The Woods
I waited for more.
“I’m here,” I said slowly, “because you asked to see me.”
“Not here here. Here, as in back in our lives.”
“I told you. I’m trying to find out—”
“Why now?”
That question again.
“Because,” I said, “Gil Perez didn’t die that night. He came back. He visited you, didn’t he?”
Ira’s eyes took on that thousand-yard stare. He started to walk. I caught up with him.
“Was he here, Ira?”
“He didn’t use that name,” he said.
He kept walking. I noticed that he limped. His face pinched up in pain.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“I need to walk.”
“Where?”
“There are paths. In the woods. Come.”
“Ira, I’m not here—”
“He said his name was Manolo something. But I knew who he was. Little Gilly Perez. Do you remember him? From those days, I mean?”
“Yes.”
Ira shook his head. “Nice boy. But so easily manipulated.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t tell me who he was. Not at first. He didn’t really look the same but there was something in his mannerisms, you know? You can hide stuff. You can gain weight. But Gil still had that soft lisp. He still moved the same. Like he was wary all the time. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
I had thought the yard was fenced in, but it wasn’t. Ira slipped past a break in the hedges. I followed. There was a wooded hill in front of us. Ira started trudging up the path.
“Are you allowed to leave?”
“Of course. I’m here on a voluntary basis. I can come and go as I please.”
He kept walking.
“What did Gil say to you?” I asked.
“He wanted to know what happened that night.”
“He didn’t know?”
“He knew some. He wanted to know more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, Ira, I do.”
“It’s over. Wayne is in prison.”
“Wayne didn’t kill Gil Perez.”
“I thought he did.”
I didn’t quite get that one. He was moving faster now, limping along in obvious pain. I wanted to call him to stop, but his mouth was also moving.
“Did Gil mention my sister?”
He stopped for a second. His smile was sad. “Camille.”
“Yes.”
“Poor thing.”
“Did he mention her?”
“I loved your dad, you know. Such a sweet man, so hurt by life.”
“Did Gil mention what happened to my sister?”
“Poor Camille.”
“Yes. Camille. Did he say anything about her?”
Ira started to climb again. “So much blood that night.”
“Please, Ira, I need you to focus. Did Gil say anything at all about Camille?”
“No.”
“Then what did he want?”
“Same as you.”
“What’s that?”
He turned. “Answers.”
“To what questions?”
“The same as yours. What happened that night. He didn’t understand, Cope. It’s over. They’re dead. The killer is in jail. You should let the dead rest.”
“Gil wasn’t dead.”
“Until that day, the day he visited me, he was. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“It’s over. The dead are gone. The living are safe.”
I reached out and grabbed his arm. “Ira, what did Gil Perez say to you?”
“You don’t understand.”
We stopped. Ira looked down the hill. I followed his gaze. I could only make out the roof of the house now. We were in the thick of the woods. Both of us were breathing harder than we should. Ira’s face was pale.
“It has to stay buried.”
“What does?”
“That’s what I told Gil. It was over. Move on. It was so long ago. He was dead. Now he wasn’t. But he should have been.”
“Ira, listen to me. What did Gil say to you?”
“You won’t leave it alone, will you?”
“No,” I said, “I won’t leave it alone.”
Ira nodded. He looked very sad. Then he reached underneath his poncho and pulled out a gun, aimed it in my direction, and without saying another word, he fired at me.
CHAPTER 36
“WHAT WE HAVE HERE IS A PROBLEM.”
Sheriff Lowell wiped his nose with a handkerchief that looked large enough to be a clown’s prop. His station was more modern than what Muse had expected, but then again her expectations weren’t high. The building was new, the design sleek and clean with computer monitors and cubicles. Lots of whites and grays.
“What you have here,” Muse replied, “is a dead body.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He gestured toward the cup in her hand. “How’s the coffee?”
“Outstanding, actually.”
“Used to be crap. Some guys made it too strong, some too weak. It got left on the burner forever. And then last year, one of the fine citizens of this municipality donated one of those coffee pod machines to the station. You ever use one of those things, the pods?”
“Sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“Is this your attempt at wooing me with your aw-shucks, homespun charm?”
He grinned. “A little.”
“Consider me wooed. What’s our problem?”
“We just found a body that’s been in the woods, by early estimates, a pretty long time. We know three things: Caucasian, female, height of five-seven. That’s all we know for now. I have already combed through the records. There were no missing or unaccounted girls within a fifty-mile radius who match that description.”
“We both know who it is,” Muse said.
“Not yet we don’t.”
“You think, what, another five-foot seven-inch girl was murdered in that camp around the same time and buried near the other two bodies?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That we don’t have a definite ID. Doc O’Neill is working on it. We’ve ordered Camille Copeland’s dental records. We should know for sure in a day or two. No rush. We have other cases.”
“No rush?”
“That’s what I said.”