“I left the ER, walked outside. People were on lunch or breaks, celebrating the sunshine and the warm weather. Then a helicopter landed. It all came rushing back. The slap of the blades, the screaming jet engine, the blood, the carnage. I fell to my knees, people rushing to help me. Walking me back inside.
“All I wanted to do was get a bottle of Scotch and obliterate everything. That’s what I did in Baghdad; that’s what I did here.” She paused briefly. “I called my therapist in Boston. Probably talked to her for an hour. She walked me back. But Ray, I’m like that guy in the ER. I’m damaged goods. I’ll always be an outsider. I don’t think I can find a normal life. I listen to my colleagues talk about new houses, or daycare, or vacations. Just the usual, nothing wrong with it, but it’s not my world. I wanted to yell and scream about a world I couldn’t change. Then I texted you.”
“And now?”
“Better, at least for the moment. I’m like an epileptic after a seizure. Exhausted. Can I have a glass of wine?”
“You’re asking for alcohol.”
“A glass of wine, maybe two. Nothing more. Just some wine, food, music. Being here with you. Being quiet, maybe a walk later. Can I spend the night? I don’t mean to make you my minder, but this is what I need. I trust you. I think you are a survivor, too.”
“Let’s have some food,” said Ray. “Then a walk before it gets too dark.”
31
Mackenzie boiled some water and poured it over a tea bag in a large earthenware mug. She leaned against the counter, allowing the tea to steep, then added some honey, stirring, tasting, and adding more honey. Setting the mug in easy reach, she settled at her keyboard, sliding the memory card from the camera into a port on the computer. One by one, she looked at the still images on the large display, at times her fingers sliding across the track pad to manipulate and enlarge parts of an image for closer inspection. She moved to the video, turning up the volume to get the sound of the wind and water. She replayed the video several times, switching to full-screen, then returned to still images, slowly scrutinizing each one a final time, the tea growing tepid as she absorbed every detail.
This was the place, she said in a soft voice. She sat for a while considering her next move. Putting the images into a string of e-mails with short descriptions, she sent them to Ken Lee. On the subject lines she keyed, “Where it happened.”
“I thought you were on vacation yesterday,” were Ken Lee’s first words when he called Mackenzie a minute or two later.
“I was, but once I got home and put the food away….” She stopped and reflected on what had happened to her planned holiday.
“Are you still there?” he asked after an unusually long silence.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m growing used to your considered responses.”
“What was your question again?” Mackenzie asked,
“The vacation day, the holiday…?”
“Yes. I did all the things I told you I was going to do. Went to yoga. Nice studio. Good instructor. All women in the class, not one guy, not even a geezer. Not like California. And the women were exceedingly helpful. If I lived up here, these are people I’d like to know. I got a massage, strong woman, good hands. I went shopping. And I found a terrific local bookstore with an espresso bar. The day was so ordinary, I was filled with joy. When I got home I thought I’d eat some good food, drink some wine. But….”
“What?”
“I was right back in it, trying to figure this thing out. What was I thinking when I came here with no real plan? You’re right, what you said the other day. I was totally fixated on Sabotny. He was the ringleader. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been there. None of it.”
“Slow down, slow down. You’ve lost me. You’ve just given me two things. One has to do with a plan, the other with Sabotny.”
“There is no plan. I mean, somehow I thought I could just come out here….”
“You did have a plan of sorts. You established that Sabotny was back in Cedar County. You found a house that would give you a view of his. You have been collecting data on his habits. You even had a chance to see him in operation, albeit accidentally. What you are trying to accomplish takes time.”
“But what am I trying to accomplish? I started this thinking that Sabotny was Terry’s killer, but how can I prove that, and what I would do with the information if I could find some truth….”
“Okay, let’s slow down. I’ve watched you in action professionally over several years. You are an enormously effective leader. Why? Because you think strategically. You find the right people, you tap into all the necessary resources, and you plan for every possible contingency. I won’t tell you that you are a risk taker. You’re not. You minimize your risks so you can maximize your chances for success. And it has worked out for you.
“But this current pursuit of yours, it doesn’t fit the paradigm. There is so much unknown and mostly unknowable. You think this Sabotny character was responsible for your brother’s death, but you don’t know that for sure. Sabotny, with or without the help of the other boys, might have killed your brother. But Terry’s death might also have been an accident.”
“Like how?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in the course of the fight that allowed you to escape, he fell and hit his head. Another possibility—you said he had something like a branch or board that he was swinging—is that he lost control of it and it was used against him. Maybe someone hit him, not intending to kill him, but did. It happens a lot, especially with teenagers. They don’t anticipate the possible consequences of their actions. Or what if he had something like a congenital heart….”
“So where are you going with this?” pressed Mackenzie.
“Stay with me for a few minutes. Let’s say Terry died, either as the result of something he did or something that was done to him. They’ve got to get rid of the body. Easiest thing is to make it look like a drowning.”
“If it was an accident, why wouldn’t you go to the police?” she protested.
“Look, what you told me about these guys suggests they weren’t members of the honor society. They were drinking beer, smoking dope, and looking to gang rape the victim’s little sister. They’re not going to go the police. They’re going to stage a drowning, an accident, something that doesn’t involve them.”
“But any kind of investigation would have disproved….”
“Was there an investigation? Did you hear of any inquiries?”
Mackenzie was silent, trying to remember what her mother told her. “He was gone more than a day before my mother called the sheriff. Later a deputy came around to see her, someone she knew from the tavern. He said Terry’s body had been found on a Lake Michigan beach. Terry had apparently drowned while skinny-dipping. Probably became hypothermic.”
“And you told your mother what had happened, the fight, that you were almost gang raped?”
“I told her everything. I was hysterical. I never knew if she was listening. She was usually stoned or drunk or both. She said that Terry was dead. Nothing would change that. So there was no use making trouble. She said if the police got too interested in us, most likely they’d come and take us away from her and put us in foster homes. I didn’t understand the police or social services. And, of course, they should have taken us away from her. But, again, what does this have to do with anything? What’s your point?”
“Simply that you don’t know how Terry died. You don’t know who, if anyone, is responsible. And even if you could establish guilt, what could you do about it? Could you go to the law? Would there be enough information for a prosecution? Or would you simply blow him away?”
For a long time, Mackenzie looked at an image of the Sandville Creek, winding out of sight on the screen. Ken Lee let her think. “So what do I do next?” she said finally.