The Gathering, page 15
“You still think Aaron did it?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“What about the men who hunted down Aaron and his family?”
“Only Beau Grainger left now, and he must be pushing eighty.” Tucker met her eyes. “They thought they were doing the right thing.”
“Report says you were shot in the break-out.”
“An accident. And I mended.”
“You seem pretty forgiving.”
His face tensed. “Every town has a tipping point. Todd was dead, people were angry, scared. Thought their kid was going to be next. They’re trusting you to protect them. To make the right call.” He shook his head. “I made the wrong call.”
Barbara decided to change tack. “What do you know about Nathan Bell?”
“What do you want to know?”
“He was Todd Danes’s friend, right?”
“One of them. Odd kid. Came to live with his grandparents in that big old house after his parents died.”
“So Nathan didn’t grow up in Deadhart?”
“No. Arrived out of the blue one day. Most folk didn’t even know Helen and Greg had a grandson.”
Barbara tapped her chin with her pen thoughtfully. “When did Nathan arrive in Deadhart?”
Tucker’s forehead creased. “Summer of ’98. I’d been here three years.”
“So a year before Todd was killed.”
About the same amount of time Nathan had been back in Deadhart now. And another boy was dead. Those coincidences were stacking up.
“I know what you’re thinking, Detective,” Tucker said. “But Nathan had an alibi. He was home all night with his grandparents when Todd was killed.”
And relatives never lied for their loved ones.
“Were you surprised to hear he was back in town?”
“A little. Aside from Todd, he never had many friends here. Also, Nathan knew that Todd had been meeting Aaron. A lot of people blamed him for not saying anything.”
“Maybe he’s back because he wants to make amends.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“In towns like Deadhart, there are generally two kinds of people—those who never leave and those who never come back. I always figured Nathan for the latter.”
He had a point. Barbara sure as hell never intended to go back to the town where she grew up. But now she was curious about something else.
“Mind me asking, sir, how come you never left Deadhart?”
“I’m here for good, or bad.”
“But you’re not a native?”
“No. I moved from Boston in ’95.”
“Seems an odd choice for a young officer to make.”
He hesitated and then said, “My wife was murdered.”
Barbara felt his words like a blow. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She waited. Sometimes people wanted to talk about it. Sometimes the pain was too much.
“She was a teacher,” Tucker said eventually. “There was this pupil, had a crush on her. She laughed it off. Said it happened sometimes, it would pass. This kid looked harmless. Skinny, blonde, glasses. I even felt sorry for him. Then, one night, as she was walking to her car after class, he came up behind her and shot her in the head. Raped her while she lay dying.” He swallowed. “I couldn’t do my job any longer. I kept thinking, I missed it. I didn’t see that this kid was really a monster. I was about to quit the force when the job in Deadhart came up. It seemed as far away from my old life as possible, so I applied.”
“Good enough reason.”
“It wasn’t the only one.” He stared at her. “Here, I figured, I’d know the monsters.”
Barbara nodded. “And how’s that working out for you?”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve spent twenty-five years living in a hut in the woods. How d’you think?”
Barbara reached into a drawer, pulled out a holster, gun and badge and pushed them across the desk. “I think we should get to work.”
26
Jess dropped by to take her dad for breakfast once a week. A routine that had started after her mom had died.
Jess had never been particularly close to her dad, growing up. He was a hard man to get close to. A man bred in tradition. Emotion was weakness; discipline built character. Jess knew, or at least suspected, that he loved her and her brothers. They always had enough to eat, plenty of presents at Christmas, and he only ever raised his hand to any of them when they really deserved it. But she couldn’t recall him ever saying he loved them.
When her mom’s illness really started to take hold, she saw a different side to him. A softer, kinder side. He did everything for Mom, and although Jess tried to help, she had Stephen and the business to look after. Even when the doctor said Mom needed to go into a care home, her dad refused. It was his duty to care for his wife. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. Her dad took duty and God seriously. And when God finally took her mom, Dad was by her side, holding her hand. It was the only time Jess had ever seen him cry.
After Mom—and Jess tended to divide her relationship with her dad into those two parts: before Mom and after—she made the effort to visit him more often. To make sure he was eating right. To bring him groceries, do his washing. He was still fit for his age and would regularly go out hunting with his buddies or to sink beers at the Roadhouse Grill, but Jess would make sure his small house was clean, the milk for his coffee wasn’t a week out of date and there was always a home-cooked meal in the freezer. Women’s work, but as the only daughter, and the only child who had remained in Deadhart, it was her duty.
The breakfast ritual had started as a way to get him out of the house, one that didn’t involve shooting things or propping up the bar with his cronies. Jess would pick him up, they’d drive down to the Grill or sometimes Harty Snacks (although her dad still regarded that place as a bit new-fangled, even though it had been in business for over a decade now).
