State of Grace (8 page)

My heart pounded. My hands tingled and grew numb. My
heartbeat thundered in my ears. I felt sick. I felt weak, as if my legs were going to give out. And then I realized it wasn't just a body. It was a person—a person who was young and slight and . . . and familiar. The hair. That's what I noticed first—her hair. It was long and blond. I let my bike fall to the ground and stepped closer. The stillness of the woods rang in my ears.

She had died on her side with one leg pulled up under her—as if she had, in her last few moments, tried to curl into the fetal position, but lacked the energy to complete the move. Her thin arms were hugged to her chest. Smears of blood were visible on her upper arms and her hip. On the foot of the leg that was extended was a white, lacy sock. It was the only piece of clothing on her body. The rest of her clothes, her shoes—everything was strewn around the clearing.

I circled the body and realized there was blood everywhere. I looked at her face, most of which was covered by her hair. One eye, however, was visible and it stared glassily at nothing. It was deep green with thick lashes. Its gaze was unwavering.

It was Grace.

I stared back at her, too shocked to move. It was only when an ant crawled across her eyeball that I jumped back, disgusted, and threw up. My body shook uncontrollably and I sank to the ground. I wrapped my arms around my knees and stared at the scene. I knew I needed to go for help, but for some reason couldn't make myself move. I was paralyzed.

I'm not sure how long I sat there. I'm not sure how I made it from the clearing back to Edenbridge. All I remember is a blur of green on either side as I ran—and then pushing open the heavy wooden front door of the Mercantile—and then Mr. Gray trying to make sense of the sweaty, crying girl that stood in front of him trying desperately to speak.

“Grace's dead.” The words came in a hysterical rush. “She's dead. She's in the woods. She's dead. There are ants on her eyes. Someone needs to get help. Grace's dead.”

I remember he looked at me with a confused expression.

“Slow down, Birdie,” he said and put a gnarled hand on my
shoulder. “Slow down. Now, say it again slowly.”

A handful of farmers and housewives who were in the store to pick up forgotten odds and ends came over to listen.

“Grace is dead,” I said in a frantic voice. “In the woods. Someone killed her. There's blood all over the place.”

I began to sob and Mrs. Lempkin, who stood off to the side listening, came over and put her arms around me, holding me tightly to her slender body.

“Call Nate,” I heard her tell Mr. Gray. “And Nancy. She needs to be here.”

My mother arrived first. I rushed, sobbing, into her arms.

“Oh my god, Birdie,” she said. “What were you doing out there? I thought you were going over to Natalie's. Oh, sweetie, what were you doing out there? Are you okay?”

I nodded as I continued to cry and tried to speak, my words coming between hiccups. “I—I lied,” I said. “I wanted to—to go to the tree house. I just—we were going to go swimming. Oh—she's dead. Mom, she's dead. There was so much blood. I saw her eyes . . .”

My mother began to sob even as she rocked me back and forth in her arms.

“Shhhh,” she said soothingly. “Shhhhh . . . It's okay, baby. It's okay.”

“I'm so sorry—I lied,” I cried. “I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again. I'll never go off by myself. I—”

My words were interrupted by the sound of a car screeching to a halt in front of the Mercantile followed by the slamming of a car door and heavy footsteps on the wooden porch of the building. The doors swung inward and Natalie's father stepped inside. He scanned the room before walking directly over to me, the sounds of his cowboy boots on the old wooden floorboards loud and hollow.

“Hey, Bird,” he said softly as he knelt down on one knee. “You okay?”

I pulled my head away from my mother and looked at him through teary eyes. I wiped my runny nose on the back of my hand and nodded.

“Sweetheart,” he began, “You need to take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

Mrs. Gray, who had come out from the back of the store when she heard the commotion, handed my mother a box of tissues and a Dixie cup of water. My mother held out the box, from which I took a tissue and blew my nose. Natalie's dad watched patiently.

“Why don't you take a sip of water and then tell me what happened,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

“We were going to sneak off and go swimming today,” I said.

He nodded.

“You and Grace?” he asked.

“Me and Grace and Natalie,” I said. He looked surprised, but said nothing. “We were going to all say we were at each other's houses and then meet up at the Nest at one o'clock to go swimming. But I wanted to go early and sit and draw. So, I told Mom I was going to Nat's house.” I began to cry again.

“Birdie, listen to me.” Natalie's father cleared his throat. “I know you're scared and you've seen something horrible, but you need to stop crying so you can tell me what happened.”

“I—I know.” I took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I went to the Nest and when I got to the clearing, I—I saw her.” I tried to force down the tears that were again threatening to come. “It was Grace. She was naked. And there was . . . blood. Lots of blood and her eyes were open.”

