grabbed my coat and Jacob left with me. Later, when I thought about it, I suspected Jacob had said something like, “Can Miss Kelly take me home, since it’s a school night?” to his dad, but I was in too much of a hurry and lacking too much sleep to question it at the time. In all honesty, when I was a teenager, I had pulled the same kind of stunt myself. More than once.
I looked up the intersection of Falcon and Briarcrest in my map book. It was in a residential area of Las Piernas, a few miles from the hotel. At one time, its stately wood frame homes made it the most elite neighborhood in town. But it had fairly gone to seed in the last twenty years, being too far from the water to attract the kind of money that could afford the upkeep — especially the kind of dollars needed to restore such large houses.
The wind picked up, drumming the rain loudly against the cloth top of the Karmann Ghia. The defroster wasn’t working right, and I could barely see out the windshield.
“Open the glove compartment,” I said to Jacob. “Try to read the map by the lamp.”
As he opened it, a couple of white business cards with detective shields embossed on them spilled out. Jacob picked them up. “Detective Frank Harriman,” he read aloud, “Robbery Homicide Division… why do you have these in your car?”
“Uh, Frank must have left them there. He borrowed my car today.”
When it comes to looking skeptical, teenagers have it all over adults.
“Okay,” I admitted, resisting an urge to tug at my collar. “If I’m pulled over for speeding in Las Piernas, I make sure I have one of those next to my registration or my driver’s license. Do not — repeat — do
The look I got for even suggesting that he would break a confidence was far more scathing than skepticism. But after a moment he asked, “Does it work?”
“Not with the Highway Patrol,” I said glumly, but noticed he discreetly pocketed one of the cards.
He called out directions, checking the map by the dim glow of the glove compartment light.
Suddenly the streetlamps went out, and houses all around us were darkened.
“Great, a power outage.”
“We’ve got to hurry,” he urged. “She shouldn’t be out in rain like this — especially with no streetlights.”
I drove as fast as I dared under the conditions. I got out at one intersection and went to look at the street signs up close — they were impossible to read from the car under that dark sky. My umbrella was nowhere to be found, so I had to dash over with my coat over my head. We were on Falcon.
I followed it until we finally found the corner at Briarcrest. We parked on Falcon. It was a vacant lot, covered with shoulder-high weeds. No sign of Sammy. I looked at my watch. It was 12:50 a.m.
“Where is she? I don’t see her!” The kid was frantic.
“Stay here,” I said. “I’m getting out to look around.”
“I’m going with you.”
I didn’t want to waste time arguing. If he wanted to get soaked, fine. I stepped out of the car into a rain that was coming down so hard it stung. It bounced off the pavement so high, it fell twice. We walked up and down the corner in each direction, and never saw her. I looked into the field and was about to start calling out for her, when I saw a place where some of the weeds had been matted down. There were water-filled footprints leading into the field.
Jacob followed me as I squished and squashed along the same direction as the prints. I heard him sneeze a couple of times as we made our way. Between the rain and weeds, I couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of my face. I was about halfway into the lot when I tripped over something. As Jacob rushed over to help pick me up, I heard him half-shout, half-wail, “No!”
I had tripped over a leg. The leg of Sammy Garden. Or rather, her corpse. Jacob kept repeating his keening, one-word lament, clutching a corner of her muddied skirt as he knelt next to her. Her blouse was torn over a gaping wound in her chest. The rain ignored our shock and disbelief, and pelted hard against us.
My concern for Jacob kept me from giving into my own fear and sense of failure. I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him away from the figure on the ground. He held on to me, sobbing. I led him back to the car. He was shivering, wet and miserable.
“Jacob, listen to me. You’ve got to try to push that out of your mind.”
He sneezed, but didn’t answer. I wondered what Brian Henderson was going to do to me for letting his son catch pneumonia. Jacob sneezed again.
“It’s raining on her,” he said, as if that somehow was a final indignity that he couldn’t bear to have her suffer.
Oddly, I found myself in agreement. I handed him the keys. He took them with a clumsy grasp and looked up at me.
“Get in the car and pop the trunk open for me,” I said. “I’ve got a tarp in there. You stay here and try to dry off.”
He stopped crying and stared at me, but I could see he hadn’t really heard me. I couldn’t blame him.
“Jacob, please. Get in the car and open the trunk. I’ll put the tarp on her, but nothing can hurt her now. Nothing. Not even the rain.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then nodded and did as I asked.
I heard him start the motor up as I closed the trunk. I looked through the windshield at him. He was looking down into his lap, his forehead leaning against arms crossed over the steering wheel.
I made my way over to Sammy’s body and spread the tarp, then bent down to anchor the edges. I forced myself to slow my breathing and to think about Jacob and getting out of the rain; I tried not to think about what lay beneath the tarp. Would the folks in forensics consider this disturbing the scene or protecting it? I didn’t suppose
