Once, months later when Jake was recovering and I was on leave, he said to me that he had a dream sometimes, that he was on that table dying, and two people brought him a cake with dates and nuts and it was so good that he thought he was at the entrance to heaven. “Probably all this morphine,” he said as he lay on the hospital bed, hooked up to various machines. I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t a dream, not quite. I didn’t tell him that there were terrible things from that day that he was lucky not to know about. That part of my saving his life was a deed that would haunt me the rest of my own miserable days. He was worth it: that’s what I’ve told myself, all these years since. Better than me from the start and full of goodness and worth it.
* * *
I think about all of this as I head toward town. Twelve miles of woods, the gas station, a handful of country houses, more miles. Then town. Which, “town” seems too big a word for the place, tiny as it is. The card the sheriff gave Marie had a phone number and an address, 401 Main Street.
I pull into the only empty spot on Main Street, park the Bronco, and look for numbers on the buildings so I know which way to head. Nice little place, really. No stoplights. And every hundred yards or so, a metal bench beneath two Japanese maples. I walk past a brick building with wide steps and fancy columns: the library.
Just up the street, there’s a commotion. Lots of people on the sidewalk, plus a van from a television station parked out front. A man leans against a building, smoking a cigarette.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, motioning with my head.
“That girl who went missing before Christmas. They may have found her.” He takes a drag from his cigarette.
“Yeah?” I try to sound nonchalant. I think back to the newspaper articles.
The man shakes his head. “Strangest thing. Early this morning, a guy shows up at the police station and says the girl’s dead and he knows where the body is. Says he didn’t do it but he’ll take them right to her.” Cigarette smoke shoots from his lips. Haven’t smelled that for years and though I’ve never been a smoker, something about it feels good, then. “They’re out there now,” he says. “Sheriff and the deputy and a few other folks.” He points toward the people up the street. “Everyone is waiting for them to come back.”
“What?”
He gestures toward the building. “Guy has them out there now. In the woods.”
How to process this. How to make sense. And is this man telling the truth. And who has reported the body and how did they find it. And are all those people out in our woods, stomping around and closing in on Finch and Marie. “Did the guy say where the body was?”
The man with the cigarette shrugs. “Close to national forest land, I think.” He slides his sunglasses off and squints at me with his light blue eyes. “That’s not all of it, though. Those people from the missing girl’s camera. The man and little girl. Do you know what I’m talking about? It was in the paper. A photograph, bunch of fuss over who they were.”
I adjust my sunglasses, grateful he doesn’t recognize me.
He takes one last drag from his cigarette and then drops it to the sidewalk and twists his foot over it. “The guy says they were squatting on his land so he killed them. He brought evidence. Dog tags from the man. A tooth, from the little girl.” He spits to the side. “Says he saved them as a memento. Makes me sick to even say that out loud. Local guy. Psychopath, right here in our midst. Of all the places.”
I can feel it coming, barreling hard: a panic attack. The sun is too bright, the sidewalk, too. The buildings and cars begin to sway back and forth; they blur and shift. I lean against the building and grip the bricks. “You got another smoke, man?”
He looks at me, seems to think about it, then reaches into the pocket of his shirt and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. “You all right?” he asks, handing them to me.
I nod. Light up and take a small puff. “The bodies,” I say. “What did he do with the bodies?”
“Says he had these bugs that eat the flesh off things. Let them have at it, then dumped the bones in the river. At least that’s his story.”
“Who was it?” I say, when I finally catch my breath.
“Taxidermist. Lives north of here. Long time ago, he was a preacher. Then he lost his wife and daughter. Car accident, he was driving. Tattooed their pictures on his arms and then went off to live in the woods. Been a little strange ever since, I guess. Never went anywhere. Local lady took him his groceries. Left them on his porch. But nobody thought much of it. I mean, who wouldn’t be a little strange after that, right? Everyone assumed he was harmless.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Did a buck for me, one year. Ten-point, nicest one I ever got.” He slides another cigarette out and lights it. “He always did good work. I mean as a taxidermist.”