My mother gasped and Natalie's father closed his eyes and sighed. “Goddammit,” he said softly. When he looked back up, his eyes were hard. “It's okay, Birdie. But I need you to listen to me for a second and I need you to tell me the truth. Okay? Did you touch anything? Anything at all?”

I shook my head.

“Is that a ‘no?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I didn't touch anything. I just looked at her and then . . .” I hesitated and then added miserably, “I threw up.”

He smiled sadly and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “That's okay,” he said. “I throw up sometimes, too.” He got to his feet and looked around the room at the curious faces. Word of the drama must have spread because there were now almost twenty-five
people crowded into the store. Natalie's father smiled ruefully, held up his hands, palms facing outward, silencing the whispered conversations. “Folks, I need everyone here to help me out and just hang back for a while until we can get this sorted out. Please, don't go anywhere near the woods for the time being.”

He looked slowly around the room, his eyebrows raised as if to elicit confirmation from everyone there. The room remained silent as he turned and walked out to the patrol car. Through the windshield, we could see him talking on his radio. A couple of minutes later, he came back into the Mercantile.

“Birdie,” he said. “I know this is the last thing you want to do, but I need you to take me to where you found Grace. Can you do that, Sweetheart?”

I buried my face in my mother's shoulder and began to cry again.

“Birdie,” he said gently. “I know this is scary, but I need you to show me where she is. And then you can go home. Okay?”

Still crying, I nodded.

“Nancy, why don't you two ride with me,” Nate said as he gestured toward the patrol car. My mother wiped at her eyes, nodded, and kissed me on the head. Gently, she guided me toward the door.

We drove in silence the short distance to the path that ran alongside the field and disappeared into the woods. Nate put the car in park and turned off the engine. Before walking toward the path, he went to the back of the patrol car and opened the trunk. From inside, he pulled out a roll of bright yellow police tape, and a large, black duffle bag which he hooked over his shoulder. He closed the trunk and turned to me.

“Birdie,” he said. “You're a brave girl and I won't make you look at her again. I just need you to show me where you found her, okay?”

We walked along the edge of the field and down the path. The woods were no longer quiet. Birds twittered and the insects had resumed their eternal hum. As we neared the incline that led to the clearing, Nate tipped his head forward and asked, “There?”

I nodded and without a word, he walked around me and my
mother, up the small hill and into the clearing. He was gone for several minutes before coming back to where we stood. He looked at my mother and nodded.

“There should be a couple of other officers here any minute,” he said to her. “I think it would be best if you two went back to the patrol car and waited there. I'll have one of the officers take you home, but I need to stay here and secure the crime scene.”

“Is it—” my mother began.

“Yeah,” Nate said shortly as he took off his hat, rubbed his forehead furiously, and then ran a hand through his sweaty hair. His face was flushed.

My mother's eyes filled again with tears.

“Could you do me a favor and call Mary Jane?” He raised his wrist and looked at his watch. The sun caught in the face and flashed. “Christ. It's not even noon.” He sighed, turned to head back down the path into the clearing, but then stopped.

“Nancy, I'm going to have to get a formal statement from Birdie,” he said. “Not right now, but later. Maybe this afternoon or evening? Would it be all right if I stopped by the house?”

“Come by whenever you need to. We're not going anywhere.”

Nate nodded and then looked down at me. “I'm sorry you found her, Birdie,” he said. “I know she was a good friend of yours. And Natalie's. I'm sorry. This isn't something anyone should have to go through—especially a kid.”

My mother and I were silent as we walked back to the car and during the short ride back to our house. Seeming to sense our mood, the lanky, young deputy spoke only to get the address and to ask if the air conditioning was cool enough. Both times, my mother's answers were brief, yet polite. As we rolled to a stop in front of our house, my mother reached out for the door handle and then pulled back in puzzlement. The handle had been removed. Having never been inside a patrol car, especially the back seat, we had no idea that the handles were removed to prevent prisoners from escaping.
Oblivious to our situation, the deputy sat in the front seat and waited. Then, realizing that we were unable to get out, he apologized, jumped out of the car, and hurried to open the rear door.

“Sorry,” he said as he stood like a chauffeur escorting us from a limousine. “I don't usually transport non-criminals.”

My mother smiled politely. “It's okay. We appreciate the ride.”

Together, we walked silently up the front walk. My mother turned to offer a halfhearted wave as the young deputy drove away. She opened the front door and we went inside. The house was quiet and still.

“Where's Tara?”

“She's next door with your grandma.”

