Alane Ferguson - The Circle of Blood

“You’re sure,” Justin pressed. “You’re absolutely sure.”

Cameryn nodded. Now she was lying to Justin. One lie on top of another, like stones, so many, so large they’d turned into a wall.

“I already went to the Wingate but Hannah wasn’t there. I’ve called but she hasn’t picked up. Do you know where she is?”

This she could answer truthfully. “No. I had school and then the brain bucket and I just got home. The battery on my BlackBerry died-if Hannah tried to reach me, I didn’t get the message.” Focus on the lights, the blinking colors on his face. Not on the cracks that were breaking inside her. She could feel them spreading, like a foundation rocked by an earthquake. If she didn’t take control, these fissures would make her crumble.

For an instant Cameryn closed her eyes, aware of the ring in her pocket, small and round. When she opened them, she could see Justin and his look of disbelief. He stared, his eyes dark in the half-light. Cameryn made herself look back.

“All right,” he said at last. “Then we’ll leave it at that.” He dropped his arm and stepped away, freeing her. “If you hear from Hannah, tell her I need to talk to her,” he said, sounding as though he was sorry he came. Well, she was sorry, too. Everything had started to spin out of control, and she didn’t know how to pull it back.

“Good night, Cameryn.” Justin jumped down the last two stairs. Soon his engine roared to life and he was backing out, his headlights sweeping across their lawn as he pulled onto the street. His taillights lit up like angry red eyes, and he was gone.

Numb, she went inside the kitchen. Her grandmother was making small sounds from her room, getting dressed, Cameryn figured. By stepping only on the edges of the stairs where they wouldn’t squeak, Cameryn made her way quietly to her own bedroom, silently, carefully, so as not to alert her mammaw, who might still want to talk. She didn’t turn on the lights as she stepped inside, guided by the glow from her screensaver. Fish swam in the computer screen’s artificial water, moving through the underwater light.

She flopped onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow. Pain, already seeping through her soul, burst through the wall in her heart. There was a witness. The very thing she’d been afraid of had happened. Things had turned even more complicated and would only get worse. It was time, she knew, for her mother to come forward, because the noose was tightening inch by inch. She would have to talk her mother into it.

Pulling her phone from its cradle, Cameryn punched in her mother’s number, but immediately Hannah’s voice message came on. Cameryn hung up, unsure of what to do next. She thought of the articles on bipolar disorder beneath her bed, but was too tired to read them. She was too tired to think, too tired to force her mind to wake up and calculate the worst possible outcome of each choice available. The witness, the brain bucket, and the word murder swirled through her head in a sick kaleidoscope. There was nowhere to turn, nothing to do.

Two notes chimed from her computer telling her an e-mail had arrived. As though she were moving underwater, Cameryn made her way to her desk. It was a message from Jo Ann:

Cameryn,

I called my friend at the bureau and discovered there is quite a history to the words “Keep Sweet.” Keep Sweet is a saying used by Fundamentalist Mormons. These Fundamentalists are an offshoot and are notpart of the mainstream Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They absolutely do not belong to the real Mormon Church-it’s important to make that distinction. The Fundamentalists believe in something called “the Principle”-which means that a man must marry at least three wives in order to enter their highest heaven, the Celestial Kingdom. According to my friend, “Keep Sweet” is part of a slogan that also says, “perfect obedience brings perfect faith.” This saying is aimed exclusively at girls.

It sounds as though the Fundamentalist life, especially for the women, is a hard one. At a very young age the girls undergo something called “The Placement.” The Placement is done by their Prophet, who is whichever man is currently ruling over his people. Girls as young as twelve are married off to old men. Young boys are sent away at puberty-often called the “lost boys” because they are taken from their community and left to fend for themselves. (Obviously, the older men must get rid of the younger males, since only a few men have all the women.) Although it varies by community, some rules are exceedingly harsh. There have been reports of severe abuse, but it is difficult if not impossible to track this, since the Fundamentalists live in towns that are closed to outsiders. Does the term “Keep Sweet” involve a forensic case you’re working on?

I hope this information is of help. I look forward to hearing from you.

Jo Ann Whittaker

A thought electrified Cameryn as she grabbed her phone and punched in her mother’s number once again.

Pick up, pick up, pick up! she commanded.

“Hello?”

“Mom! It’s me Cameryn. Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Stay there. I have something important to tell you. We have to talk and I’m coming over right now. Mom, I think I know who killed Mariah! ”

MRS. KENNEDY, THE owner of the Wingate, was in the parlor reading a book when Cameryn let herself in.

“Your mother’s popular this evening. She’s already got a visitor. Go right on up.”

“Who’s with her?” Cameryn asked.

“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Kennedy deflected the question. “I was just making-”

“No,” Cameryn said. “I’m fine.” She took off her coat and hung it on a brass coat rack as a high-pitched whistle came from the kitchen.

“And there’s my water boiling. Let me know if you change your mind.” She left Cameryn, humming to herself as she disappeared around a corner.

Who was in the room with her mother? Cameryn, who had been bursting with good news, held back. Quiet, she went up the stairs. The door to Hannah’s room was ajar, and she could see Hannah perched in the wingback chair wearing a pair of jeans and a too-large sweater that bunched in her lap. Her hair hung in tousled curls and her feet were bare. For a moment, Cameryn stared. Hannah’s face had delicate, straight bones and wide, dark eyes- Cameryn’s eyes. The eyes, though, looked frightened.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Hannah was repeating, over and over.

“I’m just asking-have you been taking your Tegretol?” It was a male voice, and familiar. When Cameryn heard it, her heart sank.

“I think so,” said Hannah, sounding like a child. “But I don’t remember for sure.”

“Hannah, you’re going into a manic phase. You may not be able to tell, but I can. You’re talking nonstop.”

“No, Justin, I’ve never been better. Cameryn thinks I’m fine.”

“She didn’t know you in New York. I did. Show me your prescriptions. Or do you even have them?”

Trapped in the hallway, Cameryn stood perfectly still. She watched her mother rise and go out of her line of sight and then return, dropping two bottles into Justin’s hands.

“There. See? Here they are. Are you satisfied, Justin? I’ve got my medicine.”

All the lights were on, both the overhead and the squat bedside lamp centered on an end table. A light in the bathroom cast a fan-shaped glow onto the carpet. Her mother’s voice lost its wispiness. “This is none of your business.”

From where Cameryn stood, all she could see of Justin were his hands. She watched as he popped a lid, spilling the contents onto his palm. “The Tegretol,” he said. The pills were white ovals, which he then replaced. “And the Fluoxetine.” These were a deeper pink tablet, shaped like jelly beans. “Both of these are full. Look at the date-Hannah, you haven’t taken a single pill since you came here,” he accused. “Is that why you’ve been hiding from me?”