A minute later he came out, leaving the front door wide open. He took ten steps and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
His piercing scream wasn’t human.
The hairs on my arms shot upright.
After a moment of silence, he tipped back his head and screamed again, his arms raised to the night sky, the hammer in his right hand.
He’s finally cracked.
He lurched to his feet and went to their garden hose on the side of the home, washed his hands, rinsed his hammer, and then aimed the hose at his face and let the water wash over him.
I held my breath.
He finally stopped and shook his head like a dog, water droplets flying everywhere. He threw down the hose and strode toward the truck.
It was too late for me to get back in the truck’s bed.
I watched as he drove away and exhaled, briefly closing my eyes. I would walk home. I preferred that to another nail-biting ride.
My legs shook as I stood up, making me put a hand against the tree for balance. I sucked in deep breaths and was relieved at being alone. I started to walk down the driveway to the road.
That scream.
I stopped, horrible visions bouncing through my head.
What did he do?
I remembered the hammer. The determination in his stride as he walked with it gripped in his hand.
I know what he did.
I knew what had happened as surely as I knew the color of my hair, my eyes, my skin.
I turned around and looked at the house. It was silent, and the air around it felt weighted and heavy with pain. Even the normal noises of the night had stopped.
I couldn’t think as my feet moved me toward the home. It silently called me, compelling me to go inside. My mind blank, I went up the wooden steps and through the front door. Inside was a dead man on the living room floor. His jaw had been destroyed, and he had several bloody areas on his head. I watched his chest for movements. It was still.
My father did this.
I left and went down the hall. A woman lay on the floor in my way. Her nightgown was up over her hips, showing her underwear. Her hair and head were bloody. I crouched next to her and saw her brain. Blood pooled around her head and streaks of it went up the wall. In the small bedroom beside her, I saw a set of bunk beds and a single bed. Walking silently, I stopped at the bed. A small girl. I could see pieces of bone above her bloody ear. For the third time I saw a bloody, abused mouth and teeth.
The mouths. Was he trying to stop these people from talking to him?
Her hair drained blood onto her pillow, and I recognized a female Smurf on her pillowcase. Her body curled under her covers as if she were still sleeping. I turned around and another girl was in the bottom bunk. She lay in the exact same position, but he’d struck her right eye and her mouth, and her sharp jagged bones poked through her skin.
He couldn’t have heard them talk. These two girls never woke.
It’s all in his head.
I couldn’t see the top bunk. I wanted to.
I stepped on the first rung of the small ladder. Then the second and third. In the bunk was another girl.
Her mouth was bloody, her eyes were open, and she lay in absolute stillness.
A flawless round drop of blood was in the center of her forehead. I reached out and touched it, wanting to spoil its perfection.
She blinked and sucked in a ragged breath, making eye contact.
I gasped and grabbed the railing of the bunk to keep from falling backward. I let go and leaped to the floor. I dashed out of the room and sprang over the body in the hallway.
She saw me.
I tore out of the house and didn’t stop running until I reached the road. I stopped, bent over, and rested my hands on my thighs, sucking in deep gulps of air.
She saw me.
She’ll be dead by morning.
Repeating this assurance in my head, I walked toward home, reviewing everything I’d seen in that house. I was simultaneously horrified and curious.
Did my father kill the Deverells too?
In my heart I knew he had.
During my long trip home, I considered my options. I could go to the police. I could tell my mother. I could do nothing.
The choices tormented me the whole way home.
I fell into bed, no decision made. The girl’s eyes haunted my dreams.
Within a few days, they arrested another man.
I kept my mouth shut.
FORTY-ONE
Mercy saw Truman was right. A county patrol car sat across the gravel street from the Moody home.
She parked on the road behind Truman, and the deputy walked over to talk to them, rain dripping off his hat.
What a miserable job. Waiting in a cold car during a rainstorm.
“No one’s shown up,” the young man told them. “No one’s even driven down the road—it’s that quiet here.” He gestured at the house directly across from the Moodys’. “Although the lady there did bring me some cookies and hot coffee. She wanted to know what was going on.”
“Sally Kantor? Nice lady. Her cookies should be safe,” Truman stated.
“Ah . . . I didn’t even think of that.” Embarrassment flashed on the deputy’s face.
Mercy wondered how many cookies he had eaten. “What did you tell Sally?”
“Nothing. Just said I was waiting for Ryan to return home so I could ask him some questions.”
“Good.” Truman indicated he was ready to head to the house, and she walked up the long drive with him. Far away, thunder sounded, and both of them looked at the darkening sky.
“Have you seen any lightning?” he asked.
“I didn’t notice any, but maybe it was too far away. We’re supposed to get a good storm tonight.”
Mercy focused on the home before them. The house had no flowerpots or happy welcome signs, and large muddy boots sat by the front door. Men live here. There was no color anywhere. Everything was brown except the overgrown grass and the tree leaves. She and Truman bootied up and slipped on gloves before they entered. The house had been processed when Clint first went missing, but they had searched only for evidence of who might have hurt or taken the man.
Today she was looking for anything to tie Ryan to the Hartlage or Jorgensen family.
If I only knew what I was looking for.
I could be way off base.
The house appeared to have been built around the middle of the last century. The linoleum and countertops looked original. Again, there was no sign of a female presence in the house. This home was about male needs. Oversize furniture, gigantic TV, game consoles, and food. The cupboards were full of junk food and prepackaged meals. The refrigerator stocked with soda and beer.
At least it was decently clean.
She and Truman quickly searched every nook and cranny, looking for . . . something.
Down the hallway Truman paused in front of a closed door. His throat moved as he swallowed and then opened the door. The mattress had been stripped of bedding, and Mercy knew it had been Clint’s room. Black fingerprint powder covered several surfaces. She opened the closet. Clothes hung from hangers and were piled on the floor. She did a quick check inside the pockets, the shoes, and then the boxes on the top shelf.
Truman checked the bathroom and moved to the other bedroom. “Mercy?” he called.
She followed his voice and found him in front of a large gun safe. “It’s unlocked,” he told her. “Ryan used the combination to open it last time I was here.” He seemed hesitant to touch the door, so she reached over and swung it open.
Two rifles were present, and several rectangular containers she identified as handgun lockboxes.
“There were three rifles last time,” Truman stated. He picked up one of the lockboxes. “This feels like there’s still a weapon in it.” He hefted the others until he came to an open one. “I think they all still hold a weapon except this one.”
“Did he open the lockboxes for you?”