look like Calli’s, and a man’s footprints, too. She was very upset, crying and carrying on. Couldn’t make much sense of her after that.”
“What did you tell her?” I ask.
“Told her I would let you know as soon as I could. She said she wanted to talk to you. Had to talk to you. I tried to explain to her that you weren’t available at a second’s notice.” Tucci sounds irritated. “That you’re a busy man.”
“Who’s over there now?” I ask, already heading back out the door.
“Logan Roper,” he says.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath.
“Well, he was there and available,” Tucci blusters, sounding confused. “Shouldn’t he be the one?”
“That’s fine,” I say regretfully. “I just want to be made aware of any developments in this case. Call me no matter what from here on out.”
“Do you think it’s like that McIntire girl?” he asks.
“I don’t know. But that outcome is the one we want to avoid.” I pause at the double doors. “Is there anything else I need to know before I head on back to the Clark place?”
“Actually, yes. Channel Four’s been calling all morning asking about the missing girls. They want a statement. And Mrs. McIntire called twice. She wants you to call her back. Wants to know if she can be any help to the families of the missing girls. Says she’s driving over this afternoon.”
“Dear Lord,” I mumble. “Get me Fitzgerald. We need to get an official statement written up for the press. When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. McIntire?”
“About forty minutes ago, I guess. She should be here anytime now.”
I retreat to my desk. I’d have to see about Toni later. For now, I had to trust my department, especially Roper, to do what they were trained to do. I quickly jot down a rough copy of a statement that could hopefully satisfy the press, and my phone rings. “Deputy Sheriff Louis speaking,” I say.
“Yeah, Louis,” Fitzgerald begins, “I just got word about the footprints at the Clark house. The state crime lab should be pulling up there momentarily. Who do you got over there?”
“Officer by the name of Logan Roper. Should be fine, except…” I hesitate.
“Go ahead. Say it. Something’s bothering you,” Fitzgerald prods.
“He’s a decent cop, but he’s also great pals with Griff Clark. Conflict of interest, maybe,” I say. Like I was one to talk, but I didn’t trust Griff and I didn’t quite trust his buddies, either.
“I see what you mean,” says Fitzgerald. “Pair him up with someone you completely trust. How ’bout you?”
“Well,” I begin, “there could be a bit of a problem with that, as well.”
Better to get it all out now, Toni and my history together. Shouldn’t matter, but it does. I settle in to tell Fitzgerald all about it when I hear a soft clearing of the throat, and at my desk I see the tired, sad face of Mrs. McIntire.
“Hey,” I say to Fitzgerald. “Let me call you back.”
We disconnect and I face the woman I had hoped not to see again until we had the man who destroyed her life and lives of her family members, the woman whose battered, abused daughter was found dead in a woody area ten miles from her home on the other side of the county. The woman who I had to help pick up off the floor of the morgue after she identified the body as her Jenna’s, and the woman who cursed me last time she talked to me for having to bury her daughter without knowing who had done this to her.
“I want to help,” she says simply.
I offer her a chair and try to figure out the best way to tell her that the last thing the Gregory and Clark families want is any sort of reminder that their daughters could be dead.
MARTIN
I can’t sit around and wait. I tell Fielda’s mother that I am going to check on the investigation and I drive back toward my home. I park on the shoulder of Timber Ridge Road. Something is going on at the Clark house. A flurry of activity. Several police cars drive past and turn down the Clarks’ lane. My heart quickens and for a moment I think that I am having a heart attack, but I do not collapse, though I feel a heart attack would be preferable to what is going through my mind right now.
The sun is bearing down more ferociously now, if that is possible. The car thermometer reads ninety-nine degrees, and that does not even include the heat index. I step from my car and make my way toward the Clark house.
The woods and this quiet, uneventful neighborhood were what brought Fielda and me to our home. We like the fact that, while we have neighbors, there are only four close by. The Olson and Connolly families live to our right and the Clarks and old Mrs. Norland are on the left. One hundred yards separate each of our homes, so we are close enough to call each other neighbor but far away enough for privacy’s sake. We never let Petra visit the Clark house when Griff was home from wherever he works, the Alaska pipeline, I believe. We don’t tell Petra that Griff is the reason she cannot go over there at times; we simply say that Calli has so little time with her father that we must not disturb their family time. Petra accepts this good-naturedly, and I do not believe she knows of Griff’s illness. Calli certainly never speaks of it.
On the other side of Timber Ridge is another line of trees, not the forest that lies behind our homes, but a high bluff that separates us from the rest of Willow Creek. Many miles down Timber Ridge a few other homes are situated in much the same manner, neighbors here and there with backyards fading into the forest. My feet crunch on the grass, burned yellow from the sun and lack of rain. From a distance, I see some officers speaking with Antonia in her front yard. She is pointing and gesturing, but I cannot see her face.
I see a van speed past and turn down the Clarks’ drive. It is a television van. I can’t quite make out the call letters, and they are obviously in a great hurry. Again my heart flutters and I quicken my step. I decide to cut through the back of our yards to hopefully avoid any reporters or cameras. Antonia, too, sees the media van and hurries into her home while the officers stride toward the vehicle, arms waving, ordering the driver to stop. I run a football field’s length to the Clarks’ back door and a police officer stops me short. I am covered with sweat and I bend over to try and catch my breath. Why so many police officers, I wonder.
“Sir,” the officer addresses me, “you are not supposed to be here. This is a crime scene.”
“I’m Martin Gregory,” I explain as another police officer steps past me and begins unwinding yellow crime scene tape and attaching one end to a concrete birdbath settled among Antonia’s garden. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Martin Gregory?” the officer asks.
“Petra Gregory’s father,” I say impatiently.
“Uh, yes, sir. I’m sorry. Please step toward the front of the house.”
“What’s going on?” I repeat. “Did you find something?”
“I think I should let Agent Fitzgerald speak with you,” he says over his shoulder as he walks into the house. “Please stay here.”
I ignore his direction and follow him into the house. “Antonia,” I call out. She is sitting on her couch, her face in her hands. “Antonia, what’s going on? Did something happen? Did you find something out?” My voice is trembling.
“Footprints,” Antonia says, shaking. “We think we found Calli’s footprints and a man’s.”
“What about Petra? Did you find some footprints that may be hers?” I ask.
Agent Fitzgerald speaks up, I had not even seen him in the corner of the room, speaking with another man who could have been a policeman, but was dressed in everyday clothes. “Mr. Gregory, I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and I wipe my sweaty palm on my slacks before I accept his.
“What is going on?” I ask yet again. No one is really listening to me.
“Please, come sit down,” Agent Fitzgerald says as if this is his own living room.
I sit.
