Spilled Blood

‘She was dead,’ Johan murmured, his face contorting in pain as heavy breaths squeezed his chest. ‘All I could think was: Olivia killed her. She left her there in the mud for me to find. I hated her for it. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘What time was this?’ Chris asked, dodging the boy’s emotions.

‘Between one-thirty and two, I guess.’

‘Did you see anyone else around?’

‘No.’

‘Did you touch anything on the scene? Did you move the body? Did you touch her car?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I left.’ He added, ‘As bad as it was, I didn’t want to tell anyone, Mr. Hawk. I didn’t want to do that to Olivia. I’d already hurt her enough. I couldn’t believe she would do something so horrible, but I was willing to keep it a secret. I still am. I won’t tell a soul.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ Chris said.

He didn’t tell Johan the truth, because the truth was cruel. Keeping silent until now was the best thing the boy could have done to help Olivia. Keeping silent was what guilty people did. Lying to the police was what guilty people did. When Johan told his story now, he established for the whole world that there was someone else who had been in the park with Ashlynn after Olivia. Someone who knew her, who had been involved with her, whose heart she had broken. Someone of deep faith whose child she had terminated in her womb. Someone who hadn’t been tested for gunshot residue that night.

Another suspect.

Johan.

17

Chris was drowning.

He felt himself carried on the shoulders of turbulent waters in his dream, surrounded by debris, caught in an undertow that sucked him down like a whirlpool. Each time he broke through the surface, gasping for breath, he spun in circles. He wasn’t alone. Hannah was with him in the water, reaching for him with her hand in the gesture that had always said I love you. They were sinking together, dragged down by the sheer muscle of the rapids. The river carried them toward a bridge, where Chris flailed for the steel I-beam over his head like a lifeline. He held on, and Hannah held onto him, but the water wrenched his fingers away and washed them downstream. As the bridge vanished behind them, he saw the silhouette of a man on the span, watching the flood overpower them. His voice boomed like the voice of God.

‘My name is Aquarius.’

Chris bolted upright in the motel bed. He checked the clock on the nightstand and saw that he had slept for two hours. It was nearly ten in the morning. Sunshine streamed through a crack in the curtains, and dust floated in the light. He blinked, shaking off his dream. He got up and turned on the shower, and the hot water revived him. When he was dressed, he stepped outside into the motel parking lot and found a beautiful day. The rain and clouds had moved east. The temperature was still unseasonably warm. It made the previous night seem almost unreal.

He stopped at the office to pour a cup of weak coffee from a silver Thermos and grab a powdered donut from an open Little Debbie’s box. That was Marco’s idea of a continental breakfast. He ate two donuts and wiped the white sugar from his mouth. He spotted the local newspaper on the motel counter, and he picked it up to read the Barron headlines. To his dismay, he and Olivia were on the front page. A reporter had snapped their photo coming out of the courthouse after the detention hearing. They both looked wet and guilty. In contrast, Ashlynn Steele’s yearbook picture, which the paper printed next to the courthouse photo, was perfect and pretty. The accompanying article speculated on the likelihood that Olivia would be tried as an adult for Ashlynn’s murder. It was more poison for the jury pool.

Michael Altman was on the front page too, but he was talking about a different investigation. The county attorney offered details of a recent arrest in the Twin Cities suburb of Hugo, in which a police search related to embezzlement by a city worker had unearthed a trove of child pornography. The stash included a flash drive of videos mailed with a postmark from the Minnesota town of Ortonville, which was an hour northwest of Barron. Altman sought the public’s help in identifying those involved in trafficking child porn in Spirit County.

Chris thought about Hannah: This isn’t Mayberry. No, it wasn’t. The idyll of small- town life was an illusion.

‘Mr. Hawk.’

Chris put down the newspaper. Marco Piva stood behind the counter, his fleshy Italian face grim. ‘Mr. Hawk, there are no words.’

‘Thank you, Marco.’

‘How is your daughter?’

‘She’ll be okay. I’m going back to the hospital to see her now.’

‘When I heard the news, I fell on my knees and prayed for both of you,’ Marco said.

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Do the police know who did this terrible thing?’

‘They’re investigating. Sometimes you know who did it, but you can’t prove it. I’m worried this could be one of those times.’

Marco studied Chris long and hard across the counter. His black mustache twitched as he frowned. ‘I see something in your face, Mr. Hawk.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Anger. It is a dangerous thing.’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘No, no, that’s not it. I understand, my friend. I know anger. I’m still angry about losing my wife, but for you, it’s your child, your own flesh and blood. Something has been taken from you, and you don’t know how to get it back. You want to rage against the world.’

‘Banging my head against a wall gives me a headache,’ Chris said.

‘I know, but we’re men. We bang our heads anyway.’

He managed a smile. ‘You’re a wise man, Marco.’

‘Wise men can be the most foolish. We ask: is it better to do nothing in the face of injustice or do the wrong thing?’

‘I don’t like doing nothing,’ Chris said.

‘That’s what worries me. I like you, Mr. Hawk. You seem like a solid man, and that’s the highest praise I can offer. Doing nothing is like surrendering for men like us. However, it’s one thing if you’re alone in this world like me. You – you have a daughter. Remember that.’

‘I do.’

‘You remind me of a friend in San Jose,’ Marco told him. ‘He had a daughter like you. Married. Two kids. Beautiful girl. Unfortunately, her job took her to one of those Indian casinos in the desert. Those gaming places, they prey on people. This girl started gambling, and it took over her life. She lost her job. Her house. It broke up her marriage. Terrible.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Chris said.

Marco wagged a finger at him. ‘My friend banged his head against the wall until it was bloody. He wanted justice.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know,’ Chris said, ‘but what did he do?’

‘He drove out to the desert, and he waited in the parking lot for two of the tribal leaders to come out. Then he shot them both in the head.’

‘That was a bad choice,’ Chris said.

‘Yes, it was. He’s in jail, and he’ll never get out. But I think when he sleeps, he still sees those bodies on the ground, and I bet you he smiles about it.’