The Woods

I remembered the last time I was hospitalized. When I was twelve years old I came down with rheumatic fever. It was pretty rare then, even rarer now. I spent ten days in the hospital. I remember Camille visiting. Sometimes she brought her annoying friends because she knew that would distract me. We played Boggle a lot. Boys loved Camille. She used to bring the cassette tapes they made for her—groups like Steely Dan and Supertramp and the Doobie Brothers. Camille told me what groups were great, what groups were lame, and I followed her taste as though it were biblical.

Did she suffer out in those woods?

That was what I’d always wondered. What did Wayne Steubens do to her? Did he tie her up and terrify her, like he did with Margot Green? Did she struggle and suffer defensive wounds like Doug Billingham? Did he bury her alive, like those victims in Indiana or Virginia? How much pain had Camille been in? How terrifying were her last moments?

And now…the new question: Had Camille somehow gotten out of those woods alive?

I turned my thoughts to Lucy. I thought about what she must be going through, watching her beloved father blow his head off, wondering about the whys and hows of it all. I wanted to reach her, say something, try somehow to comfort her a little.

There was a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

I expected it to be a nurse. It wasn’t. It was Muse. I smiled at her. I expected her to smile back. She didn’t. Her face couldn’t have been more closed.

“Don’t look so glum,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Muse moved closer to the bed. Her expression didn’t change.

“I said—”

“I already talked to the doctor. He said you might not even have to stay overnight.”

“So what’s with the face?”

Muse grabbed a chair, pulled it next to the bed. “We need to talk.”

I had seen Loren Muse make this face before.

It was her game face. It was her I’m-gonna-nail-da-bastard face. It was her try-to-lie-and-I’ll-spot-it face. I had seen her direct this look at murderers and rapists and carjackers and gangbangers. Now she was aiming at me.

“What’s the matter?”

Her expression didn’t soften. “How did it go with Raya Singh?”

“It was pretty much what we thought.” I filled her in briefly because, really, talking about Raya felt almost beside the point at this stage. “But the big news is, Gil Perez’s sister came to see me. She told me Camille was still alive.”

I saw something change in her face. She was good, no doubt, but so was I. They say that a true “tell” lasts less than a tenth of a second. But I spotted it. She wasn’t necessarily surprised by what I said. But it had jolted her nonetheless.

“What’s going on, Muse?”

“I talked to Sheriff Lowell today.”

I frowned. “He hasn’t retired yet?”

“No.”

I was going to ask her why she’d reached out to him, but I knew Muse was thorough. It would be natural for her to have contacted the lead from those murders. It also explained, in part, her behavior toward me.

“Let me guess,” I said. “He thinks I lied about that night.”

Muse did not say yes or no. “It is odd, don’t you think? You not staying on guard duty the night of the murder.”

“You know why. You read those journals.”

“Yes, I did. You sneaked off with your girlfriend. And then you didn’t want to get her in trouble.”

“Right.”

“But those journals also said that you were covered with blood. Is that true too?”

I looked at her. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m pretending that you aren’t my boss.”

I tried to sit up. The stitch in my side hurt like hell.

“Did Lowell say I was a suspect?”

“He doesn’t have to. And you don’t have to be a suspect for me to ask these questions. You lied about that night—”

“I was protecting Lucy. You know this already.”

“I know what you’ve already told me, yes. But put yourself in my position. I need to handle this case with no agenda or bias. If you were me, wouldn’t you ask these questions?”

I thought about it. “I get it, okay, fine, fire away. Ask me whatever you want.”

“Was your sister ever pregnant?”

I just sat there, stunned. The question had hit me like a surprise left hook. Probably her intent.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Why the hell would you ask that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, my sister was never pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d know.”

“Would you?” she asked.

“I don’t understand. Why are you asking me that?”

“We’ve had cases where girls have hidden it from their families. You know that. Heck, we had a case where the girl herself didn’t know until she delivered the baby. Remember?”

I did.

“Look, Muse, I’m pulling rank here. Why are you asking if my sister was pregnant?”

She searched my face, her eyes crawling on me like slimy worms.

“Cut that out,” I said.

“You have to recuse yourself, Cope. You know that.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Yeah, you do. Lowell is still running the show. It’s his baby.”

“Lowell? That hick hasn’t worked on this case since they arrested Wayne Steubens eighteen years ago.”

“Still. It’s his case. He’s the lead.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this. “Does Lowell know about Gil Perez being alive this whole time?”

“I told him your theory.”

“So why are you suddenly ambushing me with questions about Camille being pregnant?”

She said nothing.

“Fine, play it that way. Look, I promised Glenda Perez that I would try to keep her family out of it. But tell Lowell about it. Maybe he’ll let you stay involved—I trust you a lot more than the backwoods sheriff. The key thing is, Glenda Perez said my sister walked out of those woods alive.”

“And,” Muse said, “Ira Silverstein said she was dead.”

The room stopped. The tell was more obvious on her face this time. I looked at her hard. She tried to hold my gaze, but eventually she broke.

“What the hell is going on, Muse?”

She stood. The door opened behind her. A nurse entered. With nary a hello, she strapped a blood pressure collar around my arm and started pumping. She stuck a thermometer in my mouth.