A Haunting of the Bones Read online

  “It’s not a fight, Belfa.”

  “Feels that way.” A touch of belligerence had worked its way into her tone.

  “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be. It’s a cold case. We’ve got so much going on in the here and now, I don’t think we can spare the resources to—”

  “Not asking for help,” she said, interrupting him. “I’ll do it myself. And from now on, it’ll be on my own time. Not the county’s.”

  He took a deep breath, so deep and so long that when he finally let it out, the length of the sigh made it sound as if it had traveled up from the soles of his feet. Then he put a hand on each knee and stood up.

  “In thirty years, Belfa Elkins, I don’t think I’ve ever once talked you into something you didn’t want to do. Or out of something, either, come to that.”

  “At least I’m consistent. Right?”

  The darkness had grown so thick by now that she could barely see him shaking his big head. But she knew that’s what he was doing. It’s what he did when he was exasperated.

  “You be careful, Belfa. Okay? You watch out. You could get yourself hurt real bad.”

  “Oh, come on. Like you said, this is a cold case. All the bad guys are long dead, most likely.”

  “I’m not talking about the bad guys.”

  * * *

  In five more minutes she would arrive at the Salty Dawg in Drummond, a medium-sized town in south central West Virginia about an hour’s drive from Acker’s Gap. The Salty Dawg was a regional chain that specialized in biscuits piled with a choice of toppings—ham, bacon, cheese, chicken, beef, turkey—after which the greasy edifice was drenched in gravy. There had once been a Salty Dawg in Acker’s Gap. In the aftermath of a violent crime on the premises three autumns ago, however, the owner had shut it down for good, and now it was disintegrating day by day, brick by brick. The ground-to-roof windows were covered with plywood. The big black awning across the front had partially ripped off in a rainstorm. High-reaching weeds had overtaken the front walk. Most residents would tell you they barely noticed the place anymore. Bell only wished that the memory of the crime that had occurred therein could be forgotten with similar ease.

  The meeting place was Sheila Gilmore’s idea. “Don’t want you to have to drive all the way over here to Petit County, hon,” she’d said to Bell the night before, during their phone call. She had been very surprised to hear from the Raythune County prosecuting attorney—a surprise that turned to somber reflection when Bell told her what had been found beneath the ground in the shadow of the mountains.

  “Oh, my,” Gilmore had said. Bell had the sense she was closing her eyes. “Oh, my goodness, I don’t know what to—” She had composed herself. “I never knew what happened to Dave. Or to Teresa. I did know her, but not nearly as well as I knew Dave. He just up and disappeared one day—at least that’s what I thought at the time. Anybody else, I would’ve been mad as hell, but you couldn’t be mad too long at Dave Hickok. After that, I had a real fight on my hands, trying to keep the company going. I didn’t even try to track him down. I guess I figured he’d pulled up stakes and gone away somewhere. Got a fresh start. He deserved it.”

  Bell couldn’t wait. She was ravenous for answers. “A fresh start with Teresa Dolan, maybe?”

  Gilmore’s voice had acquired a peculiar edge. “Oh, hon, you don’t think—” She waited. Started again. “Listen, we really do need to talk in person, okay? Dave and your mother weren’t lovers. Dave was—well, back then we called it ‘queer.’ Nobody said ‘gay.’ Well, they said it, but it didn’t mean what it means today. Anyway, Dave made the mistake of telling his mother about it back when he was still in high school—and she threw him out. Just like that. Told him he was a terrible disgrace and he’d burn in hell for sure. That mother of his was a real witch, I’m telling you. Dave bounced around for a while. Joined the Army—but the secret took a toll on him there, too. Came back to Acker’s Gap. Started drinking too much. Couldn’t hold a job. Then he met Teresa. Your mother. He met her at the—” She stopped. Bell wondered if the connection had been lost.

  “Well,” Gilmore finally went on, “I guess it doesn’t matter now, with both of them gone. It’s supposed to be anonymous—says so right in the name—and Dave took that plenty serious, and he only told me because I had a roofing company and he needed a job. Didn’t want me finding out about his troubles on my own. But I think even he’d agree that it’s okay now. Dave and your mother met at an AA meeting in the basement of the Rising Souls Baptist Church. Dave told me all about it. He always said that Teresa Dolan saved his life. She was his sponsor.”

