Fragile

now than when they were kids, as though he had settled into his looks. When he looked up at her, she glanced away, embarrassed that she was thinking anything of the sort in a moment like this.

“I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”

Henry tugged at each cuff on his jacket.

“Well, I went to the Crosby residence earlier today.” He told her about his encounter with Travis. She could tell it had disturbed him, stirred up old memories and feelings. But he kept his recounting neutral, and she didn’t dig.

“Marshall wouldn’t be with Leila and her family,” said Maggie, when he was done. “They’re distancing themselves from him. If he’d come to her, she’d have called me.”

She remembered her cell phone then and rooted around in her purse for it, plugged it into the charger that dangled from the cigarette lighter.

“I don’t know whether to look for Ricky or to look for Marshall,” she said, staring at the phone’s screen. The charge was so low that, even plugged in, it wasn’t coming on right away.

“Rick is smart and solid,” said Henry. “He’s not going to do anything stupid.”

She was grateful to hear him say it. She trusted her son; she was happy to know it wasn’t just a mother’s denial.

“Marshall, on the other hand, is in major trouble,” said Henry. “If the police find him with guns, that’s pretty much going to be the end of him.”

“Henry,” she said, looking at her friend. His brow was creased with worry. “The police finding him with guns is the best-case scenario. I’m worried about what will happen if they don’t find him. Soon.”

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “The only thing I can think to do is to go to Chief Crosby’s house. The property is totally isolated. It’s late. I know Marshall has a relationship with his grandfather. I can’t think of where else he would go.”

It made sense, though she dreaded an encounter with the chief. There was something about those milky blue eyes that always made her want to run from him. Maybe it was just her mother’s passionate dislike for the man. Maggie always found her mother’s opinions contagious. She started the engine.

“I was thinking Ricky might have gone to my mother’s house,” she said. She was really just thinking aloud. “But I can’t imagine him disturbing her in the middle of the night. And if he was there, she’d have called.”

Maggie put the car in reverse and backed out of the drive. Henry put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s okay,” he said. “Maybe he snuck in there and went to sleep. Should we drive by and look for his car?”

It was tempting, but Elizabeth’s house was on the other side of town. If Ricky was there, he was safe. The urgency to find Marshall was high. Maggie said as much.

“Where’s Jones now?” asked Henry.

“I have no idea.” She didn’t mean to sound clipped and angry. But she was angry. Why should she have to lean on her friend in this crisis? She should be with her husband.

“This is all going to turn out all right,” he said. “You’ll see.”

But the stone in her gut told her something different.

24

The voices he’d heard were gone. And he was alone with the sound of his own breathing as he made his way through the woods. The only light came from the sliver of moon above him. Down by the lake, he saw the old boathouse. It tilted against the night sky, looked about ready to fall into the water. He knew the chief kept a boat, an ancient cabin cruiser. He remembered taking it out onto the lake with Travis, drinking and fishing, lying on its bow. Last time he’d talked to the chief, the old man said that it was still seaworthy, that he still fished off it.

He stood and tried to quiet his breathing, to ignore the pain in his side, in his chest. Above him, he saw the shadow of a large bird circling. A barred owl was using the scant light to hunt. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees again. If he believed in God, he’d use the opportunity to pray. But he didn’t believe in God. He didn’t believe in anything, not even himself.

After he’d discovered Sarah’s body gone, Jones drove to Crosby’s house next. He saw Chief Crosby’s big red pickup parked in front of the carriage house. Before Jones killed the engine in the drive, Travis was out on the front step moving toward him. He had his hands pressed deep in his pockets, his shoulders hiked up like a vulture. Inside the screen door, Jones could see Chief Crosby’s formidable frame. As Jones exited the Mustang, he heard the engine pinging, cooling in the night air.

“What are you doing here, Cooper?” Travis came up close to him.

“Where is she?” Jones asked.

“Who?” said Travis. He narrowed his eyes in what seemed to Jones a caricature of menace. All he saw when he looked at Travis was fear.

“Sarah.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Travis leaned back and looked up at the sky.

“Travis. Come on. It was an accident.”

Chief Crosby stepped out of the house then. Jones stared at him, felt the familiar dread he had whenever the chief was around. The man was a ghoul, a monster. Jones would see that later. But then, he was a titan, somebody everyone in The Hollows looked upon with respect and admiration. The sight of him shut them both up.

“Boy,” the chief said. “It’s done. Walk away and keep your mouth shut.”

“No. Where is she?” Jones’s whole body quaked-with fear, with anger. The expression on Travis’s face was a mirror of his own heart.

The chief came down off the step and strolled toward them easily. “You left your jacket,” he said. “It’s got her blood all over it.”

And Jones remembered again that Sarah’s things were still in his trunk. Chief Crosby must have seen the understanding dawn on Jones’s face, because he let out that hooting Crosby laugh, a laugh Jones would hear every time he heard Travis laugh.

“Well, I can see you’re not stupid like your old man,” said Chief Crosby. “Question is, are you a coward like him?”

The words sliced Jones to the bone. In that moment, all his righteous anger, even his fear, deserted him. All he felt was a crippling shame. And it was in that place of shame that he made the decisions he made that night, and every decision that followed.

It took Jones a second to differentiate Marshall from the tree he leaned against. The boy sat on the ground, a gun in his hand. In the moonlight he was ghostly pale, looked as limp and weak as a scarecrow off his pole.

It was so strange to see Marshall there that, for a second, Jones thought he might be hallucinating. This strange mingling of the past and the present had him badly off-kilter. If Jones had been standing, not kneeling, he might have walked right by Marshall. The kid was so still and quiet.

“Are you hurt, Son?” Jones asked.

Marshall didn’t seem to hear him, appeared dazed and not present. Jones stood and approached him slowly, reached down, took the gun from his hand. The gun, a semiautomatic, was warm to the touch, recently fired. He could tell by the weight that it was loaded. The boy let it go without resistance, let his arm flop to his side. Jones tucked the gun into his empty shoulder holster.

Marshall turned his face to look up at Jones. “How do you know if you’re a good person or a bad one?” he asked.

Jones didn’t know the answer. How could he? He thought about his wife again. If Maggie were here, she’d know what to say to Marshall. Maggie was sure about these things. She knew the answers to the hard questions.

“I don’t know,” said Jones. He had a sense that the situation called for honesty, and that was about as honest as he could be. “I really don’t know.”

Marshall gave a slow nod and looked at him with something like gratitude.