She Can Tell (33 page)

“Yeah.” David scrutinized the photo again. “I have a hunting cabin on the opposite end of the lake. When I was a kid, me and my dad used to spend weekends fishing and hunting there, before he was paralyzed. I don’t use it much now. Don’t have a lot of free time, but I guess my attachment to Lost Lake is more sentimental than practical. But I’m not in with those people. I just went over there that morning to see what was going on. I heard they’d been blasting rock. That’s hell on the fish.”

“Do you have any idea who vandalized the site?”

“No. Sorry.” David tossed the photo on the desk in front of Mike. “Is that all?”

“Not quite.” Mike tucked the picture back into his pocket. “Did you know Harry Boyle?”

“Sure.” David nodded. “He worked for Parker Construction way back when. Just up and split one day.”

“Harry didn’t leave.” Mike paused a second, until he caught David’s eye. “He was murdered.”

David’s face dropped into a confused frown. “How do you—?” His eyes opened. “Oh, skeleton in Rachel’s basement.”

“We’re—the police,” Mike corrected, “are waiting for DNA confirmation, but that’s who they think it is.”

“That’s weird.” David leaned against the back of the chair. He turned to Rachel. “How the hell did he get in your grandfather’s basement?”

“I have no idea. I was little.” Her fingers twisted the shoulder strap of her purse.

David crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, the winter Harry disappeared was the same winter your grandfather had a heart attack. He spent a lot of time in the hospital. Rachel’s dad kept the farm going. He used to send crews over there to do stuff every day. Shit, everybody had a key. Even me.”

“What happened to David’s father?” Mike glanced at Rachel, riding shotgun.

“Paralyzed in a car accident. David spent most of his teen years either working or taking care of his father. He didn’t get out much.”

Mike pulled the truck to the curb and stared at the rundown Cape Cod. An old sedan listed in the driveway. Around its tires, weeds grew in the cracks between the cement slabs, yet the lawn had been mowed. The house needed a coat of paint, but the garbage cans were lined up neatly next to the garage. “This is where you grew up?”

“Yeah.” Rachel pointed to a yellow one-story next door. “That was where the Gunners lived. David’s mother sold the house after his father died. She moved to Florida to live with her sister.”

Rachel made no move to get out of the vehicle. “I had a teen crush on David. He was like twenty something. His room was across the yard from mine. My friends and I used to watch out my window and try to get a glimpse of him.”

“Was he always, uhm, odd?”

“He spent way too much time cooped up in that house taking care of his father.” She stared out the window.

“Do you want to wait in the truck?”

“He probably won’t answer the door.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a key ring. “You’d better hope he hasn’t changed the locks.”

With a resigned breath, she opened the door and hopped down. She flipped her hood up against the drizzle. Mike followed her up the walk. Shrubs were overgrown, shading the walk and allowing moss to coat the concrete wherever the sun’s rays couldn’t reach. She stood still for a minute in the shadow of an overhang, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. Her posture and jaw stiffened as she reached for the doorbell. Muffled chimes echoed behind the door. The air remained heavy and still with no sound of movement from within. She pressed the bell again. No response.

Rachel stepped off the porch, squeezed behind the ragged shrubs, and peered through a bay window that fronted the house.

Rejoining him on the stoop, she put her key in the lock. The deadbolt clicked open. “Brace yourself.”

Mike grabbed her hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

Apparently, she did. Her jaw tightened enough to crack a filling. Without a word, she pushed the front door open. No chickening out for Rachel. Mike had filled her in on the scant facts of Harry’s disappearance on the drive, but her silence had set his instincts off. He wasn’t going to like what he found in this house.

The front door opened directly into a small living room. A wide bay window admitted plenty of natural light, but there was no brightening the space. A prevailing sense of gloom sucked up daylight. Mike detoured to a dark pine bookcase. Dust-covered family photographs were lined up like soldiers on the shelves. He picked up a picture of a dark-haired woman who bore a strong resemblance to Rachel. Her mother. Mike scanned the rest of the pictures. A few were Rachel and Sarah as children, all dark haired and forced smiles, but the majority was of their mother. All were more than ten years old. Like time had stopped in this house, and someone had built a shrine.

“Dad,” Rachel called.

Mike held back a sneeze. The house had a musty smell, as if it had been closed up for a long period of time. He followed Rachel through a small kitchen. The sink was empty. Mike peeked in the dishwasher. Neatly loaded. The lack of odor told him it had been run recently. The fridge was mostly empty. Mayo, butter, bologna, cheese. On the counter, a quart of cheap gin was sandwiched between a loaf of white bread and a box of corn flakes. Not exactly the breakfast of champions. Mike had expected a disaster, but this was far creepier. Rachel’s father was barely going through the daily motions of living. No long-term thoughts here.

Rachel walked toward a dark doorway. Light flickered. Mike hurried after her. She stopped just over the threshold and squinted into the dim space. Her face was a conflicted
mask of reluctance and resignation, like a patient waiting for test results when she already knew the tumor was malignant. “Dad?”

“Barbara?” A man’s voice, deep and edged with hostility, slurred.

Mike stayed close as they stepped into a small den. A soot-stained fireplace was centered on the far wall. To the right, a door led to the backyard. Wooden blinds over a trio of windows blocked the day’s intrusion. The light from the old console TV played over a thin man standing in front of a recliner. His posture was stooped, and one hand reached for the support of the chair’s leather arm. Neil Parker was six feet or taller, one-seventy, dressed in baggy-kneed dark blue chinos and a green plaid shirt.

