it on that morning.

I went into the very rudimentary bathroom, which was several degrees colder than the main room since it was farthest from the fireplace, and began the unexpectedly complicated task of getting my clothes off and my pajamas on. My socks defeated me, though. We'd put out some towels before we left, and I scrubbed my face, which would just have to do for tonight. After a few groans and some cursing, I had my pajama bottoms on, my shirt half off, and I backed out of the bathroom so Tolliver could help with the rest.

There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, “There's a lot of bruising on your arms and ribs,” and his voice was tight.

“Yeah, well,” I muttered. “When someone hits you with something big, that's what happens. Get the bra, okay? I'm freezing.”

I barely felt his fingers as he took care of the hooks. “Thanks,” I said, and scurried back into the bathroom. When my mission was accomplished, I gathered up my discarded clothes and brought them out with me, shoving my shoes ahead of me with my foot. I'd kept my socks on. It was just too cold to take them off.

Tolliver had turned down my sheets and blankets for me, and propped up the pillows. My book was on the bedside table; but my bad arm would be toward that side. I hadn't thought about that when I'd picked the usual bed.

He held the covers up while I maneuvered myself into bed. Then he covered me up. Oh, even on this lumpy old bed, being on my back felt divine.

“I'm all tucked in,” I said, already feeling sleepier. “Gonna read me a story?”

“Read your own damn story,” Tolliver said, but he was smiling, and he bent over to give me a kiss. “You've been a real trouper today, Harper. I'm proud of you.”

I couldn't see what I'd done that day that had been so outstanding. I said so. “It's just been another day,” I said, my eyelids drifting shut.

He laughed, but if he said anything in response, I missed it.

When I woke up, it was daylight. I hadn't even had to get up to use the bathroom during the night. Tolliver was still asleep in the bed to my left. There weren't any curtains up over the big windows in the cabin—maybe they'd been taken down for the winter, or maybe the family just dispensed with them out here—and I could see trees outside. I turned my head and looked over the hump that was Tolliver to peer out the glass doors onto the big porch outside. Was it a porch, or a balcony? It was on the second floor of the structure…. I decided it was a porch, and I could see that it was no weather to stand outside on it. The sky was clear and beautiful, and the wind was blowing; it looked cold, somehow. If the weatherman had been correct, this would be the high point of the day.

Maybe we would get to leave today, start up to Pennsylvania. It would be just as cold there, if not colder; but maybe we could dodge the predicted winter storm. I would never see Twyla Cotton again, probably. Maybe I would see Chuck Almand again on the news in a few years, when he got arrested for killing someone. His dad would cry and wonder what he'd done wrong. After we left Doraville, the town would get back to its business of mourning its dead and accommodating its media visitors. The funeral directors would have an unexpected surge in profits. The hotels and restaurants would, too. Sheriff Rockwell would be glad to see the last of the state boys. They'd be glad to leave Doraville and return to wherever they were based.

Manfred and his grandmother would go back to their home in Tennessee. Sometime in the next few months, Xylda would die. Manfred would be on his own, begin his own career of providing psychic insights to the ignorant and the educated. Sometimes he'd be sincere, and sometimes he wouldn't. I thought about Tolliver's surprising paranoia concerning Manfred. I smiled to myself. It was true I found Manfred intriguing, if he wasn't exactly my inner pinup poster. His confidence that he could please me, and his conviction that I was desirable…well, what woman doesn't enjoy that? That's pretty potent. But as far as actually following through on it…it was probably more fun to flirt with Manfred than actually carry the attraction to the next level. Though I wasn't much older than him in years, in other ways I felt I was way too much his senior.

I really needed to get up to visit the bathroom. With a reluctant sigh, I worked my way out of the covers and sat up. This low bed was not good for such maneuvering, and it was hard keeping quiet, but I wanted to let Tolliver sleep as long as he could. He'd had the harder row to hoe the day before, having to take care of me.

Finally, I was on my feet and heading to the bathroom. That necessary task done, I brushed my hair one-handed, with a very lopsided result, and brushed my teeth a bit more efficiently. I felt better immediately. When I opened the door as quietly as possible, I saw that Tolliver wasn't moving, so I padded over to the fireplace and eyed the remaining embers. Carefully, I added more wood, trying to keep the arrangement tight but with ventilation as Tolliver had done. To my gratification, the fire picked right up. Hah!

“Good job,” said Tolliver, his voice heavy with sleep. I eased into one of the two ancient wooden chairs he'd arranged in front of the fire. Its faded cushion smelled of damp and some long-ago dog. Of course the family would put their castoffs out here. No point buying special furniture for a place where they came to relax, where they'd be coming in wet from swimming. Also, the cabin was pretty vulnerable to theft, and who wants to tempt thieves with something valuable? I told myself how grateful I was to Twyla for letting us stay here, for free and away from the reporters. But at the same time, I admitted to myself that I'd much rather be in the motel, at least from a comfort standpoint.

