A Grant County Collection: Indelible, Faithless and Skin Privilege

  Molly's head jerked around, her mouth open.

  'What?' Smith asked, pointing the Sig at Molly's forehead. 'You want to say something else, bitch? You want to mouth off?'

  'No,' Lena answered for her, surprised she was capable of saying the word.

  Smith's smile behind the mask was horrifying. She saw his eyes crawl up and down her body, paying specific attention to her breasts; the glint told her he liked what he was seeing. He pushed the muzzle of his gun into Molly's head one last time before turning his attention to Lena. 'That's what I thought.' He motioned for her to turn around. 'Hands against the wall.'

  The phone started ringing, a shrill bell that cut through the air like a knife.

  Smith repeated, 'Turn around.'

  Lena pressed her palms between two framed photographs from the 1970s Grant County police force. They were all men, all in blues, all with shaggy mustaches. Ben Walker, then the Chief of Police, was the only one who looked out of place with his military crew cut and clean-shaven face. Farther down was a photograph with Lena in it. She held her breath, hoping to God Smith did not notice.

  'You hiding anything?' Smith's hands were like a sledgehammer as he patted her down. He pushed her flat to the wall, pressing himself against her. 'You hiding anything?' he repeated, deftly unbuttoning her blouse with one hand.

  She was silent, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried not to look at the photograph less than two feet from her nose. She had been so young then, so open to her future and what it held. Being a cop like her old man had been Lena's life plan for as long as she could remember. The day that photograph had been taken was one of the best days of her life, and now it might end up killing her.

  Smith slipped his hand into her open shirt, his palm cupping her breasts. 'You got something good in here?' he asked. 'Heart sure is beating fast.'

  She stood as still as she could, eyes squeezed shut as his hand moved to her other breast. His breath was heavy, his pleasure evident.

  Lena should have been terrified, but she was not. Something was eerily familiar about the threat of his body pressed into hers. Smith was a small man, compactly built. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest, and if Lena let herself consider it, he reminded her of Ethan. She knew how to handle Ethan, how to keep him walking that tight line between anger and control. Seeing how far she could push her lover was almost a game by now. The problem was that sometimes she lost. Lena had the split lip to prove it.

  Smith whispered, 'You got something good?' his breath hot in her ear. She could feel him pressing harder into her, making his intentions obvious. Lena felt herself floating somehow, like her soul was in another place while her body remained at the station.

  Then there was another voice that Lena did not recognize. The second shooter had said, 'Stop that,' with little authority, but Smith still backed away, his hand lingering for as long as it could.

  Smith ordered Lena, 'Take off your shoes.' Then told Molly, 'You next. Up against the wall.'

  Molly's trepidation was obvious, but she followed suit, leaning her hands against the wall between the photographs. Lena buttoned her shirt as she watched Smith give Molly a solid pat-down without copping any feels. She moved away from the photographs and sat on the floor to untie her shoes. She had taped the knife to the indentation just behind her ankle bone, underneath her sock. The tendon throbbed, and she tried not to show her nervousness as she handed Smith her shoes. The high tops had covered her ankle when he frisked her. If he did not frisk her again or ask her to remove her socks, she would be okay.

  Smith turned her shoes upside down, looking at the soles and peering inside. He did the same with Molly's shoes, then dropped them both back on the floor. Molly went to put on hers, but Smith stopped her.

  He rummaged through the boxes, looking for contraband, then said, 'Pick these up and tote 'em in the back.'

  Lena knelt down and picked up the box, covering her chest in the process. She waited for Molly to pick up the drinks before pushing open the swinging doors to the squad room. Lena had managed to slip her sneakers on but had not tied them. Her feet were sweating, but she could feel the surgical tape holding the knife. How could she pass it along? How could she leave it where it would do anyone any good?

  She concentrated on the things that she could control, checking out the room. The station was turned upside down, but Lena was glad to find that the map Frank and Pat had drawn was pretty accurate. Clothes had been shoved into the air vents, and the filing cabinets and desks were shoved against the doors. Brad stood in the center of the room wearing his boxer shorts and a white undershirt, his hairless white legs looking like matchsticks poking out of his black socks and regulation shoes. Beside him, the three girls were on the floor tucked under Maria's arms like a flock of chickadees. At the rear of the room, Sara sat with her back to the wall. A man lay with his head in her lap, the bottom soles of his shoes facing Lena. She stumbled, dropping the box. The man was Jeffrey.

