Mary: The Long Journey

I wondered once whether I should be writing these in past or present tense, and found myself leaning toward the past. I have to write this post in the past tense. There needs to be the illusionary distance of time between what is now, and what was then. If I don't feel that distance, I'll never be able to finish writing this.

After a flight in which I forced myself to sleep, or at least doze off for an hour or so, I touched down at Stubbins Airport, which was really just a strip of tarmac next to the "terminal", a squat, rust-colored, brick building that was surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling. I was prepared to fight my way through loose livestock being herded between the bench seating when I arrived, and I found the fact that someone cared enough about this little strip in the middle of nowhere to take good care of it to be a bit humbling. I vowed to myself that I would do my best not to pre-judge anything else down here if I could help it.

I complimented the plump, overly made-up, middle-aged woman behind the rental counter on the condition of the airport and she gave a proud nod. "My husband, Arthur," she said in a thick drawl. "He likes it to sparkle. When, on rare occasion we get someone flying in from up North ways, they always look around like they can't believe there aren't pigs lying in the middle of the concourse."

I'm sure I blushed, feeling guilty and exposed for having been called out so expertly. To change the subject I asked, "I'm going to Hollis Crossroads-"

"Tsk. Yes, Ma'am. Darn shame." She shook her head sadly.

Staring at her confused, I asked, "Shame about what?"

She gaped at me, stunned that I didn't know what was happening in Hollis Crossroads despite the fact that I had just touched down literally right in front of her. "Why, about the fire. And the bodies."

My breath caught in my throat, my voice coming out as a whisper. "What bodies?"

"That old house-the old Hollis house burned right to the ground, and half the gosh-darned-pardon my French-forest right with it. It was all dried-up and rotted, and we hadn't had rain in so long... if I had to say, it has not rained in these parts for upwards of one entire month." She paused for a quick breath, then, "The last time it had gone that long without a rain-and I am not talking about a quick sprinkle or a drizzle, but an honest to goodness decent rain had to have been, oh, I want to say nineteen eighty-nine or so, and I told Billy-Ray at the fire station when he came by for the last inspection that if it didn't rain hard soon that there'd be-"

"Where?" I interrupted, my voice coming out as a hollow croak.

Once in my rental car- which was, again, surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling- I raced to the address she had given me despite her hurt feelings at being cut off from her story so abruptly. The town of Hollis Crossroads looked old but somehow stately, the paint peeling from rotting facades that I imagined once had a certain charm. I couldn't tell much more about the place as I shot through it at about seventy miles per hour, blowing right through the one and only stop sign without so much as a glance in either direction.

Heading south out of town the smell of smoke began to filter in through the heating vents. It was surprisingly cold, only 45 degrees, and I was glad that I hadn't changed out of my winter clothes, the remnants of Wisconsin that I didn't think I was going to need. As I drove around the winding, country roads, the smell of smoke began to be overpowering, permeating the car. It had a sweet, nostalgic scent that at first was quite pleasant but after a while became cloying and oppressive. At least, I thought, as long as the smell keeps getting stronger I know I'm going in the right direction.

The road turned from asphalt to gravel, and from gravel to dirt, the trees and brush on either side growing more and more wild as I drove, seeming to crowd the car. I imagined Josh driving down this same road at night, his headlights dancing wildly over the dark branches and brown leaves as his tires fell into one pothole after another.

As I was trying to shake these troubling images, I rounded a corner and found the old Hollis house, or what was left of it. It was still smoldering, with only a few charred timbers and the chimney left standing. Behind the house was a wood that was still partially on fire, and firemen sprayed down the edges of it to keep it from spreading. There were four fire trucks, an ambulance, two police cars, three Sheriffs cars, a hearse and a burned-out sedan that looked like it had exploded.

I pulled up and off to the side, and a Sheriff's Deputy strolled up with his hand raised, a gesture meaning both "hello" and "go no further". I parked and got out of the car, my Private Investigator badge in hand. I had no illusions about it carrying any weight here, but one never knew.

"Howdy," the Deputy said, attempting a little smile that only came off as glum. He was young, perhaps in his late 20's, blond and thin. His cheek was smudged with charcoal. I showed him my badge and he had the good manners to pretend to look impressed. He ushered me over to the Sheriff, a chubby, worried man with kind eyes in his late 40's, his mustache in need of a trim.

"Sheriff, I work for Mrs. Cynthia Howland of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her son Josh was down here looking into some family business. Have you seen him? Josh Howland?" I tried to keep my hands at my sides and look as professional as possible, but my voice quavered at the last minute, betraying me.

The Sheriff nodded to me politely. "Ma'am." He scratched his neck absently and-as if he hadn't heard a word I just spoke- said, "Problem is, we ain't had no rain in a spell. That's the dang problem. But we just about got the fire controlled now, I'd say." Only pausing a moment, he continued, "Four bodies, three burned beyond recognition. Bad... bad." He shook his head and spat. "One murder for sure, the others... it's just damn hard to say exactly what. The two in the house, they were together, lying on a bed, husband and wife, though we didn't find no rings. They must have slept through the fire.

"Then there was the third one... he got himself killed inside the house and got... dragged out into the front yard. Body and murder weapon escaped the fire. The weapon was... in the body, so we should get plenty off it." He cleared his throat and spat again. "Damn, damn dirty business. We know who that fella is at least, by his I.D. Antrelle Harris, licensed bodyguard- we already called his company. They got some folks driving out now. You know, they take care of that Jay-Z fella when he comes to Atlanta? He dates that girl Beyonce." The Sheriff attempted a little smile, gave up quickly and spat again.

I put my hand on his forearm, my professional veneer finally cracking. "Sheriff, please. Josh. Please."

He looked at the ground solemnly, then nodded and said, "The car. The plates came back as rental, his car." He pointed to the scorched husk of shattered metal in the driveway. "He was... we'll need to run an autopsy, there wasn't much left. Body was inside, driver's seat." Seeing the tear that made its way down my face, he put his arm around me and murmured, "I'm sorry, darlin'. I am so, so sorry. He was special to you." It didn't come out as a question.

From far away I heard my voice say, "I guess he was. More than I thought." The Sheriff handed me a tissue and guided me over to his car, sitting me in the backseat with the door open. I had always made it a point to never cry while I worked, especially not around law enforcement, but right then I just didn't care. "This doesn't even feel like a job anymore." I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I don't know how long I sat there, my eyes unfocused and watery. I heard the sounds of the firemen finishing up with the house and rolling up their hoses. I listened as the police wrestled with the corpses, loading them up for transport to the Medical Examiner. I sat and sat as one by one the fire trucks and police cars lumbered back up the dirt road heading for Hollis Crossroads.

A voice spoke, and after a while I listened to it. It was the blond Deputy. "Ma'am? Ma'am, you want to ride back with me? We could come back for your car later, if you like. Perhaps it would be best."

"I'll drive," I muttered. "I'm going to drive. I have to send a message. I have to tell his-" I started tearing up again, my voice catching, so I simply turned away, got in my car and drove. Somehow I found a motel in town (Don's Motel, Carlton Street) and staggered into my room.


Mrs. Howland, I am so, so very sorry. I will never forgive myself for not coming down here instead of him. Oh, God, I am just so sorry.