M
ary McCreary,
psychic detective,
pulls into the driveway in her beat-up red Mustang just past eleven. All signs of last night's storm are gone. The sky is blue again, though spotted with clouds. Plum and Effie are making tie-dye T-shirts in the yard. Their creations hang from the long line stretched between trees: electric and bright. It's not even noon, but I'm drinking a beer, trying to stave off the anxiety, which gnaws at me like a small but determined chipmunk.
I wonder, as she gets out of the car and waddles into the yard toward me, if I have made a terrible mistake. This could be total hocus-pocus. I worry I am just reaching for anything to help me support my building case.
I stand up and walk to her, hand outstretched.
“Hello, hello again,” she says. I notice this time that she has tiny teeth and childlike hands.
“Can I get you a beer?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes,
please
.”
I don't tell her where I found the barrette. I don't want to influence her at all. I don't want to feed her the information; instead I'm hoping that she'll come up with it on her own. Proving, somehow, that this isn't all just wishful thinking but rather that she is able to somehow read these clues better than I can.
We sit together at the kitchen nook.
I put the barrette in her palm, and she eyes me suspiciously. I also don't tell her to whom it belongs, though I have a feeling this is obvious, or else I wouldn't have asked her to come all this way.
She curls her small fingers over the barrette; it disappears inside her fist. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
I hold my own breath and wait.
For several moments there is nothing but the rattling sound in her chest.
And then her fingers uncurl and she drops the barrette as though it has burned her. I half expect for the pink flesh of her palms to bear the branding of the little bunny.
“What?” I say. “What is it?”
“
Sharp,
” she says.
“I know, I know,” I say, impatient for something she hasn't already offered. For something new. “Lincoln Sharp. What else?”
She shakes her head. “No,
teeth
. Sharp teeth.”
I study the barrette, those innocuous plastic tines. Tears sting my eyes. This was stupid. Maybe I
have
lost my mind.
“It's scary, scary. With sharp teeth,” she says, her voice childlike. “She's afraid of the scary black dog.”
My heart stops like a cork in my throat.
The dog.
“Where did she go?” I ask, and Mary seems disoriented. A sleepwalker suddenly lurching into consciousness. “Mary, where is she now?”
She shakes her head.
“Please, tell me where she is, where she ran? You said she saw a dog? When? Before or after I saw her?” I am so desperate for answers I almost forget who I am asking. She's a quack. I don't believe in any of this bullshit.
But still, she didn't know about the dog. She didn't know about Sharp either.
“You said something about something being underground. Do you mean a grave? Please? You said there was red . . . is that blood?”
“I'm sorry,” she says. “It doesn't work like that. They're just flashes. Just little bits and pieces that come. They're not in any sort of order.”
“But what am I supposed to do now?” I ask. “What does it mean?”
“I don't know,” she says.
W
hen Mary leaves, I follow her red convertible around the lake toward town, but as I near Hudson's I realize that my tank is almost empty. And so I pull into the dirt lot, and she disappears down the road. She has a dentist appointment this afternoon back in Burlington. This was all she could offer today.
Before I get out of the car to fill the tank, I check my phone. There are no missed calls, but there is a text from Jake.
CMB.
His shorthand, his adolescent text speak, irritates me. He's forty-five years old. What's he so busy doing he can't spell out
call me back?
I still haven't spoken to him since he and Devin left on Sunday morning. I know I need to tell him about the police, but that is a conversation I'd rather not have. The longer I wait to return his call, the longer I can prolong the inevitable. And so instead of texting him back, I toss my phone in my purse. Out of sight, out of mind.
But that's not true; I am distracted. And so it takes a few minutes before I realize the gas pump isn't turning on. I already entered my PIN. I selected the grade. I lean over and fiddle with the handle; it's secure in the gas tank opening.
I grab my purse and head into the store.
When I get inside, I see it's the same boy who was working the night that I found the girl. He's Billy Moffett's son, Effie told me. And he does look a little bit like a younger version of Billy, the one we knew all those years ago. He's sitting behind the counter, picking at his cuticles with a pen cap.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I can't get the gas to turn on.”
He looks up. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi. The gas isn't coming on.”
“Did you fiddle with the nozzle?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you select the grade?”
“Yes. I did everything. It's just not turning on.”
He ducks behind the counter, I guess to whatever machine controls the tanks.
“Go try it again. If it don't work this time, just pull up to the next pump,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Wait,” he says, a flash of recognition on his face. He points his finger at me, bobbing it up and down. “You're that lady who found the little girl.”
I sigh and nod.
“There's still a few folks showing up to search,” he says. “Even though the cops said it was a hoax.”
“Really?” I look toward the doorway to the back room. But it's dark back there. No signs of life.
“Yeah. Yesterday they came about noon. Maybe five or six of 'em that are still looking.”
Something about this warms my heart, though I know it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the possibility that there is a child out there alone in the woods.