  Bell had tried to ask another question, but Gilmore cut her off. “Can you get to Drummond by ten o’clock tomorrow? I’ve got a showing near there. The Salty Dawg brews a good cup of coffee.”

  The restaurant on Saturday morning was nearly empty. Bell spotted Sheila Gilmore right away, sitting at a table in the corner. She was a large, solid woman who looked to be in her late seventies or early eighties—the kind of person, Bell thought admiringly, for whom the phrase “tough old broad” was invented. Her frosted white hair was pushed into a climbing spiral that had shed spit curls along the top edge and sides of her sagging face. She wore a bright green pantsuit and black shoes that tapered into a torturously narrow toe box. She waved vigorously to Bell: “Over here, hon!”

  Bell sat down across from her and realized that Gilmore was staring.

  “Sorry,” the older woman said. “It’s just—well, I only met Teresa once or twice, and that was almost forty years ago. But your eyes. Your eyes. I have to tell you, Mrs. Elkins—you’re Teresa’s daughter, all right.”

  Bell didn’t know what to say. Even if she had, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to say it; there was something in her throat, something hard and sharp.

  Gilmore seemed to sense that. She rescued her. “Okay,” she said. “Where were we? Right. Dave Hickok. I hired him and we tried to make the company work, but it was pretty hopeless. Folk’d sign up to have us replace a roof, and Dave’d do a real nice job—and then they wouldn’t pay. Or they’d pay partial. Happened a lot. Part of it, I truly believe, was the fact that I’m a woman. And they thought they could get by with it. People’ll accept women in a lot of professions—but not construction. Not in the 1970s, anyway.”

  “Know what you mean,” Bell said. She’d found her voice again. “Not a hell of a lot of female prosecutors around, either. Then or now.”

  “Bet not. Anyway, things were already deteriorating when Dave just up and vanished. Didn’t show up for work one day. I hired a guy to replace him, but by then I couldn’t pay my suppliers and it was just a matter of time before Haney Roofing went belly-up.” She made a face. “Losing a business is no fun, believe me. But I bounced back. Put it all behind me. Met Royce Gilmore and got my Realtor’s license and—”

  She stopped, smacking a palm on her forehead. “Listen to me! Like it’s my life story you drove all this way to hear! Mrs. Elkins, I only met your mother a few times. She’d come by our job sites to pick up Dave to take him to AA meetings. But I can tell you that she was a good woman. We started talking once—Dave was finishing up a job and wasn’t ready to leave yet—and she told me about her two little girls. Shirley and Belfa. I told her those were real pretty names. She showed me pictures. Lord, but you were a little bitty thing! I said, ‘Oh, my, your husband must be proud, having such a nice family and all.’ She got real quiet after that.”

  “He was a bastard.”

  “I figured it must be so, based on the look she got on her face. She blamed her drinking for all of it. She’d met Donnie Dolan in a bar, she said, and both of them stayed drunk pretty much the whole time. Day after day after day. It was like living underwater, she told me. Seeing everything through a gray haze. Never being able to see anything clearly. When she decided to get sober—it was your sweet little faces that persuaded her, yours and Shirley’s—well, she finally had to look at what a rotten sonofabitch she was marr
ied to.” Gilmore shook her head. “You need to know this, hon. Your mother was trying to make things right. She really was. Trying with everything she had. That’s why she worked so hard at AA, helping people like Dave. Wasn’t easy for her. Your daddy was always accusing her of having relations with Dave, which was never true, of course. And she loved you girls and she wanted to get you away from that man—but she never had the chance. She just ran out of time.”

  “So who killed them?”

  Gilmore’s face seemed to crumple a bit. “Lord, hon, I’ve been asking myself that ever since I got your call and you told me the news. I just don’t know.”

  “Did Dave Hickok have any enemies? Old lovers—anybody?”

  “Not Dave. He was a good guy. A gentle soul. I only think he ever had one partner, a man named Trent Smith, who was killed at a railroad crossing back when Dave and I were still working together. Trent drove a big rig. Missed the signal. Dave was sorrowful about it for months. Terrible, terrible thing. And the only person I know who might’ve wished harm to your mother was—well, your father.”

