Old Wounds (41 page)

39.

T
HE
C
LOUD OF
U
NKNOWING

Thursday, October 27

A shaft of
sunlight lay across her pillow. Elizabeth groaned, rolled over, and yanked the covers over her eyes.
It must be eight o’clock.

The temptation to seek oblivion in her soft pillow was powerful. She felt bone-weary, as if she had just hoed an endless field of tobacco or trudged uphill for many tiring miles.
I think every muscle in my body was clenched tight from the minute I got in the car and realized it wasn’t Phillip till Phillip actually showed up.

She slid an exploratory leg to the other side of the bed—cool sheets and an empty space. The tempting smell of coffee, as well as bacon, suggested that Phillip had been awake for some time. Bowing to the inevitable, Elizabeth sat up and opened her eyes.

As always, the three eastern windows that faced the bed were a triptych worth enjoying. The sun, far to the south, peeped over the darkness of a mass of trees on the nearby ridgeline. A pearly mist, barely tinged with pink, was lifting from the river. Far in the distance, the dusky violet outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains met the morning sky.

Elizabeth stretched, threw back the covers, and stiffly—
damn, my muscles
are
sore…it’s not just my imagination
—got out of bed.

Standing by one of the north-facing windows, she pulled on her jeans and an old sweater, watching a flock of wild turkeys moving across the field just below Ben’s cabin, busily feeding as they went. The early rays of the sun touched their bronze plumage and set alight the rich colors of the surrounding trees.

“Morning, Annie Oakley.”

She turned to see Phillip leaning against the doorframe, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.

“I thought I heard you stirring.” He set the mugs down and came around the bed to fold her into his arms. “You were dead to the world when I got back last night—I figured you needed the sleep.”

His arms tightened around her and he spoke in a low, husky tone. “Thank god you weren’t hurt. I should have known there was something not right about Gabby. But you—you were amazing. I’m glad we got here when we did, but like I told Mac, I’ve got no doubt at all that you would have dropped that scumbag right where he stood.”

He stepped back to look at her with fond affection. “You’re some woman, Miz Goodweather.”

“What’s left of her.” She smiled wearily at him. “I’m glad I didn’t have to find out if I could shoot him. But you’re right, I sure would’ve tried. After you and Sheriff Blaine took Gabby off last night, all I wanted to do was to take a bath and get in bed. I thought I’d hear you come back but…”

Phillip retrieved the coffee mugs, setting one on her dressing table and taking the other with him as he sat on the bench at the foot of the bed and watched her brush and braid her hair.

“You were totally zonked, sweetheart. I came in and said your name, but you were down for the count.”

“So what have you done with Gabby?”

“Blaine’s booked him on everything from attempted kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon to bad breath and dog-scaring. I’ve been in touch with Del. He thinks he can get the Feds involved—don’t ask me how, ’cause Del wasn’t saying. Anyway, Gabby will be safe in the Marshall County jail for the foreseeable future. And I’ve sent Del that copy of
Walden,
along with our notes—took it with me last night and put it in the FedEx drop by the bank. I think Gabby was working alone, but just in case he wasn’t, now there’s nothing for anyone to come after.”

“Except the deposition itself—and the photos.” Elizabeth twisted an elastic fastener around the end of her braid and turned to Phillip. “Wherever they are.”

She hesitated, her mind turning over a confusing assortment of possibilities. “You know, Phillip, the more I think about it, the less sure I am that we’re on the right track with
Walden.
What if we’ve been fooling ourselves, reading meaning where there was none? If I was able to come up with some sort of explanation for the scribbling the girls did in
Where’s Waldo?…
I don’t know, maybe we’re making it all too complicated.”

She picked up her mug and joined Phillip on the bench. Silently they watched through the eastern windows as the morning mist rose higher and higher, to become a fog blotting out everything.

