Time of Departure (16 page)

It was a woman's dress.

He held it up, facing me, and seemed to be about to say something when he happened to glance down. Abruptly, he tossed the dress aside, dropped to his knees, and seized the next piece of clothing visible in the crate. Another dress … an older-style blue floral print.

He rocked back on his haunches, fingers fumbling, searching around the neckline.

“What is it?”

“Laura Ashley,” he replied, reading the label.

“She was a designer! What's that got to do with anything?”

I was starting to feel very sick.

“Claire…”

“What?”

“It's Mandy's dress.”

I backed out of the room and ran.

*   *   *

When he found me, I was leaning against a tree, retching my McDonald's breakfast into the shrubbery. He put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged him off. I felt in my pockets for a tissue, gave up, and wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my windbreaker.

I could feel him watching me.

“Women's clothes,” he said. “Old. Out of style.”

“Tribe had a sister, remember?” I croaked.

“One skirt. One blouse. Three dresses. All different sizes.”

I wheeled to face him. “What? No Denny's uniform with Ina's name tag still in place?” I asked. “No jogging shorts with Victoria's Social Security number stitched across the ass?”

“No. Just that blue dress.” There was a catch in his voice.

“I read the reports, Marc, and I have a damned good memory! Amanda Jordan was last seen, quote: ‘wearing a blue floral dress.' No mention of a Laura Ashley design!”

“It's her dress. I was with her when she bought it.”

I let out a breath. “Secrets, secrets…”

“It was more than a year before she disappeared, and it was never a secret.”

“Why wasn't the designer label mentioned in the reports?”

“It was.”

“I would have remembered!”

“It's there. I'll show you when we get back.”

I sighed, exasperated. “You had no right to go in there! Now we're screwed! You've destroyed our case!”

“I want you to come back inside.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I'm the one who did the searching, not you. I'm the one who will swear the affidavit for the warrant, not you.”

“Do you actually believe that will make a difference?”

“I want you to see something. I want you to see this so you'll know you can't stop now.”

He took me by the hand and led me back to the cottage.

In the hallway, Marc turned right through an open door. I had noticed the door when I first entered, but it had been closed. I followed him into the cottage's tiny living room, which was marked by a few pieces of decaying wagon-wheel furniture. In an adjoining dining area, a rotting area rug had been folded back, revealing a rectangular-shaped black void in the floor.

Nearby, a cross-braced section of wooden flooring leaned against the wall.

“A trapdoor?”

“Yes. Leading to a basement … with a dirt floor.”

“You think—?”

“I know. Give me your cell. The battery died in mine.”

“Who are you calling?”

“No one. I want to show you something.”

I handed him my phone. “Come.” He led me to the opening. He switched on the phone's flashlight feature and shone the light into the void. A set of rough wooden steps led downward. The light wasn't strong enough to reach the floor below.

Marc handed me my phone. “Go down eight steps and shine the light thirty degrees to your right.”

I hesitated, staring at him. He encouraged me with a nod.

With a growing sense of dread, I did as he asked. He held my arm, then my hand, to steady me as I descended. I kept the light pointed at my feet and counted the steps. By the sixth step, Marc released my hand. By the eighth step, I was below the main floor level.

I pointed my cell phone's penlight to the right, as he had instructed. I played the beam right, swept it left, and then quickly back to the right. The pale light showed where runnels of intruding rainwater had spread a stain of black mold down the inside of the unpointed stonework foundation. Where the water had flowed onto the earthen floor, it had hollowed out a shallow depression.

Something white glinted in the bottom of the depression.

I steadied the light.

Bones.

The bones of a human hand.

 

22

The judge was a widower. The mid-level shelves on two walls of his otherwise packed personal library were lined with evidence of a long, and apparently blissful, marriage. Photographs of his departed wife on their many trips abroad were interspersed with curios and memorabilia collected on those wanderings. From where I was sitting, I could see exotic bird feathers, a matched set of brass Chinese guardian lions, and a blowgun.