  Bell nodded. So maybe it was Donnie Dolan, after all, who had murdered them. Shirley would be pleased. “Pleased” was not the right word, because it didn’t begin to hint at the depth and complexity of Shirley’s emotions, but Bell was too preoccupied right now to come up with a better one. It was a tidy solution. The case would be closed, once and for all. It would mean that Shirley’s actions on the night when she’d killed their father had an expanded moral justification: In addition to saving Bell, Shirley had avenged the death of their mother and her friend.

  “Of course,” Gilmore said, “if we’re talking about lousy parents, you’ve got to make room on the All-Star team for Dave’s mother, Evelyn Hickok. From the moment he told her that he was gay—I’ve learned to use that word and I kind of like it now—well, she hated him. Told him he was a piece of crap. She’d call him all the time on the job and scream at him. Quote Bible verses at the top of her lungs.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “No idea. That was a long, long time ago, hon—and Evelyn’s not the kind of person you take pains to keep in touch with.” Gilmore switched gears. She smiled and patted Bell’s hand. “Those eyes of yours. Can’t get over ’em. Just can’t. Next time you’re looking in a mirror, I hope you remember that your mother is looking right back at you, okay? Right back. And I’ll bet every dollar I have that she’s mighty pleased with what she’s seeing.”

  * * *

  Bell had been on the road back to Acker’s Gap for less than ten minutes when she capitulated. She pulled off to the side. She had to talk to Rhonda Lovejoy. If anyone could find an old lady about whom Bell had only minimal information, it was Rhonda.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Just a good deed. Making cupcakes for the church bake sale tomorrow. Was going to bake a cake, but turns out that cupcakes sell better these days. Not sure why. I guess it’s less of a commitment to buy a cute little cupcake than to take home a honkin’ big cake with all the— ”

  “Rhonda.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Need to locate a woman named Evelyn Hickok. I know that Sheriff Fogelsong has already tried, with no luck. Which means the last name is probably different by now.” Bell didn’t want to give Rhonda any more information at this point; she was still sorting it out herself.

  “Hickok.” Rhonda pondered the name. “Must be kin to the man whose remains they found the other day, right? Close to— ” She hesitated. “Close to your mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Anything else to go on? Do we know if she’s still in the state?”

  “We don’t even know if she’s still alive. Truth is, Rhonda, this is a long shot. All I can tell you is that she is—or maybe was—a vicious, bitter, judgmental person who brought a lot of pain to somebody she was supposed to love.”

  “Wow. Okay, well—I’ll do my best.”

  “Know you will. Thanks.”

  * * *

  There was nothing to do until she heard back from Rhonda, so Bell decided to put her Saturday night to practical use by cleaning out her refrigerator. It was an unromantic chore, to be sure, but that’s just what she needed right now. She needed a dull, routine task that required no moral judgments, no outlay of emotion, no potentially wounding forays into her past. Just a steady, boring series of gestures: reaching into the fridge, pulling out unmarked Tupperware containers, shaking them to ascertain if there was a suspicious rattle, cautiously peeling off the lids, peering down at the disgusting contents, making a face—and uttering an appalled, “Have mercy!”

  She had barely gotten started when her cell rang.

  “Bell, it’s Jackie LeFevre.” Jackie’s voice was hushed and agitated. “He’s here.”

  “Your ex?”

  “Yeah. Ever since it got dark, a car’s gone back and forth in front of my house about ten times. It slows down and then it speeds up again. Turns around and comes back. He’s harassing me. Wants to scare the hell out of me. Make me pay for rejecting him. Bell—I’ve got a gun, okay? And if he tries to come in here I’m gonna— ”

  “Call the sheriff. Right now. Do you hear me, Jackie? Right now.”

  “There’s no time for that. He could be in this house in minutes.”

  “Are you sure it’s his car? Do you recognize it?”

  “Must be driving a rental,” Jackie said. “He thinks he’s so smart. Thinks he can fool me. Well, I’ve got my gun right here. If he comes near me, I’ll blow his head off. Swear I will.”