They would drink coffee, eat fry bread and reindeer sausage and chat about this and that: the town, the goddamn Colony and what could be done about them (Jess had encouraged her dad to come to the church, but Beau didn’t care for the new female preacher). He liked to hear about Stephen. Beau was proud of his grandson, even though Jess sometimes worried that the boy was three quarters attitude and a quarter sullen defiance.
They talked, too, about the business. Her dad had put a sizable chunk of money into Dan’s touring and adventure firm. He’d done okay from his own business, running a truck repair shop in town till he retired (and a bigger one in Talkeetna took the trade).
So far, Dad hadn’t seen his investment recouped. The business had started okay, but in recent years there had been a decline. Dan had been quick to reassure Beau that it was only a temporary blip and had even shown him accounts and projections to back this up. What Jess could not tell her dad was that the figures were bullshit. The business had been leaking money like a slow puncture for a long time. And it was only getting worse.
Dan had wanted to trade on Deadhart’s status as a colony town. To attract more than the occasional group of goths. The plan was to take groups hiking up in the mountains to visit the old settlement. Deserted, but largely intact. They could camp out there overnight, enjoy “the real Colony experience,” which Dan planned to charge a premium for.
But before Dan could really get his plans off the ground, there had been the incident with the wolves. A pack had taken up residence in one of the deserted buildings and a hiker had been attacked. He had survived, but staying overnight was deemed too risky and the company’s insurance wouldn’t cover it.
After that the Colony tours idea had started to die off. They still got the usual hiking and mountain-climbing business; the national park was a draw for many. But there were other, more touristy towns that could offer the same things. Places with big lodges and hotels, gift shops and brewpubs. Deadhart couldn’t compete.
And then, around a year ago, the Colony had returned. Their protected status meant that the tours couldn’t venture within a half-mile of the settlement lest they “affect the natural habitat of the Colony.” Even the air taxis were restricted from flying over. That was bad enough, but now, with Marcus’s murder, trade would be hit even harder. It seemed callous to think of such a thing, but dead children were bad for business.
Dan had tried to reassure Jess. It would be okay; just a rough patch. Once a cull was authorized and the Colony dealt with, they could start up the tours to the settlement. They just had to sit tight. He had a lot of new ideas to drive more business.
In a way she admired his optimism. Dan always believed that things would work out. It was one of the things she loved about him. That and the fact he was hard-working, kind and a great dad to Stephen. Ultimately, she guessed that was why she forgave the dodgy accounting and his other indiscretions.
She pulled up outside her dad’s home. It was a modest building. Wood cladding, two bedrooms upstairs, a small living room, kitchen and another bedroom downstairs. Growing up here, with five of them, it had been tight. Now that it was just Dad, the place seemed too big.
She was a little early today. Dan was out, picking up some supplies from Talkeetna. The weather was worsening, and they might be cut off for a day or two. Stephen was downstairs in the den with Jacob. She kind of hoped that Jacob would be gone when she returned. Not that he was any bother. He was an inoffensive kid. And she certainly felt sorry for him, with that sad excuse of a father. But he was an odd choice of friend for Stephen. Marcus and Stephen had been friends since kindergarten; they’d grown up together. She didn’t understand how they had become best buds with Jacob Bell.
Still, she guessed right now that Stephen and Jacob needed to lean on each other. It was a terrible thing they’d been through. Every time she thought about poor Marcus, her heart constricted, and the same thought tore through her mind. It could have been Stephen. Her boy. Her only boy.
She and Dan hadn’t found having kids easy and she’d been in her thirties before that magic double line had appeared and the pregnancy had held, unlike the others, that had all failed before ten weeks. But this time, she’d carried to term and delivered a beautiful healthy baby boy.
As soon as they could, they started trying again. Jess knew the best time to conceive was right after giving birth. But it was to no avail. Five years down the line, they still hadn’t been able to give Stephen a brother or sister. After another two, they stopped really trying. The sex dwindled. Dan began to spend more time trekking, hunting and night fishing.
Jess had told herself it didn’t matter. She was lucky to have Stephen. Lucky to have a child at all. And yet, she worried. More than she should. She never understood how other parents could be so carefree, so careless, with their children, while she spent every waking hour terrified that something might happen to Stephen; that he might be taken from her. He was so wanted and so precious and so singular.
If she lost him, what would she be left with? Nothing. It wasn’t the same if you had more children. That was the cold, hard truth. Immense as the pain might be, you could keep going because you had other children to look after. And perhaps more importantly, you were still a parent. What were you when your only child was taken from you? An ex-parent? A former parent?
The thought often plagued her and, while she knew it was crazy, part of her felt a heavy premonition that however hard she held on to Stephen, he would be lost to her. So, she clung on harder. Coddled him, spoiled him. That was what Dan often said. But he didn’t understand. It wasn’t the same for men. Never could be. Until you had carried a child and then delivered it into the world, you could never quite know the fear of losing that child. If something ever happened to Dan, she would be sad, sure. But it wouldn’t end her life. Stephen was her life. Without him she had no reason to exist.
