All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 229

229

Himes spoke with a mouth full of something. “We brought in the construction worker who cut the power, but got nowhere. Guy’s a veteran and tells it like it’s a genuine mistake, easily made.”

“Name?”

“Owen Williams.”

Saint pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me guess, daughter named Lucy?”

She heard the rustle of paper but did not need wait for the reply.

Saint fielded another call, this time from the James Connor Correctional Facility, and she thanked Warden Thompson for getting back to her.

They made a little small talk, with Thompson unable to hide the cheer from his voice when he asked after Warden Riley.

“I just wanted to know if Joseph Macauley was close with anyone during his time incarcerated with you. I know it was a long time back but —”

Thompson’s voice was rich and smooth. “Just a guard. Looked out for the boy. Other than that I don’t recall. You think he made a connection that led to this?”

“No. I’m checking the detail, is all. This guard, what was his name?”

“Darnell Richardson.”

Saint searched her memory, came up blank, so she thanked him and filed it, then climbed into the attic, the space so hot sweat gathered, her forearms slick as she found the box. She blew dust from it, dragged it down the steep ladder on her shoulder, and for the first time in a dozen years, opened the Macauley abduction file.

She thought something might reach out and let her know where he was headed, where he had been. She played the tape over the big speaker, almost smiling when she heard his voice.

Backdropped by Grace and everything he remembered, she turned the pages of her first case, stuck notes to the board in her office, and recounted each photograph and interview transcript. Soil reports from the Tooms farm.

Fingerprints and material analysis. She worked long into the afternoon, Charlotte with her grandmother, Saint breaking only to sit on the porch when her mind clogged. She found her old map: locations where he’d hit banks, met with families, painted scenes Grace had once painted for him.

It was early evening when she came to Tooms. She sat back in the old leather chair, breathed the smell of cigar smoke, and for a stunning moment could not believe she would never get to speak with her grandmother again.

“We’ve been through this. I was looking for the dog,” Marty Tooms’s voice filled the room. Saint closed her eyes and saw him clear. Right up until they arrested him he hadn’t wavered, hadn’t drifted from his version of the truth.

“I don’t know the breed, maybe a cross because his legs were too long, and his ears hung almost to his eyes. I bought him a collar in case…I know they sometimes pick them up. Called him Scout. Bought him a medal, too. I used to worry he’d end up in some pound. The way they put them to death like that…no rights at all.”

“So you believe in the right to life?” Nix said.

Saint frowned at the question.

Tooms paused for a long time.

“You don’t believe in playing God?” Nix said, calm in his voice.

“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to play God. I spend my waking hours trying

to get better at it.”

“To save lives but not take them.”

“They say it’s humane, but I can’t help thinking it’s murder under any other guise.”

His story had seemed tall, his reason for being in those woods that morning.

Nix again, his tone unforgiving, like listening to a ghost. “So it just showed up now and then. And you fed it? And then it stopped showing, so you searched for the thing, even though it wasn’t yours to search for. A stray

mongrel.”

“You’re not a dog person.”

“I was. Once.”

A cough. “I don’t know what to say. It just appeared on my land, sometimes coming from the woodland behind. It was too skinny. I wanted…I guess helping is in my blood.”

She played it so loud the silence crackled. And then she wound it back, played it again, and reached for the map of Monta Clare. She noted the land boundaries as he told that the dog appeared from the woodland.

She traced the line and came to her grandmother’s land, the shrubs

knotted too tight to pass.

Too tight for a human to pass.

Saint stood and fished out the gold tag from the trash. She ran the faucet hot and washed the dirt, then set at it with a wire brush, gently bringing it back.

She stared at the faint letters as they stood proud, then traced a finger

over the indented curves.

SCOUT

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