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I think of Britt carefully examining Terra’s field and studying the alley behind Holly’s house. I was so impressed by her thoroughness. I have to trust she’ll be as thorough again, knowing I’ve got my eye on her mother.
My jaw tightens, and I know she will. I’m angry that I know she will.
I’ve done all I can do here, and I’m walking back to my truck. We’ll know a lot more once we have the coroner’s report and ballistics. I need to take a long lunch so I can get a workout at the gym or go for a long run. I need to burn this tension out of my chest, then I’ll see what I can find out about Stan Roswell.
Being so close to this, with how much it’s linked to her family, feels like I’m walking through the past, reliving my dad’s frustration with Gwen and her persistence about knowing every detail of Lars’s case.
Lars Bailey attempted a stunt where he was bound in a straight jacket and locked in a metal trunk then dropped into the ocean fifty yards from the shore. Boats and emergency workers were all on hand, but he was an escape artist. The point was to let him escape.
A huge crowd was gathered on the shore watching the performance, and a screen was erected to give them a close-up view of the surface of the water where the black metal coffin-shaped box was lowered. It sank all the way to the bottom.
He was supposed to be free in less than two minutes. I remember it so clearly.
Lars had always fascinated me with his tricks, and he always had a new one every Memorial Day weekend. I was seventeen, just graduated high school, watching with my dad on the sheriff’s boat.
Five minutes passed, and the surface of the water remained quiet. We all strained our eyes, waiting for him to break through the currents, arms extended in a triumphantVover his head, like always.
I remember looking over at the boat where Gwen and Edna waited, and straining my memory, I try to remember seeing a little girl. She would’ve been ten… I was way too focused on the dark blue water, a sick feeling in my stomach as another minute passed, as silence held the spectators on shore, as the tension grew stronger.
At the seven-minute mark, my dad said to call it. Lars’s team said to wait. He should have been fine. He was in a sealed box. At the ten-minute mark, Dad insisted something was wrong, too much time had passed, and they finally relented.
I’ll never forget the chains raising the box from the water. It was too heavy, they were getting too much resistance. When it finally broke the surface, streams of water gushed from the broken seals. Everyone gasped, a woman’s screams turned to wails, and a pit was in my stomach.
Lars Bailey was dead.
* * *
By Friday,we’ve ruled out Gwen’s gun as having fired the shot that killed Gary Blue, and we’ve verified he had no alcohol or drugs in his system. We were also able to establish his time of death as late Friday night.
Doug and Britt thoroughly documented the scene at his cabin and at the fairground, but even with all this information, we’re left with as many questions as answers. They’re all focused on what’s missing.
We can’t find Gary’s prosthesis, and there are no signs of a three-wheel ATV anywhere. Holly’s chickens haven’t been recovered. We haven’t even found signs of chickens, which are pretty hard to hide, and we found no trace of white boards or paint.
For that matter, I’m starting to think the mysterious signs are the work of a different person altogether, and considering they’re relatively harmless, I’m taking them off the table.
Suicide is still on the table, but after all Gwen said, I’d like to find this Stan Roswell and question him.
I’ve managed to keep all of this out of the press. The last thing we need is a swarm of reporters and social media types sticking their noses in everything and getting in our way. The worst are “true-crime detectives,” also known as meddling amateurs.
Of course, Piper Jackson, Eureka’s very own Lois Lane, has been at the courthouse snooping around since Day 1. When I told her no comment, she immediately drifted to her bestie’s area. It provoked the one word I’ve said to Britt all week. A solidno.
Her green eyes blinked wide with surprise, but she nodded, cutting her eyes to her friend and shaking her head.
“Are you helping solve crimes, ole boy?” Friday also means Owen is with me in the office, and the sound of him playing with Edward at Britt’s desk is like tiny knives stabbing my stomach. “You’re wishing you could win another race, aren’t you? Are you coming over to our house tonight, Miss Britt?”
“Ahh… not tonight.” I can tell she’s not sure how much he knows.
Nothing. He knows nothing.
I turn slightly, speaking to him. “You’re headed to Gram’s tonight, Owen. Ryan and Pinky will be there. In fact, we need to get going.”
“Okay.” His enthusiasm dims slightly. “I haven’t forgotten about you, ole boy! We’ll play together real soon, don’t you worry.”
He hops up and gives Britt a hug. I try not to notice her squeezing him back because it fucking sucks to feel this angry at her and still know she cares about my kid.
Driving Owen the short distance to my mother’s house is a little like water torture. Slow drips driving me insane.
“Edward’s such a good dog. I’m sure he misses chasing after my socks. Are we going to have them over for dinner again? Maybe we could get together at a park or I could go to Miss Britt’s and play while you’re at work. Maybe I could take Edward for a walk again, or we could see what else he can find…”
