Beneath Devil's Bridge(38)

“But there’s the sexual assault,” says Ray.

Luke says, “We should keep an open mind.”

I recall the words of the gaggle of girls who passed below the bleachers in the gym on that day I sat beside Leena.

Just watch her father go and blame me for blocking her . . . He’s scary. Have you seen his eyes? I bet he has one of those curved knives to go with his turban.

I think about the bruising I saw around Leena’s wrist.

Silence presses into the room. Outside, a pale dawn seeps into the sky. Behind the veil of falling snow and fingers of mist, Chief Mountain gleams wet.

“Right,” says Ray, closing his folder and coming to his feet. “Let’s get to it. Media pressure is on. I’ll be making a statement to the press later this morning.”





RACHEL


THEN


Tuesday, November 25, 1997.

As Luke and I enter the Twin Falls Secondary School foyer, Clay Pelley, the guidance counselor and sports coach, comes striding down the hallway toward us. He’s in his twenties. Good-looking. Fit. Tanned. A head of wild curls that lend him a devilish or mischievous air.

“Rachel.” He shakes my hand, then turns to Luke. “And you must be Detective Sergeant O’Leary? I’m Clay Pelley.” But as he shakes Luke’s hand, I notice Clay stiffens and winces slightly, and I see that the back of Clay’s right hand is bruised, with cuts that are healing but still red. My gaze goes to his left hand. I see the same on his knuckles.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” he says. “Our principal, Darla Wingate, is on a conference call, so she’s asked me to show you into the classroom we’ve set aside for the interviews. It’s this way.”

We follow Clay Pelley down a corridor lined with lockers. We pass the entrance to the gym, and I hear the thuds of bouncing balls and the squeaks of gym shoes on the lacquered floor.

“We’ve commandeered this room.” He shows us in. “It’s the one I use for CAPP classes—the education ministry’s Career and Personal Planning course. Feel free to use any one of these tables. We have the list of names that you sent us, and I’ll have the kids brought in one by one as you’re done with them.” He hesitates. “Are you sure they don’t need parents present?”

“It’s just a canvass at this point,” says Luke. “Just trying to see who all was where at the bonfire. If we need to question anyone further, we can do that at the station with a guardian present.” Luke sets his folders and notebook on a table and pulls out a chair, and he nods at Clay’s hands. “Your hands look sore.”

Clay holds them up and examines the backs. “Oh. Yeah.” He laughs. “Stacking logs a few days ago. I ordered a cord of firewood for the winter, and as I was stacking the wood, one of the logs at the bottom of the pile released. When I tried to stop the others from rolling down, I got my hands caught between logs. Stupid move.”

“Gloves might help,” Luke says, holding Clay’s gaze.

Clay’s smile fades. “Yeah, well, I’ll send in the first student. The list is alphabetical, so I’ll send them in that order. I believe you’ve already spoken with Amy Chan, so I’ll start with—”

“You’re the guidance counselor who Amy Chan talked to about having seen Leena on Devil’s Bridge?” Luke asks.

Clay is stopped in his tracks. “Yes. I . . . Amy came to talk to me after she heard the rumors about Leena being in the river. We approached the principal together. And Darla called Amy’s mother, Sarah, who came to fetch Amy, and then took her to the police station to make a statement.” He turns his gaze to me, then back to Luke, as if sensing something. “Leena was a good kid.” He clears his throat. “She had issues, sure, but what teen doesn’t? Leena might have done some silly things. She might have been emotionally and socially arrested in many ways, but she was smart. Talented writer. She wanted to travel. Volunteer.”

“So you knew her fairly well, then?” asks Luke.

“She was in my CAPP class. And she was on the basketball team I coached. Plus I tutored her from my home office. English lit. She’d advanced two grades in English, and she wanted to do even better. Her dream was a career around writing, and literature.” He pauses. Luke regards him in silence. Clay talks again, as if trying to fill the space. “I do tutoring for several kids. Outside of school. I . . . uh . . . Let me know if you need anything else. Meanwhile, I’ll send in Johnny Forbes first.”

We seat ourselves at the small table, and Johnny walks into the room. He’s tall, almost six feet. Gangly. Sandy hair. Angular features. Good-looking kid. Wearing jeans and a hoodie. He takes a seat, slouches, and stuffs his hands into his hoodie pockets. He starts jiggling his leg.

Johnny is clearly nervous.

“Hi, Johnny, do you know who I am?” I say.

“Yeah. Maddy’s mom.”

I give him a smile. “Sergeant Rachel Walczak.”

His leg jiggles faster. He keeps glancing sideways at Luke. Perhaps it’s the presence of the big-city homicide cop that unnerves the kid.

“And this is Sergeant Luke O’Leary. He’s from the RCMP, and he’s helping with the case. He’s going to be asking the questions.”

“Are you okay, Johnny?” Luke asks. “Want some water or anything?”