Judge Evan O'Connor sat behind an antique desk that had a green tooled leather writing surface. If he hadn't been wearing faded sweats, he could have passed for a character in a Dickens novel. All that was missing from his round, kindly face was a set of muttonchop whiskers.

Marc and I sat silently while the judge sealed the jurat on the affidavit Marc had just sworn. When he finished, he said, “Thank you, sir. Wait outside, would you, please?”

“Of course, Your Honor.” Marc stood up and looked at me. “I'll be in the car.”

When the door closed behind him, Judge O'Connor said, “Claire, you look like hell!”

I took a deep breath before I replied. “Tough day, Your Honor.”

“This could have waited till morning.”

“It's Judge Barlow's week in chambers.”

The judge scratched an ear. “I guess he'd be a problem.” He caught himself and gave me a sharp look. “Not that I condone judge-shopping, young lady!”

I suppressed a smile. “Of course not, Your Honor. May I speak frankly?”

“I would hope you always would.”

“Even during his chambers week, Judge Barlow can be…” I hesitated.

The judge finished for me. “Unapproachable?”

I nodded.

Judge O'Connor tapped his fingers, thinking. “I'm not happy with this prior entry. You, of all people!” He took a long breath. “I'll issue the warrant, but only because I've accepted your argument that I would have issued one in any event, just on the evidence already in your possession before the entry.”

He passed the warrant across the desk to me.

“I'm stretching a point here. Please don't embarrass me!”

*   *   *

It was an hour past sundown and the Suwannee River property was ablaze with lights. Unmarked squad cars and Florida Highway Patrol cruisers sat parked at odd angles. The cottage's breezeway doors had been removed from their hinges, front and rear, and a cube van was positioned next to the front entrance.

Marc and I were standing near my car, which was parked outside the ring of police vehicles. To say we both felt completely drained would be an understatement. “Shattered” would be a more fitting description. We'd had only about six hours' sleep in the last two days, but we couldn't leave.

We had to know.

As we watched, two figures wearing protective suits slid a pallet bearing an almost flat body bag into the back of the van. A few seconds later, Lipinski, Geiger, and Terry Snead appeared in the doorway. Terry had removed his protective headgear, so I knew it was him. He conferred briefly with the two cops and then broke away and stepped up into the van.

Geiger started walking toward us. He was carrying a plastic evidence bag. As he approached, he was shaking his head. He looked at me. “I told him,” he said. “I
told
that drunken ass you might be right!”

I tried to head off that line of discussion. “I counted seven body bags.”

“Yup. Seven. All buried in the cellar.”

“Then we have a problem.”

“Yeah. Seven here, and two by the highway. One too many. Some girl never got reported.”

“Tribe might help you with that. I just talked to Sam. He wants him picked up tonight.” Lipinski joined us as I was speaking. His eyes were locked on Marc. “Did you hear that, Lieutenant?” I asked.

Lipinski grunted.

“Is that a yes?” I asked a little testily.

“Yes! Set it up, Jeff.” He was still staring at Marc.

“Keep us informed,” I said to Geiger.

“Us?” Now he glanced at Marc.

“Yes. Us.”

“Okay. Leave your cell on,” he replied.

“What's that?” I asked, nodding at the evidence bag.

“A gun. We found it under the cellar stairs, jammed behind the butt end of a floor joist. Found a slug, too. Dug it out of the floorboards next to the trapdoor.”

I felt Marc shift from his position next to me. He leaned back against the car and asked in a careful tone, “What kind of gun?”

Geiger held up the bag. In the faint light, I made out the shape of a snub-nosed revolver. Geiger's answer confirmed my impression. “Colt .38 five-shot. Ted says it looks like a Third Series.”

“Serial number?”

“Can't get at it. There's so much corrosion, the cylinder is welded tight. I'm going to drop it at the lab.” He walked off and started talking to a pair of uniformed officers.

I started moving around my car, heading for the driver's side.

