“And what really gets me?” Travis said. “What really
Henry saw it then, that all the sadness, fear, and self-loathing that lived in Marshall had lived in Travis first. It had probably lived in the chief before that. And for the first time in his life, Henry felt compassion for Travis.
“He loves you, Travis,” Henry said. “He loves you so much, more than you know.”
But Travis didn’t seem to be listening. He was lost in whatever hurricane was raging inside him.
“Sometimes I think if it hadn’t been for that homecoming game, I wouldn’t have gotten so angry. I wouldn’t have chased her. She wouldn’t have fallen.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late for her. It’s too late for me.”
Henry drew in a deep breath, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the gun in Travis’s hand. It was just surreal to see him in his parents’ living room, so broken and defeated, still intending Henry harm, even though a lifetime had passed. Henry found himself wondering why people held on to anger and sadness, gripped it tight, let it dictate the course of their lives, but found it so hard to find and keep love. He noticed that Travis was shaking.
“Look, Travis,” he said. “I’m sorry I hurt you that day.”
He wasn’t just trying to placate an angry man holding a gun. He truly was sorry. He was sorry he had let Travis bring him so low. He’d never forgotten how much it hurt to hurt someone else, no matter how much he deserved it.
Henry saw Travis soften a bit; his shoulders dropped from the tense hunch they were in.
“Christ, Ivy, even now, you’re such a fucking faggot.”
Henry felt nothing but pity as Travis raised the gun and put it to his own head. Henry backed away and closed his eyes as Travis pulled the trigger. But there was no concussive boom. Just a soft click-then silence.
Henry opened his eyes to see the look of shocked disappointment on Crosby’s face. It might have been comical if it weren’t so hideous. Travis collapsed in the chair, howling in pain, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Henry bent down and easily took the gun from the other man’s hand. He checked the barrel. It had fired on an empty chamber, but the gun still had three bullets. For an elastic moment, he thought about how easy it would be to shoot Travis. He could easily claim self-defense. Given the circumstances, their individual reputations, no one would doubt him for a moment.
But it was just a fantasy. He thought about Marshall, who’d lost so much. And he thought about himself, how he knew the folly of retaliation, what a hollow victory it was. But most of all, he thought about Travis Crosby, about how his life as it was and would be was a more exquisite justice than anything he could hope to dispense.
Henry turned from the weeping man and called the police.
Maggie stood in the doorway of the darkened hospital room and watched her husband. He didn’t look big and powerful, as he always had. He looked fragile, deflated. It was long past visiting hours, but the nurses all knew her and no one moved to stop her as she walked past their station.
When she got to his room, though, she didn’t know how to step inside. What was she going to say? How was she going to ask the questions she had? What would he tell her? And who would they be after all was said and done?
No one but Jones could have put those things in her mother’s attic. She knew that. Elizabeth hadn’t been up there in years, couldn’t even make it up the ladder when she’d wanted to. And beyond that, Elizabeth might have been guilty of not asking the hard questions, might have bowed for whatever reason to the fearful predictions of Eloise Montgomery, but she would never have concealed evidence that proved someone else’s involvement in the murder of a young girl. She could never have lived knowing those things were in her attic.
“Mags? Where have you been? We were really worried. Your cell went straight to voice mail.”
She came into the room, pulled up a chair to sit beside her husband. In the low light, he looked like his younger self, The Hollows’s heartthrob, the boy she had loved from a distance. She wondered how he had carried this load for so long, never even hinting at how painful, how heavy, it must have been.
“Jones,” she said. She put a hand on his arm.
“What is it, Maggie? Ricky okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Because I’ve been thinking about him. I’ve made a lot of mistakes with that kid. I can do better.” He released a heavy sigh. “It’s not too late, is it?”
Something about this, in spite of everything that lay before them, washed her with relief. Because it mattered how well they loved one another, how well they treated one another as a family-that was the root, that was the trunk of life. All the rest was just leaves that grew and fell, were raked away and grew again.
“It’s never too late, Jones.”
And that’s when she told him about what she’d found in her mother’s attic and where she had been while he was looking for her. And when he started to cry, she climbed into the bed beside him and held him until he stopped. Then they talked in a way they hadn’t since they first fell in love, with the intensity of discovery. He told her everything about the night Sarah died, and everything that followed. And Maggie knew that, for the first time in their marriage, he was revealing all of himself to her.
28
Sometimes Chuck Ferrigno didn’t like his job. His parents had tried to talk him out of it. They’d wanted him to be an accountant, use the talent he had for math in some way. But numbers bored him. He didn’t see the poetry or the music in math equations that some did. To him it was all so dry, so predictable. Not like life. Life was messy and imprecise, decided by the variables of humanity rather than by the constants. That’s what intrigued him, motivated him. Besides, when he was a younger man, all he wanted to do was run and chase. He wanted to deliver justice and help people in need. He wanted to race into burning buildings and rescue children. He wanted to carry a gun.
But that wasn’t the job most of the time, of course. Every once in a while, there was a moment that lived up to the dream. But generally the job was more like it was now, standing in a rest stop parking lot, looking at a rotting corpse in a pickup truck, wondering about the implications, dreading the mountain of paperwork.
Graham Olstead, husband of Melody Murray, had been dead for a while by the looks of him. In the cab, his hunting rifle hung on its mount, and there was a box of provisions that would have lasted him a few days; beside him was a knapsack of clothes.
Melody Murray had said he was going hunting, and it looked like he’d planned to do just that. But, for whatever reason, he’d pulled over into this rest stop and died here. Chuck had a feeling he knew why. He’d seen it before.
“Subdural hematoma.” Katie sounded like she was talking to herself. He hadn’t seen her flinch at the body, or even shrink from the smell. She turned to him, and when he looked at her, he saw the same creamy skin, unblemished, unlined, that he saw on the faces of his own children. She was too young to be doing this job. He understood now why his parents hadn’t wanted him to be a cop. Maybe later he’d try to talk this sweet, small-town girl into being a kindergarten teacher or something.
The wind was picking up, and on the highway beyond the stand of trees, the sound of an air horn was mournful and heavy in the night air. The moon was hidden behind cloud cover, the sky an eerie silver-black.
“If he took a blow to the head with the baseball bat, there might have been a period of lucidity, as Melody Murray claimed, when he could walk and talk.” Katie pointed to the items in the cab. “He’d be able to get ready for the trip, drive off. But if the blood from the broken vessels didn’t clot properly? And maybe if he took a Motrin for the pain, it wouldn’t have. Then, a few hours later…” She let the sentence trail, lifting a slender palm toward the corpse. She moved in closer, and Chuck followed.
Katie pointed to a purple, flowering bruise by Graham’s temple, an ugly contrast to the grayish white of the skin beneath it.
“We won’t know until the autopsy,” she said. “It’s just a theory. Coroner’s on the way.”
