the Woods (2007) Page 25

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  Nurse Rebecca thought that talking would make him worse. The truth was just the opposite. Something was locked up there, in Ira's head. They had to confront it now, finally, after all these years.

  Ira said, "Rebecca?"

  "Yes, Ira?"

  "Get out."

  Just like that. The voice wasn't cold, but it hadn't been inviting either. Rebecca took her time smoothing her skirt and sighing and standing.

  "If you need me," she said, "just call. Okay, Ira?"

  Ira said nothing. Rebecca left. She did not close the door.

  There was no music playing today. That surprised her.

  "You want me to put some music on? Maybe a little Hendrix?"

  Ira shook his head. "Not now, no."

  He closed his eyes. Lucy sat next to him and took his hands in hers.

  "I love you," she said.

  "I love you too. More than anything. Always. Forever."

  Lucy waited. He just kept his eyes closed.

  "You're thinking back to that summer," she said.

  His eyes stayed closed.

  "When Manolo Santiago came to see you-"

  He squeezed his eyes tighter.

  Ira?

  "How did you know?"

  "Know what?"

  "That he visited me."

  "It was in the logbook."

  "But'a" He finally opened his eyes. "There's more to it, isn't there?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did he visit you too?"

  No. He seemed puzzled by this. Lucy decided to try another avenue."Do you remember Paul Copeland?" she asked.

  He closed his eyes again, as though that hurt. "Of course."

  "I saw him," she said.

  The eyes popped open. "What?"

  "He visited me."

  His jaw dropped.

  "Something is happening, Ira. Something is bringing this all back after all these years. I need to find out what." "No, you don't." "I do. Help me, okay?" "Why'a?" His voice faltered. "Why did Paul Copeland visit you?" "Because he wants to know what really happened that night." She tilted her head. "What did you tell Manolo Santiago?"

  "Nothing!" he shouted. "Absolutely nothing!"

  "It's okay, Ira. But listen, I need to know-"

  "No, you don't."

  "Don't what? What did you say to him, Ira?"

  "Paul Copeland."

  "What?"

  "Paul Copeland."

  "I heard you, Ira. What about him?"

  His eyes almost looked clear. "I want to see him."

  "Okay."

  "Now. I want to see him now."

  He was growing more agitated by the second. She made her voice soft.

  "I'll call him, okay? I can bring him-"

  "No!"

  He turned and stared at his painting. Tears came to his eyes. He reached his hand toward the woods, as if he could disappear into them.

  "Ira, what's wrong?"

  "Alone," he said. "I want to see Paul Copeland alone."

  "You don't want me to come too?"

  He shook his head, still staring at the woods.

  "I cant tell you these things, Luce. I want to. But I cant. Paul Cope-land. Tell him to come here. Alone. I'll tell him what he needs to hear. And then, maybe, the ghosts will go back to sleep."

  When I got back to my office, I got yet another shock.

  "Glenda Perez is here," Jocelyn Durels said.

  "Who?"

  "She's an attorney. But she says you'll know her better as Gil Perez's sister." The name had slipped my mind. I beelined into my waiting area and spotted her right away. Glenda Perez looked the same as she had in those pictures on the fireplace mantel.

  "Ms. Perez?"

  She rose and gave me a perfunctory handshake. "I assume you have time to see me." I do.

  Glenda Perez did not wait for me to lead the way. She walked head high into my office. I followed her and closed the door. I would have hit my intercom and said, "No interruptions," but I got the feeling Jocelyn understood from our body language.

  I waved for her to take a seat. She didn't. I moved around my desk and sat down. Glenda Perez put her hands on her hips and glared down at me.

  "Tell me, Mr. Copeland, do you enjoy threatening old people?"

  "Not at first, no. But then, once you get the hang of it, okay, yeah, it's kinda fun."

  The hands dropped from her hips.

  "You think this is funny?"

  "Why don't you sit down, Ms. Perez?"

  "Did you threaten my parents?"

  "No. Wait, yes. Your father. I did say that if he didn't tell me the truth I would rip his world apart and go after him and his children. If you call that a threat, then yes, I made it."