As Marc opened the passenger door, Lipinski grabbed him by the sleeve. “Explain it to me, Hastings!”

Marc pulled free. “Explain what?”

“How you knew that trapdoor was there?”

A second passed. Neither man blinked.

“Detective work, Ted.” He got in the car, and then added through the open window, “You should try it sometime.”

I got behind the wheel and started the engine. We pulled away. I could see Lipinski in my rearview mirror, staring after us.

Our headlights picked up the entrance to the double-rut driveway that led out through the pines. I headed for it.

“I've been wondering that myself,” I said, keeping my eyes ahead. “About the trapdoor.”

“I just followed the outline,” he replied.

I looked at him. His face wore a strange expression.

“In the carpet,” he explained.

*   *   *

Ten miles up the highway, Geiger's lit-up unmarked cruiser blew past us. I could see he was alone in the car. A few seconds later, my cell rang.

“Jeff?”

“Better put your foot down if you want to be there.”

“And if I get pulled over?”

“You won't.”

I tromped on it. Forty minutes later, we rounded a corner and I spotted a Gainesville PD cruiser, headlights on and light bar strobing, nosed at an angle to the curb. Beyond it I could see another marked car, also lit up. I parked, and Marc and I got out. A uniformed officer standing next to the nearest car moved to intercept us.

“Claire Talbot, State Attorney's Office,” I said.

He recognized me. “Yes, ma'am. They're bringing him out now.” He led us to the foot of the driveway.

The thirty-year-old ranch-style house sat in leafy seclusion under the spreading boughs of a pair of mature water oaks. An old Mercury Sable station wagon sat in the driveway, with Jeff Geiger's cruiser parked behind it. Judging from the drifts of dead leaves piled against the older vehicle's tires, it hadn't been moved for a while.

“Mind standing to one side, ma'am?” the cop asked. “The lights…”

His cruiser's high beams were pointing directly at the front door of the house, and we were blocking one of them. Marc and I moved into the shadows of a high hedge that ran next to the driveway.

At that second, the front door of the residence swung open. Geiger and two uniformed officers emerged, escorting a handcuffed prisoner.

Although I had little trouble recognizing him, the man I watched being led through the night appeared strikingly different from the image of Harlan Tribe that had lingered with me since I'd first studied the faded photograph in Anna Fenwick's album. Tonight he wore a stretched and faded T-shirt, dress slacks (no belt), and loafers (no socks). His body was still lean, though slightly stooped with age.

What really struck me were the shaven head, the sallow, skull-like face, and the patchy wisps of an uneven beard. He looked exactly like someone you'd see on some redneck reality show.

Marc must have been channeling my thoughts. “A jury will love this guy.”

“The defense will clean him up.”

“They can't clean up a mug shot.”

“Or the video,” the cop said, gesturing toward the cruiser's windshield. “The camera's running.”

“What about the microphone?” I quickly replayed our remarks through my head as my eyes scanned his uniform for a wireless mike.

“No worries, ma'am. I left it in the car.”

Tribe kept his eyes straight ahead as Geiger and the officers led him past our position and over to the second cruiser. They quickly loaded their prisoner in the rear compartment, and the two uniformed officers got in the front.

Marc and I stepped back into the light as the cruiser executed a two-point turn to change direction. I noticed Tribe peering out. He seemed to be looking in our direction. As the car pulled away, his head whipped around and he stared continuously through the rear window until the car was lost from view.

Through the murk of darkness, it was hard to be certain … but I could have sworn the man was staring directly at me.

 

23

Christmas fell on a Saturday. I had already planned to spend the holiday with my mother in Charleston, but I was too exhausted to risk six hours behind the wheel. I could have flown, but the idea of changing planes at the Atlanta airport in the middle of the holiday rush held no appeal for me. I wanted peace, and I wanted quiet. So on the Thursday before Christmas, I had a quick lunch with Marc and then drove to the Amtrak station in Palatka, forty miles to the east, and caught the northbound Silver Meteor.