Jackal, page 11
I spend the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon papering downtown. There’s not much ground to cover, but people here like to talk. So far I’ve gotten heaps of thoughts and prayers. I’m useless out in the trees. Here I’m helping. I’m still part of the search. And if I can find Denise, if she’ll talk to me, she might give me more information about Keisha’s death. Last night Mel asked me what I thought. I can’t get Keisha Woodson and Bonfire Night out of my head.
I never added my story of that night to the narrative because it’s incomplete. It’s a folded-over memory. I remember the party. I remember it getting broken up by the police. Kids started screaming. I remember running. With some help, I hid.
Then everything goes black.
Over the years I’ve been able to pull two images out of the darkness: Keisha’s terrified face. And teeth. Dark, long sharp teeth. Too big to belong to any animal. If I try to focus, the picture goes hazy in my mind. I can’t see any more details. When I woke up, my arm was ripped open and everything was quiet.
Mel’s father, Mr. Parker, cuts out the hearts of the deer he hunts. He cuts their chests open. As chilling as it is, I can’t jump to conclusions. An investigation proved that what happened to Keisha was an accident. But that’s not what her flyer implies. I need more information from Denise.
I head back to the flower shop where I parked my mother’s car to get more flyers. The shop is new. I can tell by the brightness of the neon sign and the cleanliness of the glass. What should be a light floral scent is overwhelming. I fight my sneeze and check for Doug’s reply to my text. Still nothing.
Please? I add.
I scan the street for where I haven’t flyered. There’s a restaurant that’s just opened. A boutique. A state-run liquor store. And Louise’s. I check the time. 4:00. The neon sign flickers in the daylight. They’re open.
Louise’s is more of a hallway than a bar. There’s a jukebox in the corner that still takes quarters. It smells like people still smoke inside. The lighting is dark and moody and red. A tall Black man with a bar rag nods to me when I walk in. Organized in his movements, he cleans glasses and sorts the bottles in the well. This is his tight ship. There are a few locals sitting and chatting or swaying to the music.
“Is Denise here?” I ask.
His deep voice barely carries. “Who’s asking?”
“Liz. I owe her a drink.”
“Dee-Dee!” The bartender turns to a woman at the end of the bar. She has her back to the wall and is staring out the sole window. She huddles over a short glass of a brown liquor. “Next round is on this girl.”
She turns to me and I give her a smile. The look in her eyes lets me know I’m not welcome.
She looks to the bartender. “Terrance, tell that girl I don’t want her money.”
Terrance turns back to me. “You heard her.”
I walk over to Denise. “I just want to talk—”
“You stay right there. I don’t need to spend another night in jail.”
“Jail?” It looks like Nick had the men to spare. “I am so sorry.”
“Uh-huh.” She lifts herself off her barstool. “Cops said I’d pissed off the wrong ‘saleslady.’ Knew it was you. I don’t forget a face.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She tries to get past me. “Is that right?”
I put Caroline’s flyer between us on the bar. “I need your help.” I lean in, not wanting the entire bar to hear my conversation. From this distance, her eyes are bleary and sad. She doesn’t take her gaze off Caroline’s picture.
“You still paying for my drinks?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Hennessy.” Denise is not drinking Hennessy, but I’m not mad at her for leveling up.
“Round of Hennessy,” I say. Our drinks come fast.
“We’re even now.” Denise drinks before I can cheers her. She gingerly takes up the flyer of Caroline. “She your daughter?”
“I’m her godmother. She’s been missing for a day and a half and—”
“You wanna know if she’s gonna end up like Keisha?” She gives me a tired look. “No one ever wants to listen until it’s their child.” She drinks and turns away from me. “I hope you don’t find her like Keisha was. No one should lose their child like that.” She gives me back the flyer, done with the conversation.
“Keisha was…” Somewhere in the memory that’s been kept in shadow for years, I find a half truth. “My friend.” It took until my second year of college to understand the tension between Keisha and me. Two high-achieving Black girls, of course we weren’t friends. All our lives, we’d been told that there was only space for one. I remember the pressure my mother put on me to claim that spot. I look at Denise and wonder if she pressured her daughter in the same way, or if it was Keisha who drove herself.
“You go to that party in the woods?” she asks.
“No.” I roll my wrist away from her, hiding my scar. “Wasn’t invited.” I see her searching my face. “But I know Keisha was. She was always invited to everything. She, um, she tried to help me with all that. Social stuff. I was just hopelessly awkward, you know?” I smile.
Denise turns back to me and gives me a good once-over. “Still are.”
“That’s exactly what Keisha would have said.” I laugh. For the first time since I’ve met her, Denise gives me an earnest smile. Just as quickly as it warmed her face, the expression is gone. She drinks again, finishing. I haven’t even touched mine.
She waves for another round. “Girl, don’t let me lap you.”
I settle onto the stool next to her. After two rounds, I have never been more grateful to be a regularly drinking New Yorker.
“What did the police tell you about Keisha’s disappearance?”
