dozen years,” I said mildly. “What do think we’ll find down there after all this time?”
“Oh hell, Brooke,” he said, “I know this doesn’t make any sense. Crawling down into that ravine is probably pointless and definitely risky. In any other situation, I’d sit tight, wait for that damned official report, and then use it to narrow down our missing-persons lists. But I’ve got to do something. And I figure it can’t hurt to look. Maybe we’ll luck out. Stumble across my mother’s wedding ring. Or my father’s gun. Or just find some bit of evidence that points to someone else.”
Like an asthma inhaler that’s already been found, I thought. Of course, I didn’t say that out loud. But I couldn’t help thinking—hoping—that a search would produce evidence that proved the victim was Chad’s mother. For Chad’s sake. And because it would ease my worries about Katie’s past and her future.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “But not today, okay?”
Then I offered him a lie that was as close to the truth as I could make it. That strategy, I’d discovered, made my lies rest a lot easier on my conscience.
“Gran’s got a doctor’s appointment in Paducah—just a routine checkup—and I promised her and Aunt Lucy that I’d go along. I’m going off duty around noon. So can we do it tomorrow morning?”
“Sure,” Chad said.
We agreed to meet at Camp Cadiz.
Minutes later, I left the house, climbed into my SUV and drove to Statler’s. But not even strong coffee, a chocolate-iced cake doughnut and Ed’s Hawaiian shirt—this one printed with hula girls and palm trees—were enough to improve my mood or cure my headache. Mostly because they didn’t keep me from worrying about this afternoon’s extraction. Or anticipating that sooner or later an unsuspecting guest would antagonize my sister. Or wondering why someone would take the time to entomb their victim in the trunk of a tree when a perfectly good ravine was just a step away.
I needed to concentrate on doing my job, I told myself. Another speed trap might be just the thing. I was in the mood to give out tickets, to be the one in control. Just let someone argue with me or try to give me a hard time. I’d show them who called the shots in my town.
That thought, and the narrow-eyed surge of anger that accompanied it, convinced me that giving out tickets was the last thing I needed to be doing. I was paid to serve and protect the residents of Maryville. That didn’t include using my personal problems as an excuse to throw my weight around. Even if I did have a headache.
So I cruised along 146, staying within the posted speed limit, which was thirty-five in town. I drove that way past the ferry landing and past Maryville’s three major intersections—Dunn Street, Main Street and Hill Street. All around me, drivers tapped their brakes as they glanced nervously at their speedometers, then carefully paced me.
On the west edge of town, I did a U-turn in the parking lot of the Antique Attic. As usual, the lights were off inside the old building and Larry’s hand-lettered closed sign was leaning up against the interior plate-glass window. As a courtesy, the sign gave potential customers a phone number where the proprietor could be reached. But as I completed the turn, I wondered if even the promise of a sale would prompt Larry to risk missing the next battle in his ongoing war with his next-door neighbor, Marta Moye. At least they hadn’t called 911 this morning, I thought as I tucked my SUV between an old grain wagon that was more rotted than wooden and a stack of used tires—ten dollars, your choice. Their mileage, I supposed, qualified them as antiques, too.
Minutes later, a Chevy truck—a yellow four-by-four with six-inch lifts, oversize mud tires and KC HiLites—tore past me, going about eighty. The license plate was obscured by dirt, and green cornstalks stuck out from the undercarriage and grillwork.
In my book, that qualified as begging for a ticket.
I hit the siren as I pulled out and floored the accelerator, following but not chasing.
How foolish are you going to be? I wondered as they kept going, slowing but not stopping.
As tempting as forcing the issue might be, I couldn’t risk it. They might speed up again, might lose control of their truck. It would be better to let them think they’d gotten away.
I thumbed the switch to talk to county dispatch, to get some help.