Page 58 of Snow Creek

I poke my head into Sheriff’s office. He’s finishing a call.

“I told Nan no interviews,” I say.

Now he looks deflated.

“Yeah, you’re right. I like that gal they were going to send out.”

I don’t respond.

“Anything from the lab?”

“Not yet,” I say.

He looks me over, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“I remember that suit. That’s what you wore to the interview.”

I shrug. “Not much need for one around here. Besides, nothing goes out of style. I saw a guy in a leisure suit the other day when I was getting coffee.”

“No shit,” he says. “I used to have a few of those back in the day.”

I suspect he still does.

I tell him that I’m going back to Snow Creek before the memorial and I’ll meet up with him around one or so.

He gives me a sly smile. “Leaving no stone unturned, Megan?”

“That’s me,” I say.

In fact, I nearly live for turning stones to see what ugly thing crawls out from under. I did it with abandon when I was fifteen.

Or sixteen.

The ride back to Snow Creek is now autopilot easy. I play Adele on the CD player. Her voice soothes as my mind plays thoughts about Ida Wheaton. Beaten, brutalized, burned, dumped. It was such overkill. At first, I thought the carpet was an instrument of convenience, concealment. But why bother with it if you’re just going to burn her in the truck and drive it into a ravine? Too much effort. Now I consider it was purposeful. Whoever hated her enough to kill her so violently, must have loved her too. That’s why my money’s on Merritt. At some point he must have cared for his wife. Most husbands do. Then for whatever hideous reason, he strikes her with a hammer and rolls her up in a carpet to hide what he’s done. Not from others. Strictly from himself.

I pass the inventive two-story mobile and barely give it a thought.

When I near Dan Anderson’s place, I consider stopping. Maybe apologizing for not getting back to him. Or say that I had my eye on the carved bear. I play all of those scenarios in my mind and am glad that I keep going. I like him. I can tell he likes me. I just can’t go there. There are too many secrets to hold inside that keep me from being anything other than closed off.

The Torrance place looks exactly the same when I drive up. From where I park, I can see the note to Jared is right where it was. The goats look as though they are being taken care of, but there are no signs that any other car has been here besides Sheriff’s. That bothers me a little. It’s possible that Jared is someone out in the woods and gets there by walking. Maybe the mobile home with the sweet potato vine in the jar?

I scan the field and the tree line that rises up the mountains to the logging road where the truck and body were discovered. There’s an opening at the edge of the forest.

Before I head in for the trail, I knock on the door. At my feet are two purple and one dark blue Croc, the world’s most hideous shoe.

I knock harder.

A dark blue Croc, I know, was found not far from where Ida Wheaton’s burned body was found in the pickup truck.

“Amy!” I call out, leaning toward the door. “Regina! Is there anyone home?”

I don’t hear anything, but for a flash I thought I sensed a vibration on the porch.

I knock one last time, thinking of that Croc. Has Merritt been holed up here? I’m worried about the women. Something feels funny. I make a mental note to call into the office when I get in cell range. Deputies need to swing by here for a welfare check. I’ll pull records on both women later.

As I move down the trail it feels as though I’m entering in a tunnel. So dark in places. Every once in a while a sharp blade of light lacerates the space. The path is wider than a deer trail, though not by much. It snakes through the forest and begins to rise about a hundred yards in.

I have the wrong clothes for such an endeavor and definitely the wrong shoes.

---