John Hart - Down River

If he was going to die, it should be with sunlight on his face.

I thought of the postcard in my glove compartment. If I was right, and Dolf had not killed Danny, then the card could possibly set him free. But who might it implicate? Someone with a reason to want Danny dead. Someone strong enough to conceal his body in the crack at the top of the knob. Maybe it was time to give it to Robin. But Dad was right about one thing: Dolf must have his reasons, and we had no idea what they might be. I closed my eyes and tried to not think of what Parks had said. Maybe he wanted the body found. And then Dolf’s voice, again: Sinners usually pay for their sins. Dark thoughts came with the sound of thunder. If Dolf killed Danny, he would have needed a damn good reason. But could he have? Was it even possible? I’d been gone for a long time. What things had changed in five years? What people?

I chewed on that thought until I fell asleep, and for once, I did not dream of my mother or of blood. Instead, I dreamt of teeth, of the cancer that was eating a good man down.

I woke before six, feeling as if I had not slept at all. Coffee was in the cupboard, so I set it to brew and walked outside to watery, gray light. It was thirty minutes before dawn, silent, still. Leaves drooped under dark beads and the grass was beaten flat. Puddles shone on the drive, as black and smooth as poured oil.

It was a perfect, quiet morning; and then I heard it, the multithroated wail of dogs on the hunt. The ululation of the pack. It was a primal sound that made my skin prickle. It rose above the hills and then faded. Rose and fell, like crazy men speaking in tongues. Then shots crashed out in quick succession, and I knew that my father, too, was restless.

I listened for a minute more but the dog sounds faded away, and no more shots were fired. So I went inside.

I stopped in Grace’s door on the way to take a shower. Nothing had changed and I pulled the door closed. Down the hall, I turned on the water. I washed in swift, economical movements and toweled dry. Steam followed me back to the living room, where I found Robin sitting where I had slept, her fingers splayed on the pillow. She stood, looking small and pale and more like my lover than a cop. “I always seem to find you in the shower,” she said.

“Next time, join me.” I smiled, but the day was too dark for levity. I opened my arms, felt the cool press of her face against my chest. “We need to talk,” she said.

“Let me get dressed.”

She had coffee poured by the time I returned. We sat at the kitchen table as mist moved out of the forest and the sun stretched sharp fingers between the trees. “I heard about Dolf’s confession,” she said.

“It’s bullshit.” The words came more strongly than I’d intended.

“How can you be certain?”

“I know the man.”

“That’s not enough, Adam-”

My control slipped. “I’ve known him my whole life! He all but raised me!”

Robin kept her calm. “You didn’t let me finish. That’s not enough if we’re going to help him. We need a crack in the story, some place to start chipping.”

I studied her face. There was no reticence in her. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Let’s talk about what we can do.”

She wanted to help, but I was in possession of material evidence, a crime, maybe the first of many. “Not we, Robin. Just me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get Dolf out of there. Do you understand what I’m saying? Anything. If you help me, your career might not survive. Other things might not survive. I’ll do what I have to do.” I paused so she could think about what I was saying. Obeying the law was not one of my priorities. “Do you understand?”

She swallowed. “I don’t care.”

“You chose me, not Dolf. I don’t want you getting hurt. You owe Dolf nothing.”

“Your problem is my problem.”

“How about this? You help me in ways that don’t put you at risk.”

She thought about it. “Like what?”

“Information.”

“I’m off the case, remember. I don’t have much.”

“How about motive? Grantham must have some theory on that. Have you heard anything?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Just chatter. Dolf didn’t give a motive in his interview. They tried to pin him down, but he was vague. There are two theories. The first is simple. Dolf and Danny worked together. They had a falling-out, an argument that went too far. Happens all the time. The second comes down to money.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Dolf was the one killing cattle and torching outbuildings. Maybe Danny caught him doing it and got killed for his trouble. It’s thin, but a jury will listen.”

I shook my head. “Dolf has nothing to gain one way or another.”

Puzzlement twisted Robin’s features. “Of course he does. Same as your father. Same as Zebulon Faith.”

“My father owns this place. The house, the land. All of it.”

Robin leaned back, put her hands on the table’s edge. “I don’t think so, Adam.” She tilted her head, still confused. “Dolf owns two hundred acres, including the house we’re sitting in.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Robin spoke slowly, as if I were not quite right in the head. “That’s six million dollars, based on the latest offer. One hell of a motive to squeeze your father into selling.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Check it out,” she said.

I thought about it, shook my head. “First of all, there’s no way Dolf owns a piece of this farm. My father would never do that. Secondly”-I had to look away-“secondly, he’s dying. He wouldn’t care about money.”

Robin understood what that statement cost me, but she refused to back away. “Maybe he’s doing it for Grace.” She put her hand on mine. “Maybe he’d rather die on a beach some place far from here.”

I told Robin I needed to be alone. She put soft lips on my face and told me to call her later. What she had said made no sense. My father loved this land as he loved his own life. Guarding it was his special trust; keeping it for the family, the next generation. Over the past fifteen years, he’d given partial ownership to his children, but that was for estate planning purposes. And those interests were merely shares in a family partnership. He kept control; and I knew that he would never part with an acre, not even for Dolf.

At eight o’clock, I went to the house to ask my father if it were true, but his truck was gone. He was still out, I thought, still after the dogs. I looked for Jamie’s truck, but it was gone, too. I opened the door to a cathedral silence, and followed the hall to my father’s study. I wanted something to put context around what Robin had said. A deed, a title policy, anything. I pulled on the top drawer of the file cabinet, but it was locked. All of the drawers were locked.

I paused, considering, and was distracted by a flash of color through the window. I walked to the glass and saw Miriam in the garden. She wore a solid black dress with long sleeves and a high collar, and was clipping flowers with her mother’s shears. She knelt in the wet grass, and I saw that her dress was damp from having done so many times. The shears closed around a stem, and a rose the color of sunrise fell to the grass. She picked it up, added it to the bouquet; and when she stood I saw a small but satisfied smile.

She’d piled her hair upon her head; it floated above a dress that might have come from another age. Her movements were so fluid that in the silence, through the glass, I felt as if I were watching a ghost.

She crossed to a different bush, knelt again, and clipped a rose as pale and translucent as falling snow.

As I turned from the window, I heard a noise from upstairs, a sound like something being dropped. It would be Janice. Had to be.