I'm sure the police have already spoken to him, but he seems friendly, and so I say, “Hey, I don't know if you remember that night I came in. You were working, I think. I bought a bottle of wine?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You know, some people were saying you were drunk. That you were hallucinating or something.” His skin colors red and he stares down at his bloody cuticles.
I smile to assure him I've heard this all before, that it doesn't bother me.
“Well,” I say. “There was another guy in here. A guy filling up his white pickup truck. He had painter's overalls on? A big black dog in his truck. Flatlander,” I add, trying to ally myself with him. “Massachusetts plates?”
“Yeah, I know him,” he says.
I am taken aback. I
know
him. Not I
remember
him.
“Yeah? Does he own a camp on Gormlaith or something?”
“Maybe,” he says, shrugging. “Comes up pretty much every weekend. Sometimes during the week too.”
“Do you know his name?” he asks.
“Nah,” he says. “He's not real talkative.”
“Does he ever use a credit card? Maybe you would have a copy of one of his receipts?”
“Shit no,” the boy says. “Excuse my French. He always pays cash. Has a huge roll of cash usually. Must be thousands a dollars he's carryin' around in his pocket.”
“
Really?
” I say. “Does he maybe have a girlfriend up here?” I ask, thinking of Lisa. “Have you ever seen him with anybody else?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just comes in, fills up his tank, buys a twelve-pack and takes off. Ain't never said two words to me.”
“So how long has he been coming around here?” I ask. Most people with summer camps on Gormlaith come and open them up after Memorial Day. Just at the end of mud season when the snow has finally mostly melted, and things are starting to bloom.
“About six months, nine months?” he says, shrugging.
“Wait. You mean in the winter too?” I ask, confused. Summer people don't come up here in the winter. Especially not to do landscaping. “You sure it's the same guy?”
“Yeah. Guy with the dog. Messed-up ears,” he says. “I remember because it was like ten below windchill one day, and he had the poor dog chained in the back of his truck. No freaking ears. It musta been freezing. I'm an animal lover, and I remember it pissed me off. 'Scuse my French again.”
“That's terrible,” I say, nodding. My heart is pounding hard in my chest.
“I even wrote down his plate number, thought about reporting him to the authorities. That's animal cruelty, ain't it?”
“You wrote down his plate number?” I ask, stunned.
“Yeah, course I didn't wind up doin' nothin'. Felt weird with him being a regular customer and all. Seems like a nice enough guy. And ever since then the dog's been in the cab of the truck with him anyway.”
“Do you still have it?” I ask.
“The plate number?” he says.
I nod.
“What for?”
“The police never talked to you about this?” I ask. “A few days ago, when everybody was still looking for the girl?”
He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. “Nobody talked to me about nothing.”
I feel my body tremble. They
never
believed me. Not even enough to ask this kid a simple question.
“I got it right here,” he says, bending down under the counter. “I wrote it down in the same place where we keep a list of folks who bounced checks with us.” He plucks out a sheet of paper littered with names, sets it down on the counter and turns it to face me. He taps at the paper. His cuticles are raw and scabby.
“Right there,” he says
. Dog/MA pickup 993 MX1
.
I pull my phone out of my purse and enter the info into my notes app.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Let me know if the gas still ain't coming out,” he says as I rush out the door.
T
he streets are busy when I get into town. It's lunchtime, and so people are out on the sidewalks, headed to lunch at the Miss Quimby Diner, into the bank and post office to run errands. Quimby is a typical small town in that it has one main street, one place of commerce. Most businesses have been around since I was a kid, but a few others come and go, the storefront signs different each time we come to visit Effie and Devin. When we were kids we always used to dream about opening up a bookshop on this street, the kind of bookshop that has a big orange cat that sleeps in the window. But instead, Effie became a librarian, and I went to the city and became an editor. Funny how dreams change. How reality deviates from what it is that we truly want. I can't help but wonder what this means for Zu-Zu. For Plum. For me and for Jake now.
I make my way to the park, to Ryan's office, nervous about spilling everything. He's the only lawyer I've got, quite possibly the only lawyer (besides his partner) in town. I really can't risk losing him in case the cops actually follow through with the charges against me.
I climb the stairs, and this time the door to the offices is shut. I push it open gently, and poke my head into the lobby.
There's a woman sitting at the reception desk this time, and she looks somewhat familiar.
“Tess?” she says, standing up. “Oh my God, I heard you were in town!”
I feel my cheeks redden as I struggle to place her face. Jesus. Does everyone in town know who I am? Coming here has been like one endless reunion.
“You don't know who I am, do you?” she says.
I smile, hesitate, hope that it will come to me.
“It's okay, it's okay,” she says, waving her hand in front of her face. “It's Beth. Beth Fowler.”
The name rings a bell, but a bell that is so far away, I can barely hear the jingle.
“I was . . . um . . .
bigger
. . . in high school,” she says, standing up from the reception desk now. She's an attractive woman, about my age. Athletic-looking. A blond bob and soft brown eyes. “I lost a hundred and fifteen pounds two years ago. Remember, we had Mr. Noonan for calculus senior year.”
