Carrie was busy thinking, trying to remember sounds from the night before. “You know, I was pretty disoriented by then, but it’s quite possible that the man who tied me left that way. I wonder if knowing about the road really helps us, though. Other than meaning anyone who knows the way can get to the old farm unseen, it tells us no more about JoAnne’s murderer.”
“It might. What if the person Jason saw leaving Saturday morning actually was the murderer? It means that person probably didn’t know the fire road continues along the creek and out of the valley. The quarry owner would surely know about it.”
“Oh, yes, I see that. Wish I could recall which way the man drove off. I can’t picture it clearly enough now, but maybe it’ll come back to me later. Tell me the rest—you evidently went back to JoAnne then.”
“Yes. It hadn’t occurred to me that you would go out before you talked with me, and my walk had taken longer than I expected. When I got back and found the radio right there by her, I felt awful. That’s something I will never forgive myself for. I could have spared you that.”
She thought once more of Henry’s comforting hug when he came to her Sunday morning. It made her eyes wet now as she remembered it. She couldn’t seem to stop how she felt, but it was frightening to be so vulnerable. She’d cried more this week than she had since she was a child. She’d heard Susan cry over the phone. Henry shed tears. Weren’t tears always a sign of weakness? JoAnne never cried, of course, but if Henry could cry, well, then... The man certainly was confusing her.
Aloud she said, “Yes, but maybe we’re stronger friends now because we both... found her. And I think I’d rather have seen JoAnne there than have to imagine it later. Don’t forget I went to Amos very soon after he’d been shot. It wasn’t nearly so bad with JoAnne.”
She saw the airport sign. “Look. There’s our turn-off. Henry, tell me how you think I should explain you to Susan. I know it was logical for you to help me drive today because of that awful thing last night, but should I explain anything more? Because of Susan, I’m sure you want to be with us as much as possible, and there has to be a reason.”
He laughed. “Simple. Just tell her I’m your ‘significant other.’ That term covers everything.”
“Oh,” said Carrie. “Significant other. Yes. I’ll tell her that.”
There was one more thing. She asked it. “Did Irena know—about JoAnne or the baby, I mean?”
“No,” he said, “she never knew. I couldn’t have told her, and not just to protect Susan, or because of JoAnne’s parents, or the papers I signed. How could Irena ever understand, or forgive me? And... I was ashamed.”
“Not anymore, Henry,” she said. “Let it go now. I’m not saying I don’t think what you and JoAnne did was wrong, but I also see how much you both suffered because of it. It’s been over thirty years now. You’re about to meet your daughter, and she’s innocent. You can’t continue with anything that would punish her, so doesn’t that mean it’s time to stop punishing yourself?”
She paused to catch her breath, then plunged on. “Remember last night you thanked God when you found me alive? God is love, the Bible says, and love forgives. Accept that now, before you meet Susan, and go forward.”
She stopped, wondering if she’d said too much, and how he would take it. Then she looked out the window. “Oops, I believe we park to the right. And that’s our door. We go in there.”
“Not a minute too soon,” said Henry. “We’ll have to hurry to meet the plane. And,” he continued, speaking so softly and with such a sense of awe that she almost thought she imagined hearing him, “my daughter and my grandson.”
Before they got out of the car, she noticed that he took time to wipe his eyes.
Chapter XVII
As Carrie watched Susan get off the plane, she realized that, even if Henry had come to the airport by himself, he should have known at once who Susan was.
Not because of how Susan looked. Because of how baby Johnny looked. He was a miniature Henry. That possibility hadn’t occurred to Carrie.
She was so sure both Susan and Henry would notice it immediately that she was unable to say anything at all.
Johnny had Henry’s square jaw and Henry’s mouth with the upper lip that was just a bit too large. There was a miniature Henry nose. The baby, riding securely in his backpack carrier, looked over Susan’s shoulder with Henry’s wide-spaced brown eyes.
Now what, thought Carrie.
Now nothing, it seemed, at least not from Henry, who stood silently behind Carrie as Susan came down the stairs, her eyes searching the crowd for a face she recognized.
Finally, Carrie was able to say, “Susan, here,” and the young woman rushed to her, bending awkwardly for a hug. Johnny, surprised by the sudden tilt forward, started to cry.
