“I understand,” I said. “If you would ask around, I’d appreciate it. I’ll leave my card here with these young men, so they can relay my contact information to you.” With that, I thanked him and handed the phone back to the large, pale young man. Then I took two cards out of my wallet and handed one to each. “Whoever sees the imam first, please pass that along. Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry to bring sad news.”
Before leaving, I took a closer look at the interior of the mosque. I was seeing only the foyer and its intersection with the main hallway, but, except for the rack for shoes, it could have been one of a hundred small Methodist or Baptist or Presbyterian churches I had seen during my life: Beige cinder-block walls. Acoustic-tile ceilings. Bulletin boards with hand-lettered notices and printed flyers announcing upcoming events. Carpeting that was still plush and bright along the walls, but thin and worn at the center of the halls, thanks to the passage of many years and countless footsteps.
As the steel door clicked shut behind me, something in the sheen of light on its surface caught my eye, and I noticed that the paint wasn’t uniform. Parts of the door had been recently repainted, I realized, and as I looked closer, I realized that the fresh paint was covering graffiti—harsh, hateful words I could still discern, faintly but unmistakably, despite the efforts to cover them, to cancel them out. Hate always leaves a mark, I thought sadly. Like a break in a bone. It might heal, but you can always see where it happened.
CHAPTER 17
I HAD INTENDED TO RETURN TO MY OFFICE AFTER MY visit to the mosque, but instead, I found myself drawn toward I-40. I unclipped my phone and called Miranda. “I’m going back to Cooke County,” I told her. “You wanna go?”
“Why?” she asked.
“To help me,” I said. “Why else?”
“No, I mean why are you going?”
“I still think we’re missing something,” I said.
“What could we be missing? We brought back the bones, the chain, even the trash. Waylon brought us the bear poo. We collected everything but the tree. Unless the tree is the missing piece, we got everything there was to get. What is it you’re imagining?”
I shrugged. “Some missing piece. I don’t know what.”
“Well, duh,” she said. “Funny thing about missing pieces—they’re almost always . . . missing.”
“Ha ha, Miss Smarty-Pants. But there’s something else. There has to be.”
“Why? Because justice always prevails? Because the good guys always win, and the bad guys never get away?”
“No,” I said. “I know it doesn’t always work out that way. All I know is, it feels like I’ve got something stuck in my teeth—stuck in my brain—and it’s driving me crazy.”
“And going back to the scene would be . . . mental floss?” I groaned. It was a dreadful pun, and I fervently wished I’d thought of it myself.
“Mental floss,” I agreed. “Unless I go back and take another look, I’m not gonna be able to concentrate on teaching. Or grading. Or, especially, on reading your dissertation.”
“A low blow,” she said. “Look, I just can’t go. I’ve got to get ready to defend my dissertation. But good luck chasing that wild goose.”
I NEARLY MISSED THE INTERSTATE EXIT FOR JONESPORT. I was in the left lane, passing a Walmart truck, when I noticed the exit only a few hundred yards ahead. “Well, crap,” I muttered, flooring the gas pedal. Barely clearing the front bumper of the semi, I whipped across the right lane and rocketed onto the ramp, then hit the brakes to avoid careening through the stop sign just ahead. The Walmart truck roared past, the horn blaring long and loud, the driver justifiably angry. “Sorry,” I said to the truck’s rear bumper as it barreled on. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk.”
The near miss spiked my adrenaline and also jolted me back to the present—a helpful place to be, given that it would take some concentration to find my way back up to the death scene. I’d considered calling the sheriff’s office and asking if either O’Conner or Waylon could go with me, but in the end, I decided I’d rather be there alone, free to spend as much time as I wanted, unburdened by conversation or by the distraction of feeling watched as I rambled aimlessly, looking for . . . what? I had no idea.
The road up the mountain was now carpeted with leaves, mostly the bright yellow of tulip poplars. The sound of the tires was muted by the foliage, the normal crunch of gravel replaced by a rushing, swishing sound, almost like wind through treetops: almost as if the leaves contained the sound of the wind within themselves.