A Grant County Collection: Indelible, Faithless and Skin Privilege

  Sara provided, 'It's also a case hardener in metal plating. Some laboratories keep it around for controls. Sometimes it's used for fumigation. It's in cigarette smoke. Hydrogen cyanide is created by burning wool or various types of plastics.'

  'It'd be pretty hard to direct smoke down a pipe.'

  'He'd have to wear a mask, too, but you're right. There are better ways to do it.'

  'Like?'

  'It needs an acid to activate. Mix cyanide salts with a household vinegar, and you could kill an elephant.'

  'Isn't that what Hitler used in the camps? Salts?'

  'I think so,' she said, rubbing her arms with her hands.

  'If a gas was used,' Jeffrey thought out loud, 'then we would've been in danger when we opened the box.'

  'It could've dissipated. Or been absorbed into the wood and soil.'

  'Could she have gotten the cyanide through ground contamination?'

  'That's a pretty active state park. Joggers go through there all the time. I doubt anyone could've sneaked in a bunch of toxic waste without someone noticing and making a fuss.'

  'Still?'

  'Still,' she agreed. 'Someone had time to bury her there. Anything's possible.'

  'How would you do it?'

  Sara thought it through. 'I would mix the salts in water,' she said. 'Pour it down the pipe. She would obviously have her mouth close by so that she could get air. As soon as the salts hit her stomach, the acid would activate the poison. She would be dead in minutes.'

  'There's a metal plater on the edge of town,' Jeffrey said. 'He does gold leafing, that sort of thing.'

  Sara supplied, 'Dale Stanley.'

  'Pat Stanley's brother?' Jeffrey asked. Pat was one of his best patrolmen.

  'That was his wife you saw coming in.'

  'What's wrong with her kid?'

  'Bacterial infection. Their oldest came in about three months ago with the worst asthma I've seen in a long time. He's been in and out of the hospital with it.'

  'She looked pretty sick herself.'

  'I don't see how she's holding up,' Sara admitted. 'She won't let me treat her.'

  'You think something's wrong with her?'

  'I think she's ready for a nervous breakdown.'

  Jeffrey let this sink in. 'I guess I should pay them a visit.'

  'It's a horrible death, Jeffrey. Cyanide is a chemical asphyxiant. It takes all of the oxygen from the blood until there's nothing left. She knew what was happening. Her heart must have been pumping ninety miles an hour.' Sara shook her head, as if she wanted to clear the image away.

  'How long do you think it took her to die?'

  'It depends on how she ingested the poison, what form was administered. Anywhere from two to five minutes. I have to think it was fairly quick. She doesn't show any of the classic signs of prolonged cyanide poisoning.'

  'Which are?'

  'Severe diarrhea, vomiting, seizures, syncope. Basically, the body does everything it can to get rid of the poison as quickly as possible.'

  'Can it? On its own, I mean.'

  'Usually not. It's extremely toxic. There are about ten different things you can try in the ER, from charcoal to amyl nitrate – poppers – but really, all you can do is treat symptoms as they occur and hope for the best. It's incredibly fast-acting and almost always fatal.'

  Jeffrey had to ask, 'But you think it happened fast?'

  'I hope so.'

  'I want you to take this,' he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the cell phone.

  She wrinkled her nose. 'I don't want that thing.'

  'I like knowing where you are.'

  'You know where I'm going to be,' she told him. 'With Carlos, then in Macon, then back here.'

  'What if they find something during the autopsy?'

  'Then I'll pick up one of the ten telephones at the lab and call you.'

  'What if I forget the words to "Karma Chameleon"?'

  She gave him a nasty look, and he laughed. 'I love it when you sing to me.'

  'That's not why I don't want it.'

  He put the phone beside her on the table. 'I guess asking you to do it for my sake wouldn't change your mind?'

  She stared at him for a second, then walked out of the exam room. He was still wondering if he was expected to follow her when she returned with a book in her hand.

  She said, 'I don't know whether to throw this at your head or give it to you.'

  'What is it?'

