"But over all these years…" He splayed his hands to ask how this lack of recognition was possible in a town the size of a postage stamp.
Hannah countered by holding up three fingers. "In all that time, Belle's only made three visits home that I know of. And I don't think the girl ever stayed a whole day."
So Isabelle Winston had been another exile. Had she also been sent away after Josh vanished? Or had she run away?
Cable Babitt's jeep rounded the last curve on the way to his house. He spotted the CBI agent's Taurus parked in the turnout just beyond his driveway. Her black sedan slowly pulled into the road and drove off.
That bitch! She had waited for him. She wanted him to see her.
He left the jeep's door hanging open and ran to the back of his garage. The cordwood was still neatly stacked against the rear wall, and there were no signs of disturbance among the individual logs. But he had to know for certain if the knapsack was still there, or he would get no sleep tonight. One by one, he pulled down the logs and flung them away. At last, he uncovered the bright green canvas wadded up inside the plastic bag. Perhaps it had been a mistake to move it from his former hiding place in the toolshed.
The cellar would be better, safer from Sally Polk. She'd never get in there without the proper paperwork, and that woman had burned her bridges with warrants in this county.
Half an hour later, he opened the storm doors that led him up to the light of his backyard, and he emerged from the cellar a satisfied man. Josh's knapsack was safe in its new resting place under piles of storage cartons and suitcases.
"Oh, goddamn."
He caught sight of the wind-whipped hem of a flowery dress, just a flash of material from behind the back wall of his garage. That bitch!
He rounded the corner and there was Sally Polk, standing in the middle of his cast-off firewood. The logs he had strewn all about the yard now advertised something once hidden in the woodpile and removed with great haste-and fear.
But the damn woman only made cheerful small talk while he sweated on a cool morning.
26
The judge sat in a wooden armchair beside Hannah's empty porch rocker, and the yellow stray stretched out at his feet. The man and the dog had been napping in the sun. But now the animal raised his floppy ears, and his eyes opened. Henry Hobbs also heard the sound of a car's engine.
The CBI agent parked her black Taurus in front of the house. She stepped out of the car with a wave of hello. The dog pronounced her harmless when he laid his head down on his front paws and closed his eyes. The judge was not so charitable in his view of this woman.
Harmless indeed.
Sally Polk approached the porch, and the judge stood up, as he would for any woman, lady or sociopath. And his tone was civil when he addressed her. "So you've come to vandalize the rest of my house."
"Oh, no. Today I'm on best behavior." Slinging her purse strap over one shoulder, she climbed the steps and paused to glance at Hannah's rocking chair. She waited for a nod from her host, and then she sat down. "Judge, I know you pulled the strings to take those homicides away from me."
"You don't know anything of the kind." And now that he had called her bluff, he matched her smile and made his wider. He remained standing, a pointed suggestion for a short visit.
She settled her handbag on her lap, a sign that she was not leaving anytime soon. "I know you've got a vested interest in a backwoods investigation."
"You mean Cable? He's the one with jurisdiction. The state of California has no interest here. My son's grave is on private land-a county matter."
"Only because Mrs. Straub's government lease was rescinded. I hear the paperwork to kill those old mineral rights went through in one day. Well, let me tell you-that gave heart attacks to a pack of bureaucrats down in Sacramento. They've never seen paper fly so fast. I'm guessing that's thanks to you. Oh, and Addison, too. He seems to be everybody's lawyer this week."
"I'm sure the sheriff will make a competent investigation."
"We both know that's a lie." She opened her purse and pulled out a photograph. "Maybe you forgot. Your son shared that grave with someone else." She held out the picture, leaving him no choice but to take it. "That's Mary Kent. A common name-easy to forget."
He looked down at the face of a girl-so young-with long blond hair, immortal when she smiled for the camera, smiling down a long hallway of doors opening, life unfolding. At this frozen moment, she could never have imagined her death.
"That's an old passport photo," said Sally Polk. "She was in her mid-thirties when she died."
"But you thought this photo of a youngster would make a much better inducement for cooperation."
"No, that's not it. I couldn't find any family albums with a more recent picture. There's no family. No close friends, either. So you got lucky, Judge. No one's gonna care if Cable Babitt screws up this case. Mary Kent's got nobody to fight for her."
He handed the picture back to Sally Polk, but the CBI agent waved it away.
"No, sir. You keep that." She settled back in Hannah's chair, rocking slowly, and the floorboards creaked. "The County Sheriff 's Office has a team of investigators, but Cable's working this case on his own. That's the way you wanted it, right? A bumbling idiot in charge? That smells of collusion. It reeks." She looked out over the meadow, rocking, rocking. "What pretty wildflowers." In the same harmless tone, she said, "I think you're protecting Oren. I've seen his Army record. He's more than just a world-class cop. That boy knows how to kill."
The judge lowered his eyes. "Oren loved Josh more than his own life."
"I believe that. Oh, did you think I was accusing him of murder?" The rocking stopped, and she leaned toward him. "While you've still got one son left, you better hope I solve this case before Oren does."
The judge shook his head. Despite the military record, he could not see his son taking human life by choice-not on Josh's account. Twenty years of sorrow had a tempering effect. With great care, he had watched the returning soldier for signs of unraveling, and he had waited with his safety net to catch the boy when he fell. But Oren had come shining through, his character intact-if not his heart. And the pride of Henry Hobbs was enormous. "You can depend on my son to do the right thing."
"You mean act like a cop?" Once more the floorboards creaked beneath the chair's rockers. "When a child is murdered, cops always look at the parents first. I wonder if Oren took a hard look at you. Does he know what you did in the Korean War? So many medals. You were a damned death machine. As a soldier, you killed more people than I've arrested."
"I'm a pacifist. I sickened of killing as a very young man." And now the judge felt the need to sit down. He settled into the chair beside hers. "I did not murder my son."
The dog lifted his head, awakened by the inflection of pain in an old man's voice.
"I'd like to believe you," said Sally Polk. "But you can see my problem, can't you? Most parents-the innocent ones-they want a case solved. They want justice for the dead child. But you don't." The rhythm of the creaking floorboards was faster now, as if a rocking chair could take her somewhere. "That only makes sense if you already know who killed your son. Rumor has it you're an atheist. So I know God's not telling you to leave the vengeance to Him." The rocking stopped. "If you know who did this, tell me."
"Vengeance is thine, Sally Polk?"
"You bet your sweet ass, old man." She reached out to tap the photograph in his hand. "Mary Kent's skull was caved in with a rock. She died quick. The killer spent more time with Josh. It was hands-on torture. No other way to say it. Broken ribs, a fractured jaw, cracks in his leg bones, breaks in the arms. And then there's the damage to Josh's hands. My expert says one trauma can't account for all the broken fingers. They were snapped like twigs-one by one. The boy's pain just went on and on."