Stone Maidens (10 page)

The face of a girl, her mouth open in a high-pitched scream, hammered him back into an empty seat. A high-speed camera was rolling in his head, yanking him into the middle of a chase scene that wove through oaks and a dark grove of hemlock amid nonstop shrieking.
Damn!
He’d left his prescription pills inside the glove box of his truck after making the run to Crosshaven earlier.

A woman at a nearby table took in a mouthful of meat loaf. David glanced down at his own tray, which was now covered in a carpet of oak leaves. An awful ripping sound made him gag. Noises skittered from left to right as if his head were wired with special stereo made solely for his ears. The sweat wouldn’t stop rolling down his cheeks.

Trembling, he glanced back at the woman eating meat loaf. The fork in her hand had morphed into a rubbery hose that glistened red. David gasped in disbelief.
Not at Beltson’s!
She bit off a chunk of the ribbed hose, snapping it between her teeth like a piece of red Twizzlers candy.

David staggered down the serving line, forcing himself not to look back at the woman, but his mind couldn’t stop the picture show running, filling his head. A ladleful of green beans jumped out at him: pure green screaming, bright green under sprays of red, and now there was the distinct sensation of a warm limpness convulsing beneath him.

David’s exhaling couldn’t keep up with his inhaling. Inside him, the demon was taking charge. He no longer could keep the full-bore vision from consuming him. In the line ahead, his father mumbled something, pointing to a vegetable dish under a protective hood. The surface of his palms prickled as if his hands had fallen asleep. Deadened. The tray hit first. Then the lights went out.

Sheriff McFaron turned onto Old Shed Road under a flaming red sky. Shreds of daylight dimmed as they passed through the oak and hemlock groves. Slowing, McFaron flicked on his high beams and swung the Bronco’s side-mounted light along the sidewalk, illuminating the dark shadow of the double telephone pole. He pulled over.

He replayed the eyewitness’s story in his head. Joey Templeton had said that he saw a flash of something red. Like polka dots, the boy had said. Karen Heath had reported to his dispatcher that Julie was visiting Daisy Rhinelander’s house on Old Shed Road. McFaron retrieved his cell phone from the Bronco and clipped it to his belt, then shone the Maglite along the curbstones, looking for tire marks, anything. The boy had mentioned that one of the truck’s front tires was over the curb.

He projected the light back and forth along each side of the buttressed phone pole. On the lip of the sidewalk he spotted a grayish mark about six inches wide. It looked recent, the right placement and width of a truck tire. McFaron angled the flashlight and made out a tread pattern.

So the boy had been telling the truth about the truck. A faint cross-hatching was visible in the centerline of the tread, which meant the tire might have been bald on the outside. McFaron reached into the backseat and grabbed the Polaroid he used for
accidents. There were still seven frames on the roll from Henry Beecham’s tractor mishap.

The sheriff snapped an overhead shot and then took several more from the side. In the blaze of the flash, a spot of deep red caught his eye a couple of sidewalk sectionals over. He traced the Maglite’s beam over a line of red drops that vanished into the leaf litter, then knelt for a closer look. Unquestionably blood spatter, but there were no footprints, no smudge marks of any kind.

A high-pitched screech jerked him upright. McFaron shone the light across the road. Retinal glows fluoresced back from the upper branches of a large oak. Blackbirds roosting—he’d disturbed them. Spooked, the sheriff aimed the light chest-high around the perimeter of the forest; he saw nothing. Satisfied that the birds were the only onlookers, McFaron returned to the blood, trying to imagine what had happened, what it meant. The surface of the largest drop appeared tacky.

McFaron punched in Doc Henegar’s number on his cell phone. The local general physician, who’d been practicing in Crosshaven for at least thirty years, did double duty as the part-time county coroner.

“Doc?” McFaron said. He could hear Henegar chewing a mouthful of food.

“What’s up, Joe?”

“Julie Heath, a ninth grader, went missing today. Last seen leaving the Rhinelander place on Old Shed Road.”

He filled in the doctor on the Templeton boy’s sighting. McFaron paused, gazing at the blood illuminated by the Maglite.