After Susan had lifted the baby out of the carrier, speaking softly to him until his protests subsided, she looked up and blinked at Henry, her face showing the wisp of a smile, before she turned back to Carrie.
Well, carry on, thought Carrie.
“Susan, this is my friend, Henry King. He’s a neighbor and came with me today to help out. Henry, this is Susan Burke-Williams.”
There was a moment’s silence before Henry said, “Ms. Burke-Williams,” and reached around Carrie to hold out his hand.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” responded Susan, “it’s Susan, and if you’re a friend of Carrie’s, I’ll call you Henry. I hate formalities!” She turned to Carrie, suddenly very formal, in spite of her words. “I have some things checked. I couldn’t manage everything and the baby too. I brought a carrier that works as a car safety seat, if we need it.”
“Thank goodness,” said Carrie. “I didn’t remember that part. Luggage pick-up is this way.”
Nobody’s saying anything, thought Carrie as they headed away from the passenger area. Surely they noticed, but then, what could anyone say about it?
“My, what a surprise, Susan, but your baby looks like me.”
“Well, yes, isn’t that odd, but I do notice that he does.”
I suppose it’s possible Henry wouldn’t see it, she mused, but Susan must!
After the luggage was stowed in the back of the wagon, Henry helped fasten Johnny in his safety seat next to Susan. As soon as he and Carrie were settled, he headed the station wagon toward the expressway.
For a few minutes, no one spoke. Grief is like that, thought Carrie. You worry that whatever you say is only going to make things worse.
Just then, Susan solved the problem by saying, “I guess they’re really sure Aunt JoAnne was murdered? That it wasn’t a hunter?”
“I think so,” said Carrie, “but maybe Henry would be better at explaining it to you. He understands about evidence and guns. He used to be a police detective.”
Carrie wondered if she should mention that Henry was from Kansas City, but said nothing and turned toward the back seat. “He lives across the hollow back of me. You remember Mrs. Foster? She’s gone to stay with her daughter, and he’s renting her house for now. She hasn’t decided if she wants to sell.
“Henry’s been very helpful through all of this. You’ll understand when you hear what’s happened. But, Susan, are you sure you want us to talk about it? Some of it’s really awful.”
“Won’t I have to hear it all sometime?” Susan asked. “You might as well tell me what you know. Reality can’t be worse than things I’ve imagined since Sunday.”
Henry spoke up. “They believe your aunt was killed with a gun most hunters wouldn’t have with them. It was a .38 Military and Police, commonly called a Police Special, and that’s a handgun, one meant to kill or injure people. JoAnne evidently left home in her truck to meet someone on Saturday morning about 6:30. She left a note that mentioned the time, 6:30, and we assume it referred to a meeting. She drove to the barn on the old farm in the valley. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “And I’ve been reminded of the area every time I talked with Aunt JoAnne recently, because of the quarry.”
“Well, someone did meet her there, in the old barn, and that person shot her while she was sitting in her truck.”
In response to Susan’s gasp, Henry went on quickly, “She died instantly. We’re... they’re sure she had no idea what was going to happen. The killer stood outside the driver’s window of the truck, probably talking with her, and she wouldn’t have seen the gun until the last minute. There was absolutely no sign, according to the sheriff’s department, that she tried to escape or struggled to get away from anyone.”
“Oh,” Susan said, very quietly. “And then... ?”
“The person put her body in the back of the truck, under the camper shell. The sheriff’s department says they have no idea why, but I think, and possibly they do, that the killer knew approximately how long it takes a body to stiffen after death and didn’t want it to be in seated position in the cab of the truck. It looks like the killer wanted her body lying down, which may mean that what the person did later, moving her to Carrie’s hillside, was already planned. When the killer moved the body to the back of the truck, he—or she—probably got blood on their clothing, but there wasn’t any usable evidence on or around the truck. No fingerprints.”
Susan broke in. “You said he or she, does that mean a woman could have killed my aunt?”
“It’s physically possible. JoAnne was tall, but not heavy, and even though the killer did pull her from the cab and take her around to the back of the truck, most women could have managed it since it was only a short distance.
