From the balcony, I watched the work below for a few moments, until I heard it again—the same high-pitched shriek that had drawn me to the window.
At first, I couldn’t find the source, but eventually I focused on a dark object sixty feet away on the limb of a massive oak. Perched on a twisted branch halfway up the tree, I saw the distinctive white head and tail, the curved golden beak. The eagle let loose another series of cries, and I breathed in the sweet mountain air. I pushed up my T-shirt’s sleeve, uncovering the three-inch tattoo I had inked on the inside of my right arm a year after arriving in Dallas. At the time, I told myself the tat was a symbol of strength, but looking at it while listening to the eagle’s cries, I acknowledged the truth.
My eagle had always been a reminder of home.
Before leaving the room, I put in a call to Chief Thompson in Dallas. It was Monday morning, and he had me on the schedule to start in three hours. “I’m taking some time off. Maybe a few days,” I said, bracing for an argument.
After all, I should have called in sooner.
To my surprise – or perhaps I should have expected it – he sounded pleased. “Well, Clara, it’s about time. You’ve got enough vacation and sick days accrued to take a few months.” Then he sounded as if he had second thoughts. “This isn’t like you. Is everything all right?”
“I went home for a little while.”
“Where’s that? I don’t think you’ve ever talked about home.”
I hesitated, reluctant to open that door. “Utah. I’m helping a deputy friend with a case.”
“I should have known this was a working vacation,” he said, disappointment in his voice. I didn’t respond, and he offered, “If you need more time, just give me a heads-up.”
“Great.”
“And Clara, while you’re there…”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Try to relax some,” he said. “At least one day of real R and R.”
I found Hannah downstairs, seated at the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of her. “About time you got up, sleepyhead.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s barely six.”
“You’ve forgotten what it’s like in Alber,” Hannah chastised. “Our days begin before sunrise.”
Heaven’s Mercy had been busy when I arrived the evening before, but this morning it bustled. Like the garden and playground, the house hummed with activity.
The mansion had been built to serve a family of more than a hundred, so the kitchen had three refrigerators and a ten-burner stove. Five women gathered in front of a bank of four restaurant-size stainless steel sinks washing vegetables then handing them off to a second group of women, eight of them, congregated at one end of a long banquet-type table. Wielding a hodgepodge of knives, they cut cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini, green beans, and carrots. They cracked peas out of pods. With the exception of Hannah in her jeans and a T-shirt, all the women wore their traditional garb, the long dresses and sandals over white socks.
“Our crop is coming in from the garden,” Hannah said.
“I saw the action from my balcony.” I made an educated guess: “Today’s the first day of canning?”
“Come take a look,” she offered.
I followed her down the back stairs. In the massive cellar, white shelves lined the walls and others, free-standing, filled a ten- by twenty-foot section. All the shelves held rows of gallon-size jars, those in the front filled with vegetables, but the ones to the back empty and waiting for this year’s crop. “We’ll have to bring these up and sterilize them soon,” Hannah said. “Many mouths to feed.”
“How do you do it?” I asked. She gave me a puzzled look. “How do you keep the doors open?”
“Donations, fundraising—most of our money comes from mainstream Mormon groups across the country. They’ve been wonderful. Such good people. Very supportive,” she said. “Really, we take whatever we’re offered to keep the utilities on, everyone clothed and fed. A lot of these women and children arrive like you once did, Clara, with nothing more than the clothes they’re wearing.”
“Are they all here because their husbands fled?”
“Not all,” she explained. “Some women come because it isn’t safe at home.”
“I can identify with that,” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure you can.” Hannah put her hand on my back and gave me a soft pat. “So what are we doing today? Are you done here? Have you decided to accept what your mother told Gerard, that Delilah is safe?”
“I don’t know why Mother lied to Gerard but I’m convinced Delilah is in danger,” I said. “I’m going to find out what happened to the two girls you mentioned, Eliza Heaton and Jayme Coombs. I want to finish what we started last night, to talk to their families.”
Hannah appeared relieved that I wanted to investigate the other girls, but asked, “What will that tell you about Delilah?”
“What I’m worried about is that all three girls are pieces of the same puzzle.”
Hannah sighed and shook her head. “I think that was what worried me from the beginning.”
“Why you suspected there was something evil in Alber?”
Hannah nodded in agreement.
“You’ll come with me?” I asked. “To introduce me to the families? It would help.”
“Of course,” she answered.
But plans changed when my cell phone rang.
“Detective Jefferies, this is Gerard Barstow.”
“Good morning, Chief,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can explain why I got an NCIC report on my town this morning, one I didn’t file.” I heard the irritation in his voice. I suspected he wasn’t grinning like the evening before at the trailer park gate. “We need to talk.”
Fourteen
Gerard Barstow offered directions, but I didn’t need them. Everyone in town knew that Alber PD headquartered in the modest one-story, stand-alone building off Main Street. Growing up, I feared ever entering the place. Along with their official duties, the local police carried out the agendas of the church elders. Keeping the young ones in check, squad