  “Jackie, I really think you should— ”

  “Mind’s made up.”

  Bell stopped arguing. She knew that fear worked differently on strong people like Jackie than it did on weak people: It only made them more stubborn. And it robbed them of good judgment. “Okay,” Bell said, “then I’ll get hold of Nick myself. And I’m coming over. Just keep your doors and windows locked.” She hung up and called 9-1-1. The dispatcher said an officer would get there as soon as possible.

  Bell lived only a few miles away from Jackie. She covered the distance quickly. She parked in front of the small one-story brick house on the south side of Acker’s Gap, a house crowded on both sides by trees and foliage.

  She sat for a moment and looked around. In the solid-seeming darkness the neighborhood had a sullen, wary, shut-down feel; only a handful of lights burned in a few scattered windows in the other houses up and down the street. No lights were visible in Jackie’s house. The porch light was out as well. No cars came by. Bell looked around again before opening the door of the Explorer.

  Jackie was sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch. She wasn’t rocking. Bell didn’t see her until she had reached the top step. Because of the thick wooden balusters of the porch railing, Bell also didn’t initially spot the shotgun that lay across Jackie’s lap like a sleek gray pet; when she did see it, her eyes now adjusted to the darkness, Bell felt a lurch of surprise and apprehension. She knew that a great many people in Acker’s Gap were hunters; they legally possessed firearms and had taken the necessary safety training. Bell didn’t have a problem with that, nor with the men and women who owned guns for their protection. Hell, she kept a 12-gauge under her own bed. But Jackie was desperate. She wasn’t thinking clearly. And a gun in the hands of an overwrought person was almost always a bad idea.

  “Bell,” Jackie said. Her voice had a hard glint in it, a stark resoluteness that Bell found as chilling as the sight of the shotgun. Jackie kept a palm flat on the stock. The fingers of her other hand were curled tightly around the barrel. “I got this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bell dreaded Jackie’s reply. She was a prosecutor. If Jackie had already taken matters into her own hands, then Bell would have no choice. When Fogelsong arrived, they would take Jackie into custody and book her. There was no other option.

  “I mean that if that bastard drives by h
ere one more time, I’m going to blast his sorry ass straight to hell. Don’t care what happens to me after that. But I’m not gonna let him do this to me.”

  Bell wanted to be relieved—apparently nothing bad had happened yet—but Jackie’s hands still gripped the shotgun with an I-mean-business ferocity. “Help’s on the way,” Bell told her. “You can stand down, Jackie.” Bell spoke slowly and carefully. She felt as if she were trying to reason with someone who stood poised on the ledge of a tall building, her life in the balance. And in a sense, she was.

  “I won’t live like this, Bell. Not gonna jump at shadows the rest of my damned life. Not gonna wait around for him to pounce.”

  The car roared out of the blackness, turning the corner and barreling up the street at a dangerous rate of speed. Sticking out of the driver’s side window was what looked like a long black rod. Shotgun barrel, Bell instantly thought. She gave Jackie a rough shove, toppling both the rocking chair and the woman who occupied it, and landed on top of her on the porch floor.

  “Get off me, goddammit!” Jackie yelled. She tried to dislodge Bell, but Bell wasn’t budging. They needed to stay down below the level of the porch rail. It was their best chance. The moment Jackie stood up, she’d be an easy target.

  From the north side of the house came a sudden series of crashing, rattling noises, as if an immense amount of shrubbery was being displaced by the plunging advance of a heavy object, and then a sound that Bell knew all too well: a gunshot. Her first thought was that Sheriff Fogelsong or a deputy had arrived—but that couldn’t be it. Not enough time had passed since her call. The shot nicked one of the tires of the speeding car and the resultant blowout caused it to spin wildly, turning in a wobbly circle. The vehicle slammed nose-first against the curb halfway up the block, jumping over it and ramming a tree. The hood popped open. Steam rushed from the radiator.

  “Everybody okay up there on the porch?”

  It was not a voice that Bell had ever heard. Before she could respond, she felt a harsh heave from Jackie, who finally managed to roll Bell off her so that she could rise hastily to her feet and address the voice.