Dead Giveaway (Stillwater Trilogy 2)

"Definitely not what I wanted to know about you," she muttered. Shoving the bundle back where she'd found it, she turned her attention to Joe's dresser. There was a recent issue of a girlie magazine tossed in with his underwear. Below that, she spotted an old high school yearbook. She almost pushed it aside, too. But she could still hear the television downstairs, so she slowed long enough to flip through it.

It was from Joe's senior year. In the front pages, some of his male friends had drawn crude pictures. Kennedy had told him to take it easy over the summer. And various girls had written the usual sentiments. "I can't believe it's over. Call me, okay?" There was a long love note from Cindy, Joe's girlfriend at the time and the woman he ended up marrying and divorcing--twice.

Why would Joe have his high school yearbook in his underwear drawer? she wondered. He and Cindy must have broken up and reunited half a dozen times since they were teens, which meant he'd been moving back and forth between the house they'd shared and this one. Allie would've expected something so old and inconsequential, at least at this point in their lives, to fall by the wayside. Or end up in the attic or garage. But Joe kept it with his personal items.

Allie found that very interesting. Especially when she realized that there was one particular page in the senior portrait section that had a packaged condom as a bookmark. It was the page with Grace Montgomery's photograph. Her picture was a simple snapshot, not a fancy portrait from one of the expensive studios like most of the others. But it wouldn't have stood out all that much if someone, presumably Joe, hadn't written across her face: "Fucking bitch, you'll get yours."

Was this a recent addition? The condom didn't look that old. Allie got the impression the writing wasn't, either.

That Joe blamed Grace for taking his best friend away from him was no secret. He and Kennedy had hung out together all through high school and beyond, until Grace had returned to town last year and Kennedy had fallen in love with her. But the emotion behind the sentiment Joe had expressed toward Grace in the yearbook seemed more malevolent than resentful.

Then Allie heard a creak on the stairs.

She cocked her head, listening to be sure. The footsteps came closer. Turning off her flashlight, she threw the book back in the drawer and closed it, jammed her bag under Joe's bed and wiggled in behind it. The dust made it difficult to breathe, but she was too scared to breathe, anyway. She wasn't sure she was far enough under the bed to avoid being seen. Joe had so much junk under there, including what felt like a couple of dishes, she couldn't move any farther.

The light went on. With her cheek pressed to the carpet, Allie could see Joe's feet as he entered the room and prayed he wouldn't notice that she'd turned off the fan.

He didn't seem to. The springs above her creaked as he sat down to remove his boots.

Thank God. He was going to bed. Once he fell asleep, she'd slip out and search the rest of the house.

But he didn't disrobe. He put on a pair of tennis shoes and called someone.

"You ready?...Hell, no, it'll take longer than that...I'm beginning to believe he's buried in that damn barn.... So? Maybe Jed was in on it. They must've buried him somewhere close by. They wouldn't have had time to do anything else...Where did you see her?...Doesn't matter. She won't be at the farm. She'll be with Grace or her mother...Right. Just don't let anyone see you pull in. If Clay finds out we were there, he'll bury us right next to my uncle...You should've seen what he did to Tim Fox when he caught him messing around with Grace.... I don't care how long ago it was, I know him better than you do.... Yeah.... Doesn't matter. Kennedy will post as much as it takes....

We could always finish up tomorrow or the next night, if we have to.... That's good...Okay...Don't forget to bring a shovel."

He hung up, grabbed something off his dresser and walked out.

Allie started to scramble out from under the bed. She was choking on dust and shocked by what she'd just heard. But Joe returned a second later to turn off the light.

Reverend Portenski paced back and forth in his study. Evelyn McCormick had left hours earlier but, hard as he'd tried to forget her visit, he couldn't. She was a good woman and so worried about her daughter. She'd come to him looking for peace, advice, support.

Should he do what was best for him? Or for her? And what about everyone else?

He had to come forward, didn't he? He'd been able to justify his silence this long only because he couldn't have saved the girls the Reverend Barker had abused. He didn't even recognize them; Portenski hadn't moved to town until he'd heard about the opening at the church. Those Polaroids had been old when he'd found them, the children in them all grown up. And except for Grace, he doubted the victims were still living in the area, because no one had ever filed any complaints.

What was done was done, right? Keeping his mouth shut protected Madeline from a very harsh reality, the church from a terrible shame, and the Vincellis, who were a proud family, from the worst possible humiliation. They wouldn't want these pictures to come out, even if it meant Clay would go to jail for the rest of his life. This town had long touted Barker as a saint.

The Montgomerys wouldn't be eager to see them made public, either. Grace was a sensitive soul who'd barely survived what had happened to her. Portenski didn't want to bring her any more unhappiness. She'd asked him to help her brother, and he wanted to do that. Maybe he was uncomfortable around Clay, but a part of him admired the younger man's strength. Another part sympathized with the tough decisions he'd made.

But how could he protect the Montgomerys, the Vincellis and the McCormicks?

Portenski tugged at his bottom lip. What should he do?

With a sigh, he knelt down and began to pray.

"Father, enlighten my mind. Instruct thy servant that I might be fair to all involved."

He paused, searching, waiting for the answer. There was nothing in his mind except silence. Then, at last, a thought crystallized.

"Truth is the secret of eloquence and of virtue, the basis of moral authority; it is the highest summit of art and of life."

Henri Frederic Amiel, a nineteenth-century Swiss philosopher had written those words.

Portenski knew they hadn't come directly from God's mouth. But why should he remember them now, unless they were intended as his answer?

Amiel had written something else that merited consideration. "The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides. Accept life and you must accept regret."

It was a sign, Portenski decided. A sign that the time had come to act; whether he would later regret it or not.

Allie froze halfway out from under the bed, terrified that Joe had spotted her. But he didn't do anything to indicate he had. He flipped off the light, then jogged down the stairs, slammed the door and started his truck. He was too focused on what he was about to do--which, as far as she could tell, was search Clay's farm.