  I smiled at her. She had expected denials and apologies and explanations. I hadn't given her any, hadn't fueled her fire. She opened her mouth, closed it, sat.

  "So," I said, "let's skip the posturing. Your brother walked out of those woods twenty years ago. I need to know what happened."

  Glenda Perez wore a gray business suit. Her stockings were that sheer white. She crossed her legs and tried to look relaxed. She wasn't pulling it off. I waited.

  "That's not true. My brother was murdered with your sister."

  "I thought we were going to skip the posturing."

  She sat and tapped her lip.

  "Are you really going to go after my family?"

  "This is my sister's murder we're talking about. You, Ms. Perez, should understand that."

  "I will take that as a yes."

  "A very big, very nasty yes."

  She tapped her lip some more. I waited some more.

  "How about if I lay a hypothetical on you?"

  I spread my hands. "I'm all for hypotheticals."

  "Suppose," Glenda Perez began, "this dead man, this Manolo Santiago, was indeed my brother. Again just in terms of this hypothetical."

  "Okay, I'm supposing. Now what?"

  "What do you think it would mean to my family?"

  "That you lied to me."

  "Not just to you, though."

  I sat back. "Who else?"

  "Everyone."

  She started with the lip tap.

  "As you know, all four families engaged in a lawsuit. We won millions. That would now be a case of fraud, wouldn't it? Hypothetically speaking."

  I said nothing.

  "We used that money to buy businesses, to invest, for my education, for my brothers health. Tomas would be dead or in a home if we hadn't won that money. Do you understand?"

  "I do."

  "And, hypothetically speaking, if Gil was alive and we knew it, then the entire case was based on a lie. We would be open to fines and per haps prosecution. More to the point, law enforcement investigated a quadruple homicide. They based their case on the belief that all four teenagers died. But if Gil survived, we could also be accused of obstructing an ongoing investigation. Do you see?"

  We looked at each other. Now she was doing the waiting.

  "There is another problem with your hypothetical," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "Four people go into the woods. One comes out alive. He keeps the fact that he's alive a secret. One would have to conclude, based on your hypothetical, that he killed the other three." Tapping the lip. "I can see where your mind might go in that direction."

  "But?"

  "He didn't."

  "I just take your word for that?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Of course it does."

  "If my brother killed them, then this is over, isn't it? He's dead. You can't bring him back and try him."

  "You have a point."

  "Thank you."

  "Did your brother kill my sister?"

  "No, he didn't."

  "Who did?"

  Glenda Perez stood. "For a long time, I didn't know. In our hypothetical. I didn't know that my brother was alive."

  "Did your parents?"


  "I'm not here to talk about them."

  "I need to know-"

  "Who killed your sister. I get that."

  "So?"

  "So I'm going to tell you one more thing. And that's it. I will tell you this under one condition." "What?" "That this always stays hypothetical. That you will stop telling the authorities that Manolo Santiago is my brother. That you promise to leave my parents alone."

  "I can't promise that."

  "Then I can't tell you what I know about your sister."

  Silence. There it was. The impasse. Glenda Perez rose to leave.

  "You're a lawyer," I said. "If I go after you, you'll be disbarred-"

  "Enough threats, Mr. Copeland."

  I stopped.

  "I know something about what happened to your sister that night. If you want to know what it is, you'll make the deal."

  "You'll just accept my word?"

  "No. I drew up a legal document."

  "You're kidding."

  Glenda Perez reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the papers. She unfolded them. It was basically a nondisclosure agreement. It also made clear that I would say nothing and do nothing about Manolo Santiago's being Gil Perez and that her parents would be immune from any prosecution.

  "You know this isn't enforceable," I said.

  She shrugged. "It was the best I could come up with."

  "I won't tell," I said, "unless I absolutely have to. I have no interest in harming you or your family. I'll also stop telling York or anyone else that I think Manolo Santiago is your brother. I will promise to do my best. But we both know that's all I can do."

