Page 22 of Water's Edge

“Nice to hear from you, Megan. I don’t think you’ve called me lately. How am I? I’m fine. What has been going on in my life? Well, you don’t want to know.”

“Susie,” I say. “Please don’t make me come over there and get nasty.”

Susie chuckles. “I’m teasing, Megan. What can I do you for?”

This is another slang cop line that never made any sense. She couldn’tdo mefor anything. I play along. “You heard about the woman we found on Marrowstone this morning?”

“We were just talking about that,” she says. “Do you have a name?”

“No. That’s why I want you to use whatever you have at your disposal to get her description out to every law enforcement agency in our county and the surrounding ones. If we don’t get a response, I may want to go wider.”

Susie’s all in. “What should the message say?”

I give her a complete description of the body and add the possibility the victim might have had a child. I don’t want to give out too much information, but I want to get some serious responses. Washington has the fourth-highest missing person rate in the country. A study was funded by taxpayers called the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, or NamUs. Now every law enforcement agency uses it, including those in Oregon and Washington. I have the app on my computer and had run the description that afternoon. I got forty-two possibles, but none were close to the dates I wanted except two. I found nothing else on those two. Not even a Facebook page. I give Susie the names and other information on those two just in case something was entered since I last checked.

Susie says she’ll call me if she gets anything. I ask her to send me an email instead. It’ll be faster. And I want to listen to the rest of the tape. I disconnect and drink some Cutty.

The tumbler has somehow emptied itself. The Scotch is doing its job. I take the tape out of the player, put it back in its case, and return the case to the box. I put the tape player in with them and put the box back on the top shelf of my closet and crawl under the covers.

My eyes closed, I breathe in and exhale. Each deliberate breath is meant to calm, soothe me to sleep. Scare away the bad dreams.

It never works.

Nothing does.

It’s her.

She comes to me like a scorpion crawling up the stairs. Her eyes are red. Red, like an albino bunny. But not cute. Horrible. Full of terror. I turn from her eyes to the sound of cutting, gnawing into the wood of the steps. It’s her, of course. I don’t scream. I just get ready. Lifting herself by her muscled arms, she reminds me of Wyeth’s Christina’s World. I hate that painting.

I hate helplessness.

I will myself to wake up. I sit up shivering, staring at the darkness outside my window. I hold the feeling I had in my dream and I wonder if it is anything like how the victims in my case felt when confronted with their killer’s eyes. Did they fight or accede?

Twelve

A light rain mists the trees and grass this morning, sending dewy diamonds into my view as I make the drive to the office. A pair of deer stand in the roadway, taking their sweet time to cross. I live in a beautiful part of the country. Mountains. Lakes. Salt water. Sometimes I wonder if the beauty of the Northwest is a mask covering the ugly that lurks inside. Peel back the image. See the dead girl. Seal it back up.

Go on a picnic.

When I arrive at work, the sheriff has his door closed and I can hear laughter inside. A woman. Her laughter is penetrating. Forced.

Ronnie.

I don’t knock on the door, although I am tempted to break up whatever she is trying to do. No way am I going to be stuck with her again. I know Sheriff Gray wants me to take her to the autopsy today, but when she starts talking, the corpse will get up and run. I pick up my files on the case, check the basket for new reports from Crime Scene or the Marine Patrol, then head for the door.

I don’t make it very far.

Sheriff Gray calls to me from his doorway.

“Megan. I heard your car pull in.”

“You did?” I purposely parked in the farthest parking spot.

“It’s about time we upgraded you. The mufflers on that Taurus sound like they belong on a diesel truck.”

“I hadn’t noticed. The Taurus is fine. I’ll talk to you when I come back.”

“Not so fast.” He reaches in and brings Reserve Deputy Ronnie Marsh out by one arm. She doesn’t look excited. She’s not laughing anymore.

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