A Killing in the Hills

19


She checked on Carla just before she left the house. Or tried to. There was no answer to her knock.

Bell stood in the upstairs hallway, head tilted toward the closed door of Carla’s room. Should she knock again? Was Carla asleep, or did she have the earbuds to her iPod jammed in so tight that she couldn’t hear, or was she just ignoring her mother?

The third option was always a good bet these days.

Bell looked around. The hall was undeniably shabby. The floorboards were warped and gouged, and the lime-green-and-pink-roses wallpaper – hideous, Bell thought, which was the same word that always slipped into her head if she stared at the walls for more than ten seconds – was peeling badly. When they’d first moved here, she and Carla had pitched in to do whatever work they were able to do, but the other work, the part for the professionals, had to be done gradually, bit by bit, as Bell could afford it. Heating and plumbing and wiring came first. That trumped wallpaper. New windows – the kind that didn’t leak heat by the bucketful – beat out new kitchen cabinets.

Built in 1871, this was one of the oldest homes still standing in Acker’s Gap. When Bell had opened the big front door for the first time, she’d felt as if she were reaching not for a slab of wood but toward the restless spirits of those who had settled here such a long, long time ago, determined to carve their destinies out of the mountains. As if she were meeting the curious ghosts who’d lingered here for more than a century, mingling with the chilly drafts and threading perpetually through the crawl spaces, all to monitor the fate of the land they’d given their visible lives to.

Despite the massive challenge presented by an old house, the grand adventure of fixing it up had seemed terrifically appealing – even to Carla. For the entire first year after they’d moved in, the eager twelve-year-old had investigated all four floors of the place repeatedly, top to bottom, storm cellar to attic, flashlight in hand, searching for secret passageways.

Carla hadn’t hunted for secret passageways in a long time.

‘Hey, sweetie,’ Bell said softly. She touched the closed door as she spoke.

No response.

Bell had a sense, though, that Carla might very well be listening, that she was just on the other side of the door, maybe with her head leaning against it, in the same way that Bell’s head was leaning against it from this side.

‘You know what?’ Bell went on.

She touched two fingers to the raised grain. It was a beautiful old door, four-paneled, solid oak, with a brass knob and a cartoonishly elongated keyhole that, Carla had said the first time she saw it, made her think of dark forbidden rooms in sprawling castles, a keyhole awaiting the rattling thrust and creaky twist of a heavy iron skeleton key. Made her think of princesses trapped by evil spells. Right after they moved in, Bell and Carla had stripped the paint off the woodwork throughout the house, including this massive door. It had required a long series of gruesomely humid afternoons to do the tedious job. But once they had finished the stripping, they went on to stain the newly bare wood a rich honey color that shimmered like liquid in the light from the tall window at the end of the hall.

Bell leaned her face even closer against the door, so close that she was almost kissing the wood. ‘I know it was rough for you, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Being right there. Seeing what you saw. If you ever want to talk about it—’ She paused. Carla surely knew what she was going to say. Bell had said it before, yesterday and today. Over and over. But sometimes you had to say a thing, even though you knew the other person knew it already.

Sometimes it wasn’t about what you said; it was about saying it, period.

‘—I’m right here,’ Bell went on. ‘Right here, sweetie. Anytime you want to talk. And that’s true no matter where you’re living. Here or with your dad. Doesn’t matter.’ Bell pressed her entire hand flat against the wood, as if to seal in the idea, to make her offer permanent.

One by one, a few of the very things from which she had tried to protect her daughter had, through some caustic joke of fate, come to pass. A broken home. And now, firsthand knowledge of violence. Bell had desperately wanted life to be different for Carla, and in many ways, it was: Carla had a roof over her head, nice clothes, good food, people who cared for her. Things Bell had never had. But now a part of their separate histories, mother and daughter, overlapped.

The dark part.

Carla had witnessed violence. The memory would leave a mark. Bell was certain of that because her own skin was printed with the same invisible scar, the one you carried forever.

She let her hand slide down the door panel. ‘I’ve got to run over to Tom and Ruthie’s, okay? And then over to Ike’s to meet Nick. Back soon. You need me, you call me. Deal?’

Still no response. Bell thought she heard a slight stirring from the other side of the door, a covered-up cough or a half sigh. If she’d had to bet, she would’ve wagered that Carla was listening to every word.

‘You take care, sweetie. I love you.’

When she pulled into Ruthie and Tom’s driveway, Bell didn’t get out right away. She lowered the window, closed her eyes, and put her head back against the seat.

