Page 3 of The Witch's Orchard
“Esther Lehman went missing because shewantedto go missing,” I say. “The case was cold because she didn’twantto be found.”
“But you found her.”
I shrug and say, “The woman had expensive taste in shoes.”
“And everyone else missed it. I—listen, I read that you’re from Appalachia. You get mountain towns, right? Mountain people? That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m trying to hireyou.”
I know, instantly, what he means. Despite cell towers and spreading networks of broadband, mountain towns have retained a certain insular quality, hanging on to old traditions, old ways of speaking, old hierarchies with elders at the top. People in cities—living, working, talking at a fast clip—experience the quiet, slow pace that permeates these communities, and they assume a slowness of mind, a lack of character. Or, worse, they base everything they know about mountain people on the stereotypes in the media. And I should know. Jokes about illiteracy, incest, and shoelessness elicited more than one broken nose while I was in the Air Force.
I look again at the picture of Max’s sister, Molly, and sigh.
“Max, I know you know this but… little girls, this long…”
“Please,” he says. “I can give you eight hundred a day plus room and board. My cabin has a five-star rating. There’s a brochure in the casebook.” He pulls it out and slides it across the table to me and continues, “And the access code is on there. It’s keyless entry. The internet isn’t great; it’s satellite. But the cell coverage is pretty good. The property’s nice. It’s right next to Quartz Creek.”
“Max—”
“My friend Shiloh runs a bakery there. She said you can have anything you want, on the house. She makes great cinnamon rolls. And I can give you the casebook, obviously, and—”
“What about your parents?”
He bites his lips together for a moment, then says, “My mom’s not around anymore. My dad’s a long-haul trucker so… Well, he’s not really around much either. I’m pretty much on my own.”
The look in his eyes isn’t just desperation but conviction, determination. I realize there’s something more to Max than his quiet, gentle outer nature. There is something steady underneath, honed to hardness. He could’ve hired a big-city PI from Charlotte but he’s here, after a long road trip, to hire me, a mountain girl whose granny also made applehead dolls.
“Miss Gore,” he says. “Just look. That’s all I’m asking. I need to do this. Please.”
In his voice, I hear an echo of my own. Some hardheaded strength born out of too many years spent in desperation. Something honest and earnest and determined. And I know, already, that I can’t say no. I can’t tell this kid to drive all the way back to North Carolina, to forget about his sister, to go on with his life.
“I’ll give you a week,” I say, before I can take it back. “I will come to your town. I will read your casebook. I will poke around and stir shit up and ask a lot of questions that make people uncomfortable. You understand?”
“I… yes.”
“Cases like this,” I say. “With kids involved? They make people edgy, uncomfortable. It dredges up stuff they don’t like. They don’t like to think their town is the kind of place where little girls are kidnapped, don’t like to think it was this neighbor or that one. It’s easier to just hope it never happens again, easier to forget it.”
“Not for me,” Max says, his eyes burning mine, his mouth set.
“This is going to be like poking an old hornet’s nest to see if there are any angry hornets still buzzing around inside. You understand?”
“Yeah,” Max says. “I understand.”
“All right,” I say. “I’ll come down and I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise I’ll findanything.It’s been a long time.”
And I stop myself before I say, “There might not be anything left to find.”
“When can you start?”
Tonya steps up to the table, puts down the check, and asks, “You need a box, Annie?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And get one for him too.”
“Oh, I don’t need—” Max starts, sliding a card into the plastic envelope on the check holder.
I shrug. “I’ll take it then.”
She grabs the payment and leaves. I think about the smell of bacon grease upstairs, the second floor divided into two rooms: my office and my tiny studio apartment. I think about the desk topped with unpaid bills, the little refrigerator I can’t keep stocked, and the three loads of dirty jeans and T-shirts I need to haul down to the Laundromat.
“Your rental have a washer/dryer?”
