A Killing in the Hills

46


In normal times, Bell found Buster Crutchfield’s slow way of speaking to be restful, soothing, in a lemonade-on-the-front-porch-on-a-summer-Sunday-afternoon kind of way. Carla, less enthralled, always claimed that he sounded a lot like Foghorn Leghorn.

But until he clarified his announcement – until Bell understood that it was a male, not a female body that had been delivered to his stainless-steel table that night by deputies Greenough and Mathers – she found the unhurried pace of his speech to be excruciating.

Bell couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

The relief, when it came, made her feel so weak that she had trouble holding her cell. Light as it was, it was too heavy.

The body wasn’t Carla.

It wasn’t Carla.

She knew because Buster’s next sentence had a ‘he’ in it, as in, ‘He died from an overdose of pain pills, Bell, that’s the quick ’n’ dirty version. I’m guessing OxyContin or something similar, but I’ll know the particulars when I get the toxicology screen from the boys at the state lab.’

Boys. In Buster’s world, lab techs were always men. Or ought to be.

Hell. So were prosecutors.

‘Any ID yet?’ she asked.

A rustling of papers. Buster was checking his notes.

‘Fella’s name was James Pugh,’ he said. ‘Twenty-one years old. On probation for possession of a controlled substance. I know you’re keeping track, Bell. That’s why I called. This is the seventeenth overdose in the county this year. A new record.’

She let a moment go by. She remembered Jimmy Pugh as he’d looked in court that day, she could picture his goofy smile and his skinny wrists and his bad skin, and then she could hear his lazy cackle of a laugh, and she recalled how pleased he was at how he’d licked the system.

He’d licked it, all right.

‘Doesn’t look like foul play, then?’

‘Not so far as I can see. Only person who wanted to do any harm to young Mr Pugh,’ Buster said, ‘was Mr Pugh himself.’

Four minutes after she finished with Buster Crutchfield, her cell rang again.

This time, it had to be Carla. Bell was so sure of it that she didn’t bother checking the caller ID before speaking.

‘Hey, sweetie – where in the world have you been?’

A light cough of embarrassment. A man’s cough.

Bell pulled the phone away from her ear and checked the small blue screen: MECKLING, CLAYTON.

‘Look,’ she said sharply. ‘I really need to stay off the phone. I’m expecting to hear from my daughter any minute now.’

‘Oh, sorry. I’ll just call you back another time. Maybe tomorrow?’

Bell hesitated. She’d read the caller ID but had already forgotten the name, so frazzled was she over Carla’s absence. ‘Who are you?’

‘Clayton Meckling. I work with my dad. Walter Meckling. As in Walter Meckling Construction.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘I’ve left you a couple of messages. But I know you’re busy. We understand there’s been a problem with the electrical work we did. I wanted to come by at some point and take a look. Sooner the better, what with the fire risk. We switched you from a fuse box to circuit breakers, right?’

‘Yes. Yes, you did. But like I said, I’m waiting to hear from my daughter.’

She hated to put him off, because she wanted that wiring fixed. She wanted things to be perfect for Carla during the last few weeks she’d be living here. And Bell could never take the word ‘fire’ lightly.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know this sounds strange – it’s so late and all – but I’m just going to be sitting around for the next hour or so, waiting for my daughter’s call. If you’re in the neighborhood, you could come over right now. Have a look. At least get a start on tracking down the problem, maybe. And making sure it’s safe for now.’

‘Deal.’

‘You’ll be going in the cellar, right?’

‘You got it.’

‘Bring a flashlight. And your oldest clothes. The kind you don’t mind ruining. Our cellar’s got a touch of the Addams Family to it. You’ll be swatting at cobwebs. Swearing you hear things scuttling around in the corners.’

‘Been working for my dad for a while now. I’ve crawled around a lot of old basements. I’m good buddies with Cousin Itt.’

Bell laughed. It felt odd to be laughing when she was still so concerned about Carla, but she realized there was nothing she could do about that right now. Just wait. And worry.

And maybe get the wiring fixed.

Clayton Meckling turned out to look a lot like his father.

Rangy, redheaded, with a casually graceful way of walking and an easy manner. Self-confident, without the arrogance that sometimes went with it. Bell put him at ten, maybe fifteen years younger than she was, which is why she’d never met him, even though they’d both grown up in the vicinity, both graduated from Acker’s Gap High School. He had skin that looked as if he’d spent a fair amount of time outdoors. Greenish gray eyes.

He was, in point of fact, an attractive man. Bell was a little surprised at herself for even noticing. For one thing, she was nearly beside herself with worry about her daughter; for another, she’d only dated a few times since her divorce. There was Harry Simms, an orthopedic surgeon over in Charleston, a friend of Ruthie’s, and there was Bill Vaughan, an engineer who worked for the state. Good men, both of them, smart and funny, but there were no sparks.

She’d half-persuaded herself that after Carla left for college, she’d settle down with a cat or seven – just to round out the spinster stereotype, good and proper.

And now, here was Clayton Meckling.

She waited in the kitchen. After a few shy preliminary remarks, he had headed down to the cellar, wielding a Maglite and a pair of needle-nose pliers, his head protected by a bright yellow hard hat.

The moment he was out of sight, she went back to worrying.

It was 10:38. Still no word.

Now Bell was beginning to panic all over again. At 10:40 she called Ramona Phipps. Carla and Ramona had been best friends throughout middle school and still hung out occasionally, but they’d split up in high school. Different crowds.