“Barbara?” His voice cracked. Red-rimmed eyes stared in confusion.

Mike glanced at Rachel. She hadn’t moved. In the dim, flickering light, she looked remarkably like the woman in the photos.

“No, Dad. It’s me, Rachel.” She flipped a wall switch. A row of recessed lights illuminated the space.

Her father collapsed back into the chair, blinking at Rachel like a disappointed owl. “I thought you were her.”

“This is Mike. He’s investigating a murder. He needs to ask you some questions.” Rachel turned away and leaned on the wall. She crossed her arms, hugging her midsection, as if she were holding something painful.

Mike perched on the arm of a faded flowered sofa next to the recliner. “Mr. Parker, what do you remember about Harry Boyle?”

Mr. Parker jolted. The remote control slipped from his thigh and landed on the blue shag with a thud. “Harry? Harry’s gone. Left. Ran away from something. Only cowards
run. And the guilty.” Above his leg, his bony fingers clenched like talons.

“No, sir. Harry’s remains were found. He didn’t disappear. He was murdered.”

“You found Harry?” Parker gave Mike a suspicious squint. “Where?”

“In Grandpa’s basement,” Rachel answered. “I moved into the farmhouse awhile ago. Sarah said she told you.”

Parker refused to look at her. He picked up a sweating glass from the table at his elbow. Ice cubes rattled as he downed half of the clear liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mike glanced at Rachel. Her face was still as glass, as if one movement would shatter her.

“Harry Boyle worked for your construction company. He was a carpenter, right?”

“Harry’s dead.” Parker studied the condensation dripping down the outside of his glass.

Was that a statement or a question? Was he thinking or too drunk to remember?

“Do you remember anything about the day he disappeared?” Mike pressed. “It was in February 1987. It snowed that night.”

Nothing.

“Harry worked for you. You saw him every day.” Mike tried another line of questioning. “Was he depressed? Did he mention anything going on in his life?”

Parker slammed the glass on the table. Rachel jumped. Liquid sloshed.

“I don’t give a shit what happened to Harry Boyle.” He leapt from his chair with shocking agility. Mike jumped to his feet and stood in front of Rachel. But Parker didn’t make a move toward her.

“He deserved whatever he got.” He spat out the words, then grabbed his glass and drained it. When he turned back to Mike, fury blazed from bloodshot eyes. “Harry was fucking my wife.”

Outside, Rachel leaned on the side of the SUV. The drizzle had progressed to a steady, light rain. By the time Mike came out a minute or so later, her hoodie and sneakers were soaked. He opened the door for her and pretended not to notice that her hands were shaking. Mike rounded the hood, climbed in beside her, and started the engine. He flipped the heat switch to high.

As he pulled away from the curb, Rachel waited for the questions, but Mike remained quiet as they left the blue-collar development behind and turned onto the interstate.

Uncertainty stirred in her belly. Had he given up on her or was he giving her time to get it together? She leaned on the headrest and closed her eyes until the truck stopped at his house. Numbness and cold worked its way through her body. If she were lucky, soon she wouldn’t be able to feel anything.

She followed Mike inside, slipping off her wet sneakers in the garage. Standing on the cold cement, the chill seeped through her socks. She shivered. Mike led her into
the laundry room. Gentle, efficient hands stripped off her sopping hoodie, then tugged off her jeans and socks. He draped a blanket around her shoulders, nudging her toward the living room. Behind her, she heard Mike moving around. The dryer started up, thudding as if he’d tossed in her sneakers. Rachel wandered into the dark room and dropped into one of the leather recliners. She curled her feet under her and pulled the blanket tighter, but warmth was elusive.

She closed her eyes, but her brain kept replaying her father’s angry face and words in an endless, repeating clip.

“Hey.”

She looked up. He was squatting next to her. “It’s almost dinnertime. Are you hungry?”

With a throat too dry and tight to form words, she shook her head.

His eyes went soft. He slipped his hands under her and picked her up. Turning, he dropped back into the chair with her on his lap. A few tugs pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.

Rachel rested her head on his wide chest, and the most unexpected thing happened. She burst into tears, without preamble or warning, just an outpouring of raw pain. No delicate, ladylike crying for her. These were noisy, messy tears that would leave Mike’s shirt soaked and her eyes swollen.

As her lungs heaved and her body quaked, the strong arms wrapped around her were the only things keeping her from flying apart. When the worst had passed and her breath slowed to ragged hiccups, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Waiting for humiliation to swamp her, Rachel closed her eyes against his now-damp shirt. But it never came. Instead, peace settled over her. The warmth from his
body flowed into hers. Her soul was drained, her body limp down to her bones.

As if the crying hadn’t been enough, words began to tumble from her mouth. Things that had been tightly bottled inside her popped out like snakes in a can.

“She used to take off every once in a while, when she was in hyper mode. She’d be gone two, maybe three days. Then she’d come back and fall back into a depression. We never knew how long those would last. Never did I hear him ask her where she’d been. I guess he knew.” Rachel hiccupped. “In a way, it was worse when she was normal, especially when it lasted awhile. We’d start to get used to it. Expect it. Which made it even harder when she fell apart again. And she always fell apart again.”

A shudder swept through her. Mike didn’t say anything, but one big hand stroked her back.