“We located one body. A male. Aside from that, the house was empty.”
The sheriff pulls out a chair, straddles it and removes a notepad and small digital recorder.
“I need you both to run through it all again. Tell me exactly what happened.”
I let Rosita talk. Sheriff Saunders never interrupts, never asks for Rosita to elaborate until she’s finished her point. I nod along, only interjecting occasionally to keep from being entirely silent. Caroline’s absence scares me. I should be glad she isn’t dead, but I keep thinking of terrible scenarios. Her body submerged in some poisoned pool or ravaged by nocturnal scavengers in the brush of the thicket. She could be bound and gagged, suffocating in the trunk of a car. The possibilities play endlessly as I watch the glowing red eye on Sheriff Saunders’s recorder.
“I’ll need to see these photos,” Sheriff Saunders says when we finish.
Rosita takes out her camera. “I couldn’t get to the digital in time.”
The sheriff sets the camera on the table. “What am I going to see when these are developed?”
“Russell Watson and Victor Lawton committing murder.”
A spark of recognition flashes across the sheriff’s face when Rosita mentions Victor.
“You recognize the name?” I say.
“Everyone knows the Watsons,” she says, but I won’t let her deflect that easily.
“No, the other one. You already knew it was the Watsons’ house, so it’s the other name that surprised you.”
Sheriff Saunders seems annoyed but leans forward and turns off her tape recorder. “We’ve run into him a few times. He was caught vandalizing some coal trucks at a depot when he was a minor. Cut some brake lines hoping the drivers might crash. Luckily, the sabotage was discovered before anyone got hurt. He spent some time at the Tiger Morton Juvenile Center.”
I think about Victor’s rant the first time he and Russell crossed the creek. I’d tried to convince myself my feelings of dread were too extreme. Now I wish I’d have trusted my gut and never gone near him.
“You’re not supposed to know any of that. Juvenile records are sealed. Repeat any of this, or what I’m about to tell you, and I’ll deny it. I can’t prove it, but I also think he took a couple shots at some chemical trucks on the interstate. Two different drivers arrived at their destination with .38 slugs in their grilles, spiderweb cracks in the windshields.”
“That’s Victor,” I tell her. “He was talking wild shit all night. Saying he wanted Russell to prove himself. I think he may have hooked up with him just to get close to Russell’s father.”
“So, Mr. Watson was dead when you fled the residence?” the sheriff asks.
“Yes,” Rosita says.
“And in what condition was the body?”
I picture Mr. Watson lying on the floor, the glass shards orbiting his head as the pool of blood spreads.
“Why?” I ask.
The sheriff sighs. “We haven’t released this information to the public, but we found the body duct-taped to a chair in the kitchen. It looked like he might have been tortured, but if what you’re saying is true, the wounds must be post-mortem.”
I remember Victor twirling his gun, saying that we should make him confess.
“There was a note pinned to his chest,” Sheriff Saunders says. “Just one word. ‘Traitor.’ That fits with Victor’s history. The things he said in the interview, too.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I don’t know what interview she’s talking about.
The sheriff takes out her iPhone and plays a video of Victor marching with the protesters. His face is still ashen with gray paint, dusty flannel covered in crimson that may be either from Mr. Watson or fake blood from the concert. A tiny anchorwoman stands on tiptoes even in her heels, stretching to raise the microphone to his lips.
“Can you tell us why you’ve dressed this way?” she asks.
“The corporations that poisoned our water view our lives as worthless. I dress like a corpse to illustrate the damage they’ve done in this region.”
On the small screen, Victor incites the crowd. He waves his arms like a conductor as the chanting voices rise.
“Quite the opportunist,” Sheriff Saunders says. “I can’t believe he’s got the balls to be in public after something like this, but we’ll find him. What about you two? How are you people holding up?”
“We’re okay,” I say. I’m still worried about Caroline, but there’s nothing more the sheriff can do about that.
“Well, you certainly seem better off than most. We got three hundred thousand residents without drinking water in this state.” Sheriff Saunders turns her attention to Rosita. “What brings you to Coopersville, Miss Martinez?”
“I came to interview Hollis.”
If it’s a lie, she’s the best I’ve seen at it. I wonder why she doesn’t mention The Excitable Boys but keep quiet.
“Interview him regarding what?”
“An art project of mine. The Body Book.”
The title is enough for Sheriff Saunders to give a dismissive nod.
“I understand you’ve got a well on this property,” she says. “I’d like permission to extract some of your water. We got a lot of thirsty people.”
I imagine a line of parched refugees standing in my field, passing overflowing buckets. Some might find a sort of savior’s pride at the thought, but I feel invaded. Rosita is already more than I’m used to handling. When I hesitate, the sheriff rests her elbows on her knees and leans forward into the silence.
“I’d leave you be if I could, but we got people in trouble out there.”
“When would they be here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t get the trucks here for a few days, but I’d have some people here tonight. Civilian volunteers, a few nearby families willing to tote water.”
I know Rosita wants to watch the locals arrive. Maybe snap a few photos. If I won’t pose for her, maybe I owe her that. Even if all they’ve done is ridicule me, I certainly owe the people of Coopersville something as simple as a drink of water, but I only agree because Rosita is watching. I’m too afraid of what she might think if I refuse.
“Go get them,” I say.
Sheriff Saunders dons her hat and stands. “Thank you, Mr. Bragg. Do you need a ride, miss?”
Rosita looks to me for an answer. “It’s up to you,” I say, but hear the loneliness in my voice. Not quite pleading, yet I’m certain she recognizes it, too.