Say Goodbye

“Michele Wallace?” Kimberly repeated, doing a quick mental search but coming up empty. “Sorry, don’t know the case.”

“That’s because you’re too young. 1974. Wallace was twenty-five years old, living in Gu

“According to one of the men, Chuck Matthews, Wallace dropped him off in town, then continued on with his friend, Roy Melanson. Not long after that, Roy Melanson was arrested on an outstanding warrant. In his possessions, the police recovered Wallace’s license, camping equipment, even the pack for her dog. The more they dug into Melanson’s background, the more worried the police became. Melanson was wanted for questioning in three separate rape cases, plus a murder in Texas.

“The police began applying pressure, while launching a massive search for Wallace’s body in Schofield Park. And you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Police couldn’t find any evidence of foul play, so they couldn’t put together a case. Melanson claimed Wallace gave him everything as a gift. Who could contradict? Melanson was eventually found guilty on fraud charges for cashing stolen checks, served thirteen years, then walked. Michele Wallace’s mother, on the other hand, committed suicide, leaving behind a note that if her daughter’s remains were ever found, to please bury them next to her.”

“Oh God.”

“In 1979, another hiker in Schofield Park came across a pile of hair in the middle of the hiking trail, still attached to a scalp and fashioned into two perfect braids-just like Michele Wallace wore. The police put the hair in storage and that was that. Until 1990.

“A new detective, Kathy Young, contacted NecroSearch International about the case. NecroSearch brought in a botanist, a forensic anthropologist, an archaeologist, as well as other experts. The botanist studied the plant matter found in the braids and, based on the ratio of the various types of needles and tree bark, determined there were only a few places in the entire park where that same ratio of tree species could be found. The scientists homed in on those areas and after a few days of grueling, methodical sweeps, they found Wallace’s skull. In September 1993, Roy Melanson was finally found guilty of Wallace’s death. And April ’94, Michele Wallace’s remains were finally laid to rest next to her mother’s.”

“Oh jeez,” Kimberly murmured, momentarily looking away. The story had choked her up. She hated that.

“Point is,” her father continued, “bodies matter. If your theory is right, there are at least half a dozen remains hidden somewhere. If traditional policing can’t get the job done, maybe the right expert can.”

She thought about it. “We do have a new lead. A special agent recovered a muddy hiking boot from the UNSUB’s vehicle. I was thinking of contacting one of my buddies from the USGS. See about getting some soil samples analyzed, that sort of thing.”

“Test it for lime!” Quincy stated immediately.

“I know.”

“And get a botanist. Ravines have a tendency to be dense with ferns…Perhaps an entomologist or arachnologist, as well. You mentioned spiders…”

“I know, Dad.” She sounded impatient.

Quincy smiled. “Am I lecturing again?”

She caught herself. “No. You’re offering help, and God knows, with this case, we could use help. It’s just…late.”

“Of course. The baby. You should sleep.”

“Yeah, I should.” But no one was moving from the table. Kimberly sipped more water. Wondered about spiders and soil and where the twists and turns of a case could lead a person. Like the last time she worked with the U.S. Geological Survey team, leaping across rattlesnake-infested rock piles, spelunking into a polluted cave, dashing through a burning swamp. Life when she had been younger, quicker, and responsible for only her own welfare.

“How long are you staying?” she finally thought to ask.

Her father and Rainie exchanged a glance. “We left it open-ended,” Rainie replied lightly. “We’ve never spent much time in Georgia. We thought it might be fun to see the sights.”

Kimberly eyed them skeptically. “And your own cases?”

“The joys of being a self-employed consultant,” her father assured her. “You can always bring the work with you.”

“Because he still can’t leave it at home!” Rainie quipped.

Kimberly nodded. She finished her water. So had Rainie.

“I’ll take you to your room,” she said, picking up everyone’s glasses, herding them down the hall.

Rainie went into the guest room first, in her own discreet way giving Kimberly and her father a moment alone.

Kimberly never knew what to say. Her father excelled at silence, but too often, she merely felt choked by all the words wanting to burst out of her throat. She wanted to ask him if he was happy. She wanted to ask him if a lifetime of dedication to his craft had been worth all that he’d lost along the way.

She wanted to ask him about her mother, and what it had been like when they had been a young couple expecting their first child. She wanted to ask him everything, so she asked him nothing at all.

Her father leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

For a moment, they both stood like that, eyes closed, foreheads touching.

“Thank you for coming,” Kimberly whispered.

And her father said, “Anytime.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“When food is short and spiderlings are hungry, they may even eat each other.”

FROM Spiders and Their Kin,

BY HERBERT W. AND LORNA R. LEVI, A GOLDEN GUIDE FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, 2002

THE BOY WAS BACK. HE RETURNED ONE BRIGHT AFTERNOON, obediently knocking on her back door, so she put him to work splitting firewood. He labored for over an hour, long enough to shed his shirt, revealing his scrawny chest, painfully bony ribs. Afterward, she made him a cheese omelet, with four thick pieces of toast and two glasses of milk. He ate it all, sopping his toast along the plate to get the last of the omelet grease, then licking each finger.

They moved on to inside chores. She showed him how to jam kindling into the window frames as extra security. Then sent him to the basement for her box of Christmas ornaments. He returned with the box in both arms and a fat brown house spider on his shoulder. When she tried to swish the spider off him, he got offended and insisted on sitting in her kitchen, playing with the thing as if it were a pet.

“Spiders won’t hurt you,” he told her. “Spiders kill insects, not people. ’Sides, spiders are really cool. Have you ever tasted a spiderweb?”

She left him with his pet and tied Christmas bells around the handles of her front and back doors, the poor woman’s home security system. She had a few final chores to do, but first, she needed to run two errands.

“Well, child, are you coming or not?”

He scrambled to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Hardware store.”

She struggled into her coat, her hat, her gloves. The boy only had on a thin shirt, so she sent him upstairs to Joseph’s room. He returned with a fla

They hit the driveway, the boy stopping expectantly next to the garage.

“Don’t be foolish, child. God gave us legs for a reason.”

“God gave us cars for a reason, too,” the boy retorted, which made her cackle in surprise.

“Sold the car nearly ten years ago,” she informed him. “At my age, I have a hard enough time walkin’ a straight line, let alone drivin’ one.”