The Circle of Blood (5 page)

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Authors: Alane Ferguson

BOOK: The Circle of Blood
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“Oh, man,” Justin sighed. He shook his head apologetically, withdrawing his hand. Picking up the transmitter, he said, “This is Deputy Crowley; 10-65. Over.”
“What’s all that?” Cameryn asked.
“A 10-103f means there’s a fight. I bet somebody had a little too much mead and, well, I am on duty. I’ve got to go, Cammie. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have sat in here so long anyway. Well, okay,” she said. She rubbed her palms along her jeans, her nerves still jangling. “I’d better go, then, and let you get to work.”
Opening the door, she was about to exit when he grabbed her arm. “Can we pick this up later?”
“Sure,” she said. “I think I’d like that.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Although she wasn’t sure what he meant, a warmth spread from his hand all the way up her arm and into her face. “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
She watched the police car pull away, this time the sirens blaring for real. Smiling, she waved as it disappeared down the street. Then, jamming her hands into her pockets, she decided to keep walking, threading her way between tourists and townspeople, past the booths and the man juggling snowballs in the air. There was a new lightness inside her. She craned her neck, looking up into the whitened sky. Above her the clouds broke open. Snow fell onto her face, cleansing her, dotting her skin with flakes that melted into water beads. People had gathered around oil barrels lit from within, their hands dancing above the flames. A dog whined, its gold eyes intent on its master’s chili dog. The man stood deep in conversation with a woman. Cameryn couldn’t help but laugh when the dog, a white husky, reached up to nip off half the chili dog while the man yelled, “Max, no!”
How long had it been since she’d felt good
?
Too long,
she answered herself. One by one she let her problems go, releasing them like helium balloons into the winter air. She continued east on Greene Street, all the way to Fourteenth Street, and there, less than a hundred yards away, sat Hannah, her engine in idle. The blue Pinto was parked away from the crowd.
Cautious, Cameryn approached the car.
“What are you doing?” she asked, knocking her knuckle against the driver’s window.
The noise startled the girl inside, who’d been deep in conversation with Hannah, gesturing as she spoke. Cameryn thought the girl looked no more than fourteen years old. Her strawberry-blonde hair hung in a long braid, and she had on a too-thin blue jacket without a hood. With eyes so pale blue they seemed almost colorless, she gaped at Cameryn.
Suddenly the window glided down. Hannah cried out, “Cammie, this is Mariah. Mariah, this is my daughter Cameryn.” The storm that had wracked her mother only an hour before had calmed. She was smiling, laughing, her voice almost giddy.
“Hi,” Cameryn said to Mariah. There was something odd about Hannah—her eyes shone too bright, her voice brimmed with false cheer. “Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Wonderful.”
“After you ran out of the Wingate I was worried,” Cameryn said, remaining vague because of Mariah. “I don’t think you heard me when I said I—I understand.”
Tears of gratitude welled in Hannah’s eyes. “You do? ”
“Mom, it was an accident. It doesn’t change anything. All of it happened a long time ago. You should have told me right away.”
“Say it again.”
“What?”
Hannah’s face pinched with emotion. “‘Mom.’ You just called me ‘Mom.’”
“Mom,” Cameryn said, surprised how easily it flowed. “So—who is this?” Cameryn’s eyes flicked toward Mariah.
Speckles of paint still clung to the back of her mother’s hands as she clutched the steering wheel tight. “I saw her at the gas station and I thought,
That girl needs me
.”
“Do you need help?” Cameryn aimed this at Mariah.
There was a tremor in Mariah’s voice as she said, “Yeah. I’ve got to get to Ouray. Your mom said she’d take me, but I’m still waitin’.”
“And I will,” Hannah explained, each word as shiny as a freshly minted penny, “but when I saw her I knew something was wrong. I wanted to help.” Hannah smiled again, like something bursting. “I’m making sure Mariah is safe. It’s a dangerous world out there.”