  'I ordered it a few months ago,' she told him. 'It came last week. I was going to give it to you when you finally moved in.' She held it up so he could read the title on the maroon slipcase. 'Kantor's Andersonville,' she said, adding, 'It's a first edition.'

  He stared at the book, his mouth opening and closing a few times before words would come out. 'It must have cost a fortune.'

  She gave him a wry look as she handed him the novel. 'I thought you were worth it at the time.'

  He slid the book out of the paper case, feeling like he was holding the Holy Grail. The buckram was blue and white, the pages slightly faded at the edges. Carefully, he opened it to the title page. 'It's signed. MacKinlay Kantor signed it.'

  She half shrugged, acting as if it wasn't a big deal. 'I know you like the book, and . . .'

  'I can't believe you did this,' Jeffrey managed, feeling like he couldn't swallow. 'I can't believe it.'

  When he was a kid, Miss Fleming, one of his English teachers, had given him the book to read during after-school detention. Jeffrey had been a general fuck-up until then, pretty much resigned to the fact that his career choices were limited to mechanic or factory worker or worse, a petty thief like his old man, but the story had opened something up inside him, something that wanted to learn. The book had changed his life.

  A psychiatrist would probably say there was a connection between Jeffrey's fascination with one of the Confederacy's most notorious Civil War prisons and his being a cop, but Jeffrey liked to think that what Andersonville gave him was a sense of empathy that he'd lacked until that point. Before Jeffrey had moved to Grant County and taken the job as police chief, he had gone to Sumter County, Georgia, to see the place for himself. He could still remember the chill he got standing just inside the stockade at Fort Sumter. Over thirteen thousand prisoners had died in the four years the prison was open. He had stood there until the sun went down and there was nothing more to see.

  Sara asked, 'Do you like it?'

  All he could say was, 'It's beautiful.' He ran his thumb along the gilt spine. Kantor had gotten the Pulitzer for this book. Jeffrey had gotten a life.

  'Anyway,' Sara said. 'I thought you'd like it.'

  'I do.' He tried to think of something profound to tell her that would help convey his gratitude, but instead found himself asking, 'Why are you giving it to me now?'

  'Because you should have it.'

  He was only half-kidding when he asked, 'As a going-away present?'

  She licked her lips, taking her time responding. 'Just because you should have it.'

  From the front of the building, a man's voice called, 'Chief?'

  'Brad,' Sara said. She stepped into the hall, answering, 'Back here,' before Jeffrey could say anything else.

  Brad opened the door, his hat in one hand, a cell phone in the other. He told Jeffrey, 'You left your phone at the station.'

  Jeffrey let his irritation show. 'You came all the way over here to tell me that?'

  'N-no, sir,' he stammered. 'I mean, yes, sir, but also, we just got a call in.' He paused for a breath. 'Missing person. Twenty-one years old, brown hair, brown eyes. Last seen ten days ago.'

  He heard Sara whisper, 'Bingo.'

  Jeffrey grabbed his coat and the book. He handed the new cell phone to Sara, saying, 'Call me as soon as you know something on the autopsy.' Before she could object, he asked Brad, 'Where's Lena?'

  FIVE

  Lena wanted to run, but in Atlanta, they had told her to give it a couple of weeks before doing anything jarring.
This morning, she had stayed in bed as long as she could, pretending to sleep in until Nan left for work, then slipping out for a walk a few minutes later. She had wanted time to think about what she had seen on the dead girl's X-ray. The baby had been as big as her two fists put together, the same size as the baby they had taken from her womb.

  As she walked down the street, Lena found herself wondering about the other woman in the clinic, the furtive looks they had given each other, the guilty way the woman had slumped into her chair, as if she wanted to disappear into nothing. Lena wondered how far along she had been, what had brought her to the clinic. She had heard stories about women who got abortions instead of worrying about birth control, but could not believe that anyone would willingly put themselves through such an ordeal more than once. Even after a week had passed, Lena couldn't close her eyes without her mind's eye conjuring up a twisted image of the fetus. The things she imagined in her head were surely worse than what was actually done.

