The prayer, which strayed between Carrie’s own need for comfort and her concern for JoAnne, ended with, “Please let her be home, and thank you for taking care of all of us. Guide us... me... in doing Your will.”
Of course, JoAnne could be quite safe away from home. It might not have occurred to her that Carrie would worry.
She shook her head in frustration. Why hadn’t JoAnne confided in her? They were supposed to be good friends!
Well, she’d just left it in God’s hands. She should live up to her prayer.
Now it was time to check and see if JoAnne was home, then go look for frost flowers. Henry, remembering last night, would understand why she hadn’t called.
She pushed her comforter back, slid out of bed, put on her robe and furry slippers, and hurried into the living room to start a fire in the woodstove. As she got closer to the iron box, she could feel the tiny bit of friendly warmth that remained from last night’s fire and, when she swung the heavy latch and opened the iron door, saw there were healthy coals glowing beneath the ashes. She selected kindling and two split logs from her wood box, put them on the coals over sheets of crumpled newsprint, and watched to be sure the fire had a good start before she went to make her coffee.
While the water was heating, she punched in JoAnne’s number, thinking, “Please answer, please answer,” as if this incantation would somehow help.
There was no answer.
So. She’d have to go feed the cat before she went walking.
Suddenly Carrie felt anger replace her worry. JoAnne simply
assumed
she’d take care of FatCat! She hadn’t phoned because “Carry-on Carrie” would always take over. Well, if JoAnne wasn’t back when she got home from church, she’d bring FatCat and all the cat paraphernalia here. If it snowed, she wanted the cat at this end of the forest path until JoAnne came to claim her. Let JoAnne worry if the cat was missing when she returned!
Still, Susan should be notified. It was time someone else worried about JoAnne’s behavior.
Carrie decided she’d dress and eat first, then it wouldn’t be quite so early and seem so much like an emergency. Surely Kansas City Information could find the number. The name Burke-Williams wasn’t exactly common. She wasn’t going to bother Henry about the number again; he hadn’t acted like he wanted to talk about Kansas City. Probably something to do with the bad experience he’d hinted at last night.
She ate a bowl of cereal, then put on her jeans, a turtleneck, and a heavy sweat shirt.
Information in Kansas City did have a listing, and Carrie dialed the number. Susan answered and greeted her warmly. The baby was crying in the background, and Carrie remembered how Rob had sounded years ago.
She got right to the point. “Susan, have you talked with your aunt JoAnne recently? She left home yesterday morning and hasn’t returned or been in touch. I thought I’d better tell you.”
“We talked Thursday night. We were making plans for getting together there at Thanksgiving. She was fine then. Do you think something’s wrong?”
In the background the crying stopped. Probably Susan’s husband was tending to the baby. Nice. Amos wouldn’t have.
“Well, no,” Carrie said, “not exactly. You know how she is, but I am a bit worried. There’s the cat. She didn’t call to ask me to take care of FatCat.”
Silence. Carrie heard a man’s voice, then Susan’s, explaining. The man said something else.
“Carrie, Putt and I both think someone should be notified. I know Aunt JoAnne’s in good health and all, but, if it’s been a whole day and no word about taking care of FatCat... Who can you call there? Would there be a police department or missing persons?”
“No, out here it’s the county sheriff. I’ll call him. I’m really sorry to bother you, and I don’t want to make a big deal about this, but still... ”
“Yes, we both know Aunt JoAnne, but, as you say, there’s the cat. After you’ve talked to the sheriff, will you call me back?” Susan’s voice betrayed her worry.
“Right away. I’ll hang up and call now.”
Carrie wasn’t sure if she should call 911 or the regular number for the sheriff’s department. She didn’t want to make this sound like it was life-threatening or anything. She dialed the regular number.
The pleasant, low-key female voice that answered asked a few questions about JoAnne and her truck, then told Carrie that nothing sounding as though it might involve JoAnne had been reported. She took Carrie’s phone number, saying she’d re-check all the reports from deputies and from the hospitals and put out a description of JoAnne as well as the grey truck. Checking would take a little while. Would Ms. McCrite be at this number?
