again for a while.
But it never quite left his mind. He carried the yellow slip of paper around with him everywhere, and he had sketched out a tree chart of the May 22 killings, starting with the swimming accident of 1981. He’d met four of the five survivors of that event so far. Fuck, he had slept with one of them! The only one who hadn’t lost a child to the pull of the cliff. As far as he knew.
Two weeks after sleeping with Angelica, he finally called and set up an appointment with Karen Sander. She didn’t sound happy to hear from him, but she gave him directions to her house anyway.
“I don’t know what I can do for you, Mr. Kieran,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”
Somehow he doubted that, but he climbed into his car after work and aimed it in the direction of her place anyway.
He was interested to hear if she would tell the same story as Angelica.
Somehow he doubted that she would.
And he was right.
The radio was blasting “Should I Stay or Should I Go” as Joe pulled his car into the gravel driveway at 154 Waveland Lane, Karen Sander’s house. His stomach was tight, but in a good way. Joe smiled to himself, remembering.
This was how being a reporter felt. On edge. You never knew what that next interview was going to turn up, but you barreled in anyway. Usually, it was an empty casket. Every now and then, if you didn’t slip up and rattle the source, you found not only the bones, but also the closet they were hidden in.
Joe smelled bones as he stepped out into the cool dusk of an early summer night in Terrel. And that musty smell made him smile.
“Mrs. Sander?” he said in his warmest voice when the middle-aged woman opened the front door. She nodded. The corners of her eyes crinkled up as she took him in.
“I’m Joe Kieran. We met at James Canady’s funeral. I called you the other day from the newspaper?”
“Yes Joe, I remember. Come on in.”
She ushered him into a sterile front room. The carpet was white; the walls, cream; the furniture a mix of deep woods and dull corn yellows.
“Have a seat. Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement and disappeared through an entryway into the kitchen. Joe sat, staring at the cool disassociation of the room. A picture window took up most of the east wall of the house. A large Magnavox TV, jet-black, dominated the floor space before the windows. Two earth tone couches, a couple of small end tables, and a picture on the wall. That was the one thing he realized that really didn’t go here. The rest of the room was bright, if empty of spark. But dominating the front room’s main wall was a huge painting of the ocean. In contrast to the whites and yellows of the room, the painting showed a dead gray expanse of steely sea shuddering against a rocky coastline. Far from shore, hidden in a plume of fog, he could just make out the jut of a mountain or steep hill. The whole painting seemed designed to exude frost.
“I call it The Covenant .”
Joe jumped at Karen’s voice. She was standing directly behind him; he hadn’t noticed her reenter the room.
“Here’s your tea,” she said, setting the glass on a wooden coaster on the table beside him.
Karen Sander was a woman who’d thought a lot about life, Joe decided as he took her in. Her face was broad and easy, her nose dipped up just enough to give her the appearance of blue-blood heritage, but her eyes looked worn and warm in their depths. And the lines running from their corners told him that Karen Sander had done a lot of living and dying in her forty years. He’d figured out on his murder tree that if the girls who were swimming in the bay on May 22, 1981 were all classmates, then they were all about 18 at the time of the drowning. That put them all just over forty now. Angelica looked—and felt—younger than her age, but Karen Sander was starting to suffer from its effects. Silver darted like
But it never quite left his mind. He carried the yellow slip of paper around with him everywhere, and he had sketched out a tree chart of the May 22 killings, starting with the swimming accident of 1981. He’d met four of the five survivors of that event so far. Fuck, he had slept with one of them! The only one who hadn’t lost a child to the pull of the cliff. As far as he knew.
Two weeks after sleeping with Angelica, he finally called and set up an appointment with Karen Sander. She didn’t sound happy to hear from him, but she gave him directions to her house anyway.
“I don’t know what I can do for you, Mr. Kieran,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”
Somehow he doubted that, but he climbed into his car after work and aimed it in the direction of her place anyway.
He was interested to hear if she would tell the same story as Angelica.
Somehow he doubted that she would.
And he was right.
The radio was blasting “Should I Stay or Should I Go” as Joe pulled his car into the gravel driveway at 154 Waveland Lane, Karen Sander’s house. His stomach was tight, but in a good way. Joe smiled to himself, remembering.
This was how being a reporter felt. On edge. You never knew what that next interview was going to turn up, but you barreled in anyway. Usually, it was an empty casket. Every now and then, if you didn’t slip up and rattle the source, you found not only the bones, but also the closet they were hidden in.
Joe smelled bones as he stepped out into the cool dusk of an early summer night in Terrel. And that musty smell made him smile.
“Mrs. Sander?” he said in his warmest voice when the middle-aged woman opened the front door. She nodded. The corners of her eyes crinkled up as she took him in.
“I’m Joe Kieran. We met at James Canady’s funeral. I called you the other day from the newspaper?”
“Yes Joe, I remember. Come on in.”
She ushered him into a sterile front room. The carpet was white; the walls, cream; the furniture a mix of deep woods and dull corn yellows.
“Have a seat. Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement and disappeared through an entryway into the kitchen. Joe sat, staring at the cool disassociation of the room. A picture window took up most of the east wall of the house. A large Magnavox TV, jet-black, dominated the floor space before the windows. Two earth tone couches, a couple of small end tables, and a picture on the wall. That was the one thing he realized that really didn’t go here. The rest of the room was bright, if empty of spark. But dominating the front room’s main wall was a huge painting of the ocean. In contrast to the whites and yellows of the room, the painting showed a dead gray expanse of steely sea shuddering against a rocky coastline. Far from shore, hidden in a plume of fog, he could just make out the jut of a mountain or steep hill. The whole painting seemed designed to exude frost.
“I call it The Covenant .”
Joe jumped at Karen’s voice. She was standing directly behind him; he hadn’t noticed her reenter the room.
“Here’s your tea,” she said, setting the glass on a wooden coaster on the table beside him.
Karen Sander was a woman who’d thought a lot about life, Joe decided as he took her in. Her face was broad and easy, her nose dipped up just enough to give her the appearance of blue-blood heritage, but her eyes looked worn and warm in their depths. And the lines running from their corners told him that Karen Sander had done a lot of living and dying in her forty years. He’d figured out on his murder tree that if the girls who were swimming in the bay on May 22, 1981 were all classmates, then they were all about 18 at the time of the drowning. That put them all just over forty now. Angelica looked—and felt—younger than her age, but Karen Sander was starting to suffer from its effects. Silver darted like
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