“Dawn will come early and there are plans to make,” Begley said.
“We need to coordinate a lot of people,” I concurred.
“Which funeral home buried her?” Begley asked Jenrette.
“Wilbur’s.”
“That’s in Black Mountain?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“The name of the funeral director?” The judge was taking notes.
“Lucias Ray.”
“What about the detective working this case?”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Judge Begley looked up and sighed.
I was not sure why I went straight there, except that I had said I would, and I was mad at Marino. I was irrationally offended by, of all things, his allusion to my Mercedes, which he had unfavorably compared to an Infiniti. It wasn’t that his comment was right or wrong, but that its intent was to cause irritation and insult. I would not have asked Marino to go with me now had I believed in Loch Ness monsters, creatures from lagoons, and the living dead. I would | have refused had he begged, despite my secret fear of water snakes. Actually, of all snakes greatj and small. | There was enough light left when I reached Lake Tomahawk to retrace what I had been told were Emily’s last steps. Parking by a picnic area, I followed the shoreline with my eyes as I wondered why a little girl would walk out here as night began to fall. I recalled how fearful I had been of the canals when I was growing up in Miami. Every log was an alligator and cruel people loitered along the isolated shores. As I got out of my car, I wondered why Emily had not been afraid. I wondered if there might be some other explanation for why she had chosen this route.
The map Ferguson had passed around during the consultation at Quantico indicated that on the early evening of October 1, Emily had left the church and veered off the street at the point where I was standing. She had passed picnic tables and turned right on a dirt trail that appeared to have been worn by foot traffic rather than cleared, for the path was well defined in some spots and imperceptible in others as it followed the shore through woods and weeds.
I briskly passed riotous clumps of tall grasses and brush as the shadow of mountain ranges deepened over water and the wind picked up, carrying the sharp promise of winter. Dead leaves crackled beneath my shoes as I drew upon the clearing marked on the map with a tiny outline of a body. By now, it had gotten quite dark.
I dug inside my handbag for my flashlight, only to recall that it was broken and still inside Ferguson’s basement. I found one book of matches left from my smoking days, and it was half empty.
“Damn,” I exclaimed under my breath as I began to feel fear.
I slipped out my. 38 and tucked it in a side pocket of my jacket, my hand loose around its grips as I stared at the muddy ledge at the water’s edge where Emily Steiner’s body had been found. Shadows compared to photographs I recalled indicated that surrounding brush had recently been cut back, but any other evidence of recent activity had been gently covered by nature and the night. Leaves were deep. I rearranged them with my feet to look for what I suspected the local police might not.
I had worked enough violent crimes in my career to have learned one very important truth. A crime scene has a life of its own. It remembers trauma in soil, insects altered by body fluids, and plants trampled by feet. It loses its privacy just as any witness does, for no stone is left undisturbed, and the curious do not stop coming just because there are no further questions to ask. It is common for people to continue visiting a scene long after there is a reason. They take souvenirs and photographs. They leave letters, cards, and flowers. They come in secret and leave that way, for it is shameful to stare just because you cannot help it. It seems a violation of something sacred even to leave a rose.