Beyond Reach

  Lena climbed onto the chair and pressed her hands against the access panel. It felt stuck, though not with paint. Something was on top, a box maybe, and Lena had to use her fist to punch up the panel and knock off the box. By the time she managed to slide the panel aside, her hand was throbbing, blood trickling from her knuckles. The stagnant air from the attic wafted down, but Lena didn’t give herself time to think it through before reaching up into the open space, grabbing the beams on either side of the opening, and pulling herself up.

  The roof was pitched, but not enough to stand. She kept at a low crouch as she moved toward the light switch, knowing that long rusty nails from the shingles were jutting down, waiting to rip her scalp open. Even with the sun down, the attic was hot as hell. A bead of sweat rolled down her back. Knowing she was wasting her time, she flicked the light switch. Much to her amazement, the bulb came on, illuminating a small area of the cramped attic. A blown bulb and an empty pack were on the floor so she had to think Hank had been up here recently. There was no telling what he had been doing. Boxes were stacked everywhere, papers spilling out all over the place. Rat droppings dotted the plywood floor. She heard a squeaking sound as some kind of animal protested her invasion.

  The smell hit her with sudden intensity, the overwhelming stench of death.

  As a rookie cop, Lena had handled her share of calls from out-of-town sons and daughters who were wondering why Mom or Dad or Grandma wasn’t picking up the phone. Generally, there was a very good reason, and the more senior officers considered it on-the-job training to send the rookies out to discover the bodies.

  Once, Lena had found an old woman sitting in her recliner, dead as a doornail. An unfinished afghan and some knitting needles were in her lap, the TV chattering in the background. The woman smelled like urine and rotting meat. Lena had puked her guts out on the back porch before she’d radioed back to the station to tell them what she’d found.

  Now, in the attic, she felt like puking again—not from stress, but from fear. She knew what a dead person smelled like, the way their body fluids seeped out, the gases escaped, as they decomposed. She knew the way their skin sank into the bones, that more likely than not they’d baked in their own shit as they’d waited for someone to find them.

  A thought flashed into her head, one that wouldn’t go away: had she found her mother? Had Angela Adams been up here all those years, her body rotting into the floorboards as Lena and Sibyl lived down below?

  No. It wasn’t possible. Too much time had passed. The odor would be gone. Hank would’ve moved it by now.

  Lena felt her heart beating in her throat. Hank. She always thought of him last, even now. Tears sprang into her eyes. She reached up, steadying herself against a rafter. There was another noise in the attic, the sound of her own cries, like a siren winding down.

  She saw it now on the opposite end of the attic: a pale foot sticking out from behind the boxes; a man’s foot, the sparse spattering of hair around the ankle, the waxy sheen of death on the skin.

  “No,” Lena whispered, because that was all she could manage.

  He had finally done it. He had climbed up here with his kit, taken that last needle, burned that last bag of powder, and killed himself. Just as he had told Lena he would do. Just as she had secretly hoped that he would do all those years ago.

  She could leave right now. She could go back to Grant County. She could go to work on Monday, do her job, come home, have some dinner, maybe watch a movie on TV. She could call Nan and maybe go visit. They would drink beer and sit in the backyard and talk about Sibyl and maybe Lena would ask her sister’s lover exactly what Sibyl had known. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe they would talk about the weather or some book Nan was reading that Lena couldn’t begin to understand. Nan would ask about Hank and Lena would tell her that she hadn’t heard from him in a while, didn’t know what he was up to.

  Lena crawled to him on her hands and knees. Her arms were trembling so badly that she had to stop halfway, steady herself, before she could go on. She was hearing things again, words in a small voice, like a little girl was saying them. “I’m sorry,” she heard. “It’s my fault…I should’ve never left you…I should’ve called an ambulance…I should’ve taken you to the hospital…I should’ve stopped you.” Lena realized that the voice she heard was her own. She sobbed, gasping for air in the closed attic.

  Lena reached up, shoved away the boxes so that they toppled to the side. She saw the naked man lying dead in front of her.

  It wasn’t Hank.

  THURSDAY MORNING

  CHAPTER 13

  JEFFREY HAD NEVER LIKED sleeping in strange places. In his wilder days, he’d been loath to spend the entire evening with a woman, and not just because her husband might come home. He liked being able to get up in the middle of the night and know where the bathroom was. He liked knowing where the light switches were and which cabinet the glasses were in.

  What he didn’t like was waking up in Jake Valentine’s house.

  He had easily found the sheriff in the parking lot of Hank’s bar next door, though there wasn’t much the sheriff could do but watch the building burn. Jeffrey had found him standing beside one of his deputies, thumbs hooked into the waist of his blue jeans as he watched the last of the fire burn itself out. Valentine was still wearing his ankle holster and smelled a lot like the beer he’d been drinking with Jeffrey the night before. When Jeffrey had asked the man to follow him back to the motel, he hadn’t asked questions.

  “That’s Boyd Gibson,” Valentine had said when Jeffrey showed him the dead man lying on the floor of his and Sara’s motel room. “I went to school with him.”

  Not, “How the hell did this dead guy get in your room?” or “Who stabbed him in the back?” Just, “Damn, his daddy’s gonna be heartbroken.”