“It all just seems so hopeless, Phillip—like we’re spinning our wheels and getting nowhere. Not only are we no closer to finding the deposition, but this whole Maythorn thing is still completely unresolved. Rosemary may say she’s remembering more and more important things about that time, but…”

They had finished the massive breakfast that Phillip had prepared in an attempt to make up for the meal missed the previous evening. He had announced that he would not be going in to AB Tech today and so, replete with eggs and bacon and English muffins and coffee, they were strolling along the pasture path toward the woods. “Let’s just take it easy today, sweetheart. Or at least this morning.”

She had agreed, welcoming the diversion and hoping to distance herself from the questions and puzzles swirling madly in her mind.

To no avail. As they neared the woods, the sight of the faint path leading up to Maythorn and Rosemary’s scuttle hole brought all the questions surging back.

“…but maybe Rosemary’s just spinning her wheels too. You know, Phillip, sometimes I think that all this so-called ‘looking into what happened to Maythorn’ has turned into a way for her to spend more time with Jared. I’ve never seen her so interested in a man, not since old what’s-his-name—the one who looked like an Irish poet—back in college.”

Elizabeth sank down on the little bench that was just at the edge of the woods and stared unhappily at the pasture where her cattle were cropping the last of the grass. It would soon be time to move them to the lower pasture, where the tractor could keep their feeding rings supplied with the great round bales of hay trucked in from Tennessee. The farm barely broke even on the small herd of cattle—beef prices were low and hay was not cheap—but without the cattle, the open fields and pastures would swiftly revert to woodland.

Phillip sat down beside her. She was aware that he was uneasy, could see his hand start for his head in the familiar gesture, then return to his side.

She turned to look at him. “What?”

The hand came up again but paused. He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Yesterday I had lunch with Hank—you remember, Elizabeth, Hank with the Asheville PD—he asked about you and I told him a little bit about what was going on with Rosemary. Well, he remembered the Mullins case, and, get this,
he
says at one time there was some thought that it was linked to what they called the Halloween Vanishings. I did a little research….”

The Halloween Vanishings: the headline tag the media had given to a baffling string of disappearances—all young girls who had gone missing on Halloween night. There had been one in nearby Barnardsville in 1984, and one in Asheville in 1985, and then, of course, Maythorn in 1986.

“I remember that phrase….” Elizabeth’s face screwed up in an effort of recall. “But there was never anything really conclusive to link them, was there?”

“No, and there’re runaway and missing children every night of the year, these days,” Phillip added. “But I got Hank to do a little more checking. I found out that the Mullins family moved here from Greeneville, South Carolina—”

“I could have told you that.”

“And…” He overrode her interjected comment. “…and there was a Halloween disappearance in Greeneville in 1983—
while
the Mullins were living there.”

“Phillip.” A sudden chill of apprehension touched her. “Are you saying that one of the Mullins family—”

“I’m not saying anything. Matter of fact, in the Greeneville case, a neighbor of the girl confessed in a suicide note. Said he’d put the body somewhere it would never be found.”

Phillip rubbed his chin again and seemed to be studying a nearby cow with rapt attention. He added, in a noncommittal tone, “There
was
still some doubt as to whether the neighbor was really guilty, or just deranged. And since Maythorn’s disappearance there’ve been several more, but like I said, runaway and missing children are all too common.”

“So what’s your point here?” Elizabeth reached for Phillip’s hand, which was once again starting its upward journey, captured it, and held it close to her heart.

“Hank gave me the number of a retired cop he knew, one who was in Greeneville back in ’83, then transferred to Asheville a few years later. Hank suggested that I call him.”

“And…?”

“This fellow, his name is Evans, must be lonely since he retired. He insisted that I come over to his house in Oakley. Said he’d buy me a beer and fill me in on what he knew about the Mullins.”

Evans had had plenty to say. According to him, the Mullins family had been well connected and well known in Greeneville. “Families like that, any bad publicity and they attract a lot of attention; could be that’s why they finally moved—make a new start maybe.”