“The reason I’m telling you all this, Doc, is because I’ve found some blood along Old Shed Road about a quarter mile up from the main intersection. The shortcut kids sometimes take leaving school. Know the place?”

“I do,” Henegar said. “Need some medical assistance?”

“Might be foul play,” McFaron said. “And, Doc...”

“Hmmm?”

“Keep this private. The last thing I need is for Karen or Bob Heath to go jumping to any conclusions.”

“I’ll bring my kit in a jiffy,” Henegar said.

McFaron shoved the cell phone into the slash pocket of his Windbreaker. If Julie Heath had been badly injured, why wasn’t there any sign of a scuffle? It didn’t make sense.

A few minutes later, an old Ford Granada’s headlights glowed dully against the forest near a bend in the road. Doc glided to a stop behind the sheriff’s Bronco just as his car motor quit. The driver’s door creaked loudly. Birds in the nearby trees cackled and flapped, disturbed by the commotion.

McFaron yelled into the dark, “Doesn’t Sparky have a decent used car you can trade up to?”

“What, get rid of a perfectly good car?” Dr. Henegar’s stocky hulk emerged from the gloom. Only his heavy eyebrows and beard were visible. “I don’t like it when the coroner part of my job involves young girls.”

The sheriff grunted and directed the doctor’s flashlight down. “The spot’s over here. And let’s not go assuming it’s a done deal already. The girl’s only been reported missing.”

Henegar placed his doctor’s bag on the curb. McFaron trained his Maglite on the blood spatter.

“Joey Templeton said there was a man standing by a truck parked near the pole.” McFaron shone the light quickly on the tire smudge. “Evidently, this guy was stuffing something in the back bed. The boy also claims he saw red polka dots on the man’s clothing and face.”

“Just missing, huh?” Henegar said, shaking his head and ducking closer to inspect the blood. “Sounds more like a done deal to me.”

“Hey, you’re the doc,” McFaron said. “Let me be the cop.”

Henegar reached into his medical bag. “Shine your light over here, will you, Joe?” He took out a plastic container, which held a
blood recovery kit like the kind used by paramedics for insurance applicants. He swabbed a few blood spots onto two circled areas of absorbent material for DNA and blood-typing.

“This ought to do the trick. Her family doctor should have Julie Heath’s blood type on file. If not, siblings’ and parents’ blood can determine consanguinity.” Henegar grunted as he stood.

“Hold on a minute,” McFaron said. “There’s no need for you to go calling Dr. Simington just yet. First off, what does this look like to you?” The sheriff flashed the light over the evidence.

“Blood—what else?”

“Obviously, Doc. I mean the way it’s sprayed, like a squirt mark. No scrapes, no scuffs, no smudges, not even a single footprint or sign of any scuffle. Just this jet of blood.” McFaron stepped closer to Henegar. “To be honest, I’m not sure what we’ve got here.”

“Maybe she bit the attacker on the wrist, cutting an artery?” Henegar said. “Deep-red spatter usually indicates arterial blood.”

“Do you really think a kid’s bite is likely to yield that much blood?”

Henegar threw up his hands. “You asked. I answered. Look, I’ve collected a decent enough sample. We’ll know something more definitive after the crime lab analysis. I assume you’ve photographed it already?”

“I have,” McFaron said. Then he cautioned, “This stays between you and me till further orders.”

“If it’s confirmed human,” Henegar said, giving the sheriff a sober look, “you know I’ll need to get the girl’s blood type, Joe, or they’ll take away my coroner’s license.”

“No one’s quarreling with your statutory duties. I’m only asking that you check with me first before contacting anyone.” So far, there were more questions than answers, and the sheriff didn’t want to heap any unnecessary anguish on the Heath family.

“And, just so you know,” Henegar reminded the sheriff, “if the girl doesn’t turn up for some reason, I’ll probably need to take
blood samples from the whole Heath family for DNA matches to compare against this sample, too.”

McFaron faced the doctor. “How long before you’ll know the results?”

“You want to drive it up? It’ll save a day,” the doctor said. “Blood-typing results should be back in less than twenty-four hours. The DNA analysis will take longer, a week maybe.”