  The one thing she was grateful for was that she didn't have to sit through the autopsy that was going to happen today. She didn't want a concrete image of what her own baby had looked like before. She just wanted to get on with her life, and right now, that meant dealing with Ethan.

  Last night, he had tracked her down at home after badgering her whereabouts out of Hank. Lena had told him the truth about her return, that Jeffrey had called her back into town, and laid the foundation for not seeing him much over the next few weeks by saying that she had to devote all of her attention to the case. Ethan was smart, probably smarter than Lena in a lot of ways, and whenever he sensed her pulling away, he always said the right thing to make her feel like she had a choice in the matter. Over the phone, his voice had been as smooth as silk as he'd told her to do what she had to do, and to call him when she got the chance. She wondered how far she could press that, how much slack was in the rope he had around her neck. Why was she so weak where he was concerned? When did he get all this power over her? She had to do something to get him out of her life. There had to be a better way to live than this.

  Lena turned down Sanders Street, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets as a blast of cold air ruffled the leaves. Fifteen years ago, she had joined the Grant County police force so that she could be near her sister. Sibyl had worked at the college in the science department, where she'd had a very promising career until her life was cut short. Lena couldn't say the same for her own job opportunities. She had taken what was now being politely called a hiatus from the force several months ago, working at the college for a stretch before deciding to get her life back on track. Jeffrey had been very generous letting Lena have her old job back, but she knew that some of the other cops were resentful.

  She couldn't blame them. From the outside, it must look like Lena had it fairly easy. Living it all from the inside, she knew better. Almost three years had passed since she had been raped. Her hands and feet still had deep scars where her attacker had nailed her to the floor. The real pain only began after she was released.

  Somehow, it was getting easier, though. She could walk into an empty room now without feeling the hair on the back of her neck bristle. Staying in the house by herself was no longer a source of panic. Sometimes, she would wake up and get through half the morning without remembering what had happened.

  She had to admit that Nan Thomas was one of the reasons her life was getting easier. When Sibyl had first introduced them, Lena had hated the other woman on sight. It wasn't as if Sibyl hadn't had other lovers before, but there was something permanent about Nan. Lena had even stopped talking to her sister for a while after the two women moved in together. As with so many other things, Lena regretted that now, and Sibyl wasn't around to hear the apology. Lena supposed she could apologize to Nan, but whenever the thought struck her, the words wouldn't come.

  Living with Nan was like trying to learn the lyrics of a familiar song. You started out telling yourself that this was the time you were really going to pay attention, hear every last word, but three lines in you'd forget the plan and just settle into the familiar rhythm of the music. After six months of sharing a house together, Lena knew little more than surface things about the librarian. Nan loved animals despite severe allergies, liked to crochet and spent every Friday and Saturday night reading. She sang in the shower and in the morning before work she drank green tea out of a blue mug that had belonged to Sibyl. Her thick glasses were always smudged with fingerprints but she was incredibly fastidious about her clothes, even if her dresses tended to run to colors better suited to Easter eggs than a grown woman of thirty-six. Like Lena and Sibyl, Nan's father had been a cop. He was still around, but Lena had never met him or even heard him call on the phone. As a matter of fact, the only time the phone rang in the house, it was usually Ethan calling for Lena.

  Nan's brown Corolla was parked behind Lena's Celica when she walked up the driveway to the house. Lena glanced at her watch, wondering how long she had been walking. Jeffrey had given her the morning off to make up for yesterday, and she had looked forward to spending some time alone. Nan usually came home for lunch, but it was barely past nine o'clock.

  Lena grabbed the Grant Observer off the lawn and scanned the headlines as she walked toward the front door. Someone's toaster had caught fire Saturday night and the fire department had been called. Two students at Robert E. Lee High had placed second and fifth at a state math competition. There was no mention of the missing girl found in the woods. Probably the paper had been put to bed before Jeffrey and Sara had stumbled across the burial site. Lena was sure there would be a huge story on the front page tomorrow. Maybe the newspaper could help them find the girl's family.