We walked into the kitchen and my mother went directly to the kitchen phone, dialed a number, and then walked with the receiver down the hall to the bathroom so she could close the door and talk in private. The extra-long cord was stretched to its full length. After a couple of minutes, she came back into the kitchen, dialed a second number, and returned to the privacy of the bathroom.

Unsure as to what to do, I sat in one of the vinyl-covered bucket bar stools that ringed the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. I stared blankly at the counter, looking up only when my mother came back into the kitchen, hung up the phone, and looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and worried. She stood with her hand on the receiver for a moment or two before going to the refrigerator and pulling out a can of Coke. I watched as she filled two glasses with ice and handed one to me. Deftly, she pulled off the ring tab and dropped it onto the counter. She poured most of the soda into my glass. I took a sip as she stretched to reach into the cabinet above the refrigerator for the dusty bottle of Jack Daniels. She poured some into her glass, topped it off with the rest of the Coke, stirred it with her finger, and then took a large swallow.

“Want some?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows to test her seriousness. She shrugged, picked up the bottle and poured a tiny bit into my glass. She again used her finger to stir it. When she had finished, I took a sip. It tasted like Coke. We sat and drank in silence.

“You okay?” she asked finally. “What you saw today was . . . I can't even imagine. Are you okay? Do you want to talk? Or cry?”

I felt my eyes prickle with tears.

“I—I'm sorry I lied,” I said. “I just—wanted to be alone—and then I found her and—I can't believe she's dead.”

I began to cry as the shock, fear and sadness overwhelmed me—big, gulping sobs that caused my ribs to ache. My mother came around the counter, wrapped me in her arms, and rocked me until I had no tears left to cry. When I was done, we sat in silence, waiting for the next round of tears.

What I didn't realize at the time was that they wouldn't come for another twenty-plus years.

Chapter 9

I remember very little about the weeks following Grace's murder. What I recall are just bits and pieces. Sometimes at night, I have dreams where I think I remember certain things, but when I wake, I'm still unsure if they were real events or just fabrications.

I remember that Natalie's father came to talk to me. We sat in the living room and I stared numbly at the orange globe light that hung in the corner from a decorative bronze chain designed to mask the cord. I sat on the couch between my parents. Natalie's father sat in my father's recliner. He looked tired and he smelled like sweat. He asked me to repeat my story from earlier that morning. At first, he did nothing but listen, taking notes in a battered spiral notebook. His handwriting was tight and efficient. The blue ink stood out boldly against the white, lined paper. He listened and then he began to ask questions—specific questions such as: when did I first notice the blood? Did I see any kind of weapon? Did I touch anything? How long did I stand there before I ran for help?

Although I answered as best I could, toward the end of the conversation, I couldn't think. My answers were cotton balls in my mouth. Finally, Nate closed his notebook.

“You did a real good job answering my questions, Birdie,” he said. “I know you're upset, but you did a really good job. Do you have any questions you want to ask me?”

“How's Natalie?” I asked. “Does she know?”

It must not have been the question he expected because he blinked a couple of times before answering. “She knows. And she's upset and very, very sad.” He looked down at his hands which still held his notebook and pen. The muscles in his jaw twitched
beneath his stubbled skin. He swallowed and I could see his Adam's apple bob.

My father cleared his throat. “Nate, I know you can't talk about the investigation, but can you tell us
anything?
Do we need to be worried? What should we do?”

Natalie's father shook his still-bowed head and breathed in deeply. He exhaled and looked up. “I can't talk about the investigation as it stands right now. To be honest, this early into the investigation, there's not much to tell. We're analyzing the crime scene and everything we found there. It looks like the cause of death was blood loss due to stabbing. We found a hunting knife in the woods nearby. We're pretty sure that was the murder weapon.”

My father shifted slightly in his seat. “Was she . . .?” He glanced down at me. “Was there evidence of—”

Nate nodded.

“Yes.”

“Oh no.” My mother spoke the words softly. She sniffed and then asked in a louder voice, “How is Brenda?”

Natalie's father sighed. “She doesn't know, yet. She wasn't at the house. Neighbors said she and her boyfriend went into Winston. I've got a deputy at the house to alert her when they return, but as it stands now, we haven't been able to track her down. We were able to contact Stephen, though. He identified—” He glanced at me and then said, “her.”

I learned later that it wasn't until almost twenty-four hours after Grace's body had been found that Brenda and Reggie returned to the house. They had “spent the night with friends in Winston.” According to Natalie, when her father told Mrs. Bellamy what had happened to Grace, she became hysterical and tried to tear out her own hair. For once, I didn't think my friend was exaggerating.

