town.”
She squinted, perplexed, or perhaps just a reaction to the bright morning sun. “But you’re not cops?”
“No.”
Charlie spoke up. “We were, you know, friends. I was at Providence House with her. I liked her.”
The woman lowered her gaze and it locked on Charlie. Something changed in her aspect, a softening. She glanced toward the road behind them and said, “Come in, but just for a minute.”
They stepped inside, into the stale smell of layered dust and cigarette smoke and spilled beer and cushions stained dark with skin oil. She didn’t invite them to sit. There was nowhere that was not covered with some discarded item: clothing, newspapers, magazines, a couple of pizza boxes. The dog, who was left outside, whined at the door.
“When she ran away, did you know where she went?” Dina asked.
“She didn’t run away. I told her to go.” The woman took a breath and her wide nostrils flared even more. “Frank.” She said the word as if she were saying shit. “She told me what he done, what he made her do, and I told her she had to go. Not leave, you know. Get away.”
“Did you send her to Providence House?”
She nodded. “A girlfriend told me about it. I thought she’d be safe there. I hoped.”
“Did your husband know where she’d gone?”
“No. I didn’t say nuthin’. I told him she run away.”
“The police think she might have gone back to prostitution. What do you think?”
She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so. Mashkawizii.”
“ Mashka what?” Dina replied.
“It’s Ojibwe,” Jewell said. “It means she was strong. She had inner strength.”
The woman looked at her with interest.
“My husband spoke Anishinaabemowin,” Jewell explained.
“You Shinnob?”
“Yes,” Jewell answered without hesitation.
The woman nodded. “That girl, what life handed her didn’t amount to a bucket of spit, but she didn’t never give up, you know. I figured if she stuck here either she’d kill Frank or Frank’d kill her. Best thing was to get her someplace safe. That’s why I sent her away to that place.”
“And you’re sure your husband didn’t know she was there?” Dina asked.
“I don’t know how he could’ve.”
“What does he do? I mean for work.”
“Construction, when there’s something going.”
“Does he ever work in Marquette?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is it possible he saw Sara there?”
She thought about it. “He’d’ve said something.”
“What about Bodine? Has he done work up there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you had any contact with Sara since she left?”
Her eyes flitted away toward the blank television screen. She rubbed her hands, one over the other. “She called me sometimes.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. Just to tell me things were going okay.” Her head drooped in a tired way. “She kept telling me I should leave him.”
Through the open door came the sound of an engine in need of a new muffler and Jewell turned. She watched a gray pickup pull into the drive, skirt her Blazer, and park near the house. A man got out who was like a bone, thin and hard and white. He wore a dirty jean jacket over coveralls, work boots, a ball cap. He checked out the Blazer, glanced at the house, and came toward the door.
“Frank?” Dina asked.
The woman nodded and her eyes had become afraid.
“Have the police talked to him?”
“I don’t think so. Not here anyway.”
Dina quickly took a card from her purse and gave it to the woman. “Keep that safe somewhere. If you need me, call.”
The man’s boots beat on the wooden steps like mallets as he came up. He yanked the door open and was inside, glaring.
The woman had retreated behind Jewell and the others. Dina moved forward, taking the lead.
“Who are you?” he said.
“We’re here about Sara,” Dina said.
“What are you? Social workers?”
“Former Special Agent Dina Willner, FBI,” she said. The former went by quickly, and Jewell wasn’t sure the man even tracked it. Dina’s hand shot into her purse. She flashed some kind of ID, then slipped it quickly back where it had come from. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About Sara? She took off a long time ago. Hell, she could be dead for all I know.”
“She is, Mr. Durkee.”
His eyebrows were thin and blond. There were long hollows in his cheeks, and the skin was rough as if his face had been carved on with a dull knife. His eyes were bright blue and startled. He stared at Dina. “How?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Dina asked.
She’d taken a notepad from her purse, and she held a pen poised above a clean sheet. The man scowled at the notepad.
“I ain’t seen her since she left.”
“You’ve had no contact with her at all?”
“I just said that.”
“You haven’t talked to her on the phone?”
“No.”
“You do construction work, is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you working now?”
“No.”
“When did you last work?”
“What does that got to do with Sara?”
“Just answer the question, please. When did you last work?”
“Couple weeks ago, laying some pipe.”
“Where?”
“Ishpeming.”
“Ever go to Bodine?”
“I’ve been there.”
“When was the last time?”
“Hell, I don’t remember.”
“Friends there?”
He shifted restlessly, put his hands on hips, stuck out his chin. “No. And I ain’t answering any more questions until I know why you’re asking.”
“We know that you forced Sara into prostitution at one time. Who were the johns?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you, coming into my home like this, accusing me of that kind of shit? I want you out of here.” His arm shot out rigidly pointing toward the door. His fingers were long, and the rims of the ragged nails were packed black with dirt and grease.
“I’ll just come back with a warrant, Mr. Durkee. You’ll have to talk to me then.”
“Fine. Bring your goddamn warrant. I got nuthin’ to hide.”