“I’ll drive it up,” McFaron said.

Henegar handed him the sample in its double-secure plastic case. McFaron’s cell phoned trilled in his pocket. It was Mary, wanting to know when he’d be going over to the Heaths’. He said right away.

“Any other thoughts?” McFaron asked. Doc Henegar stood with his bag, ready to leave.

“Only ones you don’t need to hear if you’re going to see the Heaths right now.” Henegar lowered himself into the front seat of his decrepit vehicle. The starter wheezed like a croupy baby.

The sheriff walked over. “Appreciate your coming so quick, Doc.” The dim glow of the dash illuminated Henegar’s bearded face.

“Don’t bother giving my best to Karen and Bob. My heart and prayers go out to them tonight.” He saluted McFaron and drove off.

McFaron watched the taillights of the doctor’s car disappear around the bend. “Oh, Lordy,” he said aloud, and then he unfurled a roll of police tape, twisting it several times around two orange traffic cones marking off the site.

Although Julie had been missing only four hours, the discovery of blood gave McFaron the ammunition he needed to request that the state police send all available personnel, including off-duty troopers, ASAP to commence a dusk-to-dawn search of
the wooded areas between the school and the Heath girl’s home. They’d gather at the state police post for a briefing in one hour. Driving to the Heaths’, the sheriff mulled over what he might tell them. He would reiterate the obvious: that everything possible was being done to find Julie, that she might have gotten lost in the woods taking a shortcut home. Kids frequently got into trouble doing the silliest things.

And it was all nothing but lies. In his gut, he knew Julie had been harmed, or worse.

Acknowledgment of what was sure to be a fact strengthened his resolve. He had never been a quitter, although some had accused him of it. Twelve years ago he’d left law school after the first year and run for sheriff of his hometown county, frustrated at how easily defendants got off on technicalities and at the lack of quality law enforcement in his rural jurisdiction. It had been disgust that had pushed McFaron out of the classroom, and a desire to do good; quitting had nothing to do with it. As it turned out, though, resolving disputes between feuding landowners, keeping perennially drunken drivers off the streets, and intervening in petty domestic quarrels formed the bulk of his police work.

He slowed the Bronco at the turn to the Heaths’ driveway. Heat built along the ridge of his spine. It always had during big moments, all the way back to when winning football games had been his most important goal. Don’t fail the fans. They’re depending on you. Don’t fail Julie or the Heaths. But tonight he had no magical play in his repertoire to keep from coming up empty. He drove in and parked.

Above the Heaths’ front door a cluster of PAR38 outdoor lights blazed. McFaron checked himself in his rearview mirror, steadying his gaze, making sure he only conveyed concern and gave away nothing that might fuel an outburst from Karen Heath. Keep it simple. The girl had gone missing, nothing else. He would assure them, but most of all he would listen. That much he owed the Heaths.

McFaron gently shut the door of the Bronco and took in a long slug of night air, unsure what he’d say first. The only thing he was certain about was that he wouldn’t breathe a word about the blood. Not until it was identified.

Bob Heath cleared his throat, surprising him. The man had silently slipped out the front door and stood waiting for the sheriff.

“Hey, Bob.” McFaron tipped the brim of his trooper hat.

“Any word?” Heath stopped short, sensing no good news. His hands stayed jammed in the front pockets of his pants. “Thing is, Sheriff...it’s Karen...” He spoke in a strangled voice, as if even talking was too much of an effort.

“I’m afraid not, Bob. We got an APB out. State troopers and I are starting a sweep of the area as soon as I leave here. She’ll turn up.”

Heath’s brow creased. “What’s that supposed to mean—she’ll turn up?”

“In all likelihood she’s lost somewhere. We’ll find her, Bob.”

Heath shook his head, gazing downward.

“Bob, listen to me.” McFaron spoke in a softer voice. “She probably cut through the woods coming home from Daisy’s. Maybe she fell, twisted her ankle. Believe me, we’ll find her. It’s where I’m headed right now.” The sheriff refrained from mentioning Methuselah, Clyde Harmstead’s bloodhound, whom they’d use if Julie didn’t surface by the next morning.