cruised back along the river, then took the steep bluff road back to 146. Along the way, I examined the guardrails and their footings for damage or vandalism. At the sharpest curve, near the top of the road, I left my engine running as I got out of the SUV to peer downward at the narrow ribbon of rocky shore and the rushing water below. I saw no twisted metal, no broken bodies, no evidence of a drunken or depressed driver crashing through the railing and plunging headlong into eternity.
After that, I detoured briefly to make a lazy loop through the two-block business district on Market Street, then back to 146. Near the west edge of town, a four-way stop marked the place where Hill Street crossed the highway. I turned right, and headed uphill—up Hill—past a block of modest brick houses. Chad’s foster parents still lived in one of them.
As I called county dispatch to report that I was officially off duty until tomorrow morning, I rolled slowly past Maryville’s grandest structure. A three-foot-tall wrought-iron fence separated it from a brick-paved sidewalk laid out in a herringbone pattern. At the midpoint of the property, an iron gate opened into a tall rose arbor, thickly overgrown with the hotel’s namesake flower. A long flagstone walkway lead through the arbor and up to the Cherokee Rose’s white-pillared front porch.
The massive redbrick structure had been built at the highest point along the ragged river bluffs and was visible for miles up and down the river. Early in its history, the Tyler family had welcomed the wealthy and famous to their hotel, offering river travelers an elegant place to stop and rest. Later, while their men were off doing battle with the Confederacy, Tyler women had invited in other, more desperate travelers to partake of the hotel’s hospitality. They’d hung a patchwork quilt—now proudly displayed in the hotel’s lobby—from one of the second-floor balconies. The carefully sewn pattern signaled weary runaways that the Cherokee Rose was a place of safety along their dangerous northward journey. Then, generations later, Gran began offering the hotel’s hospitality—and our family’s protection—to another kind of desperate traveler.
It was a good legacy, I reminded myself. A legacy worth protecting.
A quick look at the cars parked beside the kitchen door told me that all of my family members were at home. There was Gran’s vintage brown Subaru, an economical little car whose backseat was always littered with birding books, binoculars and an assortment of boots and jackets. Next to it was Aunt Lucy’s shiny gray Suburban, often used to transport visitors to and from the Cherokee Rose. Parked behind that was my sister’s red Jeep.
I glanced at my watch, discovered I had a little more time before lunch, and didn’t pull up to the front of the house.
Just past the Cherokee Rose, Hill Street angled suddenly downhill for a dozen yards and dead-ended at a barricade that kept cars from parking too near the ragged edge of the bluff. Beyond the barricade, pale birch trees and a scattering of picnic benches invited visitors to linger for a moment and appreciate Maryville’s most breathtaking view of the river.
That’s exactly what I did.
But first, while I was still inside the SUV, I locked my service pistol in the glove compartment. Then I unbuttoned my shirt and stripped off layers until a sweaty white T-shirt and lacy white bra were the only clothes I wore above my tan uniform slacks. Once inside the Cherokee Rose, I planned to shower and change into the civvies I’d brought along with me. But in the meantime, I’d savor the simple pleasure of escaping the confinement of my bulletproof vest.
Despite the beauty of the little park, it had few visitors. Maybe because most tourists didn’t know it was there and most of Maryville took the view of the river from the bluffs for granted. Something I never did.
I sat down in my usual spot on the grass near the edge and leaned back against the white paper-thin bark of one of the trees. As my eyes moved upriver and down, watching the barges and pleasure craft that dotted the water as far as I could see, I made an effort to relax and think of nothing in particular. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine that broke through the branches above me and danced across my eyelids. The roaring engine of a barge filled the air, drowning out the