  Glenda Perez hesitated. Then she folded the papers, jammed them back into her pocket and headed to my door. She put her hand on the knob and turned toward me.

  "Still hypothetically speaking?" she said.

  "Yes."

  "If my brother walked out of those woods, he didn't walk out alone."

  My whole body went cold. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I tried to say something but nothing came out. I met Glenda Perez's eye. She met mine. She nodded and I could see her eyes were wet. She turned away and turned the knob.

  "Don't play games with me, Glenda."

  "I'm not, Paul. That's all I know. My brother survived that night. And so did your sister."

  Chapter 33

  Day was surrendering to the shadows when Loren Muse reached the old campsite. The sign said Lake Charmaine Condominium Center. The land-mass was huge, she knew, stretching across the Delaware River, which separates New Jersey and Pennsylvania. The lake and condos were on the Pennsylvania side. Most of the woods were in New Jersey.

  Muse hated the woods. She loved sports but hated the supposedly great outdoors. She hated bugs and fishing and wading and taking hikes and rare antique finds and dirt and general posts and lures and prize pigs and 4-H fairs and everything else she considered "rural."

  She stopped at the little building that housed the rent-a-cop, flashed her ID, expected the gate to rise. It didn't. The rent-a-cop, one of those bloated weightlifter types, brought her ID inside and got on the phone.

  "Hey, I'm in a hurry here."

  "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

  "My panties in a'a?"

  She fumed.

  There were flashing lights up ahead. Bunch of parked police cars, she figured. Probably every cop within a fifty-mile radius wanted in on this one.

  The rent-a-cop hung up the phone. He sat in his booth. He didn't come back to her car.

  "Yo," Muse called out.

  He didn't respond.

  "Yo, buddy, I'm talking to you here."

  He turned slowly toward her. Damn, she thought. The guy was young and male. That was a problem. If you have a rent-a-cop who is on the elderly side, well, it is usually some well-intentioned guy who's re tired and bored. A woman rental? Often a mother looking to pick up some extra money. But a man in his prime? Seven out often it was that most dangerous of muscle-heads, the cop wannabe. For some reason he didn't make it onto a real force. Not to knock her own profession, but if a guy sets his sights on being a cop and doesn't make it, there is often a reason, and it wasn't something you wanted to get anywhere near.

  And what better way to atone for your own worthless life than to keep a chief investigator ' a female chief investigator ' waiting?

  "Excuse me?" she tried, her voice an octave gentler.

  "You can't enter yet," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "You have to wait."

  "For?"

  "Sheriff Lowell."

  "Sheriff Lobo?"

  "Lowell. And he said no one gets in without his okay."

  The rent-a-cop actually hitched up his pants.

  "I'm the chief investigator for Essex County," Muse said.

  He sneered. "This look like Essex County to you?"

  "Those are my people in there. I need to go in."

  "Hey, don't get your panties in a bunch."

  "Good one."

  "What?"

  "The panties-in-a-bunch line. You've used it twice now. It is very, very funny. Can I use it sometime, you know, when I really want to put someone down? I'll give you credit."

  He picked up a newspaper, ignored her. She considered driving straight through and snapping the gate.

  "Do you carry a gun?" Muse asked him.

  He put down the paper. "What?"

  "A gun. Do you carry one? You know, to make up for other shortcomings." "Shut the hell up." "I carry one, you know. Tell you what. You open the gate, I'll let you touch it." He said nothing. The heck with touching it. Maybe she'd just shoot him.

  Rent-A-Cop glared at her. She scratched her cheek with her free hand, pointedly raising her pinkie in his direction. From the way he looked at her she could tell it was a gesture that hit painfully close to home.

  "You being a wiseass with me?" "Hey," Muse said, putting her hands back on the wheel, "don't get your panties in a bunch."

  This was stupid, Muse knew, but damn if it wasn't also fun. The adrenaline was kicking in now. She was anxious to know what Andrew Barrett had found. Judging by the amount of flashing lights, it had to be something big.

  Like a body.