It was a couple of days after Grace's murder that Natalie's father brought my bike to me. They had needed to keep it until they finished processing the crime scene, he explained, but now I could have it back. He talked to my mother and father for several minutes before opening the trunk and lifting it out. The tassels on the handlebars fluttered in the breeze and we all stood looking at
it, saying nothing. Finally, my father cleared his throat and because I had made no move to touch it, my mother stepped forward and pushed it silently into the garage.

The three of us watched her without speaking until Natalie's father made a noise that sounded like “Oh.” He stepped back to the trunk, reached inside, and pulled out a heavy paper grocery bag that was folded over at the top. He closed the trunk and then stepped toward me, the bag extended. I stood next to my father, but didn't reach out. I didn't want to take it. My heart pounded in fear, and I shook my head.

“It's your sketch pad and pencils,” Nate said gently. “They were in the basket on your bike. I put them in the bag as soon as I could so they wouldn't get damaged. We wouldn't want your pretty pictures to get ruined.” He smiled down at me and again held out the bag.

I glanced up to see my father looking down at me, a strange expression on his face. I swallowed and reached out my hand. The thick brown paper was smooth and dry to my sweaty fingers. I stared at the bag.

“What do you say, Birdie?” my mother asked as she walked back from the garage and saw the exchange.

“Thank you,” I whispered. My hands trembled and I looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said again, louder this time.

“Sure, sweetie,” he said kindly and then stretched his arms above his head. “Well, I best be gettin'. I need to get some paperwork done and Mary Jane will have my hide if I miss dinner again.”

He shook hands with my father and then climbed into the car. I watched as he drove away. There was a part of me that wanted to follow him, though I wasn't sure why. When he was out of sight, I looked down at the grocery sack. It felt heavy—too heavy to be just a sketch pad and pencils. I thought about Grace's heart inside the bag. I imagined it a purple, red mass that throbbed gently within the confines of the sack.

“Birdie,” my mother called from the screen door. “Come inside.”

“Okay,” I said and walked slowly to the corner of the house where we kept the garbage cans for the household trash. I glanced
surreptitiously around the corner of the house to make sure my mother couldn't see and then at the fence between our house and the Spencers'. When I was sure I wasn't being observed, I grabbed the silver handle and removed the lid as quietly as possible, set the bag inside, and then carefully replaced the lid. From the kitchen window, I could smell taco meat. Silently, I went inside.

I also remember the funeral. There were too many people to hold it at the church, so the decision was made to conduct the service in the junior high school gymnasium. My father had taken the day off from work, and I walked between him and my mother up the aisle between the neat rows of tan folding chairs and approached the casket. On either side, people stopped talking as we passed, watching silently to see how I would react to seeing Grace after finding her body only days before. I felt my face flush under their scrutiny and I hunched my upper body forward.

“Mom, they're staring,” I whispered as we neared the casket. In front of us, several people were clustered together, staring down at Grace.

“Just ignore them,” my mother said and squeezed my hand reassuringly.

I drew in a deep breath and looked straight ahead. As we approached, the people standing in front of Grace moved quickly to the side. I could feel everyone's eyes on my back as I stepped toward the coffin and looked inside. At first, I didn't recognize Grace. She looked plastic, fake. I glanced up at my mother to see if there had been some mistake—that they'd used a mannequin instead of a real body. She was staring intently down at Grace's face, but squeezed my hand again.

“She doesn't look real,” I whispered.

My mother tore her gaze from Grace's profile and looked down at me. “Well, people look different when they're . . . ” she hesitated and looked over my head at my father for help. I turned to look up at him and he cleared his throat.

“This isn't her, Bird,” he said awkwardly. “This is just her . . . just what's left.”

“Try to remember Grace as she was,” my mother said. “Pick a memory of her when she was alive and happy.
That
was Grace—not this.”

I nodded and tried to think of a time when Grace had been happy. An image of her at the Christmas pageant popped into my mind. Grace had never been one to sing along during practice, but that night, for whatever reason, she sang aloud. Standing next to her, I had stared, shocked by her voice which was suddenly light and pure, each note rounded and full. It was, although I didn't know the word at the time, ethereal. I had stopped singing to listen, watching as she sang the notes, her eyes closed, unaware of my gaze.

I tried now, as I stared at her serene yet artificial face in the casket, to remember the clarity and perfection of her voice that night. I thought about the hours we spent together in the Nest reading. About her Pop-Tarts. About how she looked the last time I saw her, a twisted, lifeless body in the clearing. I wanted to touch her, to pull back the high collar of her dress to see the stitched repair of her sliced throat, but knew it would be inappropriate. I wanted to say good-bye, but I didn't know how. I wanted to tell her how deeply sorry I was that I hadn't been there for her that day. I wanted to cry. Instead, I stared.