  Jeffrey supposed he should be thankful that Valentine had offered them his spare room for the night. Grant County was a long drive and Sara had turned quiet again—too quiet for Jeffrey’s liking. When he asked if she minded sleeping at the sheriff’s house, she’d merely nodded, silently tucking her clothes into the suitcase she’d brought from home. She hadn’t spoken during the quick drive to Valentine’s house, either. When Jeffrey climbed into bed beside her, she’d put her head on his chest, wrapped her arm around him.

  Jeffrey found himself listening to see if Sara was crying again. Sara very seldom cried, and when she did, he felt as if his heart was being squeezed in a vise. She wasn’t crying, though. She was thinking. That much was obvious when she leaned up on her elbow, her tone telling him she’d made up her mind when she said, “I’m not leaving this place until you do.”

  He’d opened his mouth to argue the point, but she put her fingers to his lips, shushed him. “When I married you”—she allowed a smile—“at least this last time, I knew you were the kind of man who runs toward trouble instead of running away from it.” She paused, her tone soft but firm. “I can’t stop you from trying to save the world, but I won’t abandon you while you’re doing it.”

  He had felt like an absolute shit then—not because he still wanted her to go home, not because he’d put her in the line of fire, but because he had been lying to her face from the minute that dead body had been thrown into their room.

  Jeffrey had seen the tattooed man on the floor, saw the dark, black blood flowering out from the pearl-handled folding knife in his back, and said nothing.

  “I’m not leaving until you do,” Sara had told him.

  There wasn’t anything else to say after that. He closed his eyes but sleep wouldn’t come so he found himself listening to Sara’s breathing. She was obviously restless, and after a while she turned on her side, then laid flat on her stomach. At least a full hour passed before her breathing finally slowed and she fell asleep.

  Jeffrey got out of bed and dressed, even though there was nowhere for him to go. He desperately wanted to take a shower, but there was only one bathroom in the house and he didn’t want to wake anyone up. He didn?
??t want to prowl around Valentine’s home, either, so he pulled up a metal folding chair and sat by the window looking out at the street. He adjusted the blinds just enough to see outside. Like the guest bedroom, the living room was on the street side of the house, and Jeffrey imagined the sheriff had been looking at much the same view as Jeffrey was now when he noticed the fire coming from the football field. It would’ve taken him less than five minutes to jog over to see what had happened. At least that part of the sheriff’s story checked out.

  Despite the modest house, Valentine, or maybe his wife, seemed to be quite the gardener. Tiny landscaping lights lining the front yard illuminated their handiwork: fall plantings and grass that was mowed neat like a green blanket. There were so many things a man did to make a house a home, whether it was replacing a rotted soffit or painting the walls or hanging some ugly floral wallpaper in the bathroom that your wife had picked out. Not that Sara was partial to large floral patterns, but judging from the Laura-Ashley-gone-wild scheme throughout the house, Jeffrey was guessing Mrs. Valentine was.

  He tried to think of all the changes he and Sara had made to their home over the years. The only ones that came to mind were more recent. Before the woman from the adoption agency came for a home visit, Sara had convinced Jeffrey to get on his hands and knees with her and look at the house the way a baby might. He’d played along, laughing until they’d found a nail sticking out from the kitchen cabinet under the sink. By the time he spotted a finger-sized gap between an electrical socket and the Sheetrock in the laundry room, he was ready to tear down the house and start again from scratch.

  Jeffrey found himself wondering what Al Pfeiffer’s house had looked like before the firebomb had been thrown through his window. What had Pfeiffer been thinking as he watched his home burn down? Or had the old sheriff been too consumed by his own injuries to take much notice of what he was losing? Jesus, had he heard them nailing his front door shut and known what was about to happen?

  Jeffrey glanced back at Sara lying in bed. What had he gotten her into? Or, worse yet, what had Lena gotten them into? Just yesterday, he had been looking for ways to tie together all the threads. Tonight, the solution had come flying through his window with a big bow tied around it. The pearl-handled knife jutting out of Boyd Gibson’s back belonged to Lena.

  Jeffrey sighed, slouching back in the uncomfortable metal chair. He stared out the window again, watching the empty street. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, a hint of light was slanting in through the window. A car pulled up outside. The driver got out and stumbled toward the house across the street, dropping his keys twice before he managed to open the front door. Less than a minute later, he came back out of the house and walked in a drunken diagonal back toward his car. Jeffrey was wondering if he should intervene when the man fell into the backseat. The front door of the house opened a crack; a woman poked out her head to check on the man, then shut the door again.

  Sara stirred and Jeffrey turned around to see if she was awake. She was still on her stomach, arms and legs spread as she took advantage of his empty side of the bed. There was enough light now so that he could see her face. He hated arguing with her, couldn’t function when they were mad at each other. Watching her in the morgue, the careful, respectful way she handled that poor woman’s body, had reminded him of all the reasons he needed Sara in his life. She was the one person who could cut through all the bullshit and show him what was important. She was his conscience.

  When Jeffrey had initially met Cathy and Eddie Linton, his first thought was that they just didn’t make marriages like that anymore. Now, being with Sara, he understood that they did.