  'Here,' Brad said, picking up sandwiches and putting them back in the box. His eyes were open wider than usual, and he spoke in a deep baritone. 'Matt was shot in the shoulder,' he said.

  'What?'

  'Matt,' Brad said, his eyes going to Jeffrey. 'He was shot in the shoulder.'

  Her mouth said, 'Oh,' as if she understood, but Lena could feel her brain stretching to make the connection.

  Sara's voice was a hoarse whisper, her concern obvious. 'He's in and out. I don't know how much longer he can hold on.'

  Molly asked, 'Can we do anything to help him?'

  Sara had trouble speaking. She cleared her throat, then said, 'You could get him out of here.'

  'That ain't gonna happen,' Smith said, rifling through the sandwiches, reading the labels. 'Man, this is ass.' He seemed to be showing off, and Lena guessed it was for her benefit. She was becoming one of those women she hated seeing as a cop. She would go to their houses when their boyfriends got out of hand, and they would beg and cry to keep the bastard out of jail. There was something about them, something about the way they held themselves and looked at the world like they were waiting for one more punch. They gave off some kind of scent or something that invited the kind of guy who liked to hit women.

  Sara said, 'He needs medical attention.'

  Molly took her stethoscope and headed toward the back.

  Smith said, 'You going somewhere?'

  'I was going to –'

  'That's okay,' Smith stepped aside with a slight bow. He saw Lena watching and gave her a wink.

  Lena knew what was expected of her, and she said, 'Thank you,' without giving it another thought.

  She started unpacking the sandwiches, handing them to the children and asking them each in turn if they were okay. Still, she felt that same disconnection, as if someone else was in the room handing out sandwiches and Lena as floating overhead, watching the scene.

  The phone was still ringing, and Smith walked over, picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.

  One of the girls jumped at the noise. She cried, 'I want my daddy.'

  Lena soothed, 'I know. It won't be long.'

  The girl started crying in earnest and Lena gave her a bottle of water, feeling helpless and angry at the same time. 'Don't cry,' she said, sounding more like she was pleading. Lena had always been horrible with kids. Still, she tried, 'It's going to be okay.'

  Maria gave a low moan, her eyes glassy as she stared at Lena.

  Lena tried to get the old woman's attention, saying, 'Are you all right?' She tried to act like a paramedic, putting her hand on Maria's shoulder, asking, 'Are you okay?'

  Smith was over near Molly and Sara. He obviously did not like what he was hearing, because he finally said, 'That's enough. Get out of here. Take the old bitch.'

  Molly said, 'He needs help.'

  'What about me?' Smith asked, indicating a small strip of white cloth wrapped around his arm. Blood spread out from the center, nearly saturating it.

  The phone started ringing aga
in. Wagner had probably freaked when they carried Matt outside.

  'There are supplies in the ambulance,' Molly said. 'Let Matt go and I'll stay here and suture you.'

  'Got a couple of heroes here,' Smith said to his partner, and Lena realized he meant her as well.

  Lena was kneeling by Maria, and Smith practically swaggered as he walked toward them. Without a word, he jerked up one of the girls by her wrist and yanked her toward the front of the room. She yelled, but he must have twisted her arm enough to shut her up. He took the crying child with him and talked to his partner. Lena was still on her knees, and she turned to watch them, putting her feet behind her. Slowly, she moved her hand to her ankle, feeling the pocketknife. She felt someone's hand over her's, but dared not turn around. Brad was to her right, so she knew it wasn't him. The children were too frightened to move. Maria. It must have been Maria whose fingers worked so deftly with the tape and removed the pocketknife.

  Smith said, 'We got a doctor, couple of paramedics. Why not?'

  His partner gave a wary shake of his head, but seemed resigned to whatever Smith had planned.

  Smith walked back to Lena, dragging the girl. 'Go get your case out of the ambulance.'