  Two minutes passed. Muse was just about to take out her gun and force him to open the gate when a man in uniform sauntered toward her vehicle. He wore a big-brimmed hat and had a sheriffs badge. His name tag read Lowell.

  "Can I help you, miss?"

  "Miss? Did he tell you who I am?"

  "Uh, no, sorry, he just said-"

  "I'm Loren Muse, the chief investigator for Essex County." Muse pointed toward the guardhouse. "Small Balls in there has my ID." "Hey, what did you call me?" Sheriff Lowell sighed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. His nose was bulbous and rather huge. So were all his features-long and droopy, as if someone had drawn a caricature of him and then let it melt in the sun. He waved the hand holding the tissue at Rent-A-Cop.

  "Relax, Sandy." "Sandy," Muse repeated. She looked toward the guardhouse. "Isn't that a girls name?" Sheriff Lowell looked down the huge nose at her. Probably disapprovingly. She couldn't blame him.

  "Sandy, give me the lady's ID."

  Panties, then miss, now lady. Muse was trying very hard not to get angry. Here she was, less than two hours from Newark and New York City, and she might as well have been in friggin' Mayberry.

  Sandy handed Lowell the ID. Lowell wiped his nose hard-his skin was so saggy that Muse half-feared some would come off. He examined the ID, sighed and said, "You should have told me who she was, Sandy."

  "But you said no one gets in without your approval."

  "And if you told me on the phone who she was, I would have given it." "But-" "Look, fellas," Muse interrupted, "do mea favor. Discuss your back woods ways at the next lodge meeting, okay? I need to get in there."

  "Park to the right," Lowell said, unruffled. "We have to hike up to the site. I'll take you."

  Lowell nodded toward Sandy. Sandy hit a button and the g
ate rose. Muse pinkie-scratched her cheek again as she drove through. Sandy fumed impotently, which Muse found apropos.

  She parked. Lowell met her. He carried two flashlights and handed her one. Muses patience was running on the thin side. She snatched it and said, "Okay, already, which way?"

  "You got a real nice way with people," he said.

  "Thanks, Sheriff."

  "To the right. Come on."

  Muse lived in a crapola garden apartment of too-standard-to-be-standard brick so she wasn't one to talk, but to her amateur eye, this gated community looked exactly the same as every other, except that the architect had aimed for something quasi-rustic and missed entirely. The aluminum exterior was faux log cabin, a look beyond ridiculous in a sprawling, three-level condo development. Lowell veered off the pavement and onto a dirt path.

  "Sandy tell you not to get your panties in a bunch?" Lowell asked.

  "Yes."

  "Don't take offense. He says that to everyone. Even guys."

  "He must be the life of your hunting group."

  Muse counted seven cop cars and three other emergency vehicles of one kind or another. All had lights flashing. Why they needed their lights on she had no idea. The residents, a mix of old folks and young families, gathered, drawn by the unnecessary flashing lights, and watched nothing.

  "How far is the walk?" Muse asked.

  "Mile and a half maybe. You want a tour as we go along?"

  "A tour of what?"

  "The old murder site. We'll be passing where they found one of the bodies twenty years ago."

  "Were you on that case?"

  "Peripherally," he said.

  "Meaning?"

  "Peripherally. Concerned with relatively minor or irrelevant aspects. Dealing with the edges or outskirts. Peripherally."

  Muse looked at him.

  Lowell might have smiled, but it was hard to tell through the sags. "Not bad for a hunting lodge backwoods hick, eh?"

  "I'm dazzled," Muse said.

  "You might want to be a tad nicer to me."

  "Why's that?"

  "First, you sent men to search for a corpse in my county without in forming me. Second, this is my crime scene. You're here as a guest and as a courtesy."

  "You're not going to play that jurisdiction game with me, are you?"

  "Nah," he said. "But I like sounding tough. How did I do?"

  "Eh. So can we continue to the tour?"

  "Sure."

  The path grew thinner until it practically disappeared. They were climbing on rocks and around trees. Muse had always been something of a tomboy. She enjoyed the activity. And ' Flair Hickory be damned ' her shoes could handle it.