She parked the truck up outside her dad’s house. Unchanged since Mom died. His battered truck was parked to the side, snow had been cleared from the path. Everything looked just like it always did, and yet…for some reason, a sliver of ice shimmied down her spine. What the hell was that? Nothing. There was nothing here out of the ordinary. But still, the vague uneasiness remained. She climbed out of the truck, clomped up the path and knocked on the front door.
She stuffed her gloved hands in her pockets and shuffled her boots on the compacted snow. Her dad usually came to the door on the first knock, often as he heard the truck draw up. She raised her fist and knocked again. Still nothing. She frowned then reached out and tried the door handle. Locked. Okay. She was early. Perhaps her dad was in the kitchen with the radio turned up. His hearing wasn’t so great.
She turned and crunched through the deeper snow around to the back of the house. Her anxiety amplified. The door to the kitchen was hanging open, the lock bust. Shit. She stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. It didn’t feel any warmer in the house, which meant the door had been open a while.
“Dad?”
She waited. No response. She looked around the kitchen. An empty whiskey tumbler sat by the sink, the bottle nearby. She walked out of the kitchen and down the short hall.
“Dad? Are you here? Is everything okay?”
The words died in her throat as she reached the door to the living room. It looked like a bomb had hit. Soot smeared the walls, logs and charred embers were scattered over the floor. A chair was overturned, cushions scattered and a lamp smashed. The whole room stank of smoke.
What the hell had happened here? Jess scanned the room, heart pounding. Then she turned and charged up the stairs, more panicked than ever.
“Dad. Dad!”
She flung open doors. Bedrooms, empty. Bathroom, empty. Nothing up here appeared to have been disturbed. She ran back down the stairs and paused in the hallway. She could hear a noise coming from the living room: a flapping, scraping noise.
She walked cautiously forward. The scraping sound came again. It sounded like something dragging itself across the floor, and it was coming from behind the upturned armchair. Jess hesitated. It might be an injured animal, maybe a rat or a squirrel. Cornered animals could turn nasty, and she didn’t want to worry about a rabies bite. She knew Dad kept his guns in a cupboard in the corner of the living room. She stepped over the shattered lamp and pulled the cupboard door open. A handgun and a hunting rifle hung in the rack. Where his crossbow should be there was an empty space. Jess grabbed the handgun.
She walked back over to the armchair and peered behind it. A bat lay on the floor. One wing was torn, and it was trying to pull itself across the floor with the other one. Bats weren’t common in Alaska, although some roosted in attics, caves and even chimneys. But this bat looked bigger than the small native browns.
Jess stretched out one boot and flipped it over. It raised its head and hissed at her, fangs bared. She recoiled. Fuck. A vampyr bat. What the hell was that doing in here? The bat flapped its good wing frenziedly, squealing in panic. Jess stared at it with a mixture of revulsion and pity. Then she raised the gun and shot it, obliterating its head and most of its body.
She turned and walked out into the snowy yard. Dad’s house backed out on to open land and then forest, stretching as far as the eye could see. Before she and her brothers could read or tell the time, their parents had taught them how to use a compass, make a shelter and avoid a bear attack if they ever got lost. Survival skills. And Dad was a survivor too. He had taken his crossbow. Had he been going after someone—or something? Jess looked down. Footsteps in the snow led away from the house toward the trees. She hadn’t noticed them before because she had been focused on the open back door. And there was something else. She crouched down. Red splotches. Blood.
She straightened and gazed out toward the forest. A mass of black sandwiched between the dark gray of the sky and white of the snow.
She tucked the handgun into the belt of her jeans. And then she followed the footsteps.
27
Barbara guided the police truck back up the road toward Doc Dalton’s. She gripped the wheel tightly. She didn’t drive a lot, and she wasn’t used to driving in snowstorms. At the turn-off for the Bell house she stopped, remembering what Al had said.
“If a storm rolls in, the air taxi won’t run…and the trunk road gets impassable pretty quickly…you might find yourself stuck here awhile.”
This might be the last day they could drive out this way.
“How d’you feel about paying Nathan Bell a visit before we head up to the Doc’s?” she asked Tucker.
“Could be interesting.”
“Okay.”
She turned on to the rough track. The snow was even thicker here, and the tires fought to get a grip. The engine revved hard but plowed on. As they rounded a bend, the trees thinned out, and a property drew into view.
The house was built of wood and slate. Two stories, high eaves. The wood was aged and dark, ivy and fungus making a home between the gaping boards. A ramshackle-looking porch ran around the exterior, misshapen and tilted down at one end, the balustrade broken in places. For some reason an old chair sat atop the porch roof, and a large pair of broken deer antlers had been fixed above the front door. Outside, the forest leaned in on every side, close enough to whisper in the windows and scratch spindly twigs against the glass.
If Barbara had been forced to describe it in one word, Psycho would have been the one that sprung immediately to mind.
Tucker squinted up at the house. “Never liked this place.”
“I can see why.”
“Belonged to Nathan’s grandparents. When they left, it was rented out as a guest house for a while.”
“People paid to stay here?”