When Jared’s name came up, Evans had let out a low whistle. “Now, there’s a turnaround for you. You know, I’ve kind of made a study of Jared Mullins. First knew about him when he was a juvenile in Greeneville. Boy was one nasty piece of work back then. His mother couldn’t control him and only the fact that his father’s family was so important kept him out of the detention center. There was an incident with a neighbor’s cat…he’d killed it with his hunting bow, then skinned it and disjointed it. He brought in the pieces and was starting to cook them, and his mother got suspicious.”

Evans popped open another beer and thrust it toward Phillip. “A few years later, I’m with the department in Asheville and I hear that name again in connection with a drug bust—Jared Mullins. Well, I find out it’s the same kid and I figure he’s probably gotten into some deep shit now. But turns out, once he moved in with his dad way out there in Marshall County, there was evidently quite a change. It was
Jared
who called the sheriff on a gang of marijuana growers near the Mullins place.”

Evans had laughed at the odd twist the one-time delinquent’s career had taken. “Hell, after that, young Jared started talking about going into law enforcement. He hung around the department and took a few criminal justice courses. He had a lot of friends in the department; still has, as a matter of fact. But in the end, he decided he wanted to be a lawyer instead.”

Evans studied his beer bottle. “I
guess
that puts him with the good guys.”

40.

F
OR THE
S
AKE OF
A
RGUMENT

Thursday, October 27

“I was hoping
I’d catch you in your office. Can you spare me a few minutes, Rosemary? I just want to hear your voice again.”

Rosemary, receiver to her ear, glanced across her desk at the singularly unattractive young man whose self-righteous monologue had just been interrupted by the buzz of her telephone. Slouching low in his chair, he was surreptitiously picking at a blackhead on his unwashed neck, hand half hidden by a veil of lank dark hair.

She smiled, seeing in her mind’s eye the clean good looks, the silver-blond, short-cut hair, gray-blue eyes, and smooth tanned skin of her caller.

“Hold just a moment, will you, Jared?”

She laid the phone on her desk. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about your grade, Mr. Horton. You’ve cut class time and again; your work is shallow and uninformed; and the fact that you can’t be bothered to proofread is an insult. Creative genius, if that’s what you think you have, can’t overcome shoddy presentation. The grade stands.”

The young man struggled to his feet, shooting her a look of pure venom as he replaced the iPod in his ear.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, shambling toward the door.

As the door slammed, a little harder than necessary, Rosemary picked up the phone again. “Sorry about the wait, Jared. I was hoping you might call. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

There was a chuckle at the other end. “You were pretty rough on poor Mr. Horton, don’t you think? Good thing I like dominating women.”

Rosemary winced. “Jared, if you knew what I’ve put up with from that…that
…lout.
He fancies himself the next great misunderstood voice of his generation, but in truth, he’s just a lazy little plagiarist with a big library of rap music. I sat through a ten-minute rant before your call gave me an excuse to shut him up.”

She glanced at her watch and her voice softened. “Just eight more hours and I’ll be back in Marshall County…and tomorrow we’ll be together….”

“Phillip! You know, that’s more than a little unsettling for a mother to hear. Rosemary’s been spending a lot of time with Jared—I’d say she’s pretty well smitten with him. But this…what you’ve just told me about him—that’s a little scary.”

“I thought you
knew
he was a lawyer—ouch! Sorry, couldn’t resist—”

Phillip broke off, laughing as Elizabeth pinched his arm viciously.

“This is bloody serious, Phillip. It’s my
daughter
we’re talking about.”

“Elizabeth, according to this guy Evans, Jared has been straight-arrow Dudley Do-Right ever since he was responsible for the breakup of that ring of dope growers. And, by the way, our Bib Maitland was part of that gang back then. Anyway, it was Evans’s theory that Jared realized it could be pretty exciting to be one of the good guys.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Well, why did you tell me that awful story about the cat? I’ve read that children who torture animals are far more likely to grow up psychotic or criminal or something like that.”