“She fell. It was an accident. I asked them how she got all the way out there in the woods—there was a party, I know that. But she was farther out, past where any of those kids were. The police said she was with some boy. Said she might have been trying to run away.”
“Did you and her ever have any fights?”
Denise lets out a loud laugh. “Ever tried livin’ with a teenage girl?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I let out a knowing sigh.
“You got kids?”
“No. I haven’t, um…” I’ve planned out my life for so long it’s strange to not know what’s coming next. Not just in my life, but what’s coming in the next month, the next day, the next hour. I quickly check my phone. No updates from Doug or Mel.
“Don’t have ’em if you don’t want ’em.” Denise tilts the liquor around the edge of the glass, watching the legs form. “Raising a child takes everything you got and more. You do so much for them, you never think about losing ’em.” Denise drinks in one long sip. I can see the tears form in her eyes as she keeps down a cough in her chest. “You know”—she shifts into a wry smile—“when it wasn’t my child, I believed what the papers said. I believed what people said. That would never be Keisha.” She orders another round automatically. I see the bartender mix her a drink that is more water than whiskey. “She would not be another one of those girls.”
That stops my glass on its way to my mouth. “Those girls?”
“The ones who go missing in June? Like Caroline?” Denise studies me.
All I can eke out is “What?”
Denise takes a sip of her fresh drink and shoots the bartender a look. “Some people don’t even let their kids out after dark from mid-June till the first week of July.” I think of what Keisha said about sneaking out. I thought it was because I was a kid who never broke any rules. I never thought of what rule she was breaking. Caroline’s friend who couldn’t come to the wedding, she said it was because of the girl’s parents.
“How long has that been a thing?”
“You from here?”
“I lived up the hill—in Westmont. My mother still does.” I scramble for facts. “We never really came downtown.”
Denise waits and I see her do something I know all too well. She’s controlling her breath, or trying to, in order to sober up. Her mind is reaching for something she can’t grasp.
“So, you were a friend to Keisha at that school?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“She didn’t want to go to high school up there. Said all her friends were down here. When they announced that program to help mix up that school, I was the first to sign her up. Seen too many kids not graduate. Too many kids get stuck.” Denise wipes away some sweat that’s pooled on her neck. “The first month she was there she’d come home crying, saying how she didn’t have any friends. Said she hated me for making her go.”
I didn’t realize Keisha thought she didn’t have any friends. It always seemed to be the opposite. I wait to see if my lie has blown up in my face. When Denise hugs me, I’m so shocked that I barely embrace her back.
“You okay?” I ask.
“One day she finally came home happy. Told me she made a friend. I thought it was a boy ’cause she wouldn’t tell me who it was.” She holds me tighter. “Glad to finally meet you.” Her hug is stable and warm. Just as I feel myself relax into it, she releases me and looks at me. “You saved my girl.”
I feel sick to my stomach and it’s not just from the whiskey. Denise takes a deep swig of her drink. I stop sipping altogether and wait for my gut to stop spinning. When Denise emerges from her gulp, she examines me again.
“The police came looking for me because of you?”
“Again, I’m so sorry—”
“You’re a Black woman who can tell the cops to look into something and”—she gives me one last good look—“they show up.” Something opens in her. “You should meet the others.”
“Others?”
“We’re a mess of mothers.” Denise looks so tired. “All kinds of messes. All kinds of mothers.”
My fuzzy mind snaps into focus. She’s talking about all the mothers with missing daughters.
“How many?”
“Girls who go missing like this? They always taken in the summer. Meet me at the church downtown tomorrow morning. First thing. We’ll see who shows.”
“That soon?”
“Some of these mothers have been looking for answers for longer than me. If they are still looking, they’ll be there.”
FIVE
In the parking lot outside of Louise’s, I sit in my mother’s car and sober up. I check my phone for news from Mel. Nothing. I might be good to drive in a few.
There are more girls.
I remember when Keisha was found. For a few days there were whispers about a crazy killer targeting teens like some slasher film. Tons of kids had “sightings” of a man in the woods. All of them turned out to be made up. The buzz died down. I never heard about the other girls. If Caroline isn’t an accident, I need to learn all I can about them.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Chris. Drink later?
My face flushes. I leave the text unanswered. I’ll deal with him when I can. Currently, it’s only the afternoon and I’m on my way to drunk. I shouldn’t have had that much with Denise. Seeing the world blur in the daylight makes me feel embarrassed. Drinking is something I do to relax. To have fun. To sleep. That’s all.
My phone buzzes again.
Doug has come through for me. Lauren Bristol.
I read the text twice. Lauren is a gossip, but if she’s willing to go this far, she has to have more on the line than dishing out secrets over brunch. Doug forwards me her address and I realize I know exactly where she lives.
Lauren is at the edge of the nice part of town. It’s my mother’s neighborhood, but Lauren is right on the district line. She must have inherited her parents’ house. Carefully navigating the turns up the hill, I remember a back way up this mountain.