  'What?' she said, not understanding.

  He looked at his watch, which was the kind she had seen in magazines, advertising the fact that Navy SEALs used the same brand. He said, 'Get your case and get back here.' He pressed the Sig to the little girl's head. 'You've got thirty seconds.'

  'I don't –'

  'Twenty-nine.'

  'Fuck,' Lena cursed. She scrambled to stand and bolted toward the door, her heart lurching in her chest. At the ambulance, she threw open the back doors, looking for anything that resembled a case.

  'Officer?' a man called. She knew it was one of the cops by the cruisers but she did not have time. 'Officer?'

  'It's okay!' she yelled, panic filling her voice. 'It's okay!' There was a long plastic case strapped into the side of the ambulance. She had been on accident scenes enough to know this was the first thing the EMTs brought with them. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle and she said, 'Fuck-fuck-fuck,' trying to remember how long she had been out of the building.

  The man kept pushing. 'Do you need help?'

  'Shut up!' she screamed, throwing open the case. There were all kinds of drugs and boxes. She hoped it had everything they would need. At the last minute, she grabbed another bag and the defibrillator.

  She ran through the front door, startling the second shooter. He reared up but did not pull the trigger on her. Lena rushed to the back, where Smith still had the gun pressed to the little girl's head. He was looking at his watch, smiling, and she felt such seething hatred for him that she dropped the gear and reached for the little girl, snatching her away.

  The muzzle of Smith's gun caught Lena in the forehead, stunning her for a moment. She dropped to her knees and he kicked her in the chest. She fell back just as Brad tried to come to her aid. Smith trained the Sig on Brad and pressed his foot into Lena's sternum.

  He said, 'I knew you would try to be a hero.'

  'No,' Lena said, the pressure from his boot pushing the life out of her.

  Smith pressed harder. 'You want to be a hero?'

  'No,' she said. 'Please.' She tried to pry up his boot but that just made him press harder. 'Please,' she repeated, thinking about the child inside her, wondering what this was doing.

  Smith exhaled sharply, like he was disappointed. 'All right,' he said, removing his foot. 'Let that be a lesson.'

  Brad helped Lena stand. She found that her knees were weak and she felt sick all over. Had the pressure done something? Had Smith broken her inside?

  Smith used his foot to push the plastic case toward Sara. 'This should be enough to do it,' he said. 'Field surgery, just like on TV.'

  Sara shook her head. 'It's too dangerous. There's no way –'

  'Sure there's a way.'

  'He should be in an operating room.'

  'This'll have to do.'

  'He could die.'

  Smith indicated his gun. 'He might die anyway.'

  'What do you have against . . .' Sara stopped, obviously trying to control her emotions. They seemed to get the better of her, though, and she demanded, 'What do you have against us? What did we do to you?'

  'It's not you,' Smith told her. He picked up the phone, shouting, 'What the fuck do you want?'

  'Then Jeffrey,' Sara said, her voice catching again. Smith would not look at her, so she addressed her words to the second gunman. 'What did Jeffrey ever do to you?'

  The second shooter turned toward Sara, his rifle still aimed at the door.

  'Shut the fuck up,' Smith barked into the phone. 'We're just gonna perform a little field surgery here. That's why you sent the medics, right?'

  Sara would not let go. 'What?' she demanded. 'What's the point? Why are you doing this?' she begged, sounding desperate. 'Why?'

  The second shooter kept staring at her, and Smith put the phone to his chest, waiting to see if his partner would answer. The young man had a quiet voice, but it carried when he answered, 'Because Jeffrey's his father.'

  Sara looked as if she had seen a ghost. Her lips trembled when she asked, 'Jared?'

  SEVENTEEN

  Monday

  Sara counted off the rings on the phone, waiting for her parents' answering machine to pick up. Eddie hated answering machines, but he had gotten one when Sara came back from Atlanta just to help her feel safer. After the sixth ring, the machine whirred on, her father's voice gruff as he asked the caller to leave a message.