She liked to listen for a second or so for the sounds that sometimes came out of Tom’s vet office out back. The occasional yip or yowl or screech or moan from a coon hound or a cocker spaniel or a parakeet that didn’t especially appreciate being poked or prodded or measured or tested or otherwise interfered with, even for a good cause.

Ruthie and Tom lived on Bethany Avenue, three streets over from Bell and Carla, in a long, angular ranch house sheathed in gray cedar shakes. It was capped by a red-tiled roof and punctured at regular intervals by wide leaded windows. Tom had designed the house himself, and then supervised the construction with his careful, exacting eye. Ruthie had added a gloriously asymmetrical garden with plantings scattered around the broad yard like random happy thoughts, the perky ornamental grasses and drowsy-looking ferns and big-leafed hosta and busy rhododendron bushes. Two small dogwood trees bordered the threshold of the curving front walk, their branches bare now, stripped and girded for winter, but come spring, the dainty white profusion would arch over the winding walk in a dense living canopy.

The Cox house didn’t fit at all with the other houses in the neighborhood – the other houses being ancient, stacked-up conglomerations like Bell’s, many of which dated back to just after the Civil War. Houses that wore their long histories in their crumbling stone flanks and crooked chimneys and in the badly matched rooms added on at the sides – additions that supplied the undeniable convenience of indoor plumbing.

Ruthie and Tom had lived here for just over a decade. Technically, Ruthie was retired – she still dealt with a few patients, more as a courtesy than anything else – and Tom operated his vet practice out of a pole barn he’d erected in the backyard, patching up injured dogs and lethargic cats and broken-legged goats and stubbornly unresponsive guinea pigs. If a family was going through hard times – and hard times seemed to have settled into the region for keeps, like obnoxious visiting relatives who won’t take the hint and move on – Tom had been known to mysteriously mislay the invoice, saying they’d settle up next time. Or the time after that.

Which is why the neighbors didn’t complain about the sounds from out back.

He often worked seven days a week; ailing critters, as Tom had pointed out to Bell, were a little like criminal cases. They had a notorious indifference to the clock or the calendar. He could be out there for long, day-into-night stretches sometimes, door locked, windows sheeted, because, he’d explained to her, it was so much better for sick animals not to be disturbed.

No sounds tonight. No emergencies, then.

Bell pressed the doorbell, admiring, as she always did, the small ceramic nameplate just above it. She heard the soft two-note chime. She imagined it streaming its way through the beautiful interior, whisking along the wainscoted halls, moving like a sigh beneath the elegant coffered ceiling.

‘Bell!’

When Ruthie Cox saw who it was, a smile leaped into her features, lifting her thin face. ‘Get on in here, you.’ As she reached for Bell’s arm, she called back over her shoulder, ‘Tommy, guess who’s here? It’s Belfa!’

Bell loved this living room. It was as clean and well ordered as a simple declarative sentence. She chose her favorite spot – a high-backed, black leather chair with matching ottoman. Seatwise, it was the opposite of the sloppy bulbous mess in which she loved to sink in her own living room, but the contrast made Bell feel like a little girl dressing up for Sunday school. Sometimes it was nice to go from sneakers to heels.

‘How’s the case?’ Ruthie said. ‘Any word on the fugitive?’

Bell shook her head.

‘Shame.’ Ruthie’s expression became somber. ‘You have to wonder. Does the killer have a conscience? Any remorse? But hold on. Before you answer that question, I’ve got another one for you to answer first. Cup of tea?’

‘Actually, no. I’m on my way over to Ike’s. Got to review a few things with Nick.’

Tom had joined them by this time, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’d been in the kitchen, and a slightly miffed-looking Hoover followed him, sniffing the air suspiciously but not deigning to actually look at Bell. Hoover was too superior to bark at visitors. That was Ruthie’s theory, anyway, when she tried to explain why their pet was the world’s worst watchdog.

Tom was tall and lean and long-limbed, with pale blue eyes and a thin white beard. The remaining few strands of hair on his head – they, too, were white, and so sparse that the pink scalp showed through – were combed neatly back from his well-creased forehead. He wore khaki slacks and a blue-and-white checked shirt, open at the neck.

Seeing him, Bell felt a surge of tenderness. She knew what he’d endured. Ruthie had been in desperate shape last year, the radiation draining her strength and the chemo knocking her flat for weeks at a time. Tom had taken over the household chores and kept up his vet practice, and he helped out with Ruthie’s patients, too, texting advice from her when she was too weak to hold the phone, massaging her temples when she sat up in bed to review lab reports. Only rarely did Bell ever see him flinch from their long ordeal, ever see him become testy or depressed. They passed quickly, those dark moments. It was as if he’d ascended to another emotional register altogether, one that lay beyond hope or despair or any other familiar attitude. As if he’d willed himself to find a private way of dealing with the stress, with the terrible uncertainty.

