Karin Slaughter - Faithless

Jeffrey asked, “Do they use cyanide in pesticides these days?”

“Got me.” Lena took out her notebook to remind herself to find the answer.

Jeffrey slowed the car as they breached a steep hill. Three goats stood in the drive, and he beeped his horn to get them moving. The bells around their collars jangled as they trotted into what looked like a chicken coop. A teenage girl and a young boy stood outside a pigpen holding a bucket between them. The girl was wearing a simple shift, the boy overalls with no shirt and no shoes. Their eyes followed the car as they drove by, and Lena felt the hairs on her arm stand straight up.

Jeffrey said, “If somebody starts playing a banjo, I’m outta here.”

“I’m right behind you,” Lena said, relieved to see civilization finally come into view.

The house was an unassuming cottage with two dormers set into a steeply pitched roof. The clapboard looked freshly painted and well tended, and except for the beat-up old truck out front, the house could have easily been a professor’s home in Heartsdale. Flowers ringed the front porch and followed a dirt path to the drive. As they got out of the car, Lena saw a woman standing behind the screen door. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and Lena guessed from the palpable tension that this was the missing girl’s mother.

Jeffrey said, “This isn’t going to be easy,” and not for the first time she was glad that this sort of thing was his job and not hers.

Lena shut the door, letting her hand rest on the hood as a man came out of the house. She expected the woman to follow, but instead an older man came shuffling out.

“Chief Tolliver?” the younger man asked. He had dark red hair but without the freckles that usually accompanied it. His skin was as pasty as you would expect, and his green eyes were so clear in the morning sunlight that Lena could tell their color from at least ten feet away. He was good-looking if you liked that sort, but the short-sleeved button-down shirt that he wore tightly tucked into his khaki Dockers made him look like a high school math teacher.

Jeffrey looked momentarily startled for some reason, but he recovered quickly, saying, “Mr. Bennett?”

“Lev Ward,” he clarified. “This is Ephraim Bennett, Abigail’s father.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, and Lena could tell he was surprised. Even wearing a baseball cap and overalls, Ephraim Bennett looked to be about eighty, hardly the age of a man with a twentyish daughter. Still, he was wiry-thin with a healthy glint in his eyes. Both his hands trembled noticeably, but she imagined he didn’t miss much.

Jeffrey said, “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

Ephraim gave Jeffrey what looked like a firm handshake despite his obvious palsy. “I appreciate your handling this personally, sir.” His voice was strong with the kind of Southern drawl Lena never heard anymore except in Hollywood movies. He tipped his hat to Lena. “Ma’am.”

Lena nodded in return, watching Lev, who seemed to be in charge despite the thirty-odd years that separated the two.

Ephraim told Jeffrey, “Thank you for coming out so quickly,” even though Lena would hardly characterize their response as quick. The call had come in last night. Had Jeffrey been on the other end of the line instead of Ed Pelham, he would have driven straight out to the Bennett home, not waited until the next day.

Jeffrey apologized, saying, “There was a question of jurisdiction.”

Lev said, “That’s my fault. The farm is in Catoogah County. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”

“None of us were,” Ephraim excused.

Lev bowed his head, as if to accept the absolution.

Jeffrey said, “We stopped at the farm across the street for directions. There was a man there, about sixty-five, seventy-”

“Cole,” Lev provided. “Our foreman.”

Jeffrey paused, probably waiting for more information. When nothing came, he added, “He gave us directions.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear about how to get here,” Lev told him, then offered, “Why don’t we go inside and talk to Esther?”

“Your sister-in-law?” Jeffrey asked.

“Baby sister,” Lev clarified. “I hope you don’t mind, but my brother and other sisters are coming by, too. We’ve been up all night worried about Abby.”

Lena asked, “Has she ever run away before?”

“I’m sorry,” Lev said, focusing his attention on Lena. “I didn’t introduce myself.” He held out his hand. Lena had been expecting the dead-fish flop that most men affected, lightly gripping a woman’s fingers as if they were afraid of breaking them, but he gave her the same hearty shake he had given Jeffrey, looking her square in the eye. “Leviticus Ward.”

“Lena Adams,” she told him.

“Detective?” he guessed. “We’ve been so anxious about this. Forgive my poor manners.”

“It’s understandable,” Lena said, aware that he had managed to sidestep answering her question about Abby.

He stepped back, graciously telling Lena, “After you.”

Lena walked toward the house, watching their shadows follow her, wondering at their old-fashioned manners. When they reached the front door, Lev held it open, letting Lena walk in first.

Esther Bennett sat on the couch, her feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap. Her spine was ramrod straight, and Lena, normally given to slouching, found herself pulling her shoulders back as if she was trying to measure up.

“Chief Tolliver?” Esther Bennett asked. She was much younger than her husband, probably in her forties, her dark hair graying slightly at the temples. Wearing a white cotton dress with a red-checkered apron, she looked like something out of a Betty Crocker cookbook. She kept her hair in a tight bun behind her head, but judging from the wisps that had escaped, it was nearly as long as her daughter’s. There was no doubt in Lena ’s mind that the dead girl was this woman’s daughter. They were carbon copies of each other.

“Call me Jeffrey,” Jeffrey offered; then: “You’ve got a beautiful home, Mrs. Bennett.” He always said this, even if the place was a dump. In this case, though, the best way to describe the Bennett house was “plain.” There were no knickknacks on the coffee table and the mantel over the fireplace was clean but for a simple wooden cross hanging on the brick. Two faded but sturdy-looking wingback chairs banked the window looking out into the front yard. The orangish couch was probably a relic from the 1960s, but it was in good shape. There were no drapes or blinds on the windows and the hardwood floor was bare of any carpeting. The ceiling fixture overhead was probably original to the house, which put it at around Ephraim’s age. Lena guessed they were standing in the formal parlor, though a quick glance down the hallway proved the rest of the house followed the same minimalist decorating style.

Jeffrey must have been thinking the same thing about the house, because he asked, “Have y’all lived here long?”

Lev answered, “Since before Abby was born.”

“Please,” Esther said, spreading her hands. “Have a seat.” She stood as Jeffrey sat, and he popped back up. “Please,” she repeated, motioning him back down.

Lev told him, “The rest of the family should be here soon.”

Esther offered, “Would you like something to drink, Chief Tolliver? Some lemonade?”

“That’d be nice,” Jeffrey answered, probably because he knew accepting the offer would help put the woman at ease.

“And you, Miss-?”

“Adams,” Lena provided. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Lev said, “Esther, this woman is a detective.”

“Oh,” she said, seeming flustered by her mistake. “I’m sorry, Detective Adams.”