I envisioned Lucy’s face, the lovely curve of her jaw and cheek as she leaned into the flame cupped by her girlfriend’s hands. Their impassioned voices sounded in my memory, and I did not know why I was stunned.
I did not know why it should matter. I wondered how much Wesley was aware. My niece had been interning at Quantico since fall semester had begun. He had seen her quite a lot more than I had. There was not a breath of wind until we got into the mountains, and for a while the earth was a pitch-black plain.
“Going up to forty-five hundred feet,” our pilot’s voice sounded in our headsets.
“Everybody all right back there?”
“I don’t guess you can smoke in here,” Marino said. At ten past nine, the inky sky was pricked with stars, the Blue Ridge a black ocean swelling without motion or sound. We followed deep shadows of woods, smoothly turning with the pitch of blades toward a brick building that I suspected was a school. Around a corner, we found a football field with police lights flashing and flares burning copper in an unnecessary illumination of our landing zone. And the Nightsun’s thirty million peak candlepower blazed down from our belly as we made our descent. At the fifty-yard line, Whit settled us softly like a bird.
” ‘Home of the War Horses,’ ” Wesley read from bunting draped along the fence.
“Hope they’re having a better season than we are.” Marino gazed out his window as the blades slowed down.
“I haven’t seen a high school football game since I was in one.”
“I didn’t know you played football,” I remarked.
“Yo. Number twelve.”
“What position?”
“Tight end.”
“That figures,” I said.
“This is actually Swannanoa,” Whit announced.
“Black Mountain’s just east.” We were met by two uniformed officers from the Black Mountain Police. They looked too young to drive or carry guns, their faces pale and peculiar as they tried not to stare. It was as if we had arrived by spacecraft in a blaze of gyrating lights and unearthly quiet. They did not know what to make of us or what was happening in their town, and it was with very little conversation that they drove us away. Moments later, we parked along a narrow street throbbing with engines and emergency lights. I counted three cruisers in addition to ours, one ambulance, two fire trucks, two unmarked cars, and a Cadillac.
“Great,” Marino muttered as he shut the car door.
“Everybody and his cousin Abner’s here.” Crime-scene tape ran from the front porch posts to shrubbery, fanning out on either side of the beige two-story aluminum-sided house. A Ford Bronco was parked in the gravel drive ahead of an unmarked Skylark with police antennas and lights.
“The cars are Ferguson’s?” Wesley asked as we mounted concrete steps.
“The ones in the drive, yes, sir,” the officer replied.
“That window up in the comer’s where he’s at.”
I was dismayed when Lieutenant Hershel Mote suddenly appeared in the front doorway. Obviously, he had not followed my advice.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“I’m holding on.” He looked so relieved to see us I almost expected a hug. But his face was gray. Sweat ringed the collar of his denim shirt and shone on his brow and neck. He reeked of stale cigarettes. We hesitated in the foyer, our backs to stairs that led to the second floor.
“What’s been done?” Wesley asked.
“Doc Jenrette took pictures, lots of’em, but he didn’t touch nothing, just like you said. He’s outside talking to the squad if you need him.”
“There’s a lot of cars out there,” Marino said.
“Where is everybody?”
“A couple of the boys are in the kitchen. And one or two’s poking around the yard and in the woods out back.”
“But they haven’t been upstairs?” Mote let out a deep breath.
“Well, now, I’m not going to stand here and lie to you. They did go on up and look. But nobody’s messed with anything, I can promise you that. The Doc’s the only one who got close.” He started up the stairs.
“Max is… he’s… Well, goddam.” He stopped and looked back at us, his eyes bright with tears.