“Elizabeth Fowler,” I say, nodding. “I remember you! Wow! That's amazing.”
Elizabeth Fowler was in my calculus class, and I also remember she was on the track and field team: shot put and discus. She must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds in high school. Yet, her face is exactly the same. It's as if this woman in front of me was hiding inside that girl all along.
“It's great to see you,” I say.
And then we stand there, nodding. We really didn't know each other in high school. I'm pretty sure this is the longest conversation we've ever had.
“Are you on Facebook?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “It's Tess Waters now. You should find me. Or I can find you?”
She nods. I nod.
“Um, is Ryan here? I called earlier but got his voice mail.”
“Oh, he just went to grab lunch. He should be back any minute,” she says. “Have a seat.”
Ryan comes in just as I'm flipping open a tattered copy of
People
magazine. It's at least a year old.
He's got a greasy paper bag in his hands and a fountain soda. “Tess!” he says. “Shoot. I didn't think you'd get here so fast. Are you hungry? I would have picked something up for you too.”
“I'm fine,” I say. “Do you want to eat first? I can wait.”
“No, come in. If you don't mind, I can eat while we chat.”
“Sure,” I say. “It was nice seeing you, Elizabeth.”
“I actually go by Beth now.” She smiles.
And I think about reinventing yourself. About how the past always lingers. You shed a hundred and fifteen pounds, change your name, but your eyes are the same. The self-conscious smile remains.
Â
Ryan sits down and unwraps a big roast beef sandwich from a wax paper wrapper.
“So, have you heard anything more from Andrews?” he asks.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Have you?”
“I called over after we spoke yesterday, told them that I would be representing you as your counsel. I let him know that any more communication with you needs to go through me. Other than that, no.”
He takes a big bite of his sandwich, and I figure now is as good a time as any to talk.
“Um,” I start. “I came in because there's some new, um, information that I was thinking might help.”
He chews slowly, cocks his head.
“So, last night I went by Sharp's house. . . .”
His eyes widen.
“Just to look around a little bit . . . to see if I could find anything.”
He sets his sandwich down, chews and forces himself to swallow.
“You trespassed on his property?” he says.
“He's got all these trailers, like a whole collection of them. It freaked me out the first time I saw them, and now, knowing what I know, I just kept thinking about that woman. Jaycee Dugard? The one that man kept in his backyard. Or those girls in Cleveland? What if he has her? He's a registered sex offender. What if she's
there?
”
He is shaking his head slowly. “You know you really shouldn't be investigating on your own. Given the accusations, you might even want to stop joining the search party. . . .”
“Wait,” I say. I need to at least get the story out. “There's one trailer that isn't on its wheels anymore. The windows are all boarded up. . . .”
“You went inside? Jesus Christ, Tess. That's breaking and entering.”
“No,” I say. “It was locked. And then he came home, and get
this,
he was with the guy in that pickup truck. The one from Massachusetts I saw that night.”
He's not shaking his head anymore.
“Did he see you?” he asks.
“No. I left,” I say.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? How
illegal?
”
“Wait,” I say, pleading with him to just hear me out. “I found something. Something important.”
I reach into the small pocket of my jeans and pull out the barrette. My hand is trembling. I set it on the desk next to his sandwich.
“What is this?” he asks.
“It's hers,” I say. “It was in her hair when I found her.”
He picks it up, studies it. A dollar-store piece of plastic, the only evidence that this little girl is real.
“But here's the problem,” I say. “I forgot to tell the cops about the barrette. I don't know why it slipped my mind. I was so focused on what she was wearing, I forgot all about it.”
He sets the barrette back down on the desk and pushes it toward me. Returning it to me.
“You were trespassing. And you removed property from the premises.”
I feel scolded. Like a child.
“She was
there
. Maybe still is,” I say. “Should any of that matter if he did something to her? If he has her?”
He sits back in his chair and pushes his hands through his hair. “Well,” he says. “There is some good news here.”
“Yeah? How so?” I say.
“If a police officer were to have found the barrette through what amounts, essentially, to an illegal search of this guy Sharp's property, then it would be inadmissible.”
I nod, waiting.
“
But,
you're a civilian. Not a cop. Usually, the exclusionary rule doesn't apply when a civilian conducts an illegal search. Unless you're working for the police, or as some sort of civilian police agent, the evidence won't be suppressed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, you're one lucky chick.”
“How so?”
“Well, first, that Sharp didn't come out and blow your head off. Which he would've had every right to do, by the way. You might want to remember that the next time you think about snooping around. Second, I think this will force the cops to look into this guy.”
“There's actually more,” I say.
“Oh Christ,” he says. “Do I even want to hear this?”
One thing I have learned over the years is that people respond to good news a lot better after getting bad news. Even I am this simple. This predictable.
“Yeah,” I say, and smile. “I have the plate number for the white truck.”