“Come on, sweetie,” my mother said in a low voice as she nudged me to follow my father, who had turned and was walking in the direction of the old-fashioned wooden bleachers that lined the walls. My father spoke softly to several people as we climbed to the middle row and sat down next to Mary Jane and Natalie. There was a quiet hum as people resumed their conversations. Around me, people shifted in their seats, cleared their throats, and waited for the service to begin. After about ten minutes, the church organist began to play a hymn on the battered upright piano at the front of the gym. Everyone stood as Grace's father and his girlfriend Sally walked stiffly down the aisle to the front of the rows of folding chairs, followed by Grace's mother, who leaned heavily on Reggie's arm.

Once they were seated, the townspeople glanced at each other, wondering if, because this was a gymnasium rather than a church, the same rules applied.

Reverend Ackerman, who sat next to his wife slightly behind the podium, stepped forward, cleared his throat, and waited for the organist to finish. Because he stood, we all stood.

“A prayer,” he said when the room was silent.

The townspeople obediently bowed their heads and waited.

“Dear Lord,” he began. “We come to you today with heavy hearts as we mourn the loss of your daughter, Grace Annette Bellamy.”

Because we didn't pray in our house, I glanced at my parents on either side of me to see what I should do. My mother stood ramrod straight, her chin high and her eyes forward. On my other side, my father had his head bent, though I could see he wasn't praying, but instead picking at a cuticle on his thumb. Still not sure what to do, I compromised, tipping my head slightly, but not closing my eyes. Rather, I glanced curiously around the gymnasium, forgetting for the moment why we were there, and instead enjoying the opportunity to stare with impunity at the top of the farmers' sunburned heads and the womens' Aqua-Netted coifs. I was so engrossed in Mrs. Haas' beehive that I was unprepared for the communal “amen.” Guiltily, I jerked my eyes quickly to my lap as the congregation raised their heads.

During the service, I found myself staring not at the minister whose voice seemed to drone on and on, but at Grace's family—particularly her mother. Over the past six months, she had lost a great deal of weight. Her face was ashen and gaunt; her eyes puffy and vacant. She seemed devoid of emotion. Beside her sat Reggie, unkempt with his lank hair and wrinkled sports jacket. He sat with one arm draped over the back of Grace's mother's chair and the other in his lap. Occasionally, he would squeeze her shoulder. Grace's father, who sat on the other side of his ex-wife, was the exact opposite of Reggie. His black suit was beautifully tailored and his white shirt was starched to crisp perfection.

My parents had chosen to sit with Natalie and her mother. It was the first time I had seen Natalie since Grace had been murdered, and I could tell she wanted to ask questions about finding Grace. I knew, too, she would have information gleaned from her father, who stood toward the back of the gymnasium with other detectives and deputies studying the crowd. As the service seemed to draw to an end and the organist began to play
Amazing
Grace
on the school piano, Natalie gripped my hand. I realized she was crying.

“I'm going to miss her so much,” she whispered.

I looked at her. Natalie rarely allowed herself to appear vulnerable and I was unprepared for the grief in her eyes. A part of me knew I should try to comfort her. But my body felt heavy. I was watching the scene as if it were on television and happening to someone else. As the hymn came to an end, the minister offered a prayer. My mother, who usually scoffed at such things, listened intently, her eyes on the minister, and even nodded at one point. My father had his head bowed. For some reason, I noticed he was tanned from yard work, although the skin along the hairline at the back of his neck was white from where the barber had clipped the hair short. I was again startled when everyone said “Amen” and stood. Grace's father and Sally walked down the aisle followed by Grace's mother, who appeared to be heavily supported by Reggie. She stared blankly ahead and at one point seemed to stumble. Reggie caught her and helped her out of the school and into the car parked directly behind the black hearse.

“That poor woman,” my mother said later to Mary Jane. “She could barely walk.”

We were standing together in the cemetery. It was a small, country graveyard on the edge of town and so close that many people, ourselves included, simply walked there. We were drenched in sweat by the time we made it to the graveside. Like many, we sought shade during this last part of the service; a dark green canopy had been set up for the family and there were also nearby trees. Some of the town's older residents had driven rather than walked and as they waited for the service to start, they sat parked in the gravel horseshoe drive that ran the length of the cemetery. Those without air conditioning sat with their doors open or windows down. Most smoked and talked quietly to each other.