Tolliver had his cell phone plugged in and charging, and now it rang.

“Crap,” he said, and I agreed with the sentiment. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to anyone.

“Hello,” he said, and after that all I heard was, “I guess we can,” and “Okay,” very noncommittal stuff. He hung up and groaned.

“That was the SBI agent, Klavin. He wants us to come into the station in an hour.”

“I have to have coffee before I face any cops,” I said.

“Yeah, no shit.” He got out of bed and stretched. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I don't think I moved all night.” I did some stretching myself.

“I'll go shower. What are you going to do about that?”

“I'll have to take a sort of sponge bath, I guess. I can't get these bandages wet.” That was another thing that was going to grow old very quickly.

“Okay, I'll hurry.” Tolliver can take the quickest showers of anyone I know, and he was out and toweling his hair while I was still trying to assemble a set of clothes for the day. I managed to get my pajamas off by myself, and I managed to clean myself—more or less—but getting dressed was a real ordeal. I was trying to balance modesty with need, and it wasn't an easy achievement. Putting on my underwear turned out to be literally a pain in the butt, and I had to maneuver endlessly to get my bra up my arms and get my boobs in the cups so Tolliver could hook it.

“Geez, I'm glad I don't have to wear one of these things,” he grumbled. “Why don't they fasten in front? That would make more sense.”

“There are some that hook in front. I just don't have any.”

“You give me your size, I'll get you some for your birthday.”

“I'd like to see you shopping in Victoria's Secret.”

He grinned.

We had a few extra minutes to go into McDonald's for their alleged pancakes. I pay lip service to hating McDonald's, but the pancakes were good and so was the coffee. And God, it was so warm in there. The windows were steamed up. The place was full of burly men in bulky jackets, mostly in camo patterns. They all wore big boots and had freshly shaved faces. Some of them would be going to work out at the crime scene, and some of them would be going about their usual business. Even the presence of death wouldn't stop life as usual in Doraville. That was a comforting thought, if one I'd had about a million times before. A job like mine makes you a big “river of life” person.

I hated to leave the homey atmosphere of McDonald's—okay, I guess it's pretty bad if you think McDonald's is homey—for the unpleasant interview ahead. But we wanted to be on time, and we hoped they would let us leave town after. Tolliver had left our stuff at the cabin, though. He said it wouldn't take long to swing back by and throw our stuff into the suitcases if we were allowed to leave. And we'd have to straighten up the cabin a little and return the key.

We ran the gauntlet of the press since we had to park in front that day. There wasn't a friendly officer at the gate to the rear parking lot to let us through, and we hadn't thought about calling ahead. The ranks of the fourth estate seemed a little thin today, and I wondered if the forensic people were still digging at the barn. I got through the remaining light crowd with a few “No comment” s, and they didn't dare follow us into the station.

When we were settled at the table in a conference room, carefully nursing our extra cups of coffee we'd brought with us, we had quite a little wait. Spread out on the table was a big map marked “Don Davey Property.” The drawing was liberally marked up. From where we sat, Tolliver had a hard time reading the print, but I gave him a superior sneer and read the labels.

“The first grave is marked ‘Jeff McGraw,' and all the others are marked with the name of the boy that was in there,” I said. I caught myself talking in a very low voice, as if I could disturb the dead. “The two graves where the boys weren't local, they have names on them, too. Maybe there was ID on the bodies. The northernmost one reads ‘Chad Turner,' and the other one is ‘James Ray Pettijean.'” I scooted my chair a little closer to Tolliver's. “I guess they're all being autopsied now,” I said. It really didn't make any difference what happened to the body after the soul was gone; it was dross. Somehow, there being so many of them gave me the cold grue.

“There wasn't anything
remaining
at the grave site?” Tolliver asked, careful of the fact that ears might be listening.

“No,” I said, just as carefully. No souls, no ghosts; and there's a big difference. I've seen souls lingering around fairly fresh bodies every now and then. I've only seen one ghost.

Pell Klavin and Max Stuart came in just then. The two SBI agents looked very tired. I wondered if there were more agents coming to help them. The two men dragged out chairs and slumped in them, right across from us; between us lay the map.

“What can you tell us that we don't already know?” Stuart said.

I was irritated that he didn't even try to observe a common courtesy, but then I thought of poring over the dead boys' biographies all night, and I excused the two agents. I wouldn't have been inclined to offer meaningless courtesies, either.