“Your aunt was wearing her red coat, which has since disappeared, and her red stocking cap was somewhere around, but she didn’t have it on at the time of her death. We, uh, found it later and it had no blood on it at all. Her coat and purse are still missing.”
“So that was Saturday morning,” Susan said. “What happened next?”
“JoAnne was left in the truck through the day and over night. Of course, a passer-by could have found her there. Just looking in the cab of the truck would have told anyone, in daylight at least, that there was something wrong because of the blood, but the killer probably knew there wasn’t much risk of that. The old farm is on a dead-end road, and no one would have any reason to go to the barn. On the side toward the road, the barn looks like it’s falling down anyway. Only the south side is still pretty firm. There are often hunters in the area this time of year, but it’s likely if any of them saw the truck, they’d think it was one more hunter’s truck and leave it alone.
“Early Sunday morning, the killer returned before daylight and moved the body to his or her vehicle, probably a truck. The ground was hard, and there were no prints of any kind. Then that person drove up the fire road to the hilltop back of Carrie’s house, dragged the body downhill, and put it in almost the exact place where Carrie’s husband, Amos, was killed five years ago.”
“Oh, my,” Susan said. “This hasn’t been easy for you, Carrie. But, why there? It seems the whole story involves more than Aunt JoAnne. It’s all so crazy.”
“When we find out why,” said Henry, “then we’ll likely know who.”
An unmistakable sound came from Johnny’s half of the back seat.
“That reminds me,” Susan said. “I didn’t want to bring bulky packages of diapers, so I only have a few with me. Can we please stop somewhere and buy diapers?”
* * *
Susan insisted on going into the Wal-Mart in Rough Creek by herself, so Henry and Carrie sat in the car listening to a conversational babble coming from the back seat. The fact that the voice was light and tiny and there were no recognizable words made no difference. The noises had the tone and inflection of human language.
“He seems like a very bright baby,” said Henry, looking over his shoulder. “You said he was six months old. He’s almost talking, isn’t he?”
“Not yet. He’s copying the sounds he hears. I imagine he thinks he’s talking, and undoubtedly Susan and Putt talk to him a lot.”
“Does he go to day-care while she’s at work? Too bad she can’t stay home with him.”
“Well, yes, but in this case it works out rather nicely. The company she works for, the home office of a brokerage firm in Kansas City, has child-care facilities right in the building. She can go there during breaks to nurse the baby.”
Henry was still watching Johnny.
“Cara?”
“Um?”
“Am I imagining it, or does that baby look just a bit like me?”
“No, you aren’t imagining it. He looks so much like you that it’s embarrassing. I’ve been wondering what to do or say about it.”
“Do you think Susan noticed?”
“I don’t see how she could miss it. But then, since she’d have no idea of any connection, maybe she just passed it off as a coincidence.”
“We can’t say anything.”
“I suppose not.”
Both of them fell into a thoughtful silence, and Carrie noticed the baby was quiet too. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he had fallen asleep.
Henry also looked at the sleeping baby, then said, “You may be wondering why I was willing to go ahead and describe how JoAnne was killed to Susan. You said it earlier, and she did just now, and you’re both right. When a tragedy like this hits, knowing what really happened is better than imagining. It’s best to hear the facts told in an unemotional way, face them, deal with it, then get on with your life. I saw that over and over when I was with the department.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Carrie.
She looked toward the store entrance and said, “Here comes Susan.”
They turned to watch her as she started toward them.
“Cara?”
“Yes?”
“I think you don’t see her the same way I do, maybe because you’re a woman. She’s very pretty.”
As Susan’s slender blue-jeaned legs swung across the parking lot, Carrie had to agree with him. The dark, shiny hair, cut to the level of her chin, swayed as she walked, and her oval face, though sober, was flushed becomingly.
The orange jacket she wore accented the warmth of her olive skin.
“Yes, I agree,” said Carrie as Henry got out to open the door. “She’s very pretty.”
“There,” Susan said as she bounced into the back seat, bringing a rush of cold air. “We’re fixed for a little while at least. Thanks for stopping. Now you can tell me the rest of what’s going on—what you’ve found out about the quarry owner and all of it.”