Alane Ferguson - The Circle of Blood

“Which I checked out yesterday. The woman’s name is Ruth Gilbert. She didn’t make the phone call and she didn’t know a thing about Esther. It’s a dead end.”

Cameryn tried to keep the panic from her voice. “But the backpack had the name Gilbert printed on it-”

“And Ruth said she gave a load to Goodwill. Esther could have picked it up there. It doesn’t prove anything. Cameryn, I know how hard this is for you, but you’ve got to let us handle it from here. We’re the law. You’re the slice-and-dice.”

Inside, there was a tremor, but like a magician perfecting the slight of hand she would not let him see it. “Can I take a look at the file?” she asked. “That one, right there.” A manila folder lay open on his desk and she could see it had her mother’s name on it. “I want to see it.”

“Cammie, this is police business.”

“Please. Justin, no one’ll know.”

Slowly, he turned the folder her way and pushed it toward her across his desk. She could feel him watch her as she scanned the pages, one after the other until she saw what she was looking for. Closing her eyes briefly, she committed the number to memory: 928- 555-6823.

“Hannah is my friend, too,” he told her as he pulled the folder back. Slowly, he closed it and set his hands on top, folded, as if in prayer. “I’ve called in Dr. Kearney and he’s going to do an evaluation. I got her to take her meds. She made me a list of books she’d like and I’m going to the library to pick them up. We’re doing the best we can.”

“But you still arrested her,” Cameryn stated, rising to her feet. Then, shrugging on her coat, she walked to the door, past the sheriff’s gun rack and his filing cabinet and his belt full of bullets curled on top. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard Justin call out, “I could have lost my job.”

Cameryn turned to look at him, at his tousled hair and blue-green eyes and the way he was pleading with her to forgive him. “I get that, Justin. I really do. It’s just-it’s worse to lose a mother.”

She was barely inside her car before she fished out a pen and wrote the phone number onto her palm in ink. 928-555-6823. The sun struggled to break over the mountains as she sat, shivering, in the frosted light. The parking lot was already beginning to fill up with county workers. In an effort to be discreet, she had parked beneath a stand of bare aspens, hoping the sheriff wouldn’t recognize her car. Branches shifted in the winter breeze, creating an intricate, dancing pattern on the dashboard of her car. For a moment she watched the shadows, thinking.

There was no one to help her mother. Not the sheriff or Justin or her father or her mammaw-she, Cameryn, was the only one Hannah could count on. The wallet, the ring-it didn’t mean anything. Her mother stayed locked away, yet innocent, as only Cameryn believed. But belief was not enough. It was action she needed.

One tenuous thread remained for her to follow, a silver strand of chance that might connect the Gilbert family to Esther. Maybe. If God was with her.

With her BlackBerry freshly recharged, she crossed herself. First, she entered *67 in order to block her number in case the Childs home had caller ID. Then she punched in the digits, holding her breath, waiting.

“Hello?” a gruff man’s voice answered.

“This is Amy Green from the sheriff’s office,” Cameryn began, stealing the name of her father’s friend in Ouray. Craning her neck to make sure she was still alone, she said, “I have a question concerning Esther Childs. First, let me begin by saying I’m really sorry for your loss. Are you the father?”

“I am. We’re trying to cope the best we can. What’s your question?”

Cameryn swallowed. “I’m currently researching a possible link between Esther and polygamy. Esther had a ring on her finger that had the words “‘Keep Sweet.’ We’re trying to track that down.”

It took a moment for the man to answer, so long Cameryn wondered if they’d lost the connection. “I don’t know nothing about that,” he finally said. “We’re respectable people down here. If Esther had it, I don’t know where she got it from.”

“I’m investigating a possible source. There’s a woman in Durango named Ruth Gilbert-”

It was then she heard an audible intake of air as he gasped.

Blinking, she asked, “Do you know her? Mr. Childs, do you know a Ruth Gilbert?”

“No,” he said, and Cameryn could tell he was lying.

Pressing the BlackBerry closer to her ear, she said, “Perhaps Ruth Gilbert was the one who gave the ring to your daughter. Could that be possible?”

“How would I figure that? That’s somethin’ you’ll have to investigate. I already told you I’ve never heard of the woman. Our child is dead and you’re makin’ her out to be in some kind of cult. What’s your name again?”

“Um, the sheriff needs me right now. Good-bye, Mr. Childs, and thank you for your time. We’ll get back to you when we have more information,” she concluded the call at a gallop and tried to calm her racing thoughts. As the shadows played across her dashboard, she thought of the interconnection of the two lives and wondered what it could mean. Mr. Childs knew Ruth Gilbert. He could deny it all he wanted, but she’d heard it in his voice. What she had in mind would be crazy, could get her into even more trouble, maybe even fired from her job. She didn’t care. Shifting her car into reverse, she headed out once again, for Durango.

It was time to find answers.

THE HOUSES ON the south side of Durango were different from the homes in Silverton. These were small places, rectangular and utilitarian, painted in softer tones than the Easter-egg colors splashed on the dwellings throughout Cameryn’s town. Durango was more upscale and respectable. Trees lined the streets, their empty branches webbed with Christmas lights. It was eight A.M., and already the streets were humming with traffic. Countless people hurrying along the shoveled walkways of College Drive.

Heading east, she saw the Loaf ‘N Jug, where the call had been made. Reflexively, she slowed her Jeep to a near stop, searching the building until she saw it: the pay phone, hanging on the front wall, protected by a three-sided metal box. At that moment it was being used by a man with long, straw-colored Rastafarian dreadlocks that splayed like octopus tentacles from beneath a multicolored knit cap. As he talked he gestured wildly, his free hand jabbing the air, and Cameryn realized if there had been any latent prints they were long gone, rubbed into obscurity by countless hands.

Beep-beep!

In her rearview mirror she saw a man honking at her impatiently. Waving, she gunned her engine and drove, making a sharp right onto Sixth Street. Two doors down was the Gilbert home. She parked, trying to steady her breathing. If she did this right, she had a shot. But it would be just one.

Ahead of her was an elementary school, overrun with vans and cars disgorging children onto the front walkway. She looked at the crumpled address she’d tossed onto the passenger seat, next to her Map Quest directions that showed her the way in bright yellow ink.

“Well, this is it,” she told herself softly. “Play it cool.” She grabbed her notebook and jumped out of her car. Trying to look confident, she made her way up the walkway lined with two rows of candy canes, the kind that lighted up from the inside in bright red and white stripes. A large Santa had been taped to a window, and a yellow plastic sled was propped on the side of the house. With a shaking finger, she pressed the doorbell, listening to its distant chime, hoping she looked old enough to be the college student she was about to claim to be. Cameryn waited, then rang the bell again. Maybe the house was empty-most people worked during the day. Maybe her crazy drive down here had all been for nothing.