  The floor creaked outside the bedroom door as someone walked past. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, separating the two bedrooms, and Jeffrey listened as the footsteps softened, shuffling across the tile. The door clicked closed.

  Seeing the house last night, Jeffrey had found himself thinking there was no way Jake Valentine was on the take—not unless he had a secret mansion somewhere out in the woods. The place was definitely a fixer-upper. Fake pine paneling lined the living room and the kitchen cupboards were original to the house—not a good thing when you lived in a 1960s ranch. If Jake was taking money to look the other way, the sheriff sure wasn’t spending it on himself.

  The shower turned on. Jeffrey wondered if it was the sheriff or his wife. Myra Valentine wasn’t exactly friendly with them last night, but not many wives would be glad to welcome two strangers into their home at one in the morning. She was a short woman, maybe five feet tall in her socks, the top of her head not quite reaching Jake’s chest. What she lacked in height she made up for in girth. Jeffrey guessed she was at least a hundred pounds overweight. Standing side by side, the Valentines looked like the living embodiment of the number ten.

  Like her husband, Myra hadn’t asked a lot of questions. After the most basic introductions were made, she had hustled Jeffrey and Sara into the guest bedroom with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from a high school English teacher, fetching Sara a towel and washrag, briskly changing the bed so they would have fresh sheets to sleep on. When Jeffrey had volunteered to help, she’d given him a scowl that made him feel like he’d been caught passing a note in class.

  The shower turned off. Noises came from the rest of the house. Pots and pans clattered together. A radio was switched on, the sound down low. In the bathroom, a hairdryer whirred. Sara didn’t move. She had always been a heavy sleeper. She’d told him once that it came from her grueling internship, where catching sleep was a competitive sport. Two years ago, she’d slept through a hurricane while he’d anxiously stared out the windows, waiting for the oak tree in the front yard to come crashing down on the house.

  Jeffrey stood up, stretching his arms over his head, feeling his spine creak as it tried to align itself to something other than the shape of a folding chair. There was a dull throb in his head and he could still smell smoke from last night’s fire on his skin and hair. He could smell Sara mixed in there somewhere, too, and his body stirred at the thought. If he’d been just about anywhere else in the world but Jake Valentine’s house, he would’ve climbed back in bed with her and done something about it.

  Instead, he laid out some fresh clothes, putting them in a neat pile on the edge of the bed, so desperate for a shower that he could almost feel the warm water on his back. At the motel, Sara had just shoved everything into the suitcase. Now, Jeffrey folded her shirts, smoothed down her jeans so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

  The front door opened and closed and Jeffrey went to the window again, peered out through the blinds. He’d thought Jake Valentine was sneaking out, but he saw the gangly young man standing in the front yard, hands on his hips as he surveyed the street like the lord of the manor. The sheriff was wearing a ridiculously short red velour robe that stopped a few inches shy of his knees, and when he bent over to retrieve the morning paper, Jeffrey winced at the sight of the tighty whities cracking a smile.

  Valentine tucked the paper under his arm as he walked over to the car parked in front of his house. He was wearing brown loafers and socks with the robe, and his footprints left their mark in the grass as he walked toward the neighbor’s car. He checked the backseat where Jeffrey assumed the drunk was still sleeping it off, then looked up and down the street again before heading back to the house.

  Jeffrey closed the blinds, not wanting the light to wake up Sara. When he turned around he saw that he was too late.

  She was on her side, watching him. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Babies don’t tend to sleep sitting up in metal chairs.”

  “High chairs?” He smiled at her dubious expression, sat beside her on the bed. “You okay?”

  “I’m better,” was all she allowed. “What’re we doing?”

  He took her hand. “You still sticking around?”

  “Yep.”

  He wasn’t happy about her staying, but he’d be stup
id not to use her. “I was hoping you could tell us something about our drop-in visitor from last night.”

  “Boyd Gibson?” Sara sat up, leaned her back against the head-board. “Do you think Jake will ask me to do the autopsy?”

  “I’d bet money on it,” Jeffrey told her. Valentine would want to keep tabs on Sara and Jeffrey, and there was no better way to occupy their time than by sticking them at the morgue all day. What the sheriff probably wasn’t planning on was that Jeffrey had no problem leaving Sara alone at the morgue.

  She asked, “Do you want me to do the procedure?”

  “Might as well,” he answered. “Maybe something will turn up.”

  She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Like Lena’s fingerprints on her knife?”

  She could’ve kicked him in the face and he would’ve been less surprised.

  Sara explained, “The handle is very distinctive. I’ve seen her with it before.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, knowing he should have told her hours ago. “I guess I didn’t want to think about how it might have gotten there.”

  “I don’t want a marriage where we keep things from each other. We did that one time before and it didn’t work for either of us.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed, feeling even shittier since she was letting him off so easy. He felt the need to apologize again. “I’m really sorry.”

  She offered, “It could’ve been self-defense.”

  “Nice try,” he said, giving a dry laugh. It was hard to make a case for self-defense when the victim had been stabbed in the back. “You think you’ll get anything useful from the body?”