“I’m sorry; I should have kept quiet about that. I guess the point I was trying to make was how much he’s changed. Besides, Jared was pretty young to be a serial killer, wasn’t he?”

Elizabeth leaned into his warm bulk. “I’d think so. Though god knows, from the things you read, nothing’s impossible. But when the Mullinses moved out here, they had Mike with them and Jared was almost always under Mike’s eye.”

See, you can say his name without it meaning anything.
“Mike once said that, at first, being Jared’s quote ‘mentor’ was a bit like having a rattlesnake strapped to his leg. But as time went on, he and Jared developed a real friendship—and Jared stopped being a problem.”

“That fits in with Evans’s story.” Phillip stood and put out a hand. “Come on; let’s walk some more.”

As they continued along the path into the woods, they went over the list of potential suspects. “What about Moon? Was he ever suspected? He’s another turnaround—from a drunk to a saint.”

Phillip nodded. “I asked about that, but aside from the usual questioning, there was never any real suspicion attached to Moon. They investigated the whole family—father, mother, uncle, stepbrother: the whole shooting match.”

“As far as I ever knew, Moon was never what they call a
mean
drunk. But, for the sake of argument, say he maybe hit Maythorn when he’d been drinking. She could be a little unsettling at times, with her creeping around and her spying. Say he hit her harder than he meant to and killed her. So he hid the body somewhere. But then guilt overwhelmed him, and his giving up all his money and running a homeless shelter is a kind of…atonement.”

“Or a way of getting easy access to the most helpless children of all?” Phillip added. “Just for the sake of argument.”

They walked on in silence, but for the dry rustle of the leaves underfoot. In the distance Elizabeth’s rooster crowed and a hen announced, with a frenzied cackle, the arrival of an
egg,
a miraculous
egg!

“Phillip, what about Bib? He resented the Mullinses, and if Jared called the cops on him about the marijuana, he’d have even more reason to hate them. And, according to Rosie, Maythorn was all over the place with her spy games; what if she was the one who told Jared about the marijuana. Maybe—”

“Remember, Bib was the main suspect at the time. They investigated him up and down but never could pin anything on him—he did
his
time for almost killing a trooper who tried to arrest him for DUI. The story was that Bib’s wife ran off and took their little girl with her. Bib was pretty well liquored up and going to look for them when he was stopped. He was just wanted for questioning, but then it was obvious he was drunk. He was arrested just shortly after the Mullins child was last seen. They did their best to make a case against him for kidnapping Maythorn, but there wasn’t any hard evidence.”

“And lots of people suspected Cletus,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Rosie did for a long time. Here again, I suppose it’s possible—but he definitely couldn’t have been responsible for any of the other ones—the Vanishings. Cletus couldn’t drive.”

Deeper and deeper into the little woods. The path curved around a small, still pool at the base of a huge beech tree and emerged at the top of a cleared hogback ridge. The last of the several benches—“Stations of the Walk” Sam had dubbed them—was here, and once again they sat, enjoying the sun’s warmth after the cool shade of the woods.

As Elizabeth looked out across the fields and down to the valley below where the Ridley Branch road wound its way from the bridge across the French Broad to the foot of the road to Mullmore, another idea presented itself.

“Phillip, Miss Birdie told me she saw Driver Blackfox’s car on the day Maythorn disappeared. What about
him
? Was he questioned?”

“Her real father’s brother? Oh, yeah. But he swore that he’d had a call from Maythorn to come get her. He said that he waited at the foot of the road for almost an hour—and when she didn’t show, he left. Said he figured her mother had changed her mind about letting Maythorn go to the res for the weekend. He was questioned, all right—I think they even searched his truck and his house, but it didn’t come to anything. He’d been the subject of another investigation a few years before—when he shot his brother in a hunting accident.”

“Was it really an accident?”

“There seems to have been no doubt that it was.”

Elizabeth was silent, remembering the stone wall of silence she and Rosemary had encountered on their first trip to Cherokee.
If someone there wanted to keep a secret,
she thought,
it wouldn’t be hard.