Thinking quickly, Carrie decided she’d better feed the cat now, and she really did want to go walking. She explained she had an answering machine, thanked the dispatcher, and hung up.
After calling Susan to report that the sheriff’s office had no reports of any problems involving JoAnne, Carrie put on her orange jacket and hat and, taking her portable radio and a plastic bag with cat food in it, went out into the bright morning.
She hurried along the path and let herself into the house. She emptied the bag of food into FatCat’s food bowl, re-filled the water bowl, then hesitated. Perhaps she’d better do another walk-through.
In the door of JoAnne’s bedroom, she stopped. Had she left the closet door open after she looked inside yesterday afternoon? Surely... But she must have. It was open now. JoAnne wouldn’t be happy if she found out. FatCat had once shown a lively interest in the sweaters on shelves at one side of the closet.
Carrie took a quick look. The sweaters seemed undisturbed. She shut the closet door, hearing the latch click. Odd, she remembered that sound from yesterday.
She re-checked the rest of the house. All was quiet, very normal, and empty of any movement except for a friendly cat.
Instead of heading back along the path to her house, Carrie decided to climb down the hill behind JoAnne’s, cross the creek, and make her way at an angle up the opposite hill to their favorite frost flower spot. There were several places where it was easy to step over the spring-fed creek that ran through the hollow, and the creek disappeared completely before it got to the end of JoAnne’s property, leaving the rocky bed dry except when there had been a heavy rain.
She and JoAnne often puzzled about where their water went after it sank out of sight through the rocks. They had imagined it must be busy underground, creating a beautiful cavern full of all kinds of exotic mineral deposits. There were small caves with such formations in the bluffs overlooking the valley and, of course, magnificent ones, large and small, in many other places throughout the Ozarks.
The two of them had talked about pouring a bottle of red food coloring into their creek, then walking along the big creek in the valley to see if any pink water showed up. Later this winter, they’d do just that.
She started up the hill and turned on her radio, tuning it to a program of gospel music. If any hunters were in the area, they’d sure know she was coming.
As she climbed, she began scanning the forest floor for the magical ice formations. Nothing, yet conditions were right. JoAnne had mentioned that it was about time just a couple of days ago.
Then, suddenly, sunlight in the clearing ahead of her sparkled bits of diamond fire from the forest floor. She’d expected to find a few, but here were dozens of the fantastic twists of ribbony ice rising from the ground, creating the now familiar flower-like swirls, loops, and sugary folds. No matter that she understood how fairy ice was formed, she’d always think of these ice formations as magic. She stood still, savoring the beauty, and feeling sorry, for a moment, that she hadn’t called Henry. Maybe it was wrong to rob him of this pleasure.
Well, he was certainly capable of going on a walk by himself, and she had told him the best display was usually on this hillside.
The first fall after she’d moved here, JoAnne took her into these woods, promising a spectacle she’d never forget. As usual, JoAnne had been right.
Carrie turned the radio off, listened, and looked around to see if Henry had come out by himself. A person could see long distances in a winter forest, but now she saw nothing and heard only birds and squirrels.
Hunters might be here, but they were always quiet.
She turned the radio on again, then took off a glove and bent to touch one of the delicate ice formations, feeling it give under the light pressure of her finger.
The radio announcer said it was 9:15. She should head back toward her house and the phone.
It really was too bad Henry had missed this show.
She started downhill on her regular walking path, planning to cross the creek on the old earth dam at the pond and climb the gentle slope below her house.
This was the best time of year to be in the forest. Undergrowth had dried, and she could see so far. She paused and tilted her head up to look at tree branches making crisscross lacework against the sky. She was near home, almost to the old fallen tree and the creek. It would be safe to turn off the radio and listen for birds. Safe...
What was that by the old tree? Something, a trick of shadow—just the shadow of memory from when Amos had died there—a memory returning to her for the first time in many months.
She was very calm. Trick of shadow. That was all.
She shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them to walk again. The crunch of her steps in dry leaves sounded too loud.
Sunlight and shadow. The tree did have something.
Carrie felt cold, as cold as frost flowers.
Amos! “Oh, no. Ohhh, dear God!”
No! No, no, not Amos... impossible. She shook her head back and forth, hoping the image would clear away, but it didn’t.
It was very real. And it was JoAnne.
JoAnne, with her head and shoulders propped against the giant tree trunk. So cold... where was her red coat?
Now Carrie moved fast and sank to her knees beside her friend, unaware that she was kneeling on rocks. For a few moments everything was still, she was still. All she could hear was the scream of a crow, echoing around her, and the sound of someone breathing.
The side of JoAnne’s head wasn’t bright red like Amos’s had been, but it was the same unreal, unhuman mess. This was a familiar death, one Carrie had lived through before.
Blood. Where was the blood? She knew there should be a lot of blood.
She dropped the radio, took off her glove, and reached for her friend’s bare hand. When she touched it, her own fingers felt ice, and she realized JoAnne’s hand, as cold and hard as ice itself, was lying on a crushed frost flower.
Carrie shut her eyes in bewilderment. Why was it happening again, and where was the blood?
Words from the 23rd Psalm raced through her head: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... I will fear no evil... thou art with me... thou art with me... thou art... shadow of death... comfort me... comfort me... thou art with me... ”
She didn’t cry.
* * *
Time passed, but how much, no one would ever know or care. Eventually Carrie was aware that she was shaking with a cold, hard rage. Hunters! But when? Not recently. Nothing here was warm. No life had wisped away on this hillside this morning.
And, she had heard no shots. Not this morning. Yesterday! The opening day of hunting season.
She got to her feet and began to move as quickly as she could over the forest floor, trying to control her shaking with quick movement. It was impossible to run, there were too many rocks and fallen branches. Slow down, no need to run. Falling could be disastrous, and for JoAnne it now would make no difference how fast she did something. Or even, Carrie realized, whether or not she did anything at all!
She stopped walking. So why do anything? Her thoughts rushed crazily. It would be fair. She’d already... coped with one death on this hillside. Go home. Dress. Go to church. Let someone else find this and deal with it.
NO! The hunter would pay, and if no one else found him—or her—Carrie would. Yesterday morning! Oh, dear God, it must have been the shots she heard yesterday morning. She would ask, would find out who had been in the woods, and that person would pay. Her rage carried her home in a rush, and this time she did dial 911.
* * *
After she’d explained—very slowly—exactly what she had found, Carrie gave directions to her mail box and from there to her house. The person on the phone asked her to stay at the house, though Carrie protested she should go back to JoAnne, who had now become “the body.” It had occurred to Carrie that the hunter who shot JoAnne might return to remove evidence, though actually she hadn’t any idea what that could be, especially after a day had passed. A shell? Maybe he dropped something, something that would say who he was. She hadn’t looked around at all.
And she should be with JoAnne, make sure nothing and no one came to harm her. Then it occurred to her that, now, JoAnne was beyond harm.
The man on the phone said a deputy would be there within thirty minutes. Did she have someone to come be with her?
Who would that be, Carrie wondered. JoAnne was the only close friend she had. There was Rob, of course, but he was three hundred miles away. She and JoAnne had once talked about the fact that they had Rob and Susan and, after that, only each other.
Oh, no, Susan! She was going to have to find a way to tell this to Susan.
Perhaps Henry could. Maybe he’d come over to be with her. He was—after all—a kind friend.
But, she discovered, Henry wasn’t home to answer his phone.
For a minute she thought of Roger and Shirley. But they’d be busy with milking.
So, she’d have to carry on alone. She picked up the phone and prepared to give the terrible news to the little family in Kansas City.
The door knocker sounded just as Carrie finished her conversation with Susan’s husband who, thank goodness, had been the one to answer the phone. The sheriff’s man, it seemed, had made good time.
She opened the door, and Henry, looking much older than she remembered from last night, stood on the porch holding out her portable radio.