By maneuvering forward, Cameryn got her first really good look at the girl. Mariah’s nose, small and upturned, reminded her of the pretty dolls she used to line up on her windowsill, the kind with too-big eyes and lips the color of pink roses. Gingersnap freckles sprayed across Mariah’s entire face like a honey-colored constellation, and her brows, although unplucked, were perfect arches. She didn’t seem like a girl in danger. But then again, Cameryn wasn’t sure what a girl in danger looked like.
Mariah bent forward so that she could look directly into Cameryn’s eyes. “Your mother said she was goin’ to Ouray.” It was as though all of Hannah’s earlier agitation had siphoned into the girl. Clutching her knees so hard her fingertips blanched white, Mariah said, “We need to be leavin’.” She seemed coiled up, ready to spring at the least provocation. In a way, Cameryn could understand why her mother did not want to turn this girl loose. Behind those pale eyes she could sense Mariah’s synapses firing wildly as the girl looked from Cameryn to Hannah and then back again.
“Please.”
It was clear Mariah wanted to leave and equally clear Hannah didn’t want her to go. The girl’s head turned like a ratchet when a group of men, snowboarders by the look of them, walked by, jostling each other, laughing. A truck, followed by a red sedan, slowed before moving on.
Once they passed, Mariah’s eyes grew wider. “You know what? I can’t stay here.” Muttering something Cameryn couldn’t understand, she bolted from the car, not even bothering to shut the door. For a moment Hannah watched the girl’s retreating figure. Then, stretching across the passenger seat, Hannah pulled the door shut and righted herself, stricken.
“What was
that
all about?” Cameryn asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you even pick her up? Hitchhikers can be dangerous.”
“Not little girls. She was hiding in the restroom at the gas station and she told me she was desperate. I know how desperate feels. I promised I’d help.”
“What did she say just now? I couldn’t hear.”
“She said, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ I—” Hannah stopped abruptly as she stared at the floor, her eyes wide.
“Oh my God!”
“What?”
“No.” The eyes narrowed to slashes.
“No!”
“Mom, what is it?” Cameryn asked, straightening so she could see inside the car. “What’s wrong?”
That’s when she saw her mother’s purse. The black leather gaucho handbag lay open on the floor. Scooping it up, Hannah dumped the contents on the passenger seat, quickly sifting through them. Her face twisted. “My wallet—she stole my wallet!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” With her arm Hannah swept the contents of her purse onto the car floor. “I used my card to buy gas. What am I going to do without money?” She slammed her fist against the steering wheel. “That little thief! ”
Cameryn had never seen a person’s mood change so fast; it was as if a tornado had suddenly landed inside her mother’s small body. “Go and get my wallet!” she cried. “Run! Catch her!”
“Me?”
“
Please!”
Muscles stretched and pulled on Hannah’s neck like cords beneath her skin. “Jayne’s pictures are in my wallet! I need them!”
It took Cameryn only a moment to decide. She could still see the girl’s bright blue jacket on the sidewalk ahead. As she sprinted, Cameryn’s teeth jarred with every step, her body on automatic. Her mother had told her to get back her wallet, and if she could, she would. Hannah needed her.
Over the icy streets, over the dingy gray mounds of snow, Cameryn flew. Mariah had turned west on Greene Street, and Cameryn, determined, followed in hot pursuit. The girl had a head start but had been slowed by a backpack, bulky and oversized for her small frame. Her braid was long, whipping through the air as she ran. Once Mariah looked over her shoulder, and for a moment they caught each other’s eyes: Mariah’s were scared. Cameryn felt a flash of exhilaration as she registered this fact. She
could
catch this girl, if for no other reason than that Mariah was afraid. She would grab her and reclaim the wallet, and her mother would be proud.
The two of them became like runners in a frieze, with pumping thighs and knifing arms. It was hard pushing through the people. Mariah knocked into a woman, whose cup of hot chocolate flew into the air. "Hey!” the woman yelled, but Mariah kept running. Cameryn, intent on her prey, slammed into a man dressed in biker leathers. She fell so hard to her knees that tears stung her eyes. The next moment she felt the man’s strong arms pull her to her feet. “You okay, kid?”