  She opened the door, reading about the toaster fire, wondering why it had taken sixteen volunteer firemen to put it out. Sensing a change in the room, she looked up, shocked to see Nan sitting in a chair across from Greg Mitchell, Lena's old boyfriend. They had lived together for three years before Greg decided he'd had enough of her temper. He had packed all his stuff and left while she was at work – a cowardly yet in retrospect understandable move – leaving a brief note stuck to the fridge. So brief that she could remember every word. 'I love you but I can't take it anymore. Greg.'

  They had talked to each other a total of two times in the almost seven years since then, both conversations taking place on the telephone and both ending with Lena slamming down the receiver before Greg could say anything more than, 'It's me.'

  'Lee,' Nan practically screamed, standing up quickly, as if she had been caught.

  'Hey,' Lena managed, her throat clenching around the word. She had put the newspaper to her chest as if she needed some kind of protection. Maybe she did.

  On the couch beside Greg was a woman around Lena's age. She had olive skin and her brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. On a good day, she might pass for one of Lena's distant cousins – the ugly ones on Hank's side. Today, sitting next to Greg, the girl looked more like a whore. It gave Lena some satisfaction that Greg had settled for a lesser copy, but she still had to swallow a tinge of jealousy when she asked, 'What are you doing here?' He appeared taken aback, and she tried to moderate her tone, saying, 'Back in town, I mean. What are you doing back in town?'

  'I, uh . . .' His face broke into an awkward grin. Maybe he had been expecting her to hit him with the newspaper. She had done it before.

  'Shattered my tib-fib,' he said, indicating his ankle. She saw a cane tucked into the couch between him and the girl. 'I'm back home for a while so my mom can look after me.'

  Lena knew his mother's house was two streets over. Her heart did an odd kind of tumble in her chest as she wondered how long he had been living there. She racked her brain for something to say, settling on, 'How's she doing? Your mom.'

  'Still cantankerous as ever.' His eyes were a crystal clear blue, incongruous with his jet-black hair. He was wearing it longer now, or maybe he had forgotten to get it cut. Greg was always forgetting that sort of thing, spending hou
rs in front of the computer figuring out a program while the house was falling apart around him. They had argued about it constantly. They had argued about everything constantly. She had never let up, not giving him an inch on anything. He had annoyed the shit out of her and she had hated his guts and he was probably the only man she had ever really loved.

  He asked, 'And you?'

  'What?' she said, still stuck in her thoughts. His fingers tapped on the cane, and she saw his nails had been bitten to the quick.

  Greg glanced at the other women, his smile a little more hesitant. 'I asked how you were doing.'

  She shrugged, and there was a long moment of silence where she could only stare at him. Finally, she made herself look down at her hands. She had shredded the corner of the newspaper like a nervous housewife. Jesus, she had never been this uncomfortable in her life. There were lunatics in the asylum with better social skills.

  'Lena,' Nan said, her voice taking on a nervous pitch. 'This is Mindy Bryant.'

  Mindy reached out her hand, and Lena shook it. She saw Greg looking at the scars on the back of her hand and pulled back self-consciously.

  His tone had a quiet sadness. 'I heard what happened.'

  'Yeah,' she managed, tucking her hands into her back pockets. 'Listen, I've got to get ready for work.'

  'Oh, right,' Greg said. He tried to stand. Mindy and Nan reached out to help, but Lena stood where she was. She had wanted to help, even felt her muscles twitch, but for some reason her feet stayed rooted to the floor.

  Greg leaned on his cane, telling Lena, 'I just thought I'd drop by and let you guys know I'm back in town.' He leaned over and kissed Nan's cheek. Lena remembered how many arguments she'd had with Greg over Sibyl's sexual orientation. He had always been on her sister's side and probably thought it was really rich that Lena and Nan were living together now. Or maybe not. Greg was not the petty type and never held a grudge for long; it was one of the many qualities she hadn't understood about him.

  He told Lena, 'I'm sorry about Sibyl. Mama didn't tell me until I got back.'

  'I'm not surprised,' Lena said. Lu Mitchell had hated Lena on sight. She was one of those women who thought her son walked on water.