‘Sorry to interrupt your Sunday afternoon,’ Bell said to him.

Tom put a hand on his chest and declared, ‘“Dear love, for nothing less than thee, would I have broke this happy dream.”’ He smiled. ‘John Donne.’

‘So how,’ Bell said, ‘did a pre-vet major work in all those literature courses?’

‘Craft and subterfuge, my dear. Cunning and guile.’ Tom laughed and flipped the dish towel over his shoulder. ‘Got some soup on the stove. My famous butternut squash. Good for what ails you. You don’t want to miss it.’

‘Sounds great, Tom, but like I told Ruthie, I’m on my way over to Ike’s. Conference with the sheriff.’

‘So you’re working tonight.’ Tom’s voice was neutral, but Bell sensed his disapproval.

‘It’s a busy time.’ She pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Hold on. Is this really you giving me advice about not working all hours? At least the courthouse isn’t in my backyard, Dr Cox. Not yet, anyway.’

He appeared to consider her objection while he folded the dish towel in half, and then folded that half in half one more time. He set the thick square of cloth on the coffee table, lining up one edge of it with the edge of the table.

‘Point taken,’ Tom said. ‘You know, by this time you’d think I’d know better than to argue with a prosecutor. Especially one as tough as you are. Guess I just love a challenge.’

Ruthie and Tom settled themselves on the couch across from Bell. He put an arm around his wife’s thin shoulders. With his other hand, he reached over and switched on the lamp on the end table, straightened the shade.

‘Listen,’ Bell said. ‘I wanted to come by and tell you all in person. Looks like Carla is going to go live with Sam for a while. Starting right after Christmas.’

‘Oh, sweetie,’ Ruthie said.

Tom put a finger on his chin, stroking his neat white beard as he shook his head.

‘This’ll be hard for you, Bell,’ he said quietly.

She nodded. They knew her well.

‘It’s her choice,’ Bell said. ‘I’ve always told her that. Once she turned sixteen, I wanted her to make her own decision.’ Bell didn’t have to add the rest of it: But I never thought she’d pick Sam. She loves him, sure. But I’m her mother.

‘She’s had a tremendous shock,’ Tom said. ‘She’s confused and upset right now. When it all settles down, she might change her mind back again, you know.’

Bell shrugged. ‘Maybe. Don’t think so. But I appreciate the optimism.’

‘How will it affect her schoolwork?’ he asked. ‘And her college applications?’

‘Well, it’s never good to switch schools.’ Bell paused. They knew, because she’d told them, about how often she’d had to change schools after her father died, when she went from one foster family to another. Each of the grade schools and then middle schools had its own set of rules. Its own expectations. Its own social hierarchy.

By the time Bell reached high school, she was placed with families in the immediate area and could attend all three years at Acker’s Gap. But by then she’d lopped off a part of herself. The part that felt she had any right to happiness. Replaced it with a fund of ready-made anger.

And here was Carla, whose life had been as normal and regular as Bell could make it, choosing to change everything. To blow it all up, when she didn’t have to.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Bell said. ‘Sam’s been checking out some private schools in the D.C. area. I’m sure he’ll find a place that’s a good fit.’

Because, she added in her own head, not saying it out loud because she didn’t want to sound like a bitter ex-wife with a chip on her shoulder the size of a small mountain, no kid of his will ever be sent to anything less than the most prestigious, exclusive, expensive school in the area, just so he can brag about it to his colleagues at Strong, Weatherly & Wycombe.

‘And whether it works out or not,’ Bell added, ‘it’s what she wants to do. I admit that it sort of came out of the blue. But I can’t go back on my word.’

‘You know what, Bell?’ Ruthie said. ‘D.C. really isn’t that far away.’

‘True.’

But it might as well be the moon. Because Carla wouldn’t be at home. Bell wouldn’t be seeing her at the breakfast table every morning, head down, hunched over, wrists swallowed up by the long-sleeved T-shirt that served as a pajama top, dumping Cap’n Crunch in a bowl. Sometimes, for murky unstated reasons, she didn’t add milk. Just ate it dry.