“Yeah,” she panted. “Sorry.” Her knees throbbed as she scanned the street. People stood in clusters, their coats and hats as brightly colored as Christmas ornaments, but she saw no girl with a backpack, no long braid of hair undulating. Still searching for blue, Cameryn leaned against the wall until her breathing became even, but she could see only revelers.
Mariah was gone.
Chapter Four
IF ONLY SHE hadn’t worn the boots.
Snow had begun to fall harder. The flakes were powdery, like bits of silk. Cameryn hadn’t been able to gain traction because of the leather soles on her cowboy boots. Why had she worn them today of all days?
“I want a pair like that, too, now that I’m in the West,” her mother had announced on her second day in Silverton. “It’s a good thing you didn’t inherit my wide feet.”
Cameryn grimaced at her own A-width boots, feeling a surge of irritation—they’d made her fail just when her mother needed her.
Ducking around the corner of the Shady Lady, she pulled her BlackBerry from her back jeans pocket and punched in her mother’s number, swallowing hard. It rang only once before she heard, “Did you find it?” Hannah’s voice was high, agitated. In the background Cameryn heard a thumping sound, like a pounding fist. “I know it wasn’t fair for me to send you, but I knew you could run faster than I ever could. Did you
find
her?”
Thump, thump, thump.
“I’m sorry. I tried but . . . she got away.”
There was a pause. It stretched out so long Cameryn wondered if Hannah was still on the line. “Mom? Do you want me to call Justin? Or the sheriff?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The pounding started up again. “Your father will find a way to turn it against me.”
Cameryn tried to reason with her but it was no use. Patrick, Hannah claimed, would find a way.
“I should never have picked her up.” Hannah stayed on that loop, chastising herself while Cameryn stood there, unsure of what to do. All the world was frozen: the telephone wires, the whiskey barrels that held summer flowers, the grass, the distant trees. Cameryn began to feel a different kind of chill. There was something off about this conversation. From her forensic psychology books she knew that everyone handled stress differently. Was this all it was—stress? She tried to convince herself, but even as she did, she only half-believed.
When Hannah finally took a breath, Cameryn broke in and asked, “Where are you?”
“In my car on Fourteenth.”
“Okay. Let’s think this through.” As a knot of people crossed by, singing, Cameryn pressed a finger in her ear and turned away. “Did you get Mariah’s last name?”
“Just Mariah. I’m sure she’s hitched another ride. I’m sure she’s gone.”
“I can drive up to Ouray and start looking.”
“No!” Hannah sounded genuinely panicked. “Promise me you won’t go.
Promise me!
”
“Okay, okay, I promise.”
“I’ll handle this myself. You’re a good daughter. I have to go.” With that, she hung up.
Cameryn sagged against the wall, the knees of her jeans dark and damp from when she’d fallen. She’d accepted the news calmly that her mother had been institutionalized, because it had been so long ago. But new doubts began to nibble at her mind.
Stop,
she told herself.
Think.
Usually she was able to analyze clinically, sifting and examining evidence as though each fact were a mosaic tile. Line them up in their proper place, and a picture would emerge. But the pieces of her mother made no sense. Elusive, defensive, euphoric, despondent—her mother’s emotions cycled as rapidly as the Colorado weather. Punching redial, she heard Hannah’s voice mail immediately kick in. Cameryn slipped the BlackBerry back into her pocket. There was nothing more she could do.
With her head bowed, she threaded her way through the throng of tourists. “Hey, Cammie, aren’t you staying for the dogsleds?” a voice cried, but she didn’t respond, too lost in her thoughts even to look up.
Turning north on Eleventh, she thought how different this problem was from the mysteries she faced in the autopsy room. If it were a body, she would have been fully prepared to peel back the skin and look inside, removing organs, slicing them open in her search for answers. But this was her mother. The mind and its thoughts were intangible, her sharp autopsy knives useless.
The dead are so much simpler than the living,
she decided.

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