  Sara waited for the beep, then said, 'Mama, it's me –'

  'Sara?' Cathy said. 'Hold on.' Sara waited while her mother went to turn off the machine, which was upstairs in her parents' bedroom. There were only two telephones in the house: the one in the kitchen that had a fifty-foot cord and the one in the master bedroom that had become off-limits to Sara and Tessa as soon as they had reached dating age.

  Sara let her gaze fall to the skeleton on the table where just this morning Luke Swan had lain. Hoss had brought three cardboard boxes to transport the bones, and though Sara had been shocked by his lackadaisical attitude, she was not in a position to question the man's methods. She had painstakingly put the skeleton together, trying to find clues that would help identify her. The whole process had taken hours, but she was finally certain about one thing: the girl had, in fact, been murdered.

  Cathy came back on the line. 'You okay?' she asked. 'Is something wrong? Where are you?'

  'I'm fine, Mama.'

  'I was out buying sprinkles for cupcakes.'

  Sara felt a tinge of guilt. Her mother only made cupcakes when she was trying to cheer Sara up.

  Cathy continued, 'Your daddy got called away to the Chorskes' again. Little Jack flushed a handful of crayons down the toilet.'

  'Again?'

  'Again,' she echoed. 'You wanna come on over and help me with the frosting?'

  'I'm sorry,' Sara told her. 'I'm still in Sylacauga.'

  'Oh.' The word managed to convey disappointment as well as disapproval.

  'There was a problem,' Sara began, wondering whether or not to tell her mother what had happened. This morning, she had told Cathy about Robert and the shooting, but left out her suspicions about who had pulled the trigger. Now Sara realized as she talked that she could not hold back, and told her mother everything, from the sear mark to Reggie's warning to her worries about whatever Jeffrey had put in his pocket.

  'Was it a bracelet or something?' Cathy asked.

  'I don't know,' Sara said. 'It looked like a gold chain.'

  'Why would he do that?'

  'Good question,' Sara said. 'I've been looking at the bones all day.'

  'And?'

  'Her cranial sutures haven't fully closed.' Sara leaned against the table, looking at the girl, wondering what had brought her short life to such a tragic end. 'The knobbed ends of her long bones haven't completely fused, either.'

/>   'Which means?'

  'She was probably in her late teens or early twenties.'

  Cathy was silent, then, 'Her poor mother.'

  'I put in a call to the sheriff to ask if there are any open missing persons.'

  'And?'

  'I haven't heard back from him. I haven't heard from anyone all day, as a matter of fact.' Even Deacon White had barely spoken to her when she had returned with the skeleton. Sara added, 'In a town this small, I don't imagine there's a long list of missing people.'

  'Do you think it's recent?'

  'Recent as in ten, maybe fifteen years,' Sara guessed. 'I've been working on putting the skeleton together for the last five hours. I think I know what happened to her.'

  'Did she suffer?'

  'No,' Sara lied, hoping she sounded convincing. 'I don't know what's going to happen next. I'm not sure we'll be able to come home tomorrow.'

  'You're going to stay with Jeffrey, then?'

  Sara bit her bottom lip. She had gotten this far and decided that she might as well continue. 'It seems like the more people say bad things about him, the more I want to . . .'

  'Take care of him?'

  'I wouldn't say that.'

  'Defend him?'

  'Mama . . .' Sara began, her voice trailing off. 'I don't know,' she said, and that was the truth. 'It bothers me that you're so set against us.' She paused, thinking of her father. 'It bothers me that Daddy hates him so much.'

  'I remember,' Cathy said, 'back when you were four or five.'

  Sara pressed her lips together, waiting for the lecture.

  'We were all down at the Gulf, and your father took you fishing just to get away, the two of you. Do you remember?'

  'No,' Sara said, though she had seen the pictures often enough to think she did.

  'You were fishing with rubber worms, but the crabs kept coming along and clamping onto them, thinking it was food.' She laughed. 'I heard your daddy screaming and cussing up a storm, yelling at the crabs to let go, that they were just holding on to worthless nothing.' She waited a beat, probably to make sure Sara understood. 'He tried everything to get them to let go. He even beat them with a hammer, but their claws just kept clamped down on the line no matter what he did. He finally ended up cutting bait and letting them go.'