Tom and Ruthie didn’t have children, but they understood. Bell was sure of it. They knew how much it meant to her to have Carla with her. They’d talked about it, the three of them, many, many times, especially during the month and a half each summer when Carla would go stay with Sam. Tom would make some amazing dinner, something so exotic and complicated that no matter how scrumptious it was, Bell wouldn’t even bother to pretend to want the recipe, because Lord knows she’d never have the nerve to try it herself at home. Her self-reporting about being a lousy cook always made Tom laugh. He would pour more wine for Ruthie, and then for Bell, and then for himself, and they would sit out on the flagstone patio behind their house and watch the sun sink down behind the mountains, an event that occurred at the end of every day, of course, but that somehow, in the mysterious ineffable beauty of the West Virginia twilight, always seemed like a surprise, as if it were happening for the first time in the history of the world. For a moment or two, no one would speak, and Bell would change the direction of her gaze from the mountains to Tom’s face, and she’d think about the people – people like him and Ruthie, and people like her, too – who come back, knowing what they know, knowing every bad and sad and impossible thing about this place. And who stay, anyway.

‘Truth is,’ Bell said, ‘I guess I knew this might happen. I’m not exactly Carla’s favorite person these days.’

She stood up. She didn’t like to sit too long. It gave the past a chance to catch up with her. She needed to get back to work.

‘Just wanted to let you all know,’ Bell said. ‘Didn’t feel right not to tell you as soon as I knew. Because you two are—’

How to put it? How to say it without sounding foolish and sentimental and soft?

‘You two,’ Bell said, trying again, ‘are the closest thing to family that Carla and I have now. These past few years, I’m not sure what I would’ve done without your help. Not sure I would’ve made it, frankly.’

Tom smiled. ‘Oh, you’re pretty tough, young lady.’

‘You already said that.’

‘I did?’

‘You did.’

‘Well, next time I’ll say “tenacious.” Or “relentless.” How’s that?’

He gently stroked the top of Ruthie’s head. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t know whether to bring this up, but now that you’re here, Bell, I feel I ought to.’

Bell waited.

‘It’s that deputy,’ Tom said. ‘You know – the overweight one. With the hair. The hair with all the gel on it.’

‘Charlie Mathers.’

‘Yes. Well, I saw him out by the high school the other day. Just sitting in his car. And it occurred to me that I’ve seen him out there before.’

‘In his patrol car, you mean,’ she said. ‘In his uniform. On duty. Probably helping the buses get out of the lot.’

‘No, he was in a regular car.’ Tom turned and kissed the side of Ruthie’s head.

‘And he was just sitting there?’

Tom nodded.

‘I’ll mention it to Nick.’

‘Might be nothing.’ Tom touched the place on Ruthie’s scalp that he had just kissed. The chemo had left her hair soft and fuzzy in some spots, and coarse in others.

He rose to walk her to the door. Ruthie kept her seat on the couch.

That told Bell that her friend was having a hard day. Ruthie would never say so out loud. With Ruthie, you had to pick up on stray clues.

‘Sure you won’t change your mind about the soup?’ Tom said. They stood in front of the door. ‘I could pack it up. A snap to reheat.’

‘Thanks, Tom, but we’re all set. You wouldn’t believe the stack of casseroles in the fridge. Might open my own diner.’

He reached past her to open the door. She admired his hands, as she always did; he had long, slender fingers that looked delicate until you realized how strong they were, how capable. Bell had seen Tom Cox single-handedly subdue large terrified animals – a Labrador named Lucy who had a bow hunter’s errant arrow stuck through her left hip, and another time, a stray who looked to be a Doberman-shepherd mix, just after the dog was hit by a truck out on Route 6 and was found limping in desperate pain-crazed circles, growling and lunging at anyone trying to help – and hold them still until he could sedate them for treatment.

‘Bell,’ he said. ‘I know Ruthie must’ve asked you, but I’ve been wondering. Any progress on finding out who killed those three poor fellows? And why?’

‘No.’ Bell turned back around on the doorstep to face him. ‘And you know what, Tom? I’m not sure we ever will. I mean, it might’ve been random. And if there’s no connection between the victims and the shooter – we may never find him. No matter how hard Sheriff Fogelsong and his deputies work at it.’

She tilted her head, indicating the line of mountains visible in the distance, rising like gray sentinels until they gradually merged with the darkening sky. ‘Somebody,’ she said, ‘could hide up in those hills forever.’

‘Sounds pretty hopeless. So how do you know when to give up?’

‘You don’t.’

‘You don’t know when to give up?’

Bell buttoned the top button of her coat. It was chillier now than just a little while ago when she’d arrived.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t give up.’