My head throbbed. The sheer number of possible scenarios and what-ifs was becoming ridiculous. I was going to need one of those murder walls, like TV detectives have, with hundreds of photos and clippings and notes all connected by red string. Which reminded me of Pete Darnell, Ambletern regular and Doro’s friend. I’d forgotten I needed to do a little research on him.
I retrieved my laptop from the desk, typed in his name along with “Dalton, Georgia,” and watched the search results load. There were dozens of entries—more than the usual social media or ads for “search a classmate.” Most of them had to do with Pete Darnell’s parents—a wealthy family from north Georgia who’d made their money (and were still making it, from the looks of it) in carpet manufacturing. They featured prominently in the local news of Dalton and Atlanta, throwing charity galas and auctions, donating money to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center and dedicating various parks and art complexes.
I scanned the articles. One in particular caught my eye:
Peter, adopted by his aunt and uncle at the age of two after the death of his own parents in a car wreck, has been accepted to an overseas exchange program in Cairo. He will be studying archeology and ancient Mesopotamian history. Following that, he plans to attend Columbia University as a recipient of a Robert C. Byrd Honors Scholarship.
Young Darnell had published a handful of professional articles about ancient Mesopotamia, as well as a couple of pieces in National Geographic. He continued his parents’ legacy of philanthropy and married well—Laura Thomaston, a striking lawyer from London. She was tall, thin, and blonde. Almost a doppelg?nger of Doro, I noted. The Darnells spent part of the year in London and the other at their horse farm in east Georgia, where he commuted to his teaching job at the university.
I sat back and thought about Pete and Doro, and the evolution of their relationship. I wondered if he’d been angry about the joke she’d played on him when they were teens. Or if they’d just drifted apart because his family wanted someone more sophisticated for their brilliant son.
I pushed aside the computer. Pulled on my ragged jeans, a T-shirt, and a long-sleeve denim shirt from the pile on the chaise. A hint of sweat and bug spray wafted up. God, I really needed to get my laundry done. Or do it myself, which was probably how things happened around here. But it would have to wait. I had things to do. Long-lost murder weapons to find. Vague clues to uncover.
Whatever those clues might be, I needed to find them soon. Before my mother—or Billy Kitchens or anybody else—figured out a way to shut me down.
I emerged on the ridge of sandy bluffs, the middens snaking out before me in both directions. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and looked down over the blinding white wall of shells that rose from the sand.
The curving wall stretched a good quarter of a mile. It was high, but even at its highest point, ten feet maybe, I could still see the sparkling sea beyond it. The water was calm today, deep blue in the sun, and the waves hardly seemed to have the energy to crest as they lapped the sand on either end of the wall. The breeze slipped over me. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth soak in and settle my nerves.
This place—I didn’t know why, but it felt like I belonged to it. And also, simultaneously, it made me feel ill at ease. The same way I felt about Frances, come to think of it. Maybe I just had to accept it—for me, the idea of home would always carry with it a shadowing of discomfort.
I eased down the bluff, past pocked holes where kingfishers nested, and across the narrow strip of hard-packed sand to the wall. I pressed my hands against its uneven, scabrous surface. It was hard to believe these were just shells, put here by the Native Americans hundreds of years ago, cemented together into something impermeable by the wind and rain and heat. I thought about how, after Kim Baker’s death, they’d found her mother here, sawing into her flesh with a shell. I wrapped my arms around my torso and headed east.
The thing was enormous, probably hundreds of square feet in total, front and back. If Billy Kitchens had dug out a hole and mortared the rock into the wall, it would blend in so well that in all likelihood I’d never find it. I might as well try. I’d start at one end and work my way down to the other.
Nothing jumped out at me in the first section, so I continued on to the next, running my fingers over the bumpy shells, covering as much of the surface as I could. I forged on, sweating and squinting into the sun, until, two-thirds of the way down, I stopped.
About a foot off the ground, the shells were a different color, like they’d been dyed a dingy brown. It looked like someone had flung a paint can across the bottom of the wall. I ran my fingers over the splotches, and a bit of it flaked off under my nails. I studied it, then wiped it on my jeans.
Just then, a deafening boom split the air. I shot up, and my fingers and toes tingled in response. Another boom sounded, and I shaded my eyes, searching the line of trees along the bluff. I decided to try to run around the end of the wall, where I could take cover. As I ran and the booming continued, I realized I was stinging all over. But it wasn’t the neuropathy. Something real and very sharp was raining down over me. I stopped and scooped up a small, dark pellet beside my feet. What the hell . . .
Another boom rang out. A shotgun blast, I knew now. And another shower of pellets. I covered my head with my arm.
“Hey!” I yelled toward the tree line. “Hey, stop!” I crouched and scuttled along the wall, back in the direction I’d just come. Rounding a bend, I found myself suddenly in the midst of the herd.
The horses were agitated—milling about, snorting, stomping their hooves. I scooted between them, threading my way back to the wall, hoping I didn’t get kicked in the head or crushed in a stampede. At last, my outstretched hand hit the wall and I managed to feel my way in the direction of the nearest end. Another crack of gunfire rang out and the horses seemed to converge and roil, undecided on which way to go. I broke into a run, just as they coalesced and turned to run with me.
In seconds, they’d overtaken me, their hooves thundering as they split and then crashed past. I crouched and threw my arms over my head. Sand sprayed me from all directions. It felt like shards of glass, shooting into my eyes and nose and mouth, and even though I knew I should keep my mouth shut, I screamed—a long, drawn-out shriek as they rumbled past.
After they were gone, I spit long strings of sandy mucus onto the ground. My hands and feet were numb, and I was trembling from equal parts relief and terror. I wiped my gritty eyes and strained to see who was on the bluff.
“Come on out, you asshole!” I screamed.
I could still hear the herd thundering their way west along the wall. The waves crashed against the other side of the middens.
“Coward!” I yelled hoarsely. I turned to see a horse, one horse, who’d left the rest of the herd. It stood alone by the middens wall. The foal.