challenge in her eyes. “But, shit, what do I know, right? I’m just the witness.”
“I’m not a cop,” Fiona stated. “I’m an artist, same as you.”
Lucy shrugged and loaded a spool of white onto the machine. She dampened the end of the thread with her tongue and carefully maneuvered it through the eye of the needle. Lucy’s hands were sure and steady, which was uncommon for this sort of interview. The sewing machine whined into action as her foot pressed the pedal.
“Jack really wants to get this guy,” Lucy said, not looking up from her work.
“What about you?”
The machine stopped. Lucy’s eyes lifted, and Fiona recognized the look in them, something almost feral.
“Sadistic fuck tortured me for two straight days. I want him to burn in hell.”
Fiona nodded. Selected a pencil. “Do you remember him well enough to describe him?”
Lucy pressed her lips together, gazed down at her work. The needle became a blur as she fed the white fabric beneath it. “Yeah.”
“Because it’s okay if you don’t. If you can’t remember something, just say so. We’ll do the best we can.”
“I remember.” She shook her head. “Little details, too. Like it just happened.”
The mind was strange. It stored away some things from long, long ago, and jettisoned others from as recently as yesterday. Fiona could recall the exact outfit she’d been wearing when she watched the World Trade Center collapse. She remembered the precise color of the sky that morning, the coffee mug she’d held in her hand as she stood before the television. Yet if someone asked her what she’d worn to the movies two weeks ago, she’d have no idea.
Emotional trauma, especially fear, cemented memories. It was one of the body’s survival mechanisms, she’d learned.
“Tell me about his face,” Fiona said. “Whatever you can remember.”
The machine stopped. Lucy’s hands stilled on the fabric, and she stared off, past the windowpane to the wintry day outside.
“I remember all of it,” she said quietly. “It’s tattooed on my brain.”
“So? What’d you get?”
Jack’s deputy sighed on the other end of the line. “This isn’t as easy as you think, J.B. Some of this shit, you need to have a warrant.”
Jack propped a hip on the wooden railing surrounding the Arrellando porch. He glanced at his watch. An hour and forty minutes, and they were still back there drawing.
“So problem-solve,” Jack insisted. “Come on, Carlos. That’s the beauty of small-town policing. We can cut through some of the red tape.”
Carlos muttered a curse in Spanish. “Why don’t you gotalk to her? You’re the pretty face around here. I’m the guy with the beer gut and six kids.”
Jack smiled. “Don’t forget the wife.”
Another curse.
“Okay, so Norma won’t cooperate,” Jack said. “She’s not the only one over at Parks and Wildlife. What about Melvin?”
Carlos didn’t say anything, and Jack realized his mistake. Melvin was something of a racist. He didn’t talk about it openly, but it became apparent whenever the old man dealt with the two Hispanic officers in Jack’s department.
“Forget it, I’ll talk to him,” Jack amended, glancing at his watch again. He had so much to do today, and he hadn’t made a dent. Now he’d probably spend an hour shooting the shit with Melvin in the Texas Parks and Wildlife Bureau’s local office, trying to talk him out of a list of every bubba in the tricounty area who’d applied for a deer license eleven years ago. Maybe he’d delegate this job to Lowell.
As leads went, this was pretty thin. But Jack had reviewed Lucy’s original police report a dozen times in the last few days, along with the statements provided by the hunters who found her after the abduction. She’d been picked up in a remote area northwest of here accessed by a few ranch roads and surrounded by thousands of acres of flat brushland. Deer country. And no one working the case at the time had
“I’m not a cop,” Fiona stated. “I’m an artist, same as you.”
Lucy shrugged and loaded a spool of white onto the machine. She dampened the end of the thread with her tongue and carefully maneuvered it through the eye of the needle. Lucy’s hands were sure and steady, which was uncommon for this sort of interview. The sewing machine whined into action as her foot pressed the pedal.
“Jack really wants to get this guy,” Lucy said, not looking up from her work.
“What about you?”
The machine stopped. Lucy’s eyes lifted, and Fiona recognized the look in them, something almost feral.
“Sadistic fuck tortured me for two straight days. I want him to burn in hell.”
Fiona nodded. Selected a pencil. “Do you remember him well enough to describe him?”
Lucy pressed her lips together, gazed down at her work. The needle became a blur as she fed the white fabric beneath it. “Yeah.”
“Because it’s okay if you don’t. If you can’t remember something, just say so. We’ll do the best we can.”
“I remember.” She shook her head. “Little details, too. Like it just happened.”
The mind was strange. It stored away some things from long, long ago, and jettisoned others from as recently as yesterday. Fiona could recall the exact outfit she’d been wearing when she watched the World Trade Center collapse. She remembered the precise color of the sky that morning, the coffee mug she’d held in her hand as she stood before the television. Yet if someone asked her what she’d worn to the movies two weeks ago, she’d have no idea.
Emotional trauma, especially fear, cemented memories. It was one of the body’s survival mechanisms, she’d learned.
“Tell me about his face,” Fiona said. “Whatever you can remember.”
The machine stopped. Lucy’s hands stilled on the fabric, and she stared off, past the windowpane to the wintry day outside.
“I remember all of it,” she said quietly. “It’s tattooed on my brain.”
“So? What’d you get?”
Jack’s deputy sighed on the other end of the line. “This isn’t as easy as you think, J.B. Some of this shit, you need to have a warrant.”
Jack propped a hip on the wooden railing surrounding the Arrellando porch. He glanced at his watch. An hour and forty minutes, and they were still back there drawing.
“So problem-solve,” Jack insisted. “Come on, Carlos. That’s the beauty of small-town policing. We can cut through some of the red tape.”
Carlos muttered a curse in Spanish. “Why don’t you gotalk to her? You’re the pretty face around here. I’m the guy with the beer gut and six kids.”
Jack smiled. “Don’t forget the wife.”
Another curse.
“Okay, so Norma won’t cooperate,” Jack said. “She’s not the only one over at Parks and Wildlife. What about Melvin?”
Carlos didn’t say anything, and Jack realized his mistake. Melvin was something of a racist. He didn’t talk about it openly, but it became apparent whenever the old man dealt with the two Hispanic officers in Jack’s department.
“Forget it, I’ll talk to him,” Jack amended, glancing at his watch again. He had so much to do today, and he hadn’t made a dent. Now he’d probably spend an hour shooting the shit with Melvin in the Texas Parks and Wildlife Bureau’s local office, trying to talk him out of a list of every bubba in the tricounty area who’d applied for a deer license eleven years ago. Maybe he’d delegate this job to Lowell.
As leads went, this was pretty thin. But Jack had reviewed Lucy’s original police report a dozen times in the last few days, along with the statements provided by the hunters who found her after the abduction. She’d been picked up in a remote area northwest of here accessed by a few ranch roads and surrounded by thousands of acres of flat brushland. Deer country. And no one working the case at the time had
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