I didn’t have any choice in the matter, did I? There was no escaping the responsibility of what I had promised.
At the same time I came to that sinking realization—knowing I was stuck in Pine Valley for the rest of my life—a woman talking on her phone walked out of a store, bumped into me, and apologized. I glanced up at the clothes in the store’s window display and stopped breathing. The ache in my head swelled to beat the very air around my body. Without the capacity to think beyond it, I went inside and bought the outfit in the window.
I drove to the bank, withdrew the last thousand dollars from my savings account, and took it straight to the Hoffman farm, a place I’d only seen on Google maps before today. The house was sheltered by spruce trees and surrounded by wind turbines dotting the horizon. I couldn’t see any of the home’s windows and hoped no one was watching me as I placed a plain white envelope addressed to Hattie in the mailbox. Inside, I’d wrapped ten hundred-dollar bills in a note that read: “Mary’s pregnant. Go to New York. Know that I loved you.”
Then I went home to Mary with the outfit from the store—a tiny shirt and pants covered in fuzzy farm animals—lying on the seat next to me.
DEL / Thursday, April 17, 2008
TWO HOURS before Hattie’s funeral, I walked along the perimeter of the high school checking security at the entrances in my best Sunday suit and a mud-splattered pair of galoshes.
The high school’d canceled classes today, which they probably would have done anyway, but since the Methodist church couldn’t fit more than three hundred people, the funeral was set for 11:00 a.m. in the school gymnasium. We were counting on most of the kids, parents, and teachers showing up, the whole church congregation, not to mention Hattie’s theater friends from Rochester, both of Mona’s and Bud’s extended families, and the rest of the town, too. All told, at least a thousand people.
A thick roll of clouds cast the town into a restless gray, but the forecast said no rain, so we likely wouldn’t have to deal with road conditions. The boys were well into their assignments. Shel had taken up station at the parking lot entrance to direct traffic and keep things orderly. Jake was on media duty and reported there were already two news vans sniffing up and down Main Street. The rest of the crew was checking out the other locations and keeping an eye on the closed businesses. After the service was over, we had to lead the procession to the cemetery and block off the cross-traffic, escort the family cars back to the fire station hall, where the church ladies would serve lunch, and then direct traffic and keep an eye on things there for the rest of the afternoon. If either of my suspects didn’t show up, I’d have to send a man out to locate them. I wasn’t letting anybody drop off the radar today. I just hoped to God there wouldn’t be any accidents on the highway, because there was no one to spare. Nancy would have to call in the state troopers.
I’d been up since four and spent a good long while deciding whether to wear the uniform or civilian clothes, while the Nguyens’ cat looked bored in the living room doorway. I went with the suit and wore my gun and badge underneath the jacket. Jake had enough respect not to say anything about it when we made the call this morning to Dr. Terrance B. Standler, the forensic psychologist Fran had recommended. He answered right away and seemed polite enough, but tried to worm his way out of being helpful.
“Dr. Okada said you have an excellent DNA sample for the perpetrator and two strong candidates.”
“Yeah?”
“I usually reserve my time for cases that are more challenging for local law enforcement.”
Jake had given me a look and mimed a gun at the speaker phone.
“Did you look at the case file or not?” I asked.
“Yes, I have it in front of me.”
“Okay, then tell me if you have any useful information and save the snarky comments for later.”
He sighed.
“As you know, anger and power are the two primary drivers in most run-of-the-mill homicides, and there is evidence of both here. The abrasions of the sexual encounter are certainly power-based, but this is clearly not a case of erotophonophilia.”
“Come again?”
“Lust murder, homicides in which the killing itself is a sexual act. Here we have two separate acts. The sexual encounter, while aggressive, was clearly mutual although somewhat complicated by the presence of the condom. If it was used in this particular sexual encounter, the condom could be either a mark of respect toward the victim or an attempt by the male to keep his DNA off the victim. In any case, after the sex act, the victim got dressed again. There was a clear interlude.”
“Intermission.” Jake muttered.
“Excuse me?” Standler asked.