Ramona said she hadn’t spoken to Carla in several weeks. Sorry.

‘Okay. Thanks.’

Then Bell overcame her powerful, instinctive dislike of Lonnie Prince and actually dialed his cell. She had requested the number from Carla a while back. In case of emergency, she’d told her daughter. That’s all.

The message on the voice mail was about what Bell had expected: ‘Dude! You know what to do. And do it at the beep.’ Bell didn’t leave a message. She’d just keep trying his number, she told herself, until he answered.

She set her cell on the kitchen countertop. Her next call would be to Sheriff Fogelsong. She was wishing that she’d started all of this much earlier, but she was torn; Carla always complained that Bell didn’t trust her, and resented it when her mother tried to track her down. Bell wanted to treat Carla like an adult.

She heard Clayton tromping up the basement steps.

‘Well,’ he said, lifting off the hard hat and running a hand through his hair, ‘I checked all the circuit breakers and everything looks good. But when we replaced that knob-and-tube wiring, I wonder if maybe we forgot to—’

Bell’s cell rang. She lunged for it so frantically that Clayton took a few steps back in surprise.

‘Yes,’ Bell said into the phone.

‘Bell, it’s Nick.’ His voice was somber. ‘It’s about Carla.’

‘I’ve been waiting for her, I’ve been waiting for hours, I’ve been calling her friends – Nick, is it – do you know – are you calling because—’

He cut her off. ‘Just needed to see if she was home yet.’ His voice shifted into another register. It was his information-dispensing voice. ‘But I do have some news. I’m not sure what it means – if it means anything at all, if it’s even relevant. You know Sheriff Beauchamp – Wally Beauchamp. Takes care of the Alesburg area. He got a report of a shooting this evening. Went to the scene.’

A shooting.

Bell felt her knees liquefy. She was suddenly afraid they’d give way. Somehow Clayton Meckling sensed that; he crossed the room and took her arm, stabilizing her. He held her that way while the sheriff continued speaking. Bell was only barely aware of Clayton’s presence.

‘At the home of a man named Edward Jerome Briscoe,’ Nick said, ‘Wally found the body of a twenty-year-old male resident of Raythune County named Lonnie Lee Prince. He’d been shot three times at close range. There was a cell found at the scene.’ A pause. ‘Bell, it was Carla’s.’

‘She wasn’t there?’

‘No. Just the cell.’

‘But the Briscoe person, did he—’

‘He was dead, Bell. Shot with the same weapon.’ The sheriff cleared his throat. ‘I thought I remembered you mentioning somebody named Lonnie. A friend of Carla’s, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever hear her mention this Briscoe?’

‘Never.’

‘Any idea why she might’ve gone there?’

‘None.’

She was getting shaky all over again, but someone was holding her; Bell looked up and saw a man’s face. A man she didn’t know. She was grateful for his assistance but all she could think was, Who the hell is this guy? I’ve never seen him before and what in the world is he doing in my kitchen and—

It came to her. Clayton Meckling. Something about the wiring.

She closed her eyes, trying to clear her head. Seconds later, when she spoke into the phone again, Bell hoped she didn’t sound hysterical, even though that’s exactly how she felt.

‘Nick, what do we do? What’s the next move?’

‘I’m figuring that out right now. Just had to check first and make sure Carla wasn’t with you. Stay put. I’m coming over. Crime scene techs are working in the house in Alesburg, and they’ll be able to tell us if Carla was actually there. The cell might have been stolen. Or she could’ve loaned it to somebody. Lots of ways, Bell, it could’ve gotten there.’

The call ended with a click. Bell drew the cell away from her ear and stared at it, as if she’d never seen this kind of device before, as if it were something exotic and bizarre. Her mouth was savagely dry. She had lost the feeling in her fingertips.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Clayton said. ‘Other than just getting out of your way? I mean, I hate leaving you like this. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can see you’re pretty upset.’

Bell finally was able to focus on him. ‘I’m sorry. This is an emergency. A family emergency. I – I shouldn’t have had you come over tonight.’ She looked down, because she thought she might be starting to cry.

They realized simultaneously that they were still in physical contact with each other, that he still held her arm. Clayton instantly let go and backed away three steps. It was a small kitchen, and his rear end collided with the table. Bell had reached out to keep him from striking it, but she was too late, and in the process they became tangled up with each other all over again, arms crossing over arms, shirtsleeves rubbing, hands touching.

There was an awkwardness to the moment, but there was something else as well. Another feeling. Bell, though, had no time to think about it, to analyze it.

She apologized, blushed, and quickly moved away from him.

Clayton muttered his own apology. He dipped his head in mild embarrassment. Then he fled from the kitchen, hard hat pinned under his arm, hands jammed in his jeans pockets, boots slapping the hardwood floor.

Bell heard the heavy front door close.

Now all she could do was wait for Nick.

She looked down at the table. Carla’s half-eaten bowl of Cap’n Crunch from that morning still rested on the plastic place mat, a soggy yellow mess of curdled milk and congealed cereal. Under normal circumstances, the sight would’ve irritated Bell. She’d be silently rehearsing her firm, finger-wagging speech for when she next saw her daughter: Young lady, you know you’re supposed to rinse out your bowl in the sink and put it in the dishwasher . . .

Now Bell was glad the bowl was there. Thrilled, in fact.

It was a touch of normalcy, and its very ordinariness – Carla always forgot to rinse out her Cap’n Crunch bowl when she’d finished her breakfast – gave Bell hope. Hope that Carla was safe, and that she would be coming home soon.