Like in most places, uptown and downtown aren’t only geographic locations in Johnstown. They’re also a manifestation of the economic classes and the flood that decimated this place. A tragedy in broad daylight. The floodwater came in the afternoon. Knocked out all communications to and from town. Survivors had to go on foot for help. That first night must have been a nightmare. Relief came once communications resumed. After the town was rebuilt, the wealthy moved to the top of the mountain and the riches trickled down from there. That’s why the Inclined Plane was built. Like most things in America, our claim to fame is rooted in tragedy. The higher up you lived, the higher your class. Some nestled themselves along the sides of the mountain. Not quite suburbia, not quite rural. This is where Lauren lives.
Walking home from school, she was the only popular girl who didn’t turn in the same direction as all the others. I figured out the district thing when my mother and I moved to our neighborhood. After years of mapping out how to get into the better district, my mother wanted to be smack dab in the middle of a good zip code.
Lauren’s house is modest. Nice. She has a yard. In the driveway, there’s a navy-blue car. Lauren brought up Keisha at the wedding. She tried to connect the two of us. Lauren is outside working in her garden. A stunning blue rhododendron blooms under her efforts.
That bitch.
She’s the “gossip woman” my mother was talking about. Instead of me getting information out of her, she’s been trying to pry information out of my mother behind my back. The residual Hennessy is not helping me keep my cool. I should go back to the site. Or hand out more flyers. Lauren waves at me, flashing a shit-eating grin. She’s led me on a wild goose chase over her car. She might have messed things up with my one source in the department, Doug. I push my anger down. Screaming at her won’t get me anywhere. Getting out of the car, I do my best not to slam the door.
I don’t let her get a word in. “Leave my mother out of this. Whatever problem you have with me, you have with me.”
“Liz? What are you talking about?” She takes a step back, crushing a few blue petals underfoot. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been watching my house. Why?”
“Well.” She smiles, refusing to meet my anger. “I drive, um…I—I drive around at night for some peace and quiet.”
“I never told you I saw your car at night.”
She stumbles out of the flower bed. She’s caught.
“What do you wanna know, Lauren? I’m right here. Ask.”
“I have every right to talk to who I want and drive where I want.” She crosses her arms in front of her. Behind her, a massive American flag slouches from the eave of the house. I don’t like thinking about this town and the election. I don’t even talk about this town and the election. When my mom started noting the number of American flags going up in the neighborhood, I got scared.
“If you come near my house again, I will—”
“What? Call the cops?” Such an innocent phrase for Lauren. I don’t have the patience to answer her. She rests a hand over her heart. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through. If I got distracted and lost a child, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chris.” The judgment is rolling off her skin with her sweat. “Is he why you couldn’t keep an eye on Caroline?” She forces a tight-lipped smile. “Take it from me. Chris is not like…that.”
I’ve forgotten how to fight like a girl. I’m used to strongly worded emails and one-upping men in meetings.
“You drove by my house to see if I was with him— Why do you care?” I stop her when she tries to rush past me. “You’re married.”
“He’s Chris and you’re you!” The words come out of her so violently she drops all of her tools. She doesn’t scramble to pick them up. Instead, she looks over her shoulder at the front window like she’s checking to see if someone inside can hear us. She looks scared. So scared.
I can’t yell at her, she’s too terrified, so I firmly ask, “What’s wrong with me?” I don’t want someone like Lauren to answer that question. I don’t need her to. She scoffs and gives me a look that needs no words. It’s a shake of the head and blink of her eyes. She shrugs both her shoulders up, rolling her palms open in an oddly parallel movement. It’s the same expression you’d give to a child when they ask why the sky is blue, or why the ground gets wet when it rains.
I don’t tell people I’m from this town for many reasons. One of them is because of people like Lauren. People who look at me and can only see me in a way that makes themselves feel superior. People like her aren’t just in Johnstown. Sometimes I fear I’ll find them anywhere I run.
SIX
Before I can drive to the site, or to my mother’s, or back to Mel’s, my phone rings.
“Liz.” It’s Melissa. She sounds far away. “She’s still…we can’t…I can’t find her.”
I want to reach through the phone to hold her. “Where are you? I’m on my way.”
“She must be so scared and I can’t find her.” Mel sobs. Her words become unintelligible. Garrett takes the phone from her and explains what’s happening. With forty-eight hours closing in we need to think about our next steps. He tells me to rest up. He got Search and Rescue. The dogs are coming. They’ll be added to the search tomorrow. I promise I’ll be there for the first sweep.
I’m starting to worry for both of them in the trees. A chilling thought crosses my mind. It’s the same one I’ve had all day. Does Mel’s dad cut hearts out of deer the same way Keisha was opened up—the exact same way? Could her death have been made to look like an accident when it wasn’t? Stop. I can’t hurl accusations like that without good cause. Doug found a partial plate. I hope an old case file isn’t out of the question.
I text Doug: Keisha Woodson. Anything you have. Please?
Like before, no immediate response. I hope Lauren hasn’t ruined this for me. I know it’s late and I’ll have to wait till tomorrow for any follow-up. Until then, I need to pass the time. I need night to come. I need to sleep. I need a drink.
