Before She Was Found(89)

Thomas slowly moves forward, eyes pinned to the earth in front of him. There are coins and pop tabs, an earring, but nothing of real interest.

Thomas approaches the tracks and comes upon a large rust-colored stain in the gravel. Blood, he thinks. This must be the spot. He imagines pint-size Cora Landry cowering, hands above her head warding off blows from the hand wielding the knife. His stomach roils.

No. There is absolutely no way that Jordyn could have done it. None. He can see where the tall grass has been trampled down in one spot. Had the girls gone through the field or was it the real attacker? Hidden behind the thousands of slim stalks, a perfect hiding place in the dark for someone to spy on three young girls. Two, Thomas amends. Jordyn said she wasn’t here. A child nearly died here, Thomas realizes fully, perhaps for the first time since this all began. It makes him feel dirty, complicit, being here.

And if he really thinks about it, he has been. He hid Jordyn’s backpack—her clothing, her shoes—up inside a chimney flue. Had Thomas, in trying to protect Jordyn, made things worse? Made her appear guilty? He needs to get home and pull the backpack from the chimney and take it to the police. They will be able to run tests, examine the contents and prove that Jordyn is innocent. He needs to go home; he needs to make this right.

The sun is just beginning to rise and morning moisture clings to the winter wheat. Thomas reaches into his pocket to retrieve his keys and a small wad of bills comes out with them. The money drifts to the ground and as Thomas bends down they are whisked away by a stiff breeze. Thomas follows the bills into the tall grass and bends over to grab one that has come to rest among the stems.

A metallic glint catches his eye and he bends over and pushes the grass aside to find a small book embossed with the word Journal in silver glitter. Thomas picks up the book; it is wet to the touch and smeared with dirt.

He flips through the pages and finds them filled with girlish script but the sun isn’t bright enough for him to read what’s been written. He digs in his pocket for his phone; the light from the screen illuminates a page. He reads quickly as if the words might disappear before his eyes. He feels sick, dirty, as he begins to comprehend the story unfolding in the pages.

A whistle blows in the distance, the train marking its arrival to the crossing west of town where the long white arms come down, stalling traffic for a good ten minutes. Thomas, resolving to put an end to this entire mess, slides the book into his coat pocket, turns and strikes solid flesh. His first thought is Jim Landry has come here to confront him. He knows he is no match for an angry man, a father no less, who is thirty years younger, stronger and bearing a grudge.

Instead he finds himself face-to-face with John Dover. The teacher. “What are you doing here?” Thomas asks. The gruffness of his voice masks the pounding of his heart.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Dover says, the hood of his coat pulled up over his head and his hands tucked into the pockets to ward off the cold. “I saw you sitting outside my house.” In the distance the train calls out again, a rusty foghorn. “Why?”

“Just out for a drive and getting some exercise,” Thomas says, taking a few steps to the right, uncomfortably aware of the bloodstained gravel at their feet. Couldn’t someone have rinsed it away?

“But why stop in front of my house?” Dover asks. “What possible reason would you have for doing that? Is there, maybe, something you want to ask me?”

Thomas examines Dover’s face carefully. Through the dimness he sees no anger, no hostility, but there is concern, possibly fear. Why would John Dover be frightened of him? “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Thomas says and starts moving along the tracks, eager to get far away from the rusty patch of earth and away from John Dover.

But Dover isn’t going anywhere and joins Thomas. Together they walk silently along the tracks, a cold breeze pushing them along. Thomas eyes the ground in front of him, still searching for the key.

“What she’s saying isn’t true,” Dover says.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Thomas says but his pulse quickens. He casts a wary glance toward Dover.

“The police brought me in for questioning again last night. They took my computers and my phone. I know what Jordyn is saying about me. It isn’t true.” Dover is walking so closely to Thomas that their shoulders graze. “I wasn’t anywhere near here the other night.”

It comes to Thomas then what Dover is talking about. Jordyn must have told the police something about Mr. Dover and the attack. This is what the attorney meant when he said Jordyn was ready to talk. Was John Dover the one who attacked Cora Landry? He thinks of the journal hidden in his coat pocket. In his quick perusal, he had seen Dover’s name dozens of times.

Thomas’s skin begins to vibrate with anger. Had Dover lured his granddaughter and the other girls to the train yard? After what happened to Cora, Jordyn must have been terrified that Mr. Dover was going to come after her, too.

“Did you hear me?” Dover says loudly, snagging Thomas’s jacket in one hand. “Jordyn is going to ruin my life. You have to make her tell the truth.”

“Let go of my coat,” Thomas orders, trying to keep his voice steady, even. Dover curls the fabric even more tightly between his fingers.

“She’s lying,” Dover hisses. He’s near tears.

“My granddaughter doesn’t lie,” Thomas says, though this isn’t quite true. Hadn’t Jordyn lied about sneaking out, about the alcohol, about pushing Cora down, about seeing anyone at the depot?